Request from @marspastries - oscar's always been a really reserved guy, we all know it and always did, but i guess it would be so him to randomly drop bombs like "kids?yeah umh..got one, second on the way" "marriage?oh yeah, my *wife* is really happy with ours" if you get what i mean, so i can totally picture this scene of him having a dinner with lando, maybe a few others and just randomly start talking about his life things, like showing off his kid's first steps on the phone or just randomly mentioning little sibling on the way or things like anniversary dinner planning
Word count: 1.6k
Oscar never really considered the fact that so many people were unaware of his home life.
That he's married, he had a little boy at home with another baby on the way and they're settled into a routine and life together even with F1 shaking it up.
They met while they were young and he didn't see point in wasting time in prolonging their inevitable marriage and naturally Alfie came a few months after that.
"How are you feeling?" Oscar asks as he sits in the car on the way to the track.
"My back hurts a little but nothing to be concerned about." Y/n shrugs with a soft smile before sighing. "Alfie is down for his nap. So I'll call you later to chat with him."
"Thank you." Oscar smiles earning a small nod before she sighs softly looking at him. "What?"
"Nothing, I just miss my husband sometimes-and before you feel guilty, it's not about anything other than I am so turned on 24/7 right now."
Oscar almost chokes at her candour, though he recalls this part of her first pregnancy which he took great joy in being part of even if he was terrified about causing any damage or harming the baby.
"I'll make it up to you once I'm home."
"You really don't have a choice." Y/n states earning another laugh.
-
Oscar yawns as he walks in for a dinner that has been planned ahead of the weekend, they have these sorts of dinners a few times a year. The most famous being the Abu Dhabi end of season meal.
"Hey, mate. How you feeling?" George asks as the two McLaren drivers sit down but the question being directed at Lando.
"I'm good. Already looking forward to the weekend being over." Oscar sighs making George frown.
"Already having doubt in yourself?"
"No. God definitely not. But y/n is at a certain point in her pregnancy and I just want to be there for her." Oscar states casually making George's eyes bulge in shock. But he's not the only one since the table falls silent.
"You have a baby on the way?" Max asks making Oscar look around.
"Yes...I've got a toddler too. He's about to turn 2." Oscar smiles just thinking about Alfie.
"How did you never mention that? I've never even met your girlfriend." Lando states making Oscar clear his throat and shift a little.
"You never asked...My wife and I got married at the end of 2023." Oscar states making the table go into a sequence of questioning, some even accusing him of lying.
"I'm offended I wasn't invited." Lando huffs crossing his arms jokingly.
"Any other secrets? We're asking now." Fernando questions making Oscar think for a moment.
"No. I don't think so. Wife, toddler, baby on the way. That's everything I can think of." Oscar shrugs then frowning as his phone rings. "Her ears must be burning, I gotta take this."
He steps out knowing the group are going to question if any of them had any suspicion but not one of them realised just how little they knew about Oscar. An assumption that Logan may have been aware since he's known Oscar so much longer and at one point was very much considered near family.
"Hey, baby. Everything ok?" Oscar asks softly making y/n huff out trying to make a sniffle. "Y/n?"
"I have braxton hicks." Y/n hiccups making Oscar sigh, hating that he's not there to help but she's officially in the third trimester and the doctor is advising against her travelling especially so far. A short couple hours might be allowed but from Las Vegas to Qatar then Abu Dhabi for the final triple header to round off the season. "Where are you?"
"Nowhere important."
"Oh you're at that dinner. I'll-I'll call back later I don't want to-"
"You are my priority, especially if I can't be there physically. Anyway they're all processing the news that I have a wife and kids since no one knew."
"What? How did they not know?-I mean I know I try to keep out the way of people when I'm there, but we don't act like strangers." Y/n rambles. "Did they think you were single?"
Oscar smiles a little sensing her getting possessive over the idea these men might've thought that Oscar would be up for another woman. He's not sure if she'd usually be so offended at the idea of Oscar being single but maybe he should've figured that pregnancy would be a little more upset at the thought of her husband being assumed single.
"Don't worry, I'll make it very clear from here forward that no one else thinks I'm single." Oscar promises earning a hum. "You know...when I get back there is something to celebrate."
"Our anniversary I know. I might be pregnant but my mind hasn't lost me yet." Y/n smiles lightly.
"Leave it all to me. I've got some plans."
The talk for another 5 minutes before y/n insists Oscar get back to the meal and he promises that they'll be talking again later when the dinner is over.
He returns to find the food has arrived and smiles sitting down, though he doesn't get more than a couple bites before George has to ask more questions and Max joins him as a new father on the grid, he's intrigued about Oscar's own journey with fatherhood. Though he doesn't word it quite in that way.
"Got any pictures?" Lando eventually asks and Oscar is happy to provide since despite him not making it a priority to discuss his private life, he is more than happy to share is someone asks.
Everyone make assure to let Oscar know he has a beautiful family, Lando also makes sure to let him know that he's batting out of his league by bagging his wife. Obviously joking but Oscar will take the compliment to y/n.
"We're coming up to the anniversary, thankfully it falls after everything for the season is done." Oscar states earning a small smile from the group since it's really nice getting to know this side of Oscar.
Some of them even realised he wears his wedding ring on his right hand but none of them had thought anything of it earlier when they'd noticed. They definitely didn't think it was a wedding band.
It's not till later when Oscar is on phone call with y/n and Alfie is finally on the call. He's grinning and yapping away with Oscar, mainly gibberish that is an attempt at real words. Y/n and Oscar understand most of what he's saying but when he's especially excited and just talking to talk, he stops using words and make noises that sound like words but aren't.
Oscar captures a couple screenshots and y/n is about to hang up but he asks if he can stay on call for the bedtime routine with Alfie. Plus he just wants to talk to y/n alone and after saying goodnight to Alfie, y/n leaves him in his room. Oscar always have to credit y/n as the most amazing mum because she has got Alfie in a routine and he sleeps through the night almost every night without fail.
"You don't usually want to stay on call for so long. What's up?" Y/n smiles as she settles down with a donut to finish her day. Something in Oscar wants to comment about that choice of snack purely out of concern for her blood sugar (his inner athlete is so nutrient focused but pregnancy hormones don't give a fuck and he learnt that in the first pregnancy) but he also doesn't want to be hung up on and ignored.
"I just want some extra time with you. My beautiful wife." Oscar smiles softly while y/n immediately pouts. "I love you, baby. Not because we have kids together, not because we're married, not because of anything but because you are such an incredible person and sometimes I don't make it obvious but that's how I feel."
Y/ bursts into tears, having to cover her mouth to make sure she doesn't sob and trigger Alfie's reappearance.
"You dick. You did that on purpose." Y/n hiccups while Oscar smiles a little. "I love you too, and you might not make it obvious to everyone else. But you make just how much you love me obvious to me. I never doubt it."
"Well I spent the rest of that dinner bragging about you and our family without apology." Oscar states earning a grin. "I'll be home soon and you will not be lifting a finger. I've got a lot of daddy duties to make up for and you...should not have to be doing this stuff on your own with Alfie when you're this far along."
"Oscar..." Y/n warns since she has never allowed him to feel guilt about working and just doing what he has to for his career. "I'm fine. I miss you like hell, but I missed you like hell before we were married and before we had kids. Alfie is doing great. I'm doing great, baby is doing great. We're all great. You own me nothing."
"I owe you so much more than you realise" Oscar whispers suddenly before smiling. "I'm going to let you sleep. I love you, we'll talk tomorrow. I'm going to play padel."
"I love you too, talk tomorrow and have fun. Try to win...unless it's Carlos, Lance or Fernando. In which case accept a gracious defeat."
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader
summary: in which you and your best friends brother accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate OR you and oscar get so fucking horny while on a yacht in the Maldives.
warnings: smut smut smut, all smut basically. oral, p in v, dirty talk, language, marking kink, slight voyeruism, exhibitionism??, not sure what else...NOT PROOFREAD! (might be some typos)
word count: ~3.9k
author's note: SURPRISEEEE ITS OUT EARLY (I worked hard over the weekend lol) hope you guys enjoy!! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR OSCAR EVERRRR (aside from a one shot i've had sitting in my drafts for months lol) comment and let me know what you think!!! xoxo
ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
You’ve always had a sweet tooth.
Everyone knew it. Oscar especially. He used to tease you over it when you were younger. Would point out when your fingers were sticky with something sugary.
He never said it unkindly. Just amused. Soft. Something like you’ve got chocolate on your face and then passed you a napkin you didn’t ask for.
He’s always been like that. Gentle. Kind. The boy who was never loud. More of a listener than a speaker.
And he never made you feel silly. Not when you cried after falling off your bike and scraped your knee. Not when your towel slipped. Not even when you accidentally spilled juice all over your shirt on a long flight. He just handed you a new one from his backpack like he knew it’d happen.
You’d grown up like that.
And now here you were, years later. Sunburned and salty on a private yacht in the Maldives, still with a sweet tooth and one of his old McLaren shirts he gave you when he first got signed. Pulled over your bikini.
His sister, your best friend, left on in the morning for a tour with the rest of the group. Something about history and snorkeling. You’d both waved your hands declining. Something about being too burned and too sleepy for it.
“She’s going to get bored halfway through,” You sip on your drink. “Probably will call us in two hours.”
Oscar gives you a shrug. “I give her one.”
“She said it was a once in a lifetime experience.” You throw up your hands while repeating her words. Mocking her almost. Smiling.
“So is sitting here.”
And you laugh.
He’s sitting across from you, towel slung around the back of his neck, sun catching his shoulders. His hair is damp. Skin flushed from the sun. No shirt. Just a pair of swim shorts and bare feet.
You shift slightly where you are. Curled up in the shade. Bare legs stretched out. The oversized shirt clinging to you just a little too much where your bikini top was wet.
He glances at you when you move. Doesn’t speak. Just tracks it with his eyes. And looks away again.
His hand reaches for the table. “What’s this?”
You look over.
A little box. Dark. Red ribbon wrapped around it.
“Some welcome thing, I think.” You shrug. “Dropped it off yesterday.”
Oscar pulls the lid open, brows lifting. He picks up a wrapped square, amused.
“Well, well.” He says, looking at you. “Your kryptonite.”
You grin. “Shut up.”
“You gonna pretend you didn’t spot this the second we sat down?”
“I did not.”
He tilts his head, giving you a look.
“Mm, you’ve got that look.” He says.
“What look?”
“The one you used to get before stealing cupcakes at birthday parties.”
You roll your eyes, but blush. Cheeks reddening. “I did not steal…”
“You did.” He cuts you off. Already unwrapping one of the chocolates. “Always had sugar on your hands. Icing on the corner of your lips.”
You open your mouth to protest, but he tosses a piece toward you.
You catch it.
You watch him bring the chocolate to his mouth, tongue darting over his lip without thinking.
Peel open your piece and press it to your tongue. It melts fast. Rich.
You hum, licking a smear of it off your finger. “That’s actually really good.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
You glance up and catch him mid-swipe across his bottom lip. Looking dazed. Distracted.
Then he blinks, clears his throat. And nods. “Yeah, pretty good.”
He closes the lid of the box, slides it to the side. Then leans back, looking at the water.
And you sit there with him. Across from him on the cushioned benches. Chewing slowly. Feeling that heat bloom beneath your skin.
It’s soft at first.
Then deeper.
A warmth in your chest. A pulse between your thighs.
The wind sweeps your skin. And the fabric of your bikini suddenly feels too damp. Too thin. Too tight.
You swallow. Trying not to fidget.
Oscar hasn’t moved much. His gaze is still on the ocean, but it isn’t really. And you watch the way his jaw flexes. The way his foot shifts on the deck. Like he was grounding himself.
He doesn’t look at you.
And he always looks at you.
You shift again. Cross your ankles. Press your thighs together.
You glance at Oscar again.
And his lips are parted. Just a little bit. And his brow is slightly furrowed.
You sit up slightly. “You okay?”
He shifts. Then clears his throat, blinking. “Yeah. Just…hot.”
You nod slowly. “Same.”
He leans forward, breathes out. But his fingers twitch. And you notice as his back muscles roll slightly as he drops his head down, towel slipping down.
He stays like that for a few seconds. Then rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
His voice is quiet. Flat. “What was in that chocolate?”
You don’t answer right away. Because you’re fucking throbbing now. And your bikini is definitely soaked.
“Do you feel…” He swallows, throat bobbing. “Strange?”
You nod. And then remember he isn’t even looking at you. “Yeah.”
His jaw clenches.
He shifts again. Still not looking at you. And that’s how you know something is wrong.
Because he never acts like this.
You’ve seen him flustered, sure. After a race, dealing with the media, around too many people. But never like this. Not this tense. As if he’s afraid.
“I didn’t think chocolate could….fuck.” His voice cracks. And he laughs under his breath.
He grips the bench. Looking like he’s in pain.
“I think I need to go inside.”
And he stands too fast. Towel falling down. Hands clenched at his sides as he turns on bare feet and walks toward the main cabin.
You stare at his back. His shoulders. And he disappears down the stairs.
You’re so hot that you could cry. Unbearable.
You press your palm flat to your stomach. Like it’ll help.
But it doesn’t.
Because it’s not just the chocolate.
It’s him. Oscar.
Gone for less than a minute and his voice is the only thing in your head. The way his mouth looked when he licked the chocolate off his thumb. His hands. The muscles of his back straining as he leaned forward
The silence stretches heavy.
You make a quiet sound in your throat. Barely audible. And you can’t sit still. Can barely think. Can’t stop seeing him.
Your hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re hesitant at first. But then trail your fingers to the center of your ache.
And your hips lift off the cushion. A heavy breath escaping.
Your other hand grips the bench as you rock slowly against your own fingers. Over the bikini. Slow circles. Each one, pressing harder.
You let your head fall back. And the sky above is almost blinding.
“Oscar…”
You don’t even realize you said it out loud. It just slips.
And a few moments later, you don’t even hear him come back. Your fingers still at your bikini. Rubbing.
You lift your head. He’s there.
Flushed. Hair ruffled like he ran his fingers through it a million times. Eyes fixed between your legs like he’s in some sort of trance.
He just stares. Doesn’t even speak.
“I can’t stop,” You whisper. Honest.
“You’re…” He blinks. Voice low. Stunned. Like he just walked into his favorite fantasy and doesn’t know what to do. “You’re fucking touching yourself?”
You nod. And he groans.
“To me?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” You whisper.
“Jesus.” His hands twitch at his sides.
You shift, spreading your legs a little wider without meaning to. Unable to stop rubbing the tight circles.
“You look so pretty like that,” He mutters.
You tremble. “I need help.”
And his eyes widen.
“Please,” you whisper. “I can’t…Osc, please.”
He groans. Hands dropping to the front of his swim shorts, palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric.
“Come closer.” You plead.
And he stares at you with wide eyes. Flushed. He doesn’t move. At least, he doesn’t at first.
But then his gaze drops back down to your legs. Spread open. Your fingers rubbing slow, desperate circles. And his hands twitch.
“I…” He says, but he’s already squeezing himself. “I shouldn’t.”
“Oscar…”
“I shouldn’t be seeing this,” his mutters. “And I shouldn’t be this fucking hard.”
Your eyes fall to where his hand squeezes against his cock. Like he’s trying to fight the ache between his legs.
And you whimper. Hips jerking. “I can’t. I need….I need help.”
His hand squeezes himself tighter.
“Fuck.” A pause. A few silent moments of heated stares. “Do you know how many times I used to think about this?”
His voice has gone rough. And you blink at him. Heart stuttering.
“I used to jerk off in my room and feel sick after,” He whispers. “Because it was you. My sister’s best friend. Always walking around in those tiny shorts. That blue bikini. Always so fucking sweet.”
Your fingers slow. Jaw falls slack.
“I’ve thought about it,” His voice shakes. “Fuck. I’ve thought about this. When we were younger.”
Your breath hitches.
“Thought about your pussy more than I should’ve.” He mutters. “Wondered how soft you’d feel. How tight. If you’d let me take my time or if you’d beg me to fuck you rough.”
Your back arches.
“Wondered what you’d sound like when you come.” He continues. “If it’s all breathy. Or if you’d cry. If you’d say my name.”
“I’d press the pillow over my face after so no one would hear me,” He admits. “Every time.”
You gasp.
“I would.” You gasp.
His hand pushes harder into his cock. Groaning. “I’ve thought about fucking you with my tongue. Holding your legs and licking you for hours.”
You press your fingers even harder.
You whimper, other hand reading for a pillow or something to grab onto. “Osc, please.”
“You want my fingers?” He whispers. “Right here? Want me to fuck you with my hand?”
You nod. Repeatedly. Fast. Almost pathetic.
Oscar lets out a whimper. And then he’s kneeling in front of you before you can blink. Hand still pressing into his cock. The other trembling as his fingers brush your thigh.
“You’re so warm.”
Your hand falls away and he replaces it instantly. Pressing two fingers against the soaked fabric. Groans loudly when he feels it.
“Fuck, pretty…” He groans. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ dripping.”
And then he pushes the fabric aside, stares. Pupils blown. “God, look at you…"
You shake your head. “Please.”
“I’ve thought about sliding my fingers into you since I was seventeen,” He pushes them in. Half-laughing. “Thought about curling them deep and slow….hearing you moan just like that.”
Oscar swears under his breath, leaning closer. Jaw locked tight. “I’d keep you like this for hours if I could. Legs spread and needy….mine to play with.”
You cry out. Rocking your hips.
And he curls his fingers. Watching your face.
“Yeah?” His thumb circles your clit now. Slow. “Right there? Knew I’d find it.”
And you careen forward. Hands flying to grab his shoulders.
“Come for me,” He mutters. “Right here. In my fucking shirt. On my yacht. On my fingers.”
And you do.
Hard.
And he watches every second. His lips parted. Cock throbbing.
And then he drags his fingers out of you slow.
Brings them to his mouth.
Licks them clean. Eyes locked on yours.
“Taste better than I ever dreamed,” He says softly.
And then he’s grabbing the back of your neck. Pulling your lips to his. Kissing you like he’s starving.
His tongue licks your mouth like its his. Like he already knows how to pull those sounds out of you and wants to hear every single one.
And his hands slip down your body. Down your shoulders, over your ribs. Brushing the dip of your waist. Until he’s gripping your thighs.
“Wanna see bruises here,” He says. “Want people to see bruises and know.”
He stays kneeling between you, chest heaving.
“You’re soaking, baby.” His voice cracks.
He leans forward. Kissing your inner thigh. And then opens his mouth, sucking hard. Pulling a moan from you.
You feel the bruise forming as he licks over it. Sucks it again. Fingers pressing into your skin, gripping it.
“That’s one,” He mutters.
He leaves another one. Higher.
Then a third on the other leg. Right by your cunt. So close that it makes your hips jerk into his mouth.
And then he’s standing. Grabbing you under your thighs. And lifts you.
Laying you down on the table. The welcome basket crashes onto the deck with a thud, but neither of you acknowledge it. The box of chocolates dangling on the edge.
He grabs it.
“What are you doing?” You ask. Breathless.
He doesn’t answer. Opens the box, takes out a single piece and holds it up. Gaze dropping down to your cunt spread open for him.
“Need to taste you with this,” He mutters.
He leans over you. Pressing the chocolate between your lips. “Bite.”
You do.
The sun’s hot against your skin.
And then he kisses you hard. Tongue lapping against yours, sharing the chocolate. You both moan and groan into each other before he’s dropping back to his knees.
“Look at you,” He breathes. “All messy. Want my mouth, baby?”
You nod.
And he leans in. Licks you.
One long drag up your slit.
You cry out. And he groans into your cunt. Licking you. Tasting you.
“Fuckin heaven.” He drags a hand to your leg. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”
“Oscar…”
He doesn’t stop. Just hooks his arm under your thigh, and pulls you closer to the edge. Legs over his shoulder.
And buries his face in your pussy.
You grind into him instantly. Chasing every flick of his tongue.
Your hands fist into his hair, dragging his face closer against you. And he moans. Wrecked.
“Fuck,” you yell. “Oscar…oh my…fuck.”
He drags his tongue through you. Flicking your clit over and over.
“Keep fucking my face,” his voice is hot.
“You sound…my God..Oscar, you sound obsessed..”
“I am.” He grunts. Fingers curling in you as he nudges your clit with his nose.
And then he pulls one arm away. You barely notice it. Until you hear it and look down.
He’s got his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting it fast. Leaking.
He jerks his cock faster. Hips twitching into his own fist as his mouth works harder against you.
“Gonna come,” he confesses. “Gonna come from tasting you.”
You cry out.
“C’mon…” He urges. “Let me taste it, yeah?”
And it breaks you.
