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tsunodaradio · 21 hours ago

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racing for your number¹ ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒 & 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“obviously, we’re both here to try and fight for a world championship,” says oscar. “we wanna fight for it the whole time we’re in mclaren. we’re both on long contracts, so we wanna make sure we’re fighting this for the foreseeable future.” (or: part one of 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘶.)

ꔮ starring: lando norris x mclaren f1a driver!reader x oscar piastri. ꔮ word count: 23.1k overall; 14.4k in this part one. read part two here. ꔮ includes: smut, romance, angst, friendship. explicit sexual content; depictions of injuries, one (1) bad crash; mentions of food, alcohol; infidelity; profanity. tension! tension! tension!, mid-story timeskip/pov switch, idiots in love, everybody is kind of a bad person, open ending, references to challengers (2024). ꔮ commentary box: this absolute behemoth of a fic is @cinnamorussell’s. birdy, there’s nothing i can tell you that you don’t already know, but i will say that being friends with you has been a constant source of light in my life for the past seven (!) years. thank you for matching my freak in all things; happy birthday, my dearest ❤︎ shoutout to the love of my life @norrisradio for beta reading this monster. tara, my star, i am nothing without you. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🎧 official playlist ⸻ they go back to the hotel room

“They call her the second coming of Christ or something.”

Oscar shoots Lando a look. “Bit much, don't you think?”

The older driver shrugs, mouth twitching at the corner. “That’s just what I heard. Whole F1A camp’s obsessed,” he drawls. “Even Toto has called her a menace, and I don’t usually give a damn what that man has to say.”

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He glances toward the pit lane, where crew members are huddled around a monitor, static and telemetry painting ghost shapes on the screen. The air smells like brake dust and anticipation. Another season, another beginning.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There’s that low buzz in his spine again. The mix of nerves and hunger that always hits before the first green light. Testing isn’t even real racing, and still, his fingers itch for the wheel.

“It’s probably just hype,” Oscar says after a moment too long. “Everyone wants a new prodigy. Makes for a good headline.”

Lando looks up, sunglasses perched halfway down his nose. He raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen her highlights?”

Oscar hesitates. That’s enough of an answer.

Lando’s grin widens. “Yeah. That move in Monza last year? Lap six?”

“That wasn’t bad,” Oscar mumbles, exhaling through his nose.

“Not bad, he says,” Lando scoffs. “She dummied two drivers into turn one and made it look like a warm-up lap.”

He says it like it means something. Like he respects it. That’s the thing about Lando—Oscar can never quite tell where the line is between admiration and challenge. It makes their friendship—or whatever it is—feel like balancing on the curbs at high speed. One wrong step and you’re off.

“You think she’ll live up to it?” Oscar asks, not really expecting an answer.

“Guess we’ll find out. She’s supposed to be here this morning.”

Oscar nods, more to himself than to Lando. The sun glints off the garage signage, chrome and orange in the desert light. Somewhere across the paddock, you exist. A wildcard. A name whispered like a promise or a warning. He hasn’t met you yet, but he’s already wondering what happens when he does.

The first glimpse isn’t cinematic.

It’s sharp. Unfiltered. Like a photo taken mid-motion, eyes narrowed against the sun, your race suit half-zipped, sleeves tied around your waist.

You’re walking across the paddock toward the F1A garage, helmet tucked under one arm, hair swept back in a loose, no-nonsense ponytail. There’s no entourage. No preamble. Just this unflappable self-assurance that follows you like a shadow.

Lando sees you first. “There,” he says under his breath, nudging Oscar.

Oscar turns.

And time slows. Just a little. Just enough to feel it.

You stop at the side of your car, greet the engineers with a nod, and lean into the cockpit like it’s something sacred. Something earned. There’s an efficiency to your movements—clean, exact. Not rushed. Not tentative.

Oscar watches the way you adjust your gloves. The flick of your fingers against the wheel. He sees the discipline, the small rituals that precede precision. There’s no charm in it. No softness. Just strategy.

Lando lets out a soft whistle. “She’s got swagger, mate. Look at that. No nerves. Like it’s her playground,” he points out, and Oscar’s brows furrow like he doesn’t quite get the joke.

Your car rolls onto the track.

Oscar and Lando follow the feed from the monitors, from the straight to sector two, to the turn six hairpin. Every corner you take is cut clean. Tight. Ruthless.

Oscar doesn’t say anything, but his jaw is tense. It’s not flash, what you do. It’s control. You don’t flirt with the edge; you own it. He recognizes it for what it is: cutthroat. Surgical. The kind of driver who doesn’t just want to win. The kind who needs to.

And yet, Lando can’t stop smiling. “You see that? She’s showboating. Look at the line she took! Fucking theatre, man.”

“That wasn’t theatre,” Oscar huffs. “That was execution.”

“Same thing when you’re good enough,” Lando says, eyes still on the screen.

They’re both watching the same driver. And somehow, they’re both watching someone different.

Later, when they’re done being awed and they’ve had their turn with their own cars, they see you before they hear you.

You’re walking with a small entourage, one of the McLaren comms girls half-jogging to keep up with your stride. There’s a clipboard in someone’s hands, a tablet in another, and you—at the center of it—walk like you’re already late for the rest of your life. You don’t spare a glance at the two drivers watching you from the edge of the garage.

“Is that her?” Lando’s already halfway into the pit lane, giddy with the kind of energy he usually reserves for pole positions.

Oscar lingers at the back. Hands tucked into his hoodie, watching. Squinting.

You stop just briefly as one of the mechanics gestures something toward your car. You nod once, curt and efficient, before turning back toward the paddock. There’s a gravity to your movements. Unhurried but completely unyielding. You disappear behind a barrier of personnel before Lando can even open his mouth.

He exhales, deflating like a balloon. “Osc, she didn’t even look.”

Oscar hums. “She’s busy.”

“Yeah, but still.” Lando runs a hand through his hair. “She’s like—cooler than us.”

Oscar doesn’t answer. His eyes remain on the spot you vanished from. The imprint of your presence still clings to the moment, sharp and vivid.

He hadn’t expected the air to change when you walked through it.

Hadn’t expected to feel it in his ribs.

“Maybe we’ll catch her at the driver briefing,” Lando says, already hopeful again.

“Maybe,” Oscar says, even though he knows that moment, whenever it comes, will be more loaded than either of them are ready for.

He wonders, briefly, what happens when two people want the same thing. Wonders what happens to teammates when the equation shifts. Wonders how long it’ll take for you to shift it.

And if he’ll be fast enough to keep up.

Because he can’t resist, Oscar asks around a bit. He has to see it for himself. Sure, Lando and him could appreciate a show, but numbers was where it’s all at. When the engineers divulge the data, how you’d made the MCL39 your bitch in less than an hour, all the cards end up on the table.

“Jesus,” Lando cusses, his eyes dancing over the data, over the replay of your pre-drive, over you.

Amen, Oscar thinks to himself.

The season starts like a fuse. One brilliant spark, and then everything explodes into motion.

Oscar and Lando trade wins like old friends swapping secrets. Quietly, easily, until it’s not so quiet anymore. Until it’s Lando in Australia, Oscar in Shanghai, Lando again in Suzuka by three-tenths. Then Oscar in Bahrain with a blistering final stint that stuns even his own engineer.

The championship leaderboard seesaws. McLaren shoots up in the Constructors’ like a rocket with nowhere to go but up.

They rib each other at press conferences, knock helmets at parc fermé, drag race out of pit lane just to see who can make it to Turn 1 fastest.

There are moments that glitter. Lando grabbing Oscar in a bear hug in Jeddah, champagne streaking down both their visors; Oscar clapping Lando’s back after a stunning quali in Miami.

It’s fun. It’s good. It’s everything Oscar imagined the dream would feel like when he first signed the long-term contract.

But sometimes, when the noise dies down and the race suits are peeled off and he’s alone in the dark of his hotel room, Oscar thinks about the way your eyes narrowed in that first test. How you had stared at the track like it was your birthright to dominate it. How you hadn’t looked at him or Lando at all.

He shakes the thought loose. Buries it somewhere far and deep, underneath telemetry data and tyre degradation curves and championship standings. He tells himself it doesn’t matter.

There’s only one prize he wants, and it’s not you.

(At least—not yet.)

The courtyard at the MTC has been transformed into something out of a champagne commercial. Fairy lights in brilliant orange, sleek chrome furniture, ice buckets blooming with bottles of prosecco. Lando already has a drink in hand. Oscar is sipping a tonic water, eyes scanning the crowd as if it’s just another race to read.

And then you appear.

You don’t just walk into a room; you make the whole space bend around you. Your dress catches the light in sharp, refracted angles, gleaming silver with slits like speed lines, as if you belong on a podium, not a patio. Lando actually stares. Oscar’s hand tightens slightly around his glass.

You’re all media smiles and quiet power, the kind of person who doesn’t have to raise their voice to command attention. You make the sponsors laugh with dry, carefully measured quips. You charm the mechanics with that fierce, knowing gaze. Even Zak leans in a little closer when you speak.

The other drivers of the McLaren Driver Development programme trail just behind you—pleasant, polite, and clearly second-best. It’s not in anything they say or do. It’s in how people look at you. You’re the one they thank for the points. For the headlines. For the lead you’ve built race after race. You’ve won four of the last six rounds. You’ve never finished below P5. The rest of the grid? Scrambling for scraps.

“There she is,” Lando mutters, nudging Oscar. “Shining like the North fucking Star.”

Oscar doesn’t reply. He just watches as you move through the party, all shimmer and calculation.

When you finally step away, slipping toward the quieter side of the garden for air or solitude—maybe both—they move without having to discuss it. Lando leads. Oscar follows, but not far behind.

You’re leaning against a railing, looking out over the lake. You hear them before you see them.

“I’m sure we need no introduction,” Lando grins, drink still in hand.

You glance sideways, one eyebrow raised. Your gaze burns, bearing right into Oscar’s very core.

He tries to ignore it. Oscar instead snorts, gently tapping his shoe against Lando’s. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.”

“An idiot with pole in Monaco,” you point out, drawing a toothy grin from the Brit.

“See? She does watch us,” Lando teases Oscar, voice loud enough to indicate this is not the first time the hypothetical had been floated.

You smile, but it’s sharp-edged. “Only when I’m bored.”

Oscar watches the moment unfold with a tamped grin. You’re exactly what he thought you’d be. Witty. Cool. Intense in the way fire is—bright, beautiful, and probably dangerous.

“You’re leading your championship by a mile,” he says, a little more serious now. “That’s not boring.”

You tilt your head, considering him properly. “And you’re not as cocky in person.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” Lando interjects, visibly offset by the few minutes he’s spent watching the conversation from the outside.

You take a sip of your drink and look at both of them like you already know exactly what this is. What it might become. “Well,” you muse, “this should be fun.”

Oscar knows the truth: it’s been fun since the moment they saw you at pre-testing.

You’re swept away before they can get a word in edgewise. One of the team’s top PR officers taps your shoulder, murmurs something about bigwig sponsors, and you nod—ever gracious, ever poised, even as your champagne flute hasn’t had time to be refilled.

Lando and Oscar watch as you disappear into a crowd of tailored suits and sparkling dresses. For a moment, neither of them says a word. Just the soft clink of glasses and the drone of conversation filling MTC’s glassy atrium.

“Think they’ll let us talk to her again before 2026?” Lando asks, half a laugh, half a sigh.

Oscar lifts his drink. “Not unless we start wearing Rolexes and own a yacht.”

Hours later, the party has thinned to the faithful and the bored. Someone’s trying to DJ in the simulator suite, a few engineers are playing beer pong with shockingly good precision, and the rooftop—usually off-limits—is unlocked for some reason no one questions.

Oscar finds Lando near the elevators, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for the right excuse to do something dumb. “Let’s go,” Oscar says.

“To the roof?”

Oscar just jerks his head. Lando follows. They bicker aimlessly in the lift, knowing that the real conversation awaits them once they can sit down and discuss in private. Call it a debrief; call it two friends in a pissing contest.

Oscar will want to dissect your humor. Lando will list out all the reasons why you probably like him more. They get to do neither of those things.

When the elevator doors open to the cool night air and the wide, starlit stretch of the rooftop, they almost miss you.

You’re leaning against the railing, backlit by the glowing McLaren sign, one foot crossed over the other. There’s a cigarette in your hand. You look like you belong on a magazine cover or in a war; you could go either way.

You don’t look surprised when you see them. If anything, you look amused.

“Boys,” you greet. “Didn’t peg you for rebels.”

“We could say the same about you,” Lando quips, approaching you with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Oscar figures it’s a way to hide how he’d started shaking with excitement. “Didn’t know F1A let you smoke.”

You shrug. “They don’t. It’s not a habit. Just a moment.”

Then, like it’s nothing, you hold the pack out. An unspoken test.

Oscar declines with a small shake of his head. You may be the hottest person at this party, but he’s not about to bend his morals. Meanwhile, Lando fumbles to grab one, then lights the stick like he’s done it before. He hasn’t. It’s obvious in the way he exhales too deeply, the way he nearly doubles over when all that smoke hits his lungs.

“Smooth,” you deadpan.

“Cheers,” Lando replies, coughing once.

There’s a pause. The air is sharp with wind and smoke and whatever this tension is. When you speak up, it’s not to stoke the flames. It’s to fan it.

“So,” you ask, tone infuriatingly casual, “which one of you is driver number one?”

Neither boys waste a second.

“Me,” they answer at the same time.

You smile—not one of those bullshit, tight-lipped grins, but an actual smile that’s all teeth and knowing.

Oscar sees it too late. He’s already trapped. So is Lando.

They don’t make a move to take it back, to buck and give in about one or the other actually being in the so-called first seat. Oscar rolls his shoulders; Lando smiles behind the cigarette he doesn’t know how to smoke. You eye them both like they’re cars driving side by side, both gunning for P1. Maybe they are.

“Figured,” you say, a hint of amusement tinging your tone. “Predictable.”

It sounds like an insult. It lands like one. Lando takes it in stride, leaning toward you with his lips half-curled. “And you’re not?”

“God, no.” You flick some ash off the ledge of the rooftop. “I took up a Master’s this year. Did no one tell you?”

Oscar tilts his head. “While racing full-time?”

You nod.

Lando stares. “Why?”

"Didn’t want the only thing I’m good at to be driving in circles."

Oscar studies you in the quiet that follows. There’s a depth to that answer he doesn’t know how to touch. Lando watches on, too, his expression both impressed and doubtful. Like he doesn’t see the point in getting an education when you’ve got the whole world waiting to see you dominate a track.

You catch the blankness on Oscar’s face, the beat of judgment that tugs at Lando. It makes you laugh, makes you jab, “You two don’t really know what racing is yet.”

That gets their attention. Lando scoffs. Oscar stays still.

You go on. “Racing’s not about pace or points. It’s not the overtake. It’s not even the win. Racing’s a relationship. It’s brutal and messy and intimate. It’s about knowing where the limit is, and choosing to brush against it anyway. Like love.”

Oscar’s breath catches. Lando freezes mid-laugh. If anybody else tried to lecture them like this, the two boys might’ve called bullshit. But there’s something about the way you say it—serene, self-assured—that has them listening.

You tap ash off the end of your cigarette, smiling to yourself. “Thing is, most people don’t know how to love. Not really. Not enough to last.”

“And you do?” Oscar asks before he can stop himself.

You meet his eyes. “I know how to race.”

Plain, simple, factual. The silence stretches, thick with tension and something electric. Oscar’s heart beats loud in his chest. Lando looks like he’s trying to come up with a joke but can't quite manage.

You take one last drag, drop the cigarette, crush it with your heel. Without so much of a word, you begin to walk away, leaving the McLaren boys with your metaphors and the look in your eye that will haunt their wet dreams for days.

Lando’s voice scrabbles to fill the space. “Wait,” he says, casual but quick. “Are you on Instagram?”

You stop in your tracks, caught off guard. Then you laugh. A real one this time, not performative, not polite. It startles Lando a little. Maybe even startles you. “What?” you ask, because of course you have Instagram, but that’s not the real question.

Oscar, deadpan but firm, chimes in, “He’s asking for your number. And so am I.”

There’s a beat. Then another. The stars stretch wider above the rooftop. You glance between them, like you’re trying to decide who’s more serious, but both of them look at you the same way. Deadly earnest. Half-smiling, half-daring. Fire and ice; Norris and Piastri.

“You both want my number,” you say, amused.

Oscar doesn’t flinch. “Very much so, yeah.”

Lando, quieter now but still himself, nods. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head. The rooftop light catches the sharp angle of your jaw. You say, slow and deliberate, “Okay, well, I’m not a homewrecker.”

Oscar grins. A flash of something more than just confidence. “We don’t live together.”

Lando, without missing a beat, jokes, “It’s an open relationship. Come hang out with us later. We’re in Room 481.”

You raise an eyebrow. There’s something almost fond in your voice now. “Want me to come and tuck you in?”

“No, we can just keep talking,” Lando drawls, twirling the cigarette still burning in his hand. “About racing.”

Your gaze lingers on both of them for a second too long. Then you say, “Good night,” and walk away.

Neither of them moves until the sound of your footsteps fades.

Oscar exhales first. Lando mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “Fuck.”

Their hotel room is dim, lit only by the thin line of city light sneaking through the half-drawn curtains. The air smells like hotel soap and condensation from two long showers that didn’t quite steam the tension out.

Lando is shirtless, legs kicked up on the low coffee table, a half-finished beer dangling from his fingers. The bottle sweats against his skin, cold and clammy. He hasn’t spoken in a while. Not really. Just the occasional grunt as he aimlessly scrolls through his phone.

Oscar is stretched out on the bed, one arm tucked under his head, the other lying flat across his stomach. His shirt is still on, wrinkled and halfway untucked. He looks relaxed, but only if you don’t know him.

He glances over. “You think she's coming?”

Lando doesn’t look up. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re the one who keeps staring at the door.”

“Am not.”

Oscar doesn’t press. Doesn’t have to. He just closes his eyes and lets the silence breathe between them. It’s like something’s waiting to happen and both of them are trying to pretend they don’t care who it happens with.

Lando tips his head back against the couch cushion. He blows out a breath and mutters, barely audible, “You really think she'll come?”

Oscar cracks open one eye. “Didn’t you just tell me not to be stupid?”

Before Lando can answer, the doorbell rings.

Neither of them moves.

Then both of them do.

Oscar gets there first, his socked feet quiet against the carpet. He presses an eye to the peephole and sees you standing in the hallway—bare legs, McLaren hoodie, your hair a little messy, like you couldn’t decide whether this was casual or calculated. Maybe it’s both.

He exhales, a soft, amused thing.

Behind him, Lando is already in a flurry of movement. A piss-poor attempt to clean up the mess that, admittedly, was mostly Oscar. “Shit, shit—Oscar, there’s your jacket on the lamp—why the fuck is it on the lamp?”

Oscar shrugs, unbothered. Lando grabs the jacket and flings it onto a chair, knocking over an empty water bottle in the process. He frantically straightens the bedspread, then whirls around. “Why is there toothpaste on the mirror? What the hell have you been doing?”

“Brushing my teeth,” snaps Oscar, already moving over to the mirror to wipe the toothpaste off with one of Lando’s boxers from their shared hamper.

The doorbell rings again. They stumble over to the door, all pretenses be damned. At the exact same time, they reach for the handle.

Lando shoves Oscar with his shoulder. Oscar elbows him back. The door jiggles under the push-pull of indecision and male pride.

