Two months postpartum felt like living in a beautiful blur. Your world revolved around late-night feedings, soft cries, and the intoxicating newborn smell of your daughter. Charles had been a rock through it all , waking up at 3 a.m. without complaint, cradling her tiny body against his bare chest, singing lullabies in French while swaying back and forth in the dim nursery light.
You were still adjusting, your body healing and your emotions unpredictable. Which was why, when you stared at the two pink lines on the bathroom counter that morning, you felt your knees buckle.
You weren’t supposed to be able to get pregnant this soon. At least, that’s what everyone said.
By the time Charles padded into the kitchen later, hair messy, still wearing his Ferrari hoodie, you were sitting stiffly at the table with the baby monitor beside you. He placed your daughter’s empty bottle in the sink and immediately noticed your expression.
“Mon amour?” His brows furrowed as he approached. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”
Your hand trembled as you slid the test toward him.
He blinked down at it. Then blinked again.
“…Is this what I think it is?”
You nodded, lips pressing together nervously. “Positive.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Charles’ eyes darted from the test to you, then to the baby monitor where soft coos crackled through the speaker.
“…But… we just had one,” he whispered, voice laced with shock and awe.
“I know,” you breathed out, tears pricking your eyes. “I didn’t even think it was possible this soon, but—”
A sudden laugh cut you off. You stared at him, bewildered. Charles was laughing so hard he had to cover his face with both hands.
“Charles! Why are you laughing?” you asked, half-offended.
He crouched in front of you, grin splitting his face. “Because we are insane! Two babies under one year old!” His hands cradled your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Mon Dieu, YN… I’m so happy.”
Your lip trembled. “Really?”
“Really,” he promised softly, kissing your forehead. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll figure it out. Even if I never sleep again.”
A tiny cry came from the monitor. Charles glanced at it, grinning. “Guess I should start training for double duty now, no?”
You laughed, wiping your eyes. For the first time that day, it didn’t feel scary. It felt like love — chaotic, exhausting, perfect love.
Summary: Cheering for her brother? Nope! Oscar is so much better.
“Pole just means you go first,” she deadpanned, looking about as excited as someone waiting for a dentist appointment. Max honestly felt like he’d just been dunked on by a moody pre-teen in a Lightning McQueen tee.
He made another go at it, sounding a bit desperate. “But my car was the fastest.”
Y/N just shrugged, twirling the string of her Verstappen cap like it was the world’s most boring fidget toy. “Oscar’s cool.”
Savage. The brutality. Max started wondering if this was cosmic payback for every time he’d punted someone wide at turn one.
Lando wandered over, grinning like he’d just watched a cat fall off a table. “Yikes, mate. She’s ice cold.”
“Yeah, cheers, Lando. Super helpful.”
Later, in the drivers’ room, Oscar strolled in, halfway through a granola bar. Max gave him a look. Maybe a bit too much intensity there. Oscar froze, granola mid-chomp.
“Uh, you good?”
Max groaned and dragged his hands over his face. “She didn’t even care about pole. Just asked where you were.”
Oscar blinked, then smirked. “She’s got her favorites.”
“Yeah, and apparently, it’s not me. Betrayal.”
Oscar flopped into a chair, looking way too relaxed. “Would you rather she liked Lando?”
“God, no. He’d have her driving a golf cart into Lake Como.”
Oscar cracked up, and, honestly, Max couldn’t stay mad. Not at Oscar. The guy was like if a Labrador put on a bucket hat and learned to talk.
After the race, Y/N was waiting in the garage with a tiny McLaren plushie clutched in her hands. She didn’t even blink at Max’s champagne-soaked race suit—just bolted straight for Oscar, who scooped her up like it was the most normal thing ever.
“Good race, Y/N?” he asked.
She nodded so hard her hat nearly fell off. “You went so fast.”
Max, still dripping, threw his hands in the air. “I win at home and my little sister’s giving all the credit to Piastri. Unreal.”
Lando sidled over, smirking like a little gremlin. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game, champ.”
“Or just bribe her with cookies,” Max muttered.
Oscar glanced over, sheepish. “She, uh, gave me this.” He held up a crumpled, slightly sticky drawing. It was… probably him? Maybe? Hard to say.
Max squinted. “She’s never drawn me with that many hearts.”
Oscar tried not to look smug. He failed. Miserably.
Weeks ticked by. Max tried everything—matching socks, extra bedtime stories, even a sneaky turn in the Red Bull sim (Christian would actually combust if he found out). Didn’t matter. Oscar was still her sun, moon, and all the stars.
One night, after a long slog at the track, Max found Y/N crashed out next to Oscar in the hospitality lounge, mouth open, dead to the world. Oscar looked over, awkward but weirdly proud.
“Sorry, mate. Think she likes me more.”
Max just sighed, a little defeated but kinda okay with it. “Yeah. She’s got pretty solid taste.”
Oscar grinned. “Must run in the family.”
Max rolled his eyes, but his chest didn’t feel so tight.
Honestly? If his little sister was gonna worship someone, Oscar wasn’t the worst choice. Not even close.
And maybe Max could get used to sharing the spotlight—at least until Y/N decided Toto Wolff was her new obsession. At that point, all bets were off.
pairing: charles leclerc x gf!reader, max verstappen x friend!reader
Part 1, Part 2
word count: 3.7k
outline: Just one dinner together was all you asked for. But for a man who moves at three hundred kilometers an hour, he was too slow when it mattered most. Now, Charles' world slows to a crawl as he's left wondering if there's still a chance to mend what he'd broken.
Across the city, in another hotel room, you were curled against Max on the couch. Your tears had finally quieted, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that hollowed everything out. He just stayed there beside you, one arm loosely around your shoulders, until your hiccups had finally evened out.
Max glanced down slightly. “You asleep?” he murmured.
Met with silence, he carefully shifted away and eased you down onto the couch, making sure your head rested properly against a pillow. He grabbed a spare blanket the hotel provided and draped it over you, movement slow and deliberate so as to not wake you. As he turned to leave, his familiar ringtone cut through the silence. Fishing his phone out his pocket, he sees the name.
Charles “Inchident” Leclerc. He declines it and shoves it back into his pocket. Again, it buzzes. He rolls his eyes, lips pursing into a thin line. Max glanced back at you—curled up on the couch, face still faintly damp from tears. He let the phone ring for another second before finally answering, his voice low and flat.
“What,” he answered, moving to the hotel balcony and shutting the sliding doors behind him.
“Max.” From the tone of Charles’ voice, he was sure he knew. Max leaned his elbows against the balcony railing, the night air cool against his face as the city lights flickered below.
“She told you to leave her alone.” There it was—the confirmation Charles needed. He was silent. The Dutchman’s words were the truth, yet it was a truth he still wasn’t ready to accept. The tension hung thick between the two racers, stretching across the quiet line.