You moan into the open sky. Grinding against his face. Jaw slack. Eyes squeezed shut.
And then he groans, standing up and comes hard onto your cunt.
Hot, messy ropes of it. Spilling over you.
And then he’s dragging you off the table without a word. Not giving you time to even breathe. Panting.
His hands tight around you, and then he’s spinning you. Forcing you to face the ocean. Chest hitting the metal railing.
And he’s behind you. Silent.
You start to turn your head, “Oscar…?”
“No.” He says. Voice rough. “Stay just like that.”
His hands drag your shirt up. Slow.
His name in bold letters stretched across your back.
He groans. Violently.
“I should’ve fucked you in this years ago.”
Your breath falters.
“Fucking knew it,” He grabs a fistful of the shirt, twisting his hand in it. “Knew one day you’d bend over in this and I’d lose my fucking mind.”
You feel the heat of his body behind you, shoving your bottoms down with one swift flick of his hand. Cock thick and heavy. Dragging through your folds, collecting his come and your wetness.
He groans. You shake.
He presses forward, hips rocking against you. Grinding into your thighs.
“You’ve no idea what you look like.” His breath is heavy behind you. “Bent over. My name on your back. Come still dropping down your cunt.”
And you bite your lip. Arching into him harder.
One hand grips your hip, the other fisted around the shirt.
“You wore this shirt for years like it meant nothing,” His voice quieter. Mean. “Didn’t think about what it did to me every time you wore it.”
“Osc…” You attempt to say his name, but he shifts his hips into you harder and your voice cracks.
He laughs.
“Now look at you. Dripping all over me. Wearing my name like you belong to me.”
He sinks in slow. So slow that you feel every pulse. Every ridge.
And you whimper. He groans behind you. Like he’s in pain. Like he’s trying so hard to not ravish you.
But when his hips meet you, and he’s bottomed out. He just….stops.
Breathes in heavily.
“Fuck.” He says soft. “You’re so fucking tight around me.”
His fingers dig into your hip even harder. Bruising. Marking.
“You’ve ruined me,” He laughs. “Y’know that?”
And you don’t even get a chance to answer.
Because he pulls back and slams into you. Hard.
You cry out, hands gripping the railing that your knuckles turn white.
His pace isn’t gentle at all. It’s feral.
“Fucking ruined me,” He says again. “You in this shirt….you in my fucking name..do you even know what that does to me?”
You moan. So loud. And his hips smack into you. Over and over.
“You’ve been walkin’ around in it for years.” He spits. “Like it’s nothing.”
He thrusts deep, angling his hips at a better angle. “Like I haven’t been dreaming of fucking you in it since I gave it to you all those years ago.”
You’re babbling now. Unable to breathe properly. Your entire body trembling.
His hand slips from your hip and slides up your spine. He grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down. Just a little bit harder. Forces you to arch even more.
And fuck, he nearly collapses when he feels you clench tighter around him.
“You should see yourself,” He grunts. “Squeezing around me like you’re desperate to never let me go.”
And he’s lost all rhythm. He’s just slamming into you. Cock so deep.
“Can’t believe this is real.” He’s panting. “Can’t believe I get to fuck you in my shirt. Pussy covered in me.”
Your orgasm is close. And you’re shouting. Moaning.
"Bet she'd lose her mind if she knew what a slut you were f'me..."
You cry out. He feels you teetering on the edge.
“Don’t.” He snaps.
And you cry, “Oscar…please.”
“You’re gonna wait.” He demands, fucking into you more rapidly.
And he’s losing his mind. It’s sooo good.
“Say who’s inside you.” His hands squeeze the back of your neck. “Say it.”
You gasp. Jaw falling slack. Chest pressed harsh into the metal railing. “You…Osc..fuck, it’s so good..”
You sob out his name and Oscar fucking snaps.
“That’s it, baby.”
His hips hit you faster. Deeper. The filthy sound of it heard over the waves lapping the hull.
You sob into the railing.
He leans into you, head falling forward.
“Gonna come,” He chokes out. “Gonna come right inside you. Stuff you full. Let it leak out.”
And you break.
Orgasm ripping through you. Violent and hot. Back arching so hard into him. You sob out his name. Your walls clenching around him in a tight grip.
And he crashes with you. Body shuddering. Cock throbbing. Spilling into you.
He’s still panting against you when he pulls out. And it’s a fucking mess in between your thighs.
But before you can say anything, he’s dragging you upright. And you’re stumbling as he drags you across the hot deck. Hand across your stomach. Keeping you close.
And then he’s shoving you into the rinse off shower.
He reaches up. Turns the handle. And the water is so cold that you gasp from it.
Oscar laughs behind you. “Too cold?”
Your head falls onto his shoulder. “Asshole.”
And then he turns the temperature warmer, and then it’s all steam and heat again.
You expect him to rinse you off gently.
Instead, he grabs the shower head. Detaches it from the hook. And pulls your back against his chest.
“Gonna clean you up.”
You’re about to ask what exactly he means. But then he;;s nudging your legs apart. Brings the shower head straight to your cunt.
And you jolt forward with a sharp cry.
The heat. The pressure.
“Oh my god…Osc,” You’re mumbling.
And he watches you. Holding one leg to keep them apart.
“Stay open,” his voice is soft. “Wanna see you come again.”
And you whimper. Begging. “Too much…fuck.”
But he doesn’t stop. Just tilts the shower head just right. Hitting your clit.
“Thought I’d have to work harder for this,” He mutters. “But you’re soaking already.”
“Fuck…fuck.”
"Y'like this, hm?" He whispers into your ear. "Being used like some filthy secret?"
Your hands reach behind you and slip their way into his hair. Pulling it. He groans. Rutting his hips into your backside for some friction.
“C’mon, pretty.” He grunts.
And the water just keeps hitting you.
You sob. And then crash again.
Your legs shake. Cunt clenching around nothing. But he holds you up, turning you to face him. Pressing your back against the wall.
He finally sets the shower head down. Lets it spray onto the deck.
And then his hands are back on you. One at your lower back, one gripping your thigh, pulling it up to wrap at his waist. You balance on one leg.
He presses a kiss to your temple. “Y’okay?” His voice gentle. Caring.
And you nod, pressing your head into his neck. And his heart stutters when you lean into him. Like he can finally breathe.
“I’ve got you,” He whispers.
And then, he sinks back into you.
Slow. Gentle.
Your mouth falls open. The stretch still almost unbearable after everything. But the way he slides in, feels too fucking good.
You gasp. Digging your nails into his skin. And he cradles you against the wall.
He moves slow. Rocking. No rhythm. And he feels massive. Thick.
“Oscar,” You hush into his skin. “You feel…Y’feel so good.”
He nods. “I know, baby. I know.” And his voice is a whisper.
He grinds deeper. Barely moving but pressing into you. “Can’t believe you’re still this wet…” He grunts. “Still want more? Want me to stuff you full again, hm? Fuck you til it leaks down?”
You nod. Mouth open. Moaning.
“C’mon,” He pants. Hips jerking. Cock throbbing.
It’s quick. The feel of you wrapped around his cock. The overstimulation of the stretch.
You both come quick. Crying out into each other’s skin. Soft kisses in between the moans.
And then you’re both laughing. Smiling at one another.
-
“Holy shit…I’m dying.” Your best friend announces. “Never let me go on another tour ever ever again.”
Oscar snorts from beside you on the bench, looking at his phone. “Told you you’d hate it.”
“You didn’t say I’d almost drown.”
You keep your face still. Sipping your drink.
And she plops down on the lounger across the deck, sighing.
And for a moment…it’s quiet.
Until Oscar leans in slightly, elbow brushing your arm.
His voice low. “Y’think she noticed?”
You glance at him. Shake your head.
“She’s never been less observant,” You whisper back.
And he grins. One of those fuck-you grins that makes you stutter.
And you hold back a smile.
Your best friend groans across the deck. “God, I feel disgusting. Should we order dinner in an hour?”
Oscar clears his throat. “Sure.”
“Yeah,” You say.
And then you lean, just slightly, into his side. Just enough that his thigh is touching yours again.
He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t stop smiling.
"Hey, what happened to the welcome basket?"
Oops?
taglist (holy shit SO MANY OF YOU ILY): @landoscarinthefastlane @dudenhaaa27 @330bpm-whiplash @xoln04f1xo @sainzluvrr @minjiahyung @madicecream123 @star73807-blog @simpfortoomanymen @art-h1ve @annaswrites00 @forumlabee @butterfly-daisies07 @nothereneverherever @widow-cevans @suns3treading @fmejenson @megatrilss1885 @10iceicebaby @sh1nedreamsm1le7 @ptrickbateman @chasingosc @uuoozzii @idkwtdwml123 @pinkdeadtopia @chiara8104 @ellie-bellie-29 @piastri-my-boy @1-of-my-many-obsessions @8junejpg1 @jaydensluv @astrlape @idontknow0704 @whistlef0rthechoir @op814kitty @asmoothoperator @illicit-affcirs @lilith-123321 @teddybearbeth @saudianna @skylyn-vais @fleurdangz @angxedxtz @marekmybeloved @liafics @dxrlxb @gabyasworld @treebranch23 @drysdalesv @morganalatina21 @bigcatharmony @ilovemuppets @acina27 @angelabunbun @megatrilss1885 @ilikecarsalotsometimes @roxanne-ragnvindr @euphoriapillz @luminouskalopsia @trinity2058 @livsturnioloo @wdsara48 @ini3103 @shimmermotorsport @marslovesran4eva @wherethezoes-at @monsterdesandia @mythicalmaven @3in1shampooconditionerbodywash @ella284-3 @landossainz @redcrescentmoons @jaeger-chan @altaccount283927 @ericasdumbworld @aerie717 @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ysavelelelel @phillza-my-beloved @thenalovescars @zicosbitch @scaroscar8115 @wertyuizxcvbnm @needy02 @dessashippr @quill-vy @o6hellnah @enchantedwaspwhisper @awesome-fandom-panda @biancathecool @lilorose25 @wowzees (not sure if all these worked but I took them straight from my comments on the sneak peak)
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no y/n, established rel.)
warnings: sweet and cliche, p in v, slight dumbification, sleepy soft sex, soft dom lando
wc: 2.7k
summary: lando comes home to his sleepy girlfriend after an exhausting triple-header
ale's note: RACE WEEEEK !!! i tried to write something soft and sweet but you know me i always have to add smut...
also, for everyone asking stalker!osc is coming soooon 🙂↕️
lando has his forehead against the cold taxi window, watching monaco slide past outside in a haze of orange light, thinking about nothing in particular except that he's nearly home.
three weeks. austin, then mexico city, then são paulo, back to back to back, a stretch of paddocks and airport lounges that wrung him dry. it’s been weeks since he’s had you in his arms. he’s had the curve of your spine and the smell of your hair on his mind for the entire length of the triple-header. he’d thought about calling last night, but hadn’t, worried you’d hear how sad he was and start crying too. he’d told the team he was flying back in the morning, but the idea of one more night on a starched hotel pillow, the silence of not-you, made him punch in a last-minute booking and wedge himself into a seat on the earliest possible plane.
it's not complicated. he just missed you.
theres a neurochemical whiplash to the change—from track adrenaline to the slurred, irritable exhaustion of a long haul, from the humidity and heat of brasil to the crispness of the monegasque night. he imagines you, tucking yourself into bed, sleepy. the way you’ll probably cry when you see him because you get emotional when you’re exhausted. the thing about loving someone who tires easily is that you start to get addicted to the way they sag into you. the trust in it, the vulnerbaility. lando is thinking about this as the taxi pulls up in front of the apartment building. he drags his duffel out, thanks the driver in mushy french,then keys himself into the lobby. the lift takes forever. he stands in it with his bag and the pervading stench of airplane and his bajillion unread messages from jon, watcing the floor numbers go up.
he opens the door with a metallic snick, careful and quiet in case you’re asleep. the first thing that hits him is the warmth, so different from the chill outside, and saturated with the scent of your perfume. you must have cooked something earlier, he thinks, something rich and garlicky. he kicks off his shoes, toeing them neatly by the door. he can hear sound from the tv in the living room, light from the screen flickering out into the dimly lit room. he leaves his bag by the door. he'll deal with it later.
and there you are, in the living room, curled on the couch. your cheek is smushed into the leather and your lips are parted, a tiny gloss of drool pooling at the edge of your mouth.
the blanket is half off, exposing your bare thigh. your hair is a wreck, mussed and waterfalling over your face. his throat tightens. he’s not sure what it is—maybe the picture you make, all sweet and oblivious, or maybe the memory of how empty the hotel beds felt these last weeks—but it does something to him.
there’s something in him—a failure of emotional maturity, probably, or maybe just a hole in his own childhood—that has always wanted to keep something soft alive, to have something that needs him. he thinks of you as a baby bird, or sometimes a puppy, all twitchy and sweet and trusting. it’s not meant to be an insult. you’re smarter than him, probably. but you’re still so easily tired by the world, so obviously in need of shelter. he sometimes has this weird need to build a house around you and stand outside all night, knife in hand, just in case.
he kneels by the sofa, reaching out to brush stray locks off your cheek. you don’t stir. he wonders if he can get away with watching you like this forever, but theres this greedy, selfish urge clawing at him. he missed you. he needs you to wake up. he drags his knuckles along your jaw, the softest nudge. you make a small noise, nose twitching, and your eyelids flutter. he strokes your face again, more deliberate. “hey, sleepyhead.”
your eyes flutter open, unfocused and bright. you blink slow, like your brain is still rebooting. it’s disgustingly cute.
“‘lando?” your voice is raspy, a little confused.
“hi, sweetheart,” he whispers back, smiling, “didn’t mean to wake you.” lie.
you stare at him, foggy, and your mouth curls into a half-smile, sleepy and dopey. “you’re not supposed to be home,” you say, like you’re accusing him of something horrible.
“missed you,” he says, and he doesn’t try to hide the way his voice breaks.
you try to sit up, but your limbs are noodles, and you just flop over sideways. he pulls you into his arms instead. you come down easy, melting against him like you want to crawl under his skin. you burrow your head into his armpit, so pliant and so warm that he feels like he could hold you forever.
“i missed you more,” you mumble into his skin. at least that’s what he thinks you say, your words are barely intelligible and slurred with sleep.
he lifts your chin with a finger and looks at you properly. your eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, and your lips are parted, soft and lush. you look like you’ve just been fucked into oblivion, not like you’ve been napping. he grins, a little wolfish, and you catch it, your eyebrows lifting, “whuh?”.
“you’re just…” he shakes his head, can’t find the right word. “sweet.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s slow, like your brain is wading through syrup. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and tucks your head back against his shoulder. the clock on the wall ticks to 12.
“you should get to bed,” he whispers, but you only whine, a wordless sound that means you want to stay right here, in his lap.
“i’ll carry you,” he offers, only half-joking, because all he wants is you in his arms, but your answering noise is so eager, he can’t help but smile.
“‘kay,” you say, and he hooks an arm under your knees and another around your back and stands, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you just cling, face buried in his neck, hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt. he can feel your smile againt his skin.
he deposits you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you. your hand shoots out for him when he moves away.
“stay,” you whisper.
“i have to shower, sweetheart. i’m disgusting.”
“don’t care,” you slur. “wanna smell you.”
something in his chest squeezes. “5 minutes, yeah?”
you make a vague sound, somewhere between a yes and a snore.
he showers fast, rinsing the smell of recycled air off him. when he comes back, you’re still in exactly the same position, sweet, defencdeless, and completely his. he crawls into bed next to you, pulling your back against hsi chest. you make a pleased sound.
“i love you,” he breathes into your hair, and he’s never meant anything more in his life.
he wants to tell you more, everything. how lonely it is in those hotel rooms, how the world feels sharper and meaner when you’re not with him, how the thing he wants most isn’t the win or the champagne or the cameras but this: you, drooling on him, arms around him, so tired you can barely keep your eyes open but still greedy for his touch. how he could have all of the podiums and the trophies in the world, and how it’d still mean nothing without you.
but he knows you’re about to fall asleep again—he can feel your breath evening out, your muscles going slack—so instead he swallows the emotion down.
he kisses the crown of your head, then your temple, then your lips. you smile in your sleep, making a little blissed-out noise, and lando thinks: if this is what the rest of my life is, i’ll never need anything else.
꩜
lando wakes to sunlight spilling through the blinds. your arm is splayed over his chest, your hand has curled loose around his bicep. there’s a damp spot on his chest where you must have drooled, which makes him smile.
he’s always felt a little sick with how much he loves you. it gnaws at his insides, the affection. sometimes he thinks about you as a child—photos of you with fat cheeks and scraped knees, the stories you tell about getting locked out of the house by your older brother. he gets obsessed with the idea of having known you then. he wants to peel back the years and wrap his arms around every version of you, keep you safe and soft and protected, make sure nothing ever bruises you except the things he can kiss better.
he moves a fraction, and you grunt in protest, wiggling closer back into him. there’s something almost perverse about how easily you fold into him, no friction at all, only this puddling collapse. its like your bones have liquefied in the night. an hour ticks by and evebtually, you shift, eyelids fluttering.
“lando,” you mumble, and then, “lando, don’t let me go.”
he squeezes you and you nestle in. you’ve always been the coldest human alive, and in winter you use him like a hot water bottle. he lets you, likes it even, how you shove your iceblock feet between his legs.
eventually, you begin to stir. it starts with a hand at his waist, searching for him under the sheets. he rolls you to face him, and you blink up at him, dazed in the blue morning light. your hair’s a disaster, and your face is creased from the pillow. he wants to bite you, a little, just to see what you’d do.
you reach for him again, pulling his arm across your chest so his hand lands on your tits. you sigh, content, and it’s so obvious what you want that he has to laugh.
“missed me that much, huh?” he teases, but you don’t rise to the bait. you just push your tits into his palm and shiver, like you’re cold, like you can’t get enough of him. he obliges, thumb brushing over your nipple until it’s hard and you’re making those tiny whimpering sounds he loves.
“lando,” you whisper, drawn out and needy. he’s been waiting weeks to hear you like this.
he kisses you, slow and deep, licks into your mouth until you go slack. you melt, your body going boneless under his touch. he takes his time, kissing you like you’re oxygen. your tongue is lazy, letting him do what he wants, and he does—tilting your head, biting your lip, sucking your tongue until you moan into his mouth.
you whine when he pulls away, hands chasing him in effort to keep him close. he loves that—loves how you go floaty and dumb for him, how your only thought is how to get him closer.
he kisses your jaw, your throat, then slides down to lift your top, taking your nipple in his mouth. you arch, pulling him closer.
“greedy,” he laughs, low in his chest, and you only nod, lost to the sensation. he traces down your ribs, his hand spanning your waist, thumbs hooking into the band of your shorts. you buck up, hips chasing his touch, and he’s so hard it almost hurts, his cock pressed against your thigh.
“you want me?” he murmurs, and he’s a little mean about it because you always say yes, but this time you’re so gone you can’t even speak. you just nod, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth open, panting. he slides his hand down, cups your pussy over the fabric, and you whimper. he can feel the heat leaking through cotton.
“so wet, baby,” he coos, smug, and rubs slow circles through your shorts until you’re grinding desperate against his hand. he wants to see you, wants to fuck you until you can’t walk, but more than anything he wants you to just let go, let him do everything for you.
he slides his palms under the fabric and squeezes your ass. you grind down, making his cock twitch.
“jesus, you’re needy,” he murmurs, almost reverent.
you only make a broken, whimpery sound. he flips you, easy as tossing a pillow, and you let yourself be manhandled. he wants to laugh again, at how much you love being small, how much you love being handled, but it would ruin the spell. your eyes flutter shut, maybe with exhaustion, maybe with pleasure.
“you awake?” lando asks softly, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose.
“’m awake,” you slur, your expression caught between bliss and confusion. “missed you so much.”
“did you now?” he traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, nipping at your earlobe.
“mm. missed you. missed your cock,” you mumble, almost too quiet to hear.
he freezes, then pulls back to look at you. you’re blushing, but smiling, all the same.
“greedy,” he tuts, but the word is thick with lust.
“please?” you manage, and the word is so pathetic, so honest, he has no choice but to oblige you.
he peels your shorts down, and you try to help, barely, lifting your hips just enough for him to slide them off. your cunt is glistening, wet and puffy. he touches you gently, running his fingers over your clit, and you choke out a moan, clutching at his arm.
he shushes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. just relax.”
“inside?” you look up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “lando, inside, please?”
and fuck, that voice. what else can he do but give you what you are so sweetly begging him for?
he peels off his boxers and lines himself up, presing the head of his cock against you and pushing in slow, savouring every inch of it. you gasp, back arching, hands grabbing for his arms, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself.