Finally, the lock clicks. The door swings open. Oscar braces himself on the doorframe; Lando leans a little too heavily against the nearby wall.

Oscar’s eyes catch on you in real time—legs bare, hoodie sleeves shoved up to your elbows, collarbone visible where the zipper’s left half-undone. You’ve got one hand on your hip, your weight shifted lazily to one side like you’ve just walked into a room full of admirers and knew you’d find them scrambling.

You clock the chaos instantly. The hastily tossed jacket, the open beer bottles, the way both boys are slightly out of breath. It should be embarrassing, but you just smile, eyes glittering with some private joke they’re not in on yet.

“Hi,” you greet, and Oscar thinks you might as well have kicked the door in.

Lando recovers first—barely. He gestures you in like a flight attendant pointing out the emergency exits. “Come in. Sorry about the mess. We weren’t expecting company.”

You arch a brow. “Weren’t you the one who invited me?”

He grins, sheepish. Oscar steps aside to let you pass, trying and failing not to stare at the sway of your hips.

Within minutes, the three of you end up seated in a loose circle on the carpet, backs against furniture, lukewarm beers in hand. The room is still cluttered, but the energy has changed. Softer, warmer, lit from the inside now.

You lean back against the couch seat, legs stretched out in front of you, bottle balanced on your thigh. “So,” you say, casual, like this isn’t the weirdest triangle anyone’s ever walked into. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Either of you.”

Lando snorts. “How much time do you have?”

Oscar just smiles and lifts his bottle to his lips. “Careful. You asked for it.”

You grin, settled and unbothered, like this is your living room and not a hotel suite two boys nearly ruined trying to impress you. The stories begin. Laughter and low voices fill the space between beer bottles and long glances. You sit cross-legged across from them, the edge of your smile betraying how entertained you are by their back-and-forth.

Oscar starts the story about Lando trying to order pizza in rural Italy using only sound effects and hand gestures. Lando counters with a tale of Oscar getting stuck in a revolving door in Tokyo, too polite to push past an old lady. Each story is a duel masked as banter, a performance sharpened by proximity, by the way your eyes jump between them like you’re judging a competition.

They want to make you laugh. Every so often, they succeed.

Then, almost lazily, like you’ve just remembered something important, you address Oscar. “How come you’re not pretending not to have a girlfriend?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

Before he can recover, Lando answers smoothly, “Oscar's between ladies.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Is that right?”

Oscar frowns. “No. I mean, that makes it sound like I'm some kind of…”

“Player?” you finish for him.

Lando lifts his beer in salute. “Oscar does fine for himself.”

Oscar feels like he might actually combust. “Okay, can we not—” he’s saying, irritated, but Lando has never known when to pull the plug on anything.

The Brit just grins and pinches Osc’s cheek. It’s meant to be condescending, but the nature of their friendship makes it look more affectionate than anything. “I mean, look at him,” Lando coos.

And so you do.

You really look at Oscar.

Your gaze lingers, deliberate. There’s something unhurried in the way your eyes move over him. His jaw, the dip of his collarbone, the way his hand tightens ever so slightly around his bottle. He feels it like static under his skin, the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He doesn’t look away, but he does swallow.

Your voice is soft, teasing. “Yeah, I guess I see it.”

Oscar doesn’t know if that’s a win or a warning. Lando’s grin widens.

You tilt your head, this time regarding Lando. It’s like you’ve already decided he’s the one who’s going to indulge you, the one who’s prone to spilling the secrets. You’re right, of course. “How often does this happen? You guys going after the same girl,” you ask outright.

It’s a kind of confidence that would look distasteful to anyone else. But it’s you, and they couldn’t hide the truth from you if they tried. Lando raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Not as often as you'd think, actually,” he admits, and Oscar gives the smallest of nods.

You look amused. “No?”

Oscar chips in, dry, “Lan’s more into the model types.”

“Hey!”

You raise your eyebrows. “Should I be flattered that I’m not either of your types?”

Oscar looks at you, more serious than he means to be. “I mean, you’re everybody’s type, aren’t you?”

There’s a pause—small, sharp, and not entirely comfortable. You glance between them, then say it with the same casual boldness you walked in with: “What about you two?”

Lando furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… what about you two? You’ve got the energy.”

Oscar chokes on his drink. Lando bursts out laughing.

“You’re kidding,” Lando says, but not unkindly. Not even convincingly.

Oscar wipes at his mouth. “She’s not kidding.”

You just smile, relaxed and devastating. “Just curious.”

And now it’s their turn to squirm a little.

“Well, there is that one time—” Lando offers, but Oscar is already shaking his head.

“No.” It’s just one word. One word, but Oscar packs all the authority he can into it. It’s the type of soft power that has Lando stopping dead in his tracks, because he’s been in enough meetings and sessions with Oscar to know when to stop pushing.

You don’t have the same sense.

You lean forward, looking far too invested to let up. “Now you have to tell me,” you declare, eyeing the two boys with rapt interest.

Lando shoots Oscar an apologetic look. Oscar glares daggers in return. There’s a long, terse moment, where everything from the rumble of the airconditioning to the distant sounds outside the hotel room seems to hold everything taut.

It’s a battle of attrition, and Oscar crumbles when the silence stretches uncomfortably long. When Lando guiltily mumbles, “I think it’s a sweet story.”

“Fine,” Oscar grits out, “but I’m not telling it.”

That doesn’t phase Lando at all. He jumps right into it. “Right, so,” he starts, “it happened when Osc first joined McLaren. I’m sure you know how we all need to… take the edge off, ‘specially after grueling races. There’s a time and place for that, but sometimes you really can’t just wait, I guess.”

You don’t recoil like you’re disgusted, don’t contest Lando’s words. Somehow, that’s even more surprising to Oscar than the fact he’s watching this conversation play out. It doesn’t help at all—the mental image that begins to blossom in his head. An unzipped race suit, discarded fireproofs—

Oscar glances at your fingers and his throat suddenly feels dry. He takes a long swig of his drink, begging his mind to get out of the goddam gutter.

“And I was going to check in on Osc, because it was a pretty shitty FP2,” Lando goes on. “We had separate driver rooms. His was unlocked. I went in, and all the lights were off, and he was… you know…”

“Jerking off,” Oscar deadpans when Lando hedges.

Lando breaks into the smallest smile before going on, “I probably should have walked out then and there, but I’ve never had the best rational judgment. So—I was by the door, Osc had frozen up, and I asked him what he was doing. And he said he was…”

“Jerking off.”

“And then—” Lando pauses. For dramatic effect or to sort through his memory, Oscar’s not sure. He pushes on, “I asked him if he needed any help.”

Your eyebrows raise, but you try to hide it behind a conservative sip of your beer. Lando chuckles nervously, “Don’t worry, I said ‘no homo’, like, eight times.”

That’s a lie. Oscar knows that’s a lie. But if it helps Lando sleep at night, if it softens the blow of this damning story, then he’ll take it.

Lando, in fact, had only said ‘no homo’—or his own variation of it—once. When Oscar had locked up at the offer, when Oscar had stared at Lando like he was insane. Lando went on to stammer something about the socials filming they did earlier that day, where they’d both become acutely aware of their differences in hand size.

It’s just that your hand is so small, Lando had said. Do you even… get everything?

It had been a challenge. That’s what Oscar likes to think. That’s how Oscar defends the way he had made space for Lando, the way the two had mumbled about never talking about this.

Oscar’s cock had twitched, his body fucking betraying him, when Lando wrapped his much bigger hand over Oscar’s. The pitch black room had made it impossible to see everything, but there were things neither of them could deny. Lando’s fingers wrapping all around. Oscar’s hand suddenly feeling quite insignificant and useless, enough that he decided to drop it all together. The clumsy way Lando worked him, as if unsure what rhythm and pace Oscar might like.

Lando had probably been going by instinct, had been moving according to what he enjoyed. Hard jerks, occasional squeezes. It wasn’t Oscar’s speed, but the sheer absurdity of it all was enough to have him struggling to muffle his moans.

Lando had gone so far as to wordlessly place his free hand over Oscar’s mouth. The warmth of Lando’s palm to his panting lips had been too much, too intimate, so Oscar wrenched it away and bit his own lower lip until it bled.

When Lando had leaned over to spit for some extra lubrication, Oscar came. Hard. A violent unraveling, nearly painting Lando in ropes of white. Thank God for racing reflexes; the older man pulled away just in time, leaving Oscar to shoot cum over his own fireproofs.

The moment was relegated into a footnote. For the first time, tonight, it’s shared like it can be something more than a fevered memory.

Lando finishes telling the story. Oscar downs the rest of his beer. You look between them, eyes piercing but not judging, as if you might be able to catalogue their relationship from that one anecdote.

Oscar isn’t sure if you find what you’re looking for, but your voice is softer, kinder, when you comment, “You’re right. That was a sweet story.”

You drain the last of your bottle and frown, holding it up like the weight will change. “That was the last one.”

Oscar peers into his, confirming. “Yeah. All gone.”

Lando tips his bottle back dramatically, just to be sure, before setting it down with a click. “Tragic.”

There’s a moment. Not quite a silence; it’s too loaded for that. More like the air pausing, holding its breath. The scene has been set. The stories, exchanged.

You stand. The hem of your hoodie sways around your thighs as you cross the room and sink down onto the edge of their bed. You glance at both of them, your expression unreadable but heavy with intent.

“Come here,” you say, patting the mattress.

Oscar blinks. “Which one of us—?”

But Lando’s already up, not even hesitating. He strides over like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory. Oscar follows, nearly tripping over his own feet. They sit on either side of you, the mattress dipping beneath the weight of all three.

It’s close. Intimate. The kind of proximity that makes skin buzz and burn.

You don’t speak. Just turn slightly, your knees brushing Oscar’s as you lean in. Oscar doesn’t immediately realize, but he does, then. You’re choosing him. Or: you’re starting with him.

The kiss is deliberate, sweet and slow. You taste like beer and something warmer, more dangerous. Oscar goes still for a split second—just long enough to catalogue the soft press of your mouth against his, to commit it to memory. He kisses you back, instinctive, barely breathing.

He can feel Lando watching. Not looking away. Not even pretending to.

When you pull away, Oscar gasps like he’s coming up for air.

You shift your weight, turning toward Lando now.

Oscar’s heart stutters.

It’s different when you kiss Lando. Still soft, still lingering, but there’s a grin curled on the edge of your lips. Lando kisses you like he’s always known he would get to.

Oscar watches.

And doesn’t look away. Not pretending to.

You and Lando break apart as if gravity’s the only thing pulling you apart. Then—like they’d been waiting for the same cue—both boys lean in at once, heads angling, mouths searching. There’s a split-second of chaos, almost comedic: Lando and Oscar bump foreheads. They both freeze, startled.

And then, laughter. Lando first, grinning. Oscar chuckles, too.

You just watch them with amusement, your eyes flicking back and forth. “Seriously?”

They recover quickly. Lando dips his head, trailing slow, feather-light kisses down your neck. His breath is warm, his mouth surer now. Oscar’s lips find your shoulder, soft and exploratory. You tilt your head slightly, inviting more, and they eagerly take you up on it.

You’re smiling at first, a little dazed by the attention. But then their mouths travel higher, closer, until suddenly, without planning or hesitation, the three of you are right there. Lips, mouths, breath tangled together. For a heartbeat, all you can feel is the closeness: three people caught in something electric and unspoken.

There’s a moment of surprise. Lando draws back an inch, blinking. Oscar, too, hesitates.

You laugh, light and easy, as if to say, What did you expect?

Then you lean forward again, slow and deliberate, your lips brushing between theirs. Your hand reaches for Oscar’s shoulder, your fingers brushing Lando’s knee. And this time, when the kiss resumes, no one flinches.

It’s warm and heady and a little reckless. The space between you disappears, and all that’s left is touch, breath, heat. When Oscar’s eyes flutter close, he’s not even sure what’s happening. Just that there’s spit, and tongue, and teeth. Cheap alcohol and somebody’s Chapstick. A three-way that would land all of you on the front page of every gossip website in the world.

Oscar doesn’t know when exactly it happens.

One moment, it’s the three of you. The tangle of lips and hands, so close it’s impossible to tell where one person ends and another begins. His mouth moves instinctively, chasing pressure, chasing warmth.

He thinks it’s still you he’s kissing.

But then—slowly, imperceptibly—your presence begins to withdraw.

You don’t pull away all at once. It’s subtler than that. Your touch lingers at first, fingers still curled against Oscar’s shoulder, the scent of your shampoo still invading Lando’s senses. But your mouth has gone still, your breath cooled. The kiss narrows, focuses.

There’s less of the Chapstick. More of the grazing teeth. Something firm, aggressive, desperate.

Oscar opens his eyes, just a flicker.

Lando.

They’re kissing. Fully. Deeply.

Oscar freezes, not from fear or discomfort, but the pure shock of it. He hadn’t thought—hadn’t let himself imagine. But now it’s happening and there’s no one else there.

Just him and Lando.

And it’s good. Lando’s mouth is hot and insistent, his hand firm at the back of Oscar’s neck. The kiss is clumsy and eager, but genuine. Oscar should pull away; Oscar should push Lando off. Oscar—

Closes his eyes.

Indulges it for just a second more.

Then, your voice cuts gently through the haze.

“Okay,” you say, soft and wry. “I’m going to bed.”

This time, it’s Lando’s turn to freeze. Oscar feels it happen. The way the man’s fingers tighten at Oscar’s neck, the way his mouth stops moving as if realizing, then and there, that there’s one less factor in the equation.

Both boys pull away. You’ve sunk against the pillows, your hoodie slipping off one shoulder. The smile on your kiss-swollen lips is small and knowing. Like you planned it. Like you knew they wouldn’t stop.

Lando looks dazed. Oscar’s heart is thundering in his chest. They detach, watching you as you make your way to the door.

“Wait,” Lando croaks. “What about your number?”

You pause, one hand already on the doorknob, looking back at them. The longing in their faces isn’t subtle. “I told you,” you say, “I’m not a homewrecker.”

Oscar speaks up, voice low. “Please.”

You tilt your head, regarding them with a sincerity that makes Oscar’s stomach churn. He’s not sure what you see, in between their mussed up hair and twin boners and desperate, desperate expression. “How about this?” you finally say. “I'll be watching your next race. Whoever wins can text me.”

Lando breaks out into a grin. Oscar lifts an eyebrow, intrigued.

You look towards Oscar, something sly tinting your voice. “You can beat him. You should beat him, actually.”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Are you saying you want me to?”

“I’m saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t.”

“But what do you want?” he presses.

“To watch a good fucking race,” you say, saccharine sweet even though your gaze is as good as poison.

And with that, you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you like the end of a chapter neither of them realized they were in.

Oscar shifts, still catching his breath, the taste of Lando lingering in his mouth. His heart thuds in his chest, too fast, too loud. He tells himself it’s the adrenaline, the beer, the girl who just walked out the door. Not what just happened. Not the kiss that still feels burned into his skin.

Lando speaks first, breaking the charged silence. “Remember that tow I gave you in Spa? Got you P3. You owe me for that.”

Oscar snorts. “That was a lifetime ago.”

Lando stands, stretching with a groan. His underwear is slightly askew, and the tent forming beneath the waistband is impossible to miss. He makes no move to hide it, instead giving Oscar a cheeky grin. “Papaya rules,” Lando drawls.

“Jesus, mate,” Oscar grimaces.

And then he swats Lando’s boner. Hard.

Lando yelps, folding into half. “Oi! Assault!”

Oscar laughs, shaking his head as he tosses a pillow at Lando’s chest. The tension doesn’t disappear, not really. But it twists into something else—competitive, charged, challenging. Unresolved, in a way that won’t be settled with a trophy or points.

The race isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The paddock buzzes like it always does. Mechanics shouting, tyres squealing, engineers hunched over telemetry screens. But for Lando and Oscar, everything feels sharper. There’s a different kind of focus in the air.

They walk side by side through the McLaren garage, helmets in hand, fireproofs zipped halfway. On the surface, they look the same as they always do. Calm, clipped, professional. Beneath it, something brims.

Only the two of them know what’s at stake.

You’re already there, leaning against a table near the back of the garage, head bowed slightly as you scroll through something on your phone. You’re wearing your F1A team gear, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable.

Oscar sees you first and slows a fraction. Lando notices, smirks.

“Nervous?” he says under his breath.

Oscar scoffs, eyes forward again. “Please. I’m not the one who nearly broke a toe trying to get to the door first.”

“I was being courteous.”

Oscar doesn’t answer, but his knuckles tighten on the strap of his helmet. Neither of them approaches you. You don’t look up.

A mechanic calls Lando over; his engineer waves Oscar to the other side. The spell breaks.

It’s race time.

Oscar climbs into his car with the same ritual movements he’s done for years. Today, though, his hands are steady in a way they haven’t been in months. He can feel it. The hum under his skin. The challenge. The possibility.

Across the garage, Lando slides into his own cockpit, flashing his usual grin at his crew. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances once toward Oscar’s car.

Separately, together, they get ready to drive like their life depends on it. The lights go green over the Circuit Zandvoort. Seventy-two laps to go.

Oscar starts at P3. Ahead of him: Max on pole, Charles in second. Behind him, Lando in fifth.

But Oscar isn’t thinking about Max or Charles. Not really.

He’s thinking about the way your voice sounded when you said, I’m saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t. He’s thinking about the way Lando kisses, and how he will now have to live his entire life with the knowledge.

Oscar slams that thought shut like a visor and focuses on the track. On the rhythm of corners and gear shifts, the uphill stretch of Hunserug, the breathless plunge of Gerlach. He falls into the math of it, the feel of rubber kissing tarmac.

His engineer’s voice cuts in, low and precise. Fuel mode. Tire temp. Gap to Charles. Gap to Lando.

He doesn’t ask where Lando is. He doesn’t need to.

Because suddenly, by lap 24, he’s there. The other papaya car looms in his mirrors. Then at his side.

Oscar catches a glimpse of Lando’s helmet, sees the glint of his visor flash in the sunlight. They’re wheel to wheel now, two McLarens carving through the mist and rubber smoke, racing for P3 like it’s more than a podium.

It’s not just about position anymore. It’s about something else. Something unsaid. Gunning for glory, or maybe just the right to text you first. Neither of them is backing down.

By lap 30, they’ve cleared Charles. Lando takes P2; Oscar slots into P3.

Then the radio crackles. Oscar’s engineer: “Hold position. Let Lando push on Max. You defend from Charles.”

“I have the pace to catch Max,” Oscar grits out.

"Oscar, copy. Strategy wants Lando to go for it. You hold."

He tightens his grip on the wheel. Grinds his teeth.

“Oscar. Copy?”

He doesn’t respond. Not at first. The tyres scream beneath him as he pushes harder through Tarzan Corner, narrowly fending off his French opponent.

Oscar is not just defending. He’s attacking every corner like it insulted him. Like the very idea of holding back is a personal offense.

Lando’s still ahead but just barely. Oscar knows he’s quicker today. He feels it in the car, in his bones.

And when the next lap comes, he makes a decision.

Fuck strategy.

Fuck papaya rules.

Fuck it all.

He’s not holding position for anyone. Not today.

He closes the gap between him and Lando with surgical precision. The engineer’s voice in his ear is tenser now, firmer: “Oscar, you’re too close. Repeat, hold position. This is not your fight.”

He doesn’t answer. Again.

Into Turn 10, he edges closer. Into Turn 11, he clips Lando’s rear wing. Carbon fibre sparks off like fireworks.

