beeegone3

[beeegone3]

The Comeback You Weren’t Ready For;FA14

Fernando Alonso x Reader F1 paddock, post-2021 comeback era.

The first time you saw him again was in Bahrain.

You’d promised yourself you were over it over him. That it had been years. That you'd buried that chapter of your life somewhere in the haze of sleepless nights, therapy sessions, and new beginnings. But the second Fernando Alonso walked back into the paddock, all swagger and shadowed eyes, it was like nothing had changed.

It had been five years.

Five years since you'd last heard his voice, five years since you packed up your things from his Madrid apartment and left a handwritten note on the kitchen counter. This isn’t working. You need the world, and I need peace.

He hadn’t followed you. That had hurt more than you ever admitted.

And now? He was back. Back in Formula 1.

You weren’t the same girl anymore. No more flying halfway across the world just to be in his hotel room for twenty hours between races. No more pacing in your living room at 3AM waiting for a text from him while he was out celebrating podiums. You had rebuilt yourself.

Now, you were on the other side. A strategist for one of the rival teams. A woman with a headset and clipboard, no longer a secret tucked away behind hotel doors.

But when you saw him just a glimpse at first, across the pit lane you felt it all rush back. The heat. The ache. The regret.

He hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little more weathered. Lines a bit deeper around his mouth. But those eyes green, sharp, always reading the room before anyone spoke locked onto yours for half a second. And just like that, you were twenty-three again, standing behind his motorhome door, trying not to cry.

The paddock was a cruel place for unresolved history.

You avoided him at first, slipping into meetings late, ducking out of hospitality tents early. But Fernando? He was nothing if not relentless. And when he wanted something someone — he always found a way.

You were standing near the Pirelli truck the second time it happened. Talking with your lead engineer, trying to hide the shake in your hand as you reviewed tire data. You didn’t notice him until your colleague's voice trailed off.

Then, there he was.

“Hola,” he said smoothly, like it hadn’t been half a decade. Like he hadn’t shattered you.

Your coworker glanced awkwardly between you two before making himself scarce. You stood still, pulse hammering, pretending this didn’t feel like a nightmare and a dream stitched together with adrenaline.

“Fernando.”

“You look different.” His voice was quieter now. Not cocky just real. “Stronger.”

You crossed your arms. “I had to be.”

He nodded, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

“I didn’t know you were working for them now.”

“Lot’s changed since you left.” You looked him dead in the eye. “Since we ended.”

He had the decency to flinch.

“I didn’t know how to reach you,” he said after a beat.

“You didn’t try.”

He stepped closer. You held your ground, though your breath stuttered in your chest.

“I thought staying away was what you wanted.”

“I wanted you to fight for me.” The words escaped before you could stop them, raw and sharp-edged.

Silence hung between you like storm clouds.

Then his voice dropped low, familiar in the worst way. “And if I wanted to do that now?”

You blinked. “It’s too late, Fernando.”

But he didn’t believe you. He knew you. That was the worst part.

The hotel knock came that night.

You opened it without thinking maybe you knew it would be him. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d spent the hours since Bahrain qualifying trying to rewrite the years between you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you said, barely audible.

“I know.”

You hesitated. “If we do this…”

“I’m not leaving this time,” he said.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “You always say that.”

His hand reached up, brushing your jaw. “Not always.”

And then he kissed you.

Not like the first time, years ago, when everything was breathless and new. This kiss was heavier desperate, full of everything unspoken. His hands found your hips, your shirt, your spine. Yours found his hair, the back of his neck, the places you remembered.

Clothes came off in a frenzy — him backing you into the hotel bed, you gasping against his neck, his accent thick and low as he murmured things you hadn’t let yourself dream about in years.

“You haunted me,” he said between kisses, dragging his mouth along your collarbone. “Every race. Every country. Every night.”

You didn’t answer. Your body already was every gasp, every arch, every tear that slipped free and got lost somewhere between skin and memory.

When it was over, neither of you moved for a long time.

He lay beside you, one arm draped across your stomach, chest rising and falling like he’d just finished a race.

You stared at the ceiling.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you said finally.

“I know.”

“You’ll always choose the sport.”

A pause.

“Not anymore.”

You turned to him. “What happens when I’m across the pit wall and your radio fails and your tires go?”

He looked at you, all steel and softness. “Then I trust you.”

You closed your eyes. “You didn’t trust me back then.”

“I was an idiot back then.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But Formula 1 didn’t leave much room for second chances. It took, and it kept taking.

“You still belong to the paddock,” you whispered.

He pulled you closer. “Then so do you.”

You woke up the next morning to his arm still around you.

For once, he hadn’t slipped away before sunrise.

But the paddock would come calling again it always did. The tension. The media. The politics. You were rivals now, divided by more than just time.

Still, when Fernando brushed a kiss to your shoulder and whispered, “Let’s try again. For real this time,” you didn’t stop him.

Because maybe the comeback you weren’t ready for… Was the one you needed most.

THE END

[beeegone3]

“Keep Quiet, or Get Caught” LN 4 ☆

Lando Norris x Reader 18 + Public sex, risk of getting caught, light choking, overstimulation, dirty talk, dominance, power imbalance, unsafe environment, garage sex, exhibitionism Word Count: Ish -2,100

The McLaren garage was supposed to be empty.

Media day was long over. Lights dimmed. Mechanics gone.

But you? You were exactly where you shouldn’t be.

And Lando knew it.

His fingers dug into your waist as he shoved you up against a workbench, knocking over a stray torque wrench that clattered loudly to the floor.

"Jesus," you whispered, pulse racing, eyes flicking to the half-open shutter door.

“Scared?” Lando breathed against your neck, voice low and thick with heat. His hands were already under your hoodie, lifting it slowly. “You didn’t look scared sneaking in like some little slut who couldn’t wait.”

“I’m not scared,” you murmured, arching your back when he pressed against you. “I just don’t want to get banned from the paddock.”

He laughed softly, the sound dark and amused. “You think Zak would kick you out?” His teeth grazed your jaw. “He’d die if he knew what I’m about to do to you on the same bench they check my telemetry.”

Your breath caught.

You could feel how hard he was already through his joggers, through your leggings and the heat between your thighs was pulsing with every teasing word he whispered.

Lando yanked your leggings down just enough to expose you, not even bothering to pull them off completely. His fingers slid between your legs, and when he felt how soaked you already were, he growled.

"Of course you’re wet. Filthy little thing."

You looked over your shoulder, face flushed, lips parted. “Thought you liked me filthy.”

“I do.” He leaned in close, his breath hot on your ear. “But if you make one fucking sound, and someone hears us don’t expect me to stop.”

Your legs trembled at the threat.

“Understood?”

You nodded quickly.

“Words.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lando smirked, then bent you further over the cold steel workbench, one hand pinning the back of your neck, the other guiding himself inside you in one deep, silent thrust.

You bit your lip hard to stop from crying out. He was thick, relentless, and buried so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“God, you feel so good,” he hissed. “Always so tight when you’re worked up.”

He thrust again. Then again.

The angle was brutal—each movement rocking you against the metal edge. Your palms flattened against the surface, trying to ground yourself, but every slam of his hips had you threatening to moan.

And he knew it.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You’re not going to last, are you?”

You whimpered, shaking your head.

“Already close?” He laughed quietly. “And we’ve barely started.”

Suddenly, his hand came up to your mouth, silencing you. Not that you were saying anything but he could feel your desperate gasps against his palm.

“Anyone could walk in,” he murmured. “A photographer. A tech. My race engineer. Imagine how you’d look bent over the bench, dripping down my cock like the team’s cum rag.”

You clenched around him so hard it made him groan. “You like the idea, don’t you?”

His hand slid from your mouth to your throat, tilting your head back while he fucked you harder.

“Such a goddamn brat in public. But in here? You break so fucking easy.”

The sound of skin on skin filled the garage. The creak of the workbench beneath you. The soft panting from both of you trying to stay quiet and failing.

Your knees buckled as your orgasm built too fast to control. You clawed at the bench, whining through clenched teeth.

“Cum,” he whispered, “now.”

And you did.

Hard.

You shook under him, clenching, writhing, gasping. His hand covered your mouth again, muffling your broken cry as your orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing into steel.

Lando cursed under his breath, fucking you through it until he couldn’t take anymore either slamming into you once, twice more, before spilling into you with a low, feral groan.

Silence followed.

Heavy, thick, charged.

You both stood there, panting in the quiet shadows of the garage, the only sounds the distant hum of a cooling generator and your shared breath.

“Next time,” Lando said, pulling your leggings back up for you, “we do it in your seat. With the door open.”

[beeegone3]

Instagram Official ? LS 18

Lance Stroll x y/n- Fluff. Slow Burn. Mutual Pining. Social Media Shenanigans. Light Angst (blink and you'll miss it). Soft Launch to Hard Launch

The Montréal air had that crisp bite of early summer, warm in the sun but sharp in the shade, like it couldn’t quite let go of spring. The paddock buzzed with its usual mix of chaos and glamour. Team uniforms zipped past, cameras hovered, and the scent of engine grease fought with freshly brewed espresso. You adjusted your lanyard and smiled, your breath visible in the chilly morning as you stepped out of the hospitality suite.

You were technically here for work. Social media content, driver PR, a few pieces for an F1 behind-the-scenes docuseries. But Montréal was different. Maybe because it was Lance’s home race, or maybe because you two had been playing a little game online and it was starting to catch fire.

It started innocent. A photo you'd posted from a media day, sunlight catching your sunglasses just right, a coffee in hand, that familiar Aston Martin green in the background. Lance had commented:

“You sure that’s not a promo for me?”

You’d fired back, shameless:

“Depends. You offering better perks than a press pass?”

It spiraled. A few more posts. Some comments. A shared selfie on your Stories, blurry and chaotic, taken between media interviews. You called him your “Montreal tour guide.” He called you “bad influence, 10/10.” Fans ate it up. The ship name had trended for a day on Twitter. Fan cams popped up. Edits, theories, even a TikTok deep dive. “Are they or aren’t they?” was the question hanging in every caption, like the social media equivalent of holding your breath.