“You and I both know I can’t do that. Please, just let me see her”
“You had months to see her. To fix this. And you didn’t. Now she wants space. Funny how you had no problem giving it back then—so for once in your life, Leclerc, you’re going to respect it.”
“Max—”
“No.” His tone sharpened slightly. “You’ve already done enough tonight.”
“Please Max…” Charles whispered.
Max had seen him vulnerable before. He’d heard the way Charles’s voice softened whenever he spoke about the people he’d lost in his life. And right now, it was no different. It was the voice of a man who knew he might have already lost you—but also knew that not trying would haunt him far more than the loss itself. Max sighed quietly as he stared out at the city. For a moment, the anger in his chest wavered, replaced by something dangerously close to pity.
“You really screwed this up, you know,” Max said bluntly as he shifted his weight against the railing. “For someone who drives at three hundred kilometers an hour without blinking, you’re unbelievably slow when it actually matters.”
Charles let the words settle. Normally he would have snapped back—thrown something equally sharp in return. Tonight, he didn’t have it in him.
“How is she?” he asked instead.
“If you think her crying her eyes out from the moment she got here until she passed out on my couch is ‘okay’, then she’s doing amazing. No thanks to you at least.” he answered, not caring how his words may affect him. On the other end of the line, the Monégasque closed his eyes, the image of you sitting alone forcing its way into his mind once again—whether he wanted it to or not. For the past few hours, as he drove mindlessly down the roads of Japan, that picture had permanently ingrained itself in his thoughts.
“Putain…” the brunette breathed under his breath. “I’m a shit boyfriend”
“Glad you know. You want a medal with that?”
Charles knew how blunt Max could be. He wasn’t one to sugarcoat anything. It carried over with every press conference and interaction they had. Every word that left his mouth was the raw truth that stirred within him. So having to hear the extent of his fuck ups tonight from him made it one hundred times worse.
“But for what it’s worth, she still loves you,” he continued. ”So if you’re planning to screw this up again, do everyone a favor and let her go now.”
Charles felt those words settle heavily in his chest.
“I’m not letting her go,” he said quietly.
“Then you better start acting like it. Stop with the bullshit excuses and actually show up. Because with the way you’re treating her, she could easily leave your ass and you won't see me stopping her.”
“I will. Just…” he started, hesitating. “Stay with her tonight.”
“Obviously.” Max couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Go to sleep, Charles.”
“I don’t think I can”
“Good” Without another word, Max ended the call. He walked back inside and looked at your sleeping figure for a moment. You shifted, tugging the blanket closer, tear stains barely visible yet eyes a bit puffed.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath—though it wasn’t clear if he meant Charles. Or you.
You woke up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you pushed yourself up from the couch. The sun peeked through the thin drapes, casting the space in a warm, golden glow. Your head throbbed faintly. You blinked a few times, glancing down at the blanket wrapped around your shoulders before looking around the room. Right, Max’s place.
Just then, the blonde pops out from the bedroom.
“Morning” he says, sending a small smile as he makes a beeline to the in-room coffee machine. “You want some?”
His eyebrows raise as he waves one of the drip coffee bags to you. You nod, movements still slow from waking. You rubbed your temples, trying to ease the dull ache sitting behind your eyes as the memories from the night before began creeping back in.
Max glanced over his shoulder briefly, noticing the way your shoulders tensed as you sat there. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he finished pouring the water through the drip bag before walking over.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, placing the mug gently on the low table in front of you.
As you stared at the mug in your hands, the bitter aroma familiar, you couldn’t help but reminisce about the simple life you had lived before. Everything had been so easy then. So predictable. Only for it to all change the moment the Monégasque boy walked in.
The small bell above the café door rang softly as it opened, announcing his arrival. You remembered looking up from behind the counter, half distracted by the stack of cups you were drying. He stepped inside, sunlight spilling in behind him, the faint scent of cedar and spice following him through the door. Every step he took closer to the counter made the butterflies in your stomach flutter harder, though you had no idea why.
“Good morning, Madame. May I please get an espresso?”
He smiled—soft, a little shy—his eyes warm as they met yours. For a brief second, it felt like time slowed down. His eyes were mesmerizing. It was green like a lush forest yet blue like a clear sky, all brought together by a sliver of brown.
At the time, you had no idea who he was. To you, he was just another handsome stranger passing through the café. Someone with a charming accent and a smile that lingered a little longer than most customers'. As he stared at you expectantly, you realized how long you’ve actually been staring.
“O-of course,” you’d managed, hoping he couldn’t hear the slight tremble in your voice.
You turned quickly toward the espresso machine, busying your hands so he wouldn’t notice the way your heart had suddenly started racing. The familiar hiss of steam filled the small café as the shot poured. Behind you, you could feel his gaze. When you turned back around, the espresso cup resting carefully on its saucer, he was still watching you.
“Here you go,” you smiled, sliding the cup across the counter.
“Merci,” he replied, fingers brushing yours for just a second as he picked it up.
One encounter turned into many after that.
The memory faded slowly as the warmth of the coffee mug returned you to the present. Across from you, Max watched quietly.
“You’re thinking about him,” he said as a matter of fact.
“Is it that obvious?” you mumbled, taking a sip of the beverage.
“Yeah, no. Everyone I know stares at their drink for like five minutes in silence, watching it go cold,” he jested, still keeping that signature Verstappen resting face.
Despite everything, a faint huff of amusement left your nose. You took another small sip of the coffee. It was bitter, stronger than you were used to, but the warmth grounded you.
“I don’t know what to do,” you admitted quietly.
Max leaned back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you for a moment. He purses his lips, debating whether he should tell you of their conversation last night. But with the way you looked so defeated, uncertain, like you needed something to hold on to—he figured you deserved to know.
“He called last night after you fell asleep. He sounded like shit.”
Your body visibly tensed, the mug in your hands pausing halfway to your lips.
“Oh.” The single word came out quieter than you intended.
Max watched your reaction carefully, noting the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your gaze dropped immediately back to the coffee in your hands. You knew to yourself you couldn’t stay hidden forever. And deep down inside, you didn’t want to. You just needed time—not to punish him, but to figure everything out. How you felt, where things had gone wrong, and whether any of this could still be fixed.
“What… did you tell him?” you asked carefully, still not looking up.
“What he needed to hear,” he answered, voice unwavering. Despite how vague it sounded, his tone alone was enough for you to know Charles’ feelings had not been spared last night.
With a deep sigh, you buried yourself deeper into the couch, swirling the mug in your hands and its contents. “I just want to forget any of this happened. For things to go back to how they used to be…when we were happier.”