Zak’s voice cuts across the radio this time: “Oscar, what the hell are you doing? Back off.”

But it’s too late.

They’re not racing Max anymore. They’re racing each other.

Lando’s line gets more defensive. Oscar’s braking later, sharper, riding the limit. Every corner is a dare. Every straight, a challenge. From the pit wall, the tension is unbearable. From the garage, you’re standing now, eyes glued to the screen.

And from the track, it’s just fury and fire in orange suits.

Final lap.

A blur of DRS, rubber, and sweat.

The chequered flag waves.

Max crosses the line.

But behind him, it’s a flash of orange that storms through for P2.

No one can quite tell which one.

Under the sharp glare of the McLaren media shoot, Oscar stands shoulder to shoulder with you and Lando. Fireproofs unzipped, hands shoved into pockets. The PR team calls it a Challengers reel. They want natural chemistry.

There’s a lot of that to go around.

The studio smells like sponsored cologne and hair product. You’re in full papaya gear: cropped jacket, fitted pants, hair done in a way that makes it hard for Oscar to look away. You look good. You know it. He’s not the only one who notices.

The photographer calls for a new configuration. You in the center. The boys flanking you. Lando drapes an arm over your shoulder, hand resting just below your collarbone like it’s instinct. Oscar puts his arm around your waist, fingers pressing just over where there’s exposed skin to touch.

You don’t move away. You lean into it, into him, into both of them.

The camera clicks. The director coaxes a laugh. You tilt your head toward Lando, laugh softly, then turn to Oscar with faux-innocence blooming on your lips.

“Smile, Piastri,” you say.

Lando snickers under his breath. Oscar obeys, barely.

The lights flash. For a second, it feels like there’s no one else in the room.

Someone calls for another take. The boys switch sides. This time, it’s Oscar with your shoulder pressed against his. You glance up at him like you’re about to say something, then think better of it. But your fingers ghost over his wrist when no one’s looking.

Oscar’s ears go hot.

Lando catches it. His grin sharpens.

It goes like this for another hour. Whispered nothings, brushed touches, flickering glances. All of it carefully, deliberately ambiguous.

Once all of it is done, Oscar waits outside the changing area, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hears a muffled laugh—yours. Then Lando’s voice, smug and low.

The door opens and the two of you emerge. Your hoodie is askew. Lando’s hair is mussed, belt unfastened and hanging loosely from his waistband. There’s a flush to both of your faces that tells Oscar everything he needs to know.

At the damn Dutch Grand Prix, they had finished within mere tenths of seconds from each other. But the results didn’t change: P2 for Lando Norris. P3 for Oscar Piastri. Your number, slipped into Lando’s phone like destiny fulfilled.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Lando says as he slaps Oscar’s shoulder. “She still likes you.”

Oscar forces a laugh. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

You look up at Oscar, beautifully undone from whatever makeout session you and Lando just had. “Thanks for keeping watch,” you tell the Australian, standing on your tiptoes. You press a kiss to his cheek. Light, dry, perfunctory. A thank-you, not a promise.

“Yeah, mate. Thanks,” Lando chirps, just a hint of sincerity bleeding into his tone as he wraps a casual arm around your shoulders. “You’re such a good friend.”

It’s salt to wound. The worst part is the genuineness of it all. How you’re grateful Oscar keeps your trysts a secret. How Lando is thankful, too, and probably does think of Oscar as a decent friend.

The two of you wander off, leaving Oscar as he mumbles about getting changed himself. You don’t look back.

But Lando does. A quick glance over his shoulder. To check, to see. And then he’s back to you, back with you, smiling like he hadn’t wanted to know what Oscar looked like when you weren’t watching.

That’s the thing about wounds: they only fester over time.

Lando starts disappearing more and more. You begin showing up with your hoodie zipped halfway up and a telltale flush to your cheeks.

Oscar doesn’t ask. Not directly. He tells himself it’s not his business. You made your choice, and it’s not like he’s entitled to anything. Still, one night, post-simulator debriefs and beers, he hears himself say, “You and her. Is it a whole thing?”

Lando just grins. “You want me to kiss and tell?”

“No,” Oscar scoffs. “Just wondering.”

Lando kicks his foot lightly. “Alright. I’ll give you a signal.” He pauses, contemplative. “If I ever chug an entire champagne bottle on the podium… that’s when you’ll know.”

Oscar laughs it off, trying to seem indifferent. “What, like, that you’ve slept with her?”

Lando shrugs, still grinning. “Exactly that.”

It becomes a joke. A ridiculous signal. Oscar convinces himself it doesn’t matter. But every race, every time Lando ends up on the podium, Oscar watches. Pretends not to. But he watches.

And then it happens. Marina Bay Street Circuit. A race well run.

It’s not even a win. Lando finishes P2. Oscar’s the one at the top, P1, taking in the crowd, feeling the champagne bottle cool in his palm. He turns, ready to spray, when he sees Lando.

Lando’s already popped his bottle. No theatrics, no delay. He tilts his head back and begins to chug. The crowd roars.

Oscar freezes.

It’s stupid. It’s just a bottle. But he knows.

Lando finishes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and catches Oscar’s eye. There’s a beat. Then a wink.

Oscar looks away, jaw tight.

P1, and he can’t even fucking enjoy it.

The desert heat in Qatar settles low and dense over the paddock, heavy with the scent of rubber and scorched tarmac. Floodlights slice through the dusk, casting long shadows over the McLaren garage. The season is almost over. Two races left.

Oscar stands just outside the bustle of engineers and mechanics, helmet under one arm, expression unreadable. The helmet cam had caught every corner, every brake point, every inch of perfection he squeezed out of the car. But it isn’t enough. Not this year.

Lando leads the Drivers’ Championship. Even if Oscar finishes first tonight and in Abu Dhabi, he won’t catch up. The math is clear. The sting of it isn’t.

Oscar should be proud. McLaren is at the top of the Constructors'. They’ve traded podiums all season, flipping P1 like a coin, sharp and exhilarating. He and Lando have pushed each other harder than ever. And yet, there’s a sour edge to it all.

Because while Lando’s name tops the standings, he also tops something else: you.

Not that either of you would call it that. Not aloud. Not seriously. Not where it counts. The press doesn’t know. McLaren doesn’t ask. You and Lando play it cool, but the signs are there. Lando always sits next to you on flights, always knows your coffee order, always gets that look on his face when you’re talking to someone else. Like he wants to pull you back by the wrist and keep you all for himself.

Oscar tries not to see it. Tries even harder not to think about it. He reminds himself it doesn’t matter. He’s here to race, and you’re here to win.

Which you might. You’re in a dead tie with the Red Bull F1A lead, every session a war, every lap a line drawn in sand. Today, you set record times in FP3, carving the air with ruthless precision. Oscar watched from the monitor room, arms crossed, mouth dry. Your name lit up purple sector after purple sector.

Now, in the dim glow of the McLaren garage, Oscar hears your voice before he sees you. Laughing. Casual. The sound digs under his skin in the worst way. You walk in, race suit peeled down, sleeves tied at your waist, hair wild from the helmet. You look like victory incarnate. Like you’ve never lost a damn thing in your life.

You spot him.

Oscar expects you to keep walking, to flash a grin and disappear into whatever post-session obligations you have lined up. Instead, you lift your hand in a small wave. Something private. Something easy.

Oscar lifts his in return. Feels the corner of his mouth tug upward.

A small win.

He clings to it.

Because Lando was supposed to be here tonight. Dinner plans with the team, drinks after. The usual circuit camaraderie. But his flight’s been delayed. Something about a storm over Europe.

Which means it’s just Oscar and you.

He watches as you disappear into the drivers’ lounge, towel slung over your shoulder, already mid-conversation with a race engineer. The door swings shut behind you.

Later that night, the rooftop is quieter than usual, the hum of celebration below faint and muffled. Oscar finds you exactly where he expects: perched on the edge of the low wall, cigarette between your fingers, city lights flickering far in the distance. The orange glow of the ember lights your face like a memory.

“Hey,” he says, stepping out onto the roof.

You glance over. “Hey yourself.”

Oscar joins you, leans against the wall beside you, elbows resting on the concrete. There’s a bottle in your other hand—beer, lukewarm by now.

“Drinks not strong enough downstairs?” he asks.

“They’re not strong enough anywhere.”

A beat of silence. Comfortable. The kind that only settles between people who know how to leave things unsaid.

You offer him a cigarette. He shakes his head. You shrug, amused.

“You always end up here,” he says.

“So do you.”

You both smile, faint, crooked.

Then you speak, voice light. “We should go somewhere. When the season ends. You, me, Lando. Somewhere far.”

Oscar watches the smoke curl past your lips, wonders how someone so untouchable could sound so casual about something so potentially catastrophic. He knows you’re not saying it to be nice, not extending this invitation to be cruel. You genuinely think it’s something the three of you deserve. Some sun-soaked vacation in Cancun. A ticking time bomb in its own right.

“Sure,” Oscar says. “If you want.”

He fails at sounding casual. You tilt your head toward him, squinting. “Okay, what’s that?”

“What?”

“That tone. That… whatever that was.”

“It’s nothing,” he lies.

“This whole ‘thing’ you’re doing is stupid. You’re not good at it.”

Oscar exhales sharply. “I’m not doing a thing. I’m just…”

“Uh huh?”

He hesitates. Then, quietly— “I’m surprised that you guys are still seeing each other.”

The silence that follows is sharper than any response. The ember of your cigarette burns bright before you flick it away into the dark. And then, you say “Okay,” and you start moving.

You push off the wall, brushing your hands against your thighs, about to walk away when his voice catches up with you. “Wait,” Oscar calls, the panic in his voice grating on you more than anything else. “I’m sorry.”

You round on him, jaw set. “Don’t be such a fucking pussy. Is he seeing other girls while you guys are racing? Is that what this is?”

For a second, Oscar thinks about lying. But he knows it wouldn’t stick. Not with you. Not with how Lando looks at you like you’re his whole world.

“No,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“Then what are you trying to say?”

It slips out, louder than he intends. “He’s not in love with you.”

You blink.

Then, your expression hardens. “Who says I want somebody to be in love with me? When did I say I was in love with him?”

Oscar feels like a school child being chastised. “You didn’t,” he says, his voice so quiet in the evening that the night almost swallows his words up.

“So why would I care whether or not he loves me?”

“I guess you wouldn’t.”

You stare at each other for a second too long. The rooftop air crackles.

Oscar has already fucked this up, he thinks to himself. What’s one more crack in the armor? “Don’t you think you deserve it?” he asks.

Your face twists. Not angry. Not amused. Just exasperated. You see right through him, if the way you grouse “Jesus fucking Christ” is any indication.

Oscar swallows. “I mean, who wouldn’t be in love with you?”

You laugh, short and harsh, and start to walk away. “You're the worst fucking friend in the world, man,” you call over your shoulder, and somehow, that’s the worst part of the evening.

“Maybe,” Oscar calls bitterly.

“Definitely,” you retort.

And then you’re gone, disappearing down the stairwell without a backward glance. Oscar watches the door shut behind you, then looks down at your discarded cigarette on the ledge. For a second, he considers picking it up, taking a drag, just to have some part of you in him.

He decides he has more dignity than that.

Barely.

The paddock is loud, chaotic. This little corner of the hospitality, though, feels insulated. Oscar and Lando sit across from each other at a small table, disposable cutlery scratching against takeaway containers. The food’s barely touched.

Oscar’s picking at his pasta, avoiding eye contact. Lando is too busy battling jet lag to notice.

“So,” Oscar starts, voice casual enough to be suspicious. “You don’t think she’s really… looking for something serious, do you?”

Lando looks up, eyes narrowing as he chews. He swallows, leans back in his chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saying. She’s... complicated.”

“Did she say something to you?”

Again: the urge to lie rises up like bile in his throat. He’d be doing Lando a service, wouldn’t he, by mentioning the way you alluded to the fact that you weren’t in love with his co-driver. That you might not want love at all.

Lando watches Oscar struggle, then the asshole bursts into laughter. “You fucking snake,” Lando wheezes.

Oscar blinks, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

Lando is still giggling as he bites out, “Honestly, I’m proud of you. I’d be doing the same thing.”

Oscar goes red. “I’m not—”

Lando lunges across the table, mussing Oscar’s hair, tugging at the collar of his shirt, grinning like an idiot. “You’re unbelievable. You think I don’t see it? The way you light up when she’s in the room? Come on, mate.”

“I’m not trying anything,” Oscar says feebly, ducking so hard he nearly slams his forehead on the table.

“Sure, sure,” Lando says, mock-solemn. Then softer, with something real behind it: “It’s nice to see you lit up about something. Even if that something is my girlfriend.”

“Is that what you guys are calling each other now?” Oscar asks before he can keep it back. He doesn’t even manage to hide his jealousy, though the question remains. Who the hell was he jealous of?

Lando fixes him with an amused look. “You know this just makes it hotter for me, right? You sitting here, pining for her?”

“I would never—”

“I know. It’s not your style.” Lando plucks a breadstick off of Oscar’s plate and takes a big bite. He speaks his next words through his mouthful of carbs. “You’re playing the long game. Waiting for me to fuck up.”

That’d been Oscar’s play, during his early years in McLaren. Driving to delta. Managing tyres and fuel, choosing consistent lap times, trusting his race engineers.

Waiting, always waiting, for others—Lando included—to slip.

Lando and Oscar regard each other. “Come on,” Lando says, shoving the rest of his breadstick in front of Oscar’s face. “We’ve got quali to prepare for, you numpty.”

Without breaking eye contact, Oscar takes a bite from the breadstick in Lando’s hand.

Everyone’s coiled tight with anticipation, but Oscar’s moving on autopilot. Helmet in hand, visor smudged, his crew chattering in his ear about tire temps and pit stop windows. He nods, distracted.

He’s on his way to check in on Lando. It had started as a casual impulse. Just a knock, a check-in, maybe a few words about turn six or the wind picking up on the main straight. But as he nears Lando’s driver room, Oscar slows.

He hears something.

At first, it’s soft. Rhythmic. The unmistakable hush of something intimate, layered beneath the hum of the nearby garage fans. A muffled moan.

Lando’s voice, unmistakably low, drawn out in pleasure.

Oscar freezes.

He knows he should walk away. Now. Turn around and pretend he never heard a thing. But his feet stay planted. Breath shallow. Every muscle strung tight. Because he doesn’t know how else to act, Oscar leans in, his ear pressed to the door.

Another sound. Wet, hushed, intimate. Clearer to Oscar, now that he’s nearer.

Then: “I missed you.” It’s Lando again. Voice thick. Tired in the way that only closeness makes someone. “You have no idea how lonely it is without you, love.”

Oscar’s stomach twists at the pet name, the one Lando has graciously accorded to you even though you never returned it. Oscar knows what’s coming. Still, he waits.

Your voice rings. Playful. Sharp.

“Is that why you bottled qualifying?”

Lando laughs, breathless. “P2 is hardly bottled. And I just told you I missed you.”

There’s movement. Something thumps lightly. A soft gasp. More quiet noises, like the rustle of sheets, or limbs shifting. You again, half-amused: “You left two tenths in Sector 3.”

“I didn’t—” Lando groans, then tries again. “Love, come on. Look at me.”

A beat. You, more cautious now: “What?”

More movement. A giggle. Then another low moan. The kind Oscar wishes he could unhear. His heart hammers. His face feels hot.

Oscar tells himself again to go. This isn’t his place. This isn’t his business. But the image forms anyway. You, straddling Lando in that ridiculous pre-race shirt he likes. Lando’s hands on your waist. Your fingers twisted in his curls. The way your voice always softens when you say his name.

Oscar clenches his jaw. Tries to blink it away.

Then—

Lando, panting faintly: “When were you gonna tell me about Osc?”

A pause. Oscar can’t fucking breathe. All he can do is try and follow the exchange, straining to hear your voices.

“I thought you knew,” you hum.

“I mean, I did,” says Lando. “I just thought, y'know. Trust and all that shit.”

“You’re not threatened by him?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

“You should be,” you say flat out.

The sound of rustling. Maybe your hand moving against his skin. When Lando hisses, Oscar imagines you’ve got your hand down his boxers. You’ve got Lando right where you want him, forcing him to listen to you tease, “He’s good looking. He’s smart. He’s really fucking good at racing.”

Now Oscar has a boner. If he wasn’t scared of getting caught eavesdropping, he might bang his head against the wall. “He’s always been... very good,” Lando breathes, still sounding strangled in his pleasure, and Oscar nearly finishes then and there like an inexperienced virgin.

“I’m serious,” you insist on the other side of the door. “He’s gotten a lot better this season.”

“Are the two of us still playing for your number?” Lando grunts. “I thought I won.”

“That’s your problem. You always think you’ve won before the race is over,” you say, and the world tilts on its axis. For both Oscar and Lando.

A beat. The sound of shuffling, like Lando has maybe pushed you off his lap, pulled away, taken your hand away from his cock.

“Are we still talking about racing?” Lando asks, and his tone betrays whatever facade of coolness he might be trying to put on.

“We’re always talking about racing,” you answer.

Oscar’s hand curls into a fist against the wall. The conversation that follows is so fast-paced, so loaded, that he can barely keep up.

Lando’s voice. Hurting and with the intention to hurt. “Be for fucking real.”

“If you’re not interested in me fixing your strategy for free,” you’re saying, voice a little more distant now. Like you’re moving as you’re talking, “then don’t worry about it.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I’m dating you. It’s embarrassing for me if you suck.”

“I’m leading the championships, in case you forgot.”

“And yet you’re still qualifying P2.”

Oscar hears a dull thump. Lando, probably, with his fist to the mattress. “I don’t need you to be my fucking race engineer,” the older man seethes.

“Well,” you say sagely, “someone needs to be.”

“I already have a perfectly fine—”

“I mean, what do you need from me? Or, what do you think you need? A cheerleader? A fuck buddy? A girlfriend?”

There’s a pause. Oscar isn’t even a part of this conversation, but he knows what Lando’s answer would be. Lando wants you—all of you. Everything you have to offer. And yet, here you are, sniping, “There are a lot of girls who will be your girlfriend. You’re talented, you’re charming, and you’ve got a big dick. Go be with one of them.”

Lando sounds like he’s resisting the urge to jump out the window as he questions, “Is this like a new strategy you’re using to pump yourself up before a race? Have a little fight to get the energy going?”

“At least I don’t coast by on talent,” you shoot back, and Lando snorts.

“Excuse me for inconveniencing you.”

“You are.” There’s a pause. “I’m going to go. I’ll see you after the race.”

Lando’s response comes out firm. “No.”

“What?”

Shuffling. The hint of feet moving, visible through the little crack beneath the door. Oscar should go, Oscar should leave, Oscar should stop fucking listening—

“I’m not going to your race,” says Lando, voice so low that Oscar has to practically lean against the door to hear the seethed words. “Not if you think you can just dismiss me. I’m not some fucking lapdog who’s gonna sit around and let you punish me. I’m not Oscar.”

It’s a miracle that Oscar manages to hold himself upright after that. He’s torn between running in the opposite direction and barging in, but your sharp, disbelieving laugh keeps Oscar rooted.

Lando goes on, “I mean, maybe you need someone like that. I think he’d quite enjoy being your WAG on Sundays.”

“That’s what you think I want?” you prod.

“Yeah. A member of the fan club.”

“You’re not a member of my fan club?”

“I’m your peer. I’m not your groupie. And I’m definitely not your student.”