And neither of you said a thing. That was part of the fun.

But behind closed doors (or more accurately, behind mirrored paddock doors and late-night room service), things blurred. You’d gotten close. The kind of close that felt electric even when no one was watching. But you weren’t Instagram official. Not real-world official, either. It was quiet. Messy. Real in the way complicated things always were.

Today, though… something felt different.

You caught him during a lull between sessions. He was leaning against the Aston Martin pit wall, race suit tied at the waist, black compression tee stretched over his chest. He looked relaxed, for once. Less like a Formula 1 driver and more like a guy who texts you late at night with voice notes and blurry selfies from his balcony.

“Hey, superstar,” you greeted, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“Hey yourself,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Saw your post this morning. Nice angle.”

“Oh?” you asked, feigning surprise. “Didn’t notice any comments from you.”

“I’m trying to keep the internet from imploding,” he said dryly, glancing around. “Pretty sure one more flirt and we’ll be on DeuxMoi.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

His eyes flicked down to yours, playful but with something heavier underneath. “Is it?”

You didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.

The paddock was loud, but it fell away in your periphery. You could hear someone’s radio squawking, laughter from the Aston Martin garage, the metallic clink of tools, but it all blurred. You stepped in, just slightly. His fingers brushed your wrist. Barely there, but deliberate. The way you looked at each other made everything else dissolve, just for a second.

And then, like gravity finally made a decision, he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t urgent, but it was definitive. Not a maybe. Not a PR stunt. It was soft, warm, too tender for a public place. He kissed you like no one was watching.

But someone was.

The sharp click of a shutter was unmistakable.

You pulled back first, eyes wide. Lance didn’t move. His hand hovered near your waist, like he wanted to shield you from the world that was about to descend.

One of the photographers near the media pen looked up from his camera sheepishly, like he hadn’t expected to catch anything other than tires or helmets.

“Shit,” you whispered.

Lance sighed, his jaw tense for a beat. Then he gave a little shrug, almost amused. “Guess it’s not just the internet now.”

You saw the photo online an hour later. A side profile shot, blurry from motion, but unmistakable, your hand on Lance’s chest, his lips on yours, the hint of a smile caught between breaths.

But it wasn’t posted by a fan. It wasn’t a leak. It was posted by the official Formula 1 Instagram account.

📸 Caught in the act Home race, hometown hero, and maybe... more than that? 👀 #CanadianGP #Stroll #PaddockSpotted #F1

The comments were instant.

“WE WERE RIGHT.” “F1 really soft-launching their favorite ship like this huh” “They kissed. In the paddock. This is not a drill.” “Stroll’s best performance of the season 🔥🔥🔥”

You turned your phone toward him in the motorhome, raising an eyebrow.

“They soft-launched us,” you said.

He leaned over, took the phone, and scrolled through the comments with a smirk.

“Honestly,” he said, “that’s the most engagement I’ve gotten all season.”

You groaned. “You’re so bad at subtle.”

He winked. “Didn’t seem to mind earlier.”

You didn’t. Not then. Not now. Not with his hand brushing yours under the table.

The internet did implode. And honestly? You didn’t mind that, either.

[beeegone3]

Behind Closed Doors OP 81 ☆- Part 1

Part 1 — The Photo

Oscar Piastri x y/n - Secret Relationship Star Plot ☆- You and Oscar are secretly dating, hiding it from the media and team. But when a suspicious photo leaks, your entire relationship is put under a spotlight. Can love survive the pressure of the paddock?

You weren’t supposed to be holding hands.

And you definitely weren’t supposed to kiss him.

But rules felt far away in the warm hush of a Monaco evening. The sun had already dipped behind the tall buildings that lined the harbor, casting long, golden shadows through the alleys behind the hotel. The streets, once pulsing with celebration, had finally settled into a calmer rhythm. Fans had drifted off. The cameras had gone quiet. Somewhere nearby, someone was laughing over champagne.

Oscar had won again.

In Belgium i spa his most recent Grand Prix victory had sent a ripple of elation through the team, the kind that buzzed in your skin and made everything feel lighter than it really was. You were supposed to be back upstairs, working through the schedule for tomorrow's press briefings. Instead, you were here, tucked into a narrow alley behind the team hotel, where the hum of the city faded into silence and the world felt small enough to be yours for just a few minutes.

His hand was wrapped around yours, warm and steady. His fingers fit so naturally between yours that it was like they’d always known the shape of your hand. He looked at you like you were the only thing still moving in a world that had finally slowed down. And then, with the tiniest breath of hesitation, he leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth. It was quick, a little clumsy, a little rushed, but it was real.

You didn’t see the camera.

You didn’t see the figure standing on the rooftop across the alley, phone raised, lens zoomed in.

The photo hit Twitter less than two days later.

It wasn’t even high resolution, just a grainy, backlit shot taken from too far away. But it was enough. Enough to recognize his jawline, the unruly curls peeking from beneath his hoodie, and the shape of your face tilted toward his. You were blurred, but someone online spotted the bracelet you always wore and matched it to a photo McLaren had posted the week before.

That was all it took.

By lunchtime, #PiastriMysteryGirl was trending.

You turned off your phone by dinner.

When you walked into McLaren HQ the next morning, the tension in the air was unmistakable. The kind that filled elevators and hallways with silence that wasn't really silent. You kept your head down, tried not to flinch when you felt eyes lingering too long. Conversations dipped the moment you stepped into a room. No one said anything to your face. They didn’t have to.

By mid-morning, you were removed from the day’s media strategy meetings. Just after noon, Zak Brown’s assistant approached your desk with a neutral expression and said, "He’s ready for you now."

You walked into Zak’s office. Oscar was already there.

He sat rigidly across from Zak, arms folded tightly, jaw clenched. He didn’t look at you. You hadn’t spoken since the photo surfaced. He’d tried, texting, calling, even brushing your wrist gently when you landed back in London, but you hadn’t responded. You hadn’t known what to say.

You sat down in the empty chair beside him, ignoring the tight knot forming in your chest.

Zak turned his laptop toward you. The photo was front and center, pixelated but damning.

"Tell me what I’m looking at," he said, his voice unreadable.

You swallowed. "It’s taken out of context."

Oscar let out a soft exhale, sharp and humorless.

Zak looked between the two of you. "So you’re not dating."

You hesitated.

Oscar didn’t.

"No," he said flatly. "We’re not."

It landed like a slap.

"We’ve always kept it professional," you added quickly. "There’s nothing inappropriate happening during work."

Zak leaned back in his chair. "It doesn’t matter. The entire internet thinks McLaren’s PR staff is getting involved with its drivers. That’s a disaster, whether or not anything actually happened on company time."

You looked at the photo again. You remembered the moment like it had just happened. The sound of the city softening around you. The way his fingers brushed yours, hesitated, then held on. The flutter in your chest when he kissed you. That moment had felt like something honest.

And now it felt twisted. Public. Something to be dissected.

"There will be a press release," Zak continued. "We’ll deny everything and move on. You," he nodded toward you, "will draft it by the end of the day."

Oscar still hadn’t looked at you.

You nodded.

Zak stood and left the room without another word.

You didn’t move. You waited until the door clicked shut.

Then, in a voice just barely above a whisper, Oscar said, "Fine. If that’s what you want."

You didn’t answer.

You walked back to your desk. Opened a blank document. Typed the words:

"There is no romantic involvement between Oscar Piastri and any member of the McLaren communications team."

You stared at the sentence. Read it again.

Then you hit send.

And tried not to cry.

[beeegone3]

Dirty Secrets and Dirty Air SV 5

Sebastian Vettel x y/n- 1★ Enemies with Benefits 2★ “We shouldn’t be doing this” 3★ Secret Hookups

The first time it happened, it was a mistake.

It was raining in Suzuka, and the paddock was soaked in silence. You’d both stayed late for interviews, post qualifying debriefs, media nonsense.

Most of the teams had gone back to their hotels, but you were still there, nursing a half warm Red Bull in your hand and a grudge in your chest.

Sebastian had beaten you in Q3 by less than a tenth. Again.

He walked past, slow and smug, towel slung over his shoulders, hair damp from the rain. “Close, huh?” he said, not even bothering to hide the smirk.

You didn’t answer. You just turned your body enough to block his path.

“You always find a way to ruin it,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “No. You just always think it’s yours to win.”

The words hung there, heavy and biting, the same way they always did between the two of you. Weeks of friction, passive-aggressive interviews, jabs in the media all of it boiling under the surface. A rivalry they called “iconic.” What they didn’t know was how much it burned.

You should have walked away.

But instead, you shoved him.

It wasn’t much just enough to make a point. But it was enough for him to grab your wrist in return. Enough to close the distance. Enough to get in your face and say—

“You should be careful.”

“Or what?” you hissed.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and breath and frustration, like the way he raced calculated chaos. You kissed him back harder, like the way you fought him on track. And just like that, Suzuka’s hospitality hallway became a blur of heat and fingers and desperation. No one saw you leave together. No one saw you enter the back of the parked Mercedes van. And no one would believe it if they had.

The next morning, you ignored him. Pretended it never happened.

So did he.

Until it happened again. And again.

It became a pattern. A sick, twisted, addictive pattern.

Barcelona. Montreal. Silverstone. Late-night hotel rooms. Team motorhomes. Even a broom closet at Spa. Every time ended the same:

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Then stop showing up.”

But you never did. Neither of you did.

In front of the cameras, you were rivals. On the radio, you called him “that prick” and he called you “dangerous.” But off-camera? Off the record?

His hands knew every scar you had. Yours knew exactly how to shut him up.

You didn’t talk about it. There were no rules, but there was a rhythm. An unspoken understanding. You hated each other. But you also couldn’t stay away.

There were moments you didn’t understand—like when he’d patch up the bruise on your wrist after a tough race. Or when he stayed just a little longer than usual after sneaking out of your room in Monaco. Or when you found a note handwritten, crumpled and stuffed in your driver’s bag after Hungary. It just said:

“You’re better than you think. But I’ll still beat you. -SV”

You didn’t throw it away.