“okay?” he asks, even though you’re already nodding, already grinding back onto him.
“feel so good,” your voice is slow, like you can’t concentrate on all the sensations at once.
he pulls out, thrusts back in, slow and shallow, and watches you come apart under him. you keep making these soft, kittenish sounds, keep scratching shallow lines down his back. he wants to fuck you harder, wants to pin you down and make you scream, but he knows that’s not what you need.
“pretty girl,” he praises, “you’re so fucking pretty. my good girl.”
“please,” you breathe. you’re almost crying, you don’t even know what you’re begging for.
he leans down, mouth at your ear, “you can cum, sweetheart. want you to.”
you do, eyes screwed shut and panting, cunt fluttering around his cock. then you melt, arms falling away. you blink up at him, dazed and grateful, a tiny smile pulling at your lips.
“’s good,” you mumble, then yawn, already half-asleep again.
he’s hasn’t finished, but he doesn’t care. he stays inside, just holding you, more for you than to chase his own pleasure. he thinks about just thrusting back inside you so he can cum—it’d be so quick, so easy—but looking at you, sated and sleepy, he knows he can't ruin that.
you whimper when he tries to pull out, arms and legs locking around him, trapping him inside.
“okay,” he laughs, breathless, so full of love he could burst, “okay, baby. i’ll stay.”
you sigh, content, and in minutes you’re asleep again, still clutching him. he stays inside you, uncomfortably hard, the heat of your cunt making his head swim, but he’s never been so happy.
he’s stuck there, buried in you, and it feels like the only place in the world he’s supposed to be. the room is warm and light, and lando thinks he might die here, in this bed, in this moment, and be happy forever.
i know requests are closed, but i just want to send this in incase i forget 💕
oscar winning the championship, he celebrates with his girl, the reader, after. fast forward a couple weeks, they found out they're pregnant, i think it'll be hilarious if it were triplets! fans are starting to think something bad happened to reader, because they haven’t appeared at the paddock in months. but then they just post about the birth of the triplets 9 months after abu dhabi, and everyone just starts clowning oscar. 💕
Our Little Podium - OP81
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!gf!reader
summary: Oscar wins the World Championship in Abu Dhabi, and he and Y/N celebrate accordingly. Fast forward a few months: Y/N has vanished from the paddock, F1 Twitter is convinced she’s a spy for Ferrari, and Oscar is up at 3 AM googling the aerodynamics of a triple stroller.
wc: 3.2k
💭 this one will stay as a standalone :)
The radio crackles, cutting through the deafening roar of the crowd, but to you, everything else sounds underwater.
"P1, Oscar. P1. You are the World Champion!"
Tom Stallard’s voice is cracking, losing its usual composure, and that’s what finally breaks the dam. You’ve been crying since lap 55, tears silently tracking through your makeup, but now? Now you are openly sobbing into your hands, huddled at the back of the garage near the monitors.
On the screen, Oscar screams—a raw, uncharacteristically loud release of tension that sends shivers down your spine.
You don't wait for the team to organize. You’re running toward Parc Fermé before the car even comes to a full halt.
The atmosphere is electric. Fireworks are exploding over the Yas Marina Circuit, painting the night sky in gold and red, but your eyes are locked on the papaya car. Oscar climbs out, standing on the halo, punching the air. He looks like a titan. He looks unstoppable.
But then he hops down, and the first thing he does—before acknowledging the mechanics, before weighing in, before removing his helmet—is scan the crowd. His head whips left and right, frantic.
He’s looking for you.
You push past a camera operator, slipping through the gap in the barriers. "Oscar!"
He freezes. Even with the helmet on, you can feel his gaze lock onto you. He rips the helmet off, his hair a mess of sweat, his face flushed with the purest joy you have ever seen.
You run. He doesn’t wait. He steps forward, meeting you halfway, and the collision is desperate.
He doesn't just hug you; he scoops you up. One arm around your waist, the other supporting your legs, he lifts you completely off the asphalt.
"We did it!" he yells, his voice hoarse, burying his face in your neck. He spins you around—once, twice—right there on the track. Your feet dangle in the air, and for a moment, the world is just a blur of floodlights and papaya.
"You did it," you sob, clinging to his race suit, not caring about the sweat or the smell of burnt rubber. "You're the champion, Os."
He sets you down but keeps his forehead pressed against yours, oblivious to the cameras circling you like sharks.
"We did it, love," he corrects you, his breathing heavy, his hands trembling slightly against your back. "We."
The next few hours are a blur of champagne, interviews, and flashing lights. But there is a pattern to the chaos.
Oscar is pulled away to weigh in. Five minutes later, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Oscar is dragged off to the podium. As soon as the anthem ends and the champagne is sprayed, he’s looking down at the crowd, pointing right at you.
Oscar is ushered into the team photo. He refuses to take it until you are standing right next to him, his arm draped possessively over your shoulder.
Throughout the garage celebrations, the team starts making bets on how long he can stay away from you. The answer is never more than five minutes. He slips away from billionaire sponsors and team principals just to find you in the corner, holding your face in his hands, kissing you like he needs to recharge his battery.
"I have to go do the media pen," he whispers against your lips, smelling of sticky rosewater and victory. "Wait for me?"
"Always," you smile, wiping a smudge of champagne off his cheek.
You stand off to the side, watching the press conference on a monitor. Oscar is sitting in the center seat, the World Drivers' Championship trophy gleaming in front of him. He looks exhausted but radiant.
"Oscar," a journalist from Sky Sports asks, "you stayed incredibly calm all season, but tonight we saw a lot of emotion. What kept you grounded during those final, stressful laps?"
Oscar doesn't hesitate. A soft, genuine smile breaks across his face—the kind usually reserved only for you.
"My girlfriend, Y/N," he says into the microphone. A collective aww ripples through the room. "She’s been my rock. Honestly, she’s my lucky charm. I don't think I could have kept my head straight without her in the garage."
You press a hand to your heart, feeling fresh tears prick your eyes as the press swoons over the answer.
It’s 3:00 AM when you finally get back to the hotel room. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a heavy, happy exhaustion. Oscar places the heavy trophy on the dresser and immediately turns to you.
He looks at you with an intensity that makes your knees weak.
"I meant it, you know," he says softly, walking over to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you into the quiet of the room. "I wouldn't be standing here, holding that trophy, without you."
You reach up, running your fingers through his hair. "You did the driving, Mr. World Champion."
"And you gave me a reason to drive fast so I could get back to you," he mumbles, leaning down to kiss you deeply. "Best night of my life."
You smile into the kiss, having no idea that in a few weeks, your lives are going to get even crazier.
The high of the championship hasn’t worn off, but the adrenaline has. Now, it’s just the lazy, golden haze of the off-season. You are currently in Australia, staying at his family’s place, supposedly to "relax."
But this morning, relaxation is the last thing on your mind.
You wake up feeling... off. Not sick, exactly, just strange. A weird flutter in your stomach, a sensitivity to the smell of Oscar’s coffee brewing downstairs that makes you dizzy. You slip out of bed while Oscar is still downstairs and take the test you bought yesterday "just in case."
You leave it on the bathroom sink, too nervous to look, and go back to bed, pulling the duvet over your head.
Five minutes later, Oscar walks into the bedroom. He’s holding two mugs of coffee, wearing nothing but sweatpants, looking every bit the relaxed champion. He heads into the en-suite to brush his teeth.
You hear the water run. Then the water stops abruptly.
Silence.
A very long, very heavy silence.
Then, a clatter, like he dropped his toothbrush.
"BABE."
It’s not his usual calm, race-engineer voice. It’s high-pitched.
He bursts out of the bathroom, holding the little plastic stick like it’s a live grenade. His eyes are wide, his face pale but flushing pink at the cheeks.
"THERE’S TWO LINES."
You sit up, heart hammering against your ribs. "Is it... is it faint? Or dark?"
"It’s... it’s very red, Y/N! It’s two lines!" He stammers, rushing over to the side of the bed. He looks at the test, then at you, then back at the test. "That means... that means we..."
"We're having a baby," you whisper.
Oscar freezes. The panic in his eyes melts instantly, replaced by a glassy, overwhelming emotion. He drops the test on the nightstand and practically collapses onto the bed next to you.
"A baby," he repeats, his voice cracking.
He pulls you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. You can feel him shaking. When he pulls back, there are tears in his eyes—the second time you’ve seen him cry in two weeks.
"We made a tiny human," he laughs, a wet, joyful sound. "I’m going to be a dad."
"A World Champion dad," you smile, wiping a tear from his cheek.
"I don't care about the trophy anymore," he says immediately, looking at you with intense seriousness. "This beats the trophy."
For the rest of the morning, Oscar is glued to you.
Weirdly, he’s already acting like you’re six months along. He keeps his hand flat against your stomach, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your shirt, even though your belly is completely flat.
"Oscar, it’s the size of a poppy seed," you laugh, trying to get up to make breakfast.
"Careful," he says, gently pushing you back down. "I’ll make the toast. You and the... poppy seed... need to rest."
Later that night, you find him on the couch with his phone, brows furrowed in deep concentration—the same face he makes when analyzing telemetry data.
"What are you looking up?" you ask, peering over his shoulder.
He jumps slightly, angling the screen toward you. The Google search bar reads: when can baby hear my voice??
"It says 18 weeks," he says, sounding disappointed. "That’s so far away."
He looks at your stomach again, then leans down, putting his mouth right against your belly button.
"Hello?" he whispers. "This is your dad. I drive fast cars. Please be nice to your mum."
You giggle, running a hand through his hair. "You’re ridiculous."
"I’m prepared," he corrects, looking up at you with a grin that could light up the entire Melbourne grid. "I think we’re going to be good at this."
Little does he know, he's going to need a lot more than preparation. He’s asking the baby to be nice, not realizing there are three of them in there.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the ultrasound monitor. The gel on your stomach is freezing, but your hand is sweating because Oscar is holding it so tight he might actually break your fingers.
He’s staring at the screen with the same intensity he uses for Turn 1 at Monaco.
The doctor moves the wand around, humming softly. Then, she stops. She frowns, leans closer to the screen, and adjusts the contrast. She moves the wand again, pressing a little harder.
The silence in the room stretches for ten seconds.
Oscar’s grip tightens painfully. "Is... is everything okay?" rarely does his voice sound this small. "Is there a heartbeat?"
The doctor turns to you both, her expression unreadable for a split second before softening into a professional smile.
"Oh, yes. There are heartbeats." She pauses. "Actually, that was why I was checking again. I wanted to be sure."
She points to the grainy blobs on the screen.
"Well... both are healthy."
Oscar blinks, his brain buffering. "Both?"
"And the third one too," she continues cheerfully, moving the cursor to a smaller shadow behind the first two. "Congratulations... they’re triplets."
SILENCE.
Absolute, vacuum-sealed silence.
You stare at the screen, your mouth falling open, trying to comprehend the math. Three. Three humans.
Oscar, however, has simply ceased to function. He literally stops breathing. His chest doesn’t move for a full five seconds. He is staring at the doctor as if she just told him he has to drive a tricycle in the next Grand Prix.
"Three?" you manage to squeak out.
Oscar’s eyes are wide, unblinking. He looks from the screen to your stomach, then back to the screen. His face has gone a shade of pale that usually indicates food poisoning.
He leans back in his chair, exhaling a breath he’d been holding since the doctor frowned. He runs a hand down his face, dragging the skin.
"We celebrated too hard..."
He whispers it. It’s a low, horrified realization spoken into the quiet room.
"Oscar!" you burst out laughing, the shock breaking into hysteria.
The doctor starts chuckling, wiping the gel off your belly. "It happens more often than you think with natural conception, but yes, it’s quite a surprise."
Oscar isn't laughing yet. He’s looking at his hands. "Three seats," he mutters to himself. "We need a car with three back seats. Do they make baby racing suits in bulk?"
Then, he looks at you, seeing you laughing with tears in your eyes. The terror finally cracks, and a bewildered grin spreads across his face. He starts to laugh too—a nervous, slightly manic chuckle that grows into a full laugh.
"Triplets," he shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, though he looks like he might faint. "I’m going to need a bigger trophy cabinet. And a lot more coffee."
The Formula 1 season is well underway, but something—or rather, someone—is missing.
You haven’t been seen at a Grand Prix in four months. You haven't been in the background of McLaren’s "Unboxed" videos. You haven't even been spotted at the airport.
Naturally, F1 Twitter has lost its collective mind.
The internet has turned into a digital crime board connected by red string.
@.piastrifan3 Guys, Oscar looked at his phone during the post-race cool down room and didn’t smile ONCE. They definitely broke up. Love is dead. I’m burning my merch.
@.user45 Hear me out: She was seen wearing red 6 months ago. She’s currently in Maranello training to be a strategist for Ferrari. She’s a double agent. Wake up sheeple.
@.user12 McLaren is hiding something. Is she the new stig? Is she driving the spare car? WHERE IS SHE ZAK BROWN?
@.f1fan5 Y'all are blind. She’s pregnant. Look at Oscar’s interviews. He has that 'I’m terrified and tired' dad energy already. 100% confirmed.
While the internet debates if you are a spy for Ferrari, the reality is much less glamorous and much stickier.
It is 3:00 AM in your Monaco apartment.
You are sitting up in bed, surrounded by a fortress of pillows, balancing a tub of Ben & Jerry’s on your massive bump. The triplets are currently having a kick-boxing tournament against your ribs.
Oscar is sitting next to you, the blue light of his iPad illuminating his focused, frowning face. He is wearing his reading glasses, looking extremely serious.
"Babe," he says, breaking the silence.
"Hmm?" you mumble around a mouthful of cookie dough.
"Do we really need three cribs?"
You stop chewing. "Oscar. There are three babies."
"I know, but..." He turns the iPad toward you. "Look at the logistics. Three cribs take up 4.5 square meters. If we stack them... no, we can't stack them. But what if we get one mega crib?"
He taps the search bar. You can see his search history.
Oscar’s Google History:
triple stroller aerodynamics
how to hold 3 babies with 2 arms
noise cancelling headphones for infants
can triplets share one crib?? pls help
"They can't share one crib, Os," you sigh, patting his arm. "They will kick each other in the face. Like they are doing to me right now."
He sighs, defeated, and rubs his face. "Right. Strategy error. I'll go back to the drawing board."
He closes the tab on the "Mega Crib" and looks at your ice cream.
"Can I have a bite?"
"Get your own," you growl playfully, pulling the tub closer. "I'm eating for four. You're just stressed."
"I am stressed," he mumbles, resting his head on your shoulder. "The internet thinks we broke up. I saw a TikTok analyzing my eyebrows to prove I'm heartbroken."
"Let them talk," you grin, resting your spoon on the lid. "Just wait until they see the surprise."
It is a quiet Tuesday morning. There is no race this week. The F1 world is bored, still debating why you haven't been seen since testing.
Then, at exactly 10:00 AM, a notification pops up on millions of phones.
@.oscarpiastri just shared a post.
There is no warning. No "expecting" announcement. No gender reveal cake. Just the drop.
Monaco. A black and white, slightly grainy photo taken in your living room. It’s unpolished and raw.
You are sitting on the couch, hair in a messy bun, looking exhausted but blissfully happy, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a white blanket against your chest. Oscar is sitting on the floor next to your legs. He looks like he has been hit by a truck (in a good way). He has bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, and—crucially—he is awkwardly holding two more bundles, one in the crook of each arm.
The expression on both your faces says: "We love them more than life itself, but we have slept 40 minutes in the last three days."
Caption: "Welcome to the world, our little podium. 🧡👶👶👶 P1, P2, and P3 arrived safely. (Send coffee.)"
The post stays up for 30 seconds before the comment section crashes. When it finally loads, it is pure chaos.
@.mclaren Getting three tiny fireproof suits ready immediately. We're going to need a bigger garage. 🧡🧡🧡
@.lando Bro… chill.
@.carlossainz55 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Ayo? Congratulations mate!
@.f1fan45 TRIPLETS??? WTF. I thought she was just hiding a bad haircut??
@.piastriszn "Bro didn't just celebrate. He CELEBRATED." The math is mathing. 9 months after Abu Dhabi exactly... Oscar you absolute legend.
@.danielricciardo Three?? Mate, you don’t do things by halves do you? Congrats!
@.lewishamilton Amazing news. Congratulations to you both.
@.gridgossip Oscar Piastri single-handedly repopulating the grid. By 2045 the entire podium will just be Piastris.
@.user99 Everyone was worried they broke up and meanwhile Oscar was fighting for his life changing three diapers at once 😭😭😭
Oscar tosses his phone onto the couch, ignoring the buzzing that sounds like a swarm of angry bees.
"Well," he yawns, leaning his head back against your knee. "Cat's out of the bag."
"The internet is going to clown you for the rest of your life," you whisper, careful not to wake the baby in your arms (Baby P1).
"Let them clown," Oscar smirks, looking down at the two sleeping babies in his arms. "I won the championship, and I got three trophies nine months later. I'd say that's a pretty good season."
"Go to sleep, Oscar."
"Can't," he whispers back. "P2 just grabbed my finger. I’m trapped forever."
For the first time in seventy-two hours, the apartment is silent. No crying, no bottle warmers beeping, no lullaby machines playing white noise at full volume. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing.
You tiptoe out of the kitchen, clutching a lukewarm mug of tea, and stop in the doorway of the living room. The sight before you makes your heart squeeze so hard it actually aches.
Oscar is sprawled out on the big gray sectional. One arm is thrown over his eyes to block out the afternoon sun, his mouth slightly open in deep, exhaustion-fueled sleep.
Curled up right in the center of his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing, is the third triplet. Oscar’s other hand is resting protectively over the baby’s tiny back, a reflex he doesn't even drop when he's unconscious.
You shift your gaze to the large playpen-bassinet combo set up near the window.
The other two are fast asleep, their heads turned toward each other. And there, in the space between them, their tiny fingers are interlaced. Holding hands.
You lean your head against the doorframe, letting out a long, shaky breath.
Your hair is a mess. You have a stain on your shoulder that is definitely spit-up. You haven't watched a race or checked the news in weeks. Your life is a blur of diapers, formula, and deciphering which cry means "hungry" and which cry means "I just want to scream."
But looking at them—your "Team Five"—you wouldn't trade a single second of the madness.
Oscar stirs. He doesn't open his eyes, but he shifts slightly, sensing your presence in the room. He pats the baby on his chest gently.
"Is everyone alive?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
"Everyone is sleeping," you whisper back, smiling. "Go back to sleep, champ."
He hums, a satisfied sound, and settles deeper into the cushions. "Best off-season ever," he slurs, before drifting back off.
You take a sip of your tea, watching the sunlight dance over the three tiny faces that look so much like him.
He was right. He won the trophy in Abu Dhabi, the gold, the glory, the history books. But this? This messy, exhausting, loud, overwhelming life in your living room?
Summary: corporate humiliation (noun): when you ask the woman in the conference room to fetch your coffee and she turns out to be the billionaire about to buy your entire team. Charles Leclerc’s guide to career suicide includes mistaking your future boss for an intern, begging on your knees not to be sent to Alpine, and surviving a six-year-old’s birthday party as penance. The worst part? He’s pretty sure he’s falling for you
The air in Maranello always tastes different.
It’s a flavor Charles knows better than the back of his own hand. It’s a metallic, hopeful tang of hot engines and curing carbon fiber, layered over the sweet, earthy scent of balsamic vinegar and parmesan that drifts from the town. It is the taste of ambition. The taste of home.
Today, it tastes like ash in his mouth.
The summons was vague, delivered via a clipped, formal email from Fred Vasseur’s personal assistant. Meeting. 15:00. Main Conference Room, Gestione Sportiva. Mr. Elkann will be present.
That was it. No agenda. No context. And that, in the world of Scuderia Ferrari, is never, ever a good thing.
His heart hammers against his ribs in a frantic, unsteady rhythm that has nothing to do with athletic exertion. He walks the hallowed, clinically white halls, his PUMA sneakers squeaking softly on the polished floor. Every gleaming trophy in its glass case seems to mock him. Every larger-than-life photo of a past champion feels like a judgment.
He’s replayed the last few races in his mind a thousand times on the short drive over. Did he say something wrong in a debrief? Was there a clause in his contract he’d forgotten about? The car isn’t where it needs to be, but that’s not his fault. He’s been driving the absolute wheels off it, wringing performance from it that has no business existing. It has to be something else.
The door to the main conference room is slightly ajar. He pushes it open, the heavy wood swinging silently on its hinges.
And the room is not empty.
