Lucky Charm

[MEANS I CARE!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: isack is entirely confused why his best friend is avoiding him. or in which you realised you're in love with your best friend.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: childhood friends to lovers, mostly angst, bits of fluff, a reader with dismissive avoidant attachment, reader struggles with her emotions, initial anger from confrontational!isack but overall caring!isack, cute love confession at the end! // poorly proof read as usual

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: isack hadjar x bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.2k

𝐀/𝐍: poured a bit of myself into this one! it's hard to tell from my writing, but i struggle with expressing my emotions and telling people i care for them. i've heard it's quite common for older sisters to have avoidant attachment issues so... i guess i check the box ◡̈ anyway, this one might be a tad bit dramatic but lmk what you think! ♡︎ // also miss mcrae's album has a lot of avoidant attachment!!

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You and Isack were opposites in every sense that mattered.

Where one would claim he was too expressive, you couldn't bring yourself to show you cared.

Where he was indecisive, you held all rationality.

And where he trusted freely, you locked yourself up.

But nevertheless, you had been childhood friends since he moved next door to you. Neither of you had a problem with the way you both acted. It was sort of like give and take: where you lacked, he made up for it and vice versa.

It never really mattered. At least that's what you thought anyways.

This year was different from every other. There would be no other like it. Because Isack was debuting as a Formula One driver. His life long dream. And you couldn't be anymore proud.

You didn't outright say it–you couldn't. You remember smiling when he told you and saying congratulations before Isack simply rolled his eyes and pulled you into a hug.

You remembered him thanking you when you pulled away, stomach churning at the lengthy hug. You were confused. Eyebrows furrowed, you asked why.

"For believing in me," he said with the most beautiful smile and the warmest brown eyes holding your own.

That was the defining moment... the moment you realised you were in love with your best friend.

There were signs. There were always signs.

Your extensive care for him and only him. The constant worry every time he went out on track. The small skip in your heart beat when he'd return home with your favourite ice cream. Your slight amusement when you'd pretend to be cross with him and he'd think you were being serious. The little trinkets he'd bring back from every race to put on the shelves in your bedroom. Or the way he lowered the volume of the TV before you'd even ask him to because he knew you didn't like it.

They were always there. But the line between best friends and whatever... it was so similar... so blurry. How could you've ever known?

But that day... it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over your head and reality had finally been opened to you.

You loved Isack. Not liked. Not admired. Not fancied. Loved. And you had been for years.

God it scared you. It terrified you.

People never said it to you but you knew how you were.

When you invested too much of yourself into one thing, you stopped it only moments later. You didn't want to stick around to see if something would be good. It was the assumption it would hurt. So if you could dismiss it before it even had the chance to... that's the only way you could ever relax.

You never understood how people did it. How you could give so much of yourself away. What happened when it all inevitably failed? Why wouldn't you protect yourself first? Why did you have to deal with the mess of emotions?

Loving Isack... it meant showing the most vulnerable sides of yourself. And it's not that he didn't know you. He was your best friend, of course he knew you. But that made it worse.

In your years of friendship, you had cried twice in front of him. And you hated it every single second of it. That he could see you break down. That you weren't the strong friend he normally relied on.

Loving Isack was going to fail.

You knew it.

You knew it when he crashed in the formation lap on Australia and it felt like a part of you had been ripped and torn into pieces when you saw him cry on the screens.

You knew it when he came to you, thought to be out of tears, but almost on his knees, hands immediately wrapping around you for a hug, asking you why this had happened to him and you couldn't do anything but apologise to him and tell him he'd come back stronger while you cried so silently.

When his parents thanked you for being there for Isack... fuck, you knew it would all backfire.

So you slowly stopped. Like you always did.

Fewer texts. Fewer jokes. More lies. Forcing yourself to do something–anything–else but care too much.

You hated it. You hated that it was bringing you some calm despite your body screaming at you.

It was getting difficult to keep it up. How many more times would you blamed it on the time zones? As if you hadn't memorised them the moment they came out. As if you hadn't been doing this his entire career.

But the small break after the Saudi Grand Prix meant Isack was back home. After you had missed your usual good luck text.

You had forgotten actually. You were in your room, studying quietly, unaware anyone would be home as your workaholic parents were out like normal.

Consequently, the thumps up your staircase were loud, almost deafening. Your ears perked up as the door of your bedroom went wide open.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Isack's shrill voice echoed in your bedroom, chest heaving as he stood in front of you, arms firmly to his side.

You turned from your desk. You eyed his attire briefly. The hoodie and sweatpants, the bags under his eyes... he'd probably just come from the airport. The one where you'd usually be waiting for him. "Excuse me?" You asked, throat dry from not speaking in hours.

Isack blinked, swallowing. He took a step forward to you, eyes flickering over you rapidly to see if you were okay. "Is something wrong? A-Are you sick? Are you stressed? Tell me what's wrong so I can fix it."

You could feel it. The tear in your heart growing while annoyance boiled under your skin. He didn't need to fix you. That was your job.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," you sighed out, standing from your desk before you walked to your shelves. You chewed on your lip, nervously eyeing the trinkets Isack had brought you.

You needed this conversation to be over before it went somewhere else.

"Putain de merde," Isack swore, running a hand through his hair. He walked to you again. "Like hell you don't... you don't talk to me for a week and avoid my calls and you don't know what I’m talking about? Like I'm crazy?" He asked with a small scoff.

You sucked in a sharp breath, turning to face him. "I told you with the time diff–"

A loud groan interrupted your sentence. Isack breathed slowly, fingers pressed on his nose bridge. "I swear to fucking God, if you mention that stupid fucking time difference again, I will lose my mind."

You stayed quiet. You weren't sure what to say. You wanted to peel out of your skin, you were so uncomfortable. You hated confrontation. Isack knew you hated confrontation. And yet...

Isack sighed quietly. He stepped closer to you, holding your hands with his gently. "Please, ma moitié. Please tell me what's wrong. Did I do something? Why... why won't you talk to me?"

Your eyes burned at the crack in his voice. Fuck, this sucked. You hated yourself for feeling like this. It was like it was on the tip of your tongue but you could never get it out.

"I..." you said shakily, forcing yourself to remove your burning hands from his while you pretended like you didn't see the hurt flash in his eyes, "It's nothing. Nothing is wrong."

"So it is something. Something has been bothering you. Since last year... since I told you about my seat... something's been wrong. What is it? What happened?" Isack queried softly, brown eyes searching yours so deeply for an answer.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Shit.

"You know you can tell me anything."

But I can't! You wanted to scream it. You just couldn't tell him.

"Isack, please... just– you know how I am. I'll deal with it, hmm?" You said, trying to muster up a smile.

He stared at you quietly and you were scared he was seeing too much of you. The debate in his eyes... the way he chewed his lip... he also couldn't tell if he should say it.

"You want to cry," he stated, making your eyes widen. "I can see it in your eyes. The redness. Your red cheeks. You want to say something so just say it! I'm worried for you."

"Stop saying things like that." You let out an exasperated groan. You brushed past him, clambering into his shoulder. "I don't understand how you do it," you murmured angrily more to yourself than him.

The tears were freely flowing down your cheeks before you knew it. You glared hard at your desk, eyes hot as though it would stop you from crying.

You couldn't see it but Isack could feel his heart breaking at the sight of your figure shaking. You could feel him gently lay his hand over your shoulder. "It's okay to cry," he mumbled, "I wish you wouldn't hide it."

You felt sick. Like your stomach was churning. It felt like his hand was leaving an imprint on you, searing you. Exhaustion was clouding your body. Exhaustion that had built up over the course of the past few weeks.

"I can't do it like you, Isack. I can't show I care. It's so hard. It's like I have to constantly fight myself," you quietly said, unable to bear this any longer.

"Hey," Isack murmured, hand travelling to your face to turn you to him. His eyes softened at your wet cheeks. Wiping them with the pads of his thumbs, he held your chin with his thumb. "It's okay. You don't have to do anything like me. Take your time. Do what you want when you want."

You breathed quietly while you stared at your best friend. He was right. It wasn't as easy as he made it sound, but you were so tired of feeling like crap. You focused on his encouraging smile and opened your mouth.

"I... you were right. I was avoiding you," you admitted, eyes falling to the floor in embarrassment. You could feel he wanted to say something but he stayed quiet, waiting for you. "I was avoiding you because I care."

Isack furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

You chewed on your bottom lip, contemplating how much you wanted to say... how much you could say. "Last year... when you told me you got your seat, you thanked me."

He nodded in agreement. "For believing in me. Because you always do," he murmured, his free hand rubbing your own softly, comforting you.

You smiled gently at his words before taking in a sharp intake of air. "It just made me think, well, realise that I'm in love with you. And I always have been," you breathed out, the weight slowly lifting off your shoulders.

You could see Isack's eyes slightly widen but you continued. "And that terrifies me, Isack. Because it means I care. I care a lot for you. And I'm scared that because I care, something will go wrong. I-I didn't mean to shut you out. It's not what I want. It's just all I know. So I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I'm dumping this on you when you don't feel the same way and–"

"Wait, wait, wait," Isack interjected, hands both reaching to hold your face gently. He held your eyes with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. "Who's says I don't feel the same way?"

You mouth felt dry, heart speeding. "I... You do?"

Isack smiled, laughing softly as he nodded. "I thought it was obvious. That maybe you just didn't feel the same way."

He watched a dark expression fall on your face. You were in that same dreadful space you had just been in. "Hey, ma moitié, what's wrong?"

Your eyes fell to his once again. "What if I can't love you enough?"

It sounded strange but he knew what you meant. Even with all your care... what if you couldn't show you loved him enough? What if you couldn't express it?

"Not possible," Isack retorted, casually shrugging.

"But I–"

"I see it," Isack firmly told you, quietening you easily. "I see it when you're at my races and you stand on the side, letting me go to my parents first. I see you and your camera taking pictures of us when you think I don't. I see your heart. I see all of it."

You blinked, eyes burning all over again. For the first time in forever, you stepped forward, hugging him tightly. "Je t’aime, Isack.

His arms wrapped around yours, holding you closer to him. Isack smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Je t’aime, ma moitié."

"Did you bring me any souvenirs?" You mumbled against his shoulders, sniffling slightly.

You could feel his body rumble with a chuckle. "Depends. did you even watch my race or were you busy 'sleeping?'"

You pulled away, making a face, guilt still swirling within you. "I did watch it. You know I watch it even when I'm mad at you," you pouted.

Isack grinned. "Then of course I did."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

---

everytime

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Lando never learns, no matter how many times he says 'never again,' he somehow always ends up in the middle of his girlfriend’s pranks.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: swearing

Excuse me

The phone was propped up just right, hidden in plain sight, quietly recording as Y/N lounged on the couch, bundled in a blanket, remote in hand, eyes fixed on the TV like nothing was out of the ordinary.

She fought to keep a straight face. A few nights ago, mid-doom scroll while waiting for Lando to come back from a night out, she stumbled across a TikTok trend that instantly caught her attention: girlfriends wiping away kisses from their boyfriends. The dramatic reactions were hilarious, and knowing just how pouty Lando could get, she had to try it for herself.

It was the perfect setup. Lando was getting ready to head out for a padel game with a few friends, and like clockwork, their usual goodbye ritual included a quick kiss before either of them left.

“Baby, I’m about to head out,”

Right on cue, Lando walked into the frame—duffle bag slung over his shoulder, eyes glued to his phone. He strolled over to the couch, plopping down beside Y/N without looking up.

“Do you wanna grab dinner tonight after I get back?” he asked, finally setting his phone aside to look at her. “Or should I just bring something home?”

She tilted her head, pretending to think it over as casually as she could.

“I don’t mind grabbing food if you’re not too tired,” she replied with a soft smile.

“Perfect.” He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “Alright, I’m gonna go. Text me if you need anything.”

As soon as he stood, she slowly reached up and wiped her cheek with her sweater, just noticeably enough.

“Excuse me?”

Lando froze mid-step, his mouth hanging open in dramatic disbelief.

She looked up at him innocently, barely holding back a laugh at how deeply offended he already looked.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? You just wiped off my kiss!”

“I didn’t! I was just itchy,” she said, barely containing her grin.

With an exaggerated eye roll, Lando leaned in again, this time pressing a slower, more deliberate kiss to her cheek.

He pulled back, eyes locked on her, waiting.

And, just like before, she reached for her cheek and wiped it off.

“Baby!” he groaned, collapsing back onto the couch, completely betrayed.

Y/N burst out laughing.

“Lan, go! You’re gonna be late!”

“Are you mad at me? What—was it the stubble? I can shave it off,” he said dramatically, grabbing her hand.

“Oh my god…” she shook her head, completely amused.

“Do you not want me to leave? I can cancel. I’ll stay, we can talk—”

“Lando!” she laughed, cutting him off. “It’s a joke, my love. It’s a prank.”

“You muppet,” Lando said, giving her a gentle shove before grabbing a pillow and swatting her side with it. “You actually had me worried for a minute.”

Y/N was still doubled over, breathless from laughter, clutching her stomach as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. The prank had worked way better than she expected.

She was mid-wipe, dabbing at her tears, when she saw him heading for the door, bag slung over his shoulder, keys in hand.

“Wait! You’re really leaving? No goodbye kiss for me?” she called out with a grin.

Lando scoffed, shaking his head as he slid his shoes on. “Already gave you two and you wiped both of them off. You’ll survive a couple hours without one.”

And with that, he stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Still giggling, Y/N pushed herself up and made her way over to the hidden phone. She was just about to stop the recording when the door suddenly swung open again.

“Back so soon?” she teased.

Without a word, Lando strode toward her, gently took her face in his hands, and kissed her. Soft, warm, and lingering just long enough to make her melt.

“I’m still mad at you,” he muttered with a chuckle, shaking his head before finally heading out for real this time.

--------------------------------------------------------

Say it back

It was the end of a triple header, and Y/N had flown back to their Monaco apartment after the second weekend. She hadn’t seen Lando in a full week, which meant nightly FaceTime calls as soon as he wrapped up his post-race responsibilities.

It was the night before Lando’s flight home. He was lying on his side in his hotel bed, phone in hand, laptop propped up on the bedside table, camera angled perfectly for their usual call. He was casually scrolling through his phone, waiting on a text from Carlos to head out for dinner. Y/N was doing the same, her iPad balanced nearby as she sorted through the closet.

She wasn’t just passing time—she had a prank planned, and she needed Lando to hang up first so she could pull it off.

She finally heard the ping from his phone. Lando sat up and glanced at the screen.

“Just got the text from Carlos, baby. I’ll call you when I get back,” he said, moving closer to his laptop.

Y/N mirrored him, pulling her iPad closer and giving a small wave. “Have fun! Tell Carlos I said hi.”

“I will,” he smiled. “I love you, I’ll call you later.”

She immediately taps the screen, ending their call.

She stared at the now-black iPad screen, biting her lip to keep from grinning too hard. Not even thirty seconds passed before it started ringing again—Lando’s contact flashing across the screen. The hidden camera on the shelf beside her caught the whole thing.

“Watch him whine,” she mumbled to herself, quickly schooling her expression before picking up.

“Yes, Lan—”

“—I think the call cut off, baby,” he interrupted. This time, he was on his phone, holding it close. “I said I love you and that I was gonna call you as soon as I’m back from dinner.”

“I heard you, Lan,” she said sweetly. “I’ll probably still be up when you call. Don’t worry. Go have fun, alright?”

He gave her a soft smile, now walking down the hotel hallway. “Alright, my love. I love you.”

“Okay, bye,” she replied with the same gentle smile—and ended the call again.

She let out a quiet laugh, fully expecting the phone to ring again.

And, as predicted, it did.

When she picked up this time, Lando was in the elevator, now wearing a dramatic pout.

“I love you,” he said, deadpan.

She laughed, finally letting her composure crack. “Okay, Lan, I heard you the first time.”

“Then say it back!” he whined, full puppy mode engaged.

She was full-on laughing now. “This is one of your pranks again, isn’t it?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed in mock irritation.

“I’m glad at least one of us is having fun,” he muttered with a playful scoff.

“Alright, you big baby. I love you too,” she said, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled with a smirk, finally ending the call.

--------------------------------------------------------

Come to bed

The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the TV as the two of them laid tangled together on the couch. The sound of their show played quietly in the background, but Lando had already yawned more than once in the last few minutes, his fingers twitching slightly where they were resting against her arm.

“You wanna move to the bedroom, love?” he mumbled, pulling away slightly to stretch, his voice thick with sleep. “We can keep watching there, I’m getting kinda tired.”

She hummed in acknowledgment but stayed exactly where she was, not budging an inch. That yawn? The perfect cue. Her mind was already spinning with mischief.

“I think I’ll sleep here tonight,” she said casually, eyes still fixed on the screen.

Lando’s head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. “…On the couch?”

“Yeah.” She kept her tone light, expression unreadable, fully committed to the bit.

He blinked at her, confusion furrowing across his face. Then, without another word, he grabbed the remote and turned the volume down until the room was almost silent.

“Wait, hold on—why?” he asked, his brows drawn together now, voice softer. “Did something happen?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, like it wasn’t that deep. “I just feel like sleeping out here.”

Lando stood up slowly, still watching her. She stared at the TV like she was completely serious.

She expected him to push back, maybe pout, or try to guilt her into coming to bed. But instead, he turned and walked off toward their bedroom.

She blinked, sitting up slightly. Had she actually taken it too far this time?

A minute later, she heard footsteps padding back down the hallway. Lando returned with an armful of pillows and the big blanket from their bed, dragging it all toward the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying not to laugh as he started arranging everything.

“Making up our bed,” he replied, fluffing a pillow and placing it at one end of the couch. “Since you’re set on sleeping here, I guess this is where we’re sleeping.”

She stared at him, completely caught off guard.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said through a small laugh. “You can go sleep in the bed, Lan. I didn’t say you had to sleep out here with me.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging as he smoothed out the blanket. “But I don’t want to sleep without you. So either we move to the bedroom, or I’m staying here.”

He looked up at her, eyes a little tired, a little soft. “Unless… are you mad at me? Did I do something?”

That was it. The guilt hit her instantly, followed by a wave of affection.

She sat up and grabbed his hand, pulling him into a hug, burying her face into his shoulder as she smiled. “It was a joke, baby. I was just messing with you,” she murmured. “But you’re so sweet, it actually hurts.”

Lando groaned dramatically, wrapping his arms around her like he was melting into her. “I hate you sometimes,” he muttered, but he was already smiling.

She pulled back just enough to kiss his cheek. “You love me.”

He sighed like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Rent is due

Ever since moving in together, Lando had made one thing painfully clear—Y/N was not to worry about rent. No matter how many times she offered, no matter how many spreadsheets she pulled up with her “budget breakdown,” he stood firm, arms crossed, shaking his head with a smug little grin. Her only job? Groceries. And even then, he often tried to sneakily pay for those too, claiming he “accidentally” tapped his card first.

That particular afternoon, she was elbows deep in flour and chocolate chips, humming to herself as she shaped the final batch of cookies. The apartment smelled like warm sugar and vanilla, and her camera was cleverly hidden behind a canister of flour, angled perfectly to catch his reaction.

She had seen the trend on TikTok a few days earlier: partners telling their significant others they couldn’t pay their half of the rent. And while technically she didn’t pay any rent to begin with, she knew Lando would absolutely fall for it.

The moment she got his text, “Be home in 5. Want 3 cookies. Minimum.”, she put her plan into motion.

As if on cue, the door clicked open and she heard the familiar sound of keys hitting the entryway bowl.

“In the kitchen!” she called out, casually sliding a warm cookie onto a plate like she hadn’t been plotting for days.

Lando walked in seconds later, still in his hoodie and cap, hair a little messy from his sim session. His eyes lit up the second he saw the cookies, practically tossing his keys onto the counter.

“They’re still warm,” she said sweetly, offering him one. “I’m about to put the last batch in.”

He took a bite, groaning dramatically as he leaned over the counter, melting like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “You’re actually a witch,” he mumbled through the cookie. “A dangerous, cookie-making sorceress.”

She giggled and kept scooping dough onto the tray, timing her moment perfectly.

“I do have to tell you something though,” she said, lowering her voice just a touch and furrowing her brows for maximum effect.

Lando glanced up, still chewing, immediately on alert. “Okay… what’s up?”

She hesitated, pretending to avoid his eyes, fingers fiddling with the cookie dough scoop. “I, um… I don’t think I can pay rent this month.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I had to use the money for something else. It was urgent. I’m really sorry.”

“Baby… baby.” Lando sets his half-eaten cookie down slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movements might make things worse. He gently takes the spoon from her hand, brows drawn together in full confusion.

“What are you talking about? Since when do you pay rent?” he asks, voice calm but clearly alarmed.

She looks him straight in the eye, her expression painfully serious. “Since I moved in. I’ve just… been sending my half directly to the landlord.”

Lando stares at her, blinking slowly. “What do you mean the landlord?”

She shrugs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “I messaged her when I first moved in, asked for her payment details. Been paying her every month since.”

His jaw drops, cookie forgotten in his hand. “Wait. Elodie? Elodie from downstairs? Our Elodie?!”

She nods casually, scooping more cookie dough like she didn’t just drop a bomb.

“Babe…” He drags a hand down his face, the kind of motion that screams I’m too pretty to be this stressed. “I pay her. I’ve been paying her. Full rent. On autopay. Every month.”

“Well,” she says with a shrug, “so have I.”

He groans, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Okay. Nope. I’m messaging her right now. She’s either been robbing us blind or you’ve been sending money to some random woman impersonating our landlord.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait—Lando. Lando, I was joking. It’s a prank, baby. A TikTok thing! Don’t message her!”

He freezes, thumb hovering over his screen. He slowly lifts his eyes to hers, blinking like he’s buffering. “You’re kidding?”