Max rolls his eyes. “Look. You have two choices, and that’s definitely not one of them. Pretending last night didn’t happen isn’t going to fix anything. You can’t keep living like that. You know it, he knows it. All you can do now is move forward with or without him”
You looked at him, a bit shocked at his straightforwardness.
“I mean it,” he continued. “If loving him hurts you more than it makes you happy… then walk away.”
The words settled heavily in the air. Because part of you knew he was right—there was no clean way back from something like this, no simple undoing of what had already fractured between you. With every missed schedule and every broken promise, what once was only a small crack had spread quietly through the foundation of your trust, leaving it brittle, trembling, and just barely holding on. The silence was broken as a knock echoed from the hotel door, pulling both of your attention toward it.
Max frowned slightly, “I didn’t order room service.”
He pushed himself off the couch and walked toward the door, glancing back at you briefly before looking through the peep hole.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me” he mumbled, stepping back and opening the door.
Max stepped aside just enough for you to see past him. Your stomach dropped. Standing in the hallway, hair messy, eyes tired and rimmed with red was Charles. The man looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Yet as his eyes found you across the room, all traces of exhaustion were shoved back and replaced with relief.
“(Y/N)...” he sighs, taking a step into the room. But before he could put a foot inside, Max quickly stops him, standing firmly as an arm stretches out to block his path.
“I just want to talk.” he pleaded, bloodshot eyes never leaving yours.
“Only if she wants to, mate” Max spoke softly as he glanced back at you briefly, his expression unreadable but tone protective.
They looked to you, waiting for your decision. You take a moment to really take in his state. He wasn’t the polished driver from magazine covers or race-day headlines. The charming smile and effortless confidence the cameras loved so much were nowhere to be found. Instead, standing there was the man you knew.
The one who sat quietly beside you after a race that hadn’t gone his way. The one who would bury his face into your neck late at night, holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing him whole. The one who’d let silent tears flow, knowing you’d be there to wipe every one off. The version of him reserved only for your eyes.
And right now, he looked like he was barely holding himself together. His gaze never left yours, like he was afraid that if he looked away—even for a second—you might disappear again. After what felt like an eternity, you send a small nod. Despite his hesitance, Max stepped aside with a quiet huff. As Charles walks past, he takes him by the arm, his hold not strong enough to bruise but still firm.
“Don’t screw this up again,” he whispered, letting go of his arm and closing the door. Knowing you two need some space, he opted to move to the bedroom. Just before disappearing inside, he glanced back at you.
“Just give me the word and he’s out of here.” Knowing him, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it either.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room suddenly quieter than before. Now it was just the two of you. For a moment, neither you nor Charles moved. He stayed near the entrance like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to take another step. Even from where he stood, he could see the toll this has put on you. The light in your eyes—the one he adored, the one that always seemed to glow when you looked at him—had dulled. Faint, but not gone.
How long had it been like that? How did he not notice? There was so much he wanted to say. A thousand apologies crowded his chest, fighting to be the first one out. He wanted to beg, to plead, to somehow prove to you that what you meant to him hadn’t changed—had never changed. Even if it meant getting down on his knees right there in front of you. But the words stayed stuck in his throat, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Say something. Anything.
“I’m so sorry.” The words were raw. Honest. “I promised you I’d be there, and I wasn’t. I kept you waiting… and worst of all, I made you question my love for you.”
His voice faltered slightly before he continued.
“You’ve given me more than I ever deserved. You were always there when I needed you—always beside me, no matter where I was. And when you needed me…” He swallowed. “I couldn’t even show up.” His gaze dropped briefly before he continued.
“I took your love for granted. I got so used to it being there that I started expecting it. Like it was something that would always be waiting for me.” The silence between you felt impossibly heavy. “I forgot that you didn’t have to wait for me. That you didn’t have to drop everything or put it on hold just to fit my schedule.”
He took a slow, shaking breath, “I understand if you never want to see me again. I’d understand if you disappeared without saying goodbye. But if there’s even the smallest chance you’d still have me… I’ll spend every minute, every hour, and every day showing how much you mean to me. I will give up everything if it means I get the chance to prove that loving you was never something I deserved, but something I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of.” His voice wavered, feeling the familiar pricks of tears in his eyes.
“Because none of it means anything if you’re not there with me.”
The words lingered in the air between you. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. From behind the bedroom door, the faint sound of Max moving around reminded you that he was still there. Still listening. Still ready to step in if things went wrong. You shut your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before standing up from the couch and letting the blanket fall back into the cushions.
“You really hurt me, Charles.” you say, arms crossing in front of you as if it would shield your already broken heart.
“I know.”
“Apologies and flowers wont fix it.”
“I don’t expect it to.”
“It’s going to take a lot of time.”
“I’m ready to try. However long it takes.”
You studied his face carefully, searching for any hint that this was just another promise that would eventually be forgotten. You took a step forward, the cold wood of the floor pressing against your bare feet as the distance between you slowly began to close.
“How do I know things won’t just go back to the way they were?” you asked, taking another careful step.
“It won’t”
“You can’t just promise things like that, Charles. I need you to actually be there” You moved closer, each step deliberate, bridging the space between you.
“I will”
“It’s not easy to forget something like this” You said, your eyes locked on his.
“I’m not asking for you to forget about it,” he continued. “I’m asking for the chance to start something new. To do better.”
“And if I don’t want to?” You stopped, looking up at the man you had entrusted your heart to—the same one who had crushed it in one night, and yet now was asking for one more chance to pick up the pieces and earn the right to mend what he had broken.
His expression faltered, his heart practically stopping at the thought. In his mind, the fans, the checkered flags, the podiums—all of it fades into something dull and meaningless. He imagines a future spent scanning the crowds, hoping to catch a glimpse of you that will never come. Victories where no one waits for him in the paddock. Trophies that feel far heavier than they ever did before.
“If you don’t…” he repeated quietly. “I’ll spend the rest of my life being grateful you ever let me love you at all.”
Even as you stood right in front of him, within arm’s reach, he stayed still. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers twitching slightly before curling into his palms as his eyes searched your face quietly. After a beat of silence, you closed the distance, pulling him into your arms. He froze for a moment, letting the familiar warmth sink in, before carefully wrapping his arms around you, holding you close as if you were sand slipping through his fingers.
“One shot. If you ever make me feel like that again…” you paused, your voice steady. “I’ll be gone.” Charles nodded without hesitation. Relief washed over him from head to toe, the weight he’d been carrying a lot lighter now. He nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, relishing the familiar scent of your perfume, the softness of your skin, and the quiet rhythm of your heartbeat, all a subtle reminder that you were here.
“Thank you, that’s all I need” he breathed, letting the world fall away around you both.
A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. From behind the bedroom door, there was a sudden muffled thump followed by Max’s voice. You both let go, Charles keeping you close by the waist. Right on cue, the bedroom door opened and Max leaned out, arms crossed.
