no because nobody understands how hard it was to find x reader fics of anyone in the gaang or atla fandom in general before this movie came out. now there’s new fics coming out daily. I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS‼️
summary: ever since your first year at Hogwarts you've spent every Christmas break at the castle, and also reluctanctly throwing quaffles at Oliver Wood so he can practice. You don't even like Quidditch, and you don't like each other much either, but it somehow feels like you can't stay away from each other even after spring comes
content: slow burn, reluctant friends to lovers; fake dating ?) kinda; dumber & dumber
wc: 12k
[part 1] [part 2]
“Want to go throw for a bit?”
You felt Oliver sink into the couch, accompanied by the familiar sound of the Quaffle being passed from one hand to the other. You were sitting on the soft carpet, back against the couch and Potions book open on your lap. You had been on page 82 for a while, the silence and warmth had distracted you enough to let yourself close your eyes, drifting to dangerous sleep in the early afternoon. When Oliver had awakened you, dust-like snow was falling in the premature darkness outside.
“Are you mad? It’s freezing out there”
Oliver’s short nails that he always kept trimmed to perfection dug slightly into the leather of the quaffle.
“You were walking with Fred around the patio this morning, though”
He waited for any sort of reaction to that comment, but he got none.
“I was walking through the patio. He was following me” Fred had been very insistent on pestering you about the whole kiss thing since the moment winter break had started. He kept asking you if you were doing okay, his teasing eventually turning into actual concern. The more sincere he sounded, the more embarrassed you felt about it “Where are they, anyway?”
Unlike the previous years, with the Weasleys staying for Christmas, it had felt more lively and the castle not as desolate. Because of that, their absence brought a deafening silence with it.
“Not at practise, that much I can tell you. We can throw in here”
“And break something?”
“You can try to aim properly”
“Then I’ll break your nose again”
Oliver’s brows slowly sunk down over his eyes. The banter was familiar, and yet there was something in the way the words were spoken that made a strange feeling settle on his chest. It had been faint at first, but after that first week of Christmas holiday, it had grown into an almost suffocating pressure he couldn’t ignore any longer.
“What’s wrong?”
Your chest rose up and down with a deep breath, wondering if you could even have the conversation you wanted to start. Well, you didn’t want to start it, but if you wanted to pretend that everything was okay, you’d have to, eventually.
“You should ask me for help sometimes. Especially with things you have no experience in”
For a moment Oliver was distracted by your voice, and then after he had processed your words, his head tilted to the side with a frown.
“What?”
You set the Potions book aside and turned to look at him. He was casually sitting on the other side, open legs sprawled so long his jeans were struggling to cover his mismatched socks. He was wearing that worn striped sweater he seemed to have been wearing since the second grade, which desperately clung onto his arm resting along the headrest of the couch. The sight knocked you on the chest, words jammed on your throat as your mouth remained open for a brief second. Eventually you managed to put yourself and your best mock-upset act together.
“Were you not going to tell me about the kiss with Alicia Spinnet?”
There had been many sleepless nights and lots of time spent daydreaming about how Oliver would react if you were to bring up the topic. In some instances he was bashful and nervous, and he stormed off with a candid blush on his cheeks. In others, embarrassed and avoidant, in which he simply told you is none of your business. Sometimes he called you out on your own feelings, but you had told yourself that was the most unlikely of scenarios, even if that fear still remained impossible to ignore. Now with the real Oliver in front of you, you imagined yourself to be prepared for any possible reaction. Or so you thought.
“Oh, that?” he had said after a brief pause, eyes lighting up as if he had completely forgotten “Yeah, that was weird”
There was a short silence in which you simply looked at each other.
“That’s all you have to say?” you finally asked.
Oliver’s frown sank deeper “What else?”
Your mouth opened but no words came out, fingers trembling as they fisted onto the carpet. Of course, you hadn’t even accounted for the possibility that he might not have cared. Because not even he could be that obtuse, could he? Your head fell back with a loud groan that made Oliver flinch.
“Boys, seriously” you exasperatedly moaned into your hands.
“What? She just kissed me!” he defended, smart enough to understand he was in some sort of trouble, even if he wasn’t sure of what it was.
“Yeah! That was your first kiss too!”
“You don’t know that!” he stared at you, lips pursed “Okay, it was”
“Yeah, I know that!” for a second there you hadn’t, and you let out a sigh of relief that he was too busy to notice. You stood up from the floor, hoping the height difference would give you some advantage and strength to deal with the conversation at hand “That’s something that you remember forever, you know?” you pointed your finger at him, and he snapped it away “And you are just-- just, like, ‘whatever’!”
He looked up at you, now standing over him with a glare that he was familiar with, the feeling they conveyed recognizable to him ever since he was eleven.
“Are you upset?”
You felt embarrassment creep up your chest and through your neck, if your face hadn’t been so red already it would have given you away. How dared he call you out like that? Why was he always so dense except when it came to make a fool of you? You picked up a cushion, initially to hide your face behind it, but you hit him a few times with it.
“I’m mad that you didn’t tell me!” you half-lied.
Oliver shielded his face with his arms, the quaffle dropped on the ground.
“Because I don’t really care!”
“And you don’t even care! Do you remember the first time you got on a broom?”
“Absolutely” he answered immediately, completely serious.
“Well, this is the same thing!”
“No, it isn’t!” Oliver held onto the cushion, which let you know he could have done that all this time instead of letting you hit him with it. It reminded you of your grandma’s Labrador, which would oftentimes allow her small kitten bite at his tail until it got bored of entertaining it. He held your wrist with one hand, the other taking the cushion away and holding it out of your reach “Wait, how do you know this?”
You clenched your jaw in a way that made your heart hurt when the question immediately made you remember the sight of Alicia Spinnet kissing him. Your chest rose up and down, heart slamming so loudly against your ribcage you became terribly embarrassed of the idea that Oliver could hear it in the dead silence of the room. He could have, maybe, if not distracted by the feeling of your hair tickling at his face, your jaded breath fanning over his features and the collar of your sweater sinking deeper than usual. If he concentrated enough he could feel your pulse where he was holding your wrist. Your eyelashes batted against your skin as your eyes shied away from his intrusive gaze. Oliver felt himself swallow, his throat suddenly dry.
“I saw it” you finally answered. You felt his grip on your wrist tighten for just a second.
“You did?” he asked. You nodded, and for the first time he seemed embarrassed enough to blush.
Your eyes, taking advantage of the fact that his refused to look at you, betrayed your utmost trust and descended to his lips. It drove you mad that Alicia Spinnet knew what they felt like, while you only had some wild imaginations to go by.
“What did you guys talk about?”
“I thought you saw” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t stick around”
Oliver inhaled deeply, and you felt his thumb falter from where it had been pressing against your hand that was still captive in his grip. It almost felt like a caress. It made you think that you were too close, and maybe you should move.
“She said I was a great captain and that she looked up to me. Then she ki--” you both dared to look at the other at the same time only to look away again. He cleared his throat “She ran away and said she’d see me after the break”
You raised an eyebrow “And?”
“What?”
“What did you say back?” you urged him.
“Nothing, just ‘okay, see ya’”
You were flabbergasted. You stood up, Oliver having to let go of your wrist. Once you were away from him, he straightened up on his seat, passed his hands through his hair multiple times and held the cushion tightly against his chest.
“Are you aware you are currently dating Alicia? Right now, in this very moment”
Oliver stared at you like you were crazy.
“What? No I’m not”
“Did you reject her? Because it doesn’t sound like it”
“Well, I didn’t kiss her either! She kissed me!”
“The whole school had probably heard about it ten minutes into the ride back”
Oliver seemed to think about it “Well, that’s not fair” he protested like a child that had been denied candy “What do I do?”
“I mean... do you like her?”
Oliver remained quiet for a second that felt like an eternity. You held your breath until he said:
“She’s a good player”
You rolled your eyes “As a girl, you moron! Didn’t you feel anything? Butterflies, tingling toes...”
“Tingling toes?”
“Nothing?” he shrugged “So you don’t like her at all?”
“No, I would have told you” that shut you up. He had said it so sincerely, too.
“You have to reject her then”
“Will that upset her?”
“Obviously”
You were surprised Oliver seemed to be having that into consideration. Maybe the pep talk you had given him the year before had worked.
“Do you think that’ll mess with the dynamic of the team? It was just starting to work out after Harry joined”
Maybe not.
You sat next to him on the couch. Oliver, suddenly very aware of your presence, scooted a bit away from you, if only for how confused he felt about how much he wanted to do the opposite.
“So you are just going to pretend to date her for the next two and a half years?”
“...I guess not”
“Yeah, she’d break up with you, and it’d be worse”
You expected him to counter with some nasty words of his own, but he didn’t.
“Can you help me out?” he asked.
“How?”
“I don’t know... you are a girl. Is there a way that won’t make her mad at me?”
“Beats me” you said without any energy left to fight “Aren’t you sad though?”
“About what?”
“Wouldn’t you want your first kiss to be with someone you like?”
He thought about it, eyes fixed on the ceiling “I guess. But I can just always kiss someone I like later”
You turned your gaze back to the ceiling as well.
“You are so optimistic and full of hope”
“You are just too bitter”
“Maybe”
You had worried for nothing, both about the kiss and your own feelings. Oliver Wood was officially too dense to give any mind to things as trivial as other people’s romantic feelings concerning him. The new revelation both relieved and pained you at the same time. Oliver tried to sit there and think about it, but he couldn’t really take it. He stood up from the couch, throwing the cushion carelessly on the ground.
“I’m going to train”
“Sure, have fun”
He hesitated a bit as he picked the quaffle from the ground, having wholeheartedly expected you to stop him. It relieved him and pained him at the same time that you didn’t. He wondered if maybe you were actually upset, but after he had left the room he stood with his back against the stone wall, hand fisting at the fabric of his sweater over his heart. He swore before being reprimanded by one of the paintings.
“Why are we opening presents here?”
You had to brace yourself from the cold, merciless early morning winter breeze. The wooden seats of the Quidditch pit were so cold they felt almost wet through the fabric of your corduroy pants.
“The Weasleys are in the Common Room”
“...so?”
“I don’t want to hang out with them so early”
In fact, Oliver hadn’t wanted you to hang out with Fred, even if he still wasn’t completely aware of it. It had bothered him how he had just made a habit of sitting next to you during meals and interrupted your conversations with some witty line that always made you laugh and him, a fool.
You ignored it if only because you had been excited and jittery about giving Oliver his gift, looking forward to the kind of face he’d make when you showed it to him. He handed you a poorly wrapped present: a pair of gloves.
“Gloves, again!” you exclaimed “How unexpected”
“It’s not my fault, every time I think about what you need, it’s all that comes to mind”
“Maybe I need a new friend” you joked “You know what’d make my hands less cold, though? Not being here right now”
“They’d be cold even if you were on fire. Why are your hands always cold anyway?”
“It’s almost below zero, Oliver”
“So? My hands are still warm”
You almost called him out on his bullshit, they couldn’t possibly be warm. But what if he thought it was a dare? What if he gave you his hand? What if he thought that’s what you wanted for him to do?
“I got your present here” you announced cheerfully in an attempt to get rid of the thick halo of awkwardness around you.
You fished a thin envelope from the inside of your coat and handed it to him. When he grabbed it you felt his fingers brush against yours, and you had to stop your mind from thinking that it could have ever been on purpose. You hoped he thought the same about you, that was, if he had even noticed. They did feel warm. Oliver opened it with as much impatience as you could open an envelope with, and held the two pieces of paper in his hand as he read its contents. His eyebrows shot up, eyes wide going from you to the tickets multiple times.
“How?! It’s not until July!” he beamed.
“I asked my mum a while ago if she could get them ahead of time”
“You--!” Oliver grabbed your face and shook it a bit “Genius!”
“You like it?”
“Of course I like it!”
He let go of you, your face now feeling hot, holding onto the ghost of his touch for as long as you could. His hands really were so warm. You cleared your throat.
“There’s two of them, so you can take someone with you”
“Uh? Are you not coming with me?” he asked, eyes never leaving the tickets.
“Oh, sure”
“Come on, let’s go” Oliver pulled at your arm, urging you to stand up from your seat “We gotta show this to the twins”
You had continued bringing up the Alicia issue all the way through break, and by the last week of vacation it had started to get to Oliver. At some point during one of the multiple discussions you had had about ways to soften the blow for her, he had held onto the dumbest joke you had made.
“No” you said, still stunned at the fact he would even consider the idea “Even though I guess it would make sense...”
“Why would it make sense?”
“I don’t know!” you protested, flustered “Why did you ask then!”
“Because you are my only female friend”
“I’m your only friend”
“Right back at you” pretend dating; that had been the joke. If he told Alicia he had been secretly dating someone she’d just feel too guilty to be mad, and out of all outcomes it could be his best bet. It had been a joke, but you knew Oliver didn’t really have a sense of humor “Why are you getting so defensive anyway?”
“I’m not!” you were “Can’t you make up a secret girlfriend?”
“Who would believe me? And they’d all assume it’s you anyway” Oliver brought his hands to his hair, messing it up as he scratched at his head with an annoyed groan “This could mess up the team” he lamented as he let himself drop on the couch, hands still rubbing at his face.
You did pity him. A situation as socially delicate as this had fallen on the lap of the worst person possible.
“I’ll do it” Oliver’s head snapped back to you, a gleam of hope in his brown eyes “But we are doing it my way. I’m putting my reputation on the line”
“What reputation?”
“The reputation that I don’t date idiots”
“You don’t date, period”
You bumped him on the shoulder “Neither do you!”
“Well, I’ve got my first kiss” he teased, then his smile faltered “You haven’t had yours, right?”