She nods, bursting into laughter. “Yes! Oh my god, you looked like you were about to write an angry landlord Yelp review.”

Lando tosses his phone onto the counter like it personally betrayed him. “Fuck me,” he mutters, picking up his half-eaten cookie and dramatically biting into it. “I genuinely thought we were bankrolling a secret apartment downstairs.”

She’s still laughing when he points the cookie at her. “You owe me. I want another dozen of these. For emotional damages.”

“Done,” she giggles, walking over to kiss his cheek. “Sorry for the stress, landlord.”

He groans again. “I swear, if I ever hear the word rent come out of your mouth again, I'm billing you in cookies.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Watch it

After weeks of watching Lando get relentlessly pranked by his girlfriend, and loving every second of it, Max Fewtrell finally slid into her messages with a proposal.

“Tag me in for the next one. I’ve got ideas.”

They landed on a viral couple's prank: the partner’s best friend acts rude to the girlfriend to see how the boyfriend reacts. Simple. Effective. Potentially explosive.

The perfect setup unfolded one chill evening in Lando’s gaming room. All three were squeezed into frame on Max’s Twitch stream, headsets on, fingers flying over their keyboards as they played a chaotic round of Repo together.

Midway through a match, Max dramatically slammed his headset on the desk. “Fucking hell, mate, can we take five? My ears are bleeding from the strategic nonsense I’m hearing.”

He and Y/N exchanged a quick smirk. Game on.

“I’m gonna get some water,” Max said, standing up with a loud stretch.

“Could you get me some too?” she asked sweetly.

Max scoffed like she’d just asked him to run a marathon. “What do I look like, your butler? Get it yourself.”

Lando looked up so fast he nearly dropped his phone. His eyes flicked from Max to Y/N, brows furrowing. “I’ll get you water, baby,” he said immediately, standing and brushing past Max with a suspicious glance.

Max bit his lip to stop from laughing. Phase one: complete.

Back at their seats, they dove into another match. That’s when Max really turned it up.

“Christ, are you even trying?” he snapped at her mid-round. “It’s like playing with a blindfolded hamster.”

Y/N bit her cheek to keep from laughing.

Lando didn’t even blink. “Nah, she’s doing great. You just suck at support, mate.”

Max rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out. “Support? I’m carrying this team!”

Still no reaction.

So Max went nuclear.

Another loss. Another dramatic sigh. “Right. I’m done. Y/N, Fuck You’re like deadweight”

Lando froze. His entire vibe shifted.

“Max.”

His voice was low. Too low.

Max blinked innocently. “What? She knows she’s bad.”

“No, mate,” Lando said, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, stare locked on Max like he was calculating how long it would take to physically throw him out. “Don’t talk to her like that. Seriously. You've been a dick the whole stream.”

Max tried to hold it together. “Mate, relax. I’m just saying—”

“I don’t care,” Lando snapped, slamming the mute button on the mic. “You don’t get to act like a complete twat just because we’re on stream. You think it’s funny to shit on her all night? Grow the fuck up.”

Max’s eyes widened as he looked over to Y/N for a lifeline.

Lando caught that too. “Don’t look at her! Apologize. Now.”

At that, Max and Y/N burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Lando’s mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”

Max clutched his stomach, wheezing. “Mate. I thought you were about to physically eject me from the chair. Like WWE style.”

Y/N was doubled over laughing, wiping tears from her eyes.

Lando just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. “I can’t believe I fell for that. You two are insufferable”

Max unmuted the mic, letting the stream hear their chaotic laughter. The chat was already spamming “PRANKED” and “protective Lando mode”

“I’m still sweating,” Max panted. “That vein in your forehead? It had its own heartbeat.”

Lando groaned. “You know what? Next time you both prank me, I’m calling your mum, Max. I swear.”

Y/N giggled, wrapping her arm around Lando. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I was ready to throw him out the apartment” Lando smirked, finally cracking.

---

Heat [Lando Norris x reader]

description: You almost pass out in the heat, but Lando helps you out.

It was a brutally hot race weekend. You weren’t used to this kind of heat. Besides, you were on your period, and the combination of these two made it difficult to eat a proper breakfast or lunch. You had no appetite, and you weren’t even feeling quite right all day.

Still, you knew Lando had it way worse. He was the one racing. The least you could do was not to complain. You didn’t even tell anyone how strange you felt, not wanting to make a fuss while your boyfriend had to sit in a burning hot car and drive.

You took a walk in the paddock with Lando’s best friend, Max Fewtrell. He also complained about the heat, but now he seemed fine, chugging a bottle of cold water and chilling in an air-conditioned room, waiting for the race to start. The two of you were chatting for a while, but now he was editing something on his phone, so you decided to scroll through social media to pass the time.

No, you weren’t feeling well. Everything started to blur a bit around the edges. Your vision dimmed for a second, and you could hear your heart drumming in your ears. You placed the phone on the table you were sitting at and buried your face into your palms, taking a few deep breaths.

 “Hey, Y/N, are you okay?” You felt someone touching your shoulder. Your brain felt foggy, but you had a vague guess that it was Max. You didn’t have the energy to reply.

 Your lack of response worried Max. “Uhm, do you want to grab a bottle of water from the cafeteria or something? You are so pale.”

 “I’m not sure,” you mumbled, your voice sounding foreign to your ears.

 “What do you mean? Come on, let’s go get something to drink. We have like twenty minutes before the race starts,” Max answered, and he grabbed your arms to help you up. He didn’t want to leave you unattended in a state like this. However, you lost your balance, so Max lowered you back on the barstool before the two of you would draw unwanted attention. “Come on, Y/N, Lando is going to kill me if you pass out on me,” he mumbled nervously.

That was when Lando decided to check on the two of you in the five spare minutes he got. When he spotted you in the corner of the room, he quickly realized that something was wrong. He walked over to the two of you. “Everything okay over here?” he asked, eyeing you with a mix of worry and confusion.

 “I don’t think so, mate,” Max answered, biting his lips. “I wanted to take her to the cafeteria, but I’m not sure she can walk- Or something.”

Lando saw how pale you were. Then he noticed that your hands were shaking slightly. His heart sank in his chest. It wasn’t the first time that you started feeling off at the beginning of your period, and the heat wasn’t helping you either. He wondered how much you ate all day.

He pulled out the barstool beside you and sat down, placing a comforting hand on your back. “Max, can you get her a bottle of water and a granola bar or something like that?” he asked, not taking his eyes off you for a second. He took your hand, his finger hovering over your wrist to feel your pulse.

Max sighed in relief as Lando finally took over the situation. He nodded and rushed off.

Lando gently squeezed your hand. “Come on, you’ll be alright,” he muttered softly. “Max will be here with something for you soon, alright?”

You heard his words, but you couldn’t register what he was saying. Lando hugged you to prevent you from falling off the barstool, and you leaned against his chest. He held you close and kissed your forehead. He tried to ignore the fact that you were in a public space, and there were probably plenty of eyes, maybe even cameras, watching the two of you.

You felt limp in his arms. He knew you were conscious, but he wasn’t sure how long you would be. He smoothed the hair out of your face. “Come on, you silly little thing,” he spoke gently. “Don’t pass out on me like this.”

Max was back in a couple of minutes, and he handed over everything to Lando. Your boyfriend took the water immediately, and he opened the bottle while still hugging you close to his chest. Then he placed the bottle to your mouth and tipped it lightly.

 “Just drink a little bit, okay? Small sips…” he said after realizing that you didn’t respond. As you felt the cool water on your mouth, you finally swallowed. Lando sighed in relief. For a second, he was sure you would pass out right there in his arms.

After you drank a few sips, the colour finally started to return to your face. Your vision slowly cleared up, and you realized you were leaning against Lando, so you pulled away. He was there, sitting next to you, his suit halfway zipped, watching you intently. He handed you the water bottle, seeing that now you were able to sit up somewhat straight.

 “Hey there,” he smiled a little as he reached out to rub your back. “You scared me for a second.”

That was the point when Lando’s engineer decided to find him personally when he didn’t return after the promised five minutes. “Man, everyone is looking for you,” he frowned at Lando.

 “I know, I’m sorry, mate. Y/N was a little unwell, I couldn’t leave her like that,” Lando turned away to answer.

Your cheeks heated up now that you were in the centre of attention.

Lando’s engineer didn’t seem convinced by your pale expression. “Does she need medical attention?”

 “I don’t think so,” Lando shook his head, and then he focused back on you. He opened the granola bar and placed it between your fingers. “Take a few bites. Do you think you’ll be able to get back on your feet?”

 “Why?” you frowned, confused. You had no intention to go anywhere.

 “I need to get back to work. Will you be fine with Max?” he asked. He didn’t want to leave you yet, but he knew staying wasn’t an option when the race was just about to start.

You nodded.

 “Good. Just eat your snack, drink the water, and stay in here. I’ll get you after I’m done.” He patted your knee and stood up. He took one last look at you before he hurried away.

You sighed as you watched him get in the car. You knew he was trained to deal with the heat, yet you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time you managed to almost pass out while he was doing perfectly fine.

You took a bite of the granola bar he handed you and watched him go.

---

Track Limits | Part 1

Pairing: ex!lando x f1driver!reader (ft. love triangle w/ max)

Genre: love triangle, exes to lovers, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, emotional???, HORNY AFFFFF, F1, reader is the first female F1 driver in 50 years, toxic dynamics, betrayal, power shift, revenge sex, we’re fucking everyone

wc: roughly 23k

Description: You’re Formula 1’s reigning world champion—the first woman to ever do it. But the start of this season is all about what you’ve already lost. Lando left. Two years in the gutter without even an apology.

You don’t owe him a smile, let alone a glance—but when he follows you into the hallway and you let him touch you, everything breaks.

Notes: my main blog is for p bueckers @bueckets

Max doesn’t lean against the wall—he never has. It’s not in him. He stands like someone waiting for the lights to go out, back straight, arms loose at his sides, fingers twitching in his pockets like they’re used to gripping a steering wheel. He’s outside because he said he needed air, but the air in Monaco doesn’t come without strings. It tastes like spent champagne and new money, clings sweet and artificial at the back of your throat. Perfume and engine grease and too many accents pretending they don’t know who he is. He ignores the ambient glamour the way most people ignore hunger—until they can’t.

He’s waiting for you, of course he is. Every minute you’re late coils tighter in his chest. Not that he’s worried. He’s not the worried type. But there’s a knot forming just under his sternum, a tension he hasn’t shaken since the end of the season. Since you vanished.

He glances at his phone. One notification. It’s nothing. He locks the screen before it fully lights up. Tucks it away. Stares out at the glittering coastline like it owes him something.

And then—there. The white Porsche, turning the corner like a ghost re-entering its own funeral. White, pristine, arrogant in the way vintage things are—refusing to blend in. The headlights sweep across the valet station, the kind of entrance that gets registered even if it’s not announced. Max doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. Just a subtle shift—his spine pulling taut, his weight redistributing slightly off his right leg, a flick of his fingers inside his pocket like he’s calibrating himself in real time.

He straightens a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to realign something invisible. The night exhales. The street bends. Max tells himself not to look eager. Not to stare. Not to overreact. But when the door lifts and you step out, all quiet grace and exposed skin and don’t-fuck-with-me heels, something in his throat tightens anyway.

You look– fuck– you look like sin. Like heartbreak rebuilt into something knife-sharp and exquisite. Like the kind of woman people name storms after. Your dress is white, but not innocent. Not even close. It clings at the waist, parts at the thigh, flows in soft spirals behind you like smoke from a gun that’s just been fired. The kind of gown that moves like it’s tired of being polite. The fabric kisses your calves with every step, ripples over your hips like it’s worshipping them. Your back is bare. Your shoulders glint under the light like they’ve never carried pain.

Max doesn’t do poetry. Doesn’t do adjectives. But fucking he’ll. You finally look like yourself. The you that hasn’t existed in months. Or maybe someone new—someone forged sharp in the fire of that off-season silence. A different kind of fast. A different kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous that makes his teeth ache. The kind that hums beneath the skin, coils in his gut, and settles low—an ache he won’t name, but can’t ignore.

You see him immediately.  You don’t slow down. You don’t smile like you used to. You give him that look—neutral on the surface, but full of teeth underneath. Like you’re waiting to see how he’ll handle it. If he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Watches as you hand the keys to the valet—smooth, practiced, fingers brushing just enough to make the kid blush. Watches as you respond to his French without hesitation, with that soft warmth you reserve for strangers who haven’t betrayed you yet. Watches as you smile—not the full one, not the one with teeth and tongue and trouble—just the corner, the polite echo of it. The one that says I’m fine when you aren’t. Your voice, low and graceful, drapes itself around merci like silk falling from a shoulder.

Your dress breathes around you like it knows the air here doesn’t belong to anyone but you. And then you walk toward him. Each step measured, heel to stone, click to silence. The wind barely dares to touch your hair. You don’t rush. You don’t need to. You walk like you’ve got nowhere to be and everyone to impress anyway.

Max swallows something stupid. Something like regret. Something like awe. And somehow, you’re still not close enough. He doesn’t step toward you. Not even a little.

He holds his ground like he’s used to doing on track—tight grip, quiet posture, too still. You’re maybe three feet away now, close enough for him to catch the tail end of your perfume, something sharp and floral and completely intentional, the kind of scent that lives in the collar of someone's memory long after the body’s gone. 

Max doesn’t blink. He catalogues everything the way only someone like him can. How your eyes flicker—not uncertain, not shy, but observant, scanning him like telemetry. How your hair’s styled not for effort but for effect. Soft waves, pinned just enough to look sculpted. How your skin glows like it’s been sleeping under better stars. And how your lips—barely glossed—still manage to look like trouble.

You stop two feet from him. Let the silence stretch. There’s a smirk playing at your mouth, not quite earned, not quite performative. The kind you wear when you’ve already decided how this is going to go, and you’re just waiting to see if he keeps up.

“You’re late,” he says, finally, and his voice is low and familiar and unsympathetic in that particularly Dutch way. No hello. No you look good. Just a casual accusation, flat on the surface, but already unraveling around the edges.

Your head tilts slightly. One brow rises. “I know,” you answer. There’s a pause. Brief. Charged.

You look at him fully now. Hold his gaze without flinching. You’re not here for comfort. You’re here for optics. For necessity. For Red Bull. But maybe, just maybe, you’re also here to remind the room that you still exist in every language they tried to write you out of. Max exhales through his nose. Like a laugh trying not to be born.

“I told them I wasn’t going in without you,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t mean something.

You hum. That same infuriating, delicate little sound you used to make when he said something half-serious. Not mocking. Not kind. Just acknowledging it without letting it land. He watches your eyes flick past him, toward the entrance, and for a moment—just a flash—he thinks you might be reconsidering. Might turn around. Might vanish again like a dream punished for getting too close to real.

But then you sigh. Barely. The kind of sigh that means fine. And Max– still Max, opens the door. You don’t say thank you. You just walk past him—skin brushing the edge of his jacket, the silk of your dress rustling against the doorway—and step into the room like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

His hand comes to the small of your back. Light. Barely there. But it is there. And to him, that’s all anyone needs to see.

The air inside is thicker than it should be. Low light spills down from the custom glass fixtures like honey—too warm, too intimate for a place that charges this much to breathe. The room hums with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery, but under it all, there's that undercurrent Max knows too well: tension, curated and caged. Everyone pretending not to see, not to look, not to notice you stepping into the room on Max’s arm like a reentry wound. Monaco’s elite pretending they haven’t spent the past three months whispering your name like it was cursed.

You keep your head down.

Not a flinch. Not weakness. Just focus. Max can feel the way your posture locks in, muscles pulled tight under that silk-and-steel exterior. The dress moves like it’s made of breath and water, but your spine stays straight. Your chin tilted just slightly down, like you’re giving yourself a second to survive it. Max’s hand is still at the small of your back. He doesn’t move it.

He can’t. He’s not entirely sure if it’s to guide you or to ground himself. And then he sees them.

Lando. Charles. Oscar. Carlos. Their girlfriends. Their drinks. Their eyes.

And for the first time all night, Max falters. Just a flicker. A break in the rhythm. Because Lando looks fucking stunned. Not just shocked, not just caught off guard—but actually, genuinely out of his depth. The kind of look Max has seen on rookie drivers during their first wet quali in Spa. He recovers quickly, of course. He always does. Leans back a little. Wraps his arm tighter around Magiu like he’s marking territory he doesn’t even like the taste of.

Max meets his eyes. It’s brief. Sharp. Heavy. And in that second, there’s a history of fuck-ups and fallout crammed into one glance. You fucking idiot, Max thinks, louder than necessary. Louder than smart. You had her, and you—

He doesn’t let the rest form. Because it’s not his place. Not really. Even if he was the one you called, finally, two weeks after the season ended, voice cracked open like old paint, saying nothing but Are you home?

Even if he was the one who picked up after thirty seconds of pacing because of course he was. Even if Lando dumped you like you were an expired sponsorship deal and walked straight into some glorified influencer’s glittered lap like it wouldn’t follow him. Even if Max felt that lump in his throat grow roots.

He doesn’t let himself think about why. He’s spent a month not thinking about it. Not thinking about the way his chest tightened when he saw your name light up his phone. Not thinking about the way you sounded when you exhaled into the receiver like you hadn’t done that properly in weeks. Not thinking about how he didn’t ask any questions—just left the door unlocked and cleared the guest room and made tea he knew you wouldn’t drink.

Now you’re here, next to him, and it’s real in a way it hasn’t been yet. His hand against your back, warm from your skin, feels too personal. Too right. You tilt your head just barely toward him and mutter under your breath, voice soft and close enough to touch:

“Ik kan niet naar ze kijken.”

I can’t look at them.

Max’s jaw flexes. His hand steadies on your back, thumb brushing the edge of your spine. Just once. Barely noticeable. But it’s a decision. It’s a promise.

“Ik weet het,” he murmurs. “Ik heb je.”

I know. I’ve got you.

And he does. Whatever tonight is—whatever it means—he’s not letting you walk through it alone. He’s never cared much for ceremony. But right now, with your warmth soaking into his palm and your breath catching just enough to betray your calm—right now, it feels a lot like something.

You step through the private door like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just inhale Max’s voice in your mother tongue like a sedative. Like the tension in your shoulders isn’t three months old and fossilized. Like you aren’t acutely aware of the fact that Lando Norris is sitting in the next room, wrapped in someone else’s perfume, laughing into someone else’s throat.

You’re not here for that. You’re here for business. The room is softly lit, quiet, thick with money and influence. Long table. Frosted glass walls. A muted kind of power thrumming under everything—white oak floors, gold accents, minimalist design so curated it’s almost rude. The Red Bull principal stands at the head, his smile tight, his watch louder than his words. Flanking him are a half-dozen men whose suits cost more than most people’s mortgages, plus two women in sleek dresses and sharper expressions, their clipped nods making it very clear they don’t need to be impressed. These are the people who decide what teams look like before the engineers even touch the cars. The ones who know you by name, by number, by millions moved.

Their eyes land on you the second you enter. The silence bends. You walk like the cameras are still on. Like the championship was yesterday. Like your ex isn’t five meters away on the other side of a wall too thin for your liking. You let your heels kiss the floor like it’s a stage. Let your dress do what it was built to do—hug, whisper, glide. You keep your gaze steady, your posture regal, your expression perfectly smooth. Business now. Emotion later. Or never. Preferably never.

Max is beside you, but he’s silent. You feel him there, a familiar gravity. Still close enough to touch. Still warm.

“Look at that,” one of the execs murmurs, voice gruff but amused. “Even prettier than the headlines said.”

You give him a smile. Polished. Practiced. Sharp around the edges. Christian gestures to your seat near the head of the table. “Glad you could make it,” he says, nodding at both you and Max. “We’ll make this quick. We’re not here to waste your time. You’ve both proven you don’t need micromanaging.”

Max slides into the seat beside yours. Casual. Effortless. You follow suit, back straight, hands folded, eyes sharp.

They start talking. Money. Sponsorships. Projected figures for next season. Pay increases. You and Max are getting a bump—sizeable. You don’t blink. It’s what you’re worth. Maybe more. One of the execs jokes that with the two of you on the same team, the constructors' trophy might as well be etched already. Someone else mutters that McLaren’s upgrades are the only threat.

Because you know what they’re talking about. Not the cars. The driver. The boy. The mistake. The person you loved like he wasn’t a liability. The one who let your heart rot in his hands and then replaced you with someone who only understands Instagram captions and face angles. Your nails press into your palm. You make sure your expression doesn’t shift. You nod once. Breathe slowly. Professional. Unbothered.

Max doesn’t say anything. But you feel it—the shift in him. Like his focus sharpens the second you move. Like he’s not just watching the room. He’s watching you. You force yourself to focus on the words being said. Aerodynamic reports. Budget negotiations. Test schedules. But your mind… your mind won’t stop dragging itself back to that moment outside. The brief brush of Max’s hand against your spine. The way it didn’t feel intrusive. Or accidental. Or formal.

It felt like steadiness. Like something you didn’t realize you’d been craving until it was already gone. Like warmth in the cold hallway between past and present.

You swallow. Nod again. Someone says something about your performance last season—how no woman’s ever dominated the way you have. How the data doesn’t lie. That your cornering metrics are almost inhuman. That you might be one of the best to ever do it.

You smile again. Another trophy smile. But it doesn’t reach all the way up. Because behind it, all you can think about is the fact that Lando is five meters away. Max’s hand is still echoing on your skin. And you’re sitting in a room full of power pretending you’re not bleeding under your dress.

The room empties in increments. Slowly, like a tide receding, quiet murmurs of goodbyes and clinks of crystal echoing against the walls like afterthoughts. The chairs are pushed in with just enough noise to remind you you’re still in the land of the living. Polished hands reach for coats. Watches checked. Nods exchanged like currency. No one rushes. No one lingers.