There’s a moment of silence, loud enough to twist and cause damage. You breathe “Okay,” sounding suspiciously close to the door, and Oscar scrambles backward. He manages to slip into his own driver room, the one adjacent to Lando’s, just as you take your leave.

Oscar doesn’t even see you. Not Lando, either.

But he does hear the way Lando calls out after you, always intent on getting the last word: “Break a fucking leg, champ!”

Oscar stands at the edge of the McLaren garage, arms crossed, pretending he isn’t counting every heartbeat. The monitors show your F1A feed. No commentary, just raw data and camera angles. Every corner you take, every split-second decision, is etched into the graph lines and colored sector times flashing before him.

You’re fast. Always are. But this is different.

Oscar squints. Your lines are tighter, more aggressive. Where you used to calculate a move, now you dive into gaps with a kind of ruthless certainty. Your radio comms come sharp, clipped.

“Box end of next lap, we need a wing check.”

“I said I’m fine,” you snap.

The engineer’s cursor hesitates on the screen.

Oscar says nothing. But he sees it. The small corrections on the steering wheel in the turn radius readouts. The missed apex at turn 7. The DRS deployment half a beat early down the straight.

Not enough to cost you the race. Enough to say something is wrong. “She’s pushing too hard,” someone mutters behind him.

Oscar doesn’t turn. Doesn’t say what he knows: You’re not pushing the car. You’re punishing yourself.

Lando isn’t here. Not in the garage. Not by the pit wall. Oscar knows he’s gone off somewhere, blowing off steam or playing it cool, convincing himself he has to lock in for their own race later.

Lando isn’t watching you race for your life; Oscar is.

His eyes flick to the screen again just as you approach the high-speed chicane, a brutal left-right combination that demands perfect balance and a fearless heart. Your telemetry surges. Too hot into the corner.

“She’s late,” Oscar murmurs, but no one hears him over the rising pitch of the engine.

The rear steps out. You catch it—but overcorrect.

The car twitches violently. Slams the sausage curb.

And then—

Flames.

Oscar’s breath catches in his throat.

The screens go red. Red flag. Emergency tones blare.

For a split second, no one moves. No one breathes.

The feed cuts to a wide shot of the track. Your car is wrecked against the barrier, carbon fiber shattered like glass across the asphalt. Marshals sprint.

In the garage, someone drops a headset.

Oscar’s world tunnels. The only thing he can hear is his own pulse, pounding like a war drum. These things happened. These things—people survived these things.

That’s what he tries to convince himself as the Netflix cameras capture a tight shot of his expression, as the garage devolves into utter chaos, as a voice, too calm, declares, “Medical car’s en route. Driver extraction in progress.”

Oscar steps back, dazed. He looks down at your last telemetry readout. The spike, the warning signals, the abrupt flatline.

You were brilliant. You were angry. You were reckless.

And now you’re gone from the screen.

Oscar grips the edge of the console like it might anchor him, knuckles white.

Please be okay. Please be okay. Please—

About three hours later, Oscar gets behind his wheel.

He doesn’t want to. He shouldn’t have to. But the lights go out and the cars launch and for the next hour and a half, his hands move on instinct, every shift and brake and downforce adjustment automatic. His heart isn’t in it. He doesn’t know where his heart is, except that it isn’t in the cockpit.

He finishes P5.

Lando finishes P12.

There are murmurs about setup issues, bad tyre calls, overheating. Excuses, really. None of them seem to matter. For the first time all season, Oscar doesn’t care that he missed the podium. He doesn’t feel the sting of watching someone else hold the trophy.

It’s a terrible weekend for McLaren. That will be the headline, and Oscar lets the reporters write it.

He tears through media obligations with clipped answers and a thousand-yard stare. Lando isn’t far off, giving one of his most stilted post-race interviews to date, the usual spark behind his eyes dimmed.

But Oscar doesn’t wait for Lando. He doesn’t wait for anything. He gets in his car and finds his way to the hospital they took you to. Security tries to block him at the first checkpoint until someone recognizes the McLaren ID and nods him through.

He hears the talk on the way in. Doctors, nurses, mechanics who arrived earlier. Everyone has something to say. About the fire. About how long it took to get you out. About how the carbon monocoque crumpled inward at the knees, the force of the crash pressing the car into your body like a vice.

Doctors may be miracle workers, but they aren’t gods. Later, everyone will lament the way things ended. How your knee had been busted in a way that you would never be able to withstand a racecar again, much less put your foot to the pedal.

Oscar doesn’t believe it’s bad. He can’t. Not until he sees you.

When he walks into your room, it’s quiet as a tomb. Monitors hum softly. The air smells like antiseptic and gauze. You’re sitting up in bed, leg braced and elevated, arms slack at your sides.

You’re not crying.

You look at him. Dry-eyed. Exhausted. Like your body has finally run out of adrenaline, of fight, of the thing that made you bite off every radio call and dive into every impossible corner.

He stands in the doorway. You blink slowly, then nod.

Oscar says nothing. He just walks to the chair beside your bed and sits.

The silence says the rest.

Lando arrives hours later. Hours too late.

Oscar hears his steps before the door creaks open. Lando pauses at the threshold, unsure. He looks wrecked. Unshaven, rumpled in civilian clothes now, like he peeled himself out of his race suit and sat in his car for a long time before finally convincing himself to walk in.

“I’m sorry, I—”

You don’t let him finish. “Out,” you say.

Oscar’s jaw clenches. Lando flinches. “Love—”

"OUT!"

His hand tightens on the doorframe. “Please—”

You’re screaming now, in a way that will undoubtedly draw attention. “OUT! OUT! OUT!” you’re screeching, voice raspy, eyes blazing, body twitching.

Oscar stands. Calm, decisive. The first time in hours he feels anything like control. “Norris,” he says firmly, “get the fuck out of here.”

There’s a look in Lando’s eye, one Oscar doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. Some kind of haunted. Congratulations, Lando is saying without saying out loud. You got what you wanted.

Lando leaves.

Oscar sits back down.

You don’t speak. You don’t look at him. You let the silence come back, and he stays. Just stays.

Lando Norris Crowned 2025 World Champion; McLaren Secures Constructor's Title in Historic Season December 2, 2025

YAS ISLAND, ABU DHABI — In a moment that will go down in McLaren history, Lando Norris has officially been crowned the 2025 Formula 1 World Champion, capping off a season of relentless precision, electric performances, and a deepening rivalry that has captivated the motorsport world.

With Norris's consistent podium finishes and dominant performances through the final leg of the season, McLaren also clinched the Constructors' Championship, securing their return to the summit of Formula 1 dominance. This marks their first double championship win since the early 2000s.

Oscar Piastri, Norris’ teammate and formidable on-track rival, finished the season in third place, with a string of powerful mid-season races keeping him in contention before a critical DNF in Canada and a team strategy shuffle in Mexico widened the gap.

The dynamic between Norris and Piastri has drawn comparisons to some of Formula 1's most iconic teammate rivalries—Senna-Prost, Hamilton-Rosberg. When asked about the weight of those comparisons during the Abu Dhabi press conference, Piastri offered a measured take:

“I mean, it’s a nice comparison to have, definitely. I’ll take it. Each rivalry and each teammate pairing has a very different feeling to it. I think, you know, we’re still working together very well, and we still get on together well. It’s quite a different dynamic to certainly the two rivalries you mentioned. Obviously, we’re both here to try and fight for a world championship. We wanna fight for it the whole time we’re in McLaren. We’re both on long contracts, so we wanna make sure we’re fighting this for the foreseeable future.”

Piastri’s words underscore what has made this McLaren resurgence so unique—a genuine partnership despite fierce internal competition, one that has redefined the meaning of sportsmanship in the modern F1 era.

While the F1 paddock celebrates Norris’s long-awaited title and McLaren’s championship comeback, the team’s other campaign tells a more somber story. McLaren’s bid for the F1 Academy Championship came to a crashing halt in Qatar after a devastating accident left their lead driver hospitalized.

Though the extent of her injuries has not been officially disclosed, early medical assessments suggest a career-ending blow: significant knee trauma that may prevent her from ever racing again. As McLaren closes a monumental chapter in Formula 1, its future in F1A hangs in the balance, tethered to the hope that their most promising driver might one day return to the track. ##

Oscar finds himself in your orbit more and more as the weeks drag on.

You’re out of the hospital, cleared to walk on crutches, but your gait is stiff and your movements are labored. The brace wraps around your knee like a shackle, and Oscar watches you try to get back behind the simulator with a frown pulling at your brow and sweat collecting at your temple. You last ten minutes before ripping the helmet off and cursing under your breath.

“It’s too soon,” the sim engineer says carefully.

“It’s too fucking late,” you snap, and Oscar doesn’t know where to look.

He sees the way you linger in the MTC, not-quite-there, tethered only by the ghost of something you loved. He tries, in the quiet ways he knows how, to make things lighter.

He picks up your favorite coffee before meetings. He offers to help carry things. One day, he sets up a quiet outing, something light: go-karting, just the two of you.

You show up in an old hoodie and sweatpants, eyes ringed in exhaustion but eager enough. For a few laps, it almost feels normal again. You’re slower than you used to be, tentative, favoring the leg with a carefulness that screams through every turn. Oscar holds back, lets you overtake once or twice.

When you pull into the pit and rip your helmet off, your expression is molten.

“Don’t patronize me,” you spit.

Oscar blinks, taken aback. “What?”

“You went easy on me. I could see you lifting.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You think I need pity laps? That this is what I want?” you ask, jabbing a finger into Oscar’s chest. He stumbles backward, even if the hit isn’t all that bad. “To be humored like some fucking charity case?”

He takes a breath, tries to steady the way his heart twists. “I thought it might cheer you up. I thought maybe you'd want to drive. Just for fun.”

You scoff. “You’re not here for fun. You’re only here because you want to get in my pants.”

It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway, leaving Oscar breathless as he meets your heated glare. You’re angry. He’s angry for you. When he speaks, his voice carries the hurt of your accusation, the betrayal he feels for a split second.

“I just wanted to be a friend,” he admits, and it’s about as true as it will get. He’s making up for things. He’s angry on your behalf. He’s—he wants you to have somebody, anybody, even if it’s just him and this.

The words breaks something in you. Your face crumples, the edge softening all at once. You exhale like someone letting go of something heavy.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, Piastri. That was... that was really shitty.”

Oscar steps toward you, hesitates, then opens his arms. You drop your helmet and fall into him like a wave, arms wrapping around his waist, forehead against his shoulder. For a moment, you both just breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, muffled against his shirt.

“It’s okay,” Oscar says, and he means it.

Things progress slowly. Not like a turn taken too late or a brake pulled too hard, but in the small and steady moments that stack up over time. Oscar starts spending more time around you under the guise of checking in, training nearby, helping you keep the edge sharp even if you’re off the grid.

You’re not racing anymore. Your recovery is at a snail’s pace, even by generous standards. But you still sit in the simulator, still bark telemetry codes at Oscar when he invites you to his sessions.

You’re still a racer. It’s in your bones. Even if your knee won’t ever fully forgive you.

Oscar doesn’t ask for anything. He’s just there. When your coursework gets heavy, he quietly learns enough to proofread your papers. When your knee acts up, he offers massages with clumsy, respectful hands. When you’re in pain, he notices. And when you’re not, he laughs with you like nothing ever broke.

Lando hangs around the edges of this new world. He still drives like a man possessed, like he’s chasing something he lost. But he doesn’t come around often. Not anymore.

You don’t ask.

And Oscar doesn’t say a word about it, either. He just stays beside you, loves you in a way that has never demanded reciprocation.

Then it’s your graduation day. The heat is unbearable. You’re in rented academic robes and limping slightly from a walk that was longer than you’d planned. Oscar is there, wearing a dress shirt that doesn’t fit quite right and holding a bouquet that clearly gave him more trouble than he expected.

You see him from across the crowd, laugh brightly, and break into a run. Or try to.

Your knee gives. The pain shoots white-hot up your leg and you stagger.

But Oscar’s already moving. He catches you mid-fall, the two of you tumbling into a heap on the concrete. The bouquet is crushed between you. You’re half-laughing, half-gasping from the pain.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, breathless.

Oscar looks up at you, his back flat to the pavement, the petals of his overpriced flower arrangement scattered on the ground. “You do that on stage?” he quips, his arm still tight around your waist.

You laugh. There’s shouting somewhere behind you. Someone’s taking photos. Your hair’s in your face. And Oscar is right there, beneath you, fighting the urge to push the strands back so he can check if you’re actually blushing.

Before he can, you lean down. You kiss him.

Just like that, everything he’s been holding back rushes in all at once. His arms come around you. The pain, the fear, the restraint—it all falls away. Because you’re kissing Oscar, choosing him, letting him in. And he’s never going to let you go.

Oscar kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever to do it.

BREAKING: Former F1A Standout Returns to McLaren as Oscar Piastri’s Race Engineer December 12, 2027

In a stunning and heartwarming development, McLaren has announced that the former F1 Academy phenom whose promising racing career was cut short after a fiery crash at the 2025 Qatar Grand Prix, will return to the Formula 1 paddock—not as a driver, but as Oscar Piastri’s full-time race engineer for the 2028 season.

The news comes just two years after she completed a Masters in Engineering, following an early retirement from racing due to severe knee trauma sustained in the crash. Once considered the future of F1A, she had led the standings that season and was locked in a championship battle with Red Bull when the accident brought everything to a halt.

“I’m excited to be back in papaya,” she said in a brief statement released by McLaren. “This team gave me my shot as a driver, and now they’ve given me a new chapter. I’ve missed the garage, the noise, the data—missed the feeling of pushing something to its absolute limit.”

Piastri appeared visibly moved at the announcement event. “No one understands racing like she does,” he said. “She challenges me, she grounds me. It’s an honor to have her back on the comms.”

The two have been in a committed relationship since the start of 2026. Sources close to the team describe the partnership as “effortless” and “integral to Oscar’s most consistent performance run to date.”

This move comes as McLaren looks to maintain its edge in an increasingly competitive field. Since 2025, Lando Norris has held a firm grip on the World Driver’s Championship title, a streak that remains unbroken. With both Norris and Piastri nearing the end of their multi-year contracts, the team appears eager to maintain balance—and perhaps tilt the odds further in their favor.

Asked about persistent rumors of a move to Ferrari, Norris offered a cryptic smile. “I’m still in papaya for now. I’ve always said I want to win where I started, and I’m happy we’ve got somebody new on board. As for Oscar and me—we’re still very good friends. Nothing’s changed on that front." ##

It had been frighteningly easy to lie.

To say he was still good friends with Oscar. To nod when people asked about you and pretend you were just a colleague from another life. To smile in interviews and make jokes about McLaren magic and how they were just one big happy family.

It was easier than admitting the truth—that he hadn’t really spoken to either of you since the crash. Since the hospital. Since he stood in that doorway and watched the light leave your eyes when you told him to get out.

He did. He got out.

And then he kept getting out. Avoiding. Dodging. Letting Oscar and you build something, something that Lando told himself he didn’t want to see. It was like watching someone else win a race you’d crashed out of. And you had crashed. So had he, in a way.

Lando gets up, walks to the window, and stares out over the marina. He wonders what it’ll be like to see you again. To hear your voice filtered through Oscar’s radio, steady and sharp, coaching him lap by lap.

You’ll be back in the orange. He wonders if you’ll wear the jacket with the collar popped. Wonders if you’ll look at him at all. Wonders if Oscar will let you.

He hasn’t let himself think too long about the moment Oscar finally got what Lando didn’t. The girl. The engineer. The gravity. The win.

And now the two of you are back. Together. In his garage.

Lando exhales slowly, tries to steady the nerves that have started to buzz at the base of his spine. Back then, you used to call him funny. Used to laugh until you cried as he regaled his stories and told his jokes.

Today, this is the punchline: Lando Norris, three-time World Champion, is afraid to go back to work.

READ PART TWO HERE.

#oscar piastri x reader #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x you #lando norris x you #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #oscar piastri imagine #lando norris imagine #oscar piastri fluff #lando norris fluff #⛐ kae prix #⛐ ln4 #⛐ op81

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mintyys-blog · 2 days ago

Note

my fave thragg writer 🩵

this might be a bit long im sorry 😭 but I had this idea and thought you could do it justice queen…please can i request thragg with marks twin sister reader?

like imagine she’s especially vulnerable after her dad’s betrayal, mark has eve even her mother has paul but you are just…alone.

thragg picks up on this as because he agrees your father was weak he lowkey manipulates you at your time of weakness and promises you the world (he kinda has been eyeing you a long time anyway because 1 duh youre a cutie patootie 2 you are a twin, rare and powerful in viltrumite history)

so he seduces you and then mark comes to find you thinking you got kidnapped but finds you playing happy families with thragg bonus points if you’re like 2 months pregnant and he’s just totally horrified that thragg made you his brood mare, maybe your dads reaction as well?

maybe thragg actually loves her but regardless his methods of manipulation and praying on her issues was dark lmaooo

THANK YOU 🩵

TRICKED | thragg x grayson! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: implied sex, pregnancy, manipulation.

There are some sounds you never forget—like the crunch of ribs collapsing under your father’s fists, the wet gurgle of Mark choking on his own blood, or your mother’s scream when she watched her husband fly away without looking back. Those sounds have carved themselves into your bones. They echo in your ears when you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re doing dishes, when you try to sleep. You don’t sleep much anymore.

You try to keep busy. Laundry. Grocery runs. Fixing up the house like it’s not built on top of something dead and rotting. You help your mom because you think you’re supposed to. Because Mark can barely look at her without guilt flickering across his face, and someone has to carry the weight of pretending everything is okay. You patch up broken drywall that Nolan smashed once in a temper tantrum you now understand too well. You clean out his closet and pretend you’re not looking for a note, a reason, something that would explain how he went from being your father to being a stranger. You go on patrols Mark’s too tired to take. You smile at civilians, sign autographs for kids who still think you’re a hero. Then you come home and sit in your room until the walls feel like they’re pressing in.

Mark is healing. Slowly. You sit beside him in the hospital when he’s unconscious and keep pretending he might hear you. When he wakes, Eve is there. She reads to him. Brushes the hair off his forehead. He smiles for her. You’re happy for them, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. But there’s a part of you that feels like the third wheel in your own life. A shadow. Something leftover. Mark has Eve. Your mom has Paul. Everyone found someone to hold them through the wreckage. You’re just… floating.

You’re not jealous. You’d never take anything from Mark. But it’s getting harder to remember the last time someone held you. Not with pity. Not out of obligation. Just because they wanted to.

You try to help your mom more. She doesn’t ask, but you see the way she looks at Nolan’s old coffee mug and then quickly shoves it to the back of the cabinet. You pretend not to notice her crying over the sink. You dry the dishes next to her in silence, like it’s normal, like you’re both not waiting to fall apart the second the other one isn’t looking. When she thanks you and kisses your forehead, it stings. Not because you don’t want it—but because it feels like a goodbye.

Paul’s nice. He tries. He talks to you like you’re a person, not a ticking time bomb. He makes soft, awkward jokes. Checks in. But it’s surface-level care. He’s not your father. He’s not trying to be. And you’re not trying to replace him. You’re just tired of feeling like the only person who remembers what your family used to be.

Sometimes, you fly so high the atmosphere stings your skin. The silence up there is better than the quiet down here. At least above the clouds, your thoughts don’t echo as loudly. You push your body to its limit, hoping exhaustion might feel like clarity. But when you finally land, nothing is fixed. You’re still alone. You’re still pretending.