“So,” he said, glancing between the two of you. “Are we hugging, crying, or breaking up?”
You sighed. “We’re… working on it.”
Max narrowed his eyes slightly at Charles. “Working on it…” he repeated.
“No more bullshit,” Charles reassured, sending the Dutchman a smile. Max studied him for another second before nodding once.
“Good.” Max said, walking over to pat him on the back. In a split second, his smile dropped before pointing to the door leading to the hallway. “Now if you’re gonna fuck it out, the door’s wide open. I won’t hesitate to kick you both out right now.”
You and Charles shared a quiet laugh, the tension between you finally loosening. He turned to you and placed a palm to your cheek, taking a second to memorize what he could have lost but now working to deserve.
“Thank you, Mon cœur. Je t'aime de toute mon âme” he whispered as he pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head before resting his forehead against yours. You both knew it wouldn’t be fixed overnight. It would have to be built slowly, with consistency and presence. It was a simple but small start to a chance he wasn’t going to waste.
And true to his word, he spent every second proving it. Not through grand gestures or empty promises, but in the quiet, steady ways that mattered most. He showed up—on time, every time. In the chance he was late, it was immediately met with apologies and reassurance of how close he was. Calls that once went unanswered were now the first thing he reached for. Messages never left unread for more than an hour. No more “later’s,” no more waiting. Just him, choosing you, again and again.
The races never stopped. The world never slowed. But somehow, he learned to make space for you within it all. Flights were rearranged. Schedules adjusted. Even in the chaos, you were no longer something he fit in—you were something he made time for. And little by little, the distance that once felt so vast began to close, not in leaps, but in small, deliberate steps.
Trust didn’t return all at once. It came silently—when he walked through the door when he said he would, when his hand found yours without hesitation, when you no longer had to question if he would choose you.
And this time, he did. Every single time.
an: And that concludes my first Formula 1 fic!! I'd love to hear your thoughts, feedback, and more in the comments or tags. If you guys are interested in a max ending, let me know <3 Thank you so much for reading!
SUMMARY: Max is nervous on New Year's Eve. Reasons why? Exactly the same thing you aren't expecting from him
✹ Max Verstappen x Female!Reader
✹ 2622 words
✹ Make your FORMULA 1 REQUESTS here (information included)
💬 I got the chance to participate in a Formula 1 Christmas/New Year's Day event on Wattpad and I'm so grateful for the chance I was given! Hope you like this <3
Max was nervous.
Pretty nervous, actually. He'd dare saying he was even more nervous than when he won his first Formula 1 championship... and that was saying a lot.
The Dutchman stood in front of the bedroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt for what was possibly the fifth time in less than two minutes.
He let out a sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at his reflection, dissatisfied and somehow, even more nervous than before.
“What do you think is better for me to wear tonight, blue pants or the black ones?” he asked you, moving closer to the door and glancing toward the kitchen.
You were leaning against the marble island, completely absorbed in a video on your phone while trying to cut a pineapple with a knife that was, clearly, not doing its job. That same knife Max had promised to sharpen two weeks ago.
“Max, love…” you replied without looking up, focused on your task. “It’s just a New Year’s party. With people you see more often than you see me all year. In our house. Do you really think anyone’s going to notice which pants you’re wearing? You’ll already stand out enough just by wearing something other than the Red Bull uniform…”
The knife slipped dangerously over the pineapple. You let out a surprised yelp. Max didn’t even flinch, still completely absorbed in his reflection.
He rolled his eyes.
“I just want to look presentable, you know? It’s the first time we’re celebrating New Year’s in this house and, well… you know. You never know what might happen. It’s a special day.”
You set the knife down on the cutting board and walked toward the bedroom. You stepped closer to him, wrapped your arms around his neck, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
You took a few seconds to look at him, trying to figure out what he might be hiding behind all that nervousness.
“What are you so nervous about?” you asked bluntly.
Verstappen opened his mouth to answer, but instead a sneeze came out, which he used as an excuse to look away from you.
“Max…”
“What? Do you really think I’m hiding something just because I sneezed?”
You nodded.
“You always do that when you want to avoid a conversation. That thing of not looking at people directly,” you explained. “And, also, you’ve started tapping your thighs.”
You pointed at his hands, which were indeed moving up and down on his legs, which even seemed to be shaking.
“I’m not hiding anything, really,” he said. Even though he moved his hands behind his back, his voice betrayed him. “I just want everything to go well tonight.”
That was true.
You gave up, not saying anything else. You knew it was pointless to keep trying to figure out what Max was hiding, even if he wasn’t particularly good at hiding things.
Still, you made a mental note to find out, by the end of the night, at the start of the new year, exactly what your beloved boyfriend was up to.
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As the hours passed and 2026 drew closer, your house began to fill with people. Aside from both of your families, who had decided to come over after dinner, several of Max’s friends and teammates arrived as well.
Lando, who should've been one of the first to arrive simply because he’d promised Max he would, ended up being the last one. Charles showed up with Oscar and Jude, the Australian’s girlfriend, even though you hadn’t expected them at all. You were genuinely surprised to see a few distant cousins of yours who had decided to spend Christmas in Monaco.
Norris, acting as if he were in his own home, decided to connect his phone to the speaker. He replaced the carols Max had put on with electronic music, at a much higher volume.
“Why did you change the music I had on?”
You watched Max approach the Brit and argue with him, though you couldn’t hear what he said into his ear. After a few minutes, the Dutchman shook his head and walked off to greet the guests who kept arriving.
You did the same, mirroring your boyfriend. You moved through hugs, occasional kisses, and casual conversations, pretending to feel comfortable when the truth was you were completely overstimulated.
Of course you wanted to throw a New Year’s party, that’s what you’d talked about with Max. What you hadn’t expected was for it to be this big, and to have so many people.
You also hadn’t expected Max’s noticeable discomfort to keep growing as the hours went by.
He was acting strange. You could feel it.
He was too nervous. Too attentive to you.
“Whose brilliant idea was it to let Max cook?” Charles shouted, snapping you back to reality. In his hand, the Monegasque held a salmon canapé. “This salmon is burnt.”
“Eat it or leave it for whoever who might want it!” Verstappen yelled from the kitchen while fighting with the timer that refused to turn off. He started slamming it against the counter until it finally stopped, breaking. “Fuck! Shit!”
You shook your head, laughing quietly at how surreal the whole situation felt. But your smile faded quickly when you saw Jude Giraud approach Max to whisper something in his ear. All he did was step slightly away from her and curve his lips into a shy smile, his cheeks turning far too red.
From that moment on, you noticed several of Max’s friends doing the same, glancing at you from the corner of their eyes and shutting down any attempt you made to join the conversation.