You don’t move. You sit perfectly still in your chair, spine resting not against the leather but your own discipline, your hands laid neatly over your lap like you’re holding something fragile and invisible there. It’s over. The meeting. The dinner. The performance. And still, the tension in your shoulders doesn’t unwind.

Because the ache wasn’t in the meeting. It’s in the moments after. You feel him before he speaks. Max doesn’t move quietly. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover. He just exists—sturdy and low and immovable in that way he does when he’s trying to be casual but is actually watching the world unfold in real time. You don’t need to look to know he’s still standing at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, like he’s waiting for something.

You glance up, finally, and catch his eye. Just for a second. It feels like being caught looking down the barrel of something dangerous. There’s no smirk. No grin. Nothing sarcastic in the slope of his brow or the tilt of his head. Just Max, steady and warm and devastating in that suit that’s too sharp for this late at night, like he’s been built out of tailored tension.

Your mouth is dry. You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just lean forward slightly to reach for the water glass you never touched, and as your fingers curl around the crystal stem, your dress shifts. The silk across your chest tugs just slightly tighter, the slit parting a breath wider at your thigh.

And he looks. Not long. Not greedy. But direct. Unapologetic. Like he was waiting for you to move so he had permission. And for a stupid, brainless second, it flusters you. Not because it’s Max. But because it’s you, and you hate that your body notices. You hate that you feel warm under your skin in a room that’s already cooled with abandonment. You hate that every inch of professionalism you put on like perfume is starting to crack where his gaze rests.

You sip the water. It doesn’t help. Max finally speaks. Quiet. Clipped.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you, like a paperweight dropped on silk. Light. But you feel it. In your chest. Your stomach. Lower. You clear your throat and lean back, eyes on the glass in your hand.

“That obvious?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “No,” he says. “But I know you.”

And that—that’s what does it. You exhale slow through your nose, the kind of breath that tastes like resignation. Your fingers still wrapped around the glass, condensation sliding cool against your knuckles while heat blooms under your skin like a secret. He’s still standing. Still looking at you with that maddening calm. Like he’s the only person in the world who knows how tightly you’re holding yourself together and the exact second you’ll start to unravel.

You shift again. Cross your legs. The slit parts with a whisper. His eyes flick down. Just briefly. You wonder if he notices the way your pulse jumps in your neck. You wonder if he feels how warm the room’s gotten.

“Didn’t expect them to bring up McLaren,” you say, finally, and your voice is too smooth. Too casual. It sounds like conversation, but it’s not. Not really.

Max lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. Might be disbelief. Might be frustration smoothed out into something prettier. “They’re scared,” he says. “They should be. We’re going to fucking destroy them.”

The way he says we punches something low in your stomach. Like an old bruise pressed too suddenly. You nod. Swallow. Force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Let’s hope they don’t upgrade too fast.”

You don’t say Let’s hope he doesn’t. You don’t say Let’s hope I never have to see him in the rearview. You don’t say Let’s hope I don’t fucking break apart the first time he’s in my mirrors.

Instead, you say nothing. And Max doesn’t push. He just moves—finally. Walks slowly around the table until he’s closer. Not sitting. Not towering. Just there. Half-leaning against the back of the chair next to you, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in front of him. He looks relaxed. He’s not. You can tell by the way his thumbs keep brushing together.

“You handled it well,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “Even when they brought him up.”

You tense. Your body betrays you again. And maybe that’s the point. Because Max leans down slightly, not much, just enough so that his voice is nearer to your ear when he adds, quieter now:

“I saw your hand.” Your breath catches. Of course he did. You hate that you care that he did. You hate how good it feels to be seen. You don’t look at him. Just stare at the condensation dripping down your glass like it’s an escape route.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“It matters,” he says, and there’s something there now—low and charged and thick between his words. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blink. The room suddenly feels smaller. The glass is empty. The lights are too soft. Your throat is dry again.

“I need a drink,” you say, and this time it’s not an excuse. It’s a confession.

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, “Come on,” he says. “Let’s find something good.” His hand brushes your arm as he straightens. Not an accident. Not subtle.

It’s warm. Too warm. And the feeling lingers. You step out into the corridor first, Max falling into stride beside you, the two of you cutting a sleek silhouette through the soft velvet hush of the hallway. You walk close—not touching, but close. Your shoulders brush every few steps, that easy cadence you slip into when you’re too tired to pretend there’s distance.

You don’t speak yet. Just walk. It’s a short stretch of hallway, but it feels like crossing back into gravity. The hallway lights are gold-toned and low, casting your reflections in ripples across the polished marble floors. You glance sideways at Max as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit, one hand sliding into his pocket with that lazy, practiced ease that says I don’t care and I’ve already won in the same breath.

And just like that, something tilts. You feel it in the ease of his movement, the unbothered slouch of him beside you, the heat still lingering where his fingers grazed your arm. Across the room, Lando exists. So does the girl on his arm. But they feel far away now—blurred at the edges, irrelevant. Because you’re here. With Max. And for the first time tonight, the weight in your chest loosens. You’re going to have a good night. Fuck the past. Fuck them. You’ve got better things to do.

You snort. He turns his head slightly, not quite looking at you.

“What.”

“You really leaned into that whole pensive Dutch robot thing tonight.”

“I was being professional,” he mutters.

“You were being Max.”

Max scoffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I didn’t see you doing any of the talking.”

“I’m mysterious,” you say, with just enough mockery in your voice to make it clear you’re doing a bit. “I let the mystery breathe.”

He laughs again—softer this time, just under his breath. And you feel it loosen something under your ribs. Just a little. Then, the bar. Low-lit. Intimate. Filled with the kind of soft shadows that make it easy to forget what came before. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive, but suspends. Everything gets quieter here. Closer. He holds the door open for you. You walk in like the air belongs to you now. Like it owes you. Like he does.

You’re laughing before you sit. The kind of laughter that lives at the bottom of your chest—hollow, exhausted, edged in disbelief. You fold into your spot at the bar like you’ve finally exhaled, like your body’s tired of pretending to be bulletproof. The champagne’s doing what it needs to do—cooling your tongue, softening the sharpness in your throat—and beside you, Max is slouched just enough to look like he belongs here. Elbow on the bar, knee brushed against yours, mouth curled in that dry, slow way that says he’s been holding back a hundred comments since the first minute of that meeting.

“God,” he mutters, speaking in Dutch but his tone needs no translation, “the management is so fucked.”

You snort, swirling the stem of your glass between your fingers. “I know. That one guy—what’s his name? With the comb-over—he actually suggested doing a TikTok collab with Stroll. I thought I was hallucinating.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sigh, and tilt your head back against the edge of the bar, eyes fluttering closed for a second. The bar’s warm. The world is soft around the edges. You could stay like this. Not forever. But for tonight.

And then, you look at him. Just a glance. Just long enough to catch the way his neck flushes a little pink above his collar, the way his hair’s slightly messed from running his hand through it for the millionth time, the way his lips are parted like he’s still chewing on a thought he hasn’t decided whether to speak.

Something in your stomach drops. Because he looks beautiful. Not magazine beautiful. Not polished, press-conference perfect. Just—real. Flushed and blinking and a little undone, like the stress is wearing off in layers, and all that’s left underneath is him. And then he turns, just slightly, his eyes catching yours, steady, clear, unguarded in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Was your time off okay?” he asks. Voice quiet now. Still in Dutch, but softer than before. Less sarcasm. More sincerity.

You pause. Then nod, adjusting the way your fingers rest on the stem of your glass. “Yeah,” you say. “Spent most of it in Italy. On my boat. Doing nothing. Yours?”

He hums. Looks away, gaze drifting past the bar, out toward the huge glass windows that overlook the water. His expression shifts—something wistful, something gentle. His lashes are too long, and the gold light turns his profile into something carved.

And then, almost like he’s surprised to hear it leave his mouth. “Would’ve been better with you.”

You don’t answer right away. Of course you don’t. The silence feels like it was waiting for that sentence. Like it was designed to hold it. The air shifts. Slows. Thickens. The lighting overhead warps into something honeyed and cinematic, slicking across the rim of your champagne flute, clinging to Max’s lashes like it has a favorite.

You breathe, but it feels staged. Like you’re performing breath rather than feeling it. Your hand is still curved loosely around the glass, wrist delicate against the dark wood bar, but your knuckles have gone taut. The bubbles in your drink have gone flat. Or maybe they’re still rising, but you’ve lost the ability to notice. Your ears are doing that strange ringing thing they do when something lands too heavy in the center of your chest. Not painful. Pressing.

He doesn’t look at you after he says it. He says it like he means it but doesn’t want to admit he said it. Like the words slipped out of his mouth because they’d been pacing there for weeks, starved of air, and now—there they are. On the bar between you. Heavy. Unwrapped. His voice didn’t wobble, didn’t go soft. It was casual. Quiet. Like an afterthought that somehow detonated under your ribcage.

You look at the side of his face instead of his eyes. The sharp line of his cheekbone. The little hollow under his jaw that always shadows first when he’s overtired. His lips are parted slightly, like there’s more coming, but nothing follows. He’s sipping his drink again now. The glass glints. The whiskey clings to the cut crystal like it wants to stay. He looks flushed, just a little, in that way Max always does when he’s said something that cost him more than he expected.

You inhale. Exhale. Try to say something. Nothing comes. Because what do you say to a sentence like that? Because part of you wants to reach for it. Wrap your fingers around it. Feel the heat of it on your skin. The you in that sentence feels too alive, too tender, too recent. And another part of you wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Because you’re not ready. Because your heart still sounds like it’s trying to knock its way out of your throat every time Lando’s name is said.

So you do what you always do when you’re circling a feeling too big to hold.  You whisper the truth, without looking at him. “Max… I’m not ready.”

It barely escapes your mouth. Like you’re ashamed of it. Like it costs something. It does. You expect him to flinch. Or worse—offer some perfect, gentle platitude about timing and healing and how “you don’t have to be.” Something warm but distant. Something that would leave you feeling more alone.

But he doesn’t. He just nods, like he already knew. Like he’s been rehearsing that answer in the back of his mind all night.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is low. Rough like gravel, but softer than he usually lets it be with you. And then, in Dutch—quiet, intimate, untranslatable in the way it sounds in your bones.

“De mooiste bloemen groeien langzaam.”

You blink. Look at him. He finally looks at you.

And you know. You know what he means. The most beautiful flowers grow slowly. Not flashy. Not fast. They take time. Pressure. Soil and silence and things unsaid. And suddenly your chest aches. Not in the way it did when Lando broke it.

This ache is different. Gentle, but deep. The kind that builds slowly, like heat under your skin. The kind that says: I see you. I’ll wait. Not because I have to. Because I want to. You swallow. Nod. Look down at your hand on the bar, your fingers just barely brushing his now. The contact is nothing. And somehow it’s everything.

Your fingers are still resting on the edge of his. Just barely. Just enough that you can feel the heat where your skin touches his—not a flame, not a jolt, just warmth. Lingering. Like he isn’t trying to move. Like he wants you to know he’s not going anywhere.

And then— buzz.

Your bag vibrates once against the side of your hip. You ignore it. Obviously. You don’t look away from him. Not yet. The moment’s too fragile. Like a ripple that hasn’t decided whether to become a wave. Like it might disappear if you breathe wrong. Then it buzzes again.

Max raises an eyebrow without moving his hand. His fingers stay where they are. Yours do too. You sigh. Pull back.

 Not dramatically. Not like you’re breaking a spell. Just gently. Like a page being turned before the chapter’s finished.

You slide your hand into your purse, thumb already unlocking your phone on instinct. The screen glows too bright in the low amber light, and it stings your eyes, makes the bar look colder than it is. You blink against it.

Alexandra

come say hi you little freaks 😘

charles said ur making max antisocial we have wine and gossip. and ice cream 🫶

You huff out something between a snort and a laugh.

“Alex,” you say aloud, shaking your head. You tilt the phone toward Max so he can see it, and his eyes flick down at the screen, then back up at you. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Are you up for it?”

Max groans. Not with effort. With drama. His head tilts back slightly, his shoulders slumping like you’ve asked him to run a half-marathon in loafers. “God,” he mutters, already finishing his whiskey. “I just started enjoying myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So that’s a no?”

He looks at you. Eyes narrowed. Then downs the last of his drink in one smooth, sulky motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“…We’ll stay ten minutes.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “Ten?”

He nods. “Ten. Unless someone’s annoying. Then five. If Oscar’s eating ice cream with a fork again, we leave immediately.”

You stand. Max stands with you. And for the second time tonight, he doesn’t touch you. But he’s right there. Half a step behind. Ready. The walk back feels like threading a needle.

You and Max move through the crowd with just enough space between you to say nothing’s going on, but not enough to say we’re strangers. You feel him next to you in every breath, every shift of air. But he doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t brush your arm. Doesn’t soften his step. He’s already folding back into the shape of someone you’re not supposed to need.

You hate how well he does it. The booth is half-lit, washed in the kind of gold that makes everything look softer than it is. Alexandra spots you first, her smile blooming immediately as she tugs Charles toward the open seat beside her.

“There she is,” she sing-songs, already reaching for your wrist. “You took your sweet time, I was starting to think Max had dragged you away.”

You let her pull you in, your fingers grazing hers, your smile automatic. Controlled.

“God, you’re obsessed with me,” you say. Light. Teasing. The words fall easily off your tongue.

Charles leans in with a grin, his accent rounding everything he says like a warm hand. “We had bets. I said twenty minutes. Oscar guessed forty. Carlos said you’d never come.”

You raise your brows. “Carlos has no faith in me.”

“He has no faith in anyone,” Alexandra mutters, pouring you a splash of wine without asking. “Sit. You need a drink that isn’t whatever that neon gold shit Red Bull serves as champagne.”

You sit. You thank her. You drink. You’re performing. But you’re good at it. And Max—Max moves without ceremony toward the other end of the table, slipping effortlessly into conversation with Carlos, Oscar, and their dates. Of course he does. Of course he makes it look easy. The way his head tilts when he listens. The way he nods, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, posture loose like he isn’t doing calculus in his brain every second he’s away from you.

It’s not personal. It’s strategy. Because if he sat beside you, now, if he looked at you like he just did at the bar, the whole room would notice. And they’d talk. And you can’t afford that.

So he doesn’t. And neither do you. You turn back to Charles. Let him ask you about next season. Let Alexandra pull you into a story about a dinner party in Paris that involved a flaming cheese wheel and an almost-divorce. You laugh. You ask follow-up questions. You sip your wine and try not to glance down the table. Try not to search for Max.

You feel it. The shift. The weight of a gaze before you even meet it. You turn your head. And there he is.

Lando.

Seated at the far end, next to Magui, but not with her. She’s focused on Carlos, on Max, something about a joke you’re not listening to. Her hand moves when she talks. Her laugh flutters too loud. She doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking at her.

He’s looking at you. Direct. Unapologetic. Unblinking.

His eyes drag across your face like a bruise being pressed. Slow. Unflinching. His jaw ticks once. A twitch of muscle like something about you hurts. His tongue swipes across his top teeth like he’s holding something in. Something sharp. Something too late. And still, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you. Your spine straightens. Your mouth is still parted from the sip of wine you were mid-taking. You don’t blink. You don’t move. The moment stretches—too long, too full, too familiar. And for a second, it feels like no one else is there. Like it’s just you and him and everything that was said and everything that wasn’t.

The others don’t notice. Alexandra is still laughing beside you. Charles is responding, his voice soft, affectionate. Their joy bubbles like champagne beside you, blissfully unaware that your ex is looking at you like he’s drowning in everything he threw away.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs. Press the stem of your glass between your fingers harder than necessary.

And still, Lando looks. Like he wants to say something.Like he knows he won’t. The longer he stares, the more absurd it becomes. Like a dare. Like a joke you haven’t been let in on. His jaw is tight, lips parted like he’s halfway through a sentence he doesn’t have the nerve to say, and his whole face has that stormcloud softness—like he’s confused. Like he’s wounded.

And suddenly it hits you. The audacity. The pure, blinding ridiculousness of the man who cracked your ribs open and danced in the ruin now looking at you like he’s the one grieving. You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Sharp. Short. It slips out before you can stop it—just a little huff of disbelief pushed through your nose like a gunshot. You don’t even mean to do it. But there it is.

He sees it. You don’t break eye contact when you do. That’s what makes it worse. You let him watch you laugh. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, casually—too casually—you lean over and murmur something to Alexandra. Something vague about needing to step away. She barely hears you, still caught in the glitter of whatever joke she’s spinning for Charles, but she nods anyway, and you slide out of the booth like smoke under a door.

Your hand is steady on the table as you rise. Your glass is left untouched, wine lipsticked and sweating. Your dress shifts when you stand, the slit catching a breeze you didn’t know existed, silk hugging your hip like punctuation. You walk.

Not quickly. Not with purpose. Just out. Out of the booth. Out of the moment. Out of the weight of Lando’s gaze. But it follows you.

You don’t need to look. You know. You feel it like breath on the back of your neck. You disappear around the corner of the bar, into a hallway that leads toward the powder rooms, the private terrace, the less curated corners of the restaurant. Somewhere dimmer. Quieter. Somewhere you can exhale without an audience.  

You walk like you don’t hear him behind you. Like you’re not anticipating every echo of his footsteps. Like your spine isn’t buzzing with the awareness that he’s chasing after you like this is still his story.

The hallway is dim and narrow, padded with shadows and that expensive quiet—just enough ambient light from the sconces to illuminate the framed, abstract artwork that means nothing. Everything here smells like lemon balm and wealth. You hate how familiar it is. How your body remembers the scent. The pacing. The knowing.

You turn the corner sharply, pausing halfway down, just past the staff service door, just shy of the terrace entrance, right under one of those antique sconces that drips soft gold light like honey.

And then—he appears.

Fast. Breathless. Like he expected to find a locked door and instead ran headfirst into you.

He skids slightly into the corner, like he wasn’t sure where you went until he saw you stop. Like his whole body is trying to slow itself down and failing. He’s flushed, even under the low light—his collar slightly askew, hair messier than it was ten seconds ago, the top button of his shirt pulled undone like he needed to breathe. Like you took the air with you when you left the room.

He stops two feet from you. Staring. Just staring. Eyes wide. Jaw tight. Chest rising fast, then slower. Then fast again. Like he’s trying to regulate himself but doesn’t know what gear he’s in anymore.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinking. Breathing. Like you’re not a person but a fucking apparition. And you just stand there. Arms crossed.

Weight shifted to one hip. Head tilted slightly in that way that says you’re waiting for him to be less ridiculous than this. But he doesn’t speak. He just looks. Like he wants to say a hundred things but can't even get past the first.

And you—God, you can’t help it—you almost laugh again. Because this is insane. Because you look like this, and he looks like that, and the last thing he said to you before he shattered everything was some halfhearted apology followed by a soft, smug “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

And now he’s breathing like you just stabbed him. So you say it. Flat. Quiet. Weaponized.

“What the fuck do you want?” You don’t expect the first thing out of his mouth to be that. No—you expected silence. Maybe an apology, if he could stomach the shape of the word. Maybe nothing. Maybe the cliché—“You look good,” or “Can we talk?” or “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Something limp. Something boring. Something safe.

But not this. Not this flame to the chest. Definetly not, “Is there something going on with you and Max?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. The question lands like a slap, hard and stupid and echoing, and for a second all you can hear is your own blood pulsing through your ears. Hot. Viscous. Humiliating. It drowns out the ambient jazz leaking down the hallway, drowns out the laughter from the bar, drowns out the sound of him breathing like he just chased you out of the restaurant and into a goddamn memory.

He’s two feet away and wrong in every direction. Shirt half-untucked, hair damp at the temples. Sweat clings to the curve of his brow like guilt. His eyes are bright, too bright—reflective and glassy like they’re catching every ounce of gold light and making it ugly. He smells like spice and panic, like whatever cologne he started the evening in is already losing the war against whatever stress he’s been stewing in since you stood up from that booth. He looks beautiful, the way wreckage always does—ruined and breathless and sharp around the edges. Like something that can’t be touched without cutting yourself open.

You taste iron at the back of your throat. And you burn. Because this is what he opens with. This. After everything. After the cheating. After the silence. After the photo of him and Magui you had to see, not hear about. After the complete lack of apology—no explanation, no acknowledgment, no goddamn accountability. Just… you, gone. Him, louder than ever. And now he wants to talk about Max.

Now, he wants to stand in this hallway and pant like he ran a mile in the wrong direction and ask if your teammate is touching you?

You feel your forearm itch. Not in a physical way. In that deep, animal kind of way—like your body is rejecting the moment. Like your nerves are trying to crawl out through your skin. Your spine is too straight. Your fists curl too tightly. There’s sweat between your shoulder blades and your silk dress is clinging in places it didn’t earlier. The scent of citrus cleaner and soft musk from the air diffusers is cloying now, too clean for a hallway filled with this kind of tension. Your heel is slightly off-balance against the slate tile. Your teeth are pressing into the back of your tongue. Everything is wrong. Every sense is alive.

You speak before you mean to. Your voice doesn’t crack. It slices. “You’re actually fucking serious.”

He blinks. Like he doesn’t understand. Like you’re the one being unreasonable. His hands flex at his sides. He leans a fraction closer, eyes scanning your face like it’ll save him. “I just—he was all over you tonight.”

You laugh. You laugh. It’s a sharp, hot sound that doesn’t match the coolness of your dress or the control in your expression. You laugh like it hurts your ribs, like the sound might unhinge your jaw if you let it go too long.

“He’s my teammate,” you spit. “Are you fucking joking?”

Lando says nothing. His mouth is open. Like there are more words waiting. But none of them matter. None of them would make this better. You take a step forward, and he doesn’t move. Your voice drops. Quiet now. Controlled.

“You cheat on me. With her. You didn’t call. You didn’t explain. You didn’t look for me. You just let it happen.”