It got dangerous in Singapore.

You'd collided on Lap 14 just barely but enough to cost you both a podium. The paddock was chaos after the race. Everyone blamed everyone. You stormed into the media pen, blood boiling.

Sebastian stood behind you, arms crossed, silent.

When it was over, he followed you. Into the garage. Past the engineers. Into the back room where the telemetry was still scrolling on screens.

You turned to face him.

“What?” you snapped.

“You think I did that on purpose?” he asked, voice low.

“I don’t think anything. I know you did.”

He stepped closer. “You think I want to wreck my race just to piss you off?”

“I think you’ll do anything to prove you’re better.”

“You don’t need my help to screw up. You’re already good at that.”

The slap you wanted to land never came. Because your hands were too busy grabbing his suit and dragging him into you.

You kissed him like it was the last time. He kissed you like he hated you for it.

It was rough. Angry. Silent. Like both of you were punishing each other for wanting it.

Afterward, he leaned his forehead against yours. Breathing hard. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. You just stayed there, pressed together, sweat cooling on your skin, knowing full well what a disaster this all was.

All the things you never said rose to the surface. But you couldn’t say them.

You couldn’t answer.

So he walked away.

And for the first time, you let him.

[beeegone3]

“Private Jet, Public Risk” LN 4 ☆

Lando Norris x Reader 18+ Mile-high smut, semi-public sex, champagne play, dominance, teasing, unprotected sex,overstimulation, cocky!Lando, power play, luxury kink Word Count: Ish ~2,300

The cabin lights were dimmed.

The hum of the engines filled the air, constant and low like a purr.

You were curled up beside him on the white leather sofa, legs draped over his lap, a half-finished glass of champagne sweating on the table. Your shoes had come off hours ago, tossed somewhere under the table. Your dress—tight, black, and barely legal for a red-eye—clung to every curve.

Lando’s hand had been resting on your thigh for the past thirty minutes, fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare skin.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to where your hem had ridden up. “Not like you.”

“I’m just…” You sipped the last of your drink, voice low. “Thinking.”

“About?”

You looked over at him—freshly showered post-race, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy, Rolex gleaming.

“About how easy it would be,” you said, voice barely a whisper, “to ride you right here.”

He smirked slowly. “Oh?”

You shrugged, innocent. “It’s your jet. No one would know.”

His hand stilled on your thigh. “That so?”

You didn’t respond.

You just straddled him.

Your thighs slid over his lap like silk, your dress bunching up. His hands immediately grabbed your hips, grounding you, and his breath caught when you started grinding ever so slightly against him.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re really doing this.”

“No cameras.” You rolled your hips again, letting your lips brush his. “No fans. Just you, me… and about forty thousand feet between us and the world.”

He groaned.

“Come here.”

In a flash, he leaned forward, capturing your mouth with his, the kiss messy, possessive, impatient. You tugged at his hoodie, and he helped you out of it, exposing the plain white tee beneath. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up and up—until the cool air hit your bare core.

He froze.

“No panties?” he rasped.

You smiled against his lips. “Didn’t pack them.”

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “You’re getting cocky.”

“I learned from the best.”

His hands gripped your ass and lifted you easily, shifting you just enough so he could undo his joggers with one hand. You heard the rustle of fabric, felt the heat of him pressing against you.

“No teasing,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, eyes dark and steady. “Then sit.”

You sank down on him in one slow, tight slide, biting your lip to keep from gasping. He was thick, hot, and so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Shit—” Lando’s head fell back. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

You started riding him slowly, rhythm lazy but intense, hands braced on his shoulders. Every bounce, every grind, made him twitch inside you. His hands guided your hips, controlling your speed, his thumbs digging in just enough to bruise.

“You like the risk?” he muttered into your ear. “That the pilot’s twenty feet away? That someone could walk back here for drinks and see you bouncing on my cock like a desperate little—”

“Don’t stop,” you moaned, cutting him off.

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” he growled. “Not until you’ve cum on me and made a mess of these fucking seats.”

You clenched around him at that—hard. And he felt it.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered darkly. “You’re so close already.”

He slipped one hand between you, thumb circling your clit just right, while the other wrapped around your throat—not choking, just claiming. Your hips stuttered. Your moans grew quieter, tighter, like you were fighting them.

“Cum for me.”

The command tipped you over the edge.

You spasmed around him, thighs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders as you rode it out—wave after wave of high-altitude pleasure crashing through you.

Lando cursed, holding you still while he thrust up into you, once, twice—

Then followed with a quiet, broken groan, spilling into you as your bodies shook in sync.

Silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward.

It was thick with satisfaction.

You collapsed against his chest, dress riding high, his shirt sticking to his back. He ran a hand through your hair, kissing the top of your head.

“I’m never flying commercial again,” you mumbled.

Lando chuckled.

“Next time, we try turbulence,” he said. “Hands behind your back. Seatbelt still on.”

You lifted your head, smirking. “You're insatiable.”

“And you’re not even halfway through your champagne.”

[beeegone3]

giiirl please make a masterlist 🙏🏼 is soo hard finding previous parts 😭

It's done!

Masterist

3☆ -All my works

Request here

Request done!!!

[beeegone3]

Masterlist 3☆

3☆ -All my works

Request here

Request done!!!

"After the Storm" OP 81- (18+)

“Missed You, Baby” LN 4 - (18+)

He wears a suit and tie OP 81 - inspired by the tiktok trend ish

“Finish Line Tension” CL 16 - (18+)

The Place Only We Know CL 16- To be continued…?

Late nights in the hotel CL 16 - (18+)

“Watch Your Mouth” LN 4 - (18+)

Collisions Off Track CL 16 - (18+)- Req

Childhood Rivals, Adult Problems MV 1 - (18+)- Req

Hungary Heat LN 4 & OP 81 later on- poly ish. (18+)

"We shouldn’t be doing this” (but we are) OB 87 - (18+)- Req

"Control and Surrender" LN 4 - (18+)- Req

"Behind the Headlines" CL 16- Req

"Smoke and Sand" MV 1 - (18+)- Req

"Monaco Nights" CL 16 - (18+)- Req

“Private Jet, Public Risk” LN 4 - (18+)

Dirty Secrets and Dirty Air SV 5

Instagram Official ? LS 18

Multi part serie's

Serie of "Between the Laps" MV 1

Part 1- Collision Course

Part two - Weathering the Storm

Part 3: Under Pressure

More Than Make-Believe OP 81

Part One: The PR Pitch

Part 2- Soft Launch, Hard Reactions

Part three- Wrong Room, Right Timing - Jealousy, Confessions, and a Shattering Surprise

Behind Closed Doors OP 81 -

Part 1 — The Photo

[beeegone3]

Request done!!! 3☆

3☆ -All my works

Request here

Masterlist

Collisions Off Track CL 16 - (18+)- Req

Childhood Rivals, Adult Problems MV 1 - (18+)- Req

"We shouldn’t be doing this” (but we are) OB 87 - (18+)- Req

"Control and Surrender" LN 4 - (18+)- Req

"Behind the Headlines" CL 16- Req

"Smoke and Sand" MV 1 - (18+)- Req

"Monaco Nights" CL 16 - (18+)- Req

[beeegone3]

More Than Make-Believe OP 81 - Part three

Part three- Wrong Room, Right Timing - Jealousy, Confessions, and a Shattering Surprise

Oscar Piastri x Reader (Y/N)-POV: You Didn’t Mean to Catch Feelings Fake Dating, Slow Burn, Fluff, Angst. Fake Relationship, Real Feelings No Explicit Smut (yet)

The paddock was alive with its usual symphony the low, steady roar of engines warming up, the rapid chatter of team members coordinating last-minute details, and the distant clatter of tools being packed away or passed around. The scent of burning rubber and hot oil hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of freshly polished car parts. But amidst all this noise and motion, Y/N barely noticed a thing. Her gaze was locked onto Oscar Piastri, who was casually leaning against the barrier a few feet away, deep in conversation with one of his team members. The afternoon sun cast a golden glow on his face, warming her skin and bathing the scene in an almost dreamlike light.

Oscar’s easy grin made her heart skip a beat, an involuntary reaction she hadn’t expected. He laughed softly at something the mechanic said, eyes sparkling with that effortless charm that made it seem like the world shrank down to just him and whoever he was talking to. Y/N’s pulse quickened despite the roaring chaos around her, she felt a quiet moment of stillness every time he looked her way.

Oscar had this way about him that was magnetic not the loud, flashy kind of magnetism, but quiet and natural, like a steady pull she couldn’t resist. When he laughed, it was as if the entire world faded, and for those brief seconds, she felt like the only person he truly saw. Today, however, something shifted. As she watched him, a flicker passed through his eyes sharper, more intense the moment a woman approached him.

Later that evening, the hotel lobby was quiet and dimly lit, with only a few guests milling about at the front desk. They approached to check in after a long day, their faces still flushed from the adrenaline of the race. There was a small hiccup a mix-up with the reservations. Somehow, only one room was available under their combined booking. The receptionist apologized repeatedly, but there was no other option.

Oscar shrugged off the inconvenience with an easy smile. “It’s fine,” he said simply. Y/N hesitated, glancing at him. The idea of sharing a room even just for one night made her pulse quicken, a mixture of nerves and something more she couldn’t name. But she nodded. After all, it was just one night. How complicated could it be?

The elevator ride was heavy with silence, save for the soft mechanical hum and the occasional beep as the floors ticked by. Their breaths were quiet, almost synchronized in the small, enclosed space. When the elevator doors slid open, revealing the modest hotel room with a single queen bed and a small sitting area, the weight of the situation hit her like a wave.

They lingered in the doorway, unsure of what to do next. Oscar finally broke the silence with a half-grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Maybe fate’s messing with us,” he joked softly.

Y/N laughed nervously, her heart pounding louder in her chest. They sat down on opposite ends of the narrow sofa, the physical distance between them both comforting and excruciating at the same time. The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and their occasional shifting.

Minutes passed, stretching longer than either expected, until Oscar’s voice cut through the silence, low and sincere. “You okay?”