Seated at the far end of the impossibly long, gleaming mahogany table is a woman. No, not a woman. A girl, maybe? You look young. He can’t see your face properly, it’s angled down, illuminated by the soft glow of a tablet propped in front of you. Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows catches in your hair, turning the strands into a halo of spun gold. You’re wearing a simple, cream-colored silk blouse and dark trousers. Elegant, but understated. Not the severe, high-fashion power suit of the usual corporate types who haunt these rooms.
He clears his throat.
You look up, and for a second, the air leaves his lungs. It’s not a dramatic, cinematic moment. It’s quieter, more profound. It’s the simple, jarring realization that he has never seen a face quite like yours before. It’s a composition of soft lines and sharp intelligence, your eyes — a deep, unreadable shade — holding his for a beat longer than is socially acceptable.
He blinks, recovering himself. New intern. Must be. Or maybe a junior marketing assistant, brought in to take notes. They’re always hiring bright young things from Bocconi University.
“Hello,” he says, his voice a little rougher than he intends. He strides into the room, dropping his phone and keys onto the table with a clatter. The sound echoes in the cavernous space.
“Hi,” you reply. Your voice is low, smooth. It holds a hint of an accent he can’t quite place, a musicality that makes the simple word sound like a melody.
He gestures vaguely towards the gleaming, state-of-the-art espresso machine in the corner of the room, a chrome beast that costs more than a decent road car. “Do you know how to work that thing?”
You follow his gaze. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. It’s not a mocking smile. It’s … amused. Curious. “I think I can figure it out.”
“Great.” He pulls out a chair, scraping it against the floor, and sinks into it. The anxiety is making him antsy, irritable. “An espresso, please. Doppio. No sugar.”
He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an order. Not really. It just comes out that way. He’s a man who lives his life in tenths of a second, a life of commands and instant responses. ‘Box, Charles, box.’ ‘Push now, push now.’ His request is just another line of code in a life run on efficient instructions.
From your perspective, the situation is almost comical. You’ve spent the last seventy-two hours in brutal, back-to-back meetings with lawyers and accountants, dissecting financial statements that could choke a supercomputer. You’ve been up since four this morning, preparing. The weight of your family’s legacy, a global empire built over four generations, rests squarely on your shoulders. You are here to negotiate the potential acquisition of one of the most iconic brands in human history.
And this man, this beautiful, anxious, impossibly famous man, thinks you’re here to fetch his coffee.
You could correct him. You could flash a sharp, cutting smile and introduce yourself, watch the dawning horror spread across his face. It would be easy. It might even be satisfying.
But where’s the fun in that?
Besides, there’s something about the raw tension radiating from him that intrigues you. He’s not just being arrogant. He’s terrified. You can see it in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his famous green-blue eyes keep darting towards the door. He’s a bundle of frayed nerves stuffed into a designer team-issue polo shirt.
So, you stand up. The silk of your blouse whispers against the leather of the chair. “Doppio, no sugar. Got it.”
Charles just nods, already lost in his phone, scrolling through motorsport news sites as if they might hold the answer to his impending doom. He doesn’t watch you walk to the machine. He doesn’t notice the quiet competence with which you operate it, the practiced movements that suggest you’ve made your own coffee a thousand times before. He just hears the comforting gurgle and hiss of the machine, the clink of ceramic.
You place the small, white cup and saucer on the polished table beside his elbow. The rich, dark aroma of the coffee wafts up, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the room.
“Thanks,” he mutters, not looking up. He picks up the cup, his long, artistic fingers — fingers that can tame a 1000-horsepower monster at 300 kilometers per hour — wrapping around the delicate handle. He takes a sip, the bitter liquid a familiar jolt to his system.
He risks a glance at you. You’ve returned to your seat at the head of the table, your attention back on your tablet. You look completely unbothered, as if serving coffee to distracted Formula 1 drivers is a perfectly normal part of your day.
The silence stretches. It’s awkward. He feels a prickle of something — maybe guilt? He was a little rude.
“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat again. “I’m just … it’s been a long day.”
You finally look up from the tablet, your full attention on him. And when you do, he feels pinned in place. Your eyes are astonishingly perceptive. It feels like you can see right through the bravado, right to the frantic, panicked hamster running on a wheel in his brain.
“It’s not over yet,” you say softly.
The words hang in the air, cryptic and heavy. Before he can try to decipher them, the door swings open again.
John Elkann walks in, followed closely by Fred Vasseur. The shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. The air crackles with authority. John, with his patrician bearing and impeccably tailored suit, is the embodiment of quiet, immense power. Fred, by contrast, is a study in controlled chaos, his usual rumpled energy sharpened to a point.
Charles scrambles to his feet. “John. Fred.”
John gives him a curt, polite nod, but his focus, his entire attention, is on you. A warm, genuine smile spreads across his face, a sight so rare it’s like witnessing a solar eclipse.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice rich with Italian warmth. He bypasses Charles completely, walking to the head of the table where you are now rising gracefully from your chair. He takes your hand, bowing his head slightly to press a light kiss to your knuckles in a classic, courtly gesture. “It is a true pleasure to see you again. I trust your journey was comfortable?”
You smile back, a radiant, easy expression that transforms your entire face. “Perfectly, John. Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”
Fred is next, shaking your hand firmly. “Ms. Y/L/N. Welcome to Maranello. We are all very pleased you could make it.”
Charles stands frozen in place, a statue of dawning comprehension. The espresso cup feels slick in his suddenly sweaty palm. The gears in his brain are grinding, trying to connect the dots, but they’re moving through thick, syrupy dread. Y/N Y/L/N. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it. A sponsor? A new board member?
John finally turns to him, his expression now coolly professional. The warmth he showed you has vanished completely.
“Charles,” he says, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries. “Thank you for joining us. I believe you haven’t been formally introduced.”
Charles’s mouth is dry. He feels like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office.
John gestures from you to him. “Charles Leclerc, this is Y/N Y/L/N.”
There’s a beat of silence. Charles manages a tight, strangled nod. He still doesn’t get it. Who are you?
Fred decides to rip the bandage off.
“Ms. Y/L/N,” Fred says, his French accent thick, “is the CEO and Chairwoman of Y/L/N Holdings.”
The name clicks. Not from the business section of a newspaper, but from the high-octane world of finance and power that occasionally intersects with his own. Y/L/N Holdings. They aren’t just a company, they’re a modern dynasty. A colossal, family-run conglomerate with controlling stakes in everything from technology and pharmaceuticals to luxury fashion and green energy. They are spoken of in the same hushed, reverent tones as Berkshire Hathaway or LVMH. They don’t sponsor teams. They buy them. They buy the leagues the teams compete in.
Charles feels the blood drain from his face. Every drop. He feels light-headed, dizzy, as if he’s just stepped out of the cockpit after a 70-lap race in Singapore.
He looks at you. You, the woman he just ordered to get him an espresso. You, the head of one of the most powerful and influential private corporations on the planet.
And you are looking right back at him. Your expression is perfectly, maddeningly neutral, but he sees it. Deep in your eyes, there’s a flicker. A tiny, dancing spark of pure amusement.
He is so, so screwed.
“We are here today,” John continues, his voice a low drumbeat of doom, “to enter into preliminary discussions with Ms. Y/L/N about the future of Ferrari. All of it. The road cars, the brand, and, of course, Scuderia Ferrari.”
The room tilts on its axis. Charles physically grips the back of his chair to steady himself. Buy Ferrari? The idea is sacrilege. It’s unthinkable. Ferrari isn’t just a company; it’s a national treasure, an Italian institution. And this woman … this girl … she’s here to put a price tag on it.
His brain, which can process thousands of data points a minute during a race, is now stuck in a horrifying loop.
I told the potential new owner of the team to get me a coffee.
I told the woman who could soon be signing my paychecks to fetch me an espresso.
I treated her like an intern.
His career flashes before his eyes. The karting championships. The hard-won F2 title. The dream-come-true moment of signing with Ferrari. All of it, spiraling down the drain because he was too arrogant and too anxious to have a single shred of basic courtesy.
He’s going to be fired. No, worse. She won’t just fire him. She’ll make an example of him. He’ll be bought out of his contract and publicly humiliated. He’ll be forced to sign with Alpine. The thought is so horrifying it’s almost paralyzing. He can already picture the depressing blue and pink car, the endless midfield battles, the sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity of it all.
“Please, everyone, sit,” you say, your voice cutting smoothly through his internal spiral of terror.
John and Fred take their seats. Charles moves stiffly, mechanically, lowering himself back into his chair. He feels like a condemned man taking his place at his own trial. He risks another look at you. You’re arranging your tablet, your movements fluid and confident. You are completely in your element. You own this room. You might soon own him.
“Charles,” you say, your tone casual, as if the last five minutes haven’t just shattered his entire world.
He flinches, his head snapping up. “Yes?” The word comes out as a squeak.
You gesture towards the small white cup still sitting next to his hand. “How’s the espresso?”
The question is a stiletto, slid expertly between his ribs. It’s not an accusation. It’s a gentle, devastating reminder of his monumental blunder. John raises an eyebrow, a silent question passing between him and Fred. They have no idea what you’re talking about, but they can feel the sudden, specific tension radiating from their star driver.
Charles can’t breathe. His mind is a static-filled television screen. What is he supposed to say? ‘It’s great, thank you for your excellent service, Ms. Y/L/N, my potential future boss whom I have insulted beyond all repair’?
He looks at you, his eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea. Please don’t. Please don’t tell them.
A slow, secret smile finally breaks through your composure. It’s a breathtaking thing, a flash of warmth and mischief that lights up your face. You give him a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.
It’s not a reprieve. It’s a promise. I own you now.
“It’s … perfect,” Charles chokes out, his voice hoarse. “Thank you.”
You just nod, your smile vanishing as you turn your attention to John. “John, my team has reviewed the preliminary financials you sent over. I have some questions regarding the projected Q4 earnings for the automotive division before we move on to the Gestione Sportiva …”
The meeting begins. The words flow around Charles, a meaningless soup of financial jargon and corporate strategy. EBITDA, amortization, market capitalization, synergy. He hears none of it. All he can hear is the frantic thumping of his own heart and your voice, calm and authoritative, as you dissect the company he has dedicated his life to, piece by piece.
He sits there, trapped at the table, a ghost at the feast. He has to project an air of calm confidence, of being the franchise driver, the cornerstone of the team, while inside, he is screaming.
Every so often, your eyes drift from the financial reports and land on him. You don’t say a word to him. You don’t have to. The message is clear. He made a fatal error in judgment. He mistook the person with all the power in the room for the person with none.
And now, his future is in the hands of the woman he sent to get his coffee.
***
The drive back to his apartment is a twenty-minute exercise in controlled dissociation. Charles operates the vehicle on pure muscle memory, his mind a million miles away, replaying the meeting on a torturous, high-definition loop. The polite smile on John’s face. The concerned frown on Fred’s. And your eyes. Always, it comes back to your eyes, holding that glint of knowing amusement. That terrifying, brilliant spark that told him you saw everything.
He barely registers parking his car in the underground garage or taking the elevator up to his penthouse. The door to his apartment clicks shut behind him, and the sound reverberates in the sudden, oppressive silence.
His apartment is his sanctuary. A cool, minimalist space of clean lines, polished concrete floors, and vast windows that look out over the rolling hills of Emilia-Romagna. It’s a place of quiet and order, designed to soothe his perpetually overstimulated mind. A grand piano, a glossy black Yamaha, sits in the main living area, the only object that hints at the passion beneath his controlled exterior.
Today, the silence doesn’t soothe. It suffocates.
He doesn’t take off his shoes. He doesn’t put his keys in the bowl by the door. He paces. Back and forth, back and forth across the expensive rug, his phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. His mind is a high-speed collision of worst-case scenarios.
He sees himself in a Haas, fighting for P17 with the kind of grim determination reserved for men whose dreams have died. He sees the pitying looks from his former colleagues, the triumphant smirks from his rivals. He sees the headlines: ‘LECLERC’S FERRARI DREAM ENDS IN MYSTERIOUS SPLIT.’
The wink. That tiny, devastating wink you gave him. It wasn’t a gesture of solidarity. It was a death sentence delivered with a smile. It said, ‘I know what you did, and I am going to enjoy this.’
He can’t take it anymore. He stabs at his phone screen, his fingers clumsy with panic. He starts a video conference, adding two numbers. Two faces pop onto the screen, one after the other.
First is Lorenzo. His face, a slightly softer, warmer version of Charles’s own, is etched with immediate concern. He’s clearly at home, a collage of photos held on by magnets visible on the refrigerator behind him. “Charles? What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Before he can answer, the second face appears. Nicolas Todt. His manager. His face is framed by the sterile white of an office, his expression sharp, analytical. He’s a man who deals in facts and contracts, not emotions. “Charles. This is unexpected. Is everything alright?”
Charles stops pacing and stares into the phone, his eyes wide and haunted. He runs a hand through his already messy hair.
“No, Nicolas. Everything is not alright,” he says, his voice tight and strained. “I need you to do something for me. Both of you.”
Lorenzo leans closer to his camera. “Anything, Charlou. What’s happened?”
Charles takes a deep, shaky breath, as if preparing to jump from a great height.
“I need you to start calling other teams,” he says, the words rushing out in a torrent. “Call Ayao Komatsu. Call James Vowles. Call anyone. I don’t care. Just find me a seat for next year. Any seat. I will drive a tractor if I have to, but my time at Ferrari is over.”
Silence.
Lorenzo and Nicolas exchange a bewildered look across the digital divide.
Lorenzo is the first to speak, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Okay, Charles, just … slow down. Breathe. What in God’s name are you talking about? You have a contract. A multi-year contract.”
“Contracts can be broken!” Charles almost yells, his voice cracking. He starts pacing again, the phone held out in front of him like a scanner sweeping a disaster zone. “There are clauses. Performance clauses, conduct clauses, clauses for bringing the brand into disrepute! I have probably violated all of them in the space of ten minutes!”
Nicolas’s eyes narrow. His professional calm is absolute, but Charles knows him well enough to see the flicker of genuine alarm. Nicolas deals with problems. For him to be alarmed, the problem must be monumental.
“Charles,” Nicolas says, his tone clipped and serious. “Stop talking about tractors and tell us exactly what happened. From the beginning.”
And so, he tells them. He recounts the cryptic email, the anxiety, walking into the empty conference room. He describes you. And then, he gets to the fatal moment.
“… so I asked her to get me an espresso.”
He says it flatly, the words tasting like poison.
Lorenzo’s mouth falls open. For a second, he looks like he might laugh, then he sees the sheer, unadulterated terror on his brother’s face, and the humor dies in his throat. “You … you asked her for a coffee? Charles, who is she?”
“She is Y/N Y/L/N,” Charles says, the name feeling like a curse. “She is the CEO of Y/L/N Holdings.”
Nicolas goes rigid. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. The complete and utter stillness that comes over him is more terrifying than any outburst. He brings a hand to his mouth, his gaze distant. He is processing. Calculating. Running scenarios.
“Y/L/N Holdings,” Lorenzo repeats slowly, the name dawning on him. “The ones who just bought that biotech firm? And the fashion house? That Y/L/N Holdings?”
“The very same,” Charles says, his voice hollow. “And they are not here to buy a biotech firm, Lorenzo. They are here to buy Ferrari. The whole thing. John Elkann said it himself.”
A heavy, profound silence descends upon the call. Lorenzo just stares, speechless. Nicolas’s mind is clearly working at a thousand miles an hour.
“Mon Dieu,” Lorenzo finally breathes, summing up the situation with perfect, horrified simplicity.
“You see?” Charles cries, his voice rising with hysteria. “You see why it’s over? I didn’t just insult a sponsor. I insulted the potential new owner of the entire company! I treated her like a servant. And she knows it. When Elkann introduced us, she looked at me … and she winked. She is going to fire me. She will take one look at my contract and tear it into a million pieces. It will be her first act as owner. ‘Get the arrogant little Monegasque driver out of my sight.’ I can hear it already!”
Nicolas finally speaks, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Stop. Panicking.”
Charles stops, breathing heavily.
“First,” Nicolas says, holding up a finger. “You are not calling Haas. You are not calling Williams. You are the lead driver for Scuderia Ferrari, and we will not project that level of weakness and desperation. Is that clear?”
Charles nods mutely.
“Second,” Nicolas continues, his gaze intense. “Catastrophizing is a waste of energy. We have a situation. A … deeply unfortunate and incredibly stupid situation, but a situation nonetheless. And we will manage it.”
“How?” Charles demands. “How do you manage this? Do I send her a gift basket? What’s the protocol for offending a billionaire who is about to own you? Should the fruit be domestic or exotic?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Nicolas snaps, the first crack in his professional veneer. “This is not about gift baskets. This is about damage control and strategy.”
Lorenzo, recovering from his shock, shifts into his role as the practical older brother. “Okay. Okay. Nicolas is right. Panicking isn’t a plan. What did she do when you asked for the coffee?”
“She got it for me,” Charles whispers, the absurdity of it hitting him all over again.
“She just … said okay and made you an espresso?” Lorenzo asks, incredulous.
“Yes! No argument, no comment. She just did it. That’s what makes it so much worse! She was playing with me! It was a test, and I failed spectacularly.”
“Or,” Nicolas interjects, his mind piecing things together, “she has a sense of humor. Or she was amused by the absurdity of it. We have no data on her personality. We are operating blind.”
“So what do we do?” Charles asks, his voice small. He feels like a child again, looking to his older brother and his manager to fix a mess he’s made.
“We need to formulate an apology,” Nicolas states. “A direct, sincere, and immediate apology. This cannot wait. Every hour that passes makes you look more arrogant and unconcerned.”
“How?” Charles asks. “I don’t have her number. I can’t exactly send her a message on Instagram.”
“No,” Nicolas agrees. “This needs a more delicate touch. A formal letter is too cold. An email could be missed or feel impersonal. You need to do it in person.”
Charles recoils. “In person? No. No way. I can’t face her. She will just look at me with those eyes and I will simply … combust.”
“You will not combust,” Lorenzo says firmly. “You will act like a man and you will apologize. But Nicolas is right, it has to be handled carefully. You can’t just ambush her at her hotel. That’s stalker behavior.”
“We need to find out everything we can about her,” Nicolas says, already typing furiously on his computer, his eyes scanning a different screen. “I am looking at her professional profile now. Y/L/N Holdings is a private entity, famously secretive. But she has given a few interviews. Forbes, Wall Street Journal …”
“What do they say?” Charles asks, desperate for any insight.
“They say she is brilliant,” Nicolas reads, his tone grim. “A prodigy. Took over the family business at twenty-five after her father retired. Quadrupled its value in six years. Known for … ah. Here we go. ‘An unconventional but ruthless negotiation style.’ And here, another one calls her ‘the iron butterfly.’”
“The iron butterfly?” Lorenzo scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“It means she is beautiful and delicate on the outside, but underneath she is made of steel,” Charles says miserably. “It means I am dead.”
“It means she is a serious businessperson who likely does not have time for the bruised ego of a racing driver,” Nicolas corrects him sharply. “Which could work for or against us. She might dismiss this as a trivial matter, or she might see you as an unprofessional liability.”
“So, what is the plan?” Lorenzo presses, bringing them back on track. “We need a concrete plan, right now.”
Nicolas leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The strategist has taken over. “Okay. Here is what we do. Step one: Charles, you are going to write an apology. Not an email. A letter. On proper stationery. You will write it by hand.”
“By hand?” Charles balks. “My handwriting is terrible.”
“I don’t care if you have to write it in crayon,” Nicolas says. “It needs to be personal. It needs to show effort. You will take responsibility. You will not make excuses about being stressed or anxious. You will state that your behavior was unacceptable, and you are extremely sorry. Nothing more. No groveling. Just a clean, sincere apology.”
Lorenzo nods in agreement. “He’s right. It has to be genuine.”
“Step two,” Nicolas continues. “I will reach out to my contacts. I will find out where she is staying. Not to ambush her, but to have the letter delivered by a professional courier tomorrow morning. It will be the first thing she sees. It shows initiative.”
“And step three?” Charles asks, a tiny, fragile sliver of hope beginning to form amidst the wreckage of his panic.
“Step three is the most difficult,” Nicolas says, his eyes locking with Charles’s through the screen. “You need to find a way to speak with her. Face to face. The letter opens the door. You have to walk through it.”
“But how? When?”
“Fred,” Lorenzo suggests. “You could go through Fred. Ask him to set up a brief, five-minute meeting. Say you want to properly welcome her to the team.”
Nicolas considers this. “It’s a possibility. But it also signals to Fred that something is wrong. He will ask questions.”
“It’s better than the alternative, which is Charles hiding in his apartment until he is formally dismissed via courier,” Lorenzo argues.
“I hate this,” Charles groans, sinking onto his sofa and burying his face in his hands. “I feel like I’m in a nightmare.”