You see Mark laughing again. He’s slowly becoming himself. Stronger. Whole. You know he deserves it. You want it for him. But sometimes you look at him and feel like you’re on the other side of a glass wall, smiling, waving, dying just a little more each time he forgets to look back. You want to be angry. At him. At Nolan. At the whole damn universe. But you’re too tired to hold onto anger anymore. All you have left is this numbness. This ache.

You keep dreaming about your father. Not the monster. Not the man who destroyed Chicago and called humanity beneath him. The one who used to swing you and Mark around like airplanes. Who kissed your bruises and whispered that you were strong, even when you cried. You wake up sweating, tears clinging to your lashes, and you hate yourself for missing him. But you do. God, you do. And that might be the worst part—still loving someone who would’ve let you die if it served a bigger purpose.

You’re not okay. You know that. But if you admit it, everything might fall apart. So you keep your mouth shut. You nod when people ask if you’re fine. You smile when Mark talks about healing. You tell your mom you’re just tired. You lie every time. You lie so well, it’s starting to feel like the truth.

But when you’re alone—really alone, in the dark, under blankets that don’t feel warm anymore—you wonder how much longer you can keep doing this. You wonder how long until something inside you breaks. You wonder if anyone will notice.

You wonder if anyone will care.

It starts with a small thing.

You forget to pick up dinner.

Your mom doesn’t yell. She just sighs—quiet, disappointed—and grabs her keys. “It’s fine,” she says, already halfway out the door. “I’ll handle it.”

You stare at the spot she left behind like it personally slapped you. You meant to get it. You even made a list. But somewhere between cleaning up after Mark’s mess in the living room and fixing that crack in the hallway ceiling, you just… forgot.

And now you’re standing alone in the kitchen, hands clenched at your sides, hating how useless you feel.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal. People forget things all the time.

But this isn’t about dinner.

It’s about everything.

It’s about carrying the weight no one asked you to hold. About being the quiet, dependable one. The one who never made it about her. The one who picked up the slack, swept the broken pieces into her pockets, and smiled like her world wasn’t caving in.

It’s about how no one ever asked how you were doing—because they just assumed you’d manage.

Because you’re strong. A Viltrumite. A Grayson.

You’re fine, right?

You don’t even notice the tears until they’re sliding down your face. Hot. Silent. Shameful.

You try to wipe them away quickly, like someone might walk in and catch you being weak. But no one comes. The house is empty again. Or maybe it’s always felt empty.

You sink to the kitchen floor. Cold tile against your knees. Chest tight. Throat burning. You don’t sob—your body doesn’t even have the strength for that. It’s quieter than that. Just a slow collapse. A silent kind of breaking.

You pull your knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like maybe, just maybe, if you hold on tight enough, something will hold you back.

But nothing does.

You stay like that for almost an hour.

By the time your mom comes home, you’ve pulled yourself back together. Slapped your mask back on. You joke about how she forgot the chocolate ice cream. She laughs. You pretend to eat dinner.

Later, Mark texts you a picture of him and Eve at some café. His smile is wide. Hers is brighter. He adds a dumb pun and a heart emoji. You respond with a thumbs up.

Then you put your phone down and stare at the wall for fifteen minutes straight.

You don’t cry again.

You don’t feel anything anymore.

The next day, you fly. Higher than usual. Longer. You don’t have a destination. You just want to escape.

You want to disappear. And that’s when he notices you. The sky is too quiet.

You’re miles above Earth, flying through thinning clouds, high enough that the air starts to bite at your cheeks. The sun’s warm, but the cold cuts through you anyway. You like it that way. It numbs everything. Lets your brain go still for a few seconds at a time. Below, everything is small. Manageable. Distant.

You close your eyes mid-flight and let yourself coast for a moment, arms loose at your sides, hair whipping in the wind. You try to pretend it’s peace. That if you fly far enough, fast enough, high enough—something might feel right again.

But something shifts. A ripple in the air pressure. A subtle shadow where there shouldn’t be one. Your body reacts before your mind catches up. You snap your eyes open—and nearly slam to a stop midair. He’s there. Right beside you. Floating effortlessly. Poised. Calm. Huge.

Your heart leaps into your throat as your eyes lock with his. Tall. Powerful. Familiar in the worst possible way. The red and white uniform. The eyes like sharpened steel. A living warning bell.

You jolt backward midair, almost losing your balance. The fear kicks in before the logic.

“You—” Your voice trembles before you force it steady. “Are you… are you a Viltrumite?”

He nods, slow and deliberate, crossing his arms like he’s not in any rush. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“I am,” he says. His voice is deep, smooth—almost gentle. Almost. “But I will not hurt you.”

Your fists curl instinctively. Your chest tightens. Your feet don’t even have anything to plant on, but your instincts scream defend, run, scream—because this man feels like gravity. Too heavy. Too much.

You shake your head, backing away a few more feet, heart hammering against your ribs. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk,” he says simply.

No sudden movements. No threats. No raised fists. Just patience.

And that might be the most terrifying thing of all.

You hover there, breathing hard, wind whipping around you both like the atmosphere itself doesn’t know how to feel.

You can’t read him. There’s no malice on his face—but there’s no warmth, either. Just focus. Just control.

“You were following me,” you say quietly.

Another nod. “For some time.”

Your spine stiffens. “Why?”

His gaze narrows—not in threat, but in… interest. He studies you like a scientist examining something rare.

“Because I’ve been waiting for the moment you would see me. Truly,” he replies. “Not as an enemy. Not as a threat. Just as someone who understands what you’ve lost.”

That strikes a chord you didn’t expect. You blink, caught between instinct and confusion. “I don’t need your understanding,” you snap, though it sounds more fragile than fierce.

“No,” he says. “But I think you might want it.”

The words hit like pressure on a fracture. You hate him already. For being right. For knowing. For seeing too much. You shouldn’t listen. But something in your chest aches louder than your fear.

You stay in the air, a few feet back, arms still half-raised, unsure if you should fly or fight.

Thragg doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. His stillness is its own kind of power.

“You’re afraid,” he says—not like an accusation, more like an observation. “But not of me. Not really.”

You hate how your stomach twists at his words. How part of you wonders if he’s right. You are afraid. But not just of him. Not just because he’s stronger than you. Not because he looks like the man who ruined your family.

You’re afraid because it’s been so long since anyone actually looked at you like this.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you say quietly, bitter.

“I know your father left you,” he replies, voice low and even. “I know your brother almost died. I know your people abandoned you, and your planet praises you, but none of them see you.”

Your fingers curl tighter.

“I know what it’s like to carry the burden of someone else’s weakness,” he continues. “To be punished for someone else’s failure.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You feel winded. Like he punched the air out of your lungs with words alone.

“I’m not weak,” you say, because you have to. Even if it doesn’t sound convincing. “I’m not like him.”

“No,” Thragg agrees. “You’re not.”

And there’s something in the way he says it—something almost reverent. Admiration laced with something darker. Like he’s impressed. Like he’s pleased.

“Then what do you want?” Your voice comes out thinner than you mean it to. “If not a fight?”

His arms uncross, slowly. Deliberately. He hovers a little closer, but not enough to alarm you. Just enough that his presence starts to feel real. Inescapable.

“I want to offer you something,” he says. “A choice.”

You laugh, once. It’s hollow. “Is this the part where you offer me power and tell me to betray my planet?”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But close.

“No. That comes later.”

That should make you fly away. It should. But he’s already moving again—circling, slowly, like a predator with infinite patience.

“What I want,” he says, “is to show you what your father should have. What it means to be valued. Protected. Feared, yes—but never ignored. Never abandoned.”

You flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.

“I know what you are,” he continues, voice now smooth, almost gentle. “I’ve known for some time. You and your brother—you are rare. Twins are almost unheard of among our kind. And yet Nolan left you here like you were nothing.”

You swallow hard. “Don’t talk about him like you know him.”

“I know what he is,” Thragg replies. “And I know what you could be, if you stopped trying to make yourself smaller just to fit in with a world that doesn’t deserve you.”

You stare at him, heart pounding in your ears.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

“I will not harm you,” he says again. “You have my word.”

“And that means something?” you whisper. “From you?”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Yes. It does.”

For a long time, neither of you moves.

Then, Thragg dips his head in what almost feels like a bow.

“When you’re ready to stop pretending Earth has anything left to give you,” he says, “find me.”

He doesn’t tell you where. He doesn’t have to. And just like that—he vanishes. One sonic boom. A ripple in the clouds. And he’s gone.

You remain suspended there, breathing hard, staring at the empty space where he stood. The cold air feels sharper now. The silence heavier. You should feel terrified. Violated. Angry. Instead, all you feel is the echo of his voice in your head. “I want to offer you something.” And the worst part? You want to hear more.

The first time you met him again, you told yourself it was for answers.

The second time, it was because you had more questions.

By the third, you stopped pretending.

You don’t know when it started feeling natural. The silence between you. The way he spoke in low tones like he was always restraining something just beneath the surface. A quiet power. You weren’t afraid of it anymore.

You weren’t afraid of him.

You met him where no one would look—on mountain peaks and in hollowed-out ruins, in long-forgotten corners of the world that felt like nowhere. He never demanded anything. Never touched you. Not unless you moved first.

He’d listen.

Really listen.

You spoke about Nolan. About Mark. About how sometimes you looked in the mirror and didn’t know who you were trying to be anymore. You told him you were tired of pretending Earth was home when it only made you feel alien.

Thragg never pitied you.

He didn’t scold or offer meaningless comforts.

He simply looked at you and said, “You were never meant to be small.”

And for once, someone meant it.

He didn’t see your grief as a burden. He saw it as a scar earned. A sign that you were surviving. Evolving.

You wanted to hate him for being the enemy, but over time, it got harder to remember why. Because in all those hours spent with him, laughing quietly, debating fiercely, laying side by side on cold stone under a starlit sky… he never treated you like a child. Or a soldier. Or a symbol.

He treated you like you.

And tonight, the world finally feels like it’s tipped too far to come back from.

It’s raining. Not hard. Just steady. A misty kind of rain that blurs the edges of your vision. You’re soaked when you find him—waiting in the shell of an old house, roof mostly gone, walls eaten by time and ivy. He doesn’t ask why you’re crying.

He doesn’t need to.

You don’t say much. Just walk up to him and let your forehead rest against his chest, rain dripping from your lashes, your fists pressed into his shirt like you’re still holding something in.

His arms go around you. Carefully. Like he knows exactly how fragile you are beneath the skin. You don’t remember how the two of you ended up on the bed. A mattress left behind by whoever used to live here. Torn. Springs poking at odd angles. But it’s big enough.

He lies back, arms behind his head, his massive frame sprawled as comfortably as he can manage. His legs dangle off the edge, and he doesn’t seem to care. You curl up beside him.

Not just beside him—into him. Head on his chest. Hand resting over his ribs. His warmth seeps into you slow, steady, constant. His breathing is calm. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you stay.

You don’t know if you’re imagining the way his fingers curl lightly around your shoulder, or how his body shifts just enough to pull you closer. You don’t care. You don’t want to question it tonight. This isn’t about love. Not yet. It’s about gravity. About finally letting yourself fall. You drift to sleep to the sound of his heartbeat. Heavy. Solid. Like it was always there, waiting.

You don’t know what time it is, but the world outside the cracked windows glows faint blue—too early for sunrise, too late for sleep. You’ve been lying there for hours, half-awake, heart beating too loud in the quiet. Thragg hasn’t moved. He breathes steadily beneath you, warm and unmoving, like the world could fall apart and he’d still hold his place in it. You sit up slowly, careful not to disturb him. But he opens his eyes the moment you move. He always does.

Your legs are tucked beneath you. You look down at him—this towering force of nature curled in the ruins of a broken house, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in his universe right now. You open your mouth before you can stop yourself. “I… Thragg, I think I love you.” The silence stretches. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t mock. He watches you with that same unreadable intensity you’ve come to know. And then— “Good,” he says.

And before your heart can decide whether to break or beat harder, he sits up, one massive hand cupping your jaw, and pulls you into him. He kisses you. Not with desperation. Not like it’s some forbidden sin. He kisses you like it’s inevitable. Like he knew you would say it. Like he’s been waiting for it.

His lips are firm, warm, and certain. His other hand settles against the small of your back, anchoring you in place. Your breath catches. You melt into him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like you’re scared you’ll float away otherwise.

When he pulls back, you don’t let go. You stay close, forehead against his, breathing heavy, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “I’ve never felt this with anyone,” you whisper. “I know,” he replies. “That’s why I waited.” There’s no smugness in his voice. No gloating. Just certainty. Possession, maybe. But not the cruel kind. The kind that claims.

He brushes your hair from your face, gaze sharp but soft at the edges. “You were never meant to be alone.” And somehow, hearing it from him—from Thragg of all people—it feels like truth. A dangerous truth. But truth all the same.

The room is dim, shadows stretching across the cracked walls, but you barely notice. All you feel is the weight of Thragg’s gaze—dark, steady, like he’s reading every secret you’ve tried to hide. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face, gentle but possessive, tracing your cheek with a careful tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

He moves closer, the heat of his body grounding you, anchoring you in the present. Your heart pounds in your chest—an erratic rhythm that somehow feels right. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you down into a kiss that’s slow at first, like an exploration, a question. His lips are firm, demanding, but patient, letting you set the pace.

You respond, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt, fingertips trembling as you discover how carefully he balances power and care. Every brush of his touch sends a spark rippling through your skin, lighting fires you thought had long since died out.

When his mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck, you shiver, arching toward him, needing more but afraid to ask. His hands roam—strong and sure—mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, drawing you closer still. You press into him, a silent plea for connection.

He’s immense beneath you—larger than life—but when he cradles you, it’s like you’re the only thing that matters. The world narrows until it’s just you, him, the quiet sound of your breaths mingling in the dim light.

You lose track of time in the warmth of his arms, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Here, with him, the weight of everything else fades. There’s no betrayal, no pain—just this moment suspended between heartbeats, full of promises you’re only just beginning to understand.

And when he finally pulls you close, a whisper against your lips, it’s not just desire you feel—it’s something deeper, something dangerous and undeniable

The morning light filters through the worn curtains, casting soft patterns across the small kitchen. Your mother, Debbie, sits at the table, eyes tired but hopeful, stirring a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold.

You pack the last of your things in silence. Clothes folded neatly, a few keepsakes wrapped carefully. You’re not sure how to say what you feel, or if you even want to say it. She looks up just as you sling your bag over your shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Her voice is steady but tinged with something fragile—fear, maybe. You hesitate. Then shake your head. “I found someone,” you say simply. “Someone who means a lot to me.”

Debbie blinks, swallowing whatever she was about to say.

You don’t tell her about the months of secret meetings, the way Thragg’s arms have become your shelter. You don’t tell her about the tiny life growing inside you, tucked away beneath your ribs like a fragile flame.

You don’t have to.

Your heart pounds as you step out the door, the weight of the secret heavier than the bag on your shoulder. You don’t look back. Because this time, you’re not running. You’re choosing.

You stand in the clearing, the sun dappled through the leaves above, your heart pounding louder than the quiet hum of the world around you.

Mark’s voice breaks the silence. “Why did you leave without telling me? Without telling Mom?”

You swallow hard, keeping your gaze steady. “I needed to. For me.”

His eyes narrow, then flicker to the figure silently stepping out from behind you.

Thragg.

The man who’s been your secret, your refuge.

Mark jolts back, surprise clear in his stance. “Who is he?”

You straighten, your hand lightly resting on Thragg’s arm. “This… is my husband. And the father of my child. Thragg. He’s a Viltrumite, but not with the empire anymore.”

Mark blinks, struggling to absorb the words. “Husband? Father of your child? You’re pregnant? He’s a Viltrumite?”

You nod, feeling the warmth of Thragg’s hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Stress isn’t good for you,” Thragg says quietly.

You manage a small smile, resting your head gently against his shoulder.

“Viltrumites don’t betray the empire! You know that!” Mark’s voice rises, frustration and fear mixed.

You meet his gaze firmly. “Dad did.”

Mark takes a breath, his expression darkening. “Dad is a different story. Hell—he almost killed me.”

You take a shaky breath. “I know. But Mark… Thragg isn’t like Dad.”

“You don’t even know him!” Mark snaps.

“Yes, I do!” you say, voice steady, feeling a new strength rise inside you. “He understands me better than anyone has.”

Turning away, you say firmly, “I think you should leave. Now.”

Thragg’s gaze sharpens, a warning beneath the calm. Mark hesitates, tension crackling in the air, before finally turning on his heel and walking away.

You watch him go, your breath catching, but the weight in your chest feels lighter somehow. Thragg pulls you close, his presence a steady anchor as you face the unknown together.

The sky darkens suddenly, a vast shadow cutting through the afternoon light. You look up, heart lurching as a massive ship descends, its sleek silhouette blotting out the sun. The air hums with low, powerful energy that sets your skin on edge.

“What… what are they doing here?” you whisper, eyes wide with shock and a flicker of fear.

A familiar presence shifts behind you. Thragg steps forward, calm and unshaken, his expression unreadable.

“They are here for me,” he says quietly.

You turn to face him, confusion and disbelief twisting inside you. “What?”

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering and solemn.

“I am the leader of the Viltrumites,” he admits, voice heavy with the weight of the revelation. “I’m sorry for having purposely misled you. But I assure you, life will be better. We can be a happy family. The family you’ve always dreamed about.”

Your breath catches.

The ground feels unsteady beneath your feet.

The man you thought you knew — the man who’d been your sanctuary — just changed everything.

#thragg x reader #thragg #invincible thragg #grand regent thragg #thragg x you

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bunnypeew · 2 days ago

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One glass of wine too much - Alastor x Fem!reader

oke hi emmm its been a while since i've written something but I'm alive I promise!! here is a one shot i just had in mind of you and Alostor making out after you are both a bit woozy enjoyyy!!!

it was late at night, everyone was in the lobby after a party and they were mostly cleaning up after it,, you tho, were sitting down on a couch and were drinking a glass of red wine while you watched something on your phone.

Suddenly you hear a static noise coming near you and when you look down at the ground you see a shadow appear in front of your feet, you sighed and putting down your phone and looking up at the Radio Demon staring at you with a big smile as always

''What are you doing here all alone mon chere?,,

you were now twirling your wine glass in one hand while the other was holding up your head, your elbow being propped up on the couch arm. You seemed sad and... bored partially, he noticed that right away and he wasn't the type to care about stuff like this, but somehow he had gotten accustomed to you.

''It's nothing really,, just not enjoying myself at these parties recently,,

you sighed and took a sip of your glass, it was probably the third one you had but honestly you weren't sure at this point. He sat down next to you and spawned a glass of, some type of liquor you suppose. He started drinking along side you and you were both silent for a while, but as you kept drinking you kept on getting woozy and less worried about your sadness. Al didn't notice this at first because you were pretty tame, it was when you started saying random stuff about your life that he did, and let me tell you he was feeling amused by your behavior, he thought you were appealing.