She swallowed hard, wanting to confess everything — how the fake smiles were starting to feel genuine, how the jealousy she’d felt earlier was proof she cared more than she intended to admit. But the words stuck, lodged somewhere in her throat. Instead, she forced a small nod and whispered, “Just tired.”

Oscar’s eyes softened, and he moved closer, reaching out with slow, deliberate tenderness to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The simple touch sent an electric jolt through her nerves, making her breath hitch. For a suspended moment, nothing else existed no pretense, no expectations, just the warmth radiating between them and the unspoken feelings simmering just beneath the surface.

Y/N woke up early, the pale morning light sneaking through the thin curtains and casting soft shadows across the room. She lay still for a moment, heart pounding against her ribs, trying to steady her breath. This was supposed to be simple just a fake dating arrangement for PR. No emotions. No complications. Just two people pretending to be something they weren’t, for a limited time and clear boundaries.

But somewhere along the way, those boundaries started to blur, and she realized with a shock that she didn’t mean to catch feelings. The carefully controlled “fake” relationship had somehow become the most real thing in her life, even if Oscar never intended it to be.

Determined to get out of the room before the weight of the morning suffocated her, Y/N pulled on her clothes with shaky hands and slipped into the hallway. Her footsteps echoed softly, but she barely noticed. Her mind was racing, swirling with thoughts and doubts she wasn’t ready to face.

And then she saw him.

Oscar, standing not alone but wrapped in the arms of someone elsea girl Y/N had never seen before. Their faces were close, their smiles soft and intimate, as if Y/N had never existed. When their lips met in a gentle, knowing kiss, the image tore through Y/N’s chest like a knife.

She hadn’t meant to catch feelings. She thought she was prepared for this the “fake” relationship, the façade for everyone else’s sake. But seeing Oscar with someone else, seeing what she had hoped for vanish in an instant, was like a cold splash of reality she wasn’t ready to face.

The laughter they shared, the ease in their movements together it wasn’t acting. It was real. And Y/N was just a convenient lie a thing he agreed because of PR , a mask Oscar wore to hide behind, to hide his real relationship.

Her throat tightened as she swallowed back the bitter sting of tears. How had she let herself believe that pretending could protect her heart? How had she become the girl who cared when she promised herself she never would?

Slowly, painfully, she turned away, every step heavier than the last. The image of Oscar and that girl burned behind her eyes, a cruel reminder that sometimes, even when you try not to, your heart doesn’t listen.

You don’t mean to catch feelings in a fake relationship. But sometimes, feelings catch you anyway.

[beeegone3]

"Monaco Nights" CL 16 ☆

Charles Leclerc x Reader 18+- Soft dom!Charles, public risk (semi-private), oral (f. receiving), emotional intimacy, teasing, possessiveness (gentle), champagne-fueled tension Word Count: ~2,800

The party was still raging inside.

Laughter, music, the faint clink of crystal glasses all drifting through the open doors of Charles’s private yacht. Celebrities, sponsors, and drivers mingled under golden lights. It was loud, glittering, dizzying.

But outside?

It was just the two of you.

Warm air, calm sea. Monaco’s glowing coastline in the distance. The champagne in your veins buzzed softer now replaced by something heavier. Needier.

You stood barefoot on the back deck, your heels abandoned, the silky hem of your dress fluttering in the ocean breeze. Charles stood behind you, his chest barely brushing your back, one hand on the rail, the other ghosting along your waist.

"You looked beautiful tonight," he murmured in your ear, voice thick with accent and want. “But I prefer you like this.”

“Like what?” you asked, turning slightly.

“Barefoot. Quiet. Just mine.”

Your breath caught. His fingers tightened around your waist for a moment, anchoring you.

The tension had been simmering all night from the way he watched you sip your drink, to how his hand lingered on your lower back while introducing you to team execs. It wasn’t overt. It didn’t have to be.

He wanted you.

And now, under the stars, there were no cameras. No team. No distractions.

Just him.

Just you.

“I’ve been patient all night,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your shoulder. “But you keep looking at me like you want to be ruined.”

You smiled. “Maybe I do.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you slow at first.

Soft and purposeful hands resting on your hips like he had nowhere else to be, like he wanted to savor every second. The salt air clung to your skin, mixing with his cologne and the faint scent of champagne still on his lips.

“You know what you do to me?” he asked against your mouth, voice hoarse. “All night, ma belle. I couldn’t stop watching you.”

You slipped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the heat in his chest, the tension in his muscles.

“Then take me.”

His eyes darkened sea glass in moonlight.

He walked you backward toward the cushioned bench on the upper deck, guiding you down gently, his hands never leaving your body. Your dress bunched around your hips as you sat, and he dropped to his knees between your legs.

“I want to take my time,” he said quietly, looking up at you. “Let me.”

You nodded, heart thudding.

He ran his hands up your calves, slowly worshipping. Your breath hitched when his mouth followed, kissing your knees, your inner thighs, until he reached the edge of your lace underwear.

“Mon dieu…” he whispered when he saw how wet you were already. “You want this as much as I do.”

His tongue was gentle, exploratory, then firm licking you slow, building pressure while his hands held your thighs open. You let your head fall back, fingers sinking into his hair, legs trembling around his shoulders.

He groaned against you, like the taste of you was something he’d been craving.

“I missed this,” he murmured between licks. “Missed the way you sound. The way you fall apart.”

And fall apart you did shivering under moonlight, crying out his name into the night air as your orgasm rolled through you, hot and slow and all-consuming.

Charles didn’t stop there.

He stood, unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease, the sea breeze kissing his skin. You reached for him, and he leaned down to kiss you again slower this time. Sweeter.

He unzipped himself and guided you to lie back against the bench cushion.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, brushing your hair from your face.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

He pushed inside you slowly inch by inch his forehead pressed against yours, both of you gasping at the feeling. It had been too long. Too many races. Too many nights apart.

“God, you feel—” he couldn’t finish. Just kissed you again, moving slowly, rocking into you with soft groans and breathy curses in French.

You wrapped your legs around him, hands gripping his back as he thrust deeper, whispering your name over and over like a promise.

“C’est toi… toujours toi…”. It’s you… always you…

His hand slipped between you, circling your clit as he moved. “Let go for me again, ma chérie.”

You did. Right there under the stars.

And this time, he followed pulsing inside you with a sharp, broken moan that melted into a soft kiss pressed against your lips.

The music from the party was still playing faintly in the background.

But you were somewhere else entirely tangled in each other, hearts thudding, sea gently rocking the deck beneath you.

Charles pulled you into his lap, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

“Next time,” he murmured, lips against your temple, “I’m not waiting until after the party.”

You smiled, drowsy, content. “Next time, I’m not letting you go back inside.”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your skin.

“Then we stay here. All night.”

[beeegone3]

7 + 8 + 15 with Max

"Smoke and Sand" MV 1

Mac Verstappen x y/n- 7★ Rough Sex 8★ Dominance/Submission Dynamics 15★ Enemies to Lovers (18+), rough sex, dominance/submission, enemies-to-lovers, hate sex, language, explicit content. Zandvoort, Dutch Grand Prix weekend

Zandvoort was on fire.

Not literally, but it felt like it. Flares burned in every grandstand, coating the air in thick orange smoke. Chants of “Super Max!” rolled through the track like thunder. The scent of burnt rubber, sweat, and adrenaline hung in the breeze. It was his home race, and the entire damn country had come out to worship him.

You wanted to be anywhere else.

“P2 again,” your engineer said in your earpiece, voice flat. “Gap to Verstappen: 4.7 seconds at the flag.”

Your jaw locked as the checkered flag waved above you. Second. Again.

You pulled into the top 3 spots with a smile fake enough to win an Oscar. Helmet off, media questions dodged, champagne sprayed you went through the motions. All the while, Max soaked in the crowd’s love like a god among mortals.

And he knew you were watching.

After the podium, you slipped away from the chaos into the back of the paddock. You needed air. Silence. Space.

I

nstead, you got him.

“Didn’t expect you to disappear so fast,” Max drawled, his voice slick as engine oil. He was leaning against the side of the Red Bull motorhome, fireproofs peeled down to his waist, chest still glistening with sweat. “Didn’t even say congrats.”

You didn’t even try to hide your eye roll. “Figured you had enough people stroking your ego already.”

He tilted his head. “You jealous, schatje?”

“Of your ego? Never.”

He laughed low in his throat, stepping forward. You refused to back up, even as he invaded your space. There was something primal about Max at home more dangerous, more magnetic. His pupils were blown wide, and you weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or pure lust.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna think you want something.”

“Maybe I do,” you snapped, grabbing his suit collar. “Maybe I want to wipe that smug look off your face.”

He leaned down, close enough that your lips barely brushed. “Then fucking try.”

You kissed him like a slap. He answered like a war.

The hallway inside the Red Bull hospitality suite was narrow, but it didn’t matter. The second the door shut behind you, Max shoved you against the wall, mouth crashing into yours, all teeth and hunger.

Your hands tangled in his hair as he grabbed your ass, lifting you easily. You wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against the bulge in his suit.

“You think I don’t see it?” he growled into your throat. “How bad you want this? The way you look at me when you lose?”

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“Yeah?” He bit down on your collarbone, hard enough to mark. “Then why are you soaking through your suit?”

He carried you into the nearest room a dim media prep lounge, barely locked—dumped you onto a leather couch, and yanked your fireproofs down with feral precision. You stripped each other between kisses, snarling, biting, like animals finally uncaged.

His fingers were in you before you could beg. Thick, fast, relentless.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered, watching your face. “All that anger… all that noise you make? This is what it’s for, isn’t it?”

You tried to curse, but it came out as a moan.

He pulled his fingers out, sucked them clean with deliberate eye contact, then lined himself up between your thighs. You looked up at him sweaty, wild, possessive and something cracked inside you.

“I want you to ruin me,” you whispered.

He growled. “Then hold on.”

Max fucked like he raced no brakes, no fear, just raw speed and precision.