“You are not in a nightmare. You are in a crisis of your own making, and you will deal with it,” Nicolas says, his voice hard but not unkind. “Now, listen to me, Charles. This woman, this ‘iron butterfly,’ she did not get to where she is by being petty. People have likely made far worse mistakes around her than assuming she was an intern. Your saving grace here might be the sheer absurdity of the situation.”
“And the wink?” Charles asks, his voice muffled by his hands. “What about the wink?”
“The wink is a data point we cannot yet interpret,” Nicolas says. “It could be mockery. It could be amusement. It could be her telling you she knows she has you at a disadvantage. It doesn’t matter. Your course of action remains the same. Humility. Sincerity. Professionalism. You must show her that the man who asked for the coffee is not the real Charles Leclerc.”
The call continues for another hour. They debate the exact wording of the letter. They discuss potential scenarios for a face-to-face meeting. Lorenzo provides emotional support, reminding Charles of every other time he’s faced adversity and come out stronger. Nicolas provides the cold, hard strategy, a road map out of the disaster.
By the time they hang up, Charles feels … not good, but fractionally less terrified. The panic has receded from a tidal wave to a manageable, if still treacherous, current. He has a plan. A fragile, desperate plan, but a plan nonetheless.
He is left alone once more in the echoing silence of his apartment. The setting sun casts long, dramatic shadows across the room, painting the walls in hues of orange and blood red.
He walks over to a sleek, modern desk and pulls out a sheet of thick, cream-colored paper and a fountain pen. It feels archaic, like preparing for a duel. He stares at the blank page for a long, long time.
How do you apologize for an insult that was rooted in such a misjudgment of a person’s entire being? How do you write a letter to a woman who holds your entire future in the palm of her hand?
He uncaps the pen, the nib scratching softly as he begins to write.
Dear Ms. Y/L/N,
He stops. It feels too formal, too cold. He crumples up the paper, the sound aggressively loud in the quiet room. He takes another sheet.
Dear Y/N,
Too familiar. A fresh wave of anxiety washes over him. He feels completely and utterly out of his depth. He is a man who understands braking points, tire degradation, and the delicate art of a qualifying lap. He does not understand this.
He gets up from the desk and walks over to the grand piano. He sits on the bench, his fingers hovering over the keys. He begins to play. A sad, melancholic Chopin nocturne. The notes fill the room, a language he is fluent in, a way to express the complex, swirling storm of regret and fear inside him.
He plays for her, the unseen, unknown woman who single-handedly overturned his world. The iron butterfly. He plays, and wonders if you can be reasoned with. He plays, and wonders if you have any idea of the chaos you’ve unleashed.
He plays, and he hopes, with a desperation he has not felt since his very first race, that you are a person who knows how to forgive.
***
It takes him three nights and seventeen crumpled sheets of paper to write the letter.
Each failed attempt is a monument to his anxiety. One draft is too groveling, another too stiff and formal. One sounds like it was written by a lawyer, the next like a panicked text message. He is trying to distill the entire, complex storm of his regret and terror onto a single page, and the task feels impossible.
In the end, exhaustion wins. On the third night, sometime after 2 AM, with the melancholic echo of another Chopin nocturne still hanging in the air from his piano, he gives up on trying to be strategic. He just writes.
The final version is short, brutally honest, and devoid of excuses. He writes that his behavior was unprofessional and inexcusable. He writes that he was deeply embarrassed by his own arrogance. He writes, simply, that he was sorry. He signs it, ‘Charles Leclerc,’ his signature a barely legible scrawl.
The next morning, a professional courier in a crisp, unmarked uniform picks up the envelope. Charles watches from his window as the courier’s scooter disappears down the winding Maranello roads, carrying his fragile paper-and-ink peace offering.
And then, the waiting begins.
It is a unique form of torture. For the next seventy-two hours, his phone becomes a source of constant, tormenting hope and crushing disappointment. Every buzz, every notification, sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through his system. He checks his email every five minutes. He has tense, circular conversations with Nicolas and Lorenzo, who can offer nothing but strategic patience, a concept entirely foreign to a man who lives his life in milliseconds.
“Any news?” Lorenzo asks, for the tenth time, on Wednesday afternoon.
“Nothing,” Charles says, pacing a well-worn path in his living room rug. “Silence. Maybe she never got it. Maybe her assistant threw it away. Maybe she read it, laughed, and set it on fire.”
“Or,” Nicolas cuts in, his voice a dry, calming presence over the speakerphone, “she is an extremely busy woman negotiating a multi-billion-dollar corporate acquisition and has not had a spare moment to deal with a contrite racing driver. The silence is not necessarily a bad sign, Charles. A swift rejection would have been worse.”
The logic is sound, but it offers little comfort. The silence is a vacuum, and his anxiety rushes in to fill it with horrifying possibilities.
Finally, on Wednesday evening, an email appears. It is not from you. The sender is ‘Office of the CEO, Y/L/N Holdings.’ The subject line is simple: ‘Meeting: Y/N Y/L/N & C. Leclerc.’
His heart stops. His hands tremble as he opens it.
The body of the message is brutally efficient.
Mr. Leclerc,
Ms. Y/L/N can see you tomorrow, Thursday, at 4 PM.
Location: The Terrazza, Fiorano Circuit.
Please be prompt.
That’s it. No pleasantries. No acknowledgement of his letter. Just a time and a place.
“The Terrazza?” Lorenzo says when Charles reads it aloud to him and Nicolas. “What is that?”
“It’s the rooftop hospitality suite at the test track,” Charles explains, his mouth dry. “It’s private. Exclusive. You can see the entire circuit from up there.”
“A neutral ground,” Nicolas muses. “No, not neutral. She chose the location. It’s her ground now. She is setting the terms of the engagement. This is a power move.”
“So, what do I do?” Charles asks, his voice barely a whisper.
“You prepare,” Nicolas says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will be calm. You will be professional. You will wear something smart, but not a suit. You will reiterate your apology once, briefly. You will not ramble. You will not make excuses. And then you will be quiet and let her speak. And Charles, I cannot stress this enough: you will not, under any circumstances, beg.”
***
The next day, at 3:45 PM, Charles is in a state of quiet, spiraling panic.
He stands in front of his wardrobe, having already discarded three perfectly acceptable outfits. He has rehearsed his opening line in the mirror a dozen times, and it sounds more stilted and unnatural with each repetition. Nicolas’s final words echo in his mind: ‘Do not beg. Project confidence. You are an asset, not a supplicant.’
It’s good advice. It’s also completely impossible to follow. He feels like a supplicant. He feels like a condemned prisoner walking to his own execution.
He finally settles on dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a soft, unstructured navy blue blazer. It feels like a costume. The clothes of a man who is calm and in control, a man he is pretending to be.
The walk from the main Gestione Sportiva building to the Fiorano trackside suites is short, but it feels like miles. The late afternoon sun is golden and warm, casting long shadows across the immaculate grounds. In the distance, he can hear the faint, high-pitched scream of a junior driver putting an older F1 car through its paces on the track. It’s a sound that has been the soundtrack to his entire life, a sound of comfort and purpose. Today, it sounds like a eulogy for his career.
He takes the private elevator up to the Terrazza. The doors slide open with a soft hiss, revealing a stunning, open-air space. Glass walls provide an uninterrupted panorama of the legendary circuit below, its asphalt ribbon winding through the green Italian landscape. There are tasteful arrangements of lounge furniture, a sleek outdoor bar, and at the far end, a small, shaded table for two.
You are already there.
You sit with your back to him, looking out over the track, a glass of sparkling water on the table in front of you. You’re wearing a simple, elegant black dress that leaves your shoulders bare. Your hair is tied back loosely, and the gentle breeze plays with a few escaped strands. You look serene, a portrait of effortless power.
He takes a breath, the air feeling thin and sharp in his lungs. Be calm. Be professional. Do not beg.
He walks towards you, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the stone tiles.
“Ms. Y/L/N?” He says, his voice coming out as a rough croak.
You turn. Not with a start, but with a slow, deliberate grace, as if you sensed him approaching all along. Your eyes, the same unreadable shade he remembers from the conference room, meet his. Today, they hold no trace of the amusement he saw before. Your expression is perfectly, terrifyingly neutral.
“Charles,” you say. Your voice is as smooth and cool as the marble table between you. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
He pulls out the chair opposite you and sits down, his movements stiff. He feels like a marionette with tangled strings. He clasps his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he manages. “And, I, uh, I hope you received my letter.”
“I did,” you reply. You take a slow sip of your water, your gaze never leaving his face. “It was … concise.”
He can’t read your tone. Is ‘concise’ good? Is it a compliment, or is it a criticism, implying it wasn’t groveling enough? The ambiguity is killing him. Nicolas’s carefully crafted script evaporates from his mind, replaced by a wall of white noise.
“I just wanted to say again, in person,” he starts, the words stumbling over each other, “that I am truly, truly sorry. My behavior was … there is no excuse for it. It was arrogant, and unprofessional, and …”
“I see,” you say, cutting him off cleanly. You set your glass down with a soft click. The sound is like a gunshot in the tense silence.
This is it. The calm before the storm. He can see it in your cool, appraising gaze. You’re just letting him squirm before you deliver the final blow. You’re going to tell him his apology is noted, but insufficient. You’re going to talk about brand values and professional conduct. You’re going to fire him with the same detached efficiency with which you ordered a sparkling water.
His mind flashes again to Alpine. He pictures the blue car, the French flags, the perpetual, soul-crushing battle for nineteenth place. He imagines explaining it to his family, to his friends. The humiliation. The failure.
Nicolas’s voice in his head screams, ‘DO NOT BEG!’
But Nicolas isn’t here. Lorenzo isn’t here. It’s just him, and you, and the vast, terrifying expanse of his ruined future.
Logic abandons him. Strategy flees. All that is left is raw, primal fear.
In a single, fluid movement that is born of pure desperation, he pushes his chair back and drops to his knees on the stone floor beside the table.
The sound of his knees hitting the ground is shockingly loud.
He looks up at you, his face a mask of utter panic. “Please,” he says, and the word is a ragged, broken thing. “Please, I am begging you. I will do anything. I will take a pay cut. I will do every single sponsor event, I’ll even do the terrible ones with the awkward photo-shoots. I will be the first one at the factory and the last one to leave. Anything. Just … please.”
He can feel the hot sting of tears welling in his eyes, a humiliation so profound it makes him dizzy. He lowers his gaze to the floor, unable to look at you. His voice cracks, shrinking to a horrified whisper filled with a very specific, very personal dread.
“Please don’t make me drive for Alpine.”
The silence that follows is absolute. It stretches for an eternity. He can hear his own heart hammering in his ears. He waits for your gasp of shock, your cold dismissal, the sound of you getting up and walking away in disgust. He is prepared for anything except for the sound that comes next.
Laughter.
It starts as a choked gasp, a sudden burst of air. Then it blossoms. It’s not a smirk or a polite chuckle. It’s a genuine, unrestrained, musical laugh. It’s a sound of pure amusement, and it fills the quiet air of the Terrazza.
He slowly, cautiously, lifts his head.
You are leaning back in your chair, a hand covering your mouth, but your eyes are squeezed shut and your shoulders are shaking with mirth. The cool, intimidating CEO has vanished, replaced by someone who looks … human. The sound is so unexpected, so completely at odds with the execution he was expecting, that his brain short-circuits.
“Alpine?” You finally manage to get out between waves of laughter, your voice giddy. “You think I’m going to force you to drive for Alpine?”
He just stares, still on his knees, utterly bewildered.
You take a deep, calming breath, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye. The laughter subsides, leaving a bright, warm smile on your face. It completely transforms you. The ‘iron butterfly’ is gone.
“Charles,” you say, your voice still sparkling with amusement. “Get up. You look ridiculous.”
He scrambles to his feet, his face burning with a mixture of humiliation and profound confusion. He sinks back into his chair, his mind reeling.
“I … I don’t understand,” he stammers.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” you say, your smile softening. You lean forward, your expression turning serious, though the playful light remains in your eyes. “Let me be perfectly clear so you can stop having a nervous breakdown. I was never going to fire you.”
He blinks. “Never?”
“Never,” you confirm. “Charles, let’s put the coffee incident aside for a moment and think about this like a business. I am here to potentially acquire one of the most valuable brands on the planet. My number one objective is to increase its value. What do you think would happen to the value of Scuderia Ferrari, to the morale of the Tifosi, to the stability of the entire organization, if my very first act was to fire the most popular, most beloved Ferrari driver since Schumacher?”
You lay it out for him, your tone crisp and logical. “It would be a public relations catastrophe. The fans would revolt. The team would be demoralized. The media would have a field day. It would be the single stupidest, most self-destructive business decision I could possibly make. My job is to build empires, Charles, not set them on fire for my own personal amusement.”
Relief washes over him in a wave so powerful it almost knocks the breath out of him. It’s a physical sensation, a loosening of every muscle in his body he hadn’t even realized was clenched. He sags in his chair, the tension of the last four days draining out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and incredibly foolish.
“Oh,” is all he can manage to say.
“Yes. Oh,” you echo gently. You watch him for a moment, letting the reality sink in. You let him absorb the fact that his career-ending catastrophe was entirely a figment of his own panicked imagination.
“But …” you say, and the word hangs in the air, pulling his attention back into sharp focus. You lean forward slightly, a slow, intriguing smile playing on your lips. The pragmatic CEO is receding again, replaced by someone else, someone he can’t quite figure out.
“The letter was a nice touch,” you say, your voice dropping a little. “And this …” you make a vague, graceful gesture towards the spot on the floor where he was just kneeling, “… was certainly memorable. I appreciate a man who isn’t afraid of a grand gesture, even a deeply misguided one.”
He feels a fresh blush creep up his neck.
“So,” you continue, your eyes locking with his. “While I’m not going to fire you … if you really want to make it up to me for the, shall we say, ‘unconventional start’ to our professional relationship, I can think of something you can do.”
He is so high on the dizzying cocktail of relief and humiliation that he’s not thinking clearly. All he knows is that this woman, this impossibly powerful and surprisingly amused woman, has spared him. He feels an overwhelming, desperate need to prove his gratitude.
He doesn’t even hesitate. Nicolas’s voice is a faint, forgotten whisper from a distant past.
“Yes,” he says, the word rushing out of him, full of conviction. “Anything. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I promise.”
A slow, enigmatic smile spreads across your face. It’s a smile that holds a thousand secrets. It’s the smile of a woman who has just been handed a blank check. You’ve got him. You played the game, and you won.
“Good,” you say softly, leaning back in your chair and picking up your glass. “I’ll let you know.”
***
The two days that follow his meeting with you are a strange, surreal limbo. The acute, life-altering terror has been replaced by a low-grade, humming uncertainty. He is not fired. His career is not over. But his fate is still very much in your hands. He has signed a blank check made out to you, and he has no idea when, or for what, you will decide to cash it.
He throws himself into his training with a manic intensity, trying to sweat out the anxiety. He spends hours in the simulator, the familiar G-forces and whine of the engine a comforting cocoon. But even there, his mind wanders. What could you possibly want? A public endorsement of one of your companies? A series of mind-numbingly dull sponsor appearances? A donation to your favorite charity? His imagination, usually reserved for finding the perfect racing line through a complex corner, now conjures a thousand different scenarios, each more bizarre than the last.
The summons, when it comes, is not an email from a corporate assistant. It’s a text message, from a number he doesn’t recognize, that appears on his phone on Saturday morning.
Good morning, Charles. I have your assignment. Y/N.
His heart leaps into his throat. He stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. His first assignment. It sounds ominous, like something out of a spy movie.
He types and deletes three different replies before settling on a simple, professional. Good morning. I’m ready.
The three little dots that indicate you are typing appear and disappear for a full minute. The suspense is excruciating. Finally, a new message pops up. It’s a location pin, dropped on a sprawling villa in the hills outside Modena. Below it, a short line of text.
Today. 2 PM. Dress code: casual. And durable.
Durable?
He stares at the word. Durable. What kind of assignment requires durable clothing? Is he going to be doing manual labor? Is this some bizarre, character-building exercise where he has to help landscape your garden?
He immediately calls Lorenzo.
“She wants me to go to a villa. She said I have to wear something durable,” Charles says, the words tumbling out in a rush of renewed panic. “What does it mean? Am I being hazed? Is this a thing that billionaires do?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Lorenzo trying, and failing, to suppress a laugh. “Charles, I don’t think the potential new owner of Ferrari is going to haze you. Maybe it’s a charity event? Building houses for the poor?”
“In a blazer?” Charles asks, gesturing wildly at his own closet. “What is durable casual? What do I wear?”
“Just wear some nice jeans and a polo shirt,” Lorenzo says, his voice full of amusement. “And Charlou? Try to relax. The worst is over. Just go, do whatever she asks, and keep smiling.”
***
An hour later, Charles is driving his Ferrari 488 Pista down a long, cypress-lined driveway, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The villa is magnificent — a beautiful, old stone building that has been tastefully modernized, with sprawling, impeccably manicured gardens. He can hear the faint sounds of music and … screaming? Not screams of terror. Screams of high-pitched, chaotic joy.
He parks the car and walks towards the garden, his stomach churning. He rounds a corner, past a large, sparkling swimming pool, and the scene that greets him stops him dead in his tracks.
The lawn is a jumble of primary colors. There are balloons everywhere. A massive, inflatable bouncy castle in the shape of a red racing car dominates the space. A long table is laden with cakes, sweets, and enough sugar to power a small city. And running, jumping, and shrieking through it all are at least two dozen small children.
It’s a sixth birthday party.
And standing in the middle of it all, looking completely in her element, is you.
You are not the CEO from the conference room or the serene woman from the Terrazza. Today, you are wearing faded blue jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and your hair is in a messy ponytail. You’re holding a small, dark-haired boy on your hip, and you are laughing, your head thrown back, as he whispers something in your ear. You look young, relaxed, and impossibly beautiful.
This is his assignment. This is what required durable clothing. He’s been summoned to a child’s birthday party.
You spot him then. Your eyes meet across the sea of chaotic children, and a slow, wicked smile spreads across your face. It’s the same smile he saw in the boardroom, the one that says, I own you. You nod your head, a clear instruction. Come here.
He takes a deep breath and weaves his way through the tiny, running bodies. He feels like a giant, clumsy oaf in this world of miniature humans.
“Charles,” you say as he approaches, your voice full of false, saccharine sweetness. “So glad you could make it.” You shift the little boy on your hip. “Adam, look who it is. It’s the man from the fast red cars.”
The little boy, presumably the birthday boy, Adam, stares at him with wide, solemn brown eyes. “Are you Charles Leclerc?” He asks, his voice full of awe.
“I am,” Charles says, forcing a smile.
“My aunt said you were coming,” Adam says. “She said you owed her a favor.”
Charles glances at you. Your smile is positively gleaming with triumph. “That’s right, sweetie,” you say, patting Adam’s back. “Mr. Leclerc was very, very naughty at work, and this is his punishment.”
Adam’s eyes go even wider. “Wow,” he breathes.
Before Charles can process the full, mortifying horror of being framed as a naughty employee to a six-year-old, Adam points a chubby finger at him and yells at the top of his lungs.
“EVERYONE! IT’S CHARLES LECLERC! THE REAL ONE!”
The effect is instantaneous. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Twenty-five tiny heads whip around in his direction. A moment of stunned silence, and then, a roar.
He is swarmed.
It is a tidal wave of small, sticky hands and loud, unfiltered questions.
“Are you really him?”
“Is your car here?”
“Can you go faster than a cheetah?”
“Why didn’t you win the last race?”
“My papa says you need to be more aggressive in turn one!”
“Can I have your hat?”
They hang off his arms, tug on his polo shirt, and pat his legs as if checking to see if he’s real. He is a human climbing frame, an island in a sea of relentless, six-year-old energy. He looks over their heads, a desperate, pleading look on his face, searching for you.
You are leaning against a large oak tree, arms crossed, watching the scene with an expression of total satisfaction. You raise your glass of lemonade to him in a mock toast.
He mouths the word, ‘Help.’
You just shake your head, your smile widening, and take a delicate sip of your drink.
The next two hours are the most grueling, physically and mentally demanding of his entire life. It makes a double-stint at the Singapore Grand Prix feel like a casual Sunday drive.
He is forced to give endless piggyback rides, his back screaming in protest. He is dragged into the bouncy castle, where he is mercilessly bounced upon by a pack of shrieking children until he is dizzy and gasping for air. A little girl with a formidable grip insists on braiding his hair, pulling it into tiny, painful knots. Another child, whose face is a smear of blue frosting, decides to use Charles’s very expensive white polo shirt as a napkin.