“That’s none of your business”
“I know you haven’t”
“Then why do you ask!” You pushed him to the side, and he let himself be shaken by you a bit “Okay, so, you confessed to me”
You were ready to answer “because I say so” at the “why?” question you assumed was coming. Instead, he just said:
“Okay”
He didn’t miss the way your head titled to the side. You continued:
“We started dating at the beginning of the year, and you like me more than I like you” you said, almost seeing if that’d warn you any sort of protest “Do you think you can remember all that?”
“Yes ma’am”
Oliver had given up on trying to get anyone to practice with him, and instead had made a habit of following you to the library when you needed some quiet time. He had realized spending time in the cozy stillness of the empty room was something that strangely didn’t make him miss the pitch. He’d just sit in front of you, his Quidditch notes spread across the room while you studied, answering the occasional question you’d ask him for help with.
“This is nice” he blurted out one evening.
“Yeah” you agreed without much thought “Wait, what is?”
He shrugged as he leaned away from his notes. The back of the chair creaked loudly under his weight, the sound breaking the silence.
“Hanging out”
“We’ve been together all Christmas”
“I meant more like, during the year. Since you are not on the team anymore”
“You got Harry now. Would you rather I took his place?”
“Merlin, no” you could have sworn you saw him shudder “You shook like pudding whenever a match was coming”
“I liked practice more than the games, that much is true”
“Because of Charlie”
Your head fell backwards with an exhausted expression. Oliver stifled a laugh.
“Why do you always say that? Okay, I had a crush on Charlie, sue me! But I played because you asked me”
You felt embarrassment mixed with frustration burning up inside of you, suddenly feeling the tips of your ears hot.
“I’m sorry”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just saying that--”
Oliver’s head leaned to the side, attempting to catch sight of your eyes that had turned so evasive.
“What?”
Your shoulders rose up and down with a casual shrug as you went back to your notes. You hadn’t really written anything coherent for the last two minutes.
“You only looked happy when we were playing”
Oliver fingers that had been tapping on the table came to a slow halt.
“I’m happy other times”
You scoffed “When?”
Oliver stared at you for a while. It occurred to him then that sometimes he could see eleven year old you if he tried really hard, still there.
“Sometimes” he said, almost absent-mindedly. You did not react, his answer barely processing as you finished copying a paragraph out of your textbook “You?”
To that, your gaze rose up to him. His soft eyes that would usually harden if he was ever caught staring at you with such an expression remained the same, the bareness of it making you feel something you could only describe as dizzy.
“Sometimes, too”
The first day after everyone had come back to Hogwarts was stressful, but not much happened until after dinner, which you had had far away from where the Quidditch team used to sit. Oliver had been waiting by the entrance of the Great Hall afterwards, pacing up and down until he saw your figure approaching him.
“Where were you?” he hushed, leaning forward as if to make sure you could see how stressed he was “That was weird”
“How did it go?”
Oliver sighed deeply, his hands in his pockets as he walked next to you.
“She was... sad. Apologised about kissing me after knowing about us-- you. And me. All of that”
“Told you”
To your dismay, the Quidditch team was currently at the Common Room when you both walked in, interrupting your guilty-looking-chat. Not the awkward staring nor a tear-stained Alicia bothered you as much as the way Fred Weasley was looking at you, though. The way he was eyeing you both screamed the word “liar”.
“So, you two are dating” he spoke, way too loudly.
You didn’t expect him to be the first one to speak. You didn’t have time to prepare a counterattack. To your surprise, Oliver stepped in.
“Yeah”
“Since when?”
“This year”
“When?”
“October”
Fred’s snide smile elongated, probably aware of how rehearsed Oliver’s answers were. Little did he know, that October fact he had come up with on the spot! Not like you could tell him that. However the sinking realization of what Fred was doing fell upon you with a hard, dry gulp. It hadn’t occurred to you as you devised your plan that Oliver wasn’t one for polite confrontation, and Fred knew it. He knew that had any of this been true, Oliver would had threatened to bash his head in instead of answering any of his questions. Fred’s chessboard was full on his side, in the other, you and Oliver, king and queen absolutely exposed.
“Prove it”
Checkmate.
Oliver and you stiffened like statues.
“What?”
Fred shrugged while Lee Jordan slapped his shoulder with a chuckle “Snog a little”
You could feel heat prickling at the tip of your ears, only made worse by the prolonged silence that had settled in the room. With all eyes on you, you were expecting Oliver to make a scene and tell them all to piss off; at least that’d be credible. Instead you felt his hands grab at your shoulders. His face got closer to yours, uncertainty gleaming in his eyes as he looked into yours, then at your lips. You clearly saw the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with a hard swallow, and then when your eyes were closing, he pushed away from you.
“I can’t do it. We are not dating, okay? I just didn’t want to hurt Alicia’s feelings”
“I knew it!” celebrated Fred, offering George a high five
Oliver turned to you as if to get your approval for remembering what you had said to him. You weren’t looking at him though, strangely stiff and eyes a bit lost on a random spot on the floor. He’d have to get back to that later.
“I was worried you’d quit the team but this is stupid!”
“You could have just said that” spat Angelina before turning to Alicia “See? I told you he sucks”
A few girls that had approached to watch the scene nodded in agreement. Even Oliver’s iron-forged ego took at hit at that.
“Oi”
“You do mate” said Fred, his eyes passing though him and falling onto you for a brief second.
Not even caring about saving face and pretending that whole scene hadn’t made you pray the earth would split open and swallow you, you walked towards the staircase and disappeared without a trace.
The next day you had skipped breakfast. Your stomach was empty except for a complete sense of numbness and shame. You had stayed in the dorm thinking of maybe spending your time before Transfiguration at the library and yet you just stayed there, sitting on the bed with your eyes fixed on a small crack on your bedroom wall.
When you got to your lesson Oliver was already sitting on your seat, his whole body straightening when he saw you walk through the door as if electrocuted. His arm rose in the air almost in a jerking motion, waving at you. You stood there for a moment, the hesitation not lost on him as you dragged your feet towards him and sat next to him without a word. You expected him to start chewing your ear off, but he stayed strangely quiet. You could feel him staring at you, fidgeting with his fingers and lips parting to ask you questions that never made it past them. The lesson had started without a word being exchanged, and you could feel his body uncharacteristically stiff by your side.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked in a careful whisper.
Your quill stilled for a second in the middle of the sentence you had been transcribing without much thought, McGonagall’s speech leaving you behind as she continued her explanation. You swallowed drily, taking a short breath before admitting:
“Yes”
Oliver felt a minute sense of relief when he didn’t hear any animosity in your voice, before it turned into the worst feeling he had ever experienced. It felt sticky and heavy on his chest and it made sweat form at his hairline.
“Is it because of... you know, when I didn’t...” He found himself brave enough to watch you as your head bobbed up and down almost imperceptibly “I figured I-- I’m not sure I understand, but I’m sorry” he stammered, guilt tugging at his voice.
“It’s okay”
That didn’t make him feel better. That suffocating feeling that had kept him awake all night was still there. The same one that had worsened after he had waited for you to come down for breakfast only for you to never do.
“I didn’t want to do it because you said first kisses should be with someone you like. Didn’t want to mess that one up for you”
You had finally looked up at him, if only out of pure shock. His pleading brown eyes were attempting to read you, and you both could tell after staring at each other that neither of you had slept at all the night prior.
“It would have been okay” you said, and Oliver’s whole body shivered as he took your words in.
His eyes travelled downwards, staring at your lips as if begging you to speak them again.
Instead, McGonagall called out the both of you, and no matter how much you wished she’d give both of you detention, she simply gave you a warning before resuming her lesson.
It would be towards the end of the school year that word of Harry Potter being admitted to the Hospital Wing would run through the school. Oliver had been concerned for the little time it had taken him to find out Harry was actually alright and would just take a few days to wake up again. He had marched then towards the castle, head twisting at every corner and scanning every face in his field of vision. When he had found you, he had simply bent over, hands on his knees as he caught his breath and said: “play for me.”
Despite the imperative nature of the request, the look he gave you was almost pleading.
“Here”
“I can put them on myself”
“I don’t remember it that way” Oliver took the Quidditch gloves he had gifted you in your third year and helped you put them on. His hands felt heavy as they held yours “Thank you for doing this”
“Anytime”
The glove went in, and his hands made it a bit past your wrist and inside your sleeve as he made sure there were no creases. It made the hair on your body rise with a shiver. He cleared his throat and stepped away from you, his touch leaving you in one swift motion. That game you would lose, not like many others that had been played in the past, but this had been the first time Oliver had been so close to reach the dream that kept vanishing at his fingertips. He had changed without a word, and neither you or anyone else had had the guts nor the words to try to ease his frustration. Even the twins were quiet. Oliver had gone up to his room right after getting out of the changing room and skipped dinner altogether, and no one had seen him until he came down a few hours later and sat next to you on the couch.
“What are you doing?”
You turned towards him, dumbfounded and relieved. He looked tired, shades of pink adorning the rims of his eyes that watched the fire with a strange calmness.
“I was waiting to see if you’d come down” you said, and to your surprise you saw his expression break into a soft smile.
“I was hoping you’d be here, too”
He stirred on his seat, his body leaning slightly against yours. Your arms and legs pressed together, the feeling overwhelming but intoxicating enough to let yourself melt into his touch. If this is all you could have, you were tired of keeping denying yourself of it.
That summer, July 3rd couldn’t come fast enough: the day of the Bats vs Canons game. After arranging the flu network through correspondence, Oliver was scheduled to arrive at your house shortly after breakfast, and you kept trying to hide your excitement from your parents, who were putting off going to work just to meet him. When he showed up you thought you’d fail miserably at keeping your feelings hidden from them, though. He had shown up sporting a graphic t-shirt from a band you didn’t recognize, jeans and a light leather jacket. He looked so good and casual. Meanwhile you had put so much effort into looking casual and yet you knew you didn’t look half as good as he did. There was something weird about his hair, you thought as he introduced himself to your parents, which was more akin to a job interview than a casual conversation.
“See you tonight” You waved at your parents before being transported to the meeting point designated for the game: a small pub near the stadium “I was meaning to ask you, what’s with the hair?”
Oliver recoiled at your teasing tone, obviously embarrassed.
“What about it”
“It’s weird” you reached for it, but he shoved it away.
“It isn’t” he protested before threading his fingers through it. He couldn’t tell you he had tried to comb it in a way he had realized was ridiculous barely ten minutes before he was supposed to show up at your house. In a panic he had rubbed at it furiously to go back to normal, which caused it to end up in a strange mix of hair and gel “This’s just how I wear it in the summer”
Despite that small hiccup, Oliver had been the most excited you had seen him in a while. He kept tugging at your wrist and dragging you from merch stand to merch stand and then all the way up to the stairs until you had found your seats. The game you had not enjoyed much, on account of not being interested in either of the teams. You hadn’t even assumed you’d have been the one watching the game with Oliver who, unlike the players, was getting all of your attention. He had the binoculars pressed against his eyes so hard you had been sure red circles would have been drawn around his eyes by the time the game was over. He cheered for all the good plays and booed the bad ones, the expression lines on his face letting you read his expression even with his eyes covered.
“This really is the pros” he said in awe and you let yourself smile at it, since he couldn’t see you.
“You’ve gotta amp up your training if you to want catch up with them soon”
“Yeah, I don’t know about that” he said, halfway between bitter and unbothered.
Your brows knitted together as you stared at him, his expression now blank as he followed the movements of the Canon’s chaser. It hadn’t been until after the game when you had been back at your house that you had asked about it, his animated chatter come to a halt.
“I’ve been thinking ‘bout it and I might not become a pro” he said with an aloof sigh of resignation.
“What? No. What would you even do?”
“I don’t know, but going pro might be a long shot, so...” he shrugged, his lips pressed into a thin line “ I can’t even win a school game”
“But that’s--” you attempted to find the words “Like-- I don’t know, mad”
“I still want to win the Quidditch Cup, okay? More than anything. But maybe I should start thinking about something else”
He watched your bottom lip as you bit into it, eyes in deep thought and boring into his.
“Come with me” You dragged him across your house and up the stairs to your room. It was warm inside, and Oliver could appreciate the faint scent of you he was so familiar with. For a brief second it was a bit intoxicating, and then he became painfully aware of the way your cold hand held onto him and placed him in front of your desk “What am I supposed to do with this, then?”
On the top of the desk, enclosed in a delicately ornate frame, was the autograph Oliver had gifted you on your first year. Oliver held it in his hands and stared at it for a long time.
“You still have this?” he asked, voice quiet “Why?”
“Because I thought you were serious”
Oliver’s grip on the frame tightened a bit, fighting a smile that threatened to bring something else with it.
“I really was” he looked back fondly, his eyes turning into crescents and wrinkling at the corners.
“And you should still be” you scolded softly, nudging at his shoulder “You used to scare me back then”
His head leaned to the side “Me?”
“People who know what they want so well scare me. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with myself” you confessed “And yet you were so determined and annoying about it. So you have to hold onto it, okay? You have two more years, so just suck it up and do what you do best”
A fond smile spread across Oliver’s face.
“Make you mad at me?” he asked in a soft voice.
“No” you let yourself smile as you looked away, feeling a blush spread across your cheeks under the weight of his gaze “Even though you are really good at it”
“I don’t want to upset you anymore, though” he declared honestly, his voice raspy and low, almost afraid of his own admission.
“And waste all that practise?”
You pretended not to notice when he set the autograph down, fingers sliding through the surface of the desk towards you.
“I could become good at being nice to you”
“What about me though?” you spoke “Should I stop being mean to you too?”