His hands gripped your hips like handlebars, dragging you into every thrust. The couch creaked violently beneath you. His mouth was everywhere jaw, neck, shoulder marking you as if he needed everyone to know you were his tonight.

“Mine,” he muttered, over and over, into your skin. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You didn’t want to. But your body betrayed you.

“I’m—fuck—yours, Max!”

His rhythm stuttered. He reached between you, rubbing your clit in tight, punishing circles. You shattered beneath him, nails dragging down his back, crying out his name like it was the only word left in your vocabulary.

He came seconds later with a ragged moan, burying his face in your neck as he filled you.

Silence followed. The kind that felt heavy, not awkward.

You both lay tangled together on the ruined couch, chest to chest, sweat cooling on flushed skin.

Max was the first to speak. “You always scream like that when you lose?”

You shoved him, laughing breathlessly. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah.” He kissed your shoulder. “But you like me anyway.”

You didn’t deny it.

Not anymore.

Part 2?

[beeegone3]

21 & 23 with Charles please ❤️ love your writing!

"Behind the Headlines" CL 16

21★ Mutual Pining 23★ Fake Dating → Real Feelings Charles Leclerc x y/n

It started as a simple arrangement. Nothing too complicated. A mutually beneficial deal between two people who had no business getting involved emotionally.

You had been invited to a Formula 1 event, and while your social media was already buzzing with excitement about the weekend, you were lacking something crucial an attractive, approachable companion to show you the ropes.

Charles Leclerc, the famed Monaco-born F1 driver with a reputation for being a gentleman, had more than enough offers for such company. But he had his reasons for agreeing. You weren’t just any guest he was supposed to be helping with a media project for Ferrari, and the PR team thought it would be “good optics” to show up with a partner for the weekend. Nothing romantic, just a “couple” to make the event seem more exciting. They assured him the relationship was purely for the cameras.

That’s where you came in.

A friend of a friend, someone who knew you and understood your less-than-glamorous position in the motorsport world, had suggested you for the gig. You were a fan, sure, but also someone who had a good head on their shoulders and knew how to handle public attention. The deal was simple: pretend to be his girlfriend for the weekend. Pose for a few pictures, attend a few events, and leave the public with an impression of a blossoming relationship.

No one knew it would become more complicated.

The first day was awkward, like any forced arrangement. Charles, being the shy yet charming guy that he was, wasn’t exactly thrilled by the idea of pretending to be with someone he barely knew. You, on the other hand, found it equally bizarre. Trying to hold his hand on the red carpet, laughing at his “jokes” on cue, and holding up a smile as if you were already in love with the guy was no easy task.

The first press conference was the hardest. Cameras flashed, microphones were thrust in your face, and Charles kept his hand casually on your back, but it was more out of habit than affection. When they asked how long you two had been together, he gave you a sideways glance before saying, “It’s been a while… We’ve been keeping things private, though.”

You nodded, playing along. “Yeah, it’s been nice to keep things between us,” you added with a smile, your stomach doing flips as you realized how easily you slipped into the role of “girlfriend.”

“Any jealousy on the track?” someone asked, trying to get a rise out of him.

Charles shrugged with a grin, “No. She’s pretty cool with me being fast.”

You laughed lightly at his response, and when the camera zoomed in, you swore your heart skipped a beat. The smile in his eyes wasn’t fake. You couldn’t be sure if it was a friendly smile or if it was something deeper, but you felt it, too.

Over the next few days, things started to blur. The lines between "acting" and "real" became less distinct. At dinner, he’d catch your eye and wink, and suddenly, your heart would race. You’d laugh at his jokes because, well, they were funny. You'd notice the way his fingers lingered on your arm when you passed him something, how his smile would soften when you said something genuinely kind to him. When no one was looking, his touch was tender, comforting, like he genuinely cared.

And in return, you began to look at him differently. You noticed the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about racing, how animated he became when discussing Ferrari’s performance. You found yourself hanging onto his every word. He wasn’t just a pretty face with a fast car; he was passionate, driven, and kind in ways that no one saw unless they really paid attention.

But the worst part? The way your heart fluttered every time he smiled at you, even if it was just for the cameras. You caught yourself wishing those smiles weren’t for show.

By the final day of the event, you were at the point where everything felt… too real. The touch of his hand on your lower back as you walked together felt natural now. The lingering moments when your fingers brushed had become something you both instinctively looked forward to. But you didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t.

You were still “fake dating.” And that was the problem.

It was when he pulled you aside after the final press conference that you knew something had changed. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low, almost serious.

You raised an eyebrow, nervous, unsure of what he could mean. You followed him to a more secluded part of the venue. He stopped walking, turning to face you, his expression unreadable.

“Is this…” He trailed off, eyes flicking to the ground before meeting yours again. “Is this just for the cameras, or… is there something more?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. You wanted to say “just for the cameras,” but your heart betrayed you. You had felt it too the way the moments between you two had changed. The way he made you feel in a way no one else ever had. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words were tangled.

“It’s complicated,” you said finally. “But it doesn’t feel fake.”

His jaw tightened. “Good. Because I don’t want it to be.”

The silence between you both stretched out before he closed the distance between you. Charles leaned in, his face only inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. And then, before you could blink, he kissed you.

It was slow at first, almost tentative, like he was afraid it might be a mistake. But when you kissed him back, all hesitations melted away. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, and you realized this was no longer pretend.

It was real.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. “I didn’t want to admit it, but…” He let out a quiet laugh. “I’ve been trying to act like this was just a publicity stunt, but I can’t anymore. It’s not just for the cameras, not for me.”

Your heart raced, knowing exactly what he meant. You smiled softly, a rush of warmth spreading through your chest. “It’s not just for me either.”

And with that, you knew this was more than a fake dating arrangement. It was something that had grown between you two without either of you realizing. Something beautiful, something real.

As he kissed you again, you realized you had found something truly special—not in the spotlight, but in the quiet moments between the noise. And for the first time all weekend, you allowed yourself to let go and feel everything he was offering.

And that was the moment you knew you’d never be the same.

[beeegone3]

14 with lando please…

"Control and Surrender" LN 4

14★ “Teaching them how to…” Lando norris x reader. Smut. Dominant/Submissive Dynamics. Teasing. Power Play. Unprotected Sex. BDSM Themes

It was supposed to be a simple night in, just you and Lando, a bottle of wine, and maybe a bit of gaming or a movie. Something low-key, just unwinding after a long, stressful race weekend. But as usual with Lando, things never went exactly as planned.

You both had ended up in the kitchen after a couple of drinks, playfully bickering over who would make dinner. As it always went, it became a bit of a challenge, a teasing game of "who could do it better." And, like usual, Lando had suggested something else entirely.

"You’re not really ready to handle this," he had said, his voice low and a little cocky, leaning in too close to your ear as you chopped vegetables on the counter. "I think it’s time I teach you a few things."

You’d turned to him, confused. "Teach me? What are you talking about?"

He’d smirked that signature Lando Norris grin, leaning in just a little closer. "I think it’s time you learned how to let go, Y/N. How to let someone take control."

Your stomach did a little flip, and you’d been unsure whether to laugh or flirt back. "Take control? How?"

Lando didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his fingers brushed lightly along your wrist as you set the knife down, the air suddenly thick with something more than just playful teasing.

His hands were warm, sending a shiver down your spine. "Let me show you," he whispered, his lips grazing the back of your neck, making the hairs on your body stand up straight.

You wanted to resist. You did. But something in the way he touched you, something in the heat of his breath against your skin, made your resolve falter.

He pulled you away from the counter, guiding you by the hips toward the living room. You barely had time to catch your breath before Lando was seated on the couch, his eyes dark and predatory in the low light of the apartment.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice rough with need, and the moment you hesitated, he stood up, closing the distance between you in seconds.

Lando’s hands were on your waist, pulling you toward him, the heat of his body practically burning you. The world felt like it had slowed down, your heart beating faster as he gently cupped your face, his lips brushing over yours before capturing them in a deep, urgent kiss.

His hands slid down your back, finding the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air hit your exposed skin, but Lando’s touch was so hot that it made you feel like you were burning from the inside out.

“I want to teach you how to let go,” Lando murmured, his lips trailing down your neck, and you could feel the anticipation in your bones.

You knew what he was getting at. He wasn’t just talking about physical pleasure he was talking about letting go of all the doubts, all the tension you were holding back. The way he was touching you now made it clear: He wanted to take control. And you wanted him to.

“Show me,” you breathed, your voice low, giving him the go-ahead he had been waiting for.

With a wicked smile, Lando stepped back, giving you just enough space to see the hunger in his eyes. He reached for the waistband of his pants, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, until his bare chest was exposed to you.

You swallowed hard, your body aching, your mind racing. Lando wasn’t wasting any time now. He was already behind you, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he unhooked your bra and slid it down your arms, exposing your bare skin.

His lips followed the path of his hands, tasting the curve of your shoulder, the soft skin of your back. You felt his hands slide down to your hips, fingers teasing the waistband of your jeans, tugging them down with an urgency that sent your heart pounding in your chest.

“I’m going to teach you how to feel, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. “How to give yourself to me completely. No hesitation. No holding back. Just you and me, completely in the moment.”

His hands were already between your thighs, his fingers brushing over the delicate skin, teasing you. Every part of you was on fire, every nerve in your body tingling as you let yourself surrender to him. He slid a finger over your most sensitive spot, and you gasped at the unexpected pleasure.

"Lando… please…" you breathed, your body craving more.

With a soft chuckle, he moved his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, making you shiver. His voice was like velvet as he murmured, “I’m teaching you how to feel things you didn’t even know you wanted.”

Your back arched involuntarily as he kissed down your spine, sending waves of pleasure through you. Lando was relentless, his movements confident and calculated, every touch designed to make you lose your mind.

Finally, he moved between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs to hold you in place. The moment he was inside you, you couldn’t hold back. The rush of sensation flooded you, and you gasped, your fingers digging into his back as he set a steady, deep rhythm.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your ear, “Feel it, Y/N. Let it happen. You’re mine now.”