Throughout it all, you watch. You drift through the party, the perfect, doting aunt, chatting with other parents, cutting cake, but your eyes are always on him. Every time he catches your gaze, you give him a little wave, a silent, mocking encouragement.
At one point, he manages to extricate himself from a heated debate about whether a Formula 1 car could beat a T-Rex in a race and makes his way over to you.
“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he says under his breath, trying to discreetly wipe a sticky handprint off his jeans.
“Is it?” You ask, your voice laced with innocence. “They seem to be having fun. Adam said it’s the best birthday party he’s ever had.”
“I’m not a party clown,” he hisses. “I am a professional athlete.”
“Really?” You say, raising an eyebrow. “Because from here, you look like a very expensive, and not particularly durable, piece of playground equipment.” You pat his arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think Nina wants you to be the horse for her princess carriage. Don’t keep her waiting.”
He is about to protest when a tiny hand tugs on his trousers. He looks down to see a small girl with enormous blue eyes staring up at him.
“Are you the horse?” She asks.
Defeated, Charles sighs. “Yes,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “Yes, I am the horse.”
The absolute low point of the afternoon comes without warning. He is on his hands and knees, being the aforementioned horse, with a determined little girl on his back. Adam is running alongside, directing the ‘carriage’ with wild, enthusiastic gestures.
“Faster, horsey, faster!” Adam shrieks with delight.
In a burst of sugar-fueled excitement, Adam decides to climb aboard as well. He takes a running leap, attempting to land on Charles’s back behind his friend. He misjudges the jump. Badly.
Instead of landing on his back, Adam’s small, bony knee connects squarely, and with horrifying accuracy, with the most sensitive part of Charles’s anatomy.
The world goes white.
The air leaves his lungs in a silent, explosive gasp. All sound fades to a dull, distant roar. The bright, sunny garden dissolves into a pinprick of light. He collapses onto the grass, curling into a tight, fetal position, unable to speak, unable to breathe.
The two children, oblivious to the catastrophic damage they have inflicted, simply slide off his back and run away, screaming with laughter, towards the cake table.
He lies there on the lawn, a fallen gladiator, felled not by a rival on the racetrack, but by a six-year-old in a superhero t-shirt. He can hear your voice, suddenly sharp with concern, cutting through the haze of his pain.
“Charles? Charles, are you alright?”
He cannot answer. He can only manage a low, pathetic groan.
He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He cracks open an eye and sees you kneeling beside him, the teasing amusement on your face completely replaced by genuine worry.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, your eyes wide as you realize what must have happened. “Adam, did you …”
He just shakes his head weakly, which is all the confirmation you need.
The party begins to wind down shortly after that. Parents arrive, collecting their exhausted, sugar-comatose children. The shrieks of joy are replaced by the tired whines of the homeward bound. The garden slowly empties, leaving behind a battlefield of discarded paper plates, deflated balloons, and one deeply wounded Formula 1 driver.
Charles is sitting gingerly on a cushioned patio chair, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while his entire lower body throbs in agony.
You emerge from the house and walk towards him. You are holding something behind your back.
“The last of the guests have gone,” you say softly. Your voice is gentle, stripped of its earlier mockery. You sit in the chair next to him, a respectful distance away.
“My legacy,” he rasps, his voice still an octave higher than usual. “To be remembered as the Ferrari driver who was taken out by a six-year-old.”
A small smile touches your lips. “He’s got a mean right knee. We’re thinking of getting him into football.” You bring your hand forward. You’re holding a small, plastic bag filled with ice cubes, wrapped in a clean dish towel. You offer it to him. “Here.”
He stares at the bag of ice. “Are you serious?”
“Standard medical procedure,” you say, your expression unreadable. “It will reduce the swelling.”
He hesitates for a moment, the sheer, clinical awkwardness of the situation warring with the very real, very intense pain. Pain wins. He takes the bag of ice from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sends a strange, unexpected jolt through him that has nothing to do with the injury.
He carefully, discreetly, places the ice pack on his lap. The intense, numbing cold is a relief.
They sit in silence for a moment, watching the sun begin to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The quiet feels strange after the chaos of the afternoon.
“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence. He looks at you, really looks at you, in the soft, golden light. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
He asks it lightly, but the question is heavy with everything that has happened between you. The disastrous first meeting, the panicked apology, the agonizing wait, and this absurd, chaotic afternoon.
You turn to look at him. Your face is serious, your eyes searching his. The smile is gone.
“Yes, Charles,” you say, your voice quiet but clear. “You’re forgiven.”
The words hit him with the same force as the relief he felt on the Terrazza, but this time it’s different. It’s not just about his career. It’s … something else. It’s a feeling of resolution, of a strange, shared experience coming to an end. The blank check has been cashed. The debt is paid.
He should feel free. He should feel relieved. And he does. But he also feels a strange, unwelcome pang of disappointment. This bizarre connection, this weird power dynamic that has defined their every interaction, is over. Now, you will go back to being the untouchable CEO, and he will go back to being the employee.
The thought is surprisingly dissatisfying.
And that’s when the second-stupidest thought of his entire life enters his brain. The first, of course, was assuming you were an intern. This one is arguably worse. It is an idea born of pure, pain-addled, relief-fueled insanity.
He’s going to blame it on the groin injury. It has to be. The trauma must have temporarily rewired his brain, short-circuiting the part that controls self-preservation and common sense.
“Good,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “That’s good.” He takes a breath. “So, now that my career is no longer in jeopardy, and my future as a potential father is merely in question …”
He pauses. He can still back out. He can stop right there. It would be the smart thing to do. The sane thing to do.
He does not do the sane thing.
He turns to you, his expression deadly serious, and says the words.
“Would you be willing to go on a date with me?”
The question hangs in the quiet, twilight air between them, feeling both monumental and utterly absurd. He has just asked out the woman who is in the process of buying his team, the woman he mortally offended, the woman who used her nephew’s birthday party as a form of psychological torture.
You just stare at him. Your mouth is slightly open, your eyes wide with a look of pure shock. The cool, composed, in-control CEO is gone once again, replaced by a woman who has been rendered completely speechless.
And Charles Leclerc, for the second time in a week, realizes he is so massively, incredibly screwed.
For a long, silent moment, your brain refuses to process the words. The CEO part of your mind, the part that runs on logic and risk assessment and quarterly projections, is frantically searching for a protocol, a script for this exact situation. It finds nothing. There is no chapter in any business manual for what to do when your star employee, moments after being forgiven for a career-ending blunder, asks you out on a date while nursing a groin injury inflicted by your six-year-old nephew.
Charles watches the mix of expressions that flicker across your face. He sees shock, then disbelief, followed by something he can’t quite decipher — a flicker of confusion, maybe even a hint of vulnerability. He sees the precise moment your formidable composure cracks, not into anger, but into bewilderment.
His own mind is a siren, blaring a single, repeating warning: ABORT! ABORT! RETRACT THE STATEMENT!
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out in a strangled rush. The relief has evaporated, replaced by a fresh, even more potent wave of horror. He’s done it again. He’s snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. “That was … stupid. I am so sorry. It’s the pain. I’m not thinking clearly. The ice pack must be restricting blood flow to my brain. Please, just … forget I said anything.”
He makes a move to stand up, to flee, to run back to his car and drive directly into the nearest canal.
“Sit down, Charles,” you say.
Your voice is quiet, but it carries an authority that roots him to the spot. He sinks back into his chair, his posture rigid with dread. He keeps his eyes fixed on a particularly interesting paving stone, unable to meet your gaze. He is preparing for the verbal evisceration he so clearly deserves.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, there is another long, heavy silence. He risks a glance up.
You are looking at him, really looking at him, with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back layers of his skin. The shock has faded from your eyes, replaced by a deep, analytical curiosity. A slow, almost imperceptible smile is beginning to form at the corners of your mouth. It’s not the triumphant, mocking smile from the boardroom. It’s something else entirely. Something … intrigued.
“Let me see if I understand this,” you say, your voice a low, deliberate murmur. “You mistake me for an intern and order me to get you coffee. You then spend the next four days convinced I am going to ruin your life. You follow this up by literally falling to your knees and begging me not to send you to the Formula 1 equivalent of Siberia. And now, having been absolved of all your sins via trial-by-toddler, your very next move is to ask me on a date.” You lean forward slightly, your eyes sparkling with a dangerous light. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately, with profound sincerity. “Clinically. I am beginning to think I have a serious problem.”
The answer is so honest, so devoid of bravado, that it makes you laugh. It’s not the full, unrestrained laugh from the party. It’s a softer, deeper sound. A sound of genuine amusement.
“At least you’re self-aware,” you say, shaking your head slowly. “That’s a start.”
“So, that’s a no, then?” He asks, his voice small. He already knows the answer. It has to be no. It’s the only logical, sensible, professional answer.
You are quiet for another moment, your gaze drifting out towards the darkening hills. He can see the calculations happening behind your eyes. You are weighing the pros and cons, the optics, the sheer, unadulterated insanity of it all.
“Every professional instinct I have,” you say, turning back to him, “every single one, is screaming at me to say no. It’s inappropriate. It’s complicated. It’s a potential HR nightmare, assuming my acquisition bid is successful.”
His heart sinks. “I understand.”
“But,” you continue, and that single word electrifies the air between you, “I am also the woman who runs a multi-billion-dollar global corporation. I did not get here by always listening to my professional instincts. Sometimes, you have to take a calculated risk.” You give him a sharp, appraising look. “And you, Charles Leclerc, are nothing if not a risk.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at you, his mind a hopeful, terrified blank.
“Alright,” you say, a decisive glint in your eye. “I will go on one date with you.”
He blinks. “You will?”
“On one condition,” you add, holding up a finger.
“Anything,” he says immediately.
“You plan it,” you say. “No assistants. No PR teams. No reservations made by someone else. Just you. You choose the time, the place, the activity. And it has to be good. It has to impress me. And trust me,” you add, your voice dropping to a confidential whisper, “I don’t impress easily.”
It’s a test. Another one. But this one is different. This isn’t a punishment. This is a challenge. And if there is one thing Charles Leclerc understands, it is how to rise to a challenge.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, the first one he’s felt in days that isn’t tinged with fear. “Okay,” he says, his voice full of a newfound confidence. “It’s a deal.”
***
He spends the next three days planning the date with the same meticulous focus he would apply to a race strategy. He dismisses a dozen ideas. A fancy, Michelin-starred restaurant? Too predictable. You’ve been to a hundred of them. A concert? Too loud, no room for conversation. A simple movie? Too impersonal.
He needs to show you his world. Not the glitz and glamour of the Formula 1 paddock, but the real, authentic heart of it. He needs to show you the man, not the celebrity.
On the evening of the date, a vintage, immaculately restored 1972 Ferrari Dino 246 GT in a stunning shade of deep silver pulls up outside your hotel. It is not a loud, aggressive supercar. It is a piece of art — elegant, timeless, and understated.
Charles gets out of the driver’s side. He is not wearing a team polo shirt or a designer suit. He’s wearing dark, well-fitting trousers, a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and leather driving shoes. He looks relaxed, confident, and impossibly handsome.
You watch him from the window of your suite, a surprised, appreciative smile on your face. Point to Leclerc, you think.
When you come down to the lobby, he is waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything cheesy. He just smiles, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You’ve chosen a simple, elegant navy-blue slip dress. It’s beautiful, but not ostentatious. You are meeting him on his level.
“Nice car,” you say, your voice dry, as he holds the passenger door open for you.
“I thought it was more appropriate for the occasion than my Pista,” he replies, a playful glint in his eye. “A little less … aggressive.”
The date begins not with dinner, but with a drive. As the sun begins its slow descent, he takes you out of the city, away from the familiar streets of Maranello, and up into the winding, cypress-lined roads of the surrounding hills. He drives the car with an effortless, fluid grace, the vintage engine a soft, throaty purr behind you.
This is his element. Here, on a challenging road, he is not the anxious, bumbling man from the boardroom. He is a poet in motion.
And he talks. He points out the ruins of an old castle on a distant hill. He tells you stories about growing up in Monaco, about the first time he ever drove a go-kart. He talks about the unique, almost unbearable pressure of driving for Ferrari, the weight of the entire nation’s hopes on his shoulders every other Sunday.
You listen, truly listen, asking questions that are sharp and insightful. You ask him not about his fame, but about his fear. Not about his wins, but about his most difficult losses.
In turn, you find yourself opening up to him in a way you rarely do with anyone. You talk about the immense, suffocating pressure of taking over your father’s company, the constant feeling that you have to be twice as smart and work three times as hard as any man in the room to be taken seriously. You tell him about the loneliness of being at the top, of having board members and employees, but very few true friends.
You discover that your two worlds, the high-stakes corporate boardroom and the high-G-force racetrack, are not so different. They are both places of immense pressure, public scrutiny, and a relentless, unforgiving demand for perfection.
He finally pulls the car to a stop at a scenic overlook. The entire valley is spread out below you, bathed in the soft, purple light of dusk. The lights of Maranello are just beginning to twinkle in the distance.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.
“It’s my favorite place to come when I need to think,” he says quietly. “When the noise gets too loud.”
You sit there in comfortable silence, watching the day end. The unspoken tension between you has dissolved, replaced by a warm, easy sense of connection.
For dinner, he doesn’t take you to a place with white tablecloths and a sommelier. He drives to a small, unassuming building tucked away in a tiny village. It’s a family-run trattoria, with checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs, and the incredible, mouth-watering smell of garlic and fresh pasta hanging in the air.
The owner, a stout, beaming woman in her sixties, greets Charles with a loud cry of “Carletto!” and pulls him into a smothering hug before planting two loud kisses on his cheeks. She looks at you, her eyes twinkling.
“And you must be the special girl he told me about!” She says in rapid, musical Italian.
Charles’s face flushes a deep, adorable shade of red. “Nonna Maria, per favore …” he mutters.
The meal is simple, and it is the best you have ever had. Fresh, handmade tortelloni, local wine served in a simple carafe, and tiramisu so light it feels like eating a cloud. You talk and laugh, and he tells you stories about coming here for the first time with Sebastian Vettel. You see a side of him you never could have imagined — the teammate, the brother, the local boy who made good.
By the time he drives you back to your hotel, the night is dark, the sky thick with stars. He walks you to the main entrance of the hotel, the grand, imposing doors a stark contrast to the warm intimacy of the evening.
Neither of you wants it to end. The thought of going back to your separate worlds, of you becoming the CEO and him the employee again, feels wrong.
“I’m not ready for this night to be over,” he says, his voice low. The confidence from the drive has been replaced by a soft, hesitant vulnerability.
“Neither am I,” you admit.
“My apartment is not far from here,” he offers, the words tentative. “If you’re not tired. I could … make you a drink?”
You smile. “I’d like that.”
His apartment is exactly what you would have expected, and yet it surprises you. It is minimalist and modern, with clean lines and breathtaking views, but it feels like a home. There are photos on a side table — him as a boy in a karting suit, him with his brothers. And in the center of the vast living space is a beautiful, glossy black grand piano.
He leaves you by the vast window overlooking the city lights and goes to the kitchen. You can hear the soft clink of glasses.
He returns a moment later, his hands empty. He looks nervous again, that familiar anxiety flickering in his eyes.
“Can I get you something?” He asks, his voice a little rough. “Some wine? Water?” He pauses, a hesitant, mischievous smile playing on his lips. He takes a breath, and the whole world seems to hold it with him. “… An espresso?”
The question lands perfectly. The callback is so unexpected, so brilliantly audacious, that you burst out laughing. All the remaining tension, all the awkwardness of your history, evaporates in that single, shared moment of humor.
“I would love an espresso,” you say, your eyes shining.
You follow him to the kitchen and watch as he stands in front of the gleaming, state-of-the-art machine — the same model from the Ferrari conference room. But this time, the roles are reversed. You are the one watching, and he is the one at work, his movements practiced and competent. He grinds the beans, tamps the coffee, and pulls the shot. The rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen.
He hands you the small, delicate cup. It is a perfect mirror image of that first, disastrous meeting. A full circle. A closing of a loop that you never knew you needed.
You take a sip. “It’s perfect,” you say softly, your eyes meeting his over the rim of the cup.
“I’m glad,” he whispers.
He takes the cup from your hand and sets it down on the counter. He doesn’t move away. He is standing so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. He lifts a hand, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is electric, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice barely audible, and the sound of your name on his lips is both an apology and a revelation.
And then he leans in and kisses you.
It is not a hesitant, questioning kiss. It is a kiss of absolute certainty, a culmination of every moment that has passed between you — the misunderstanding, the fear, the laughter, the forgiveness. It is tender, and it is passionate, a release of all the unspoken energy that has been crackling between you from the very first second he walked into that conference room.
You melt into him, your hands coming up to cup his face, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you tight against him. The world outside the windows disappears. There is only this room, this moment, and the incredible, undeniable truth that this impossibly complicated, slightly broken, beautiful man has somehow found his way straight into the center of your carefully guarded heart.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.
You look up at him, a slow, playful smile spreading across your face as your quick, strategic mind finally catches up with your racing heart. You see the whole, absurd, wonderful trajectory of your story laid out before you.
You reach up and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb.
“So, Charles Leclerc …” you say, your voice a low, teasing murmur, the CEO returning for one last, brilliant power move. “What do you think is better for your public image? The driver who pissed off his future boss … or the driver who’s sleeping with her?”
He looks down at you, his eyes full of a light you’ve never seen before. The anxiety is gone, replaced by a natural confidence.
“I think,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble, as he leans in to kiss you again, slow and deep. “I will take my chances with the second one.”
heyy darling, I heard this song 👉🏼👉🏼worst behavior - kwn, kehlani 👈🏼👈🏼 and my mind just went “secret, toxic relationship with lando with NAAASTTYYY sex” !!! The lyrics alone could be a whole os (not giving you ideas.. or maybe I am👀)
Vertigo ✶ LN⁴
✶ summary ──── They call it ‘friends with benefits’ because ‘slowly ruining each other in ways neither of us is willing to acknowledge’ is too long of a title.
✶ pairing ──── Lando Norris x FWB!reader (she/her)
✶ rating ──── explicit
✶ warnings ──── 18+, sexual content, graphic scenes, mutual pining, social media & fake texts, emotional slow burn but they go hard at it because ignorance is bliss, internal conflicts, jealousy, smut, swearing and dirty talk, teasing, semi-public setting (car), fingering, squirting, intense physical sensations, overstimulation, rough manhandling, unprotected sex, hair pulling, sensory overload/vertigo (got it?), detailed descriptions of cum and wetness, dickriding, marking, domestic moments, idiots in love.
✶ word count ──── 7.1k
✶ date ──── Aug. 2, 2026
✶ a/n ──── Hiii, my lovelies 🫶🏻 I’m severely absent lately (not without good reason, I promise), so to cure my guilt, I’m briefly showing leg with this os that pretty much consumed my brain. Anyway, we’ll read each other very soon, because this will have a Part 2, which is currently work in progress. Until then, stay safe and enjoy the filth 💋💋
readerusername
📍 Vertigo Club, Monte Carlo
Liked by calrissi4n, maxfewtrell and others
readerusername I’m always on my #worstbehavior 💦
Comments...
user1 well, keep it going 🤤🤤
readersbff actually offensive how pretty you are
⤷ readerusername 🫶🏻
user2 obsessed 😍
readersfriend1 interesting how I couldn’t find you after this...
⤷ readerusername can’t talk here, email me
readersfriend2 save some for the rest of us???
⤷ readerusername i’m selfish :(
theguyinthepic 🔥🔥🔥
⤷ calrissi4n 🧯🧯🧯
“ＹＯＵ ＳＨＯＵＬＤ ＢＥ more careful. You’re so easy to find.”
His breath comes hot against the skin of her bare shoulders as he speaks, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She sensed him in seconds and now, Lando’s hands squeeze firmly into her waist, inviting her into his personal space from behind. He loves to make his presence felt this way, and she knows that the reason for it is because Lando likes to be a hundred percent sure her attention won’t get derailed by anything else.
He’s here, he came, he understood.
A knowing smile curves at her lips. She leans back to rest her head on his chest like she belongs there, and the fact that Lando indulges her antics is enough for her to keep claiming him so intimately.
Slightly tilting her head, her cheek gently brushes his jaw as she speaks. “I wasn’t hiding.”
Lando’s jaw flexes. “Havin’ fun then, I reckon?”
“I am, now that you’re here.”
Her words are light but set heavy between his lungs, leaving him breathless for a beat. Lando knows she’s thriving in this environment, playing games while having everyone buzzing around her. Including him. Especially him, perhaps; it’s exactly why she manages so well to get a reaction out of him anytime she feels like it.