You pause. Your breath catches, hot and wet at the top of your throat, and you push through it.

“And now, months later, after pretending I don’t exist, after parading her around and you have the audacity to ask about Max?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down—mouth, throat, waist—then back to your face. And there it is. That old flicker. That low heat. Desire, curling like smoke from the ashes of what he burned. You feel it hit you like it always has—low in your belly, unwelcome but familiar. Like muscle memory. Like poison you used to mistake for love.

But you don’t let it win. You step back. One inch. Enough. And then, softly. Final.

“You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”

You say it softly. Not a whisper. Not a scream. Just truth, delivered like a blade left cooling on marble. Final, but not loud. And you mean it. You fucking mean it. You mean it even though the second the words leave your mouth, you feel the heat behind your eyes, that stupid low ache blooming in your stomach, crawling beneath your ribs like a bruise forming in real time.

Because he’s still looking at you like that. Like you’re his. Like none of it ever happened. Like you weren’t the one left with ash in your lungs and his fingerprints still clinging to the parts of you he never earned in the first place.

He blinks once. Breathes harder. His chest rises like he’s trying to say something, but the words get caught on his tongue. And then he moves.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just one step. A single fucking step that shouldn’t mean anything but sends a bolt through your spine so sharp you almost forget how to breathe.

He’s close now. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The way his jaw is flexing too tightly. The pulse at his neck, visible now. Racing.

He smells like whatever he sprayed on three hours ago—something expensive and leathery and sharp—but now it’s been overtaken by something else. The smell of panic. Of want. Of a body trying to hold itself still while everything inside it starts to burn. You’re still standing there, not backing down, not giving him the satisfaction. But your skin is doing things. Twitching under your dress. Tingling at the tops of your thighs. That heat low in your belly is turning into something worse. Not romantic. Not hopeful. Worse.

Familiar. He reaches for you. Slow. Like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like he knows he shouldn’t. But he does anyway. His hand lifts, then hovers, just at your arm. Just at the place where your shoulder meets your bicep.

“Don’t,” you breathe.

But you don’t move. He breathes out, ragged now. He doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets his fingers hang there, so close you can feel the ghost of it. And that’s worse. That’s so much fucking worse.

“You look so good,” he says, and his voice is strained, quiet, like he hates himself for saying it but hates himself more for not saying it sooner.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

You mean it. But your thighs are pressed together now. Tight. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just enough. He sees it. His lips part like he’s about to say something else—an apology, a confession, maybe a lie he’s trying to turn into something beautiful. But nothing comes.

His hand finally lands. Light. Careful. The heat from his palm sears straight through the fabric of your dress. And that’s it. That’s the mistake.

You exhale like you’ve been punched. You step back again, not because you want to—because you have to. Because if he touches you like that again, you’re going to let him. And you can’t. You fucking can’t. You spin away. Your back hits the wall. It’s cool, textured, but it doesn’t help. Your breath is shallow. Your thighs are shaking.

He watches you like a man unraveling. Like he knows he lost you the second he looked away months ago, and now he’s standing in the aftermath, trying to pick through the ruins for something salvageable.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he says, finally.

You laugh. It sounds more like a gasp. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks down. Then back at you. Then down again. There’s silence. There’s too much fucking silence.

You’re thinking about the last time he touched you. The last time you let him. The way his mouth felt on your neck. The way he used to say your name in the dark, like it tasted good. Like he earned it. Your hips shift against the wall. You don’t mean to.

His eyes flick there. It’s the worst thing you could’ve done. He steps forward again. And you don’t stop him.

“Tell me to go,” he says. Right there. Right in front of you. So close now that your noses could touch if you tilted your head. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his chest like a furnace, like punishment.

His voice drops. “Tell me you don’t think about me anymore.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like you’re the only oxygen left in the room.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “and I’ll leave.”

And that’s the problem. You can’t. You don’t say it. You try. You really try. Your lips part like they’re about to shape it—Go. I don’t think about you. I’m fine. I’m better. But nothing comes out. Just breath. Just the taste of his cologne and regret and the electric press of skin that isn’t touching but is too close anyway.

Lando knows. The bastard knows. You feel it in the way he softens, just a fraction. The way the fight drains from his eyes and something hungrier slips into the cracks. Like he’s starting to believe this might not be the end. Like he’s seeing a window instead of a door.

Your throat burns. Your chest pulls tight, like something’s trying to claw its way out. Your hands curl against the wall behind you, searching for texture, for anything to ground you before your knees give out.

“Two years,” you whisper. It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s just wrecked.

He stills.

“Two years,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks—splinters straight down the middle. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut like it hurts to look at him. “For what? For who? Some girl who can’t even look me in the face?”

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You could kiss him if you wanted to. His jaw is tense, shoulders drawn in like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are fisted now. He looks like he wants to say it wasn’t like that. Like he wants to explain. But he can’t. Because it was. Because he did it.

Your chin trembles. He sees it. And then—slow, agonizingly slow—he leans in. His hand lifts again. This time it lands on your hip. Just barely. Just his fingers against the edge of your dress, the soft fabric caught between you. He doesn’t press. Just rests there. Warm. Steady. 

“Don’t,” you say, but it’s air.

It’s not real. It’s not no. He dips closer. His nose brushes your cheek, soft and maddening. You can feel the heat of his breath against your jaw. You smell him—you smell him. That mix of cologne and skin and sweat and everything you’ve tried so hard to forget. Your head spins. Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together, unthinking, desperate for friction.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. You squeeze your eyes shut, but he’s still there, lips just above your skin, not kissing, not yet—just hovering. Like he’s waiting for you to move first. Like he’s giving you control, when you both know he took that from you the second he opened his fucking mouth.

His mouth brushes your jaw. Once. Soft.

Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s testing what he can get away with.  Your breath catches in your throat, too high, too raw. Your whole body arches forward before you can stop it—just slightly. Just enough. He kisses it again. Lower this time. Firmer. Right where your pulse sits.

You gasp. It’s quiet. Humiliating. So utterly humiliating.  You don’t think— instead, your fingers dig into the wall behind you, the plaster cool under your nails. Your knees do buckle now, just a little. Just enough that his other hand rises to your waist to steady you. And now he’s holding you. Lightly. But fully. His chest against yours. His mouth still ghosting your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He nods against your jaw. “I know.”

You breathe him in. And it’s the worst decision you’ve made all night. Because he still smells like yours. Because your body still remembers this. Because you haven’t touched him in months, and now your hands are twitching at your sides like they need somewhere to go.

He kisses your jaw again. Then your cheek. Then lower.

And then he pauses—mouth at the corner of your lips, your pulse a fucking drumbeat in your throat, your body trembling with anger and ache and everything you never got to say.

“You still want me,” he says.

Your eyes don’t close when his mouth brushes yours. They flicker. Twitch. A full-body glitch, like your nerves just remembered how this ends and still can’t stop you.

Your fingers are still splayed behind you against the wall. You could push him. You should push him. Your knees would give out anyway. You tilt your chin. Half a millimeter. He crashes into that space like he was waiting for it.

His mouth—god, his fucking mouth—lands on yours not soft, not slow, not even hungry. Starved. He kisses like it’s a punishment. Like every inch he claims is revenge for something you never did. Your teeth knock, your lip catches, and there’s a hiss between you that might be pain or might be something worse. He tastes like whiskey and ash, like every “I’m sorry” you never got. And yet, you still fucking kiss him back.

You hate yourself for it. You hate how your hands leap from the wall to his shirt like they were made for this. One fist curled in the fabric near his chest, the other sliding—grabbing—his jaw like you’re trying to break it or memorize it. Your nails scrape down his neck and he groans into your mouth, low and guttural and needy, and that’s when it slips.

That thing inside you. The part you swore you buried. You bite him. Right on the lip, sharp and vengeful, and he stumbles into you with a grunt, palm flattening hard to your waist, the other flying to the wall behind your head. You’re pinned. You’re caged. And for some reason you don’t fucking care. You don’t even think. 

“Fuck,” he growls, mouth slick against yours, and you can taste blood now—his or yours, you don’t know.

“Don’t talk,” you snap.

He laughs. It’s breathless, bitter. “You came out here so I’d shut up?” You shove your hips forward just enough to make him hiss.

“Didn’t come out here for you,” you lie, panting.

He tugs at your waist like he’s going to break your spine in half. “Then why are your legs shaking?”

You snarl. “I hate you.”

“I know.” And then he does it—he drags you. Literally, hand on your arm, spins you with a snarl toward the door next to you. Unmarked. Employees Only. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t check. Just kicks it open like he owns the fucking hallway, shoves you through it, slams it shut behind him.

Click. Lock. It’s dark. It’s tiny.

Some storage closet or wine room or who gives a fuck. Shelves line the walls. A faint overhead bulb hums to life, flickers. Lando’s silhouette is massive in the door’s amber spill. He steps in like you owe him something.

“Say it,” he breathes, one step closer, “Say you hate me again.” You backpedal into a rack of coats and uniforms and god knows what. His hand lands next to your head.

Your voice wavers. Just barely. “I fucking hate you.”

He exhales, forehead lowering to yours, lips barely apart. “Then say you don’t want this.”

You don’t. You can’t. You won’t. Instead, you lunge. Mouth to his. Harder this time. Deeper. This kiss isn’t just hate—it’s grief. It’s betrayal. It’s every sleepless night you stared at your phone, knowing he wasn’t coming back. Your hands fly to his belt like a threat. His go for your thigh—no grace, no hesitation, just grab, yanking your leg up around his waist, and he groans into your mouth like you’re the first clean breath he’s had in weeks.

It’s clumsy, wet, desperate. He shoves your dress up like it’s insulted him. His hand slides under, hot and rough, fingers digging into the softness of your hip like he’s trying to erase what he did with her. You jerk his belt open, pop the button on his pants without finesse. Your breath catches on a sob that doesn’t get out, and he eats it with his tongue, one palm cupping your face now, tilting you where he wants you.

“You gonna cry for me, baby?” he pants, lips dragging along your jaw. You shove your hand down his waistband.

“Only if you come too fast.”

He snarls. Fucking snarls. Your back hits the wall with a thud. He’s fully holding your leg now, spreading you open. You’re soaking. He can feel it through your underwear, and the way his jaw clenches tells you he’s about to ruin you for that.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he mutters, thumb dragging hard over the soaked seam.

“And you’re a fucking cheater,” you shoot back, voice sharp, broken. And then—finally—he sinks to his knees.

You're not even sure how you got to this point. One minute you were hissing fuck you into his face like it was a spell, the next you’re hoisted onto a supply shelf in some hidden back hallway, dress yanked up, panties shoved aside, and Lando’s on his fucking knees. Hands tight on your thighs, fingers bruising, tongue deep in your cunt like he’s trying to crawl inside and live there.

The room’s humid with breath and sex and whatever this filthy, unholy thing is that still pulses between you like it never died. And God, it’s good. You hate that it’s good. You hate that you’re gripping the back of his head like he’s oxygen, thighs quaking every time his tongue circles your clit in that slow, cruel swirl.

You throw your head back, eyes fluttering— and that’s when you see him.

Max.

Just a flash. That quiet steadiness. That strong grip at your back. His voice in Dutch, low and constant, telling you he’s got you. And for a split fucking second, your body clenches in reflex to a man who isn’t even here.

What the fuck. Your brows twitch. Your throat burns. You’re on the edge of an orgasm with Lando's face buried between your legs, and you’re thinking about Max.

Not for long. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. You feel guilty. Not for Lando. Not for the cheating. But because Max—Max didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be in your head while you’re getting your pussy eaten by the man who shattered you.

Lando doesn’t notice. Hes lost in it. He groans into your cunt like your taste just wrecked him, hips grinding into the air like he’s fucking you with his face, tongue flicking fast, fingers now inside you. Two thick ones curling up like they know where that sweet spot is, and—

You break. Your thighs clamp around his ears and you’re coming, spasming on his tongue with a scream torn raw from your lungs.

“Fuck— Lando—fuck— you fucking—cheating bastard—”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, dragging that orgasm out like it’s punishment. You’re sobbing now. Half in rage. Half in bliss. Your nails dig into the shelf behind you, the world blurred through wet lashes. He pulls back, chin and mouth glossy with you. He’s panting. Eyes fucking wild.

“You taste so fucking sweet when you’re mad,” he growls. “I missed that cunt. Missed this fucking pussy so bad I was getting hard looking at your goddamn photos.”

You slap him. Not hard. Just a stinging smack across the cheek. His head snaps sideways He smiles.

He fucking smiles.

“Still wanna hit me? Do it after I ruin this pussy.”

Then he stands. His cock’s already out—veiny, hard, flushed at the tip. And so thick. You’re drooling at the sight of it, even as you grit your teeth like you’re not. He fists it once, slow, the head smearing pre-cum across your inner thigh as he lines up.

“Say you want it.”

“Go to hell.”

He slams in. No warning. No slow. Just full tilt, no condom, raw and brutal. Your scream bounces off the walls, drowned in his growl.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight. Like this pussy missed me too.”

Your arms fly around his neck, legs locking high around his waist, and he starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Every motion sending your ass crashing back into the wall, the shelf behind you rattling with every wet slap of his cock inside you.

“Say it,” he snarls into your neck. “Say this cunt still fucking belongs to me.”

You sob.

“No.”

He fucks you harder. Your dress is soaked. His shirt’s half off. Your tits spill free and he bites one, groaning as your pussy clenches around him.

“Fucking liar,” he pants. “You love this dick. You need it. You’re dripping on me, babe—you’re soaking for the man who ruined you.”

Your head hits the wall. Your eyes roll back.

“God, fuck, I hate you—”

He laughs, breathless and wrecked.

“You hate this cock too? Huh?” he grunts, pounding into you. “You hate this fat cock splitting you open like it never left?”

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning. Your scream echoes, thighs shaking, cunt spasming around him so hard he chokes. He loses it.

“Shit— I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fucking—paint this pussy, remind you who fucked it best—”

And he does. Buries himself to the hilt, slams his cock deep one last time, and moans. Hot and broken, like he’s falling apart inside you. Cum spilling raw and endless, thick and messy as he pulses into your cunt with a strangled groan. Your head lolls against his shoulder. You’re trembling. His grip is the only thing keeping you from sliding off the shelf in a pool of sweat and cum and sin.

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then his mouth finds yours again. Slower this time. Hungrier. Wrecked. Like he’s still not done.

You’re still full of him. Still trembling from that first, frenzied, hate-fueled high. His cum is leaking out of you, warm and slick between your thighs, your legs trembling around his hips.

He hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still inside you. His forehead is pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, and everything’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s daring you to speak.

You don’t. You can’t.

Because suddenly his hands are gentle. One smoothing up your back. The other trembling against your jaw. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he wants to kiss you there—not to shut you up, but to taste the things you’re not saying.

Then he does. Soft. Too soft. A kiss so careful it hurts. His lips press into yours like an apology, like a confession, like he still thinks he has the right to be tender. And it shatters you.

Because that’s not what this was supposed to be. This was supposed to be violence. Payback. Carnage. But now he’s rocking into you slow. Steady.

His cock’s still hard—buried inside you like he’s home. Each thrust now is long, deep, aching. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you higher, cradling you like something breakable. Like something he wants to keep.

“God,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “I missed you.”

Your heart jerks. Don’t you fucking say it.

“Missed this pussy,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Missed how you sound. How you breathe. Missed your fucking body—”

He chokes. Like it’s too much. Because it is. Because outside this door, his girlfriend is laughing. With Carlos. With Charles. With Max.

You see Max’s face again. His steady eyes. The quiet way he said I’ve got you without ever touching your skin. His voice still echoing in your chest when you close your eyes.

Your eyes sting. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound.

It hurts. Not from pain. From how good it feels. How slow. How full. He thrusts like he’s still tasting your moans in his mouth. Like he’s trying to memorize what forgiveness would feel like if you gave it. Each grind of his hips presses deep into your core, filling you so completely you swear you can feel the shape of his regret curling around your womb. He noses at your jaw. Kisses your cheek. Doesn’t speak. Not yet.

You’re not moaning anymore. You’re not even crying. You’re just letting him. Letting him move inside you. Letting him pretend. His hand drags along your ribs, fingers splayed, like he’s never touched you before. Like he forgot how soft your skin was. Like it kills him to remember.

And then—quiet. He murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I don’t want to see you this season.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hips still don’t stop. The rhythm stays the same—deep, slow, like fucking in molasses.

“I mean it,” he whispers. “If I see you in the paddock—on the track—fuck, I’m gonna fall apart.”

Your brows knit. Confusion tangles with disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. You can feel how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

“I can’t watch you,” he breathes. “Can’t see you with Max. Laughing. Acting like this—” his thrusts get harder now, more insistent “—like this— we didn’t fucking happen.”

You bite back a sob. “You fucked someone else.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just groans, deep and wrecked, and sinks in again—slow, grinding, like it’s punishment.

“I know. I fucking know. But I didn’t feel anything. Not like this.” His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast. “I never stopped feeling this.”

You close your eyes. Because if you look at him, you’ll scream. He pulls out halfway, then pushes back in so deep, your breath stutters. You gasp, nails digging into his back, and he moans.

“You still feel like mine,” he whispers. “Still fucking perfect. Still so fucking warm and wet and—fuck—tight.”

He kisses you. This time it's desperate. Open-mouthed. Lingering. He fucks into you with long, dragging strokes now, slower still, like he’s trying to come without ever leaving you.

“I dream about this pussy,” he grits out. “Wake up hard. Fuck her from behind and still pretend it’s you. Every fucking time. I see your face.”

Your body twitches around him. Reflex. Your core tightens, clenches. His breath hitches.

“Do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Fuck—squeeze my cock just like that.”

You do. Unintentionally. Because your body still remembers him. Still responds. Even now. 

“Jesus,” he groans, hips faltering. “You’re gonna make me cum already.”

You shake your head, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

He swears under his breath. His hands shift under your thighs, lifting you higher, adjusting the angle, and then—oh god—he starts again. Long, slow strokes. Every inch dragging, pulling, teasing. Your slick coats his cock like honey, and he’s fucking you with the patience of someone who knows this is the last time he gets to.

“Let me watch you,” he begs. “Let me see your face.”

You do. You look. And he looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, mouth slack, sweat-damp curls falling over his forehead as he thrusts into you like he wants to stay there forever. And then—his pace changes. Just slightly. More focused. More intentional.

“I should’ve picked you,” he says. It’s not a whisper this time. “I should’ve fought for you.”

You want to scream. Instead, your nails score down his back. “You didn’t.”

He groans. “I know.”

His forehead presses to yours again, thrusts slowing to a torturous rhythm, cock sliding deep and so warm, and his voice breaks when he says:

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

You do. You do. You just haven’t done it yet. You kiss him again. And again. And then you fuck him like it’s goodbye. Because it is. Even if you don’t say it. Even if he can’t. He’s thrusting again—slow, rhythmic, chasing the high you gave him once, twice, now desperate for a third like it might rewrite time. Your body’s caught in it, hips rolling to meet him, lips parted, moans dragging low from your throat that sound too much like regret.

He’s buried to the hilt, forehead on your shoulder, fingers digging into your ass like he’s afraid you’ll float away when he cums. And maybe you will.

“Don’t want to leave,” he breathes. “Just want to stay like this. Stay in you.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes “Of course you do.”

He groans. A low, needy sound in your neck. “You feel so good. Still perfect. Still fucking—fuck—made for me.”

“No,” you breathe, voice tight, cunt fluttering around his cock because your body hasn’t caught up to your head. “You gave that up. You gave me up.” He thrusts harder. Once. Twice. Deep enough your vision blurs.

“Let me fix it,” he pants. “I’ll end it with her. I swear to God, I’ll fucking drop everything.”

You look down at him, eyes burning. “You already did.”

His face crumples. The rhythm falters. His hips still, cock twitching deep inside you.

“You said it was a mistake,” you whisper, voice shaking. “But it wasn’t a moment. It was months. You kept her. You chose her. And you only came running when you saw me with Max.”

His head falls against your shoulder. His arms tighten.

“I was scared.”

You shake your head. “You were weak.”

He tries to kiss you. You turn your face. “I still love you,” he chokes.

You bite your lip, feel the sting of everything behind your teeth—and push your hips against his, hard.

“Then remember this,” you whisper, breath trembling, “because it’s the last time.”

That pushes him over the edge. He cums with a broken groan, face buried in your neck, cock jerking inside you, hot and thick and wrong. You feel every pulse, every desperate spasm of a man trying to hold onto something he already lost. He’s panting when he slumps against you. Soft now. Dripping down your thighs. Sticky with remorse.

You press your palm to his chest. Push. Harder. He finally pulls out, groaning as your cunt lets go of him with a wet, final pop. You slide off the shelf, dress falling back into place. You don’t wipe the mess. You don’t fix your hair. You just look at him—shirt half-off, flushed and fucked and wrecked—and feel nothing but clarity.

“I’ll see you on the track,” you say, smooth, even. “And nowhere else.”

He opens his mouth. You’re already at the door. Your hand’s on the handle when you stop. One glance over your shoulder.

“I hope she tastes it,” you say. Quiet. Deadly. “Every time you kiss her.”

Click. You walk out. And the door doesn't close behind you. It slams. The hallway’s cooler than it was ten minutes ago. Or maybe it’s just you. Skin still humming, thighs still slick, the ache still fresh between your legs. You walk like you’re made of marble. Slow, deliberate, like every part of your body was poured back into its mold and polished to a high-gloss finish. Your dress falls back into place effortlessly. Your lips are swollen, but only if someone’s looking. And no one’s looking. Not like that.

You reenter the restaurant like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just fuck your ex in a dark back room while his girlfriend sat ten feet away laughing at a story Max was probably pretending to care about.