''do tell me more, dear,,

''and like, I've never even felt anything for that guy, he was just being too much!! that seems like a shitty thing to say tho, am I being shitty?? I don't think I'm shitty I'm just being honest!!... eheheh, I like you tho Alastor, ah- maybe I shouldn't had said that either ah? oh well sometimes things just have to leave their place-,,

you kept on talking and talking, and he was giggling to himself, it wasn't until he put one of his hands on the small of your back, that made you almost jolt out the seat, he ignored tho and kept on sipping his liquor, he did noticed you stopped talking to, he tilted his head looking at you and spoke

'' why did you stop speaking my dear? I was quite enjoying your ramblings!,,

you were red as a tomato, or well even as red as his suit! Even tho you were woozy you could still feel embarrassment, you touched your cheeks and felt them being hot, then you went to your lips, feeling them a bit puffier then usual. Alastor was watching your every move and as soon as you touched your lips, his ears and tail twitched, something snapped into him and he couldn't tell if it was the liquor or just how beautiful you looked under the dim light of the lobby. He reached out to grab your hand slowly and then took your finger to his mouth, kissing them ever so softly, this made you gasp a little bit but your eyes were now locked onto his lips, he noticed and looked around himself before looking back at you and leaning in to lock your lips together.

At first it was a soft gentle kiss, you both reciprocated, but after a few seconds it became more deep, with his hand leaving your arm and went to your waist with the other one, he grabbed it, squishing it with his claws but not enough to hurt you. Your hands were on his chest at first but when you tilted your head a little to deepen the kiss even more your hands went to his cheeks, then in his hair pulling slightly at it. His ear twitched at that new feeling of your hands in his hair, his hands digging deeper in your waist, almost raising your shirt too, you let out a tiny sound as he did that. That almost made him go feral, also making him push his tongue to yours, making them dance and giving him the chance to taste you better, tasting mostly of the red wine you were sipping prior but also mint and strawberries, as for him you couldn't put a finger on it, it was a lovely flavor, from him and his lips. This went on for more minutes, it wasn't until you both heard an 'ahem' coming from near you that you, only you, turned around to see who it was. It was Charlie, she was displaying a big smile on her face and was waving to you, you stopped the kiss and looked at her with a guilty smile, your lipstick was all smudged and was all over Alastor's lips, he didn't care for the princess watching you so he started kissing your neck next but you stopped him by jolting up from the couch making him almost tumble off of it.

''SORRY CHARLIE WE ARE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LOBBY AREN'T WE OH MY GOD-,,

Alastor scoffed and sat back properly on the couch, fixing his bowtie, he wasn't upset or anything but his static was getting a bit louder. You weren't done for tonight it was all you gathered from that.

YEEEEES RAAAAH OMFG THERE IT IS MUAH MUAH MUAAAAH anyway hope you enjoyed reading cuz I deff did by writing <3

#hazbin alastor #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #one shot #hazbin one shot #hazbin

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catras-breakup-song · 2 days ago

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catradora's canon status turns 5 today. i also turn 20 today. 🪅

i've spent an entire quarter of my life, a whopping 25% of it now, loving the center focus of she-ra and what this show teaches us...

it's actually pretty wild for me to think too deeply about. truly, it can't not mean something absolutely special (if i love myself, of course) when that much of a coincidence is actually reality.

this story isn't just a hyperfixation, it's a permanent part of who i am. it's shaped my later teenage years and helped me through hard times consisting of confusion and loneliness. i resonated better with catra & glimmer than any other fictional characters i had known before or would ever know since then. i found the art style soothing to stare at all the time. i appreciated the words of comfort we're supposed to internalize. it's been a consistent source of familiarity when i needed nothing more than to rewatch the same scenes repeatedly.

the online community surrounding western queer animation, and particularly this piece of media, kickstarted my hobby of collecting video edits, up to the thousands, that many talented creators have made, on an external drive. unfortunately i lost that project over the summer last year and it devastated me deeply, however i never stopped keeping track of my favorites and supporting the works i loved as i continued coming across them, such as this one to “the great war” by @somanypetals, which i will never stop recommending to others here ─ you can also go through my tag for this topic if you'd like! in fact, i also got back into video editing myself for the first time since 2021 last month!

additionally, it wouldn't be an authentic CBS post of mine if i didn't highlight how beautiful five by five takes' analysis videos on youtube are to me. their writing is a top-tier heart-wrenching gold mine and i've lost count of how many times i've rewatched through that playlist again and again. if you love this masterpiece as much as i do, you'll do so tenfold here. i still remember watching the first part of the series, "how she-ra gives us hope", when it was brand new, and i love bragging to fellow friends about being one of 5X5T's earliest subscribers from this fandom!

i (sort of but not really, which is a long complicated story on its own), came from the traumatized wave of angry voltron/KL fans. thankfully i didn't struggle with trusting the writers to follow through on the groundwork they laid down because it had only been my first fandom and therefore i hadn't been hurt by queerbaiting multiple times, but i say this because it was a big deal when she-ra's finale showed something on screen that could not be taken away or undone. catra & adora's romance helped me find peace & pride in my lesbian attraction. although i ended up not being homosexual despite failing to realize it for another year, i am still very much sapphic and wouldn't trade that gift for the world!

speaking of which, one of the best things you can find in a partner is the relatability of a common interest that brings out the emotional connection between you. i've seen @bluedandylyon around before, but i got to know xim more closely on the SPOP creative flex discord server after i jumped in activity there about a month and a half ago (and i only started being active on this blog again after creating it in 2022 back in august last year, it's amazing what that did for me). the two of us genuinely could not have clicked better with anyone else and i believe we were always destined to stumble into each other eventually. i don't know why the universe decided that time was to be so recent, but after spending half a decade single it's been very exciting to finally leave that break behind. because of SPOP, i asked them if they wanted to date on lesbian visibility day (april 26) and something within me renewed to make me the happiest i've ever been! 💟

my thoughts are too scattered and unorganized for this to feel like a proper essay of some sort, but i know i needed to get this done in time and i enjoyed it. i can't appreciate enough how much my identity, the core essence of who i am inside, has been shaped by this 50-episode cartoon. a simple love letter could never cover how important this reboot means to so many people, even if mattel still refuses to acknowledge it. ⚔️🌈💖

#welovespop2018 #she-ra appreciation week #catradora anniversary #catradora canon #spop positivity #spop #she ra #she-ra #she-ra and the princesses of power #catradora #catra #adora #video edit

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torturedbrat · 2 days ago

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— 2nd Chapter: Not over you.

"I can't escape, I can't erase you."

★ Fem!reader x Bill Kaulitz 2016.

★ Tags: Angst, fluff.

| Summary: Bill gets back to his roots; he leaves the city in which he had fallen in love for the first time, trying to forget his now ex-girlfriend—But soon he understands he's not over her yet.

• Bill narrates;

I've left California—moved away from what I've loved most in my life... the excuse? that I did it just for her, to not dig in the wound any further. In reality? I did it to get away of it all, exactly as selfish as it sounds.

I try and search for a meaning, for something that would keep me alive through this insanity, but when I close my eyes she's all I see.

I wish I could lose my other me; this has really messed me up this time.

While I was saying my last goodbye to her, picking up my last few things from her place; I repeated in my head over and over that I wouldn't regret this, none of it. But now it's been months of this back and forth of feelings that I can't even put a label on myself.

'I need to put an end to this.'

I've never felt this way before.. lost, you could say. I can't even recognize me—yeah, when I was with her it wasn't easy, but at least I knew what I wanted, her love.. her warmth. Being able to have someone to go to when I felt like I wanted to hide away from the world.

I need something to ground me, someone, whatever it is. While I was in my high, promising myself that everything would be fine—I've hung in the club on weekends, gotten home with different girls every night, hooked up with them.. but right after, they'd leave and there was nothing else behind that.

It felt empty, far from what I've been looking for: to feel the same way I've felt with her before everything got this fucked up. Because no matter what, I still search for that feeling in someone who isn't her.

Even though, as much as I try I can't get involved emotionally with anyone else. 'Cause everytime, the graphic memory of that beautiful smile appears at the back of my mind as well as all our time spent together.

And god knows I've felt guilty, like it was something I wasnt supposed to be doing, like I was betraying her.. she was still sacred to me somehow.

But I can't get home to her, and I definitely can't face my broken heart.

I stand in front of the bathroom sink, the dim lights and the foggy mirror making it hard for me to look at myself—my hand wipes it down, the clinking sound of my golden rings against the glass.. and I take a deep breath.

'I need a change' I talk to my reflection. That was it, I had to try to get rid of everything that was linked to her, and that also meant myself at some point.

I run a hand through my silver locks, while with the other, I quickly reach for the electric shaver that I've been eyeing all week.. so I plug it on, taking a deep breath before I make it land on my head after hearing the buzzing noise coming out of it when I pressed the little button—I don't even hesitate, I know what I've got to do.

From one moment to another, I see big lumps of hair starting to fall into the sink in front of me.

My eyes wet, I don't know if it's from the despair I feel or how angry I am at myself.. but I never stop, not till I have no sight of who I was before.

Right after, I have the need to light a cigarette; I make my way back into the room, with my shaky hands I grab the pack laying on the vanity—and I let out the smoke after one long drag, and for the first time I think I'm satisfied with what I see..

And no vision of her.

Inspired by the 'Not over you' MV. For a better experience, listen to the song while you're reading.

[ I made this, everything written here are original ideas by me. ]

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jyndor2 · 3 days ago

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The way Cassian's character was butchered was even worse than the baby imo. He's just a liar in Rogue One now and they evenr managed to sideline Jyn in her own lovie by trying to make her less important 🤡 And also Jyn should have beaten his ass after Eadu

yeah the baby was bad but like the least of my issues with what they did to my boy

i think a lot of people are going to go back and watch rogue one, and when they do many of them are going to have to reconcile what the film says and shows us about cassian and what the show, which is supposed to be a prequel, shows and tells us about him.

as someone who was ride or die for the idea of a cassian show since day one of its announcement, i guess one thing that i didn't imagine years ago was that the show would fumble the one thing that it COULD NOT fumble - cassian's main motivation in rogue one.

I can still handwave some of it away. but cassian has not lost everything, even forgetting the hidden baby that he doesn't know about because his ex LEFT HIM IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AFTER HE WITNESSED A GENOCIDE, he still has wilmon??? like N O

and everything about cassian being so wishy washy re: the rebellion is just Not It. it's antithetical to who he is in the film. it makes the eadu scene a lot less impactful if just a week before he's disobeying orders when he knows they are wrong.

this season was a lot of sitting around with very little payoff, which is very different from s1 where the payoff made the retcons and the story choices that i disagreed with WORTH IT.

the best parts of the season were phenomenal - but mostly not about cassian at all. and that just confirms my suspicion that tony gilroy had a story he was compelled to tell, and an audience he believed he could move with that story, which is all very laudable - but in the process I think he lost sight of some very real contradictions between the story he was telling and the story that has already been told (by more people than just him) in rogue one.

people can and will justify these choices all they want, and thats fine - i have bigger concerns that require my energy and attention, like the extermination campaign in palestine, like the real life spiral into fascism in the us and abroad. Im not gonna argue about a tv show at this point. but to me and to many long time rogue one fans this is not just about us building up a fanon and not seeing it come true, it is about the show legitimately not even staying true to the very core motivation of cassian in the film - which is that he has sacrificed parts of himself for so long to see that future sunrise luthen was speaking of in s1.

and like id love to have seen that lol

as far as baby goes, lol coparenting really is a thing

#rogue one #cassian andor #star wars andor #andor critical #andor spoilers #asks #anonymous #answered

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not-feeling-the-aster · 11 hours ago

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Ok so I finished Sunrise on the Reaping and I have not very positive thoughts. I get other people really liked it and that’s fine, this is just my opinion. I guess I'll reread it and see if I change my mind (or not), but for now I can say that it was my least favorite of the series, by far.

Spoilers ahead

Honestly I was a little skeptical when they announced the movie along with the book, although I wanted to stay optimistic :(

One of the things that threw me off was the way it tells you things so directly, when the other books are more subtle. I would say it’s as if the older books gave you the puzzle pieces but you still had to make the effort to put them together, whereas this time it just gives you the solved puzzle at once.

Then there’s the narration, which at times feels underwhelming, since it doesn’t match the emotional depth some scenes require. While reading I was thinking everything felt numb, like the tension wasn’t really there. Haymitch’s reactions feel plain to me most of the time, and I get that one could argue he bottles up his feelings because it’s a traumatizing situation, that’s fair. But we’re supposed to read his thoughts, his internal turmoil, and I feel like we almost never really go past the surface. With Katniss (and even Snow) I could see more clearly their deepest thoughts, doubts and vulnerability.

Back to Haymitch, there’s also the thing with his family. They are supposed to be the most important people in his life, but there is little to no development on their relationship. Don’t tell me he loves them, show me how he cares for them, how was his upbringing, show me some memory of his childhood, how was his life when his dad was alive, how did his death affect him till nos, how does him being the older brother shapes his character. Show me how much they care for each other before the tragedy happens. Because the point is he looses them, we know it. Their bond matters, make it strong enough to linger after they’re gone.

We also have to talk about Lenore Dove. Again, we know a few things about her and how they met. We know Haymitch loves her and thinks about her a lot (maybe too much) but does she love him as much? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think she is pretending or anything, but it does seem like they are on different pages at times. My thing is, we are presented with this couple from the get go, and we are expected to root for them because they are soulmates for life and can’t live without each other, but what is their dynamic like? How do they work together? not just as Haymitch admiring her all the time. What does she like about him so much? Does she actually want to run away? Alone or with him? Does she know he fantasizes about having a family with her? Would she be okay with that?

I feel like their relationship could have worked better if they had just recently got together, they would still care for each other and missed one another, but it wouldn’t be this super serious, never-ending, magical love that’s larger than life itself. Just real, meaningful, hopeful love. Doomed, but true. That’s enough.

Regarding the theme of propaganda, I also feel like it wasn’t handled that well. I mean yeah the capitol shows and edits the games to their liking, ok. I guess what I was expecting was how propaganda was received by the people, specially in different places of Panem.

The careers were completely dumbed down this time, there was no nuance or complexity there, maybe for a tiny moment with the chocolates but that was on Haymitch so I guess it doesn’t count either.

I liked the idea of the alliance and I personally don’t mind the cameos but everyone speaking so freely of the rebellion plan was a little unserious. Plutarch for me is still the same character, I don’t consider him fundamentally rebellious, he just wants to be on the winning side and come out as unscathed as possible. Him lecturing Haymitch did annoy me a bit though, and I don't think it helped to explore the themes like it was intended.

I'm sure there's more but this are my main problems with it. I was really excited about it but well, I still love the other books so the story didn't change for me, but I'm a little worried for a possible future book now. We'll see how it goes.

Also I wanted to point out that just because you like a certain author it's okay to not like and be critical of some of their work. Like, it shouldn't be that serious, but I know some people get defensive. Each book is different, and authors are people, and they can make cool things and not so cool things, calm down with the pedestals please.

#sotr critical #sotr spoilers #sunrise on the reaping #thg sotr #sotr #haymitch abernathy #the hunger games #sunrise on the reaping spoilers

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phagodyke · 10 months ago

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yeah I'm not gonna talk abt it am I...

#well thats okay. eventually itll come up naturally. and if not well. it doesnt make me feel very okay. but its not a big deal #and i guess ill meet ppl in the future who will curate a different idea of me and maybe therell be fewer misunderstandings #<- coward who CAN communicate to save their life but not in any lower stakes situation for their happiness n quality of life #we <3 repression n insecurity. maybe if i keep digging at the corner of this bit of the labyrinth with my spoon ill get out someday 😌#anyway.. theres my daily vague vent post got it out of my system #wanted to do it earlier but ended up not having much time after work n then called friends which was nice :^)#also i never have signal at work these days.. my boss has said shell get me on the staff wifi tho cuz i do need it for work reasons #its rare to need it for work purposes bc we all use work pcs n stuff anyway and not rly supposed to use mobiles in the lab #but yeahh.. god i have so much admin shit to sort out also gotta text family back before i sleep i forgot to earlier #its all good.. also my memory foam pillows turned up so i no longer have to steal my roomies extra one for my neck pain <3 #ik she was missing it... not to sound like a creep but it was nice that it smelled like her a little. just familiar innit #we're always around each other so its just what being home smells like to me.. listen i have a sensitive nose 😔✋️#if we were a lot closer i would ask if i could sleep in her bed while shes away but we're not so it would come across sooo weird..#and i would feel rly weird abt someone sleeping in my own room without me there. well maybe not actually. as long as they werent snooping #<- guy whose mother used to go thru their shit all the time n struggles to not feel paranoid and distrustful when it comes to privacy #was thinking recently my ideal living situation w a partner would be separate rooms but we still share the bed sometimes #but not every night bc im a sensitive sleeper... but we can switch bedding so i can still smell them if i wake up in the night alone #like how new mothers trying to get babies used to cot sleeping each have a cloth or blanket and swap every night #so the baby is comforted by the blankets smell and sleeps more peacefully.. and momma finds it easier being apart from the baby too #sorry this is getting gooey and weird my meds have been wearing off the last couple hours im so sleeppyyyy 😭#well.... maybe everything can wait until tomorrow..... bed is calling..#goodnight everyone muah #.diaries

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sukunasweetheart · 6 months ago

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Being the bane of sukunas existence as you're his girlfriend because you act like a perverted old man around him... he kinda digs it tho, its mildly hilarious and he doesn't dislike the unhinged attention (he tries to be so lowkey about it)

Every once in a while, you'll caress his behind or fondle his big boobily man breasts, the same way he does to you. he was only stunned at first - now he is completely unphased by your sneaky little hands.

he texts you, asking you what you want for dinner, and he's not surprised when the answer is "i want you oiled up and naked in bed by the time i get home". then he just replies with "making pasta"

Big obnoxious smacking noises when you kiss him all over, and sukuna just lets you be, he'll be sitting on the couch turning the tv on and here you come, smooching his cheek. sometimes, its the top of his head, other times, its his forehead or neck. if you do it too much though, you'll get covered with his bite marks in return.

when sukuna gets up to go to the toilet, you ask him if you can hold his peepee while he takes a piss, bc you saw a funny tiktok talking about it... he gives you a silent judgmental stare as he closes the door on your face. but behind it, he lets out the tiniest snort and shakes his head bc the idea of it is so ridiculous.

one time when you go outdoor camping with him you genuinely accidentally stumble close to sukuna who is taking a leak in the forest bush area and he catches you staring from behind as he's buttoning himself back up. and then he's chasing you down while you're screaming that it was an accident and that you only heard him peeing and didn't actually see anything. (not that you don't know what it looks like, anyway.)

when he's sweaty after a workout or some physical exertion, you'll definitely be approaching him deviously, talking about some "covered in flavour" type of bullshit... he'll push your face away and head into the shower but his ears are flushed with red.

just... sukuna who will let u mack on him endlessly bc he secretly doesn't hate the doting 🥹🥹🥹 and if you're not being obnoxiously lewd or affectionate?? thats when he knows something's up...

and obviously, every now and then you'll say something that makes him know that you're not just lusting over his body.

during a walk back home on a summer afternoon, you point upwards while holding his hand and looking up.

"sukuna, look. you're in the sky."

he reluctantly looks up, expecting some sort of dick shaped cloud or something like that. but there are no clouds in sight.

"what is there to look at?" he asks, quizzically.

"the colour, silly. when the sun's still setting, the sky always gets like this, around the same time everyday. the pretty pinkish colour, like your hair."

he turns silent and observes the sky for a minute. you call him silly, as if it's an everyday thing that you compare a person with the literal sky.

"it's my favourite time of the day..." you mumble, just barely audible to his ears. and something about the way you stand there, and speak so softly, makes you look so pretty to him. "i'll always think of you when the sun is setting."

"oh- but i think of you everyday regardless, i suppose."

he already knows that. he already knows you love him. why does he feel so flushed right now?