“Is everything okay?” you asked, your voice trembling. You could even say you were worried.
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” Charles replied cheerfully and quickly. Then he handed you a couple of champagne glasses. “Why don’t you top these up? It’s really good.”
You nodded lightly and did as he said. Meanwhile, you couldn’t stop overthinking the situation and the secrecy surrounding Max Verstappen and a large part of the guests.
Your cousin, Ashley, who seemed to have noticed your discomfort, walked over to you:
“Have you noticed how weird Max has been acting today?” your cousin asked. You nodded half-heartedly. “Imagine if he’s like this because he’s going to propose to you.”
You laughed.
That was impossible.
“No way. A public proposal, and with this many people, is the exact opposite of something Max would do.”
Even though you answered quickly, a small part of you started to wonder what it would be like if…
You shook your head.
“That’s exactly why I’m saying it!” your cousin insisted. “Think about it: why would Max be this nervous today, of all days? It’s not the first New Year’s you’ve spent together… not to mention all the whispering going on in those little groups,” she pointed toward several of them, especially the one led by Lando, who wouldn’t stop gesturing wildly with his arms. “Come on… it’s way too obvious.”
You’d never talked about it, and even though the idea of that yes, I do, had crossed your mind more than once, you knew Max wasn’t the type to take that step without discussing it with you first.
You tried to push the thought away, though at the same time you couldn’t help but think there might be something to it. Especially when some of the people who had been ignoring you earlier suddenly approached you… and when, half an hour before midnight on January 1st, you saw Max quickly disappear down the hallway toward the bedroom you shared, without any explanation.
Verstappen tried to stay as unnoticed as possible, but when his phone started vibrating in his pocket, he knew he’d failed. Did he care? Not at all.
Right now, he was completely focused on the velvet box he’d pulled out of the suitcase where it had been hidden, holding it with the utmost care.
“Okay, calm down… You’ve practiced this more than ten times alone, and another five with Charles…”
He crouched down and then stood back up in front of the full-length mirror, practicing how he’d kneel in front of you. The third time he tried how to propose to my girlfriend without dying in the attempt, he tripped over the rug and fell face-first onto the floor, lightly hitting his head against the wardrobe in front of him.
“Shit!”
You, who had gone down the hallway to see what Max was up to, rushed into the bedroom.
Luckily, Verstappen’s reflexes were fast enough. He stood up immediately and, instinctively, threw the box, with the ring still inside, to the back of the wardrobe, terrified you’d catch him.
“Max, love, are you okay?” you asked, worried.
“Yes, yes, of course! I’m great!” He adjusted his sweater and ran a hand through his hair. “I was practicing… how to celebrate New Year’s with you.”
That completely unnecessary, hesitant explanation set off all your alarms.
“Max… this isn’t the first New Year’s we’ve celebrated together. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a little… strange today, to say the least.”
Calling him strange was an understatement.
“I’m just a bit nervous because, you know… we adopted Nino not long ago, and you know how dogs get with fireworks…”
You shook your head and, forcing a completely fake smile, left the room.
There was no doubt in your mind that Max was hiding something and, whatever it was, for better or worse, it was going to surprise you far too much.
“Don’t take too long. There are only ten minutes left until midnight,” you reminded him as you headed back to the living room.
Max peeked out the door to make sure you were gone. Then he closed it, locking it this time, and turned back toward the mirror once more.
“Alright… I want to spend the rest of my life with you, through the good and the bad, so… Will you marry me?”
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“Five minutes to midnight!” Charles shouted from the terrace, holding a half-empty glass.
“It was about time he came out of there,” Jude whispered to you. “Do you know how stressed he was making me with the music? Louder every time.”
While you were still talking to your friend, Max finally appeared.
He looked paler than before. He scratched the back of his neck, glanced up at the sky, shoved his hands into his pockets—and then looked straight into your eyes, smiling nervously.
You stepped closer to him, unsure of what kind of response you were about to get.
“Hey, Max… are you really okay?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied quickly. He looked around. Charles and Oscar, standing behind you, gave him an approving thumbs-up. “It’s just… don’t worry. I’m excited to see the fireworks.”
“Max, you hate fireworks,” you replied.
“That’s exactly why I’m nervous.”
You let the lie slide, mostly because there wasn’t time to push him further. Everyone started the countdown from ten, so all you did was smile, wrap your arms around Verstappen, and press small kisses to his cheeks.
Max sighed, tense.
Carefully, he slipped out of your arm around his waist and reached into his pocket for the box… only to be met with the not-so-pleasant surprise that it wasn’t there.
“Oh, fuck… Where did you go…?”
He whispered, trying to fake nerves about the upcoming fireworks while spinning around, scanning everything with his eyes.
He checked the other pocket. Nothing. He looked at the ground, and just as expected, there was no trace of the burgundy box.
“Five, four, three, two, one…!”
He started patting his back pockets. A sigh of relief escaped him when he felt a small, square bulge, though, once again, luck wasn’t on his side.
When he grabbed it, he ended up falling to the ground, tripping over your feet.
“Happy New Year!”
You crouched down immediately to help Max up. You were worried, your heart racing, the fall had sounded pretty bad, and the last thing you wanted was to end the night at the hospital.
Your surprise came when you realized Verstappen was already up. Or… almost up.
The Dutchman was on his knees, holding an open box. Inside it was a ring you recognized instantly, one you’d seen on Instagram six months ago and saved in an inspiration folder.
You couldn’t help but look at him first in confusion, and then in complete shock.
“Is this serious? You’re not joking… right?”
Max looked up at you. His hair was a mess, his sweater covered in tiny pieces of confetti and drops of champagne from the bottle you’d heard being opened seconds ago.
“Yes and no,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I guess it was worth it, even if my hip feels like it’s on fire, I’ve completely lost my dignity trying to make this go perfectly, and-”
A few seconds and one single question were enough to make your eyes fill with tears.
“Will you marry me?”
Silence flooded the celebration. No one shouted. No one urged you to answer right away. Out of the corner of your eye, you even saw Lando turn the music way down and switch it to a softer, more romantic instrumental melody.
“Of course I will, idiot,” you finally replied brightly, reaching out to help Max stand up before wrapping your arms tightly around him, burying your face in his chest. “But please promise me you won’t get this nervous on our wedding day,” you added as he slid the ring onto your ring finger.
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The party eventually came to an end.
Despite the absolute mess the house was in, the newly engaged couple decided to procrastinate on cleaning until the next morning and instead head to bed with a couple of frozen pizzas they’d saved. If you’d learned anything that night, it was that Max wasn’t just clumsy when it came to important questions, but also in the kitchen.
“Do you think I was too informal?” he asked.
“Well… first you tripped over a rug while rehearsing, and then you fell again in front of everyone when you actually proposed,” you murmured, taking a small bite of the four-cheese pizza. “I wouldn’t say it was informal, just… different.”