Your heels kiss the tile. Your posture doesn’t waver. The moment you step back into the dim glow of the dining space, it’s like a veil drops. The laughter. The sparkle of glasses. The low murmur of Monaco’s elite pretending they don’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. The weight of your entrance is lighter this time, almost lazy. As if you were just reapplying your lipstick. Not rearranging your soul.

You don’t go back to your seat. You just stop by the edge of the table, where the laughter is loudest now. Oscar’s flushed. Alexandra is howling at something Charles just whispered in her ear. Even Magui is smiling, relaxed, her hand curling around her wine glass in that curated, influencer way. She looks at you and doesn’t know. None of them do.

That’s the power. You lean forward slightly, voice soft and cool. “I think I’m gonna head out,” you say.

Alexandra pouts. “You just got here.”

You smile. “I know.”

Charles nods, easy, warm. “Send me that song you mentioned earlier.”

“Of course.”

Your eyes flick sideways. Max is already looking.  He straightens, barely. Sets down his glass with a soft clink. Adjusts the cuff of his shirt. Like he knew. Like he always knows. He pushes off from the booth, smooth and unhurried, nodding politely at Oscar, at Carlos, at someone’s girlfriend who says something about next week’s race. He doesn’t look at Lando. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t wait for him. You just turn. He follows. As if nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just made the worst, most intoxicating mistake of your season. The cool night air hits your skin like absolution. Not quite enough to erase what just happened, but enough to start dulling the edges. The breeze lifts the hem of your dress, tangles in your hair, kisses your neck like it doesn’t know Lando was just there. Like it wants to claim that space for itself.

You stop just short of the valet station, eyes scanning the street like you’re pretending to orient yourself. Like you don’t already know exactly where you parked. Max walks up behind you a beat later, slow, quiet, like he’s learned how to match your rhythm.

You glance at him. Just once. His tie’s loose now. His eyes are still flushed with champagne. The good kind. The kind you can feel in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The kind that makes your teeth feel warm and your tongue too honest.

“I fucked up tonight,” you say.

Max’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t interrupt. He waits. You turn to him, slowly, the streetlight catching the curve of your shoulder, the shimmer still left on your lips. And then, softly you say.  “Wanna come back with me?”

He pauses. Just a blink. Then he smiles. Small. Crooked. Devastating.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

You don’t look at him again as you hand your ticket to the valet. You don’t need to. He’s already there, standing just a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them to himself. Like he knows. The Porsche rolls up a minute later, clean and white and sleek like nothing dirty has ever happened inside it. You get in without speaking. Max follows.

The doors shut. The engine purrs to life. And then—you drive. You drive like you’re trying to outrun the memory of his hands. Of Lando’s breath in your ear. Of the sob that nearly broke out of your throat when you came and he said I miss you. You drive like you’re chasing down silence. Like speed might bleach the shame from your skin.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the city blur past his window, one hand braced against the center console, the other relaxed over his thigh.

The roads are mostly empty. You take the turns sharp. Not dangerous. Just fast. The wind slips into the car through the barely-cracked window, pulling your hair into your face, cooling the sweat at your temples. Your foot presses down harder. The speedometer ticks up.

You feel free. Then terrible. Not all at once. Just in pulses. Like your body can’t decide if this is survival or self-destruction. You don’t know what this looks like from the outside. The white car, the woman driving too fast, the man in the passenger seat who doesn’t flinch. The way his knuckles brush the edge of the gear shift sometimes, like he’s holding back from reaching for your knee. You don’t say a word until the city lights start thinning out behind you.

And even then—you just exhale. Quiet. Like the part of you that still wants to scream finally gave up. The roads curl as you climb. Sharp turns and silver lights and the sea flickering below like a memory you can’t quite shake. The kind of drive that would feel lonely if it weren’t for the warmth humming between the seats. Monaco thins out as you rise, the glamor traded for silence, for altitude, for real estate so expensive the trees are pruned to match the neighborhood’s collective ego.

Through it all—Max. Still. Watching you. Not in a way that demands your gaze. Not like Lando. There’s no performance in it. Just that quiet, relentless Maxness. Like he’s looking at a storm he’d rather walk into than run from. Like he knows it might break him but he’s choosing it anyway. You glance sideways. Quick. Just a flick of your eyes. But it’s enough to catch it. 

That look. The one that doesn’t belong here. Not tonight. Not after what you did. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s worse.

It’s hope. That wide, open, dangerous look like he’s seeing a version of the future where this ends differently. Where you don’t break. Where he’s the one who gets to hold what’s left of you.

Your throat closes. You want to say something. To ruin it before it becomes real. To rip it out of his hands before he gets comfortable holding it.

But you don’t. You just keep driving.  Keep pretending you don’t feel your heart curling in on itself like paper in flame. Keep pretending the thought of Lando’s whisper and falls promises doesn’t linger in the back of your head. 

---

look me in the eye | pt.3

pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader

summary: the rb21 is unfixable-the whole world knows that, now-but you've become so much more than just his engineer and they should know that too.

a/n: i just...max verstappen...and thank you guys sm for the love you've shown this series! here is the last part <3

part one / part two / part three

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The moment you step out of the storage room-you figured that out when Max shoved you against a nice metal rack and some probably important things crashed to the ground-reality crashes down on you like a tidal wave.

You just kissed Max Verstappen.

Max Verstappen just kissed you.

You don't know how it can get worse, but it will. He looks completely at ease, like he didn't just change the trajectory of your entire life in the span of a few heated seconds. Meanwhile, you feel like you're about to combust. Your lips are still tingling, your mind racing, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the noise outside: the team is still celebrating, the media is still circling, and maybe you're being a little dramatic but people will want answers that you can't give.

Max notices your panic before you can even say anything. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Breathe."

You shoot him a glare that lacks any real venom. "Don't tell me what to do."

His lips twitch. "Then don't look like you’re about to pass out." Which is ironic, because if he hadn't kissed you senseless, you probably wouldn't look like...whatever you look like right now. You need a mirror. Your hair is all messed up from the frenzy-his is too, though it suits his post-race look-and you straighten the collar of your shirt.

Damn you. You shove past him, desperate for space, for air, for something that isn't Max Verstappen and his infuriating ability to act like everything is fine. Your body betrays you, though, because even as you move, you feel his warmth lingering, his presence like a gravitational pull you can’t escape.

And then, as if the universe is determined to make your life a nightmare, Christian Horner appears. The devil himself.

You barely manage to school your expression into something neutral as he approaches, eyes sharp, mouth set in a line that promises nothing good.

"Max." He nods at Red Bull's star driver before turning to you. "We need to talk."

Max doesn't move. "She's busy," he quips.

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. "Max."

Christian doesn't look amused. "Now."

You sigh, throwing Max one last look before following Christian into one of the back offices. The second the door closes, he lets out a heavy breath and pinches the bridge of his nose like he's trying to will away a migraine.

"You know why we're here."

You cross your arms, steeling yourself. "If this is about that stupid interview-"

"Stupid?" Christian cuts you off and his eyes narrow quickly. "Do you have any idea what you just walked into? The media is losing it. The fans are in a frenzy. And now I have PR breathing down my neck asking if Max Verstappen is in a relationship with one of his engineers."

This isn't good. No, not at all. Today is not a good day to have Christian Horner mad at you. "It's not-"

"It doesn't matter what it is," Christian interrupts. "Believe me. The only thing I care about is what it looks like."

You don't have an argument for that. Because he's right. Perception is everything in this sport, and right now, the perception is that you are tangled up in something that no team principal wants to deal with.

Christian sighs and it's like all his fury is evaporating. "Look. I really don't care what you do in your personal life. I don't even care what Max does, as long as he keeps winning. But I need to know if this is going to be a problem."

You hesitate. "Define 'a problem.'"

Christian levels you with a look. "Are you going to be a distraction? To him? To yourself?"

Your mind flashes back to the kiss, to the way Max looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment. Your heart stutters.

"No," you say, more firmly than you feel. "This doesn't affect my work."

Christian watches you for a long moment, then nods. "Good. Then handle it."

You swallow. "Handle it?"

"Either shut it down or control the narrative," he says. "But I don't want any more surprises."

You nod, even though you don't know what exactly you're affirming with that nod. The problem is, you don't know if you can shut it down. You don't know if you even want to.

When you leave the office, Max is leaning against the wall, waiting. Of course he is.

He leaps up when he sees you. "What did he say?"

"That I need to handle it," you explain.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. "And are you going to?

"I don’t know."

There it is again. You can't read Max Verstappen. He asks, "Do you want me to?"

All your problems come from the same thing-you should say yes, no, whatever it takes to shut down all this that's happening. You should make him go on some press circuit and laugh it off as a misunderstanding, to make sure your name isn't attached to his ever again. You should be walking away from this mess because it's not part of your job description and getting involved with an athlete never seems to end well. Even if it's Max Verstappen.

But you don't.

You never do, it seems.

Instead, you look at him: the way his jaw is clenched, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but won't unless you let him, and you keep making the same choice.

"I think," you say carefully, "we should talk."

Max’s lips curve slightly. "Dinner?"

You groan, shoving his shoulder. "Not helping."

His laugh is soft, but there's something else in his eyes now. Something serious. "Then let’s talk."

It's been a long time coming, but right there, you realize you're past the point of no return.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The ride back to the hotel is suffocating. Not the air-no, the air-conditioning in Max's car is great, thankfully, because it sure cost a lot-but because Max is sitting next to you, silent, his fingers drumming against his thigh so close to you if he shifts just a little his hands will be on yours. You push that thought aside. Now's not a good time to get worked up over him. Not now.

You should say something. You should clear the air. But every time you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Instead, you replay everything in your head: the kiss, the way he looked at you after, Christian's warning, and the way Max had asked if you wanted him to handle it. Like it was his responsibility. Like he was willing to do whatever you asked, even if it meant pretending none of this ever happened.

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

"You're thinking too much."

You blink, snapping out of your spiral. Max is watching you instead of the road. Stupid, stupid.

You roll your eyes. "And you’re not thinking at all."

He smirks, eyes darting back forward for a moment before they rest on your face. "That’s not true. I'm thinking about dinner."

"Max, this isn't a joke." You let out a frustrated sigh, turning to face him.

"I know." He's suddenly serious, his voice quieter. "That's why we should talk. Properly. Without Christian breathing down your neck."

You hesitate. You know he's right. You can't keep avoiding this, can't pretend that what happened in the storage room didn't just flip your world upside down. But you also don't know how to have this conversation without risking everything.

Max waits patiently, letting you come to your own conclusion. He always does that. He gives you space, but never too much. Always just enough to make sure you don’t run.

"Fine," you mutter. "But not dinner. We saw how that went."

He raises a brow. "Drinks?"

"No."

"A walk, then."

You sigh, but you don't argue. You suppose a walk is neutral territory. You can talk without the pressure of sitting across from him at a table, without the weight of eye contact that lasts too long.

When you arrive at the hotel, you don't give yourself time to hesitate. You step out, waiting for him, and he follows without question after tossing his keys at the valet. There's a cool breeze, and you focus on that instead of the way your fingers still tingle from where they brushed against Max's earlier.

You walk side by side, the silence stretching, but it isn't uncomfortable. It never is. That’s part of the problem, isn't it? It's always been too easy with him.

"I meant what I said," Max finally says. "I don't want this to be a problem for you."

"It's not that simple, Max."

"It could be."

You huff out a short laugh. "For you, maybe."

He stops walking, and you do too, turning to face him. There's something in his expression that makes your breath catch.

"I like you," he says, and your heart stutters. "And I think you like me too."

You swallow hard. "Max-"

"I know it's complicated. I know Christian is watching us like a hawk. I know you're worried about your job, your reputation." His voice is steady, unwavering. "But I'm not going to pretend this isn't happening just because it's inconvenient."

Your mouth feels dry. It does sound simple when he's saying it.

"Tell me to stop. Tell me this is nothing, and I'll walk away."

You hate him for that. Hate him for putting the choice in your hands, for making you responsible for whatever happens next.

But you don't tell him to stop. You don't say anything at all. You look at him clearly: this man you've watched grow up from a boy. You've seen him destroy things in fits of rage after bad races, you've seen him beam like the sun, and you've seen the way his eyes turn stormy oceans when they look at you. He sees you too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

bahrain 2025 post-race interview

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

y/n 🌎 gee, max, you're going to get to my ego

y/n 🌎 first "my everything," then "the constant"

y/n 🌎 and what's that about always? i don't believe that.

my mashed potato Are you referring to us or you being the constant? Because I don't believe in that either, but you have me as long as you want

y/n 🌎 are you SERIOUSLY CHECKING YOUR PHONE DURING AN INTERVIEW

y/n 🌎 sorry for all caps i just like it a lot when you get all romantic

my mashed potato i know ❤️

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: max verstappen and 3-post series are very special to me

---

Count down to Forever | LN4

Lando Norris X Reader (Requested)

Summary: [SOULMATE AU] Lando meets his soulmate, and it's perfect, she's perfect.

Warning(s): Mild Language, Lando with self doubts, Oscar being the voice of reason—in a very Oscar way, Cliche meet cute. Fluffy.

"I have faith in what I see, now I know I have met....an angel.. in person, and she looks perfect"

Lando sat in his driver’s room, staring at the timer on his left wrist. The ticking of the seconds was quiet, almost like a whisper, but it was loud in his ears, as if time was calling his name.

Lando knew what it meant, of course. He knew soulmates existed, and everyone had a different type of bond.

Oscar and his soulmate shared a red string of fate, something so visible and tangible that no one could ever doubt it. And no one has, anyone who has seen the pair grow up together, knows that they are meant for each other.

Lando thinks he should feel jealous, maybe.

Carlos and his soulmate had a mutual pain bond, where if one felt pain, the other did too. When one had a permanent injury, the other also suffered the same. Lando couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would feel like.

At least Carlos doesn't have to feel periods, or maybe he does, Lando hasn't asked him that question, and Carlos had never brought it up.

Max and his soulmate? Well, they had each other’s initials on their skin, marking them in a way that felt simple but perfect for them.

Lando knew there were many kinds of soul bonds, but his own was… different.

It was a countdown.

It had appeared the day after he hit puberty, like a flash of ink on his skin. At first, it was just a random number of years, days, and hours. It seemed distant, like something that wouldn’t matter for a long while. But as the years passed, the timer slowly ticked down.

From years to months, and now, it was finally in days. The timer was counting down to the moment he would meet her, the one person who had the power to change his life forever. The one who would match his soul in a way that no one else ever could.

13 hours, 23 minutes, 56 seconds.

That was the time remaining.

Lando took a deep breath, staring at the timer, watching the numbers tick down. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he was meeting her.

It felt so damn close. It was so damn close.

He considered his countdown to be both reassuring and frustrating at the same time.

Of course, he couldn’t say it was painful when Carlos’ soulmate probably went to sleep with an appendix one day and woke up without it, thanks to their bond. Lando could only imagine how deeply unsettling that must be.

Or how nerve-wracking it still must be for Charles—who hasn't found his soulmate yet, to listen carefully to make sure no one says the words written on his shoulder blade. Lando thought that sounded like a nightmare.

His timer, though, felt like a quiet kind of pressure. A soft, constant reminder that something was coming.

Something big. Something important.

At first, it had given him comfort. Back when the number of years was still high and the days counted in thousands, Lando thought it was a blessing. His soulmate would see him when he was at his best—when he’d finally grown into himself, maybe a little more mature. Maybe even, just maybe, worthy of her.

But now, seeing the days ticking away, he wasn’t sure what he felt anymore.

It had been years since he hit puberty. So many years, in fact, that the timer on his wrist had gone from a comforting countdown to a constant source of anxiety. The numbers were finally down to the wire, and Lando couldn’t help but feel jittery about it.

He had spent the past year staring at it, unable to focus on anything else.

Every time he remembered how much time he had left, his stomach churned, his nerves tightening. Everyone noticed it too. The nervous energy had been building up, and now, with only a day left, it was impossible to ignore.

Lando was really excited to meet his soulmate. He truly was. But if he was being honest with himself, he was also fucking terrified. Everyone knew it didn’t always work out the way you wanted it to.

He had seen relationships fall apart. He had seen people struggle with the weight of their soul bonds. And Lando was scared—scared his soulmate wouldn’t want him.

He was scared that when he finally met her, she might look at him and decide he wasn’t worth the wait.

He tried to push the thought aside, to drown it out with logic.

Why would she not want Lando Norris? Famous F1 driver, all-around golden retriever? He grinned at the thought of himself as a “golden retriever.” It was a joke his friends liked to throw around.

It made him laugh, but there was a bitter edge to it, too. That side of him, the more confident part of himself, knew the truth: He was a catch. He’d grown into his own, his place in the world as an F1 driver becoming clearer by the day. He had fans, he had respect, and he had a group of friends who genuinely cared about him. He was doing okay.

But there was another part of him, a smaller, quieter voice that still whispered in the back of his mind. It was the voice that made him second-guess himself, the voice that asked: What if she doesn’t like Lando?

Not Lando Norris, but Lando.

Lando, who needed time to warm up to people. Lando, who could be awkward and uncouth at first, stumbling over his words or trying too hard to make someone laugh. Lando, who wasn’t always the life of the party, and sometimes just needed his own space to recharge. Lando, who had panic attacks and random bursts of energy that he couldn’t always control. Lando, who had an insistent need for physical touch like a touch-starved child, always craving affection, even in the smallest of ways. It made him feel vulnerable.

Would she want to know him, all of him?

He barely noticed when the door cracked open.

“Lando,” his trainer called, leaning against the doorframe. “Zak wants you in the team meeting. Now.”

Lando blinked, shaking himself out of his daze. “Right. Yeah. Coming.”

He forced himself up, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his hands as if that would help the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. He grabbed a water bottle, took a sip he didn’t really need, and made his way to the meeting room.

Inside, the usual suspects were already seated—Zak, the engineers, strategists, a few mechanics, and of course, Oscar, who glanced up when Lando entered.

Zak barely looked up before launching into the meeting. “Alright, boys. Let’s talk strategy.”

Lando dropped into his chair, hands on the table, trying to look engaged as Zak ran through tire strategies, pit stop timings, and race simulations. But he couldn’t focus. His leg bounced under the table. His fingers tapped against his thigh. He shifted in his seat every few minutes. He could feel the countdown, hear it in his head, ticking away like a bomb waiting to go off.

Across the table, Oscar squinted at him.

Lando ignored him, staring at the strategy notes in front of him, pretending to listen as an engineer explained something about tire degradation.

___________________________

Oscar waits until the room clears out before speaking. “Alright,” he says, leveling Lando with a look. “What’s going on?”

Lando exhales sharply, staring down at the numbers on his wrist. “The countdown ends tomorrow.”

Oscar blinks. “Your soulmate timer?”

Lando nods. “Yeah.”

Oscar is quiet for a moment, considering him. “You nervous?”

Lando scoffs, rubbing his hand over his face. “Mate, I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Oscar’s voice is calm, steady. “Why?”

Lando looks at him, incredulous. “Because—what if she doesn’t like me? What if she meets me and decides I’m not worth it? What if she—”

Oscar cuts him off, tone matter-of-fact. “What if she does?”

Lando falters.

Oscar tilts his head. “What if she’s nervous too? What if she’s worried you won’t like her?”

Lando hadn’t thought of that. He’s spent so long worrying about being enough that it never occurred to him that she might be feeling the same.

Oscar shrugs. “You’re Lando. You’re an idiot sometimes, but you’re also... you.” He gives Lando a pointed look. “And if she’s meant for you, she’ll see that.”

Lando exhales, some of the anxiety in his chest loosening. He nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Oscar pats his shoulder once. “Good. Now, stop acting like a nervous wreck. It’s weird.”

Lando laughs as he watches Oscar walk towards his soulmate, who was visiting him before they both travel to Melbourne together for a mini holiday before the season starts.

Lando wonders if he'll have someone like that.

Well, you'll find out tomorrow mate

And isn't that a thought to keep you up all night.

___________________________

Lando sat in the McLaren garage, arms crossed, leg bouncing so hard it was shaking the whole chair. His eyes kept flicking to the countdown on his wrist—1 hour and 57 minutes.

He hadn't slept. He couldn't. He was running on adrenaline, nerves, and whatever was left of his sanity.

Oscar, sitting across from him, had been watching in silence for a while now. Finally, he sighed. “You look awful.”

“Thanks, Osc” Lando muttered.

“No, really,” Charlotte added as she walked past, then doubled back to take in the full disaster that was Lando Norris. “You look like you fought sleep and..lost.”

“I didn’t fight,” Lando grumbled. “Just… didn’t sleep at all.”

Zak, who had been reviewing data, finally looked up. “Why?”

Oscar barely waited a second before answering. “He’s meeting his soulmate today.”

Silence. Then, understanding.

“Ohhh,” Zak said.

“Oh,” Charlotte echoed.

“Yeah,” one of the strategists, Alex, nodded. “Fair enough.”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Charlotte said immediately.

Zak hummed. “If I had to meet the person destined to put up with me forever, I’d be nervous too.”

Charlotte snorted. “Mate, you’ve been married for years.”

Zak shrugged. “Doesn’t mean she’s not still stuck with me.”

Alex grinned. “Yeah, but at least you didn’t look like this when you met her.” he motioned towards Lando's... well, everything.

Lando scowled. “I hate you all.”

Oscar, looking entirely too entertained, leaned back in his chair. “You know, we’ve all been where you are. Well, except me, ‘cause I’ve known since I was a kid.”

Lando shot him a glare. “Not helpful.”

Oscar ignored him. “But everyone else? Yeah. Zak, Charlotte, the others—they all went through it. And guess what?”

Lando sighed. “What?”

“It works out,” Oscar said simply. “So stop stressing. Just be you.”

Lando exhaled, the weight in his chest easing just a little.