Every word, every thrust sent you deeper into the pleasure he was building, until there was nothing left but him his body, his touch, his voice commanding you, making you feel things you never felt before.

[beeegone3]

Can you write “we shouldn’t be doing this” with Ollie x reader where reader is staying with Ollie at his parents house (maybe he brought her with him to visit or something?) and the reader tempts him to have sex even though he’s iffy about it because of his parents being home?? 🤭

"We shouldn’t be doing this” (but we are) OB 87

Ollie bearman x y/n- 2★ “We shouldn’t be doing this”, Teasing

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Ollie’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but it sliced through the haze of desire that had been building between you both since the moment you arrived at his parents' house. You were lying on his childhood bed, tangled in the soft sheets, his body just inches away from yours. The scent of his old room familiar yet comforting mingled with the faint smell of his cologne, the remnants of the past and the present colliding.

It wasn’t that you didn’t know what you were doing. You knew exactly what you were doing, and if anything, the thrill of the forbidden only made it more intoxicating. Ollie was so close, his breath warm against your skin, his hands hesitant as they hovered just above your waist.

You’d always known Ollie had a quiet kind of intensity to him. He was thoughtful, grounded, but this... this side of him, the one that showed itself when he was with you, felt like a crack in the surface. He was more than just sweet Ollie, the guy who would bring you coffee in the mornings or get lost in conversation for hours. Right now, he was everything you had wanted, and he was here with you but he was also so, so torn.

His voice came again, rougher this time. “Y/N, I can’t do this with my parents in the house. It’s... it’s not right.”

You shifted closer, your hand sliding up his chest until your fingers brushed the side of his jaw. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away. “You’re overthinking it,” you said, your voice low, playful almost like you were daring him to resist you.

His eyes darkened, and his lips parted as he struggled with the weight of his thoughts. You saw the conflict in his gaze, the battle between what he wanted and what he felt he should do. He was a good guy. You knew that. He cared about his family. But this you was tempting him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

“I don’t want to disappoint them,” Ollie said, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. “It’s not just that. I... I don’t want to hurt you.”

You blinked at him, momentarily taken aback. Hurt you? The words were odd coming from him. You had been with him long enough to know how much he cared, but this was different this was something else entirely. You were here, with him, and all he had to do was give in.

You let out a soft laugh, brushing your thumb over his lips, marveling at how warm and soft they were. “Hurt me? Ollie, you’re not going to hurt me.”

His breath hitched, and he leaned forward slightly, his forehead pressing against yours. The proximity was almost unbearable, the heat from his body radiating against yours. You could feel the pulse of his heart beneath your fingertips, frantic and erratic.

“I don’t know if I can stop myself,” he confessed, his voice husky with a mixture of desire and restraint. His lips brushed the side of your neck as he spoke, sending a shiver down your spine.

You couldn’t resist the temptation anymore. You shifted closer, your lips finding his in a kiss that was slow, deliberate a quiet exploration that deepened as you ran your fingers through his messy hair. You could feel the way his body reacted, the tension in his muscles melting as he kissed you back, just as desperately.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, the sound of his parents' voices from downstairs growing distant, almost unreal. It was just you and him now, wrapped in a cocoon of stolen moments and quiet gasps.

But then Ollie pulled back, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, his expression conflicted. “I can’t... Y/N, I can’t do this while they’re here.”

You exhaled slowly, your chest rising and falling in time with his. You knew he was fighting his instincts, trying to be the guy who cared about the bigger picture the family he had been raised with, the moral compass he tried to follow. But here, in this room, those rules seemed to melt away.

“Ollie, it’s just a moment,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “We’ll make it quick. No one will know. Just... us.”

His eyes closed for a moment, as if the idea of giving in was too much to bear. You could see the battle waging inside of him, the pull of desire and the weight of responsibility. His lips parted as though to protest again, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You pressed your lips to his, soft at first, coaxing him into a kiss that was tender and slow, but soon enough, it became something else. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, as if he needed to feel you against him. His mouth was urgent now, lips parting to taste you as his body responded to yours in ways neither of you could control.

Your heart pounded in your chest as your hands slipped under his shirt, fingers brushing against his warm skin. The electricity between you both was undeniable, the chemistry sparking with every touch, every kiss. But then Ollie pulled away again, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“Y/N, please... stop,” he said, his voice strained, almost pleading. “I’m not like this. I can’t just... forget that they’re down there. I can’t.”

You were silent for a beat, looking at him, studying his face. His eyes were a mixture of desire and guilt, his lips swollen from the kiss, and you knew he was at a breaking point. He wanted you. But he also wanted to do the right thing.

You let out a breath, your chest tightening with both frustration and understanding. “So, what now?”

Ollie closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, before he leaned back and sat up beside you. His hands ran through his messy hair as he exhaled deeply. He turned to you then, his gaze soft but serious. “We wait.”

The words hung in the air between you both. You shifted, pulling the blanket closer around you as you propped yourself up on your elbows. Despite the tension that had been building, you couldn’t help but smile softly.

“Wait for what?” you asked, your voice teasing, though you could feel the undercurrent of something deeper there. Something you didn’t quite understand yet.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the stillness of the room, the only sound in the house as the night deepened. It was past midnight now, the quiet weight of the house pressing down on you both. You tossed and turned under the covers, restless, unable to find any peace in sleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about earlier, about the way Ollie had held himself back, how he’d been so torn.

But now, as the minutes stretched into an awkward silence, you knew there was something else something more primal that was building. You felt it. Ollie’s body, barely touching yours, yet the air between you was thick with it. That simmering tension. You could hear the quiet, shallow breaths he took in the dark. The way his body shifted slightly every few minutes, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable. You knew. You felt it.

Ollie was hard.

It wasn’t just the warmth of his body, or the way he instinctively moved closer to you earlier. No, it was the very unmistakable pressure you could feel when you shifted. He was trying his best to hold himself back, trying to stay still as if the smallest movement might betray him. But the outline of his hard-on pressing against your back? You felt it all too clearly, and it sent a jolt straight through your core.

You couldn’t sleep either not with that knowledge hanging in the air.

You bit your lip and smiled to yourself in the darkness, the teasing side of you slowly taking over. You knew Ollie. He was kind, thoughtful, always trying to do the right thing. But tonight? Tonight, he was human. And you could tell he wanted you, even if he couldn’t admit it fully. Not yet.

But you could play with that. You could push his boundaries.

You shifted in the bed, ever so slightly, your back grazing against him. The contact was brief, but it was enough to feel the tension in his body spike. You waited, holding your breath as you felt his muscles tense, his heartbeat quicken. Then, you did it again. A little longer this time. You couldn’t help yourself. You pressed back just enough so that he could feel it a gentle nudge against his already-hard length.

His body jerked slightly at the touch, and his breath hitched.

“Ollie?” You whispered, your voice soft but dripping with a teasing lilt. “You can’t sleep either, huh?”

There was a long pause before he answered. You could hear the roughness in his voice as he spoke, like he was fighting to keep it steady.

“No... I can’t.” His voice was strained, thick with need, but also filled with uncertainty. “Y/N, don’t...”

You smiled in the dark, the sound of his breath too intoxicating to ignore. You slowly turned your head, glancing over your shoulder, just enough to see his face illuminated by the faint light from the hallway. His eyes were closed, but the way his jaw clenched, the way his chest rose and fell he couldn’t hide what he was feeling.

You shifted again, this time more deliberately, moving your body so that you could press against him just a little bit more. Your back fit perfectly against his chest, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, but this time, you didn’t pull away.

You felt him his length, hard and straining against your backside. It was impossible not to notice, impossible not to feel. The way it pressed against you made your own pulse quicken, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Ollie…” You said his name like a soft invitation, barely more than a whisper.

He didn’t respond immediately, but you heard the hitch of his breath, the subtle shift in his posture, as though he was trying to pull away. But it was futile. You knew it was.

You shifted again, your hand slowly reaching behind you, brushing the edge of his thigh, just grazing it. His muscles tightened beneath your touch, and you felt his whole body tense up. He was trying so hard not to give in. But the more you teased, the more you felt him unravel.

“Y/N...” He groaned low in his throat. His hand was suddenly at your waist, fingers digging in almost painfully. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

But you did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

You pressed back again, and this time, you felt him buck slightly just a hint of desperation in the way his hips moved.

You let your hand slide down his leg, trailing over the soft cotton of his pajama pants, inching closer and closer to where you could feel his hardness straining against the fabric.

“I think you want this too, Ollie.” You whispered, your voice a mix of sweet and teasing. Your fingers brushed just lightly over him, barely enough to touch, but enough to make him shudder. You heard him gasp, and it made your heart race.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you harder against him. You could feel his breath against the back of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispered your name again, this time with more urgency. “Y/N, please...”

The moment his lips brushed the nape of your neck, his control snapped. Without another word, he rolled you onto your back, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. His body was on top of yours now, and his eyes those deep brown eyes were filled with a raw need, a hunger that you couldn’t ignore.

For a long moment, he just hovered there, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of him, the evidence of his desire pressing against your core.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, almost pleading.

You ran your hands up his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, your fingers tracing every inch of his skin. “I want you, Ollie,” you said, and the words were enough to push him over the edge.

His lips were hot on yours, and you could feel the desperation in his kiss the way he was trying to make up for all the moments he’d held back. His hands were everywhere: at your waist, your hips, your legs, roaming like he couldn’t get enough of you. His body pressed harder against yours, making it clear there was no turning back now.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved lower, sliding underneath the waistband of your shorts, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your thigh. You shivered at the contact, your body reacting to him like a magnet. Your hands moved of their own accord, tracing the lines of his shoulders, pulling him closer, trying to bring him as close as possible.

“Ollie…” The sound of your voice was thick with need, but also with a hint of uncertainty because as much as you wanted him, as much as you knew this was what you both needed, it was still wildly untamed. You could feel his hesitation, but you could also feel his urgency.

He paused, his breath ragged as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for something in your gaze. There was a flicker of uncertainty, but it was quickly replaced with something more primal. “Are you sure?” His voice was hoarse, cracked from holding back, from wanting you for so long but being afraid of crossing the line.