“Yeah?” Lando challenges. “So that’s why you posted that shit? To watch me run to you like a headless chicken?”
The girl hums. “Mmmaybe…”
“And who were those wankers hanging around you?” continues Lando without filter, his grip tightening a fraction.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she laughs, turning in his arms as fluid as the music, her hands sliding up his chest to toy with the collar of his shirt.
Inhaling sharply, his gaze falls down on her. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“See, this is why you have so many fan girls, Norris,” she teases, “You’re so hot when you’re confident, even when you’re wrong.”
Her eyes meet his, sparkling with the promise of something more and, just as it always goes when it comes to her, Lando knows that more usually ends with him biting his tongue, desperately trying to keep all the frustrations in his fists. What irritates him most isn’t that he keeps on wanting her, but can’t, for the life of him, understand why. Why is she an exception to the rule? Why, despite knowing the outcome by heart, does he always finds himself circling back, helplessly drawn to the one person he can never quite ignore, no matter how hard he tries?
“Just answer the fucking question. Do you know them?”
She laughs again, louder this time, then shrugs. “No, not really… friends of friends,” she explains, her thumbs tracing lazy patterns on his neck, drawing him into the pull-push rhythm she is acutely aware that drives him mad.
There’s no label to what they do. Sometimes it’s afternoons tangled in expensive sheets, with palms resting over familiar skin. Other times it’s quick mornings before catching flights. Most of the times, it’s nights like this, when neither of them is in a hurry to reach the other because they both know that there will be a finish line at the end, regardless of how fast or slow they move.
He can’t get himself to behave when she’s like this, all elegant temptation wrapped in vulgar promise. Although she’s playing, she does it so good that he can find in himself to excuse it. It’s like she’s casting silent spells with her eyes and cursing him with her smile. It’s damn hard not to fall for it.
“Did you come alone?” it’s her turn to question him, pressing her body into his with the same normalcy as always.
He shakes his head. “Max is upstairs with the guys to see if he can snag a table,” on the next inhale, the smell of her perfume cuts through the club’s haze, making his pulse race, yet anchoring him at the same time.
It’s rarely the same one, he’s noticed, as if she has different personas for every day of the week. Tonight, she wants to draw as much attention to herself as possible, the scent sweet and seductive, and it could make anyone follow it to the ends of the earth if it came to that.
Lando has just decided he will.
“Did you kiss anyone?” he shoots back, no preamble, the words slightly dipped in that jar of jealousy he has absolutely no right to own.
The girl blinks up at him, pretending to think about it, only to mess with him further. The bass vibrates through the floor as various bodies move around them in a blur of heat and sweat and some very questionable smell, but they barely notice any of it. His entire focus narrows down to her mouth and that glossy pout she keeps pressing together because, oh, how she enjoys torturing him.
Instead of answering, she rises onto her tiptoes to brush her nose against his in a silent ‘no’. At that, the tension in his shoulders loosens instantly, almost impossible not to perceive.
“Respect yourself, Norris,” she chuckles.
He puffs out a breath, annoyed that she sounds so pleased with the outcome of her mischief. “No such thing when you do it on purpose.”
“Only ‘cause you’re so predictable.”
Suddenly, she leans back to put some distance between them and his body reacts on instinct, following without thinking.
Her eyes flick downward at the movement, just as amused. “See?”
“Ah, don’t start,” his jaw tenses, taking his hands off her in order to put back the distance she went for.
The smile on her face fades a little, understanding that, ultimately, she will always have the last word, and that can be both a blessing and a curse. It was their agreement, after all.
There are rules, of course, though neither of them is willing to call them out loud. Rules would imply a structure and structure implies permanence, a luxury they don’t have.
For instance:
They don’t kiss hello. Their first kiss of the night only happens once they’ve decided they’re staying together.
No leftovers; if one of them has kissed someone else that night, they’re off-limits for the next 24h.
If he disappears after a race weekend and leaves her messages unopened for days, she lets him.
No marking territory. That includes: hickeys, bruises, lipstick on collars, or leaving anything behind at the other’s place.
If she decides she doesn’t want him in her bed after inviting him over, he leaves without complaint; she also never watches him leave.
No pet names outside the bedroom. Calling each other by their last name is always their go-to in public.
If he calls at 3 in the morning and she declines it, Lando has to wait for her to contact him; no more calls, double texting, or guilt-tripping, even if it drives him half insane wondering where she is and who she’s with.
No dates, no gifts, no couple-y activities.
Last but not least: don’t make it weird.
In other words, there is no ownership in whatever it is that they’re doing. They can leave whenever they want, come back without explanation, pause and rewind, and slip into each other’s lives as if no time has passed at all. In theory, it’s mature. A carefully negotiated freedom. Respect disguised as detachment, even.
However, the story changes in practice. It becomes the kind of contract that only works when both of them are willing to suffer and push through the uncertainty of it. And because sex is so good… they are, that’s the problem. But beneath all the space they give each other, the fragility of it all is painfully noticeable: the hyper awareness that either of them could end it at any moment, and the other would have to smile, nod and pretend it didn’t feel like losing a limb.
This is exactly why she keeps playing her games. The teasing and the calculated distance serve their purpose. Digging through the rational side of her brain, significantly smaller when Lando is near, she understands that if she keeps him chasing, then she never has to ask him to stay. Lando’s only allowing it because he’s also playing his own version of the same game, giving her enough to keep the door open — things like his attention, jealousy, the soft parts — but never enough to make her believe she can ever rely on it.
Luxury. They don’t have that.
They’ve built the entire partnership around illusions, convincing themselves that choice matters more than commitment. Over time, even though they won’t mention it, they learned that people who leave themselves an exit, rarely unpack their bags completely.
“Come on, wanna dance?” she ignores his frustration, extending her arm to pull him back into her space.
Lando shakes his head, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “You know what I want,” it’s all he says, the deeper meaning of it getting right through her.
“What about Max?”
“Max also knows what I want.”
The girl laughs, playfully slapping his shoulder. “I can’t believe you told him about us, you’re so fucking annoying.”
“Well, technically, I didn’t tell him shit,” Lando defends himself, “He saw me texting you, and I just didn’t deny it when he asked if we’re fucking.”
She softens from the inside out at the way he lets out the unfiltered stream of thoughts. With her, Lando never bothers to censor or hide himself behind protective walls because, somewhere along the way, he’s decided she’s safe.
Then, after a beat: “In that case, did you kiss anyone today?”
“I only got home a couple of hours ago,” he replies, glancing at the watch on his wrist for a few moments.
“Yes or no, Norris,” she pushes him, mostly because she needs to hear it.
He grins. “No.”
In fact, Lando hasn’t kissed anyone since the last time he kissed her, three weeks ago. Which is a lot of time, considering he’s very good at it. Not that he struggled to find willing company, there had been plenty, but between race weekends and another continent putting thousands of miles between them, the urge to shove his tongue down a stranger’s throat and/or temporarily wet his dick simply vanished.
She doesn’t need to know that, though.
“Alright,” she bites her lower lip briefly. “Yours or mine?”
One corner of Lando’s mouth tips upward as he reaches for her wrist, answering her question without words. She adopts his facial expression, smiling at the fact that, yes, is that easy for them to communicate. Instinctively, they both know it, anyway. Her apartment is much closer and they are buzzing with anticipation at the thought of touching each other as soon as possible. So, in reality, there is only one viable option.
He leads her toward the exit through the crush of bodies, between flashes of deep purple light. Once they step outside, the night air cools their senses a little. Lando releases her wrist, just in case, but she stays close, following him around the corner of the building to where his car awaits, hidden in the dark.
Lando barely has time to unlock it, let alone reach for the handle. She moves fast, her palms finding his chest, then the thickness of his neck, curling her hands around it. His back meets the cold metal behind with a subdued thud, more startled than hurt, and before the surprise can register, she rises onto her toes to kiss him, the collision of three weeks spent convincing herself she didn’t miss this dissolving in the way the noise in her head simply falls silent.
His hands instantly settle at her waist to pull her closer, then slide lower, fingers spreading across the curve of her ass to squeeze. As a response, she whimpers against his lips, desperately searching for one of them so she could guide it between her legs. For a heartbeat, Lando simply lets her have it, breathing a sigh of relief at the thought that they’re both incredibly, absolutely, with-no-chance-of-recovery, monumentally screwed.
Satisfied, she melts into him with another quiet sound she immediately tries to swallow; it’s embarrassing how much she’s craving that exact touch.
Lando smirks into the kiss, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric of her panties. “’s that bad you can’t even wait, hm?”
As she prepares to reply, his fingers graze her clit, making her hum instead. Her hips jerk forward while he rubs slowly over the material, savoring the way her breath stutters. She can’t help but cling to him as if the world would end if he stopped touching her right now. To assure her it won’t, Lando deepens the kiss, tongue sliding over hers, wet and skillful, one more time before he pulls back to speak.
“Get in the car and lose those panties.”
The leather seat sighs beneath her as she drops into it, fingers already hooking beneath the band of her panties. She lowers them down her thighs with impatience boiling in her veins, kicking them free until they land somewhere on the floor mat.
Lando slides behind the wheel, one hand already turning the key as the other reaches across the console. The engine roars to life beneath them, its vibrations rumbling through the floorboards and straight to her core. His wide palm finds the bare skin of her inner thigh right away, slightly shaking, a teasing little smile playing on his lips at the same time he turns to lock his eyes on her, the intensity behind them poking a hole right through her stomach.
Two fingers slip along her folds without hesitation, parting her with intentional pressure. She’s so prematurely soaked, dripping before he’s even found her entrance. As soon as he does, the sound that escapes her throat gets lost between a whimper and a plea.
“How the fuck are you so wet?” asks Lando as he pulls out of the parking spot one-handed. His fingers gather the slick that’s coating her, then smears it all over her pussy only to prove his point. “You didn’t get any before I got back?”
The girl spreads her legs wider, one hand gripping the door handle, while the other finds his forearm, nails digging into the muscle there. Her hips roll up to meet his movements, chasing the friction with a silent whine.
The car accelerates smoothly onto the main road. Lando’s driving is flawless even as his middle finger sinks into her heat, curling against that spot that makes her vision blur. The wet sound of it fills the interior of the car, creating a kind of noise that makes his cock twitch in his jeans. Because of course, he’s already straining, the denim pulling tight across his lap as blood rushes south. The outline of him is insistent, therefore impossible to miss, but the hand on the steering wheel never wavers. Years of training have taught him to split his focus, to keep the car steady even when every instinct tells him otherwise. Right now, the same instinct screams to pull over and bury himself inside her, because he’s pretty sure he’ll ruin his pants by the time they get to hers.
Just as quickly, Lando decides that he’ll make it because he has to, so he adds a second finger, working them in and out with precision, keeping his thumb lightly pressed on her clit.
“Too busy. Got work. No time,” she replies belatedly, her voice breaking the short sentences in tiny fragments.
So… that means neither of them had slept with anyone else, kissed anyone else, or tried to make a move on anyone else for three whole weeks. Interesting, Lando thinks to himself.
He glances at her briefly. “Aha,” his fingers start pumping in and out slowly, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit with each tamed thrust. “And now I have to deal with you, yeah?”
“Please,” the girl cries out, her hand squeezing the door handle on her side.
Lando is not the one to deny her anything, especially when she’s asking for it so nicely. Every time he pushes in, he slightly spreads his fingers to stretch her open, then scissors them on the way out so she feels every knuckle drag along her channel.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Lando guarantees. “You love fucking my fingers while I drive, don’t you? I can feel how fucking tight you’re getting.”
She tries to protest, but only manages a broken moan.
Lando smirks, his eyes trained on the road as he angles his wrist and starts finger-fucking her harder with short yet sharp thrusts that punch right against her front wall. The intensity of it blurs her vision, sparks shooting up her spine then traveling straight to her extremities. It is a dizzying sensation that numbs her entire being. A feeling she was able to experience only through Lando, and even though she doesn’t yet know how to describe it — perhaps she never will, and that’s okay — one thing is certain: she will never forget its power.
“Shit, you’re making such a mess,” he scolds her in a gravelly voice, glancing at his right for a split second. Nevertheless, Lando doesn’t slow down, just keeps working his fingers in deep, curling and twisting until every nerve ending lights up.
With her lips parted, her head falls back against the headrest, breath coming out in ragged pants. The seat beneath her is slick with her arousal, the leather shiny where she’s leaked all over it. She can feel every callus on his fingers as they slide in and out of her clenching heat; she can feel her heart in her throat. The pressure builds so fast it steals the wind out of her and, before she knows, her walls flutter, her clit throbs at the constant contact with the bridge of his palm, then it hits her without warning.
Her pussy clamps down hard around him, pulsing as she comes. She squirms into her seat, sobbing, begging, praying that the blissful feeling would never fade. For that to happen, his fingers must remain buried inside her at all times. Now, later, forever. But as the waves start to ebb, the thought of Lando pulling out makes fresh tears prick at her eyes. With a trembling hand, she reaches down to wrap it around his wrist, silently asking for more, desperate to stay full.
Her own fingers dig into the edge of the seat, knuckles whitening as she holds herself open for him. “Please, don’t,” she breathes out, “Don’t take them out.”
Lando’s eyes snap sideways the second her voice cracks the plea. His heart slams against his ribs at the sight of her all wrecked and shaking and, as the car glides to a stop at the red light, he uses the hand on the steering wheel to recline her chair. The seat whirs back with a mechanical hum, tilting her body into a deeper angle that spreads her thighs wider.
Once the brake is set, he twists easily in his seat, angling his body so he can reach her properly. The other hand joins, wrist rotating until his palm faces upward. His fingers slide out to reposition, then push back with purpose. The new technique lets the pads of his fingers drag over that spongy spot inside her, pairing the thrusts with a broad sweep of his thumb across her swollen clit. She lets out a cry, but Lando is more interested in watching the amount of wetness that keeps leaking out of her.
“So fucking pretty,” he whispers, feeling her pussy tightening with each wink. “No wonder those fuckers were all over you.”
She wants to deny deny deny, but it’s just her moans that fill the car, echoing off the windows.
Lando watches her face, then glances down at where his hand disappears inside her. “Think you can take another?”
He’s not waiting for her to reply and, maybe a bit too optimistic, Lando adds a third finger, experimentally pressing at her entrance. He’s just testing the waters first, and when he’s sure she can take it, it slides in alongside the others, making her choke on another whine that comes from deep within.
Lando groans under his breath, feeling how tight she is around three digits, how her pussy asks for more and ripples with every slow thrust. It makes him wonder how on earth did he manage to make her trust him enough to let the carefully constructed wall slip from her features, leaving only pure feeling behind. The privilege of witnessing it baffles him. His thoughts scatter, multiplying faster than he can keep hold of them. Looking at her like this makes boundaries feel strangely artificial, because no arrangement is supposed to leave a person thinking this much about the other.
“That’s it, you’re so fucking hot,” he praises, voice thick with arousal. “Getting ready for my cock, yeah?”
The light turns green.
Green light from her, too.
He drags in a breath, forcing himself to look away before meeting her eyes, only to catch her already looking at him with the same certainty. Fuck, fuck. Her body twitches and right when she gets dangerously close to the limit, Lando slows, easing the pressure but keeping his fingers inside to feel her relaxing. He loves on her with gentle strokes through her folds, spreading the mess she’s made, only the slight flex of his jaw betraying how affected he really is. Because he already knows she’ll occupy every corner of his mind until dawn.
“Lando…” her breath catches on his name, then fractures into a shaky exhale. Lando. It tastes unfamiliar just because she never lets herself say it like this, with so much tenderness that it stops sounding like a name and starts sounding like a confession.
He can’t handle this right now, so he goes back to what he does best: making her feel good. The same pressure comes back tenfold and, luckily this time, she has a few moments to brace herself. Her thighs shake, her hips lift more into him, and then clear fluid gushes around his fingers, splashing over his hand and soaking everything around. It runs down her ass, pooling on the leather as she squirts hard, the orgasm tearing through her very soul with brutal intensity.
“Shit, babe. You’re ruining my fucking leather,” he says, matter-of-factly, no accusatory tone in his voice. “Such a filthy little thing, holy fuck.”
Lando keeps working her through it, fingers pumping and curling even as she whimpers from overstimulation. The sight of her coming apart like this — seeing how every pulse of her cunt pushes more slick out — makes his cock throb painfully. So bad that Lando is close to reach down, unzip himself, and wrap his fist around his length to stroke in time with the wet sounds of his fingers buried inside her. Unfortunately, the car behind is already impatiently honking, prompting him to mutter a string of curses under his breath as the car starts moving again.
A few minutes later, they finally crash through her apartment door with her body pinned closely at his chest, their mouths locked in a messy tangle of tongues and teeth and heavy breathing. The slam against the frame rattles the hinges, but what makes her startle are his hands, suddenly touching everywhere at once, gripping her waist, sliding under her tank top, yanking her impossibly closer until there’s no physical space left between them. It gives her a sense of urgency, reminding her, over and over again, just how much she’s missed it.
It? Him?
It doesn’t matter right now, really. Everything happens so fast that it’s hard to keep up with the way he spins her around the second they reach the kitchen island. She feels the roughness of his palms on her hips while he bends her forward over the marble. The skirt rides up on its own, exposing the bare curve of her ass. It’s a pretty view that makes Lando groan at the sight of her glistening folds, already used so thoroughly by his fingers and swollen from the car ride over.
“Remember the safe word, yeah?” Lando rasps, voice hoarse with need.
The girl sighs in protest. “Yes, just fuck me already.”
Noted.
One hand shoves the fabric of her skirt higher, bunching it around her waist while the other yanks his pants open. His cock springs free, the head shiny and leaking at the tip. Intentionally or not, she did a number on him with the show she put on in the car and now, Lando is way past the teasing phase. His knee wedges between her thighs, forcing them wider with a rough shove, then he lines up with no hesitation. The thick head pushes past her entrance in one hard thrust, burying to the hilt in a single stroke that makes her cry out, fingers gripping the edge of the countertop.
“Fuck, yes!” she exclaims, feeling as if she can finally breathe again.
Her reaction doesn’t take Lando by surprise, but it catches him smiling from ear to ear. He starts pounding into her, hips snapping forward with enough force to push her forward against the island, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the apartment. Her pussy clenches around him on instinct, slick coating his shaft every time he pulls back, only to slam in again. Deeper. Harder. Gone.
The sounds are obscene and it only turns them on more.
“Just like that, fucking take it,” Lando breathes in little pants, his hand fisting her hair to yank her head back. “Talk to me, love. What do you need?”
You, she’s about to answer, but the lump in her throat only allows her to say: “More.”
Lando nods, releasing her in order to wrap both hands around her waist, his palms almost covering her entirely. The counter creaks under the force of his thrusts, her moans turning into gasping sounds. He angles his hips a few times until he finds the perfect spot inside her that makes her legs shake.
She sobs out a curse at that, her body arching back into him as she soughs more of his cock.
“Harder, Lan,” she whimpers, “I’m close.”
The sound of her pussy sucking him bounces of the walls, a tune her apartment has heard many times before.
“Yeah, already?”
Her response is a sob of despair that invites Lando to oblige, slamming into her so hard that the entire island shifts slightly beneath them. Her walls flutter around him, the wet heat dragging him in all over again. In a thrust and a half, her orgasm crashes like a violent wave that rips a strangled scream from her throat. Her pussy convulses in tight vibrations whose sole purpose is to keep him glued to her. The release floods around his length, slick coating his balls as he keeps fucking her through it, forcing her to ride the aftershocks.
“Yes, baby, fuck. Come on, drench my cock,” he snarls, tightening his grip on her. “Shit, you feel so good. Fuuuck.”
Her vision whites out first. The kitchen island blurs into nothing, the edges of the room dissolving into a spinning haze. Her stomach drops, the floor tilts beneath her even though she’s bent over solid marble. The sensation is sickening and euphoric all at once, like being spun too fast on a carnival ride while her fucked-out pussy keeps spasming around him. She tries to open her eyes wider, but the dizziness only intensifies, forcing her lids shut as the world spins and rocks and bends.
Her hearing is next, vanishing into a ringing void. She’s still aware of the wet slap of skin, even her own breathing, but it all sounds as if she’s on the bottom of a pool.
Lando’s hips stutter, then slam forward one final time. Thick ropes of cum shoot deep inside of her, filling her already sloppy hole until it leaks around his cock, dripping down on her thighs in sticky trails. He keeps grinding through it, making sure to push until the last drop, while her walls now quiver weakly around him.
It goes like this for a solid minute after Lando collapses on top of her. His chest presses against her back, burning hot, sending her thinking of all the times she felt his crushing weight like this. Her body feels light as a feather pinned beneath him, the only anchor she can count on to keep her at the surface of her own feelings.