Zak clapped his hands. “Right. Now that we’ve reassured our nervous wreck of a driver—go eat or drink something. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Charlotte smirked. “Yeah, would be pretty embarrassing if you collapsed before even meeting her.”

Lando groaned. “I really hate you all.”

But for the first time that day, he actually felt a little better.

________________________

Lando stood, his eyes glued to the countdown timer on his wrist. Seconds seemed to stretch and warp before his eyes, the clock counting down with an unrelenting precision.

Six... Five... Four...

The food court at McLaren’s Bahrain base was alive with chatter, but everything around him felt like background noise.

He had no coffee now. It had long since been abandoned on the table. It had stopped working its magic hours ago. Lando only had his timer, and the ever-decreasing seconds were all that seemed to matter. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to focus.

Two... One...

Zero.

And then, before he could even think to breathe or move, something—no, someone—suddenly collided into him. It was so quick, so unexpected, that Lando didn’t have time to react, to step aside or brace himself.

The impact surprised him with the force of it. Her papers—dozens of them—exploded into the air around them like snowflakes, swirling in a chaotic dance before they settled to the ground.

Lando instinctively reached out, his hands finding her waist, his fingers wrapping around her as he steadied her in his arms.

The moment felt like it was happening in slow motion, every second suspended in time.

He caught her. Like a movie scene, the way he pulled her against him, his heart leaping in his chest. She was there, right in front of him—her warmth against him, her breath soft against his skin.

His chest tightened. Perfect.

It wasn’t just a word. It was everything. She was everything.

For a few seconds, the world around him disappeared, and he simply held her there, feeling the pulse of her in his arms, the beat of his heart syncing with hers. Lando knew, without a doubt, that this was it.

This was her. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, for what felt like forever, and everything in the world seemed to make sense for the first time.

Then, reality hit. He was still holding her. His heart raced, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment.

He had to let go. Right?

But his hands lingered on her waist as if they didn’t want to let go. He could feel the heat of her body, the slight tremor in her touch, and in that second, he realized she was just as affected.

Her touch felt like coming home.

“Oh—uh... sorry, I... didn’t mean to...” Lando’s voice was breathless, his usual confidence faltering in the face of everything he’d ever wanted. He slowly released her, stepping back a fraction, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to let her go entirely.

She smiled then, a soft, knowing smile. It was shy but warm. There was a hint of excitement in her eyes—something that matched the fluttering in his chest.

They stood there, neither of them speaking for a moment, as if the weight of the moment was too much to fully comprehend just yet.

Her gaze met his, and he could see the same wonder in her eyes. She didn’t seem like she was in a rush to leave either.

The silence between them hung for just a moment, and then Lando awkwardly scratched the back of his head, still not quite sure what to say.

“I'm Lando,” he said, his voice slightly shaky. “Nice to meet you... soulmate.”

She took a small step back and gave him another soft smile, her cheeks tinged with a light blush.

“Nice to finally meet you, Lando,” she said, her tone just as shy but equally sincere. “It’s Y/N.”

“Do you wanna get some coffee?”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I thought you were just coming out?”

Lando chuckled, the sound genuine, his nerves easing with her playful tone. “No, well, I mean, yeah, but...I could use another one.”

There was no way in hell he was letting a moment like this slip away. Not when he was standing here with her, his soulmate, the person he’d been waiting for.

Y/n smiled, nodding. “I could definitely use one.”

And just like that, the wait was over.

There were no more numbers to stare at, no more nerves twisting in his stomach. It was just the two of them, standing in a world that felt just a little bit smaller, just a little bit brighter.

The start of something. Something he was finally ready for.

The start to his forever.

______________________________________

Thank you for reading!

Thank you @prttylight for requesting this little piece, I hope I did justice to your request, once again, thank you so much for requesting, it was a wonderful writing.

AND ONCE AGAIN, TO ANYONE WHO MISSED THE MEMO, REQUESTS ARE VERY MUCH OPEN, PLEASE SEND IN SOME.

Jules♡

Taglist: @anamiad00msday @evie-119 @that-one-little-soybean @six-call @stressed-cherry @il0vereadingstuff @whatevenisthisxxxxx @freyathehuntress @nina-or-anna-or-nora @allthings-fandoms @larastark3107 @myescapefromthislife @wertyuizxcvbnm @halleest @hs2016 @lucyysthings @justaf1girl @bernelflo @mendes-bae @chelseyyouraverageluigi @llando4norris @sid-is-gr8 @henna006 @hurtblossom @quinquinquincy @ts1mp0ne @spidercat-soccerfan @kodzuvk @wherethefuckisthething @hellowgoodbye @prttylight @l4ndonorizz @edgyficuselastica @k-kaliop @charlesgirl16 @chloes-book-corner @1mverstappen @inchidentofftrack @blackmage24 @angelluv16 @alice-went-away @teamnovalak @wierdflowerpower @sunshine-and-midnight-rain @maxswhore33

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idk if my last ask got sent but merry christmassssss, keep shining !!

second, i need THIS https://x.com/yovremine/status/1871164598306677111?s=46 for oscar piastri in order to survive pretty please 😭💗

Aerodynamic expertise | OP⁸¹

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Yes, I'm still working on my requests from last year. We read, and we dont judge (pls) 😔👍🏻

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🏁 summary ──── Oscar has been busy most of the day, and when she comes to check on him, the limits of focus, patience, and desire are tested in the most intense way.

🏁 pairing ──── Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

🏁 rating ──── explicit

🏁 category ──── F/M

🏁 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, smut, established relationship, descriptive language, swearing, fingering, unprotected sex, playful teasing and dominant/submissive undertones.

🏁 word count ──── 3.5k

🏁 date ──── Jan. 18, 2025

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OSCAR’S HOME OFFICE is a small room in their apartment that should’ve been her walk-in closet. The walls are decorated with a mix of framed photos from his racing career and minimalistic art prints, while a sleek bookshelf stands in the corner, its shelves filled with some of her books, and various trophies, medals, and scale model replicas of his helmets.

A small lamp casts a warm glow over his workspace, but the rest of the room is swallowed by the darkening evening. The desk is neatly organized — his laptop open, and a pile of documents on one side, almost forgotten.

He’s been reviewing updates on the car’s aerodynamics package the entire afternoon, slightly furrowing his brow as he read through the material, one hand adjusting the headphones over his ears, and the other making notes in the margins of a printout. Oscar has always been the type of person to lock in and get the job done as well as he could. For the moment, his focus remains intense, the faint sound of white noise humming through his headphones, lost in the details of drag coefficients and weight distribution.

He doesn’t notice the light tapping of footsteps approaching the office, nor does he hear the soft creak of the door as it opens.

She walks in, lingering in the doorway for a while, smiling to herself at the sight of her boyfriend who’s still so immersed in his work. His concentration is so characteristic — calm, methodical, and entirely unbothered by the passing of time. However, the late hour has her a little concerned. And annoyed. She crosses the room and stops behind him, leaning slightly to catch a glimpse of the technical drawings on his screen. Without a word, she gently places her hands on his shoulders, squeezing lightly, but he doesn’t react, her touch way too familiar.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a work-related visit?” asks Oscar, his voice as calm as ever but laced with a trace of amusement; he’s not even bothering to look up at her, but rather relaxes under her touch.

“It can be,” she teases. “You’ve been in here for hours, and if that’s how I win some time with my boy…” she adds, leaning in to rest her chin on the top of his head, while her hands wrap around his shoulders from behind.

Oscar chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I know, sorry. I’ll be done with it soon.”

She tries to appear unaffected, but it bothers her a little. He’s been ignoring her for most of the day. Even though she knows that Oscar needs time for his work, that doesn’t make it any easier for her to comply. It’s already hard enough having to adjust to his calendar all year round. Having to do that when he’s at home it’s simply ridiculous.

She rolls her eyes playfully while walking around his chair, resting her back against the desk while facing him. “How soon?” she asks curiously. “It’s dark outside, and you still haven’t told me what you want for dinner.”

He glances at the clock on his laptop and winces. “Ah, shoot. I didn’t realize it was that late. Sorry,” he says again, “I kind of got carried away.”

She hums in mock disapproval. “Typical. I’m convinced you’d survive on data sheets if I wasn’t here, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, probably,” he admits with a small smirk, his hands reaching instinctively for her hips. “Alright, so what are the options?”

“Well,” she begins, carefully sliding onto his lap, her arms wrapping loosely around his neck. The sudden shift in weight forces Oscar out of his focus, and he pulls off his headphones so he can hear her better. “I could order pizza,” she says, trailing a thumb lazily along the back of his neck, “Make something quick, or we could raid the fridge and hope for the best?”

Oscar tilts his head as if weighing the choices. “Pizza sounds good, but why do I feel like you’re leaning toward option three?”

She smiles, shrugging, “Because I don’t like wasting food,” she replies. “So. You coming?” the girl asks, her tone soft and inviting.

Oscar pulls back slightly to look at her, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I just need to finish this. Can’t leave in the middle of it.”

“Yes, you can,” she cries in protest. “Come on, Oscar. You’ve been staring at this for hours. If it’s not done by now, it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Baby, it can’t,” he insists, gesturing to the printouts on his desk. “If I don’t understand the updates, I’ll go into the next test session blind. They’ve tweaked the front wing, and I need to see how the airflow changes affect the balance.”

She crosses her arms, eyeing him. “Then let me help. Two brains are better than one, right?”

Oscar snorts, shaking his head with a grin. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but unless you’ve suddenly become an expert in aerodynamics, I’m not sure how much help you’ll be.”

“Oscplain it to me then,” she challenges.

Amused, he picks up one of the papers and holds it between them. “Alright, let’s see. This here,” he points to a diagram of the front wing, “Is the new design they’ve proposed. See how the shape is slightly curved here and flared out at the edges?”

She nods, her eyes following his finger as it glides smoothly across the sheet of paper, then descends lower, to his veiny forearm.

“It’s to channel the air around the tires more efficiently,” continues Oscar, his voice patient but lightly teasing. “Turbulent air from the tires can disrupt the flow to the rear of the car, which affects stability and speed. By tweaking this part, I’m guessing they’re hoping to create a cleaner stream of airflow.”

“Great! You already know what’s up,” she jokes, her lips curving into a small smile.

Oscar chuckles, “It’s just basics.”

“Bet,” she insists, taking the paper from him, then grabbing his hands and placing them back on her waist. “Keep going. What happens after the air goes around the tires?”

His hands instinctively begin to trace the curve of her body as he continues, “Well, the clean air flows down the side pods, feeding the diffuser at the back. That’s where most of the car’s downforce is generated. It’s all about keeping a nice balance, because if there’s too much downforce, the car is slower on straights. Too little, and it can’t corner properly.”

As he speaks, his fingers tighten slightly on her waist, mimicking the precision he’s describing. She shifts under his touch, her breath hitching just enough for him to notice.

“And, baby, balance is everything. I’ll tell you that much for free,” he adds just as his hands slide over her sides, his thumbs brushing along her ribs. “You know, the car has to respond perfectly to input. Too much force in one area, and everything gets… destabilized.”

She bites her lower lip absently, her eyes locked on his face. “Mhm, and what about this area?” she asks, her voice low as she guides his hands higher, molding his palms on the curves of her breasts.

His throat bobs as he swallows, but he keeps talking, his tone steady even as his pulse quickens. “That’s like managing weight distribution. Every shift changes the dynamics. You’ve got to be… very gentle. And precise.”

His hands squeeze her gently before letting them roam lower now, gripping her thighs, and she lets out a soft gasp just as Oscar adds, “But sometimes, you need more force,” he says, his fingers pressing more firmly into her skin. “Especially when you’re going through high-speed corners. It’s about finding that sweet spot where everything works in harmony,” he pauses, his eyes flicking to hers. “You follow?”

Oscar’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk, and for a moment, he forgets about his diagrams and work entirely. The room feels somehow smaller than it actually is, warmer, the technical jargon fading into the background as his focus shifts entirely to her.

She looks at him, while adjusting her position on his lap. The slight push forward sends tiny, yet intense sparks through her body, and her breath hitches again.

“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice laced with feigned innocence, “I’m getting there.” Oscar smiles again at her words, but before he can say anything, she continues, her hips moving ever so slightly against him. “But,” she breathes, leaning closer, her lips brushing against his ear, “I think I need some additional explanations, though.”

The air between them grows heavier, and Oscar exhales slowly, his control fraying at the edges. “Is that so?” he asks, his voice dropping as his lips ghost over hers in a shallow kiss, teasing but not giving her everything. “I can do that.”

She hums in response, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers dig into her skin, pulling her flush against him.

“You want me to show you?”

“Mhm,” she nods, fighting demons in order to keep her whimpers inside.

“I told you about tire degradation, yeah?” Oscar presses another light kiss to her lips, pausing just long enough to make her chase him for more. Which she does. “You don’t want to overheat,” he says, his hands moving down her sides to anchor her hips. “But if you’re too cautious, you won’t get the performance you’re looking for, either.”

She lets out a shaky chuckle, her hips grinding subtly against him. “Makes sense,” she nods, her voice breathy and full of need.

Oscar lets out a soft groan, as her movements on top of him send a rush of heat through him.

“When I’m in the car, I need to push just hard enough to stay in control,” his hands slide to the curve of her waist, guiding her rhythm, “But not so hard that I lose grip entirely.”

Her moan is quiet, but it cuts through the charged air between them. She tilts her head back slightly, her lips parting as the friction builds. “Oscar…” she breathes, her voice trembling.

His jaw tightens, his restraint wavering as her hips move against him more purposeful under his careful guidance. “See?” asks Oscar rhetorically, his tone rougher now, “You’re getting it. Find the sweet spot, and everything just… clicks.”

She leans forward, her forehead pressing against his as her breathing grows heavier. “We’re still at the basics?” she asks, her lips brushing his as she speaks.

Oscar smiles, though his own composure is clearly slipping. “Not really. It takes time and patience to perfect the technique. It took me lots of practice,” he says proudly, his voice thick with desire.

She laughs softly, the sound quickly dissolving into another quiet moan as he presses her even closer, his hard length straining against her through their clothes. His lips finally capture hers fully, the kiss deep and consuming, as if he can’t hold himself back any longer.

She cups his jaw, pulling his face toward hers, and presses her lips to his in a firm kiss, while his hands are slipping up to hold her more securely. Without breaking their connection, Oscar’s hand fumbles for his laptop and, with a practiced ease, he grabs it and shifts it onto the windowsill on their left. At the same time, his other arm wraps around her, lifting her as though she weighs nothing and settling her on the smooth surface of his desk. As a result, some papers flutter to the floor unnoticed, minor casualties of the heated atmosphere sparking between them.

Her focus is entirely on how Oscar moves — the way his hands slide under her shirt, the cool air kissing her skin as he pushes the fabric higher. Her body arches instinctively as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of her shorts, seeking almost curiously.

“Oh,” she gasps silently, her hips jerking forward at the first brush of his fingers against her slick heat.

Oscar’s breath hitches, and a quiet curse slips from his lips. “Shit,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at her flushed face. “You’re soaked already. Should we work on optimal traction here or?”

Her laugh is breathless, almost a whimper, as he presses a finger inside her, curling it just enough to make her shudder. “Optimal… something,” she whimpers, her thighs trembling slightly as he adds a second finger, stretching her just enough to make her squirm.

“Ease into it, baby,” he encourages her, his focus split between the way she reacts to his touch and the growing tightness in his own body. His free hand grips her hip, holding her steady as her movements grow more animated by the second. “Too much too fast, and you’ll spin out before we get to the apex, remember?”

She tries to reply, but all that escapes her is a high-pitched moan as his thumb brushes against her clit. And then his name, like an intense prayer dripping from her lips.

The sound of her voice, breathy and pleading, sends a jolt straight through him, his arousal pressing almost painfully against the fabric of his pants.

His lips twitch in a half-smile, though there’s a rough edge to his voice when he speaks again. “That’s it,” he says, his fingers working her with practiced ease. “Controlled inputs. Smooth handling. The sweet spot.”

Her body responds to him as usual, her inner walls clenching around his fingers as a broken cry falls from her lips. “Oh my—Oscar,” she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders for support.

Oscar exhales sharply, his jaw clenching as he fights to keep his composure. “Fuck, I know. I know,” he mutters under his breath, the sensation of her squeezing his fingers making his mind wander. He imagines how good she’d feel around his cock instead, warm and tight, pulling him in and driving him to the brink.

The thought nearly undoes him, and he grips her hip tighter, guiding her as she rocks against his hand. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he says, the words slipping out in a low rasp. “Yeah, look at you.”

Her head tilts forward as her moans grow louder, her movements more frantic, almost never enough for her to relax. She watches through her eyelashes as his fingers pump in and out of her pussy without hesitation, feeling the tips putting pressure inside with each stroke. “Please. Feel so good,” she moans softly, her voice breaking, alerting Oscar that she’s close.

“I hear you, love. Come on, then,” he says, his tone both encouraging and commanding. “I’ve got you.”

It is his voice that pushes her over the edge. He sounds like he is utterly intoxicated by her and the way her body responds to him, always. His words seem to be covered in a generous layer of honey and equal worshipping, which drives her higher and higher. Her body tenses, and then she shatters around him, her release hitting her in waves that leave her trembling. Her cries echo in the small room, mingling with the sound of their heavy breaths.

Oscar watches her with a mix of satisfaction and awe, his fingers still gently stroking her as she slowly comes back to herself. His chest rises and falls heavily as he sees how affected she is. Gently, he withdraws his hand, his fingers glistening with her arousal. With his other hand, he brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheek.

“You okay?” asks Oscar in a tender voice, a stark contrast to the rough edge it held moments ago.

She nods, a small, blissful smile playing on her lips as she meets his gaze. Her hands are easily sliding down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms.

But then her gaze drops, and her smile grows mischievous. “Are you okay?” she asks, her tone dripping with mock innocence as her hand trails down to the unmistakable bulge straining against his pants.

Oscar stiffens slightly, his breath hitching when she palms him through the fabric. “Bloody hell,” he mutters.

“You know, I’d give it some attention,” she muses, her thumb tracing over his tip through the material. Her eyes flick up to meet his, playful yet wicked. “But you’re obviously so busy with work. It can wait, I guess.”

His eyes snap back to hers, narrowing slightly as he reads her intent, but before he can respond, she’s pushing him back into his chair. Oscar exhales sharply, his hands instinctively gripping the armrests as she stands, retrieves the laptop from the windowsill, and places it back on the desk in front of them.

“Stop,” he warns, his voice low, but it’s more a plea than a command.

“Stop what?” she asks in an innocent manner as she tugs her shorts back up, the fabric clinging to her curves.

Smiling, she leans down to gather the papers scattered on the floor, clearly putting on a show for him. Her movements are purposeful, the curve of her ass drawing his gaze like a magnet.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” says Oscar, almost annoyed at her audacity. “And it works.”

She glances back over her shoulder, with a playful glint in her eyes. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about, babe.”

Once she’s seated back on his lap, her thighs slick with the remnants of her orgasm, she shifts slightly, her weight settling over his aching length. Oscar lets out a shaky breath, his fingers instinctively finding her waist again, gripping her softly.

She starts scrolling through his laptop documents, pretending to focus on the technical details in front of her. “Hm, were were we? Ah, yes. Air flow dynamics…” she reads, her tone intentionally casual.

It’s pure torture for him.

Her warmth is teasing him through the thin fabric separating them, and the subtle movements of her body have his control is slipping.

Almost defeated, Oscar pushes her hair to the side and presses his lips against the sensitive curve of her neck while she keeps reading off the screen. He stopped listening long ago, too high on her simple presence. His kisses are soft at first, but as his need grows, they become much more desperate; he is hungry, after all. For her.

One of his hands slides up under her shirt, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her stomach.

“Can I slip inside?” he whispers, his voice husky and full of need.

She tilts her head back slightly, smirking at him. “Can you multitask?”

That’s all the permission he needs.

Oscar works quickly, freeing himself from his pants, just as his hand slides between her thighs, pushing her shorts to the side just enough to expose her. The tip of his cock presses against her heat, and the fullness as he slowly pushes inside has them both moaning simultaneously.

“Fuck, so warm,” he swears, resting his forehead against her back for a moment as he adjusts to the feeling.

Her body opens up for him immediately, clenching tightly around his length as he lifts her hips slightly, only to pull her back down. She’s slick, her arousal making it easy for him to glide in and out, but the tightness still has his breathing ragged.

Her head falls back against his shoulder as she moans softly, turning her head to continue with her teasing, “The coefficients and flow angles could really—”

Oscar exhales sharply, cutting her off. “Alright, fuck. I’ll finish tomorrow,” he says, his voice strained, giving in entirely.

He stands suddenly, bending her over the desk as he cups the curve of her ass, guiding her hips back onto his cock. The angle shifts, and the deep stretch makes her gasp. His thrusts are slow and measured, but the way her body clenches around him makes it impossible for him to keep it as simple as that. Gradually, he picks up the pace, the sound of their bodies joining mixing with her muffled moans.

Her elbows rest on the desk as her head drops between her shoulders, every movement pulling her closer once again. It is too much, yet still not enough. She wants to feel all of him, but then Oscar is pulling out, forcing another cry out of her.

She tries to protest by pushing back against him, and Oscar is not wasting a breath, chasing a well-known feeling as she grips at the edge of the desk. Even though he just took care of her, nothing compares with feeling of him fucking into her from behind.

The heat between them builds rapidly, their muscles tense as they chase their release. Her thighs tremble, and her breaths come in short, sharp gasps. Oscar seems to follow that sound, caressing her sides just for as long as he slips free to pull her shorts slightly lower on her thighs, for better access. His cock nudges back against her swollen clit immediately, causing her thighs to press together at the pressure. It makes Oscar see stars, driving him to thrust his hips harder at the feeling and let his cock slide along the slick, puffy folds.