“No need. I sort of like it” you swallowed, lungs struggling to hold onto a quiet gasp as Oliver got closer, his chest brushing against yours “You’ve always been so good to me anyways”
Oliver’s lips settled on yours with a timid yet demanding touch. He could feel your body stiffen all at once, and for a moment he panicked, but not enough to let go of you. He understood then, what you had meant about the tingling toes. It almost made him chuckle against your lips. There was nothing that could have made him step away from you in that moment, though. You felt a fluttering feeling spread from your stomach to the tips of your fingertips, as intense as it felt sickening, and you let yourself soften under his touch. You felt the edge of your desk pressing against your lower back, and that’s how it registered in your mind that Oliver was backing you into it, lips parting from you only to kiss you again after he took a small breath in between. He didn’t touch you, and neither did you, your hands stiff and glued anywhere else but each other even when you were itching to hold each other.
The sound of the front door opening and closing reached from downstairs. Oliver and you separated immediately, arranging your clothes and passing hands through your hair while attempting to not look at each other. You both went downstairs, hearts thudding loudly against your ribcages when your mother ran into you in the hallway.
“Was showing him the autograph” you said to her, hoping she wouldn’t say anything embarrassing.
If she noticed how red Oliver’s face was, she didn’t say.
“Will you stay for supper, Oliver?”
Merlin, how you had wished he had declined as much as you had wished he had said yes. You were sure you wouldn’t have been able to stay around him, your whole body humming simply by standing next to him.
“That’s a lovely offer, but I promised my parents I’d be home soon after the game”
He had politely said his goodbyes, getting into the chimney in such a hurry he had almost forgotten to duck his head, coming close to hitting it against the brick frame. You gave him a wave, his eyes stuck to you in an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Truth be told, you thought he looked scared. You were, too.
The train ride going into your fifth year was one filled with dread. You had gotten used to the confusing feeling of wanting to see Oliver while simultaneously dreading having him in front of you, but this was too much. With your heart throbbing at your throat you opted for sitting on an empty compartment, nails digging at the leather of the cushions as you kept thinking over and over again about what’d happen when you both eventually ran into each other. Soon later, as it had become commonplace without any of you really noticing, he found you once again. You both stared at each other through the window for a long second before he opened the door.
“Hey”
“Hey” there was something that felt standoffish, yet not completely cold. You knew you wouldn’t be able to deal with it at all year. You picked at the leather of your seat until it tore “We don’t have to talk about it. And you don’t have to sit with me if you don’t want. It’s okay”
Oliver didn’t say anything but his eyes went a bit wide.
“I want to sit with you. I was looking for you, actually”
He stepped inside the coach and closed the door behind him. You had expected rather excitedly that he’d say something about the kiss or about how he felt about it. Maybe he’d sit next to you and hold your hand. Instead he sat opposite of you, with his eyes nervously moving from the window to you from time to time, not really saying anything.
“Had a good summer?” he asked out of nowhere. You could tell he didn’t care for an answer.
“I guess” you replied, caring a bit too much about how he didn’t.
“I didn’t write because I was with my parents in Greece. I told you, right?”
He had, and you had forgotten.
“Yeah, I remember” That didn’t excuse the no-communication policy that seemed to have been settled the moment he left your house “Did you like it?”
Oliver stirred on his seat, suddenly nervous.
“Like? What, like?”
“Greece” you wondered if he had gone insane.
“Oh, that. Yes. Incredible, very blue and old”
Oliver simply stared at you like a deer caught in headlights, for so long it started to worry you. The idea of running onto the hallway and calling for help was crossing your mind when the door of your compartment opened swiftly and with no tact at all.
“Long time no see!”
Fred, George and Lee Jordan slid the coach door all at once, not even caring to ask for permission. Usually it would have bothered you, but in that moment you were thanking the heavens for their presence. They casually sat down, Lee and George sitting by Oliver and Fred sitting next to you. Oliver’s gaze fixated on how Fred’s body leaned towards you, body relaxed as if he was used to it. His nostrils flared as he looked out of the window to the impossibly boring countryside until Fred spoke.
“How was the summer?” Fred asked you, big smile on his face “Do anything fun?”
“It was fine”
“Any... letters?”
You coyly let your eyes wander across the small space, trying not to look at Oliver and ignoring the boys’ snickering. Your eyes met and both looked away as if horrified at the eye-contact.
“Yeah”
Oliver’s confused expression turned sour, upset he was being left out of whatever joke all you seemed to be in on.
“What letter?” asked Lee.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” said Fred, looking at Lee but question obviously directed at Oliver, who arms crossed pretended not to care “Our big brother came home from Bulgaria for a few weeks, and when we told him she wasn’t in the team anymore he wrote to her all worried”
“I would have paid to see your face” George chipped in “You probably pinched yourself, didn’t you?”
“Oh, shut up” you protested all hoity-toity, which only made them laugh at you even louder.
When you finally picked up the courage to raise your head to throw him a poisonous look you were distracted by Oliver, whose narrow eyes were digging a hole in your face. He looked out of the window and didn’t say much through the rest of the ride, the other three boys filling the room with noise by themselves. Fred’s leg continued to press against yours the rest of the ride, which didn’t bother you but turned Oliver into an almost rabid animal by the time the trip was over.
That same night on your way to the common room Oliver had fallen into step next to you, looking forward with a cold distance that while not uncharacteristic, felt harsher given the circumstances. He hadn’t sat next to you during dinner, which somehow felt like your fault.
“What did the letter say?” he had asked, your eyes only being able to meet the side of his face as you looked up to him.
“He wanted to know why I quit. Talked about a bit of everything”
He frowned “So you kept talking?”
“For a bit, yeah”
A couple of girls passed by you in a fit of giggles, turning to look at Oliver for a split second before they looked forward again, squealing.
“Did he say anything about me?” Oliver didn’t seem to pay them any mind or even notice, as usual. It had to be you the one to be so painfully aware of how good-looking he had become this last year. Humph, whatever. They’d never see him in his washed-out jeans and leather jacket and stupid gel-disaster hair “Hello? Did he?”
“Yeah, of course” you sounded upset now.
“What’d you say?”
What’d you said. Shouldn’t the natural flow of the conversation continue about what Charlie had said?
“That you are going strong and to not worry about you”
“About what?”
His step fell only a bit behind you before he got a hold of himself and continued walking by your side.
“What?”
“Not worry about me, about what?”
You finally caught him looking at you out of the corner of his eye, brown irises immediately shooting back straight ahead. He was a bit tanned. Greece looked good on him. The tips of his ears were a bit red.
“Quidditch” you answered as if it was obvious. He said nothing and simply nodded “Anyways, he is raising dragons. Isn’t that cool?”
“I guess” he admitted bitterly “Not as cool as winning a Quidditch Cup”
“First of all, that’s... debatable. But at least someone’s feeling confident”
“I need to get my head straight if I’m gonna go pro”
Your step came to a halt at the casual revelation, and he seemed very pleased with your reaction, even if he wouldn’t show it. It hadn’t occurred to you that Oliver would bring up any memories related to the incident. To admit to them meant to push the events of that day forward, breathing life into them from where they had been buried deep in your chest as he spoke them. Was it shameless or deliberate? He didn’t turn to look at you nor wait for you to go up the stairs. He ran into Angelina Johnson, who he started an animated conversation with. It was okay, though, Angelina was way too smart to get her eyes on Oliver. In his dreams, you thought.
What’d that make you, though? You thought next, depressing yourself before you had even reached the Common Room.
To say you both had gone back to normal would be a lie. The air around you seemed to thicken whenever Oliver was in your vicinity, pushing through your lungs like molasses, heavy and stuffy. He seemed unaffected however, casually circling around you and sitting next to you with ease. At the same time there was something that kept you at a distance, whether it was his words or the way his smile would never reach his eyes. Or maybe the fact that he had started to smile, actually smile to other people. Other girls. When had he learned to do that so casually? Was it Greece? Did Greece do that to him?
For years you had to work your way to making Oliver smile maybe once a week, and now he was letting people bask in the sight of his wrinkly eye-smile without them having to do anything for it? God, you were going insane. Did they know you had kissed him? No, they didn’t! And that felt like you had the upper-hand somehow. They didn’t know because he hadn’t told anyone, and neither had you. Because you were pretending it didn’t happen. Uhm.
Oliver’s eyes looked beyond the girl that’d be talking to him, his smile charming as he looked at you on the other side of the pub. You were sat with a group of friends around a long table at the Three Broomsticks. You were not sure how it had ended up like that. You had started your trip with Oliver getting in the same carriage with you, and by the time you were halfway through your usual Quidditch team stroll through Hogsmeade you had been ambushed by another group of students. Now Oliver was far from you, cozying up to a Hufflepuff upper-classmate that was going head-to-head with Oliver and his Quidditch talk.
“Quidditch people” you mumbled against the rim of your butter-beer.
You took a sip, your face twisting into one of disgust immediately. You hated the stuff, but you hadn’t wanted to bother the waiter and joined everyone else when they had asked for one. Someone chuckled next to you. You turned to the source of the noise coming from the table next to yours, where Marcus Flint was still laughing at your face.
“You look like you are drinking piss”
The comment made you scrunch your nose in displeasure, but it wasn’t the worst you’d heard from him.
“Tastes like it”
He chuckled once again. You were surprised to find he was sitting at a table with a few Ravenclaws. You guessed that that friendship with Roger Davis might have been working some magic on him. Maybe he had hexed him. Maybe you should hex Oliver.
“Why are you drinking it, then?”
“I don’t know” you simply said, tone dry. You noticed the empty glass in his hand and twisting your body awkwardly over your chair offered him your full glass of butter-beer “Here, all yours” He eyed it suspiciously “I’ve only taken a sip. Don’t worry, you won’t catch any nargles from me”
“Shame” he gave you a sly once-over that made you feel hot all over. You had been used to Flint’s quips and glares since second year, when his and Oliver’s animosity towards each other had bloomed. You thought of him as a nasty brute. You also thougt of Oliver on the other side of the table rubbing knees with some Hufflepuff Quidditch know-it-all. She probably could take a look at Oliver’s notes and understand them. He’d probably care about her opinion if he’d take her to buy a new broom “What do you want?”
“What?”
Flint lifted the glass of butter-beer he had accepted from you before he cocked his head towards the bar.
“What do you actually want?”
You stammered a bit to give him your answer, obviously aghast to where the conversation was going. Still. Pleasantly surprised at Flint’s social skills. He rose form his seat, his frame that was already so huge exacerbated by your sitting position next to him. When he came back he set the glass on the table, leaning slightly over you as his other hand rested on the back of your chair.
“Thanks” you turned a bit red as the people sitting closest to you on the table stared at the scene.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” he asked, his voice gravely.
“Oh, uhm” your eyes shot up to Oliver who was staring at the two of you with the sort of face you’d only see him make at the pitch. That Hufflepuff’s girls hands were both resting on the table, dangerously close to Oliver’s “I’m fine here, thanks”
Flint’s eyes rose to Oliver’s, who looked away immediately and set on the girl who was eagerly waiting for an answer to the question he hadn’t bothered to listen to. Flint scoffed, making a strand of hair blow towards your face.
“If you are waiting for Wood to man up, I’m sorry to tell you but that’s not gonna happen” he sat back on his chair, calling from behind you “At least not with you”
A cry bubbled up in the pit of your stomach, and you didn’t dare to look up at Oliver again. You probably wouldn’t be able to look at him ever again. All these smiles you had earned yourself for a while now being gifted to about anyone who passed by him. That proximity and fingertips-almost-touching-rush one that had been reserved only for you, and yet didn’t seem to have been treated with the same flirtatious playfullness he enjoyed from other girls now. Since when was he like this? Did this confidence come from that July evening in your room? Had you been some threshold to cross, some practice test to pass before he could walk around with such absurd confidence?
Yeah, practice had been right.
You had been looking for that word, actually. Maybe Flint was smart, or evil enough, to see through Oliver’s actions. Brute enough to tell you about it. You started crying without much to do about it, luckily everyone at the table busy enough with their own chatter to notice your glassy eyes and tears running down your face. You were about to get up and leave when Flint sighed tiredly from his seat. Then he pressed a thin napkin against your face.
“Seriously, for Wood?” he groaned “Maybe you are stupid”
There was a loud sound and soon after Oliver was towering over the both of you, seething at Flint’s hand touching your face.
“Take your hand off her” he urged him, way more politely than you’d have expected him to.
“Easy Wood, just showing some chivalry”
“Big words coming from that mouth. Get them all out before you swallow them with all your teeth”
“But I just had them fixed” Flint sneered at him.
Oliver snapped his hand away from your face , and that’s when Flint’s two ounces of good nature ran out. He stood up by Oliver , so close his breath fanned Oliver’s bangs. They were a bit messy that day. You had thought he looked pretty. Also like a jerk.
“Will you stop it” you complained with a pathetic break on your voice that under any other circumstances would have been mortifying. You had pushed Oliver’s chest, or attempted to, sturdy as it was hadn’t moved an inch. You’d have time to think about that later “Thanks for the drink”
You picked up your cardigan and clumsily put it around yours shoulders as you struggled to get out of the packed pub. You hesitated at the entrance when the door swung open and you saw that the light rain that had welcomed you into town had progressed into a full storm. You couldn’t possibly stay inside now, not with the whole scene you had made. You rather die. You stepped outside, and the rain who fell upon you was merciless and impossibly cold. You had taken all but two brave steps into the storm when you felt a hand grab onto your biceps, turning you around effortlessly. For a second you felt dizzy, Oliver’s image coming onto you like a mirage. His perfectly messy hair had caved under the weight of the rain and stuck funny against his face. The frown so deep over his eyes you thought his eyebrows would meet. You really loved him, and it sucked.
“What do you think you are doing?” You shook your arm and he let go “Marcus Flint?”
“He was talking to me”
“Looked more than talking to me” ‘Right back at you!’ you had thought of saying “He bought you a drink”
“We were having a polite conversation, surprisingly”
“Bullshit”
“More polite than any conversation I’ve had with you so far!”
He made a face as if appalled at the suggestion Marcus Flint could be anything but a dull troglodyte, much less be better than him at anything.
“He’s using you to get back to me! Can’t you see that?”