Fluids continue to seep out, hot and messy, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to move yet, even though she needs him to. She needs Lando to move immediately. He needs to pull out, tuck himself back into his pants and get the fuck out of her apartment. This is too good and she can’t afford the fall.
She has spent months convincing herself she could separate wanting from needing, pleasure from attachment, intimacy from consequence.
In a split-second, she went from needing-pleasure-intimacy to wanting-attachment-consequence.
The thought strikes with such force that it hollows her out. Then, panic slips beneath the fading bliss. It’s cold and immediate and so against their casual arrangement. They are supposed to leave each other exactly as they found one another: untouched in every way that mattered. But tonight, for some reason, the tectonic plates began to move, and she knows in her soul that she can’t shift them back.
ＳＨＥ ＦＩＮＩＳＨＥＳ ＴＨＥ last bite of her waffle curled into the corner of the couch, one knee tucked beneath her. The morning sun filters through the half-drawn curtains in pale ribbons that warm the apartment. It’s not as nice as Lando’s, but it’s much quieter, even with the television murmuring in the background.
He sits beside her, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his coffee balanced on his knee.
“You’re gonna spill it all over my carpet,” she warns him, but Lando is too busy glancing down when she shifts, his gaze catching on the faint bruise blooming on the bare skin of her thigh where her oversized sleep shirt has ridden up.
His expression changes almost imperceptibly, that teasing light that usually lives behind his eyes softening into a contemplative concern. Without thinking twice, he puts the cup back on the table, (not because she told him to), then turns to reach out. His fingers barely make contact as the tips brush the edge of the love mark, so careful that it has the potential to translate into an apology, if she didn’t know better.
The action is impossibly gentle, as though he’s afraid pressing any harder might send her tumbling in a tearful heap onto the floor.
Looking up at her, his thumb stills. “You’d tell me if I hurt you, wouldn’t you?”
Caught off guard, she opens her mouth to say something, but the words stop in her throat, goosebumps racing across her skin. She’d grown used to people treating tenderness like an afterthought. The fact that he acts so soft now is just as contrasting with the way he went down on her to leave that mark only a few hours ago.
She shifts closer until she’s facing him properly. “You can’t hurt me. Not like this,” she assures him, slowly climbing into his lap as if to prove a point. Her hands find his shoulders, then drift upward to rest loosely around the back of his neck, her fingers absentmindedly combing through the hair at the nape. “It just confuses me a little,” the girl admits.
“What confuses you?”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to leave any traces, Lan,” she reminds him, half in jest, half in earnest.
The corner of his mouth curls a little, excitement slowly replacing the seriousness that had clouded his features moments before.
“Lan?” he repeats the nickname, one eyebrow lifting in wonder.
“Yeah, Lan…” she breathes out, rocking her hips gently. “I assume you didn’t insist to come all the way back just to bring me breakfast, did you?”
Because that would be weird, and they both know it. They can’t be weird about it, it’s in the Rules. So, the breakfast must be just an excuse. They know what inevitably draws him back to her and vice versa. Being with Lando requires so little effort that she’s not even trying. A part of her brain tells her that it should feel complicated, because they were friends first. Instead, it feels disarmingly simple and easy and mundane and normal, and even the text conversation they’d had earlier was the most effortless she’d had with a man in months.
Months!
While keeping his eyes on hers, Lando’s fingers start working the button of his jeans open. He drags the zipper down, avoiding to even blink as he reaches inside to pull his cock free; it always looked better in the morning light, she thinks, heavy, flushed dark at the head, the vein running along the underside visibly pulsing. He wraps a hand around the base, gives it one stroke, then his other palm slides up her bare thigh in a silent signal that dictates her exactly what to do next: she lifts her hips, the couch cushion dipping beneath her knees, impatient to go along with the way he chooses to respond.
Lando angles his cock upward automatically, rubs the blunt head through her folds, first forward, then backward, then notches it at her entrance. The pressure alone makes her breath catch in her throat. He pushes, and the fat crown stretches her open, forcing her walls to yield around the grith, still sensitive from last night’s shenanigans. At last, she manages to inhale to capacity as she sinks down an inch. She feels the ridge catch inside her, but has to rise again to ease the burn before dropping lower. Each careful descent drags another thick inch into her until her thighs finally meet his and she’s seated to the root.
A small whimper escapes her lips, which Lando claims gently, just like that, to encourage her.
As if it’s muscle memory, her pussy twitches around the length, clenching greedily at the way he fills her. The physical connection feels somewhat different this time; they both sense it in the way they hold each other, resting their foreheads against one another.
“You with me, baby?” Lando whispers, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
The girl answers with a slow roll of her hips, griding down so the head nudges deeper. The motion drags her inner walls along his length, slick and tight and warm, and it’s almost too much for Lando, whose fingers tighten on her waist possessively as if he has something to prove too, thumbs hooking at her shirt to reveal her collarbone.
“Can I?” he asks for permission, mostly to establish the fact that the bruise between her thighs was, indeed, an accident, but the one he’s about to suck on her skin is not.
She nods, then Lando’s mouth seals over the spot above. He sucks hard, tongue pressing flat, teeth grazing skin until the bruise blooms red. She keeps moving on top of him, lifting and dropping in a solid rhythm, stretching herself wide around his cock again and again, her arousal coating him whole, claiming, dripping down his shaft to soak the open fly of his jeans.
For the first time since they started doing this, the sounds they’re making are barely audible. It’s like they’re afraid not to break. It’s never like this, never tame and controlled, as if… as if they’re doing the opposite of fucking, which is making love. Which they’re most definitely not.
Lando groans silently into her neck after that, the little buzz traveling straight through her. His hands slide lower, gripping her ass in order to guide her into deeper strokes. All the cells in her body light up when he pushes back in, the head catching at her entrance before pulling just as deep again. Her clit rubs over the base of his cock on every downstroke, causing repeated sighs to abandon her mouth.
A hand slides up the curve of her spine until his palm cups the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair to hold her exactly where he wants her. He hauls her mouth down to his, lips parting wet and messy, tongues sliding together in clumsy pecks that are more shared breath than actual kisses. When she tries to pull back for air he follows, keeping her close, the slick sound of their so-called-kiss filling the tiny bubble they’ve build around themselves.
“Lando, please…” she trails off, unsure what she’s even asking for anymore.
Something, anything, as long as it includes him.
Lando lets out a sigh of understanding. “Myeah, I feel you, baby,” the words vibrate straight into her mouth. His hand drops to her ass again, gripping as he rocks her back down onto his length. “You like riding my cock that much?”
She can only moan his name again, lightheaded from the stretch and the heat and the way he keeps her entire body pinned to him.
“You do,” he replies for her, “Fucking hell, you’re so good at it,” continues Lando, panting. “So good you’re gonna make me come, baby, fuck.”
Her thighs shake with the effort, burning from the pace, but she can’t stop. And Lando’s grip reminds her exactly why she can’t: it feels too damn good and just him helping her slam down faster, harder, the wet slap of her cunt taking everything he has to offer has the power to undo her in a split-second.
“Lan,” she gasps, tugging at his curls as sweat slides down her spine, legs trembling with exhaustion.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he promises and, in one sudden motion, he flips her onto her back.
She inhales sharply at the shift, at how easily he manhandles her, at how much it makes her clench around him because it’s so fucking hot and she’s never been this turned on in her life.
Next, Lando hooks her thigh over his arm, plants one foot on the floor for leverage, then drives back inside her with hard thrusts, determined to get them both as high as humanly possible.
“Oh, fuck,” she clings to him, head tipping back as relief floods through her. For the hundredth time in the last twelve hours, she’s not on planet Earth anymore. He takes her to a whole another dimension, introducing her to new ways of perceiving and using her senses. More intense and clearer than ever.
“Shit, fuck, fuck,” Lando starts mumbling, so close to losing himself. “I’m gonna come, baby. Tell me where you want me,” his jaw tenses, voice cracking as his whole body starts to shake.
Her arms wind around his shoulders, also trembling from the effort, fingers digging into the damp curls at the back of his head. “Right there,” she encourages him, “Keep it all inside.”
He reacts like the words physically hurt him, his thrusts turning short and frantic. He fucks into her a couple more times then he buries himself and stays there, every inch pulsing as he spills exactly where she wants him to. She can instantly feel the warmth, the sensation so intimate it makes her eyes sting. It brings her peace and hope and all the things they’ve pushed away, because they’re friends and they won’t ever let anything come between them. Even if that meant giving up the mind-blowing sex they obviously have together.
The warmth keeps spreading, leaking out around his cock with tiny twitches of his hips. The sounds he makes now are simply delicious: sharp, broken gasps that melt into throaty moans he can’t hold back. His body jerks with each spurt, and she holds on to him through every second of it, thighs quivering around his waist.
Lando doesn’t pull out immediately, but stops to lower himself over her, one knee still braced on the couch, the other foot on the floor, his softening cock nestled inside her, where it should stay for the rest of his days.
She reaches up, cupping his jaw, ready to pull him into another kiss when his phone starts ringing from the jeans tangled around his thighs. Lando’s expression shifts while fishing for the phone. He manages to answer on the fourth ring, his professional tone kicking in record time, making her silently giggle.
He keeps the same serious voice even as he carefully eases his cock out of her, cum spilling out, trickling down her ass and onto the couch. With one hand on her hip, Lando’s thumb strokes soothing circles while talking, promising whoever’s on the other end that he’ll be there — wherever there might mean — by twelve. He’s calm and controlled, but his eyes never leave hers, the intensity behind them telling her everything she needs to know.
At least for now.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” says Lando. “Of course, I’ll see you then. Cheers, mate,” he ends the call, flopping back onto the couch to pull up his pants.
She closes her thighs together, but doesn’t sit up, content to look at him through her eyelashes. “Are you leaving?”
Lando nods reluctantly. “I’ve got to film a YouTube video with this brand,” he explains, flashing her an apologetic smile. His gaze lingers on her face for a moment longer than necessary, reading all the subtle changes he’s not sure she even realize she’s making.
His palm finds her shin first, warm on her skin as he traces upward, the gesture enough to appear both casual and purposeful, depending on which version each of them prefers. Lando’s hand pauses briefly at her knee then, he bends to press a kiss on the same spot.
“Am I seeing you tonight?” asks Lando, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, straightening his back as he looks around for his keys on the coffee table.
She props herself onto one elbow, watching him with an expression she doesn’t bother hiding this time.
Of course, the grin spreading across her face tells him.
Fighting one of his own, Lando points at her with the keys. “Go clean up.”
Her jaw drops a little. “Go fuck yourself.”
“You do it better,” he says right before rushing out the door, letting it shut behind him.
She can finally hear the TV again, but a cold silence settles back into her apartment and, despite every instinct telling her to run in the opposite direction instead of spinning in place, she can’t remember the last time she’d felt this happy.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( max verstappen x girlfriend!reader ) ( 1.2k wc )
⤷ what happens when an independent girlfriend and a very gentlemanly, chivalrous Max Verstappen are in a relationship where, no matter how hard he tries, you just won't let him do things for you?
( my m. list | more of MV3 ) ( requests )
You were the kind of woman who did things for herself. Grew up that way. Not out of stubbornness, not really—it was more survival instinct turned second nature.
You opened your own doors. You paid your own bills. You drove your own damn car (with a valid license, thank you very much).
Max Verstappen, on the other hand, was a gentleman. Capital G Gentleman. He held doors, carried bags, and insisted on walking closest to the street, even if it meant getting hit by a rogue bird scooter or even Charles Leclerc.
Which is what made dating you . . . a little frustrating for him.
“You’re my girlfriend, schat,” he’d complained to you over and over, “I want to spoil you. Why won’t you let me do things for you?”
And you always laughed, sweet and low. “Because I can do them myself.”
“Yeah,” Max would huff, “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was that you weren’t used to it. That kind of gentleness had always felt like something from a storybook. But Max was different. He meant it. Every time he tried to make you feel like a princess, it wasn’t performative. It was just who he was.
Still, habits die hard.
Even tonight, after a perfect dinner date—wine, laughter, one too many appetisers—you walked yourself to the car like always. You were scrolling through your buzzing phone, a message from your best friend lighting up the screen as your heels clicked steadily against the concrete of the underground parking lot.
Max didn’t notice you had paused. With a hand in his pocket, he made his way over to the passenger door, expecting you to reach the handle before him like you always do.
Max didn’t realise you were a meter behind. Not really. He was deep in thought—his hand already reaching for the handle on your side, not expecting anything, just doing. His mind was somewhere between Should I take her to that little vineyard next weekend? and god, she looked good tonight, when he heard your steps stop beside him.
You looked up from your phone and raised a brow, amused. “Max?”
He blinked. “Yes, schatje?”
And for the first time . . . he’d opened the door for you.
You smiled. No teasing, no smug quip—just warmth in your gaze as you leaned forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”
Max blinked again, stunned, and then—he grinned. No. He beamed. And as you slid into the seat, completely unbothered, Max’s mouth stretched into something close to villainous glee.
When he sat in the driver’s seat, he just took a moment, not even starting the car, but looking at you with this cute smile that slowly widened the more he looked between your eyes.
By the time he was driving through the roads of Monaco, he was full on giggling. A "Heh. Heheheheheh." escaped under his breath, a cartoon villain chuckle if you’d ever heard one. It grew louder, more triumphant. You loved it when Max laughed like this, a usual sight in his streams; scrunched nose and crinkled eyes with his teeth showing in his smile.
When he stopped at a red light, he was buzzing. “Did you see that?” he asked like he’d just won a Grand Prix. “I opened the door for you!”
You raised an eyebrow. “You did.”
“You let me.”
You snorted. “I was texting!”
“I won,” he said dramatically, head thrown back in glee as he started driving again once the light turned green. “That was the greatest moment of my life.”
“You literally won the world championship—”
“This is better.” He whispered like it was some sort of secret, “I have four of those championships, but I only have one of this.”
The whole way home, Max couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled and squinted and nose scrunched, humming to himself like a ma man, eyes gleaming with chaotic joy. You leaned your head against the window, giggling every time he said something like, “I can die happy now,” or “Do you think there’s a trophy for Most Romantic Door Opening?”
But it wasn’t over.
Oh no.
As the car eased into the garage and the engine turned off, you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Alright, come on—”
“NO.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t move,” Max said, already leaping out of the car like it was on fire. “Don’t. Move. Don’t get out, don’t even breathe!”
“MAX—”
“I MEAN IT!” he shouted across the hood, which he had jumped on in hopes of getting to your side of the car faster than just walking around.
You watched, stunned, as your Formula One world champion boyfriend lunged across the hood like a man possessed. Dress shirt half-untucked, what a sight. he slid off the hood at your side.
You crack the door open and start to get out—but you are quickly shoved back in your seat with the door slamming shut in your face.
You blinked up at him, lips twitching.
He held up a finger, signalling “give me a second”, chest rising and falling as he straightened his shirt. Fixed his posture. Ran a hand through his hair like he was about to walk into a royal ball.
Then, with the gravitas of a knight, he slowly opened the car door.
“My lady,” he said with a bow, extending his hand.
You laughed. Laughed. It bubbled up from your chest and spilt out, uncontrolled. “You are so dramatic.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Take my hand.”
You did.
He helped you out like you were made of glass. Tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like you were royalty. Walked you up to the elevator, then your shared apartment like he was on some period drama set, absolutely giddy with pride.
You were still laughing when you reached the front door. Shaking your head.
“If this is how you get when I let you open one door,” you teased, “I’m never letting you open one again.”
Max stopped. Froze, his jaw dropped.
His face crumbled—comically horrified, like a man who had just realised he’d wished on a cursed monkey’s paw.
“No. No, no no no—wait. You can open some! Not all of them—I’ll pick which ones—WAIT, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS FROM ME.” The Dutchman shook you from your shoulders.
You cackled as you stepped inside, him following quickly in step, pleading dramatically. “I’m begging you, schatje. You can open the fridge. Open your own texts. But let me have the doors, PLEASE—”
“You’re so ridiculous,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.
His hands slid to your waist, still pouty. “I’m ridiculous for you.”
You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “You get the car doors.”
Max lit up again.
“I’m going to start timing myself,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Make it a sport. Beat my personal best to the passenger side.”
“You’re the fastest man in the world, Max,” you said with a grin. “Use your powers for good.”
SUMMARY: At the end-of-season drivers' dinner, Charles accidentally lets slip that he has a wife and a five-year-old daughter
PAIRING: charles leclerc x reader
It was the end-of-season drivers' dinner and Carlos was currently on a desperate mission to find a golf partner for the next morning. So far, he was failing miserably.
"Lando. Golf tomorrow? Come on, give yourself a chance to take revenge, cabrón," Carlos coaxed, leaning across the table with full enthusiasm.
"Mate, I literally can't. McLaren is holding me hostage for filming all day," Lando said, playing with his fork. "But a Carlando rematch will happen, but not tomorrow"
Carlos let out a dramatic sigh. "Unbelievable. Charles! You're not busy, right?"
Before Charles could even open his mouth, Lando scoffed, "Does he even know how to play golf? He’s going to hit the grass more than the ball."
"He knows! ...I think," Carlos snapped, before staring intensely at his ex-teammate. "So, Charles. Golf?"
"No, I can't either," Charles replied naturally. "I have to stay with my daughter tomorrow.".
Charles froze. His brain caught up with his mouth about two seconds too late. Did I really just say that out loud?!
"WHAT?!" Max choked on his water"You have a DAUGHTER?!"
"Wait, wait, wait," Lando cut in, suddenly leaning across the table "How old is she? How many months?"
Charles blinked, debating if jumping out the restaurant window was a viable exit strategy. But he’d already dug the hole, might as well jump in.
"She's five years old," Charles confessed, rubbing his temples. "And I don't know, Lando! Who counts in months after two years?!"
"FIVE YEARS?!" It was a full-on unison scream.
"Hold on a second!" George interrupted, throwing his hands in the air, instantly stepping into his role as the grid's official FBI agent. "You don't even have a girlfriend! Who are you making children with?"
Charles buried his face in his hands. If the secret's out, I might as well throw the whole bomb.
"I’m actually married," Charles muttered into his palms. "For six years."
"Six years?! And we weren't invited to the wedding?! I thought we were friends, Charles!" George said, sounding offended.
"How tf is this possible?!" Lando yelled, completely exasperated.
Meanwhile, Carlos had officially reached his limit. He didn't care about the marriage or the secret kid. He had a crisis of his own.
"OKAY, GREAT, CHARLES IS SECRETLY A FAMILY MAN!" Carlos yelled, "BUT WHO THE HELL AM I PLAYING GOLF WITH TOMORROW? Alex?"
Alex, who was quietly trying to blend into the wallpaper, blinked. "I can't."
Carlos’s jaw dropped in absolute betrayal. "WHY? Do you have a secret family too? Is everyone secretly married with three kids?"
"Uhh... no," Alex said slowly, raising his hands in defense. "I just... have a flight tomorrow, Carlos."
───────── ౨ৎ ─────────
The second Charles stepped into the apartment, he was already rehearsing how to break the news. He had kept the secret perfectly for six years and had crumbled under zero pressure.
But the moment he closed the door, he heard it, the familiar sound of a Disney movie playing in the living room. Before he could even call out, tiny footsteps came running.
“Papa! Papa!” your daughter screamed, launching herself at him.
Charles’ face instantly softened. He dropped his bag and caught her, spinning her around as she giggled.
“Mon petit cœur! Did you miss me?” he asked, pressing kisses all over her cheeks.
“So much!” she said dramatically, wrapping her little arms around his neck. “We watched Encanto again. Mom said I could stay up until you came home.”
You appeared in the doorway, smiling at the scene. Charles looked at you over your daughter’s head, eyes full of guilt and love at the same time.
After the bedtime routine, your daughter was finally asleep. Charles joined you in the bedroom, both of you getting ready for bed.
“So…” he started, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I fucked up.”
You raised an eyebrow “How bad?”
“We had the drivers’ dinner tonight and I accidentally told Carlos I couldn’t play golf tomorrow because I have to stay with my daughter. Then I had to confess everything.” He said it in one breath.
“Well… I can’t believe you managed to keep it a secret for this long,” you said, shaking your head. “Six years, Charles. That’s actually impressive.”
He looked up at you, surprised. “So you’re not mad at me?”
“No, I’m not mad.” You sat beside him and took his hand. “I think it was always going to come out one day. We didn’t know when… but I guess now is the time.”
Charles let out a big sigh of relief and pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours.
“We should announce it publicly, right? Maybe a soft launch or something?” he asked.
You let out a laugh. “Charles, we’ve been married for six years and have a five-year-old. If we post anything now, it’s going to be a hard launch."