When her walls clench around him, the tight, wet heat sends him spiraling. “God, baby. You feel so good,” he groans, his voice rough as he thrusts harder, his hips snapping against hers. “Always. So fucking good for me.”

The room fills with the sounds of her pussy squelching while Oscar keeps thrusting in and out, her release hitting first. The pleasure washes over her as her body spasms, gripping him tighter, and the sensation pulls Oscar over the edge almost instantly. He buries himself deep inside her as he comes, his groans muffled against her shoulder.

As they catch their breath, she looks down at her ruined shorts and laughs softly. “Well, these are done for.”

Oscar grins, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. “Guess we’ll add laundry to tomorrow’s to-do list.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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The Night She Finally Gave In | LN4

🎀 summary ━━━━━━━ For eight months, Y/N teased, denied, and kept Lando chasing—but he never gave up. Until one night she finally gives in. 

🎀 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎀 word count ━━━━━━━ 7.9k

🎀 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, teasing

Based on this request.

The persistent hum of the city pulsed against Y/N’s ears as she stepped off the crowded London sidewalk and into a cozy Shoreditch lounge. Music throbbed under low lighting, and the place was already bustling with familiar chatter. Tonight, she was meeting Pietra and Max for casual drinks, but she knew one other person would be there—someone who’d been on her mind more than she cared to admit. Lando Norris.

She spotted Pietra first, her friend waving her over from a corner booth. Max, Pietra’s boyfriend and Lando’s best friend, grinned in greeting. Y/N slid into the booth and unwrapped her scarf, letting the warmth of the lounge soak into her. Before she could even settle, an electric awareness sparked at the base of her spine. She sensed him near before she actually saw him. And sure enough, there he was—leaning against the bar, exchanging an easy laugh with the bartender, but already casting sideways glances in her direction.

For over half a year, Lando had chased after her with single-minded obsession. The moment they’d been introduced—eight months ago at a friend’s barbecue—he’d made his interest painfully obvious. Texts at odd hours, random calls whenever he was in London, spontaneous outings with their mutual friends that always ended with him trying to corner her for a private moment.

She found it thrilling at first. She teased him mercilessly, indulging in the attention of someone so persistent and quite obviously smitten. She’d let him buy her drinks, whisper silly compliments that made her cheeks warm, and flirt back just enough to get his heart pounding. But any time he tried to escalate—from a lean-in kiss to a direct request for a date—she’d reject him. Gently, but firmly. Over and over.

Why did she do it? Maybe she wanted to protect herself from the potential heartbreak of dating a man adored by millions. Or maybe she reveled in the power of knowing that someone as high-profile as Lando Norris was practically wrapped around her finger. Whatever the reason, the game had dragged on for months, and he never gave up. If anything, each rejection only seemed to strengthen his resolve.

And how he persevered. In those eight months, she had watched him run himself ragged trying to impress her. No matter what she threw at him—a dismissive laugh, a pointed change of subject, a half-hearted excuse—he always came back stronger. She’d catch glimpses of his frustration sometimes, in the tight line of his mouth or the way he’d fist his hands at his sides, but he never unleashed that frustration on her. Instead, he teased, he flirted, he praised. And every time she knocked him down, he got up again, more determined than ever.

Lando was desperate. His affection for her had morphed into an all-consuming fascination. When he was away in Monaco, racing or fulfilling sponsor obligations, he’d tell Max how he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d message Pietra, trying to get any new details about Y/N’s day. He was head over heels, losing sleep, replaying every interaction they’d ever had—each brush of the fingers, each clever remark that made him laugh, each time she chewed her lip and pretended not to look at him, even though he felt her gaze.

She, meanwhile, was enjoying the slow burn. It was cruel in a way, but exhilarating. She loved the sense of power over a man who had the entire world at his feet yet seemed willing to crawl if it meant she’d say yes. She wasn’t intentionally cruel—she did like him. In fact, she liked him a lot. But the thrill of him chasing and her evading was addicting. She made sure to flirt just enough to keep him on the hook—an extra lingering stare, a subtle graze of her hand across his chest whenever she passed by him at a party, a playful text that ended with a winking emoji—only to turn cold if he tried to corner her for anything more.

And it worked. She reeled him in, then pushed him away, over and over. Each time, he fell deeper under her spell, thoroughly bewitched by the side-smiles, the confident tilt of her chin, the way she’d arch an eyebrow whenever he tried to inch closer. Lando found himself wanting her with a fierceness he’d never felt before. Some nights he’d lie awake in Monaco, scrolling through photos of them at group events—her bright eyes, her maddening half-smiles—and wonder what he had to do to make her his.

So here she was again, sliding into a lounge booth with Pietra and Max, fully aware of Lando’s presence across the room. She greeted her friends with a sweet smile, but her pulse fluttered. Lando soon made his way over, wearing a casual denim jacket and a grin that betrayed a hint of nerves. He paused by the table, his gaze locking onto Y/N’s.

“Evening,” he said softly, eyes gleaming.

She cocked her head, forcing a pleasant smile. “Hey there, Norris. In London again?”

He shrugged with forced nonchalance. “Yeah, had some meetings earlier. Thought I’d stick around for the weekend.” It was a lie. He’d finished his obligations days ago, but no one doubted he’d stayed in town solely for her.

Pietra nudged Y/N with a playful smirk. “Glad you two can finally catch up. We’ve barely seen you in the same place these last few weeks.”

Lando lowered himself next to Y/N on the booth’s bench, the cushion sinking beneath his weight. She could practically feel the heat radiating from him. He smelled fresh and warm, a subtle cologne mixed with something distinctly him. “I’m starving,” he announced to no one in particular, though his attention stayed fixed on Y/N. “Hungry?”

She had eaten earlier, but she smiled coyly. “Might nibble on something if it’s good enough,” she teased.

His gaze flickered over her lips as she said the words. “I’ll make sure it’s good,” he murmured, voice dropping lower.

Goosebumps prickled her skin. She had to look away, heart drumming. If there was one thing Lando excelled at, it was firing her up with a single line of flirtation. She tensed her jaw, determined not to let him see just how much she liked that.

As the night wore on, Max and Pietra chatted about their upcoming travel plans. Lando and Y/N lingered at the edge of the conversation, occasionally joining in, but mostly locked in a subtle battle of words and glances.

At one point, Y/N excused herself to go to the bar, deliberately leaving him behind, half-hoping he’d follow. Sure enough, a moment later, a figure slid in beside her, resting an elbow on the wooden counter.

“You’re really not going to sit next to me all night?” Lando asked, feigning a pout.

She shrugged with a lazy grin. “You seemed too eager. Didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

He let out a soft groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she teased. “I’m counting on it.”

He placed a hand on her lower back. Not too low, but enough to make her heart jump. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused, though the corners of his mouth lifted in admiration.

She pursed her lips. “I might be.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Why do you keep saying no?”

“Because…” She trailed off, letting the unspoken tension fill the gap. She could have easily told him she was afraid or uncertain, but that wasn’t the game she was playing tonight. Instead, she flashed a small, almost innocent smile. “Maybe I just like watching you try.”

His expression tightened, eyes flashing with frustration and something hotter. “Then watch me,” he said. “I’m not quitting.”

She gulped, momentarily stunned by the heated timbre in his voice. A flicker of genuine nerves fluttered inside her because she sensed his patience was wearing thin, replaced by a more urgent desire. For all her playful torment, she couldn’t deny a thrill ran through her at the thought of him finally snapping—that the slow burn might become an inferno that neither of them could control.

They returned to the booth, but an hour later, the small party started to disperse. Max and Pietra had an early morning. With warm hugs and goodbyes, they headed out, leaving Y/N and Lando alone amidst the lounge’s dwindling crowd.

He slid closer, draping one arm along the back of the booth. “So… are you gonna run away now?”

She pretended to check her phone. “It’s getting late. I might call it a night soon.”

He exhaled a barely concealed groan. “You always do this. We hang out with friends, you tease me, and then you leave me high and dry.”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” She batted her eyelashes, an expression of false innocence.

“Barely,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Then he steeled himself. “What if I said I’m done taking no for an answer?”

Her pulse skittered. She arched an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously close to an ultimatum, Norris.”

He looked straight into her eyes, unwavering. “I want you. You know it. You’ve known it for months. I’m tired of playing the same game where I lose every time.”

Her stomach twisted with both excitement and the faintest tremor of guilt for having strung him along so long. But her desire to keep him on the edge remained strong. “You sound desperate,” she murmured, leaning forward.

His cheeks flared with color, but he didn’t back down. “I am desperate. Do you have any idea how you’ve been driving me crazy?”

She placed a hand delicately on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath her palm. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” she quipped, pressing just enough to keep him leaning toward her.

He caught her wrist lightly. “And you’re unbelievably gorgeous when you’re tormenting me.” His gaze darkened as he whispered, “Come home with me. Or let me come home with you. Either way, let’s stop pretending we don’t want this.”

For a moment, she was silent. The tension between them was near stifling. Every inch of her body buzzed with anticipation, and she had to swallow hard to steady her voice.

She trailed her fingers up his neck, pausing to toy with the hairs at his nape. “My place,” she whispered. Her heart pounded at the stunned look that crossed his face. “You coming or not?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

They left the lounge together, the cool air of the London streets a sharp contrast to the heat that had built between them. Neither spoke much on the walk to her flat—a short distance that felt endless in the taut silence. Lando’s hand found hers, and she didn’t pull away this time. In fact, she threaded her fingers through his, sending a jolt of excitement right through them both.

He followed her inside the building, up two flights of stairs to her door. She fumbled with her keys, her nerves betraying her calm façade. Once inside, she discarded her coat, setting it on a rack by the door.

Lando shut the door behind them. No small talk. No polite questions about whether he wanted a drink. The second they were alone, he crossed the space in two strides, cradling her face with both hands and pressing his lips to hers in a long-awaited, bruising kiss.

A whimper escaped her as she leaned into him, arms sliding around his shoulders. Their mouths moved in a frenzy of pent-up hunger. She could feel his desperation in every breath, every gasp. He’d waited so long for even a taste, and now he devoured her lips, tongue stroking against hers as though trying to claim every inch.

She broke away momentarily, panting. “Hungry?” she teased, voice uneven.

“Starving,” he growled, eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and raw need.

Without warning, he scooped her up around the waist, drawing a startled laugh from her. She hooked her legs around his hips as he backed her up against the wall, ignoring her protest that she could walk just fine. His lips returned to hers, trailing hot kisses along her jaw, down her neck.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” he breathed against her throat. “You, in my arms, not running away?”

She shivered, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “And do you know how many times I’ve thought about you losing your composure like this?” She let out a shaky exhale as his teeth grazed her skin. “I love seeing you barely holding it together.”

He groaned. “You really do get off on tormenting me, don’t you?”

She only smiled, unrepentant. “Maybe.”

With an exasperated laugh, he carried her deeper into the flat, pushing open a door until they tumbled into her bedroom. He set her down carefully, but kept her pinned against him, lips still fused.

Clothes became an unwanted barrier. They stripped each other down in hurried, desperate movements, fabric hitting the floor carelessly as they pressed closer. His palms roamed her curves, mapping them with reverence and urgency all at once. She marveled at the firm lines of his shoulders, the warmth radiating from his skin.

He nudged her gently onto the bed, following her down in a tangle of limbs. She let out a soft moan when his lips trailed over her collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses that made her toes curl. It was overwhelming, this culmination of half a year’s worth of tease and denial.

His breath hitched as she slipped her fingers through his hair, guiding him up to meet her eyes. “You like to lead me on, but trust me,” he said, voice husky. “Tonight, I’m the one in control.”

She smirked at the newfound edge in his tone. “Prove it.”

That challenge was all he needed. With a low growl, he leaned in, pressing a series of heated, possessive kisses along her throat. “I’m going to make you beg,” he rasped into her ear. “And you won’t be rejecting me this time.”

Her heart stuttered. She’d never seen him this way—intense, almost predatory in the best sense. It ignited a fire in her she hadn’t known existed. “Show me,” she whispered, arching against him.

His hands slid lower, and she gasped at the sensation of his touch, every nerve in her body singing with tension. She tangled her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, fueling the friction that built with every heated breath. The months of frustration erupted into a raw, almost desperate passion, making them both reckless.

Lando’s hands were firm on her hips, his lips trailing down her neck with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her breath hitch. Y/N’s back arched instinctively, her fingers gripping the sheets as he hovered above her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there was a new edge to him—a sharpness that hadn’t been there before.

“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “But now it’s my turn.”

Before she could respond, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, cutting off any protest. His tongue swiped against hers, demanding, claiming, and she felt herself melting into him, her body betraying the control she’d so carefully maintained for months. His hands moved to her wrists, pinning them above her head with ease. She let out a soft whimper, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he deepened the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, she was breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He smirked down at her, his expression a mix of satisfaction and something far more dangerous. “You’ve been teasing me for months, love,” he said, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Do you have any idea what that’s done to me?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he silenced her with another kiss, this one brief but no less intense. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to control this. I’m in charge now.”

Her stomach flipped at the command in his tone, a wave of heat pooling low in her core. She nodded, her eyes wide, and he smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Good girl,” he purred, the words sending a jolt of electricity through her.

His grip on her wrists tightened as he leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You’ve driven me wild for months,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “Now it’s my turn to make you lose control.” His free hand trailed teasingly down her body, fingers skimming over her ribs, her waist, her hips, making her squirm beneath him. “Stay still,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Or I’ll stop.”

She whimpered, her body trembling with restraint as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration. His hand moved back up her side, fingers brushing the underside of her bra. “So beautiful,” he whispered, his gaze locked on hers as his fingers found the clasp. God, he’s doing this with one hand, she thought, her breath hitching as she watched him. How is this so fucking hot?

With practiced ease, he undid the clasp, the material loosening against her skin. He slid the straps down her arms, his eyes never leaving hers, a smirk playing on his lips as the bra fell away, exposing her breasts. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to get my hands on these.” His palm cupped her breast, his fingers fitting perfectly around the soft curve. He squeezed gently at first, then more possessively, his grip firm as his thumb brushed over her nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from her.

He unpinned her wrists, but she didn’t move, as if waiting for permission. He didn’t give her any, too focused on her breasts, his hands now free to explore every inch. He cupped them both, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he squeezed them together, his eyes filled with hunger. “Fuck, baby, they fit perfectly in my hands,” he said, his voice rough. “Like they were made for me to touch.”

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above her skin. “They’re even better than I imagined,” he murmured, his breath hot against her as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. She gasped, her hands finally finding his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he lavished attention on her breasts, alternating between them with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His mouth was relentless, kissing, licking, and sucking as if he couldn’t get enough. “God, baby, they’re so soft,” he groaned against her skin, his voice trembling with need. “So fucking perfect. I could spend hours right here.” He buried his face between them, his hands still kneading her breasts, squeezing them together as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to her skin.

She arched into his touch, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he worshipped her body. Every flick of his tongue, every squeeze of his hands sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, and she couldn’t help but moan his name. “Lando…”

He looked up at her, his lips swollen, his eyes burning with desire. “You’re mine now,” he said, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

She nodded, her body trembling with anticipation as he returned to her breasts, his hands and mouth working in perfect harmony to drive her wild. She’d never felt so wanted, so completely claimed, and she loved every second of it.

Lando’s lips left her breasts with one last, lingering kiss, and she whimpered at the loss of contact. But he wasn’t done—not even close. His mouth trailed down her body, leaving a scorching path of kisses along her skin. He kissed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, each press of his lips deliberate, maddeningly slow. Every inch of her felt like it was on fire, and she could barely keep herself still as he moved lower, his lips brushing the top of her hip bone.

Her breath hitched as he reached the hem of her underwear, his hands skimming over the fabric as if he were memorizing every curve. “So soft,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending shivers through her. He kissed just above the waistband, his breath hot against her skin, and she let out a desperate whimper. “Patience, sweetheart,” he said, smirking up at her. “You made me wait for months. You can wait a little longer.”

She groaned, her hips lifting off the bed as if begging for him to touch her where she needed it most. But he didn’t. Instead, his lips moved to her inner thighs, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wider, and she felt exposed, utterly at his mercy. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “So desperate already. What happened to all that teasing confidence, love?”

She could feel the dampness pooling between her legs, her underwear clinging to her in the most embarrassing way. The fabric was soaked, a dark patch spreading across the front, and she knew he could see it, could smell how turned on she was. He kissed her thigh again, his lips brushing so close to where she needed him that she thought she might scream. “Every time you told me no,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, “I pictured this exact moment—how I’d have you writhing, begging for me.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She was writhing, her hips moving restlessly as he continued his torment. “Lando, please,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers hooking under the waistband of her underwear. “You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “And I’ve barely even touched you properly. How bad do you need it?” She whimpered in response, and he smirked, slowly sliding the soaked fabric down her legs and tossing it aside.

He spread her thighs wide, his hands firm on her hips as he leaned in to inspect her. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his voice trembling with awe. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” The evidence of her arousal was impossible to ignore, her pussy glistening, her folds swollen and needy. He kissed her inner thigh again, his lips brushing so close to her clit that she nearly came undone. She gasped, her hips lifting off the bed, but he held her down firmly. “Keep still,” he warned, his voice low and commanding. “Or I’ll stop completely. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

She shook her head frantically, her hands gripping the sheets as he leaned in, his tongue finally dragging through her folds in one long, slow lick. She moaned, the sound desperate and broken, and he groaned against her. “You’re clenching around nothing,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You poor thing. Maybe I should just leave you like this.”

“No!” she cried, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please, Lando, I need you.”

He smirked, his breath hot against her sensitive skin. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you beg,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Go on, let me hear you.”

She whined, her hips lifting off the bed again, but he pressed her down firmly. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, his grip on her thighs unyielding. “You’re gonna let me see how much you need this.”

And then he dove in, his tongue lapping at her pussy with relentless precision. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair as he swirled his tongue around her clit, sucking lightly before pulling back, leaving her trembling on the edge. “Oh, you want to come?” he teased, his voice smug. “After making me wait all this time? Not yet, sweetheart.”

He pinned her hips to the bed, his tongue working her over with slow, maddening strokes. Every time she felt herself close to the edge, he pulled away, leaving her gasping and desperate. “Lando, please,” she begged, her voice breaking.

He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her skin. “Shh, love. No whining. You teased me for eight months—this is only fair.”

And then he returned to her pussy, his tongue flicking over her clit with just the right amount of pressure to drive her wild. She was close, so close, but he pulled away again, leaving her trembling and desperate, utterly at his mercy.

Lando pulled away from her pussy, leaving her trembling and desperate, her body arched off the bed in search of more. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “But you’re not getting off that easy.” He stood, stripping off his boxers in one fluid motion, and her breath caught at the sight of him. His cock was thick, fully erect, and glistening with precum, a testament to how badly he wanted her. She couldn’t help but salivate at the sight, her pussy clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill her.

He climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. She instinctively tried to close them, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation, but he grabbed her thighs, pinning them apart with a firm grip. “No, baby,” he said, his voice dark and commanding. “You don’t get to hide from me anymore. You wanted this. Now take it.”

He aligned himself with her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick folds, and she whimpered, her hips lifting in a silent plea. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. He pushed into her slowly, inch by torturous inch, his eyes locked on hers as he stretched her open. She gasped, her back arching off the bed as he filled her, the sensation overwhelming and euphoric all at once. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire. “Feel that? That’s me, stretching you open, making you mine.”

He bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, and paused, letting her adjust to the sheer size of him. Her pussy fluttered around his cock, gripping him like a vice, and he groaned, his head falling back in ecstasy. “You feel that?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How you’re wrapped around me? This is where you belong now—taking every fucking inch of me.”

Y/N was already a mess, her hands gripping the sheets as she struggled to stay still. Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation, and she could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as he moved inside her. It was too much and not enough all at once. “Lando, please—please move faster,” she begged, her voice breaking.

But he just smirked, his grip on her thighs tightening. “Oh, no, love. I decide how you take me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in with the same slow, deliberate pace, drawing a desperate whimper from her. “You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “You made me wait for months, love. Now it’s your turn to suffer.” He thrust into her again, deep and slow, his hips rolling in a way that had her toes curling. Her pussy throbbed around him, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through her, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed him to go harder, faster, to give her the release she was hovering on the edge of. “Lando, I swear to god, if you don’t move faster—” she started, but her words were cut off by a moan as he slammed into her again, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

Her pussy was soaking wet, the slickness making every thrust smoother, every movement more intense. For Lando, the sensation was indescribable. Her walls clenched around him like a fist, hot and tight, and every time he pushed into her, he felt like he was losing his mind. She was perfect, perfect, and the way she moaned his name only drove him wild. “You love the way I fill you up, don’t you?” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “Look at you—already so fucking wrecked.”

She nodded frantically, her hips lifting to meet his, but he stopped her, his hands gripping her waist to keep her still. “No, love,” he said, his tone firm. “You stay right there and take it. Don’t move.” She whined, her body trembling beneath him, but she obeyed, her hands gripping the sheets as he continued to fuck her with the same slow, maddening pace. “Stop holding back,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “You’ve wanted this for months, so take me.”

He chuckled, leaning down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “Oh, I’m taking you, sweetheart,” he murmured against her mouth. “Every. Single. Inch.” Each word was punctuated by a deep, controlled thrust, and she moaned, her body writhing beneath him. But he kept her still, his hands firm on her hips, his pace unrelenting. “Fuck, Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “I’m begging—please, just give it to me.”

He smirked, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “Maybe I will,” he said, his voice teasing. “But not until I’m done with you.” He shifted slightly, angling his hips so that each thrust brushed against her clit, and she cried out, her body trembling on the edge. “That’s it, love,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Let me ruin you properly.”