Your heart felt as if it had shrunk, as if his words had hurt it so badly it had hid behind a pair of invisible hands. Then, anger seethed out of you.
“Oh, it can’t be because he has any sort of interest in me? It had to be about you, isn’t it? Just like everything”
“Wha-- no, that’s not what I’m saying. We are talking about Marcus Flint here!” Oliver passed a hand though his hair, you could tell it was hard now that it was all soaked and heavy “Do you want him to use you after he’s had his fun? Sure, fine!”
He rose his hands in the air as if he had just won the argument. It was a shortly lived celebration.
“Like you did?” you asked, voice somehow cutting through the loud sound of the rain “Playing footsie with some other girl after you kissed me?”
Oliver’s stared at you through a long pause.
“That’s not what’s happening. You said you didn’t wanna talk about it”
“I never said that”
“In the train”
“I said we didn’t have to if you didn’t want to. And you didn’t want to”
“I was until--!” Oliver stopped himself, biting his bottom lip “And why do I have to be the one to say anything, though? You haven’t said anything either!”
“Fine, I’ll say something, since you are a loser!” you said with a determination you didn’t really have. For a moment you thought you’d laugh at Oliver’s surprised expression “I like you! I bloody hated Quidditch, I did it only because I wanted to be around you all the time! I still do! I expected you to ask me out when summer ended after you kissed me! I hate that you are chatting up every girl in the bloody castle and I bloody fucking hate you!”
Despite the street being empty on account of the pouring rain, you felt like everybody must have heard about your love confession / war declaration. You started walking away, half embarrassed half scared, not entirely sure where to, feet loudly stomping on the ground and making water splash everywhere.
“Oi! You think you can run after this?” you heard Oliver say behind you, and after you turned and saw him following you, you had made the absurd decision to run away. Actually run. Oliver choked a genuine laugh before remembering how upset he actually was and soon took off after you “You always bloody do this! Sulking in a corner until I come and get you. Fine, I’ll come get you every bloody time! I sort of like it” he muttered as he caught you coming to a small street that gave to a dead end.
“What do you want?” you screamed as he grabbed onto your shoulder and turned you towards him.
Oliver kissed you in a way that let you know he was mad and upset and definitely wanted you to shut up. For a moment you went weak in the knees at the feeling of his strong hands holding onto your face as he held your face impossible close to his, almost like he wanted to melt into you. A sudden burst of anger and need to maintain some self-respect came over you and you peeled yourself away from him. The sight of his red lips being washed by the pouring rain made you feel dizzy and hot before you composed yourself again.
“Is that supposed to mean anything to me? How many girls have you kissed since we came back? You got any good practice with me?”
Once again Oliver stood in front of you with only a long silence to offer. You noticed a small bruise on his lip. It looked rather new.
“Is that what Flint said?”
“No, that’s what I feel! What’s got onto you? Walking around like a damn Lockhart-clone. It’s embarrassing!” and it’s charming and it looks good on you but I hate it, you thought to add.
Oliver went all red in the face.
“Well, you are exchanging letters with Charlie Weasley!”
“Why does that even matter?”
“Do you still like him?” he asked in a way that seemed as if he was about to make you sit at Dumbledore’s office and tell you off himself. It almost made you want to confess to a crime.
It was your turn to stare at him like he had lost his mind. He had, in fact. He was trying to explain it to you.
“Are you dumb?” you finally asked.
“Maybe” it’s all he had to say.
He looked like some sort of wet, abandoned dog, looking down at you as if begging you to bring him home with you. You took one step forward and before you could get on your toes he was already grabbing you at the waist and coming down so you could kiss him properly. The rain made your lips brush against each other so much smoothly and exhilarating, and you became worried about how much you never wanted to stop. You could taste it hen, the faint taste of blood drowned in that of butter-beer.
“I told you I liked you” you said as you parted from him.
He seemed to panic for a moment when you stood away from him, because his fingers dug onto your sides as if ready to stop you from running away again.
“So what? My mum said you never forget your first love, or something”
The idea of Oliver listening to his mother talking about love when you knew all she talked about was mostly Quidditch made you stifle a giggle.
“Well, Charlie wasn’t my first love, so you don’t have to worry”
“Who was it?” he looked confused before the scowl eased from his features, eyes slightly wide “Me?” he asked tentatively.
“Merlin, you are stupid”
He pursed his lips into a sour expression, but you could tell he was embarrassed about how relieved he was.
“Me too, I’ve always, like. I don’t know, uh. You’ve always made me sick”
“Pardon?”
Feeling like he had said something too offensive, he held onto you one more time, even if you hadn’t moved an inch and you didn’t plan to. His body was too warm, too welcoming to step away. He took in a deep breath, a million thoughts racing through his head as if he was be running out of time. But he needed a second, and deep down he knew that you’d give it to him. You’d always been patient with him like that.
“Is like all that I want to tell you is stuck in here” he brought a hand to his throat before he put it back on your waist again, almost like he would lose the spot to someone else “And it feels like I’m going to throw up whenever you are around, you know?”
You did know. You’d felt like that for a long time. You never thought Oliver would be the one to one day make sense of your own confusing feelings. Maybe you were both stupid.
“You make me sick too” you confessed, bringing your hand down from deep in his hair to caress his cheek.
Oliver gave you a soft, almost there smile that could only be seen if you got this close. None of those flashy grins he had been parading around for a while. One of his hands held onto the one that rested over his face. He brought it to his lips, cold fingertips as pleasant as they were chilling.
“You must be so cold”
He had thought about it so many times, ever since the first time his hand had graced yours that first day at the pitch. Just how cold did you feel as you followed him there, even if you didn’t have to? Wasn’t it his responsibility then to keep you warm?
“I don’t feel cold at all” you confessed, the gentle gesture enough to set your body aflame with the simple gracing of his lips.
You locked eyes for a second before Oliver was eagerly backing you against the wooden wall of the building behind you. You grabbed onto his shoulder as you felt him lift you slightly from the ground, arm around your waist pressing you against him in a manner you knew would look scandalous to anyone passing by. He still held onto your hand, fingers intertwined and squeezing yours when he felt you kissing him back with as much eagerness as he was trying to hold back. His lips moved to your cheek, his breath making you shiver.
“Why’d you let Marcus Flint touch you” he asked in such a manner that made you feel like he was going to tell you off again.
“He was nice”
“Don’t piss me off”
“I’m a pretty girl” you teased.
“I’m aware” he groaned, lips dragging across your temple to your hairline while his fingers toyed with the hem of your blouse “It’s bloody annoying”
You didn’t let yourself get distracted by sweet words or his leg sneaking in between yours. Mmh, maybe that last one. No,
“You, don’t piss me off!” you pressed a hand against his chest and forced him to remove himself from you a bit. He looked almost pained “Who is that Hufflepuff you were talking to?”
“I don’t know really” he admitted so pitifully you almost felt bad “Someone who’d make you mad and yell at me.? That’s all I wanted, really. Been bloody trying to get you to yell at me since I came back but all you do is look at me all snotty and go away...”
His head fell down, defeated. His eyes set on your cotton blouse, all soaked and almost transparent. He swallowed and grabbed at the sides of your cardigan, closing it above your chest with slightly trembling hands. His head rested against yours, eyes closed as he waited for his heartbeat to ease. When he opened them again and looked at you, he came to the realization it never would, not as long as you were looking up at him like that.
“Let’s go to the castle and rest by the fire, okay? You are making me sick”
You laughed at the way he said it with such an annoyed expression. The same one he used to make when he’s scold you for sucking at playing Quidditch that first Christmas break.
“I love you too” you said, and you found you weren’t scared of saying it.
Oliver choked and stared down at your unashamed smile. He was waiting for you to look away or retract your words but you just looked up at him, all wet and absurd looking caught in the rain with mud stains in your jeans. He could see her again, first-year-you staring at him through you like a ghost. He could see her in your smile, in the way your eyebrows frowned a bit and the way you tilted your head to stare at him. He thought then he couldn’t wait to see the present you reflected in your eyes a few years down the line. It felt like his heart was about to burst.
“I really love you” he said, and you felt yourself almost tear up.
“Even if I suck at Quidditch?”
Oliver kissed you once more.
“You’ll get better. We have all the time in the world to play catch”
— I'll tell you one thing, honey // I can tell when somebody still wants me, come clean // Standin' at the bar like something's funny, bubbly // Once you fix your face, I'm goin' in (Yeah)
summary: you were never really together. that made it worse when you suddenly drift apart. you see him a year later and you're wondering why you let him go in the first place. or rather why he didn't try harder to keep you. will you get him back?
pairing: bradley bradshaw x pilot!reader (callsign: denver)
a/n: Comments are VERYY much appreciated guys, y'all keep me from kikling myself /hj. AHHHH GUYS IT'S BEEN 5 MONTHSSS! I'm back after a LONGGG hiatus with a Bradley fic just because
They say situationships are worse than a break up. It haunts you with its unanswered questions, it's endless what ifs, and the dread of what could've been.
They also say that time heals broken wounds.
So yeah, in retrospect, you should've been fine. You should've not cared that the man that haunted you for a greater part of your life was now standing inches away from you, looking as good as the day you left him (maybe even better).
But no, of course you do. Because forgetting Bradley fucking Bradshaw wasn't some easy feat. He wasn't some guy you spent the night with after a drink too many, he wasn't a long-term boyfriend you broke up with. Fuck—he was more than that. Worse or better, you couldn't decide.
Your heart was thumping out of your chest—it shouldn't—when he offers you a "hi" and a small smile of acknowledgement. His thoughts, you suspected, screamed into your face in red ink, "your absence pained me, but your presence now means nothing". You smiled and said your greeting. You wanted to dig yourself to an early grave.
Phoenix sliced through the awkward silence you didn't even realize you two both were holding. With a clap, "Seems like we're all working together for the next few weeks, huh?" she said with an awkward smile. Everyone seemed to sense the tension around you and Bradley even if half of them didn't even know the history you both shared.
"It seems so, Phoenix. I just wonder how long it will take for these two to break" Hangman started, straightening up from the pool table as he does. "Don't start now, Bagman" Phoenix tried. Key word: tried.
Hangman said as-a-matter-of-factly, "What? I'm just saying. If we're spending the next few weeks together, these two are bound to fuck it out." You wanted to punch him in the face. Breathe in. Breathe out. "Do you want me to rearrange your nose, pretty boy?" you sneered.
With a dramatic hand to his chest, "you think I'm pretty?" Hangman teased. Your eye twitched.
One.
Two.
"I'm just playing! You're way too serious, Den!" he mused playfully, pulling you into his chest with his arm like one an older brother would when play-fighting. Only this time it wasn't funny. You grimaced, trying to pry his arm away from you. "Come on, I'll buy you a beer!" his voice fades from the group of aviators as he drags you onto the bar. "Is he always like that?" Bob, staring at both of yours' figures, asked. "You'll get used to it." Cayote replied as he crosses his arms.
It was only then when they realiohzed Rooster retreated to the pool table, busying himself with Fritz. Phoenix turned to him knowingly.
"....So what's up with them?" Fanboy murmured to Phoenix, eyes fixated at Bradley.
Nat only glared at him.
.
.
.
.
.
The first morning was... weird.
You sat a row away from Bradley—which you were thankful for—but even so, for some reason, you still felt curious eyes burning at your head.
The instructor came in. And you were met with a rather familiar face. A pleasant one on your end—Maverick. You couldn't say the same for the man sitting a few chairs behind you. You shot your head towards Bradley as soon as Maverick started speaking. You caught him with an expression you could only describe as if someone's puppy just got stepped on. Your eyes narrowed on him. You may not be on speaking terms with Bradley but you know enough to know how he's thinking. Especially with Maverick.
You make a mental note to ask him how he is after briefing.
Because that's what friends do. That's what friends do.
"Rooster!" you cringe at the foreign sound. His callsign sounded weird coming from you. You were sure he thought the same from the way his body froze. As if he never thought it would ever come out from your lips. He stopped his tracked, turning to face you.
What are you doing? Fuck, turn back around!
"Denver," your heart skipped a beat at the sound of your callsign. It sounded unsure, as if he was trying how it projected from his mouth. "Uh...How are you?" seriously? what are you, fifteen? He nods. "I'm doin', great, how 'bout you?"
You nod awkwardly, your lips thinning. "Yeah uhm, same here..." there was silence for a moment. You didn't know what else to say. Why did you even talk to him in the first place? He looks at you from head to toe, the kind that makes your knees feel like jelly. "You uh, you look good." he said in a low voice that made you want to bang your head into a brick wall. Or his.
You nod, tearing your gaze from his. "You too." You murmured. Your mind wandered back to Bradley and Maverick. You stared at each other for a few seconds. You started, "So, you and Ma—" you didn't even finish your sentence as he cut through you. "You and Hangman seem close." His tone, laced with something you can't quite pin-point. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was jealous. But that's just ridiculous. You and Jake were friends. Atleast that's what Bradley heard you say.
His face twitched ever so slightly. Barely visible. He hoped you didn't caught it. Jake. Since when were you and Bagman on first name basis? Moreover—Rooster? Not Bradley. Not Brad. Not B. Fuck, not even Bradshaw. He composed himself, gave you a nod before excusing himself.
You watch him retreat in the opposite direction. You were confused. That went...Well? You guess?
.
.
.
.
Contrary to popular belief—by popular belief, you mean the rest of the squad—the next few weeks consisted of you and Bradley, well, co-existing. You'd dogfight in the same sky, serve punishments on the same tarmac, sit through debrief and lessons in the same room, eat lunch in the same cafeteria, go home your separate ways, and repeat.
Phoenix was walking next to you. The day just ended and the sun was setting in a pretty orange hue. "The squad's at the Hard Deck now" Nat mentioned as you trekked the tarmac.
You chuckled hesitantly, "is he going to be there?"