"alright, i get it. enough. let's continue home," he urges you, holding your hand tighter. you follow him down the street, like a puppy.

life couldn't feel more at peace right now, with your fingers interlocked with his, listening to you hum your favourite song on the way home, the street now covered with the orange light of the sunset.

"any ideas for dinner?" he asks, a few minutes after some silence.

"mmm..."

oh, he regrets asking the question now, fully knowing what's coming.

"i want your tatas in my mouth, please."

"tatas?" sukuna's asks with furrowed brows.

after bursting into laughter at the way he said it, you attempt to think up an actual food you want for dinner.

"...just for tonight." sukuna mutters.

"huh?"

"don't ask me again, i might change my mind."

"wait- really?"

let's just say, your mouth had a taste of heaven for the first time that night.

#sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x y/n

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pucksandpower · 3 months ago

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The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

3K notes · View notes

tojisteddy · 2 months ago

Text

Acknowledge Me

or: Simon finally gives you attention after you piss him off.

“The power it takes, to make me cry that way. Baby, I hate me when you get under my skin.”

cw: 3.6k words (lord), 18+ MDNI, Toxic!Simon/Meanie!Simon, smut with plot, daddy kink (daddy, pa), dubcon, p in v, dacryphilia, degradation (like hell), water park amusement, pvssy slapping, creampie, marathon!, intoxicated sex, pet names (lovie, doll, pup), overstim, orgasm denial, straight debauchery, after care, y/n visuals.

a/n: acknowledge me by doja cat was the big inspo.

Were you a fucking stupid brat?

Or were you simply itching for attention that you deserved?

If you told your friends, they wouldn’t call you a fucking brat. Stupid? Yeah.

For being with a man who didn’t hesitate to curse you out when you annoyed him. Simon Riley didn’t even flinch when you started hearing those hiccups over the phone, he could already picture your trembling bottom lip, huffed out cheeks and tears forming at your water line. If anything it pissed him off further.

“Don’t fuckin try it with those tears [+]. I fuckin told you, you tell me where the fuck you’re goin. Why the fuck did I have see you move to five different bars in three fuckin hours and you didn’t say a word to me about it till now!?” Simon yelled through the phone.

“You and your dumb ass friends are too fuckin reckless—“

“—Don’t call them that-“ you chided.

“-Oh, I promise you lovie, I don’t give a shit.” his voice with venom.

For fucks sake, it was supposed to be a fun night out and if you were one of your friends, it would’ve been. You and your friends loved bar hopping, enjoying the vibe wherever you went and free alcohol that men and women would order for you. You don’t remember how many bars ago, but your phone died somewhere in the middle and you did spend about five minutes at the last 6 bars trying to find an outlet before your friends dragged you away to the dance floor. That had to count for something, right? You did try to get some form of life on your phone for thirty minutes!

You’d finally gotten to an outlet, right next to the fucking bathroom. ‘15 missed called 4 new messages.’ A string of curses leaving your mouth once you dialed that memorized phone number. And there Simon was, talking to you out the ass while the music was booming in the distance, you had your phone in one hand and a finger in the other trying to hear him properly, the smell of only-god-knows from god-knows-what filling your poor nose all so you could attempt to fix your accidental boo-boo :( — but that bastard had to have you crying in the club.

Like you were thirsty for his attention. you were.

No, none of this was your fault. You didn’t need to update the 6’4, blonde, hunk of a damn brat, when he hadn’t even bothered to contact you in a month.

Yup, the ghost was actually known for ghosting you.

Purposely declining your calls, leaving your texts on read or worse: replying with a ‘k’ when you tried to meet up when you knew (least for the most part) he kept to himself. When he was stationed near by, he was at his own fucking house minding his own business. He was the worst. And the cherry on top?

The fucker had your location on.

You swore he did this to get a rise out of you, to see you teetering off the brink of sanity— and you had to attempt to reel yourself back in every. fucking. time. You weren’t his little plaything, you didn’t need him.

“Don’t fuck with me.” you mumbled, salty tears hitting your mouth. Those would be the last for the night, you swore it. It was like the liquor finally left your heart and went to your brain. Liquid courage.

“What’dyou just say t’me?”

Louder, “I said, don’t fuck with me! I’m sick of your shit Simon!” You snapped. You weren’t an angry person, you’d just hit an annoying wall you needed to get though. The annoying wall called Ghost Riley.

“You always- always come out of the fucking blue ‘nd think you tell me what to do! I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what the fuck I’m doin! Don’t be bitchy at me cause I like to have a little fuckin fun with my friends even when you’ve been ignoring me. Fuckin ignoring me instead of telling me what’s up! The fuck do I gotta do to get you off my dick?!”

“You like the messy shit, Si! You like seein me pissed at you just so you’re the one who has to come and fix it! I can’t stand it. You should go find a bitch who likes that shit because I don’t! I hate how I feel right now and I hate that you can’t be one of those kind boyfriends who’ll come and fuckin hold me nice and shit! Hell, maybe I’ll go find someone to hold me realll nice like since you fuckin won’t!” You spat, nose flaring, you were trembling with rage.

“Pup,” one word. Cut throat. Yanking you right back down to reality. “You take your pretty ass home, ‘nd I’ll go easy on you, yeah?”

You felt your chest rising and falling rapidly, you were frustrated that he clearly didn’t listen to your little rant but you felt your panties get damp. Just a bit. Just like always when you saw a punishment coming. You couldn’t help yourself.

“I-“

“—She’s busy right now please leave a message after the beep. Beeeeeeep.” Your friend, Sharon, has snactched your phone out of you hand, quickly interjecting your conversation with the man and hanging up. She hiccuped, nodding her head in satisfaction.

“You can’t spend the whoooole night by this stinky ass bathroom. Let’s go daaaaance, or-or drink.” She giggled, taking your hands. “Or both!” She squealed at her own words.

Fuck it.

You went out with your friends so you could have a good time, and that’s exactly what you were going to do.

Simon had such a nice way of breaking you down to your knees, so you were the one sobbing and begging then bringing you back up. He didn’t do it often, he wasn’t that fucking mean, but he did it when you really pissed him off. Simon needed you to understand— you weren’t in charge. He was. The man doesn’t remember exactly what you did to piss him anymore, it had been a long and grueling month for him anyway. But he had to follow through with something because he’d be damned if he had to actually apologize, you being with your idiot friends didn’t help your case. So he threw it in the melting pot of why he had a right to bully you.

The motherfucker couldn’t help himself.

When he entered your empty and annoyingly small studio apartment, he added another mark to his ‘reasons to fuck babygirl up’ list. He told you to take your sweet ass home, didn’t he? And where were you?

He’d make sure the neighbors knew exactly who the fuck he was.

It should’ve been easy for you to check in, no? He worried about your safety above all else, but it always seemed to fly out the window when you were with your friends who were notorious and extreme party girls while you just went with the flow. He didn’t not like them sober, it’s when you went clubbing you, for some reason, would get hard headed, defiant. It pissed him off, which would always lead to an argument. Usually he’d come snatch you up while you were tipsy, you’d have a cry in the car, mumbling something about how you just knew the man didn’t like you or take you serious.

And partially, Ghost didn’t. He brushed your insecurities away at first, thinking nothing of it as you went about your life. But you kept being on edge drunk or sober. So he would be right there, finger fucking you otherwise while the car was still in motion. And maybe you were right, maybe he wasn’t the sweet and soft boyfriend you wanted who’d hold your cute little hand when you made him angry. He wasn’t the type to coddle you, chicken peck your face with kisses when you felt down. Simon Riley was the gruff and overbearing man you needed to set you straight, keep you grounded when the world went to shit.

That’s what your cute little tantrum was about, least part of it was. Simon knew he was distant, you just needed a reminder he was yours and you were his. And only his. You craved him like you needed food, it was obvious to anyone who saw you two together. He chuckled, couldn’t believe you even suggested fucking some other man. As if they could handle you, as if they knew what you needed.

He’d set that attitude straight.

The shower was running when the front door of your flat closed behind you. There’s no way you left it on this whole time, did you? You didn’t remember. The night turned into a long one.

No, you didn’t get black out drunk like your friends suggested. You had another shot or two, deciding to stay on the sober side with your DD. You two did smoke a fat blunt before hitting another club though, that made you feel like you were starting to lose your hearing. But it mellowed you out completely. The anger you felt, all that angst and sadness? Gone like a snap of your fingers. The person who was yelling and crying earlier? Technically it wasn’t you, you just needed a little peace. A little medicinal help.

After singing and dancing as hard as you could, your drunk friends taking blurry photos and videos of you that you’d probably post later, you persuaded them it’d be best to get something to eat and head home around two am. It took thirty minutes to find a convenience store that was open so you could chow down on something, and fifteen to get home. With a basically empty bag of chips in one hand, purse slung over your shoulder like a duffle, a bag of junk food in your other hand, low red eyes and a small smile— you finally got home.

You’d deal with that asshole tomorrow. Or next week— maybe next month if you gave enough of a fuck like he did.

Who knows.

You sat the bag of food on the coffee table, right now the priority was your skin care routine, then eat, then zonk out till 2 pm. You still can’t believe you left the shower and the bathroom light on that was now blinding your eyes but whatever. You’d turn it off as soon as you were done since it was warm due to the slight steam.

Routine, routine, routin— you stumbled over a pile of clothes. Large male clothes— okay, maybe you were in the wrong apartment.

Not your first rodeo.

You’d just slowly back out and try looking for your apartment. No big deal.

But the shower curtain swung open and you tripped over the clothes, falling right on your ass with a yelp.

“Ya can’t be that fuckin drunk, can ya?”

Your eyes darted open, right at the familiar deep cockney accent— Simon Riley was right there in the flesh, water dripping down his scarred and large body, making him dazzle like a God in that fucked up bathroom light.

Now that was blinding.

“Hello? Are ya listenin?”

Oh, he really wanted an answer.

“ ‘M not drunk.” You said breathlessly. Intoxicated? Yes. But not drunk. The shots had worn off ages ago. Hell, maybe your high was too at the sight of this brute.

What the fuck was he doing here?

The blonde ignored the confused look on your face. Taking a towel that sat on the sink and drying his hair. No point in drying off anything else, he was about to sweat.

So were you.

Simon continued on, stepping past you and you quickly got up, following right behind him like a starved puppy. For someone who hated your apartment, he sure walked around like he owned the place. Nude, large cock swinging, and the look of annoyance written on his handsome unmasked face.

He sat on the bed, manspreading nonchalantly. Knowing you were looking at it, your eyes immediately went elsewhere.

“What do you want?” You mumbled out, shifting from foot to foot.

As if you didn’t know what was bound to happen.

The older man laughed, sarcasm dripping down his throat.

“Be good ‘nd strip, won’t repeat myself.”

“Si-Simon!” Your breath hitched once a large hand came down on your ass, once for good measure.

“Who?” He slapped his thick member on your ass, sliding it through the crevice of your cheeks.

“But- but Simon-“ another slap.

“You’re gonna make it worse for yourself, call me proper.” He smacked his cock over your glistening folds. So fucking wet.

“Daddy mmph,” You moaned.

“All this ‘b-b-but’ bullshit from ya. You’ve pissed me off more than enough. You’ll take all of it today.” Simon slipped inside your hole, filling you to the brim even with half of that girthy cock in you. You both hissed, fuck, it was always so good when he was inside your walls. Simon slowly started to rock his hips into you, slowly but surely making sure you took every inch if his manhood had to offer.

It was when he bottomed out, you knew you were in for it. Simon wasn’t talking to you, he forced your head down on the bed, forcing your back to arch further as he thrusted right at your spot. Over and over and over.

“Gonna cum pa, gonna cum.” You stuttered, feeling the pit in your stomach starting to turn.

“No you’re not.”

“—But—”

“I dare you [+]. I know you’d just looove seein how that turns out.”

You hiccuped, tears brimming as Simons pace got faster. You could feel him throbbing inside you but he wouldn’t cave. He was making the both of you suffer over a petty argument— a mistake that in any normal relationship wouldn’t be that serious.

“I- no- anngh— I need to cum—”

“-You don’t need shit you greedy. fuckin. bitch.” He grunted, swatting your ass with every thrust.

The man yanked you up by your tosseled hair, “You had your oh-so lovin Daddy fuckin worried about’cha so you can be safe then when I finally get a hold of ya ‘nd tell you to go home, you ignore me. Threatenin to go fuck some idiot, but he couldn’t fuck you like I can? Can he? Can’t keep you pretty ‘nd upright? Can he?” His hand trailed from your throat to the buldge at your stomach. He scuffed, “now you’re itching t’cum just because I have my cock right here in ya? Fuckin dumb bitch shit,”

“You a dumb bitch?” He asked, making sure you were fucking him back. Ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.

“Noooo.” You cried out, trying to get away but it only made the brute dig into you further.

“What?”

“No sir.”

“Thaaats right princess. You're my smart little girl, listen to me next time. Good on you- fuck— for tryin to salvage yourself.” He huffed.

You didn’t realize your own toes curling at that small praise, your body trembling as you reached your peak.

“Hold it, did you just fuckin cum? When I told you not to?” He growled, forcing you to look at his eyes that were practically red with anger.

“Wait, wait, wait.” You really couldn’t help yourself, you’d been holding it for how long? And you were still kinda high which made you feel the sensations ten fold, Simon was drilling into you like no tomorrow and then he gave you an inch of kindness after being so mean to you this whole fucking time.

Your body unconsciously took a mile.

“Nope.” He yanked you back to lay your back on him, the rest of his drenched length in you, and lifted your leg so it was over your head, legs parted like the red sea. The first smack on your cunt for the night had you screaming, water spraying out.

Simon gripped your chin, forcing you to look down at the mess you created while harshly rubbing your pearl, still thrusting into you from behind, “You wanna act like a greedy bitch and think with your pussy? Then you cum like a greedy fuckin bitch. Cum you dirty pup.”

And he kept smacking down on your poor cunt, unable to stop yourself from cumming and squirting. Completely creaming Simons girthy cock so that a ring of cum formed around the base of his length.

“Daddy I can’t-“ you keened.

The man scowled, “-Shut. the fuck. up. You never shut the fuck up, the only thing I wanna hear is how fucking wet that pussy is. Keep fuckin cummin like a dirty slut you are.”

And you did.

You were wetting the bed like a dog. Water flying everywhere with every thwack of Simons hand on your abused and misused clit. You didn’t even know how many times you had cum by that point. Words? What were those? You wouldn’t even be able to read a street sign or name your favorite color if asked.

You were seeing pure white, the only thing you could hear was the loud squelching of Simon pumped himself in and out of you. He pulled out for a second causing you to whine at the loss of him, but he slipped back into your tight walls, fucking you in a nice missionary.

He gave your face a few light smacks to the face, tutting “Ah, ah, ah, pup, don’t you fuckin pass out. Eyes on Daddy.”

You managed to pry those long lashes open, hooded and lower than they could ever get when you were high.

“Therrrre my pretty girl is. Look so good bein fuckin stupid on my dick doll. This is alllll my girl needed. A good lesson, yeah? Remind ‘er who’s boss, huh?” He smirked, dragging himself down to you so your legs were at your chest.

“Shit baby, feel you squeezing down on me. Wanna cum with me? Missed me given it to ya just like you always need?” Oh, you were crying again. Yeah, you did miss his mean ass.

And his mean beautifully scarred up face, the mean way his muscles flexed when he did anything, his stupid fucking mouth that had to say some stupid shit touching your full lips, his disgustingly sexy muscular yet pudgy stomach with a happy trail touching your stomach everytime he wrapped those arms around you. His massive presence when he stood next to you, mean brown eyes watching while you did your hair, your makeup, or got dressed. Heartless hands that rubbed your neck everytime he didn’t know how to comfort you because that asshole trying his hardest to understand you.

And that undeniably cruel, overly massive cock fucking you like you were the final girl getting a well deserved an award for making it out the trenches in a horror film.

Your head was full with the thought of daddy, daddy, daddy— you shook your head but you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. You hung on to whatever bullshit that man gave you. Only him. Always him.

“Wan- I wan it pa! Wan your cum in me.” you babbled through your sobs.

“Course ya fuckin do. Can’t do shit without me.” The older man crooned. He finally planted his lips on yours, you moaned at just the feel. Pink walls fluttering in ecstasy as he filled you to the brim. Slow thrusts making sure he pumped everything he had into your perfect cunt.

So much for not crying anymore.

The only sound you could be heard in that studio was you cries, like a fucking baby, bouncing off your thin walls. The headboard was finally able to rest, you knew for a fact your neighbors probably despise your being now.

“Why didn’t you- you come see me? I wanted- hicc- I wanted to see you. But- but- you wouldn’t come see me! Wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone,” You sobbed, tripping and falling through your words. “you must hate me.”

The older man rolled his eyes, “Didn’t ever say tha’. How can I hate’cha ‘nd your mine? Doesn’t make sense mama.”

“Didn’t call me though.” You were sprawled out on the bed now, fat tears escaping your eyes. The blonde was sitting on the bed, grabbing the bottled water that he kept in the nightstand, opening it and putting it to your lips to drink. You did, lifting just enough for a bit to go down your bound to be sore throat and flopping back on the bed.

“Was busy swee’art.” Half truth, half lie. Though it was habit, he was trying to keep you in the loop of his life this time. But old habits die hard. The man forgot to reply. His work schedule was fucked, and he was busy spending his free time moving house. The house he planned to give you, it just wasn’t ready yet. Simon was actually being good for you, for once.

“You’re not always busy Si, you just don’t like my annoying voice!” You whimpered.

It took everything in the older brute to not laugh, you were bein so fucking cute. Babbling nonsense but still clinging to him like a lifeline. Still wanting, still his baby girl.

“Told ya, you weren’t annoyin. Got a nice voice, so get it out silly skull.” He cooed, sitting you on your bottom to face him.

You sniffed, moaning and groaning in annoyance but choosing to accept those words. And only those though.

“Fucks sake, Stop it.”

“I caaaant.” You whined, profusely wiping your tears.

“No, dummy.” Simon pushed your hands off your own face, gently wiping the tears with his thumbs that continued to poor out, “Yer gonna throw a fuckin fit if your face ends up bein puffy cause you wipe your tears so damn rough. Take it easy.”

No one knew how to wipe your tears better than the man who created them.

“I wanna make up, you don’t want to?” That was as close to an apology you’d ever get. Always.

A proper Ghost apology was rare as is and you wouldn’t be getting that after your little tantrum tonight. So you ate up what you could get.

“I wanna- I wanna make up too Daddy.” You croaked, dragging out your words. Adorable princess.

“Pfft,” he ruffled your now messy, sweated out hair, “I gotcha.”

“Up you go.” Like a feather, Simon lifted you from the bed, walking to the bedroom you too had been at who knows how many hours ago. He gently sat you on the counter of the sink,

“Let’s get you all ready for bed, yeah?”

a/n: I really love meanie!Simon the most. Let me know what you think about him.

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luv-lock · 4 months ago

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ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤMY CRAZY BOYFRIENDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Robins x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When They Act Crazy But Think It's Normal.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, 90s Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTES : 𝘛𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺!

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You walked into your room, ready to flop on your bed after a long day, only to scream when you saw Dick fucking Grayson himself sitting cross-legged on your floor, holding one of your shirts.

“What the hell, Dick?!” you yelled, clutching your chest. “What are you doing in my room?”

He looked up, completely unfazed, flashing his signature charming grin. “Hey, babe. I missed you.”

You pointed at the shirt in his hands. “Why do you have my shirt?”