“Yeah, I know. Honestly, it wasn’t exactly how I’d planned it,” Verstappen admitted.
“I didn’t expect you to do it today either... especially not with so many people watching,” you interrupted. “It might not have been what either of us imagined, but it was definitely memorable.”
“I almost broke my hip. And my head.”
“You’re so dramatic,” you laughed. “But look on the bright side: if you survived the catastrophic proposal, I’m sure you’ll survive our marriage.”
Max opened his mouth to respond, but a rather suspicious noise coming from his body as he tried to get more comfortable on the bed made both of you freeze.
You looked at each other, and then burst out laughing.
“Please tell me that noise came from the bed,” you said, trying not to laugh.
“I think we should go to urgent care tomorrow. You know… just to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Are we going to have to repeat all of this on our wedding day?”
“I’ll try not to fall, I swear.”
“Try?”
“Well…” Max shrugged, leaning closer to you and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wouldn’t want to break such a tragically iconic tradition.”
You shook your head, laughing as you cuddled into his chest.
“Then I’ll have to pretend I stepped on my dress,” you said. “You know... so, when you fall, I fall with you.”
The sunlight filters through the apartment curtains, painting golden rays across the room. Beside you, Charles is still asleep, his hair tousled and one hand stretched out toward you, as if even in sleep he needs to make sure you're still there.
But what really wakes him is the high-pitched little voice coming from the hallway. “Daaaddyyyy,” she says, dragging out the last syllable. “Daddy, wake up!” The door creaks open slightly, and there she is. Jules. Wearing her Ferrari pajamas, her curls a messy halo around her face, and holding her favorite stuffed toy—the one Charles bought her the day she was born. Her face is glowing with excitement, and in her tiny hands she carries a folded piece of paper.
“It’s your day!” she yells, running toward the bed.Charles opens his eyes just in time to catch her as she throws herself onto him. Their laughter fills the room. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice still hoarse from sleep. “Yes! Because you're the best daddy in the world!” Jules answers confidently, planting a loud kiss on his cheek.
You sit on the other side of the bed, watching them. And there's something in the way Charles looks at her—like he can’t quite believe he ever lived without her—that tightens your chest with tenderness.“Did you make this?” he asks, pointing at the drawing still clutched in her small hand. She nods proudly. “It’s mommy, Leo, you, and me… with your red car!” she explains. Charles throws you an amused glance, and you shrug.
“Why don’t we let daddy get ready while we prepare breakfast?” you suggest, and Jules doesn’t hesitate for a second to agree. Soon, the apartment is filled with the smell of pancakes, fresh fruit, scrambled eggs, and sizzling bacon. Jules watches you from her highchair, picking at some fruit while coloring a new drawing. “Is this a Ferrari?” Charles asks once he joins you both in the kitchen. “No! It’s a McLaren!” she yells, and the two of you burst into laughter. When breakfast is over, you lift Jules from her chair to help her down, but not before leaning in to whisper something in her ear.
At first, she listens very seriously, her little hands on your shoulders—and then nods with the same kind of enthusiasm she has when you offer her ice cream. She hops down clumsily, laughter sparkling in her eyes, and runs down the hallway with those still-awkward, wobbly steps she hasn’t quite mastered yet.
Charles watches her disappear, then turns to you. He walks over with that soft expression only you know. It’s not the face of the racer or the idol—it’s the face of a man who has learned to love with patience and to live more gently since becoming a father.
He kisses you slowly. His lips on yours, warm. Real. “Thank you for making me a dad. Thank you for her.”
You’re quiet for a second. Because those words—so simple, so true—hit you right in the center of your chest. You smile, because you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that no trophy, no circuit, no win will ever compare to the love he feels for the little girl with the clear eyes who calls him "daddy."
And then, she returns.
Jules appears carrying a box wrapped in red paper printed with tiny Ferrari race cars. She stumbles a little under the weight but refuses any help. She places it on the table with a triumphant, “Ta-daaaa!” that makes her giggle at herself. “It’s for you, daddy,” she says in a tiny voice, like it’s a very important secret. Charles sits, intrigued, and begins unwrapping the gift carefully. He lifts the lid, and the first thing he sees is a photo—you, holding a pregnancy test. Your eyes swollen from crying—happy tears, fearful ones, all of it. Beneath it, there’s more. A thick photo album, bound in soft leather. He opens it.
First page: the blurry image of an ultrasound. Then, him with his hands on your belly, mentally rehearsing how he’d tell the world he was going to be a father. A handwritten letter from you, your handwriting just a little shaky: "From that day on, I wasn’t sure whether you were more in love with me… or with the baby."
There are photos of him attending ultrasounds—even if just over video call—of sleepless nights assembling her crib, of the first time he held her, eyes filled with tears. An entire page is dedicated to his first podium after becoming a dad. The note you stuck to the steering wheel before the race read: “Your daughter is racing today, too.” Charles flips through the album slowly. He doesn’t speak. He can’t. And when he reaches the last page—a recent photo of the three of you, lying in bed, Jules asleep across his chest between you— a silent tear escapes him.
“You were always there,” you say softly, your fingers tracing the back of his neck. “Even when you thought you weren’t. You were always there, Charles.” He closes the album carefully, like he’s protecting something sacred.
“Thank you for reminding me.” And when Jules climbs back onto his lap, he holds her like the entire world fits in his arms. And honestly—it does.
Author’s Note: I’ve been listening to Men’s Best Friend on repeat, and it’s been inspiring me to write. It's realy short but I realy wanted to write something, some of the songs felt like they perfectly match certain drivers. If you have any suggestions for other songs I could use as a base for a story and which drivers you think they’d fit I’d love to hear them.
The apartment in Monaco was too quiet for what it contained. The kind of silence that wasn’t silence at all, but disappointment pressed into walls and furniture, making the air thin. A candle stub from last night still sat on the table, wax slumped in defeat.
She had worn silk, heels, hair curled. He had promised Dinner. Just us. I’ll make it up to you, mon amour. By midnight, she was barefoot on the sofa, mascara smudged, the reservation long canceled. The door opened, finally, and he came in laughing, sneakers squeaking, hoodie crooked, smelling of sweat and other people’s jokes. He paused when he saw her, guilt flickering like a match, then died just as quickly. He kissed the her hair and slipped into the bedroom.
It wasn’t always this way.
When they met, she thought his messiness was charming. The way he lost his keys three times a week, only to find them in between the couch cushions. The way he forgot to charge his phone but showed up at her window with flowers instead. The way he would tumble into her arms at odd hours, boyish grin wide. She loved being the one he ran to, the one who steadied the whirlwind. It made her feel essential.