"Is he in the squad?" Nat cocked her head to you now with that glimmer in her eye that convinced you the pilot was up to no good. You faced her. "Touché." You kissed your teeth, nodding.
You stop your tracks just by where hers and your car is. "I'll think about it."
"Alright, let me know, okay?" she noted before getting in her car. You offered one last smile before you do the same. "I will. Bye Nat, drive safe."
"You too!"
.
.
.
.
.
You were going.
And no—you’re not going for Bradley. That’s what you keep telling yourself. You’re going for your friends. Because you refuse to be that petty almost-ex-girlfriend of the friend group who disappears just because he’ll be there. You are an adult. You can coexist with Bradley. You can handle this.
You pull up to the Hard Deck and switch off the engine.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
The moment the car door swings open, the cool California breeze washes over you. It hits differently than it did this time last year. Everything does. Back then, the same air felt warm—weightless—like something held you. Now it feels sharper, almost like a slap. A reminder instead of a memory.
And because your brain fucking hates you, you’re back again—the crash of waves. The late-May heat. His scent settling over you like it belonged there.
His hands at your waist. The brush of his mustache against your skin—had he always been planning to leave?
Those road-trip nights, the whispered promises, the half-kisses in the dark—were you never worth the risk?
But maybe you're fine like this.
Maybe pretending works.
Maybe pretending you didn’t happen is the safest option for both of you.
You shake it off. Shoulders back. Mask on.
You push through the bar doors.
Phoenix straightens when she spots you first. “Denver’s here,” she announces like it’s a weather alert. Suddenly, half the aviators are rotating like satellites.
The low buzz of laughter rushes into your ears. The squad is already there—Phoenix waves you over. Jake whistles loudly, six beers deep already, waving like an idiot. You manage a smile.
Then your eyes betray you.
They go searching.
And they find him.
Bradley’s leaned against the pool table, beer halfway to his mouth, curls a little longer, biceps a little bigger, his classic Hawaiian shirt rolled at the sleeves in a way that should be illegal. He looks up at the exact moment you do.
A spark.
A jolt.
An oh, fuck—look away.
You try.
He doesn’t.
His gaze lingers like smoke—slow, warm, territorial. It’s the look of a man who remembers everything your mouth ever did and hates that he still does.
You swallow and force your legs to keep moving.
“Denver!” Jake’s voice erupts across the bar before you even take three steps inside. “Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence!” He throws both arms open like he’s about to hug you—
You catch him by the collar before he fully commits. “Don’t you dare,” you warn with narrowed eyes.
He cracks a laugh, "Need a drink?” He’s already halfway to the bar without waiting for an answer. "Why is it everytime I come here he's always offering me a drink?" you say, shaking your head with a smile as the aviator struts his way to Penny.
Bob gives a small, polite wave from his seat—posture perfect, eyes flickering between you and Bradley like he’s monitoring air traffic. Coyote nods in greeting. Fanboy elbows Payback, whispering way too loudly:
“Thought she wasn't coming—”
“Maybe don’t narrate?” Phoenix hisses, smacking the back of his head. You laugh under your breath, the tension loosening—until instinct drags your gaze over your shoulder.
Rooster hasn’t moved from the pool table.
Jake returns with a beer, sliding it into your hand.
“There she is,” he coos dramatically, slinging an arm around you like he’s claiming territory he absolutely shouldn’t be claiming. Especially not when Bradley's sround.
Bradley’s grip on his pool cue tightens so hard his knuckles bleach white.
You should step out of Jake’s hold.
You don’t.
Not immediately.
Not until the new guy appears—tall, stupidly pretty, and confident in a way that feels both charming and dangerous.
“Lieutenants, good evening,” he greets with a crisp nod.
The squad responds with their greetings. You offer your own polite smile. “Hi.” He smiles back, directed entirely at you. “Lieutenant Walton,” he introduces, though his eyes say Call me something better. Jake actually groans under his breath. “Great. Another sailor with a jawline.” You elbow him. He pretends it didn’t hurt.
Walton shifts closer—a little too close. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he says. "New to North Island?" “Technically,” you reply, shrugging. “Just got in a few weeks ago."
“Ah. Fresh meat.” His grin widens.
Behind him, Bradley misses his next shot by a landslide—ball ricocheting off the table like it’s personally offended. “Wow,” Phoenix mutters amusingly to Bob. “He never misses that shot.” Bob nods slowly, eyes darting between Rooster and Walton. “This’ll be… something.”
Walton keeps talking—asking about where you trained, what you fly, what brought a pretty girl like you to the Navy—and you’re surprised by how easy he is to talk to. He’s funny. He’s clever. He’s clearly interested.
But what’s even funnier?
Bradley’s glare.
Sharp enough to slice steel.
Deadly enough to sink ships.
Every time Walton leans in to say something, Bradley’s posture changes—shoulders squared, chest out, jaw locked so tight a muscle jumps beneath his mustache. The squad is absolutely watching this unfold like it’s their nightly entertainment. “Rooster looks like he’s about to commit murder,” Fanboy whispers. “Bet Hangman twenty bucks he’d snap by eleven,” Payback replies.
“You’re gonna lose,” Nat predicts, sipping her beer.
And she’s right. Because suddenly it’s 2200—two hours of conversation you didn’t intend to have—and Walton is still right there. Leaning in closer every time you laugh.
His stories are amusing enough. But the real comedic highlight of your night?
Every single time Walton touches your arm, Bradley’s face twists like he’s watching someone drown a puppy. Walton leans just a bit closer now, voice soft. “So… you got plans this weekend?” Casual. Smooth. Interested.
You freeze for just a second, beer halfway to your lips.
You can feel the weight of Bradley’s stare scorching into the back of your neck.
He’s no longer pretending to play pool.
He’s not even holding the cue anymore.
He’s just staring—like he can’t decide whether to punch Walton…
…or drag you out of the bar.
Phoenix sighs dramatically. “And there it is,” Coyote crosses his arms, smirking. Jake leans into you with a low whistle. “Careful, Den. Rooster’s gonna pop a blood vessel.” He looks at Bradley, calling out with a wide grin, “You good over there, Bagman #2?”
Bradley doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink.
And when Walton places a hand—light, casual—on your waist to shift closer…
Bradley moves.
Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. Everyone went still—like they're holding their breaths. The music doesn’t stop. But your heart does.
Because everyone knows:
He’s done watching.
Done biting his tongue while some other guy stands where he used to stand. Done pretending that this silence between you hasn’t been choking him out slowly, day after fucking day. It’s been weeks of playing it cool—weeks of acting like not having you under his hands doesn’t make him want to put his fist through the nearest wall just to feel something besides missing you.
He’s done pretending he doesn’t see the way you look away the second you meet his eyes—like you’re scared you’ll fall straight back into him. Pretending he doesn’t ache every time you pass him in the hall and pretend not to notice the electricity snapping between you.
The truth?
He’s starving for you.
He wants to pin you back against the wall and kiss you the way he was never supposed to—hard enough to steal every breath from your mouth until you’re gasping his name like you used to. He wants his hands on your jaw, on your hips, everywhere they don’t belong anymore. He wants to relearn the sound you make when you break under him, the way you used to soften, melt, open for him like it was inevitable.
He wants all of you—
the parts he had,
the parts he lost,
and the parts he never got to keep.
He’s done pretending like the absence of your touch hasn’t been killing him.
He’s done pretending.
And now?
He’s not hiding it anymore.
Because if Walton doesn’t remove his hand in the next three seconds…
there’s going to be a problem.
Walton doesn't. Not even when he could feel six pairs of eyes on him.
A hand lands on his shoulder—
—and shoves.
Not enough to start a bar fight. Just enough to say back off. The guy stumbles half a step and turns, pissed. “The hell, man?”
Bradley’s voice drops low, lethal. “She's not interested.” Your heart slams against your ribs. The guy glances at you for confirmation. Your lips part—silence.
Because you’re not sure what you are.
Not with Bradley.
Not without him.
Jake immediately steps between them, arms out like a chaotic referee. “Okay! Boys, let’s not ruin Penny’s bar, yeah?” Phoenix drags a hand over her face. Fanboy whispers, “Called it.” Bob looks ready to flee. Coyote just mutters, “Here we go.”
Bradley ignores every single one of them. His eyes—only on you.
“That what you’re doing now?” he asks quietly. A hint of hurt under the fury. “Letting random guys put their hands on you?”
Something snaps in you.
Maybe pride.
Maybe pain.
“Why do you care?”
His nostrils flare. “You know why.” he says, voice cracking around the edges.
It’s terrifying, the way the room seems to shrink around you two. The music fades. The lights blur. It’s just him—standing too close, smelling too familiar, looking like he’d burn the world down before he lets you walk away with someone else.
“I’m gonna grab some air,” you say with a tight expression, leaving Walton hanging and Bradley nit less in peace. It’s not a lie, exactly—you can’t breathe in here.
You turn away before you do something stupid, like stare into Bradley’s eyes long enough to remember things you should’ve already forgotten.
The night air hits you as you step outside. Cool. Sharp. Real. You lean your palms against the railing overlooking the beach, eyes squeezed shut.
You don’t hear footsteps.
You feel them.
“Denver.”
His voice. Low. Rough. The one that used to whisper against your neck. You don’t turn around. Not yet. Not when your stupid heart still responds to him like a command. “Denver!” he says louder this time. "Shit," he calls ot your name this time. His hand twitches like he’s one second from grabbing you—from staking a claim he forfeited.
You snap.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you spit out, spinning to face him, chest heaving, every nerve screaming. "He wasn't even doing anything!" you yell at him, it comes out more aggressive than you wanted it to be. Bradley doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. "I didn't like the way he was with you." He stands there like he’s been starving—and you’re the feast he walked away from. You scoff, "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
“What, so now you're tell me you’re jealous?” you hiss, venom dripping from every word. “Now that I’m finally moving on?”
His jaw tightens. “What if I say I am?"
“Well don't! You don't get to be jealous, Rooster! There's no us, and there was never an us!” You step closer, rage sharpening your voice.
“That’s not—”
“Oh, shut up,” you cut him off. “You left. You ran. And now you’re pissed because someone else actually wants me?”
Bradley’s eyes flare fire. “Is that what you think happened!?” His voice drops low, thick with frustration. “I left because you made me! Every time I tried to stay, you shoved me away. Every time I reached for you, you pushed me out. I left because that’s what you wanted!”
You want to yell. To slap him. To shove all this fury into him. But the moment he steps closer, your knees weaken, and it’s infuriating. You ball your hands into fists, trembling. “I was trying to protect you from myself! You think it was easy for me to let you in?”
“Protect me from yourself?” His voice cracks, ragged now. “You were not protecting me, you were afraid of somebody actually staying. I know you were afraid,— fuck, I was too! But I wanted it to be you, and I wanted you with me!”
For a heartbeat, you just stare. His eyes glint with something raw—rage, hurt, and a pull that twists your insides.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper, voice shaking.
“Yeah,” he breathes, dangerously close. “And so are you.”
The air between you burns suffocatingly. Every look ignites another memory, every breath is a reminder of everything that went wrong. The tension is a living thing, clawing at the both of you, daring one of you to break first.
He drags his hands down his face, shoulders collapsing like he’s finally run out of fight. That sight alone steals the breath from your lungs. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone who won’t let you stay?” he murmurs, small, wounded, the kind of soft that hurts worse than screaming.
Your throat closes, the truth spilling through clenched teeth.
“I tried,” you fire back, not angry at him, but at yourself, every word dripping with self-loathing. “God, I tried so fucking hard to let you in!” Your fists curl at your sides, nails biting into your palms. “But every time I did, every time I let myself believe you were real—I panicked. I pushed you away first. I told myself I was protecting us but really…” you shook your head no. You weren't gonna admit defeat, he your stubbornness that much. In the first place, it's one of the qualities that made him fall for you. Your voice fractures, tears welling hot and furious. Your breath stutters, a choked whisper slipping free. “—And then you ran, Bradley, you always ran.”
You meet his eyes, your scowl faltering, shame bleeding through—like you’re finally admitting the thing that’s been tearing you apart all this time. “I ran because you told me to,” he fires back, but the anger in his voice keeps trembling, like it’s barely holding itself together. “I left because you looked at me like I was the problem. Like everything would finally be okay if I just disappeared.” His chest rises and falls in uneven, frantic breaths. His voice splinters.
“Not because I wanted to,” he says, quieter now, broken. “I never wanted to. I never stopped caring.”
Tears fill his eyes faster than he can blink them away. His hands curl into fists at his sides—not in anger, but in desperation. “And when I saw you again…” His throat closes around the words. A single tear slips free, and he squeezes his eyes shut, like he hates the weakness. “God, everything inside me just collapsed. You were right there—so close—and all I wanted was to hold you like I used to. To kiss you like you still wanted me.”
He forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his chin keeps shaking. “But I didn’t. Because what if touching you just reminded you how much better life is without me? What if you forgot what it felt like to be wanted by me… like you were the only good thing I ever had?” His voice shatters on the last part. “What if you forgot how much I missed you?”
You're staring at him like you don't recognize this version of him—this unguarded, unraveling mess. Your scowl hasn’t fully disappeared, but it’s cracking at the edges and your eyes are shining, tears threatening to spill despite the fury still tightening your jaw. Your breath stutters, but still, you refuse to look away. Because now you see it—how devastated he’s been. How every word is costing him a piece of himself.
The words hang between you. Heavy. Explosive. Electric. Your lips tremble. His jaw tightens. You want to close the space between you, but you also want to run. You want to hurt him, but you also want him to hold you.
“You think I’ve forgotten?” you whisper. “You think seeing you again wouldn’t…?”
“Wouldn’t what?” His voice is hoarse. “Burn you up inside? Make you insane?” He steps closer, dangerously close, enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Because guess what? It’s burning me too. Every second without you. Every day after I left, I was dying.” Your chest heaves. You feel the sharp, piercing truth of it, mingled with fury and something unnameable. For a long, searing moment, the world falls away. Nothing exists but the two of you—anger, regret, longing, pain, and a fire neither can control.