You nodded, your hand moving to the back of his neck, pulling him back down into a kiss that was desperate, raw, and all-consuming. “I’m sure, Ollie.” The words were barely more than a whisper against his lips, but they were enough.

He groaned, his mouth trailing down your neck as his hand moved to lift the hem of your shirt, his fingertips grazing over your skin, making you shiver. Every touch, every movement of his was sending jolts of electricity through your body, and you couldn’t think straight anymore. All you knew was that you wanted him. You needed him.

He finally pulled away, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. You both paused for a moment, just staring at each other, the weight of what was about to happen settling between you. His hand moved down to the waistband of your shorts, and for a second, you both seemed to hold your breath.

With a swift, deliberate motion, he slid them down your legs, tossing them aside, and you felt the cool air on your skin. His eyes moved over you, filled with hunger but also with awe like he couldn’t believe you were really here, really with him. The look made your heart skip a beat, but before you could say anything, Ollie’s lips found yours again, more demanding this time, as he nudged your legs apart with his knee.

You didn’t need any more encouragement. You lifted your hips, your body arching against his, and he groaned, his hands now moving quickly to rid himself of his pajama pants. His body was fully against yours, and you could feel the heat, the need in every inch of him. You felt his erection pressing against you, making your pulse spike as he hovered over you.

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding the place where you were already aching for him. The moment his fingers brushed against you, you gasped, your body jerking at the sensation. He paused, looking down at you, his brows furrowed in concern.

��Are you sure, Y/N?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant, and it made your chest tighten with affection.

You nodded quickly, biting your lip, urging him on with a soft, needy whimper. “I want you, Ollie. I need you.”

That was all he needed. His hand gripped the side of your hip, and in one smooth motion, he was inside you. The stretch, the feeling of him filling you completely, made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you tried to adjust to the sensation.

He stayed still for a moment, letting you breathe, giving you time. And when you moved beneath him, urging him to go deeper, he did. Slowly at first, testing, but then, when you pulled him closer, urging him to move, he gave in.

The pace picked up, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the room, drowned out only by the sharp, ragged breaths you both shared. His lips found your neck, kissing and biting in a way that drove you wild, and you arched into him, urging him to go faster, harder, as the tension built and coiled tighter inside you.

“Ollie… God, yes,” you gasped, your hands running over his back, feeling the sweat that had started to form there. The friction between you was almost unbearable, each movement, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

He groaned against your ear, his body shaking slightly with the effort to hold back, but the deeper he went, the more he lost control. The room seemed to spin, the only thing real was the feeling of him, the sound of your bodies moving together.

“I’m so close,” Ollie whispered, his voice tight with desire. “I can’t hold back anymore, Y/N.”

You could feel it, too the way your body was tightening, the pressure building until you thought you might explode. You met him with everything you had, your body moving with his, urging him to give you everything.

And then, with a sharp gasp and a broken moan, it came. The release was overwhelming, your body shuddering beneath him as your climax hit, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you rode it out. The sensation was so intense that for a moment, you could barely breathe, the world blurring around you.

Ollie followed right after, his body stiffening as he groaned your name, his hips jerking once, twice, before he collapsed beside you, his chest heaving. He pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you as you both tried to catch your breath.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just holding each other in the quiet aftermath, the only sound the steady rhythm of your breathing. The weight of what had just happened hung in the air, but there was no regret, no hesitation just the soft comfort of knowing that, for once, you didn’t need to hide.

Finally, Ollie kissed the top of your head. Go to sleep now baby.

[beeegone3]

Hungary Heat LN 4 & OP 81 later on

Lando, Y/N & Oscar-

Warning for spelling mistakes, i have dyslexia.

The sound of the roaring crowd at the Hungaroring was fading, but the rush in Lando's veins had only just begun to simmer. He could still feel the weight of his win pushing through him, his heart hammering in time with the revs of the engines that had just wrapped up the race. But there was something else running deeper now an insatiable hunger that had been building all day, ever since he crossed the finish line.

The post-race interviews and celebrations had felt like a blur, only barely enough to keep him grounded. But now, in the relative quiet of his drivers’ room, the adrenaline that had surged during the race met something darker something more primal. And it was aimed squarely at you.

He closed the door behind you, locking it with a swift click, his eyes never leaving yours. You knew exactly what was about to happen. This wasn’t the sweet, slow burn you were used to with him. This was raw, intense, and wild the way Lando had been when he first kissed you, when he first touched you. He wasn’t just your lover. Tonight, he was taking what he wanted.

Lando pulled you toward him with an urgency that made your breath catch. His lips crashed against yours, bruising, possessive, claiming. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, his hands roving as if he couldn’t touch enough of you, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he was marking you.

“God, I’ve been dying for this,” Lando muttered against your lips, his voice low and rough. “All I could think about was how I was going to fuck you after the race… How I was going to make you scream my name.” He kissed you again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against yours, igniting the fire in you.

You moaned, tugging him closer, your body pressed against his in a heated frenzy. There was a frantic need to have him, to feel him claim you fully. His hands slid under your shirt, pulling it off in one swift motion, and his lips followed the path of your skin, leaving hot, hungry kisses as he made his way down to your neck.

Lando was never one to do things half-assed, and tonight, you could tell he was craving something deeper something darker. He spun you around suddenly, pressing you against the wall, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he nipped at your ear.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, voice a mixture of dominance and desire. His words were a command, a promise. And you would’ve agreed to anything at that moment, as you trembled beneath him.

But then, just as his hand slid down to your jeans, the door creaked open.

“Congrats again, mate,” Oscar’s voice broke through the tension, his tone a little too casual but there was something in the way he hesitated, eyes widening as they locked on the scene unfolding in front of him.

Oscar had always been a bit of a wildcard when it came to the three of you. There was a quiet attraction he had toward you, something you’d felt the first time you’d met him in the paddock. The tension had always been there, simmering beneath the surface. But it had never gone further. Until now.

Oscar’s eyes darted to you, a slight flush creeping up his neck. He hadn’t been expecting this and the sight of you, clearly at Lando’s mercy, sent a flare of jealousy streaking through him. It was clear as day. He had wanted you. And now, seeing Lando take what he’d secretly wanted, it made something burn deep inside him.

Lando, ever confident, didn’t flinch. He merely looked over his shoulder at Oscar, his grin sly and teasing. “Come in, mate. No need to stand there. We’re celebrating your P2 too.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing, but there was something else behind the walls he kept up something you could feel in the air. A part of him wanted to leave. He didn’t want to be a spectator, didn’t want to admit the jealousy clawing at him. But another part of him… something darker, more primal, wanted to know what it would feel like to join you both, to let go of the tension that had been building ever since he’d met you.

“I… uh…” Oscar stumbled over his words, his eyes flicking to you for a second, before returning to Lando. “You’re serious?”

Lando raised an eyebrow, taking a step toward Oscar, his chest puffing out with a mixture of arrogance and raw dominance. “You’re the one who wanted to celebrate, right?” he said, his voice lower, thick with an unspoken challenge. “I’m just offering you a different way to do it. You’ve been eyeing her all weekend. Why don’t you come in and take what you want?”

The words hung in the air like a dare, thick with the undercurrent of jealousy, desire, and raw power. Oscar stood still for a moment, the wheels turning in his head, the possibility of it all swirling like a storm in his chest. He had always admired Lando’s boldness, his ability to take control of any situation. And now, in the heat of the moment, he was being invited in.

It wasn’t just an invitation it was a challenge. And Oscar couldn’t back down.

He stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. He was aware of the way you looked at him, the unspoken tension between the three of you thickening in the room. The air seemed to pulse with something dangerous, something neither of them could resist.

Lando reached out, grabbing Oscar’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

“I know you’ve been jealous, mate. But tonight, there’s enough of me to go around. Let’s all celebrate together.”

Oscar could feel the weight of Lando’s hand on his shoulder, the subtle pressure pulling him closer. The proximity felt electric, as though the space between them was crackling with unspoken words and unsatisfied desires. Lando’s eyes burned with an intensity that was hard to ignore, his gaze flickering between Oscar and you, as if daring them both to step into the unknown.

Oscar’s breath hitched. He had always admired Lando not just his driving, but the way he commanded a room, the way he effortlessly controlled the narrative. And now, Lando had pulled him into this strange, intoxicating dance, where nothing was as simple as it once seemed.

He glanced at you. There was something in the way you were watching him not like a spectator, but as if you were weighing him, seeing him for the first time with a hunger that both unnerved and excited him. He could feel the pull between you, that invisible thread that had been there all weekend, but now it was tangible, heavy in the air.

“You’ve been eyeing her all weekend,” Lando’s voice cut through the tension, low and almost teasing. “I can tell. Don’t pretend like you haven’t.”

Oscar swallowed, every inch of him wanting to argue, to deny it. But the truth was, he couldn’t lie. His eyes had lingered on you more times than he cared to admit, watching you move, watching the way you commanded attention without even trying. He could feel the attraction, undeniable and fierce. But this… this was different. This was something else entirely.

“I’m not pretending,” Oscar finally muttered, his voice rough. The admission, though quiet, seemed to echo in the room. “But I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

Lando’s smile grew, a slow, almost predatory grin. He took a step closer, his presence suffocating in the best way. “Ready? For what? To take what you’ve been wanting all along?”

The challenge hung in the air, heavy and electric. It wasn’t just about lust, or the forbidden tension that had been building. It was about power, about control, about the raw, unfiltered connection between the three of you that had been simmering under the surface, begging to break free.

You moved then, stepping toward Oscar, your gaze never leaving his. You were so close now, he could feel the heat radiating from you, your breath mixing with his. There was a calm confidence in the way you moved, a surety in every step, as if you already knew exactly what was going to happen next.

“Come on, Oscar,” you whispered, your voice low, like a promise. “You want this. You want us. Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

The words slid into him like fire, igniting something deep within, something he couldn’t ignore. He hesitated for only a second, then reached for you, his hand finding the curve of your waist, pulling you closer. You let him, and the way your body responded to his touch was enough to make his head spin. The heat between you both was undeniable.