But the years wore down the shine. The forgotten keys became lost passports. The dead phone became missed anniversaries. The boyish grin stayed boyish, while she had grown tired of babysitting. What once made her heart swell now made her jaw clench.
She woke up to the smell of burnt toast. Charles stood barefoot in his hoodie, curls wild, spatula clumsy in his hand. His phone was plugged in, finally, a bright green battery glowing like he’d discovered electricity.
“Good morning,” he said, grinning, like that solved something.
She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “I tried to call you.”
He winced. “Phone died. I forgot to charge it.”
Her laugh was sharp, humorless. “Of course you did.”
“I thought maybe breakfast—” He gestured at the pan, hopeful.
“Breakfast?” She crossed the room, the silk hem of her robe brushing her thighs. “You left me waiting in a dress last night while you chased beer and banter, and now you think a plate of rubber eggs is redemption?”
He looked at her like a child caught cheating on homework. For a second she almost pitied him. Almost.
The word stung him. She saw it land. He dropped the spatula like it burned.
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” she said, sipping coffee, “but it’s true. You never take care of yourself. You never plan ahead. If I’m not here, nothing happens. You run to me for everything—your schedule, your laundry, your life—and I’m supposed to clap every time you manage to act like an adult for five minutes.”
His eyes were wide, wounded. “ I love you.”
She laughed, hollow, shaking her head. “You love having me around. You love knowing someone will fix it when you forget. That’s not love, Charles. That’s dependency.”
He reached for her hand, desperate. She let him touch, then pulled away. “You know what’s funny?” she said. “At the start, I thought it was sweet, the way you leaned on me, the way you needed me. I thought it made me special. Now I see it for what it is: laziness. You never grew up because you never had to. Because people like me keep saving you, over and over.”
His lips parted, useless, searching for the apology that would reset the cycle. She was already shaking her head.
“I don’t even choose men like you,” she said, voice low, she was talking to herself more than him, wich realistically wouldn’t make a difference on the hind sight. “You choose me. You always do. The boys who play hard to get. The men who are too incompetent to be partners. Somehow, you all find me. And I’ve let you..” She set the mug down. “But not anymore. I’m done, Charles.”
He stood too fast, knocking over a stool. “Please—”
She smiled, sad and sharp. “Save it. You’ll charm the next one. She’ll believe your dimples mean devotion. She’ll think your chaos is cute until it isn’t. And you’ll run to her the way you ran to me. Always running. Never arriving.”
The sea breeze rushed through the door as she opened it, carrying her out. She didn’t look back.
On the street, Monaco glittered in the morning sun—yachts bobbing, cars purring, the city alive with men who thought charm could replace effort. She laughed to herself, a sound half bitter, half free.
They would keep finding her. Again and again, the man-children of the world, too pretty for their own good. But she didn’t have to keep staying.
Could I have a dark mocha, a shot of espresso, with almond and hemp milk, and French toast, hot dog, spaghetti and a mushroom burger, with crispy squid and chicken Parmesan
With lando please thank you!
Sure Darling❤
Lando Norris|
You Don’t Get to Miss Me
Pairing lando fem reader
Warning rough, explicit
dark mocha dating shot of espresso rough sex almond milk vaginal sex hemp milk squirting French toast spanking hot dog size kink paghetti handcuffs mushroom burger pain kink crispy squid “Do you think, you deserve a reward/punishment?” chicken Parmesan “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”
“Some days I wonder if I blow through ..
Every second you're not with me / I lose control…”
The flat was too quiet when Lando walked in, the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful — just cold.
He kicked off his shoes with a sigh, running a hand through his messy curls as he tossed his keys into the bowl by the door. He was late. Again.
The moment his eyes landed on her, sitting on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, arms folded, he knew.
Trouble.
“Hey,” he said softly, like the right tone might defuse it. “Sorry I’m late. Debrief went long.”
Y/N didn’t move. Not even a blink. “It’s been three days, Lando.”
He froze mid-step, brows knitting. “Three days since what?”
“Since we’ve had a real conversation,” she said flatly. “Since you looked at me like I mattered more than your phone.”
Lando sighed, stepping closer. “Come on, it’s been a crazy week. You know how the schedule’s been—”
“Don’t,” she cut in sharply, standing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t hide behind the race, the cameras, the team. You think I don’t know how hard you work? I do. But lately, it feels like I’m just another thing on your to-do list.”
“That’s not fair,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “You know I care about you.”
“You say that, but I’m the one sitting alone at every dinner we plan. I’m the one talking to a version of you who’s always halfway out the door.”
Her voice cracked at the end, and Lando’s shoulders dropped, guilt threading through his chest.
He stepped forward again, gentler now. “Y/N, I’m not trying to push you away. I’m just… tired. The pressure’s getting to me. I didn’t know how to balance it all.”
She looked up at him, something aching behind her eyes. “I don’t need perfect. I just need to feel like I matter to you.”
“You do.” The words came out hoarse.
“Then show me,” she whispered. “Because right now, I don’t believe you.”
That snapped something in him — not anger, not defensiveness. Just this overwhelming need to make her feel it.
Lando closed the distance between them, fast.
His hands were suddenly at her waist, pulling her to him. “You think I don’t want you? That I don’t think about you all day even when I’m too fucking busy to breathe?”
His mouth was at her ear now, breath hot and uneven.
“You think I don’t go crazy every night I fall asleep without you next to me?”
She didn’t answer. Her chest rose and fell in quick bursts, lips parted, heat rising between them like a fuse about to spark.
His grip on her tightened, voice lower. “You don’t get to say I don’t care. You don’t get to act like I’m not here, dying to touch you.”
“Then do it,” she breathed, a challenge more than a plea. “Show me.”
And just like that — it all snapped.
His mouth was on hers, rough and hungry, hands roaming her back like he couldn’t decide whether to hold her together or tear her apart. She grabbed at his shirt, dragging him closer, and they stumbled blindly toward the bedroom, neither bothering to turn on the lights.
What followed was fire — messy, consuming, and edged in everything they’d both been too stubborn to say.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was frustration and desperation and I need you in every movement, every breath, every unspoken word.
Y/n's hips clawed at him, grinding her slick pussy against his abs, her hot breath raining down on his chest. She teased and begged for more, but Lando held her off, savoring her frustration. His eyes bored into hers, challenging.
"Who's in control here?" he growled.
"Me," she hissed, trying to wriggle free.
His lip curled into a smug smile. "Wrong answer."
He flipped her onto her stomach, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. His other hand came down hard on her round ass, the room ringing with the crack of flesh on flesh. She gasped, her back arching as the pain radiated.
"You think that hurt?" he asked, spanking her again, harder. She moaned, her body twisting under his hold. "Fuck you," she spat, eyes wild and defiant.
"And who's in control now?" he growled, rubbing his cock against her wet folds.