Then, just when the tension is unbearable, he steps back, breathing hard, eyes glinting with everything unspoken. “You make me insane," he says your name.
He closes the space between you in two steps. You freeze—fury sparking with heat that terrifies you. His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek—wow, you piss him off. Good. “But i’m not walking away again,” he says, low and lethal. “So yell. Hate me. Hit me. I’ll take every bullet—but I’m staying right fucking here.”
You hate how your heart sprints. How your fingers shake. How he still knows exactly where to aim. “You don’t get to just decide that,” you whisper—sharp but cracking. Bradley leans in closer, crowding your space, but he doesn’t touch you. “You don’t want me to go,” he says quietly. “Say you do, and I’m gone.” You open your mouth—and nothing comes out. Because you don’t know how to kill a truth that’s still alive.
His voice drops, rough. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You turn away. Because if you keep looking at him, you’ll break. And you refuse to break for him again. You take a step. Then another.
The wind is cold. The night is loud. You tell yourself this is good. Distance. Escape. But just when you think you’re free—
His arms are around your waist. Too large for you. Too warm. Too damn familiar. He's locking you back against him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You gasp, shock and betrayal and something dangerously close to relief all tangled up. His forehead drops into the crook of your shoulder—like that place was made for him. You're mad you know it was.
His voice comes out wrecked, "please don’t walk away from me.” Your eyes squeeze shut. “Rooster—”
It’s a warning. A plea. A lie.
His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to bold on. "My name, baby. Say my name." It's soft, his lips even softer when he presses a kiss to your neck. You hate how it's making you weak. You hate how you're giving in.
"—Bradley, please let me go." you say softly. He shakes his head. “I know I don’t deserve to touch you,” he whispers, breath trembling against your skin, “but I can’t stand here and watch you walk out of my life again.”
Your fingers clench uselessly at your sides. He’s shaking. Bradley Bradshaw—unshakeable, unflappable Rooster—is shaking.
You turn around, pulling him just enough you look up at him, his eyes are brimming with tears, lips pressed tight in a scowl. Your chest heaves, fists clenching at your sides, a mixture of anger, hurt, and disbelief radiating from you like heat.
“You think you’re too much sometimes,” he starts, voice low, rough with emotion. “Too loud. Too stubborn. Too reckless. You think people get scared of you, scared of how much you feel, scared of how much you fight to protect yourself.” He let's go, not entirely. He has his hands on your waist.
You flinch, but dont look away.
“You think you’re not good enough,” he continues, each word jagged with honesty, each one a hit you can’t dodge. “That no one could ever want you the way you want them. That every mistake, every misstep, every word you didn’t say… makes you less. Less than anyone else. Less than me.”
Tears spill over now, streaking your face, but you keep your stubborn scowl, defiant. Your voice shakes, barely a whisper, “I… I’m not—”
“You think you’re broken,” he interrupts, eyes softening with desperation. “You think you’re too complicated, too impossible to love. You think I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t care, shouldn’t even want you…”
Your scowl falters for a fraction of a second, and he seizes it, stepping closer, until the space between them is electric, charged with everything unspoken. He places his hands between your tear-stricken face.
“And…” His voice drops, trembling, gentle but fierce. “…I love you. All of it. Every flaw you think makes you unworthy. Every fear, every crack, every messy, impossible piece of you. And I love you. Because that’s you. Every part of you, every fire, every jagged edge, every storm you think pushes me away—it’s what I want. I want it all. I want you, baby."
You blink, tears sliding down your cheeks as the scowl softens into disbelief, pain, and something deeper she can’t name. Your chest heaves, words caught somewhere between a sob and a scream.
“You… love me?” You whisper, voice breaking, voice raw.
“I love you,” he repeats, voice low, unwavering. “I’m not apologizing. I love you—all of you—and I always will. I love you.”
Your knees feel weak. Your chest feels heavy. Your scowl remains, but it’s softer now, more fragile, a shield cracking under the force of everything he just said. And for the first time in forever, the storm inside you seems to quiet… just enough to let the truth sink in.
Bradley just watches you, eyes dark, intense, burning with everything he’s felt and held back. “Stay,” he breathes, soft but firm. “Just… stay here. Look at me.” you refuse. "Baby, please look at me."
Your scowl has completely fallen now, replaced by tears, trembling lips, and a heart hammering so violently it hurts. Bradley’s eyes are dark, soft, and intense, every ounce of emotion he’s held back for months radiating from him.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers, voice ragged, trembling. “Just… stay. Let me stay.”
Your chest heaves. You want to push him away, to run, to scream, but every instinct in your body betrays you. And he knows it. He sees the fracture in your armor, the raw, bleeding part of you that only he has ever known.
Slowly—painfully slow—he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, breath mingling, hearts hammering in perfect, agonizing sync. He murmurs your name against your lips, soft and trembling. “Please.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Your hands fumble at his chest, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt as if touching him could anchor you in reality.
Then, finally, he closes the distance. His lips are soft, desperate, claiming. The first brush is light, testing, and it steals your breath in an instant. Your eyes squeeze shut. He doesn’t stop. He presses closer, tilting his head, lips moving against yours with a fevered urgency that shatters every wall you’ve built. His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks through tears, holding you like he’s afraid the world will rip you from him if he lets go.
You try to fight it—try to push him back—but the fire in his kiss, the raw ache in every movement, the desperate pleading behind every touch—it breaks you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your body trembling against his. He groans softly into the kiss, ragged, broken, full of every thing he’s felt and every thing he’s denied. Every flaw, every doubt, every heartbreak, he’s kissing it all into submission.
And in that moment, all your walls fall. The scowl, the anger, and fear melts. You cling to him, trembling, sobbing against his chest, feeling every ounce of his love crash into you. He pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing, voice low and raw. “You’ve always been mine,” he breathes. “Every impossible, infuriating, beautiful piece of you… mine. I love you so much.”
You blink through tears, trembling, trying to form words. All you can do is whisper back, breathless, raw, “I… I love you too.”
And this time you were letting him. You were letting your guard down, and you were letting him love you like he'd always intended. And this time, he's staying.
Everyone says you're complicated // Every day, you're my most awaited, oh // I'm captivated // Oh, they don't see you as I do // You are so beautiful // Come breathe within my soul // Let go, oh, my love// You don't have to listen to a word they say // 'Cause all that really matters is that I love you
summary: lando norris needs some reminding of all the love you have for him.
a/n: honestly this concept has been in the back of my mind for MONTHS. this is the only time I actually sat down and wrote it so bear with me. COMMENTS MEAN SO MUCH MORE THAN HEARTS OR REBLOGS🙏
Lando twists the key into the door. He takes two steps inside before tossing his bags onto the hardwood floor. Monaco's beautiful at this hour, the faint sound of cars from five levels down, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean sea, a of it is beautiful. Yet that familiar pang in his chest thrives, and slowly he's walking up to your bedroom—he's cautious not to make a sound, afraid to awake you.
He winces when the door creaks open. The bitterness is slowly melting away when he finds you in your shared bed sleeping so peacefully on his side of the bed. He thinks it's adoring. How you're cuddled up under the sheets, with his pillow that smells like him.
Lando wants nothing more than to lay in your warm arms, to tell you about the week he's had—to cry in your arms. Before he could, he makes his way to his closet and quickly changes before he's tip toeing to your (his) side of the bed. He smiles softly. The mattress sinks as he sits on it, and he's caressing your hair, tucking the loose strand behind your ear to get a better look at his baby.
He sighs, pressing a soft peck on your forehead. Lando hears you jolt a little and he's afraid you've actually woken up. Your eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the moon's ray, courtesy of the window. "I'm sorry baby, did I wake you up?" Lando murmurs.
"No..no, Lan—'s okay, I just fell asleep anyway..." you lied. You stare up at him with tired eyes, "How was the race?" you ask. As much as you wanted to be there, your schedule just couldn't be as flexible as you wanted it to be. He flinched at your question, as if the mere mention of the race was enough to start the waterpipes.
"Okay." He sighed, deeply, his shoulders almost defeated. He offered you a small smile. You knew it way too well. The way he tried to mask what he truly feels. The way he thinks he could still get away with it. By this time he should know it doesn't get pass you. You analyze him for a second longer before softly you say, "come here, baby." Opening your arms for him.
His eyes flutter for a moment before he's surging into your arms—his own flailing onto your sides. You dont care about the suffocating weight of him pressing onto you, what matters now is the way his whole body seems to relax in your arms. It warms your heart—before it is followed by panic when you feel his hot tears soaking through your shirt.
You jolt upright as soon as it processes to you. His arms made its way around your neck, clinging onto you tightly. "Lando? Hey—hey, look at me." you pull away for a moment, grabbing his face. The way his glossy eyes stares at you back makes your heart beat fast. You always hated it when he cried. "Baby what's wrong? What happened? Did something happen during the race? Are—are you hurt?" you know you're rambling with your questions right now, but what were you supposed to do when the love of your life is crying so suddenly in your arms after you've been separated for a week?
"It's just jet-lag, sweetheart. Just tired, that's all" he shakes his head, sniffling while he chuckles softly. "—No, Lan, I don't believe you, not one bit. What's going on? Please tell me what's wrong." you wipe away his tears as he straightens up. He sighs, contemplating whether to lie or to tell you the truth. He settles with the latter—he knows it's practically impossible to lie to you, he knows you'll read him like a book. "Some people just said some things, nothing serious." He shrugs as if it is.
"What?" you see red at this point. "Who? What did they say this time?" he almost flinches from the way your voice shifts from soft to stern as soon as you hear the words come out from his mouth. He should've lied to you. "It's the usual comments after the race. Overly investigating every single move I make. You know how it is, baby. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, okay?"
“Lando Norris, how do you expect me to just sit there and take it when you’re crying because of them? When they say that shit about you?”
He doesn’t respond—not really. He only exhales a shaky breath and buries his face back into the curve of your neck, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. He molds himself against you, clinging, small in a way he’d never admit.
You thread your fingers through his hair and settle back against the headboard, pulling him in with you. “You don’t have to listen to a word they say, Lan. They don’t know anything about you, or how hard you work. You have so many people who love you, and those other people—they don’t get to decide who you are.”
He nods faintly, but it’s the desperate tightening of his arms around you that tells the truth.
“You mean so much to me, baby. I hate it when you cry because of them.” Your voice cracks, embarrassingly. You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts his head, thumb brushing the tear before it falls. His eyes soften—the kind of softness people never see in him, because he saves it for you.
“I love you too,” he whispers, voice heavy with the weight of it. “More than you can imagine. Thank you for being there for me. For not leaving.”
You try to laugh, but it just trembles out of you. “Why would I ever leave?”
He hesitates, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for you to feel it. Enough for you to see the fear hidden behind everything he never says. “Because people do,” he admits quietly. “You know what they say about me. What everyone say I am.”
Your heart breaks clean in half.
You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you—really look. “I don't care what other people say about you, what matters to me is how I see you. And ou’re not any of those, Lan. Sure, you've made your mistakes, but you've owned up to them. You’re only human after all. And I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re shining, not when you’re breaking, not when you’re scared. You don’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”
His eyes blink rapidly, like he’s trying to fight tears he doesn’t want you to see, but one slips out anyway. You kiss it away before he can apologize. He exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do,” you whisper, swallowing the ache in your throat. “You deserve someone who sees you the way I do. Someone who stays.” He crawls closer, practically climbing into your lap, arms locked around your waist like a lifeline. His voice breaks.
“Just… don’t let go right now.”
You wrap yourself around him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. “I won’t. Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time that night, he lets go of that heavy feeling in his chest and he's breathing like he believes you. Because he does.
You stay like that for a while, before you feel his steady breathing on your neck. You slowly descend into the mattress, just raising his head enough to lay him down on your side of the bed. You tuck him under the covers, before you yourself lay down and pull him into your arms once more.
'Cause my love is mine, all mine // My love mine, mine, mine //Nothing in the world belongs to me // But my love, mine, all mine, all mine // My baby here on Earth // Showed me what my heart was worth.
summary: Steve hates seeing you cry. And after a crawl gone wrong, steve gets hurt and she nurses him. you're crying, scared for his safety—and he wonders the last time his parents were like this to him. Or if they ever were.
Mike was staring at the man with his bleeding leg and busted up lip with wide eyes, terrified, actually. It looked bad—really fucking bad. He recalled the moment he realized something wasn't doing right. It only started to go downhill after that, and one of those was Steve practically getting his leg eaten by a demogorgon.
He saw Steve limping towards the Squawk, his bleeding leg barely nursed with a piece of cloth he reckons was from Dustin—considering the fat chunk of fabric missing from his flannel.
"Is he gonna be okay?" Mike asked, face turning to whisper to Lucas. The boy only shrugged, too pre-occupied with a pack of nuts he'd found in his bag.
He'd only taken a step inside, when he'd heard Steve frantically convincing you that he was fine, that it wasn't that bad. But from the looks of it, you werent very much convinced from the way he and Lucas bumped into you and Steve in the hall way—leaving.
You didn't look calm.
You weren't. Because the moment you laid your eyes on your boyfriend and his leg bleeding, you knew you weren't gonna be calm. He saw the way your eyes drifted towards his leg, that's when he started to explain. "I'm fine, honey, it's nothing, I swear." he'd plead, his hands reaching out to yours. "It's not that bad, Dustin and I actually gauzed it... With his flannel." You pulled away.
You gave him one look, before you grabbed his arm and started pulling him out, taking his keys and driving you both to his house.
You hadn't spoken to him the entire car ride, not even when he was begging you to with those big brown eyes he knows you love. When you made it home, Steve waited patiently on his sofa while you grabbed the first aid.