Lando stepped back, watching with a smirk, but there was something more in his gaze now. It was as if he were silently encouraging, watching with satisfaction as the power dynamic shifted. The room felt smaller, the space between them closing, yet somehow, the tension kept growing.

Oscar’s fingers traced the edge of your jaw, his touch tentative at first, like he was still unsure, still testing the waters. But as soon as your eyes met his a spark, a challenge, a silent agreement he knew there was no turning back.

“Tell me you want this,” you said, your voice almost a whisper now, just for him.

Oscar’s breath hitched, his pulse quickening as your words slipped into his mind, igniting a fire that had been burning just beneath the surface for far too long. His fingers grazed your jaw, still hesitant, as if he wasn’t quite sure how far this would go or how much he wanted it to.

But then, you closed the distance. Your lips brushed against his in a soft, fleeting touch, a tease, before he finally gave in. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, as the kiss deepened. His lips were urgent, searching, tasting like he was memorizing every inch of you, trying to breathe you in as if he hadn’t done so in a lifetime.

You let him, responding with equal hunger, your body reacting instinctively to the pressure of his touch. He could feel the heat radiating from you, the tension building with every second. His heart pounded, his mind fogging, but everything in him was focused on you on the way your body seemed to melt against his, the way you moved, confident and sure, even in the stillness.

When you pulled away, just enough to catch your breath, Oscar’s fingers lingered at the curve of your back, holding you in place. His eyes searched yours, lips slightly parted, like he was waiting for something an invitation, a sign. You didn’t give him one; instead, you tilted your head slightly, your lips curling into that quiet, knowing smile that drove him wild.

"Tell me you want this," you breathed, voice low, almost seductive, but there was an edge to it an unspoken command.

Oscar swallowed, his hands gripping your hips now, the heat between you both undeniable. He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d wanted this wanted you until this very moment. "I do," he rasped, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "I want you."

The silence that followed was thick, filled with the electricity that crackled in the air. You didn’t say anything. Instead, you moved, slow and deliberate, your hand tracing the line of his jaw before pulling him into another kiss. This one was different more intense, more desperate, as though you both knew there was no going back.

From the corner of the room, Lando’s gaze flicked between you both, watching, savoring the unfolding scene, the power dynamics shifting between you all. He stepped back, a silent observer, but his eyes were hungry, predatory, like he was waiting for the right moment to claim his place in this.

Oscar barely noticed Lando, though. His world had narrowed to the soft, intoxicating feeling of your lips against his, your bodies pressed together, each touch sparking something deeper something primal. When you broke away again, you both were breathless, but there was something different in the air now, something heavier.

Oscar’s heartbeat thundered in his chest as he felt your weight press down on him, your lips trailing hot, frantic kisses across his neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands moved desperately, tracing the curve of your back, sliding lower, as if trying to pull you closer, deeper into the storm he felt building between you. His mind was racing, yet all he could focus on was the overwhelming heat of your body against his, the tantalizing brush of your skin beneath his fingertips.

The air between you was thick heavy, charged. It was almost suffocating, but in the best way possible. Every breath felt like it might be his last, and every kiss felt like it might be the one that completely shattered whatever was left of his self-control.

But then, a soft shift in the room caught his attention. He barely registered the sound of footsteps before the unmistakable voice of Lando filled the space, low and smooth, laced with something darker.

"Are we just going to stand around and watch, or…?" His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

Oscar’s body stiffened, a shiver running down his spine, not from fear, but from the unexpected intensity of Lando’s words. It was a strange mix of discomfort and anticipation a challenge, an invitation, all in one. But you didn’t falter, didn’t stop what you were doing. Instead, you pulled away from Oscar’s neck, your eyes meeting Lando’s with an unreadable expression. You were in control, and that was enough to send a flicker of heat through Oscar, even as his gaze shifted to Lando’s.

Lando’s eyes were dark, intense, his jaw slightly clenched, as if he, too, was caught in the thick tension hanging between you all. He was watching. Waiting. And Oscar couldn’t ignore the fact that he was no longer just an observer.

You didn’t speak at first, your gaze flicking back to Oscar as if you were silently gauging his reaction. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. His chest heaved, his body taut, ready to either give in or pull away. But he wasn’t sure he could pull away now, not when every part of him was desperate for more.

With a small, satisfied smirk, you turned to Lando, a playful glint in your eyes. “You want to join in, then?”

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat, his entire body taut with the realization that this was no longer just a game between you and him. This was something else entirely. Lando didn’t need to speak—his eyes said everything. The hunger in them, the intensity with which they locked onto yours, made it clear that there was no turning back.

Without a word, Lando moved forward, his steps measured, but purposeful. There was something predatory in the way he approached, but it wasn’t threatening it was intoxicating, magnetic. The air seemed to vibrate with the unspoken agreement, the shift in dynamics, the power play unfolding with every step.

Oscar felt the tension coil tighter in his chest, but at the same time, there was a surge of something deeper, something primal, that made him stay where he was. The raw energy in the room was undeniable. It wasn’t just a matter of desire anymore; it was a hunger raw, unfiltered, and unyielding.

Lando reached the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. The way he looked at you sent a shiver of anticipation through Oscar, a flash of jealousy mixed with something else a kind of arousal that he couldn’t deny. The space between them was charged, a storm building, but it was you who controlled it.

With a sudden movement, you leaned back, your gaze flicking between them both, your lips curving into a smile that was equal parts mischievous and seductive. “Don’t be shy, Lando,” you teased. “You’ve been watching long enough.”

Lando stepped closer, his hand brushing against your cheek with a tenderness that almost seemed out of place given the heat in the room. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were anything but. They were smoldering, intense, as he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. Oscar could only watch, transfixed, as the two of you shared that moment, as if the air itself held its breath.

Then, just as suddenly, Lando pulled away, his hand brushing against Oscar’s shoulder as he moved to stand beside him, their proximity enough to send a jolt of electricity through Oscar’s spine. His pulse raced, and he felt the burn of anticipation in his veins, but there was no turning back now. He could feel the weight of the moment, the raw tension, and he knew he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

You shifted, your hands slipping under the hem of your shirt, lifting it off with a slow, deliberate motion. Lando’s eyes never left you, nor did Oscar’s. Every movement felt like a command, like you were orchestrating the entire scene, pulling them both deeper into the web you had spun.

"Are you ready for this?" you asked, your voice low, breathy teasing, yet full of an undeniable authority.

Oscar's heart raced as he looked from you to Lando, and back again. The tension had reached its peak. His body was on fire with desire, his hands trembling with the need to touch, to claim, to explore. But it was as though time had stopped, as if the world outside the room had ceased to exist. There was only the three of you, tangled in this moment that neither of them could escape.

[beeegone3]

15 with MV 🫶✨

Childhood Rivals, Adult Problems MV 1

Max Verstappen x y/n- 15★ Enemies to Lovers. Slow Burn. Childhood Rivals. Team Strategist (Reader). Angst and Fluff. Smut

You never imagined your childhood rivalry with Max Verstappen would follow you all the way to Formula 1.

It started on the karting circuits, muddy and wild, where you were both just kids with raw talent and bigger egos. You were sharp a strategist even then always planning your moves like a grandmaster. Max was fearless, wild, and reckless, crashing through the pack with pure adrenaline. You hated him instantly; he thought you were a cocky know-it-all who ruined his races. You battled hard crashes, insults, stolen trophies, and sleepless nights filled with revenge plots. But underneath the fire, there was a grudging respect neither of you wanted to admit.

Years later, the past hadn’t softened. You were now a lead strategist for a rival F1 team, tasked with one goal: beat Max. And Max? The unbeatable champion, untouchable, his arrogance sharpening every time you outwitted him.

The paddock was familiar but suffocating. You hated the sight of him his smug grin, the confident stride that said he owned the world. You hated how well you knew him, how instinctively you anticipated his every move on track. And he hated you for being the icy shadow that always stood in his way.

Race weekends were war. Every radio call, every pit stop, every split-second decision was a battle of minds. You called out his reckless braking; he mocked your cautious strategy. But the tension beneath was something else something neither of you dared name.

Then, one stormy night at Silverstone, everything changed.

The rain came down in sheets, relentless, forcing the track to close early. Hours passed, the storm trapping you both in the cramped hospitality suite. The air was thick with the stale scent of coffee and sweat, multiple screens glowing with telemetry data that seemed cold and clinical. Max paced restlessly, frustration etched deep into his features, jaw clenched tight. You were bent over the data, trying to ignore the pull his presence exerted on your nerves.

Suddenly, he stopped mid-step and turned to face you, eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“Why do you know me so well?” His voice was low, fierce raw with something you couldn’t quite place.

You met his gaze, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

“Because I’ve always been watching. I never stopped.”

He took a step closer, the air between you crackling with a tension so thick it was almost physical.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice breaking just slightly.

You held your breath, waiting.

Then, without warning, his lips crashed onto yours tentative at first, then fierce, hungry, desperate. The kiss ignited every nerve ending, years of fire, frustration, and hidden desire exploding all at once in one fierce, urgent collision.

His hands slid beneath your jacket, exploring the heat beneath your clothes, memorizing every inch of your skin. You shivered, arching into him as his lips trailed down your neck, biting gently, sending shivers through your spine.

Outside, the storm raged harder, thunder shaking the windows, mirroring the tempest inside you. You collapsed onto the floor, tangled and breathless, every touch stoking the fire hotter and hotter.

Max moved with a demanding tenderness, worshipping your skin, pulling you apart and pressing you close all at once. You responded with equal fervor, nails digging into his back, voice catching in gasps as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

“Max,” you gasped, his name a prayer on your lips as you tumbled over the edge in a cascade of release.

His climax was deep and raw a growl vibrating through your body as he held you close, grounding you in the aftershocks.

Afterward, his forehead rested gently against yours.

“You’re not just my rival,” he murmured, voice husky and soft. “You’re the only one who’s ever truly seen me.”

You smiled, your heart aching with a new, fragile hope.

“Then don’t ever let me go.”