His cock felt like heaven inside her, stretching her open in the most delicious way, and she could feel every inch of him as he moved, slow and deep, his pace maddeningly controlled. For him, the sensation was almost too much. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, and every time she clenched around him, he felt like he was going to lose it. But he wasn’t going to give in—not yet. He was going to make her suffer, just like she’d made him. “You’re mine now,” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

She moaned, her body trembling beneath him, her pussy gripping him tighter with each thrust. She was close, so close, but he wasn’t going to let her come—not yet. He was going to draw this out, make her beg for it, make her feel every second of the torment she’d put him through. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice dark. “Say you love the way I fuck you.”

She hesitated, her eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure crashed over her, but he tightened his grip on her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Say it properly,” he growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Or I stop right now.” She whimpered, her body trembling beneath him, and finally, she said it, her voice trembling with need. “I… I love the way you fuck me.”

He smirked, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good girl,” he purred, leaning down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “Now let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.” And with that, he finally picked up the pace, his thrusts deep and relentless, driving her closer and closer to the edge. She was a mess, her body writhing beneath him, her moans filling the room as he fucked her exactly how he’d promised—deep, slow, and completely in control.

And she loved every second of it.

Lando’s hands moved to her hips, his grip firm and unyielding as he lifted her effortlessly, flipping her in one fluid motion. Her breath caught in her throat as she found herself straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside her. Her tits bounced with the sudden movement, and he didn’t miss the opportunity, his hands immediately reaching up to cup them, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he squeezed possessively. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “Now let me see you ride me, but don’t you dare move faster than I let you.”

His hands were like iron, gripping her hips and holding her steady as he thrust up into her, his cock sliding in and out of her slick pussy with maddening precision. She tried to lift herself, to take control of the rhythm, but he held her down firmly, making her take every inch of him at his pace. “No, love,” he said, his voice dark and commanding. “You don’t get to set the pace. I do. And I want to take my time with you.”

His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he fucked up into her, his hips driving with a steady, relentless rhythm. Every thrust made her pussy clench around him, her body trembling with the effort of staying still. “Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Let me move.” She could feel every inch of his cock inside her, stretching her open, filling her in the most delicious way. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, and she could feel every ridge, every vein as he slid in and out of her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands holding her down as he thrust into her again, deeper this time, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

“God, you feel so good,” she moaned, her head falling back as he continued to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, controlling every movement. “Fuckin’ perfect around me,” he growled, his voice rough. “You take me so well, like you were made for me.” She could feel his cock twitching inside her, his control slipping just slightly, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clinging to him like a vice, greedy for more. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and it was driving her mad.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Trying to squirm away. You’re not going anywhere, love.” His hands gripped her tighter, holding her down as his cock plunged deeper into her, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her moan his name. Fuck, he’s so big, she thought, her body trembling on top of him. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she loved it. His cock was thick, hot, and hard, and every time he thrust into her, she felt like she was losing her mind. Her pussy was so wet, so slick, and every movement felt like pure bliss. She could feel the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, and she knew he could feel it too.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to let me use you exactly how I want.” His hands were like iron, gripping her hips and holding her steady as he thrust up into her, his cock sliding in and out of her slick pussy with maddening precision. She tried to lift herself, to take control of the rhythm, but he held her down firmly, making her take every inch of him at his pace. “No running, no hiding,” he growled, his voice dark and possessive. “You wanted to tease me for months? Now you’re going to feel what that did to me.”

Her pussy was on fire, every nerve in her body alight with sensation as he continued to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, controlling every movement. She could feel his cock twitching inside her, his control slipping just slightly, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clinging to him like a fist, greedy for more. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and it was driving her mad.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” His hands gripped her tighter, holding her down as his cock plunged deeper into her, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her moan his name. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she loved it. Her pussy was so wet, so slick, and every movement felt like pure bliss. She could feel the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, and she knew he could feel it too.

“You like this, don’t you?” he teased, his voice smug, the satisfaction evident in his tone. “You like me holding you down, making you take every inch.” He kept his pace steady, his hands holding her in place, not letting her move as he fucked her exactly how he wanted. She was a moaning mess, her hips lifting slightly, trying to meet his thrusts, but he wasn’t giving her an inch. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her down, making her take everything he gave her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough. “You’re going to take everything I give you, and you’re going to love every fucking second of it.”

“Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling with need. “I need more. Please.” His hands gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh as he thrust into her again, deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot that made her cry out. “Beg me properly,” he said, his voice dark. “Show me how much you need it.” She bit her lip, her body trembling beneath him, and finally, she said it, her voice trembling with need. “Please, Lando. Please fuck me harder. I need it. Please.”

"Good girl," he purred, his fingers threading into her hair as he guided her head down, tilting her face down to meet his. Then, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, possessive and deep.

“Now let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.” With a growl, Lando flipped her onto her back again in one fluid motion, his cock still buried deep inside her. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wide as he loomed over her, his eyes blazing with hunger. He didn’t give her a moment to adjust before he started fucking her again—hard, fast, and without mercy. His hips driving into her with a savage rhythm, his cock slamming into her pussy with such force that the bed shook beneath them.

His cock was thick, rigid, and unyielding, every vein pulsing with the sheer intensity of his arousal. It was hot, almost searing, as it stretched her open, the girth of it filling her to the brim. Every thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through her, the friction of his cock sliding in and out of her slick walls making her toes curl. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, and every time he pushed into her, she could feel every inch of him—the way he stretched her, the way he filled her completely, the way he hit that spot deep inside that made her see stars.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire. “Feel that? That’s me, fucking you just the way I’ve wanted to for months.” His hands moved to her hips, gripping her hard enough to leave marks as he pulled her down onto his cock with every thrust. “You take me so fucking well, love. Like you were made for me.” His words were low and possessive, dripping with a primal need that sent shivers down her spine.

She could feel his cock twitching inside her, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every time he thrust into her, she felt a wave of pleasure crash over her, her pussy clenching around him, desperate for more. “Lando, please,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “I need you. Don’t stop.”

He smirked, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “You think I’d stop now?” he growled, his hips slamming into her with even more force. “Not a fucking chance, love.” His cock was relentless, pumping into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and euphoric. She could feel the way her walls clung to him, gripping him tight, as if begging him never to leave. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation as he continued to fuck her with a ferocity that left her breathless. She could feel the tension building inside her, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. “Lando, I’m close,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Please, let me come.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. “Go ahead, baby,” he whispered, his voice dark and teasing. “Come for me. Let me feel you.” His hands moved to her breasts, squeezing them roughly as he continued to thrust into her, his cock hitting that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her body convulsed as the orgasm ripped through her, her pussy clamping down on his cock as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She cried out, her voice trembling with ecstasy as she came apart beneath him.

Lando groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt her walls clench around him, milking his cock for every drop. “Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “I can’t hold back anymore.” With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, his cock pulsing as he came, filling her with his release. The sensation was overwhelming, the heat of his cum spilling deep inside her, marking her as his.

They came together, their bodies trembling with the force of their orgasms. She could feel every pulse of his cock inside her, the way his cum filled her, the way his body shuddered with pleasure. It was intoxicating, the way they fit together, the way they moved as one. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “That was… fucking incredible.”

She could barely speak, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her pussy felt so full, so satisfied, and she could still feel the way his cock twitched inside her, as if he wasn’t ready to pull away just yet. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice soft and trembling. “That was… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. “I told you I’d make you mine,” he murmured, his voice low and possessive. “And I meant it.” He stayed inside her, their bodies still connected, as they caught their breath together. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the air thick with the scent of their passion. And in that moment, she knew she was his—completely and utterly his.

They lay entangled in the aftermath, the sheets tangled around sweat-slick skin. The room was quiet save for their ragged breathing. After a moment, Lando turned to gaze at her, still looking slightly astonished. “You’re real,” he murmured. “I’ve waited so long to have you here, like this.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her hand resting on his chest. “Didn’t think I’d give in, did you?”

He brushed a thumb over her lower lip. “I hoped you would. No matter how much you pushed me away, I couldn’t imagine stopping.”

She met his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re everything.” His voice was soft, laced with sincerity. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for months. I can’t even remember what it was like not wanting you.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she allowed herself a rare moment of honesty. “You made it hard for me, you know,” she admitted quietly. “Staying away when you’re so… persistent.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, clearly remembering every time she’d laughed off his attempts or walked away. “You’re a damn expert at playing hard to get, though. You had me by the throat. I was basically begging.”

She smirked, eyes gleaming in the low light. “Still are,” she teased gently. “You’ll keep begging for more, right?”

His laugh turned into a low, contented hum. “Oh, definitely. But don’t worry.” He shifted, rolling partly on top of her again, the warmth of his body reminding her just how good it felt. “I’m not letting you slip away this time.”

She didn’t resist as he captured her lips once more. The tension was different now—still electric, but edged with relief. They no longer had to pretend or play a cat-and-mouse game. The slow burn had finally exploded into a full-blown blaze, and there was no going back to careful distance.

Eventually, they drifted into a comfortable silence, bodies exhausted from the release of so many months of pent-up desire. She nestled into the crook of his arm, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Lando, seemingly unable to stop touching her, lazily traced patterns on her arm with his fingertips. Each brush of his skin still sent a small thrill through her, a reminder of what had finally happened between them.

In a half-drowsy state, she heard him murmur, “I can’t believe this is real.”

She let out a soft laugh, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I guess I teased you long enough.”

He sighed contentedly. “Too long,” he teased back, though his tone was affectionate. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

Warmth spread through her at his words. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone, ignoring the tiny voice inside her that warned of complexities and future uncertainties. For now, all that mattered was that the months of dancing around each other had led them here, to a tangled bed in a London flat, hearts still racing from the aftershock of passion.

The game they’d played was over, the final move sealing a mutual surrender. But as she looked up and met his eyes, she realized something else: a new chapter had begun. One where neither of them had to hide their attraction or maintain a careful distance. One where he didn’t have to pine and she didn’t have to tease—unless, of course, they both wanted to for the fun of it.

She gave him a sly smile. “I’m guessing you don’t regret staying in London this weekend.”

His quiet laugh rumbled in his chest. “Not even a little bit.” Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to her ear. “But don’t think I’m done yet. After all these months? We’ve only just started.”

Her breath caught, a new wave of heat coursing through her. “So show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. With a wicked grin, he drew her closer, tangling their limbs again under the dim glow of early morning light. Their laughter faded into soft groans and murmured confessions, and everything else—every worry, every reason she’d ever had to say no—melted away.

In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the closeness they’d finally earned, and the thrilling promise that this was just the beginning.

---

So Obviously In Love

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: a little bit of smut

Lando knew he was in love with you for a very long time. It didn't even take him long to admit it to himself, but to you?

It took him ages.

One of the problems was that your last name was Fewtrell and that pretty much explains it all.

But even though it took him a long time to tell you outright that he was madly in love with you, he didn't try to hide it much. In fact, he was too obvious with his actions.

Besides the fact that he started spending more time with you than with your brother, or his best friend to be exact, a lot of big little things happened that gave him away.

Like that one time he called you for the first time to check if you got home safely.

You just got back from Lando's after spending almost the entire afternoon at his place and you're pretty tired, ready for bed. Your eyes are slowly closing, but you know you still have to take a shower, so you decide not to procrastinate and get to work. Just as you were about to leave your phone on the kitchen counter and head for the bathroom, it starts buzzing in your hands. Caller ID showing Lan. You must have forgotten something at his apartment, you think to yourself because it wouldn't be the first time. "What did I leave now?" You sigh answering the phone. "Nothing this time, don't worry." He chuckles. "What's up then?" You ask, a little confused considering you were together just half an hour ago. "Just wanted to make sure you got home safely" He says. "I know you said you were tired and you wouldn't let me drive you." Your heart warms at his caring words and you find yourself smiling as you fiddle with the car keys. "Safe and sound, Lan" "Good, good." He really doesn't want to end the conversation, but he knows you just got back from him, so he pauses for a second before continuing. "Alright, well, I'll talk to you in the morning then. Sleep tight." "You too, Lan. Good night.”

Or the way he gives you the last bite even though it's his cheat day

Lando is always on a special, healthy and clean eating regimen because his job simply requires it. Every now and then, once a month, he lets off steam and eats whatever his heart desires. Today was one of those days. Lando had been talking about burgers all week. He was craving a big, fat burger with lots of fries on the side. He was standing behind the kitchen island finishing his burger when you entered the kitchen. "Whatcha doin'?" You asked hopping onto the kitchen island, your eyes following the last bits of the burger. He didn't say anything, not wanting to speak with his mouth full, he just pointed to the burger and made the most satisfying face ever. "Ugh, it looks so good..I've been so hungry all day, I've been going full vacuum mode on everything edible.." You whined putting your hand over your tummy. "Are you pms-ing?" Lando asked and you nodded frowning. "Here, you can finish it if you want to." He offered without much hesitation. "No, you finish it, it's your cheat day. I’ve already eaten way too much today, one more bite and I might explode." "No, come on. I want you to have it. I'm already full anyway." He lied. He could have eaten at least one more burger like that. "But it's your last bite..the best one" You said as he put it into your hands.

He took a kitchen towel and wiped his mouth with it before grabbing his bottle of water and heading back towards the gaming room.

"There's some more junk food and pistachio ice cream in the fridge. Take that with you when you go home."

Or that one time everyone went crazy when Lando's hand wandered onto your thigh on the stream.

When they heard that you were also there, in Lando's apartment, the fans shifted all their attention from him to you. They were calling your name in the chat and pestering Lando to get you on camera. He actually secretly loved the way his fans loved you. "Y/n?" He shouted taking the headphones off. "Yeah?" You shouted back from his living room. "Could you come here for a sec, please?" He asked and soon you appeared walking into the room. "Chat really wants to say hi to you." "Oh, hi guys. How are you?" You smiled as you leaned forward slightly to see what they were typing. Lando’s gaze softened looking at you interacting with them. His smile only grew bigger as he started to read the compliments and funny things they were saying to you. Lost in the moment, Lando got carried away reading the comments and unconsciously placed his hand on the back of your thigh, gently squeezing it. Of course, it took the chat a full two seconds to notice it and go crazy over it. "Okay, that's enough of y/n for you for today." Lando quickly removed his hand and changed the subject, thinking you hadn't noticed the placement of it. But of course you did.

You hated skiing. You hated it because you didn't know how to ski. You tried, but it was a complete, almost fatal, disaster, to say the least. Every time Lando and Max went skiing, you wouldn't go with them, and seeing how dangerous it could be for you, you didn't even have the desire to learn.

But that one time, Lando did everything he could to convince you to go with them. He succeeded, by the way. He even managed to convince you that you didn't need an instructor, but that he would teach you how to ski, using it as an excuse to be as close to you as possible.

"If I break my leg you'll be the one to blame just so you know." You whine while trying to get your foot into the ski boot. "Y/n, stop grumbling and push your foot a little harder." Lando said trying to help you put your boot on. "I c-can't, it's too freaking tight-ugh!" "Take me by the shoulders and just stand up and your foot will fit inside." You put your hands on his shoulders and just as you were about to do what he told you, something suddenly took hold of you and you burst out laughing. This whole situation was becoming too ridiculous for you, the way you were struggling with those stupid boots and the excessive amount of clothes that restricted your movement, you felt as if you were about to go crazy. "Y/n, get serious, come on." Lando warned you while still holding onto your boot, but he couldn't help but start laughing at you too. You leaned towards him, still laughing like a madman, resting your forehead on his shoulder trying to calm yourself. Lando turned his face towards yours, the tip of his nose brushing against your cheek as his eyes darted to your lips. "Alright, that’s enough, you muppet! Let's get that boot on your foot before night falls." When it was time to take the T-bar lift uphill, you froze. It seemed so simple watching others do it with ease, but you just didn't feel confident enough to do it by yourself. "Lando, I can't do it on my own..I'm afraid I'll fall and-" You panicked when it was your turn. "Hey, hey, hey it's okay. I'll do it with you." He took the bar in his hands and placed it between the two of you behind your legs. As the T-bar lift jerked forward, you grabbed on, holding for dear life, hoping you wouldn’t faceplant halfway up the slope. Lando noticed and chuckled wrapping his arm around you and pulling you closer to him so you feel safer. "It's okay, I got you. Just trust me"

And finally that time after he had already confessed to you that he fell for you, you came to his place and thought you would talk about how nothing could happen between you because of Max.

But that didn't go the way you planned it.

You thought about having a conversation with him, but halfway through he started unbuttoning your shirt slowly nodding his head and pretending to listen to you. "Lan..I'm serious and you're n-not listening.." You struggled to pronounce without moaning. "I'm listening, keep talking" He quietly urged you to continue as he started kissing your neck. His hands wandering beneath your shirt making your head fall back. Your concentration was long gone when his fingers found your zipper. "Lando..." You whimper as his fingers move your panties to the side. "What, baby? Want me to stop?" "No, please, don't stop"

Lando could never resist you. He's always been so obviously, madly, deeply in love with you.

---

What about... Pining and yearning driver (doesn't matter who he is tbh) but in reality he's just stupidly in love and doesn't realize reader is also in love with them 😭 happy ending of course <3

thank you for requesting!🖤

.

“You’re glaring.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Mate, she’s his assistant. Stop planning his murder,” Lando grumbled, though the amusement was clear on his face. He was enjoying each and every second of this.

It wasn’t uncommon for Max to find him in the McLaren motorhome on a Thursday afternoon, especially if they knew they would be in a conference together. The Dutchman would most likely just spend time catching up with his friend, laughing and joking about before they would be guided to the interview by their PR teams. 

However, more recently than not, Lando was starting to notice that Max was showing up to the McLaren motorhome for a different reason. A reason that had everything to do with the fact the motorhome beside the papaya orange team was none other than the Ferrari one. And Max had his eye on a certain member of the Ferrari team. 

You. 

You, who was Charles’ assistant. You, who was currently standing outside the Ferrari motorhome with your boss and his teammate. You, who currently had your hands on Charles’ chest as you tried to smooth out his team polo as best as you could. 

Not that Max cared. Not at all. He had no reason to care and he certainly didn’t. Or at least, that was what he was telling himself.

“You know,” Lando continued when the Dutchman had fallen silent. “Charles was telling me he thinks she has a crush on a driver.” 

Max’s head whipped around. “What?”

“Yeah,” Lando shrugged casually. “Apparently she admitted it when she was drunk.” 

“Who is it?” Max asked almost immediately.

Lando grinned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” he retorted defensively. 

“Right,” the Brit laughed before patting him on the back. “God, you are so easy to wind up.”

“Lando,” Max grumbled. “Name.”

“Huh? Oh, it must have slipped my mind,” Lando sighed before shifting the conversation onto something else. 

But it didn’t leave his mind. It couldn’t leave his mind. Instead, Max spent the whole press conference wondering who the driver was. He racked his brain on who he saw you interacting with, who he had seen you hanging around more often than the others. 

The obvious answers were either one of the Ferrari drivers. But you had always insisted you viewed Charles as a brother, yet that didn’t cross Carlos off the potential list. He wondered if it was either of the McLaren drivers, or maybe even Daniel, his own teammate. He wondered maybe if it was one of the drivers he wasn’t as close to on the grid, that maybe you hung out with them for more than he realised. 

His answers during the conference were short, blunt and distracted and everyone noticed. 

You had been standing off to the side, phone in hand as you answered a few emails here and there whilst Charles dealt with his media duties. However, your attention was quickly pulled away from your work when you heard the Dutchman speak. And then, you were distracted by your own concern for him when you realised how off he was acting. 

You had waited until the end of the conference before you approached him, a sheepish smile on your face when you realised he was far too lost in thought to even realise you were beside him. You placed your hand on his arm, causing the boy to jump slightly and you quickly pulled your hand back.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised with a smile. “Are you okay?”

Max blinked. “What?”

“Are you okay?” you repeated as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “You seem really off today.”

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered, a crease forming between his brows. “Just have a lot on my mind.”

“Anything I can help with?” 

Deep down, Max knew you were probably only asking to be polite. He knew you probably expected him to just shake his head and say no so you could run off to help Charles like you should have been doing, rather than standing there talking to him. But the question was plaguing his mind, and who better to give him an answer than you?

“Do you like one of the drivers?” he blurted out.

You blinked, slightly surprised. “What?”

“Do you like one of the drivers?” he asked again, his eyes never leaving yours. “Lando says you did.”

“He did?” you questioned, your voice a little high-pitched and you hoped the Dutchman couldn’t tell your face was burning up. “I wonder where he got that from—-”

“Charles told him,” Max told you.

And you cursed your boss for opening his mouth.

“I…might,” you muttered shyly.

“Who is it?” 

“Max—”

“I won’t tell him,” he continued, pretending like the idea of you saying one of his friend’s names wouldn’t make his stomach churn uncomfortably. “I could even help you if you want—”

“No, Max, it’s you,” you interrupted, your nails digging into your palm as you blurted out the words. “You’re the driver.”

Max nodded once but stayed silent.

You instantly wanted the world to open up and swallow you whole. You cleared your throat, taking a step back as you tried to pretend the embarrassment of his blatant rejection wasn’t making you want to curl into a hole and never come out.

“I’m sorry, I should just—” you started but Max quickly intervened.

“Do you want to get dinner with me?” 

You blinked at him. “Dinner?”

“Yes, with me,” Max continued. “Tonight. Or tomorrow night. Whenever it works for you.”

“I—” you paused, letting out a breath as you smiled at him. “I would like that.”

Max didn’t bother hiding the small smile on his face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you said and nodded. “I’ll message you when I’m free.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, watching as you headed back towards the Ferrari garage, a weight having been lifted off his chest as he watched you go. He couldn’t even deny the butterflies in his stomach as he thought about your message.

Max was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even see Lando approaching his side, grinning wide like a madman.

“I knew you liked her!”

“Shut up.” 

“Max and—”

“Fuck off, Norris.”

“Sitting in a tree–”

“You know what, you can get your own plane home.”

.

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