"Baby, please, It's really not that bad" he pleaded once more as soon as you knelt down to fix him up.
You just couldn't help it. You know you're being a bit dramatic—but damn it, it could've ended worse. You didn't know what you would do if you lost Steve. The tears you've been trying to push aside since the moment he entered the Squawk just came pouring out. He hadn't noticed it for a second, not until he heard your sniffle.
His heart stopped, breathing heavy. He moved closer to your level, his hands finding your cheeks immedietely. "Look at me, honey, please?" and when you did, it felt like his chest had been speared with a sword.
You were crying. Why? Was it because of him? Who was he kidding, of course because of him, you worry about him way too much. Steve thinks.
"Honey, why are you crying?" his brows furrows, tears welling up as well. He swallows thickly, "Please get up, baby. Let me see you, come on." He helps you up and pulls quickly to sit on his lap, he has your legs draped over his legs while you face him.
You blink away the tears. With your lips quivering, you finally speak up for the first time that night, "You have to be careful out there, Steve. I know you want to make sure everyone gets home safe, but you forget that someone's waiting for you to come home safe too." Your tears flow faster now, you could practically taste the salt of the droplets.
He frowns. Steve hurridly grabs your face with both hands. "No," his hands shaking, "no, honey, please don't cry." he pleads so softly and carefully, so low—it barely comes out—his own tears flowing faster now. He wipes your tears away, kissing your wet cheeks until your tears sting his bleeding lips. It didn't matter, not to him. He could bare the pain of his leg, the strain of his joints, but not the tight feeling in his chest and the hazy way his brain gets when he sees your wet cheeks.
"I-I'm sorry, baby, I swear—" he pecks your temples, cradling you into the valley between his neck, "—I swear I'll be careful next time. I'm sorry, please just stop crying now, please." He pleads with you, while caressing your hair. It's futile. He knows that from the way your cries persist. He knows that from the way you're hiccupping, sniffling. It's as if he can say nothing right to calm you down—it's scaring him, his heart tightening even more now.
"But what if there's no next time, Steve? What if... What if tonight was different and you weren't here with me?" you back away a little, just enough for your eyes to meet—it kills him when your eyes finally meet "I could've lost you out there, have you even thought about that?"
God how he hated seeing you cry, especially when he knows he's the reason for them. He knew he was being careful, trust him, but, damn, did he forget how you worry. His heart swells, beating all fast and warm in chest. "I'm sorry, my love, I didn't realize you felt that way. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please stop crying." he begs you to stop now, his hands all over you, caressing you, comforting you, kissing your cheeks, your lips—yet you still cry. He doesn't know what to say or do to make you stop crying. He could handle anything he swears, handle the demogorgons, handle interdimensional monsters, handle babysitting the kids, handle his parents not being there for him, but not this. He draws the line at you crying.
Steve's fully convinced he needs to die before you—just because he can't see a world where he wasn't with you. He's sure he couldn't bear it.
He truly truly hated it. Hated them so much it made him wanna punch himself for making you cry—it'll probably make you cry even more. "I love you, honey, I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He kisses your forehead, "hm?" he hums softly, peeking at your face.
Steve has never felt this way before. Not with anyone. He had never felt this loved, he'd never felt this needed, someone being this scared for him before. Although it scared him, it also did warm his heart, make him teary even more.
He wonders the last time his parents were like this to him. Or if they ever were. Steve had always had a rocky relationship with his parents—which was an understatement, to say. Not once have they fail to remind him how much of a fallout he is. How he could've been more, and how it's the only thing he'll ever hear even after his parents moved to Illinois, leaving him in this cold house he grew up in, without the love like every promised child. But when you came along, the house—it felt more like a home now than in those 19 years he'd spent with the people he called family.
So sue him for the way his nose is crinkling, for the way his tears flow, and his head dizzy, from the way you're gripping tightly onto him—afraid you'd lose him, his baby is afraid for him. Because that's just how much you love him. And that's more than what his parents ever gave.
He sits on his sofa, cradling you in his arms, wrapping you tightly, your head tucked in his neck, and he's thankful. He's thankful he has you. And that you have him.
A peck to your forehead, a stroke to your hair, an "I'm sorry, honey," he whispers, an "I love you so much" he confesses.
'Cause my love is mine, all mine // My love mine, mine, mine //Nothing in the world belongs to me // But my love, mine, all mine, all mine // My baby here on Earth // Showed me what my heart was worth.
summary: Steve hates seeing you cry. And after a crawl gone wrong, steve gets hurt and she nurses him. you're crying, scared for his safety—and he wonders the last time his parents were like this to him. Or if they ever were.
Mike was staring at the man with his bleeding leg and busted up lip with wide eyes, terrified, actually. It looked bad—really fucking bad. He recalled the moment he realized something wasn't doing right. It only started to go downhill after that, and one of those was Steve practically getting his leg eaten by a demogorgon.
He saw Steve limping towards the Squawk, his bleeding leg barely nursed with a piece of cloth he reckons was from Dustin—considering the fat chunk of fabric missing from his flannel.
"Is he gonna be okay?" Mike asked, face turning to whisper to Lucas. The boy only shrugged, too pre-occupied with a pack of nuts he'd found in his bag.
He'd only taken a step inside, when he'd heard Steve frantically convincing you that he was fine, that it wasn't that bad. But from the looks of it, you werent very much convinced from the way he and Lucas bumped into you and Steve in the hall way—leaving.
You didn't look calm.
You weren't. Because the moment you laid your eyes on your boyfriend and his leg bleeding, you knew you weren't gonna be calm. He saw the way your eyes drifted towards his leg, that's when he started to explain. "I'm fine, honey, it's nothing, I swear." he'd plead, his hands reaching out to yours. "It's not that bad, Dustin and I actually gauzed it... With his flannel." You pulled away.
You gave him one look, before you grabbed his arm and started pulling him out, taking his keys and driving you both to his house.
You hadn't spoken to him the entire car ride, not even when he was begging you to with those big brown eyes he knows you love. When you made it home, Steve waited patiently on his sofa while you grabbed the first aid.
"Baby, please, It's really not that bad" he pleaded once more as soon as you knelt down to fix him up.
You just couldn't help it. You know you're being a bit dramatic—but damn it, it could've ended worse. You didn't know what you would do if you lost Steve. The tears you've been trying to push aside since the moment he entered the Squawk just came pouring out. He hadn't noticed it for a second, not until he heard your sniffle.
His heart stopped, breathing heavy. He moved closer to your level, his hands finding your cheeks immedietely. "Look at me, honey, please?" and when you did, it felt like his chest had been speared with a sword.
You were crying. Why? Was it because of him? Who was he kidding, of course because of him, you worry about him way too much. Steve thinks.
"Honey, why are you crying?" his brows furrows, tears welling up as well. He swallows thickly, "Please get up, baby. Let me see you, come on." He helps you up and pulls quickly to sit on his lap, he has your legs draped over his legs while you face him.
You blink away the tears. With your lips quivering, you finally speak up for the first time that night, "You have to be careful out there, Steve. I know you want to make sure everyone gets home safe, but you forget that someone's waiting for you to come home safe too." Your tears flow faster now, you could practically taste the salt of the droplets.
He frowns. Steve hurridly grabs your face with both hands. "No," his hands shaking, "no, honey, please don't cry." he pleads so softly and carefully, so low—it barely comes out—his own tears flowing faster now. He wipes your tears away, kissing your wet cheeks until your tears sting his bleeding lips. It didn't matter, not to him. He could bare the pain of his leg, the strain of his joints, but not the tight feeling in his chest and the hazy way his brain gets when he sees your wet cheeks.
"I-I'm sorry, baby, I swear—" he pecks your temples, cradling you into the valley between his neck, "—I swear I'll be careful next time. I'm sorry, please just stop crying now, please." He pleads with you, while caressing your hair. It's futile. He knows that from the way your cries persist. He knows that from the way you're hiccupping, sniffling. It's as if he can say nothing right to calm you down—it's scaring him, his heart tightening even more now.
"But what if there's no next time, Steve? What if... What if tonight was different and you weren't here with me?" you back away a little, just enough for your eyes to meet—it kills him when your eyes finally meet "I could've lost you out there, have you even thought about that?"
God how he hated seeing you cry, especially when he knows he's the reason for them. He knew he was being careful, trust him, but, damn, did he forget how you worry. His heart swells, beating all fast and warm in chest. "I'm sorry, my love, I didn't realize you felt that way. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please stop crying." he begs you to stop now, his hands all over you, caressing you, comforting you, kissing your cheeks, your lips—yet you still cry. He doesn't know what to say or do to make you stop crying. He could handle anything he swears, handle the demogorgons, handle interdimensional monsters, handle babysitting the kids, handle his parents not being there for him, but not this. He draws the line at you crying.
Steve's fully convinced he needs to die before you—just because he can't see a world where he wasn't with you. He's sure he couldn't bear it.
He truly truly hated it. Hated them so much it made him wanna punch himself for making you cry—it'll probably make you cry even more. "I love you, honey, I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He kisses your forehead, "hm?" he hums softly, peeking at your face.
Steve has never felt this way before. Not with anyone. He had never felt this loved, he'd never felt this needed, someone being this scared for him before. Although it scared him, it also did warm his heart, make him teary even more.
He wonders the last time his parents were like this to him. Or if they ever were. Steve had always had a rocky relationship with his parents—which was an understatement, to say. Not once have they fail to remind him how much of a fallout he is. How he could've been more, and how it's the only thing he'll ever hear even after his parents moved to Illinois, leaving him in this cold house he grew up in, without the love like every promised child. But when you came along, the house—it felt more like a home now than in those 19 years he'd spent with the people he called family.
So sue him for the way his nose is crinkling, for the way his tears flow, and his head dizzy, from the way you're gripping tightly onto him—afraid you'd lose him, his baby is afraid for him. Because that's just how much you love him. And that's more than what his parents ever gave.
He sits on his sofa, cradling you in his arms, wrapping you tightly, your head tucked in his neck, and he's thankful. He's thankful he has you. And that you have him.
A peck to your forehead, a stroke to your hair, an "I'm sorry, honey," he whispers, an "I love you so much" he confesses.
Everyone says you're complicated // Every day, you're my most awaited, oh // I'm captivated // Oh, they don't see you as I do // You are so beautiful // Come breathe within my soul // Let go, oh, my love// You don't have to listen to a word they say // 'Cause all that really matters is that I love you
summary: lando norris needs some reminding of all the love you have for him.
a/n: honestly this concept has been in the back of my mind for MONTHS. this is the only time I actually sat down and wrote it so bear with me. COMMENTS MEAN SO MUCH MORE THAN HEARTS OR REBLOGS🙏
Lando twists the key into the door. He takes two steps inside before tossing his bags onto the hardwood floor. Monaco's beautiful at this hour, the faint sound of cars from five levels down, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean sea, a of it is beautiful. Yet that familiar pang in his chest thrives, and slowly he's walking up to your bedroom—he's cautious not to make a sound, afraid to awake you.
He winces when the door creaks open. The bitterness is slowly melting away when he finds you in your shared bed sleeping so peacefully on his side of the bed. He thinks it's adoring. How you're cuddled up under the sheets, with his pillow that smells like him.
Lando wants nothing more than to lay in your warm arms, to tell you about the week he's had—to cry in your arms. Before he could, he makes his way to his closet and quickly changes before he's tip toeing to your (his) side of the bed. He smiles softly. The mattress sinks as he sits on it, and he's caressing your hair, tucking the loose strand behind your ear to get a better look at his baby.
He sighs, pressing a soft peck on your forehead. Lando hears you jolt a little and he's afraid you've actually woken up. Your eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the moon's ray, courtesy of the window. "I'm sorry baby, did I wake you up?" Lando murmurs.
"No..no, Lan—'s okay, I just fell asleep anyway..." you lied. You stare up at him with tired eyes, "How was the race?" you ask. As much as you wanted to be there, your schedule just couldn't be as flexible as you wanted it to be. He flinched at your question, as if the mere mention of the race was enough to start the waterpipes.
"Okay." He sighed, deeply, his shoulders almost defeated. He offered you a small smile. You knew it way too well. The way he tried to mask what he truly feels. The way he thinks he could still get away with it. By this time he should know it doesn't get pass you. You analyze him for a second longer before softly you say, "come here, baby." Opening your arms for him.
His eyes flutter for a moment before he's surging into your arms—his own flailing onto your sides. You dont care about the suffocating weight of him pressing onto you, what matters now is the way his whole body seems to relax in your arms. It warms your heart—before it is followed by panic when you feel his hot tears soaking through your shirt.
You jolt upright as soon as it processes to you. His arms made its way around your neck, clinging onto you tightly. "Lando? Hey—hey, look at me." you pull away for a moment, grabbing his face. The way his glossy eyes stares at you back makes your heart beat fast. You always hated it when he cried. "Baby what's wrong? What happened? Did something happen during the race? Are—are you hurt?" you know you're rambling with your questions right now, but what were you supposed to do when the love of your life is crying so suddenly in your arms after you've been separated for a week?
"It's just jet-lag, sweetheart. Just tired, that's all" he shakes his head, sniffling while he chuckles softly. "—No, Lan, I don't believe you, not one bit. What's going on? Please tell me what's wrong." you wipe away his tears as he straightens up. He sighs, contemplating whether to lie or to tell you the truth. He settles with the latter—he knows it's practically impossible to lie to you, he knows you'll read him like a book. "Some people just said some things, nothing serious." He shrugs as if it is.
"What?" you see red at this point. "Who? What did they say this time?" he almost flinches from the way your voice shifts from soft to stern as soon as you hear the words come out from his mouth. He should've lied to you. "It's the usual comments after the race. Overly investigating every single move I make. You know how it is, baby. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, okay?"
“Lando Norris, how do you expect me to just sit there and take it when you’re crying because of them? When they say that shit about you?”