She panted, "You are. You are."
"Damn right."
His hips surged forward, burying his cock deep inside her. She groaned, the sound guttural and raw. He rammed into her, each thrust hard and punishing, chasing his own pleasure. His mind went blank, lost in the sensation of her body under his.
Y/n clawed at the sheets, grunting with each violent thrust. Suddenly, she panted, "I'm gonna come."
Lando stopped, his cock buried deep. He glared down at her, feeling her strain against him. She gasped as he withdrew, inch by inch, leaving her empty and wanting.
"Lando, you bastard!" she shouted, her body going limp under his.
He loomed over her. "Do you think you deserve a reward or punishment?"
He stared into her eyes, waiting.
She glared back at him, her chest heaving, and said, "I don't know. Do I?"
He smirked, then rolled off her, reaching into the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs, the metal glinting in the dim light. "Let's find out."
She eyed the cuffs and Lando's grim expression. She looked back over her shoulder at him as he locked one cuff around her wrist, then the other to the bed frame. She tested them, but they held fast. Her throat went dry, her heart pounded, and her pussy flared hot — betraying her as she secretly yearned for the punishment.
He circled his fingers over her ass. "You want me to leave you like this, spread and helpless? Or do you want me to fuck you senseless?"
She gritted her teeth. "I want you to fuck me."
"No," he replied, and his palm came down hard across the soft flesh of her ass.
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in a silent cry. Pain flared across her skin, but it was the fire in his eyes that made her pant with lust. He was a god who had created her just for this — to take and use, punish and reward.
He spanked her again, his handprint blooming red on her creamy skin. She mewled, her body squirming and writhing. Her pussy dripped, slick with her arousal, her breasts rubbed against the sheets, her nipples hardening with each slap.
Lando paused, his breath ragged. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "I’m going to fucking ruin you," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "I’m going to make you scream. I’m going to make you beg. And then, I’m going to make you come so hard, you’ll forget your own name."
She shuddered, her body aching with need. "Yes," she groaned, her hips lifting, begging for more. Her fingers flexed and clenched in the cuffs, her body taut, ready to snap. "Do it."
Lando stood, his cock throbbing, and kicked her legs wider apart. He grabbed her hips, tilting them up, exposing her completely. He admired his handiwork, the red welts on her ass, the glistening pussy eager for more. He ran his fingers through her folds, feeling her heat, her wetness. She shivered, pushing back against his touch.
"I'm going to fill you up, Yin," he growled, pressing the head of his cock against her entrance. "Every inch of you is going to know who owns you."
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching her wide. She groaned, her body tensing as she took him. He was thick, long, and she could feel every ridge, every vein as he filled her. He bottomed out, his hips flush against her ass, and he leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back.
"Fuck, you're tight," he grunted, pulling out slowly, then slamming back in. She gasped, her body jolting with the force. He set a punishing pace, each thrust deep and hard, his hips slapping against her ass. She could feel him everywhere, his cock hitting spots she didn't know existed, his body crushing hers.
Her breath hitched as he reached around, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed in tight circles, the sensation overwhelming. She tugged at the cuffs, her body writhing, her mind spiraling. He was too much, too big, too intense. She could feel her orgasm building, a pressure coiling in her belly.
Suddenly, he stopped, his cock pulsing inside her. She whimpered, her body aching for release. "Please," she begged, her voice hoarse. "Please, Lando, I need to come."
He chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Not yet," he said, pulling out completely. She cried out, her body empty and aching. He flipped her onto her back, his eyes wild, his cock glistening with her juices. "I want to see your face when you come," he said, grabbing her thighs and pushing them up to her chest. He drove back into her, hard and deep. She screamed, her body arching off the bed. He prowled over her, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. He was everywhere, his body covering hers, his cock filling her, his breath hot on her face. She could feel his size, his strength, his power. She was trapped, helpless, and she loved it. "Come for me, Y/n," he commanded, his hips pounding into hers. "Come for me now."
The chill of the air against her wet skin contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from her body. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one echoing in the room as Lando's hips drove into hers with relentless force. His cock filled her completely, stretching her wide, every thrust pushing her closer to the edge.
"Lando," she screamed, her voice raw and desperate. "I can't—it's too much."
"Not enough," he growled, his teeth bared in a fierce grin. He shifted his angle, his cock hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur. "You can take more. You will take more."
His fingers dug into her thighs, his grip bruising as he held her open for his assault. His hips slapped against hers, the sound wet and obscene, a symphony of their debauchery. She could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as it slid in and out of her, the friction almost unbearable.
He leaned down, his tongue tracing the line of her jaw. "I want to feel you come around me, Y/n," he whispered, his voice a dark promise. "I want to feel you squeeze my cock so tight, you milk every fucking drop out of me."
She whimpered, her body trembling as she tried to hold on. Her pussy clenched around him, her inner muscles spasming as she teetered on the brink. He could feel it, his cock pulsing in response. He released one of her thighs, his hand snaking between them. His fingers found her clit, rubbing it in rough, insistent circles.
"Come, Y/n," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Come now."
Her body obeyed, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed, her back arching off the bed as her pussy clenched around his cock. She could feel every pulse, every spasm, her body milking him, begging for his release.
Lando groaned, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. But it was too late. Her orgasm triggered his, his cock swelling inside her as he came with a roar. He thrust deep, his hips grinding against hers as he filled her with his seed. She could feel it, hot and wet, coating her insides, dripping out of her as he pulled out slightly before thrusting back in, chasing every last drop of pleasure. His body shook, his breath ragged as he rode out his orgasm, his cock pulsing inside her. He collapsed onto her, his body slick with sweat, his breath hot on her neck. She could feel his heart pounding, matching the rhythm of her own, their bodies slick and tangled. Her pussy still fluttered around him, her body unwilling to let go and he licked the sweat from her neck.
Y/N lay on her back, chest still rising and falling rapidly, her lips swollen, eyes distant — like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or kiss him again.
Lando turned onto his side slowly, brushing his thumb against her cheek, not yet trusting his voice.
She swallowed thickly. “That was…”
“Too much?” he asked, voice raw.
She shook her head. “No. Just… a lot.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes met his, softer now. “For what?”
“For being absent. For letting you feel like you weren’t important. For needing a fight to finally wake the hell up.”
Y/N rolled toward him, tucking herself into his chest, her fingers drawing small circles over his ribs. “I didn’t want perfect, Lando,” she whispered. “Just you.”
“You’ve always had me,” he murmured into her hair. “Even when I was stupid and didn’t show it.”
His hand found her lower back, gentle now, tracing soothing patterns.
He kissed the crown of her head — slower this time, like an apology sealed with warmth.
And for the first time in days, she let herself breathe easy in his arms.