He doesn’t respond—not really. He only exhales a shaky breath and buries his face back into the curve of your neck, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. He molds himself against you, clinging, small in a way he’d never admit.
You thread your fingers through his hair and settle back against the headboard, pulling him in with you. “You don’t have to listen to a word they say, Lan. They don’t know anything about you, or how hard you work. You have so many people who love you, and those other people—they don’t get to decide who you are.”
He nods faintly, but it’s the desperate tightening of his arms around you that tells the truth.
“You mean so much to me, baby. I hate it when you cry because of them.” Your voice cracks, embarrassingly. You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts his head, thumb brushing the tear before it falls. His eyes soften—the kind of softness people never see in him, because he saves it for you.
“I love you too,” he whispers, voice heavy with the weight of it. “More than you can imagine. Thank you for being there for me. For not leaving.”
You try to laugh, but it just trembles out of you. “Why would I ever leave?”
He hesitates, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for you to feel it. Enough for you to see the fear hidden behind everything he never says. “Because people do,” he admits quietly. “You know what they say about me. What everyone say I am.”
Your heart breaks clean in half.
You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you—really look. “I don't care what other people say about you, what matters to me is how I see you. And ou’re not any of those, Lan. Sure, you've made your mistakes, but you've owned up to them. You’re only human after all. And I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re shining, not when you’re breaking, not when you’re scared. You don’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”
His eyes blink rapidly, like he’s trying to fight tears he doesn’t want you to see, but one slips out anyway. You kiss it away before he can apologize. He exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do,” you whisper, swallowing the ache in your throat. “You deserve someone who sees you the way I do. Someone who stays.” He crawls closer, practically climbing into your lap, arms locked around your waist like a lifeline. His voice breaks.
“Just… don’t let go right now.”
You wrap yourself around him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. “I won’t. Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time that night, he lets go of that heavy feeling in his chest and he's breathing like he believes you. Because he does.
You stay like that for a while, before you feel his steady breathing on your neck. You slowly descend into the mattress, just raising his head enough to lay him down on your side of the bed. You tuck him under the covers, before you yourself lay down and pull him into your arms once more.
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)
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?"
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.
Everyone says you're complicated // Every day, you're my most awaited, oh // I'm captivated // Oh, they don't see you as I do // You are so beautiful // Come breathe within my soul // Let go, oh, my love// You don't have to listen to a word they say // 'Cause all that really matters is that I love you
summary: lando norris needs some reminding of all the love you have for him.
a/n: honestly this concept has been in the back of my mind for MONTHS. this is the only time I actually sat down and wrote it so bear with me. COMMENTS MEAN SO MUCH MORE THAN HEARTS OR REBLOGS🙏
Lando twists the key into the door. He takes two steps inside before tossing his bags onto the hardwood floor. Monaco's beautiful at this hour, the faint sound of cars from five levels down, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean sea, a of it is beautiful. Yet that familiar pang in his chest thrives, and slowly he's walking up to your bedroom—he's cautious not to make a sound, afraid to awake you.
He winces when the door creaks open. The bitterness is slowly melting away when he finds you in your shared bed sleeping so peacefully on his side of the bed. He thinks it's adoring. How you're cuddled up under the sheets, with his pillow that smells like him.
Lando wants nothing more than to lay in your warm arms, to tell you about the week he's had—to cry in your arms. Before he could, he makes his way to his closet and quickly changes before he's tip toeing to your (his) side of the bed. He smiles softly. The mattress sinks as he sits on it, and he's caressing your hair, tucking the loose strand behind your ear to get a better look at his baby.
He sighs, pressing a soft peck on your forehead. Lando hears you jolt a little and he's afraid you've actually woken up. Your eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the moon's ray, courtesy of the window. "I'm sorry baby, did I wake you up?" Lando murmurs.
"No..no, Lan—'s okay, I just fell asleep anyway..." you lied. You stare up at him with tired eyes, "How was the race?" you ask. As much as you wanted to be there, your schedule just couldn't be as flexible as you wanted it to be. He flinched at your question, as if the mere mention of the race was enough to start the waterpipes.
"Okay." He sighed, deeply, his shoulders almost defeated. He offered you a small smile. You knew it way too well. The way he tried to mask what he truly feels. The way he thinks he could still get away with it. By this time he should know it doesn't get pass you. You analyze him for a second longer before softly you say, "come here, baby." Opening your arms for him.
His eyes flutter for a moment before he's surging into your arms—his own flailing onto your sides. You dont care about the suffocating weight of him pressing onto you, what matters now is the way his whole body seems to relax in your arms. It warms your heart—before it is followed by panic when you feel his hot tears soaking through your shirt.
You jolt upright as soon as it processes to you. His arms made its way around your neck, clinging onto you tightly. "Lando? Hey—hey, look at me." you pull away for a moment, grabbing his face. The way his glossy eyes stares at you back makes your heart beat fast. You always hated it when he cried. "Baby what's wrong? What happened? Did something happen during the race? Are—are you hurt?" you know you're rambling with your questions right now, but what were you supposed to do when the love of your life is crying so suddenly in your arms after you've been separated for a week?
"It's just jet-lag, sweetheart. Just tired, that's all" he shakes his head, sniffling while he chuckles softly. "—No, Lan, I don't believe you, not one bit. What's going on? Please tell me what's wrong." you wipe away his tears as he straightens up. He sighs, contemplating whether to lie or to tell you the truth. He settles with the latter—he knows it's practically impossible to lie to you, he knows you'll read him like a book. "Some people just said some things, nothing serious." He shrugs as if it is.
"What?" you see red at this point. "Who? What did they say this time?" he almost flinches from the way your voice shifts from soft to stern as soon as you hear the words come out from his mouth. He should've lied to you. "It's the usual comments after the race. Overly investigating every single move I make. You know how it is, baby. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, okay?"
“Lando Norris, how do you expect me to just sit there and take it when you’re crying because of them? When they say that shit about you?”
He doesn’t respond—not really. He only exhales a shaky breath and buries his face back into the curve of your neck, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. He molds himself against you, clinging, small in a way he’d never admit.
You thread your fingers through his hair and settle back against the headboard, pulling him in with you. “You don’t have to listen to a word they say, Lan. They don’t know anything about you, or how hard you work. You have so many people who love you, and those other people—they don’t get to decide who you are.”
He nods faintly, but it’s the desperate tightening of his arms around you that tells the truth.
“You mean so much to me, baby. I hate it when you cry because of them.” Your voice cracks, embarrassingly. You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts his head, thumb brushing the tear before it falls. His eyes soften—the kind of softness people never see in him, because he saves it for you.
“I love you too,” he whispers, voice heavy with the weight of it. “More than you can imagine. Thank you for being there for me. For not leaving.”
You try to laugh, but it just trembles out of you. “Why would I ever leave?”
He hesitates, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for you to feel it. Enough for you to see the fear hidden behind everything he never says. “Because people do,” he admits quietly. “You know what they say about me. What everyone say I am.”
Your heart breaks clean in half.
You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you—really look. “I don't care what other people say about you, what matters to me is how I see you. And ou’re not any of those, Lan. Sure, you've made your mistakes, but you've owned up to them. You’re only human after all. And I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re shining, not when you’re breaking, not when you’re scared. You don’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”
His eyes blink rapidly, like he’s trying to fight tears he doesn’t want you to see, but one slips out anyway. You kiss it away before he can apologize. He exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do,” you whisper, swallowing the ache in your throat. “You deserve someone who sees you the way I do. Someone who stays.” He crawls closer, practically climbing into your lap, arms locked around your waist like a lifeline. His voice breaks.
“Just… don’t let go right now.”
You wrap yourself around him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. “I won’t. Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time that night, he lets go of that heavy feeling in his chest and he's breathing like he believes you. Because he does.
You stay like that for a while, before you feel his steady breathing on your neck. You slowly descend into the mattress, just raising his head enough to lay him down on your side of the bed. You tuck him under the covers, before you yourself lay down and pull him into your arms once more.
Everyone says you're complicated // Every day, you're my most awaited, oh // I'm captivated // Oh, they don't see you as I do // You are so beautiful // Come breathe within my soul // Let go, oh, my love// You don't have to listen to a word they say // 'Cause all that really matters is that I love you
summary: lando norris needs some reminding of all the love you have for him.
a/n: honestly this concept has been in the back of my mind for MONTHS. this is the only time I actually sat down and wrote it so bear with me. COMMENTS MEAN SO MUCH MORE THAN HEARTS OR REBLOGS🙏
Lando twists the key into the door. He takes two steps inside before tossing his bags onto the hardwood floor. Monaco's beautiful at this hour, the faint sound of cars from five levels down, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mediterranean sea, a of it is beautiful. Yet that familiar pang in his chest thrives, and slowly he's walking up to your bedroom—he's cautious not to make a sound, afraid to awake you.
He winces when the door creaks open. The bitterness is slowly melting away when he finds you in your shared bed sleeping so peacefully on his side of the bed. He thinks it's adoring. How you're cuddled up under the sheets, with his pillow that smells like him.
Lando wants nothing more than to lay in your warm arms, to tell you about the week he's had—to cry in your arms. Before he could, he makes his way to his closet and quickly changes before he's tip toeing to your (his) side of the bed. He smiles softly. The mattress sinks as he sits on it, and he's caressing your hair, tucking the loose strand behind your ear to get a better look at his baby.
He sighs, pressing a soft peck on your forehead. Lando hears you jolt a little and he's afraid you've actually woken up. Your eyes flutter open, slowly adjusting to the moon's ray, courtesy of the window. "I'm sorry baby, did I wake you up?" Lando murmurs.
"No..no, Lan—'s okay, I just fell asleep anyway..." you lied. You stare up at him with tired eyes, "How was the race?" you ask. As much as you wanted to be there, your schedule just couldn't be as flexible as you wanted it to be. He flinched at your question, as if the mere mention of the race was enough to start the waterpipes.
"Okay." He sighed, deeply, his shoulders almost defeated. He offered you a small smile. You knew it way too well. The way he tried to mask what he truly feels. The way he thinks he could still get away with it. By this time he should know it doesn't get pass you. You analyze him for a second longer before softly you say, "come here, baby." Opening your arms for him.
His eyes flutter for a moment before he's surging into your arms—his own flailing onto your sides. You dont care about the suffocating weight of him pressing onto you, what matters now is the way his whole body seems to relax in your arms. It warms your heart—before it is followed by panic when you feel his hot tears soaking through your shirt.
You jolt upright as soon as it processes to you. His arms made its way around your neck, clinging onto you tightly. "Lando? Hey—hey, look at me." you pull away for a moment, grabbing his face. The way his glossy eyes stares at you back makes your heart beat fast. You always hated it when he cried. "Baby what's wrong? What happened? Did something happen during the race? Are—are you hurt?" you know you're rambling with your questions right now, but what were you supposed to do when the love of your life is crying so suddenly in your arms after you've been separated for a week?
"It's just jet-lag, sweetheart. Just tired, that's all" he shakes his head, sniffling while he chuckles softly. "—No, Lan, I don't believe you, not one bit. What's going on? Please tell me what's wrong." you wipe away his tears as he straightens up. He sighs, contemplating whether to lie or to tell you the truth. He settles with the latter—he knows it's practically impossible to lie to you, he knows you'll read him like a book. "Some people just said some things, nothing serious." He shrugs as if it is.
"What?" you see red at this point. "Who? What did they say this time?" he almost flinches from the way your voice shifts from soft to stern as soon as you hear the words come out from his mouth. He should've lied to you. "It's the usual comments after the race. Overly investigating every single move I make. You know how it is, baby. Don't worry your pretty little head about it, okay?"
“Lando Norris, how do you expect me to just sit there and take it when you’re crying because of them? When they say that shit about you?”
He doesn’t respond—not really. He only exhales a shaky breath and buries his face back into the curve of your neck, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. He molds himself against you, clinging, small in a way he’d never admit.
You thread your fingers through his hair and settle back against the headboard, pulling him in with you. “You don’t have to listen to a word they say, Lan. They don’t know anything about you, or how hard you work. You have so many people who love you, and those other people—they don’t get to decide who you are.”
He nods faintly, but it’s the desperate tightening of his arms around you that tells the truth.
“You mean so much to me, baby. I hate it when you cry because of them.” Your voice cracks, embarrassingly. You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts his head, thumb brushing the tear before it falls. His eyes soften—the kind of softness people never see in him, because he saves it for you.
“I love you too,” he whispers, voice heavy with the weight of it. “More than you can imagine. Thank you for being there for me. For not leaving.”
You try to laugh, but it just trembles out of you. “Why would I ever leave?”
He hesitates, just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for you to feel it. Enough for you to see the fear hidden behind everything he never says. “Because people do,” he admits quietly. “You know what they say about me. What everyone say I am.”
Your heart breaks clean in half.
You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you—really look. “I don't care what other people say about you, what matters to me is how I see you. And ou’re not any of those, Lan. Sure, you've made your mistakes, but you've owned up to them. You’re only human after all. And I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re shining, not when you’re breaking, not when you’re scared. You don’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”
His eyes blink rapidly, like he’s trying to fight tears he doesn’t want you to see, but one slips out anyway. You kiss it away before he can apologize. He exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do,” you whisper, swallowing the ache in your throat. “You deserve someone who sees you the way I do. Someone who stays.” He crawls closer, practically climbing into your lap, arms locked around your waist like a lifeline. His voice breaks.
“Just… don’t let go right now.”
You wrap yourself around him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. “I won’t. Not now. Not ever.”
And for the first time that night, he lets go of that heavy feeling in his chest and he's breathing like he believes you. Because he does.
You stay like that for a while, before you feel his steady breathing on your neck. You slowly descend into the mattress, just raising his head enough to lay him down on your side of the bed. You tuck him under the covers, before you yourself lay down and pull him into your arms once more.