Dick stood up, holding it close to his chest like a lifeline. “It smells like you, and I needed it to get through patrol last night. Do you know how hard it is to fight crime without the love of your life’s essence keeping you grounded?”

“Dick, that’s so creepy!” you exclaimed, though you were trying not to laugh.

“But I love you,” he said with those puppy-dog eyes, leaning closer. “And I thought about you the whole time. Did you think about me too?”

“Not like this!”

— JASON TODD ⋆

You were out with Jason at a local diner, enjoying some milkshakes when you noticed he kept glancing at you while trying (and failing) to be subtle about it.

“Okay, what’s up?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jason grinned, leaning forward with his chin on his hand. “Nothing, just thinking about how cute you look when you drink your milkshake.”

“...Thanks?” you said, feeling your face heat up.

Then, out of nowhere, Jason pulled a tiny notepad out of his pocket and started furiously writing.

“What are you doing?” you asked, bewildered.

“I’m cataloging everything you do that makes my heart race,” he said matter-of-factly. “Like, right now—number 438: The way you scrunch your nose when you’re confused.”

Your jaw dropped. “You have a list?”

“Of course I do,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “How else am I supposed to remember every little thing I love about you?”

You buried your face in your hands, torn between laughing and dying of embarrassment. “Jason, people can hear you!”

“Good,” he said, smirking. “Let the world know how much I love you.”

— 90s TIM DRAKE ⋆

You were sitting on your couch when Tim burst through your front door, looking frantic.

“Tim?! What are you doing?!” you shouted, startled.

“I need to check your internet history,” he said, completely serious.

“What?” you gawked, standing up.

Tim held up his laptop like it was a sacred relic. “I hacked into your Wi-Fi and noticed some…suspicious searches.”

“You WHAT?!”

“Why were you looking up ‘how to tell if your boyfriend is crazy’ at 3 a.m.?” he demanded, his face a mix of hurt and desperation.

You stared at him, your mouth open in shock. “Tim, what the hell! That was a meme! I wasn’t being serious!”

“Oh.” He blinked, looking sheepish for about two seconds before he perked up. “Well, now you don’t have to wonder. I am crazy—for you.”

“Get out of my house!”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You were in your backyard when you heard a rustling noise coming from the bushes. Frowning, you approached cautiously, only to jump back when Damian crawled out on all fours like a feral cat.

“Damian?! What are you doing in my bushes?!”

He stood up, brushing off his uniform like this was a perfectly normal situation. “I was ensuring your safety.”

“By hiding in my bushes?” you asked, flabbergasted.

“I must remain vigilant,” he said, crossing his arms. “You are surrounded by incompetent fools who cannot be trusted with your protection.”

“Damian, my dad is literally inside the house.”

“He doesn’t have the necessary training to spot an assassin from 300 yards away,” Damian scoffed. “But do not fear—I am here.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “This is so creepy. Do you even hear yourself?”

“Creepy? No. Devoted? Absolutely.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

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reiderwriter · 6 months ago

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☎️ Don't Call Me ☎️

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: After catching your boyfriend cheating, you find accidental comfort in your coworker. With your phone ringing nonstop, you're willing to do whatever it takes to start fresh.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, bug mentions (cockroaches), cheating, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, slight spanking, mentions of masturbation. Dom! Spencer.

A/N: Haha... hi guys... been a while 😚 Please enjoy the fic I dreamed up over a month ago now, and was finally able to conjure up!

Masterlist

If you were to be asked how you assumed a five-year-long relationship would end, you'd likely say something like irreparable differences. Maybe a difference in lifestyle, growing out of love, or even different plans for the future. Unfortunately, the irreparable difference your boyfriend had chosen at 10 pm on a Thursday evening was being balls deep in an irreparably different woman.

You supposed you should've seen the signs the relationship was drawing to a close and likely you did, but with your job itself being a life or death situation almost daily, you really didn't have much time to worry about the fact that your boyfriend was sowing his oats in other fields. Based on the look of the woman spread across your bed, the oats weren't that great for her either.

Your reaction had been somewhat delayed, but curiously not as much as hers. She'd been wonderfully blasé about the man writhing on top of her before you started screaming and throwing things, and even now you were armed with a vase of flowers (dead - you'd bought them yourself before the case you'd been on for the last two weeks) she still looked slightly bored. But at least her legs were together now, and not gynaecologist level apart.

Your boyfriend - ex-boyfriend? - managed to regain an ounce of dignity with a scrap of clothing, and did his best to shepard you out of the crime scene as you regained the ability to hold coherent thoughts that weren't about strangling him with his own tie.

“Listen to me, please just for five minutes-”

“Listen? I was just listening! To you moaning into that woman's shoulders with your eyes rolled back in your head!”

It was as if in the last few minutes all the love you'd had for this man, all five years of relationship and comfort, and nights spent together had melted away in an instant. The rage dissipated, and you were surprisingly calm again, though that worried you, too. Surely you should be crying, or at the very least upset. You should be feeling some kind of emotion that wasn't a vague disgust at the man in front of you in full pooh bear mode, trying to tug down the hem of his shirt to cover the crown jewels.

“It didn't mean anything. She doesn't mean anything. She's just - You're gone so long on cases, and I just-”

“So you're saying it's my fault you're cheating on me?”

“Yes! No, wait, no, no, no, no-”

“No, heard loud and clear, I'll try not to save lives in the future, I'm sure the BAU will understand I should be on my back 24 hours a day instead, taking all four inches you have to donate to my worthy cause.”

“Y/N, don't be like that,” he said, exasperated. Whatever he had to be exasperated about, you had no idea. Maybe blue balls.

“Like what?”

“Like a bitch!”

The room went still with silence as you let him sit with the words he'd just spoken, willing him to snap back quickly so you could keep even just a shred of respect for him.

No such apology came.

“I'm leaving now. I expect your things packed and out of here by 12 pm tomorrow, including your thing in the bedroom. Don't bother cleaning the sheets. Just burn them. Lock the door and post the keys through the letterbox when you're done.”

“Y/N, I told you it's not like that, I still love you, come on-”

“Well I don't love you. And please go put some fucking pants on.”

You stepped back over the threshold of your apartment - the lovely, nice apartment you'd been living in for the last eight years, your nice safe space - and you shuddered.

The question wasn't exactly what next, but more like where next. What next was sending a group text in your ex-boyfriends family chat telling them what you'd walked in on, and then leaving the chat before you could get any response. The where would be a harder sell.

From this part of the city, it'd take 2 hours to get to Penelope’s apartment, especially at this time of night without a car. Emily's apartment was similarly far. Going through a list of your coworkers again, you mentally crossed off Tara, who'd been injured on your last case and was resting at her girlfriend's apartment, Luke, who despite the promised comfort of a cute dog, you were absolutely sure didn't have a spare bed, and all members of the team with spouses and/or children. Which left just Spencer and Rossi.

Needless to say, you found your way to Spencer's apartment in only 20 minutes, though you were sure you had disassociated the entire thing.

Knocking on the door, you felt a little bit awkward, but not awkward enough to leave and find a hotel at nearly 11 pm. Your last case hadn't been a pleasant one, hotel-wise, and you weren't exactly eager for another check-in.

Spencer opened the door quickly, his eyebrows knitted in confusion as he found you there but only for a brief flash before his face brightened up.

“Y/N? Do we have a case again? I thought Hotch said-”

“Can I stay here tonight?” you blurted, needing to get the words out as quickly as possible before you convinced yourself to walk away.

Spencer took a moment to take in your words, and you took the opportunity to look at him then. He was fully clothed at least, and you were glad to find that his pajamas looked comfortable and clean. A simple plaid cotton pant with a soft-looking white long sleeved shirt pushed up his arms slightly. He'd taken out his contacts and put on his glasses, and you wondered if you'd caught him mid-book.

“Please?” you added in a hopeful voice as he still looked at you slightly confused.

“Oh, of course,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing inside. “Is there something wrong with your apartment?” he asked, taking your go-bag from you without question and guiding you into the main living space of his apartment.

“Thank you, yeah. Something like that. Shoes off or on?”

“I have some slippers. You can take them off. What happened?” he said, placing the slippers in front of you and turning back to bolt the door.

“Invasive species?” You said, trying to sound as nonplussed as possible despite now feeling incredibly plussed.

“Oh, bugs? Yeah, I've had a cockroach or two in the apartment before. Did you know that the average female cockroach can produce up to 10,000 offspring in a single year?”

You sat on his couch quietly, trying not to imagine 10,000 cockroaches and failing nearly spectacularly. Unfortunately, the only image that could surpass tiny cockroach babies was of your boyfriend pounding away at another woman. Which was just a brilliant move for your psyche.

“Spencer, I know I've really intruded here tonight, but do…. Do you wanna drink with me?” You asked, hoping to drown at least a memory or two of the last 24 hours. Hopefully, the cheating one, but you'd take cockroach extermination as well.

A slightly worried look settled on Spencer's face, but he said nothing and nodded, walking to his kitchen, grabbing two beers and meeting you back on his loveseat.

“Oh you really have beer here!” You exclaimed, thanking him for the beverage before cracking it open and taking a sip.

“Morgan came over with some to celebrate 6 months out of prison. These are leftovers.”

“Right… right…”

The first few sips were so painfully awkward that you thought about returning back to your apartment and just sleeping on your own couch.

Vaguely, you felt Spencer watching you, taking a sip of his drink for every sip you took of yours.

“So…” you said, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow again, already questioning whatever was about to come out of your mouth.

“So?” he asked. You weren't sure if it was the beer, the look on his face, or the crazy implosion of the last 5 years that had you giggling all of a sudden. You were just glad that when you cracked up, he cracked a smile as well, and a little bit of the tension went away.

“Why are you really here, YN?”

You took a deep breath and looked straight forward at the bookshelves Spencer had lovingly filled. Maybe this had taken him half a decade as well, so he'd understand how your life felt a little bit like a wobbly bookshelf at that second.

“The invasive species I mentioned? It was the woman screwing my boyfriend in my bed. Ex. Ex-boyfriend.”

You heard the intake of breath from Spencer before he put his can down and started thinking of something to say in reply to that.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh… Y/N, I-”

A shrill ringing cut him off, and you were almost glad to not be on the receiving end of whatever pitiful words he was about to push on you, until you checked the caller ID and saw your ex's name.

“Don't pick that up,” Spencer said as you hesitated towards the phone. With a hand over yours, he flipped the phone over, locking eyes with you as he let it ring out.

“He's just going to try it again.”

“Let him.”

You nodded, breaking eye contact and sinking back into Spencer's slightly wilted couch cushions.

“In your bed? Really?” he asked, talking another sup as you took a gulp, letting the beer fizz down your throat before you could answer.

“I told him to expect me tomorrow because of how the case was looking. I guess he wasn't expecting me.”

“I think that was a given. Unless he was into that. Exhibitionism is one of the most common kinks among adult males, and-”

“Oh he was not into exposing himself,” you laughed into your drink, propping your head up on your hand and turning to face Spencer more. He shot another questioning glance but didn't push the issue, so you silently explained as well. By pinching your fingers together to the approximate size of your ex-boyfriend's dick.

“Oh. Well, it's not the size that counts?” He whispered almost ironically as he took another sip, now much closer than before. You'd done your best to distance yourself from your boyfriend even as he'd followed you through your apartment half naked, but you didn't seem to find Spencer's proximity threatening at all.

Maybe because he wasn't having sex with a random woman in your bed 5 seconds before.

“You wanna know the worst part?” You said, leaning closer as if to tell him an even bigger secret. “He didn't even know how to use it. I haven't-”

Another phone call blasted through, and you grabbed your phone and put it behind you.

“He's really great at interrupting conversation when it’s just getting good,” Spencer laughed, but you were slightly disappointed that he'd leaned back away now.

“What was it you were saying?” He asked, taking a swig of beer again, can nearing its close.

“I haven't had an orgasm in almost three years,” you said bluntly, watching the most genuine spit take you’d seen in your life. You pat Spencer's back as he coughed up inhaled beer, bringing your feet up under you into a cosier position.

“Okay now?” you asked as his breathing returned to normal.

“No? Three years, Y/N? Really?”

You shrugged and looked away almost embarrassed to be meeting his eyes now that your sexual history was the topic of the night.

“We had sex. He's just… he's just a really lazy lover. It'd be the same stuff every time. Handjob to some clumsy fingers missing my clit, a few pumps and cum on my face. I wasn't exactly initiating seven days a week in the hopes that this time he'd be able to locate it.”

Spencer was somewhere between horror and trying not to laugh, eyes wide with either alarm or the strain of having to keep it in.

“It's okay, you can laugh,” you said, but he shook his head politely.

“Y/N, I was in prison and still had more orgasms than you this year.”

“Hey, I hear prison is a great place to meet new people. Have new experiences.”

Spencer shot you a quickly horrified look as his cheeks flushed with heat. “Y/N, I was not someone's bitch in prison.”

“Why not? You're pretty enough for it?”

You'd meant the line to come across as teasing, just as you'd expected the finger now twisted in a lock of his hair, playing with him, to come off as teasing as well.

But you felt a definite throb between your legs when he looked at you again, doubly so when his eyes darted down to your lips.

You cleared your throat and tried for a teasing tone once again.

“So you made someone else your bitch?” you smiled, trying to drag his eyes away from your lips before you did something you'd regret.

“No. I… I spent a long time in solitary, and there's… there's really not that much to do.”

“So you did yourself?”

The tips of his ears were scarlet when you finally decided to back off, tucking the curl of hair behind his ear and letting him cool off.

“Why didn't you masturbate then?” he asked, pouting slightly still from your interrogation.

“Excuse me?”

“Your boyfriend couldn't make you cum, but a vibrator probably could. But you still haven't had an orgasm in three years. Why is that?”

It was your turn to feel the heat, the warmth from the beer finally reaching your head.

“He didn't want me to.”

You didn't mean for the words to sound as sad as they did. The fact itself was just incredibly sad. Your boyfriend saw anything vaguely phallic shaped as competition and had encouraged “organic” coupling instead.

You waited for Spencer to say something else, anything else as you held his gaze, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and him to start talking down to you as if you were simply a victim of the worst sex in the world.

Instead, he said “so did that other woman look as miserable as you've been for the last three years?” and the spell was broken.

You laughed so hard, you nearly choked on the beer you'd already finished. This time, it was Spencer's turn to land a hand on your back as you winded yourself with laughter.

“She looked bored! She looked genuinely bored. I almost thought it was just a lifelike doll, she was that unphased,” you kept giggling between gasps, forcing the words out as you threw your head onto Spencer's shoulder, hand landing on his thigh as you finally calmed down.

“I'd be horrified if anyone looked bored while in bed with me,” came Spencer's voice, and a little shiver ran down your spine as the rasp of his whisper rang in your ear.

You looked up from his shoulder and caught his eye immediately. If you wanted to, you could lean up by a centimetre and catch his lips with yours. And you suddenly, very much wanted to do that.

A final shriek of your phone behind you deterred you for a few seconds, and you were about to work yourself up to scooting a little bit away from Spencer when he leaned over you, grabbed the phone, and hung up on your boyfriend.

“Do you want to cum, Y/N?” he asked, as quietly as before as his hands traced over you on their return journey to him. He looked down your body, eyes greedily drinking in your breasts, hips, thighs and legs tucked into his side on his couch.

You didn't know what you were going to respond when your head practically nodded by itself. Enthusiastically.

He doesn't immediately pull you in for a kiss, and you're worried for a beat that he meant that only as a hypothetical and not an invite. A final cry from your phone has you standing in seconds, completely detached from Spencer, and the nearly embarrassing moment you pouncing him would've been.

“I should probably take it this time,” you explained, turning slightly.

But Spencer was faster than you, if not more prepared for what was to come. Wrapping an arm around your waist, Spencer tugged you back, pulling you onto his lap. When you were firmly situated - ass over his now evidently firm cock - he grabbed the phone out of your other hand, hung up and put it in his pocket.

“Spencer, I-I don't think that's a good idea,” you gasped as his hands slowly progressed up to your chest, and his lips dropped to your neck, biting and sucking along whatever flesh was easy for him to access.

“You need to cum. You deserve to cum, Y/N. I'm just here to help. Use me.”

You stifle a sharp, quick moan, biting your lips and thanking God that he couldn't see the face you made when his hips ground his cock up into your ass.

“I'm probably not ready for this,” you stuttered slightly, breath departing your body quicker than it could arrive.

“Probably not.”

“We work together, too. It would be awkward.”

“It might,” he nodded. “But you still want to.”

You couldn't help the moan, finally letting it free as you tossed your head back and clawed at his forearm, wrapped around you.

Your ass had a mind of its own, grinding back into him in circles as his hands found their way under your shirt, inquisitive fingers stroking your nipples through your bra.

“S-Spencer,” you whimpered again, legs spreading apart as you felt that familiar warmth settle between them. He didn't miss the longing in your tone, the shift in your core, pushing one hand down your stomach and trailing it onto your thigh.

It was as close as he could get with your pants still on, tight against your skin. He squeezed your thigh, still licking and sucking at your neck before his hand rose to the clasp of your pants.

It took him a long lime to fumble with them, and you thought of helping multiple times but you let yourself get distracted by the tense definition of his muscles, the rigid line of his body as he strained to please you.

Your mind fogged with lust, and you felt the vibrations from his pocket right under you when your phone rang again. You practically jerked up in shock as pleasure hit you in a wave, Spencer's fingers finally dipping into your panties just as the vibrations hit you. They weren't centred, of course, not anywhere close to where you needed them to be for you to enjoy them the way you would a toy, but that's what Spencer was for.

He let the call ring out, tracing small, slow circles over your clit as you jumped up into his hand, moaning and whimpering the entire time.

“What an idiot. I bet he never touched you like this. Nice and slow.”

“N-no, S-s-”

“I'm so glad I'm right. He didn't deserve this beautiful cunt. You're so wet for me, right, baby?” You nodded and he hummed in response, voice low and making you pulse in his lap.

“That's it, good girl,” he whispered as you worked your cunt up and down his fingers, stilling himself so you could find your own pleasure.

“Spencer… Spencer, fuck-”

With his free hand, he turned your face to the side and finally kissed you properly as you moaned into his mouth. He was quick to deepen the kiss, to press his tongue against the seam of your mouth and enter your mouth, quickly dominating you as you let yourself get more and more excited. Your hips stuttered, out of rhythm and out of practice, and you almost whimpered in frustration that you couldn't get off quicker, that your body wasn't finding the orgasm quick enough despite how good, how perfect this felt.

Sensing your growing frustration, Spencer broke the kiss.

“Come with me,” he said, pulling his hands away from your wet cunt and out of your stupid pants and encouraging your hips up until you were stood and he was stood behind you.

Cock still firmly stood against your ass, he walked you all the way to his bedroom, hands on your hips the entire time, memorising the sway of your walk.

“Strip and get on the bed, please, Y/N,” he said, finally peeling himself away from you as you nodded quickly and listened to him immediately. You weren't sure what to expect, so you hesitated, laying down, crawling up until your head hit the pillows. You were almost disappointed when you finally looked back at Spencer and he was still fully clothed, so sure that he was going to fuck you to your climax.

Instead, he approached the bed, gently slid his arms around your thighs, opened your legs wider, knelt on the floor and brought your cunt to his face.

The first touch of his to guess to your clit had you almost beside yourself with lust. You'd been sexually active for a handful of years, and this - THIS - was the first time you'd experienced such acute pleasure.

Your hips were unable to stop, thrusting up into his face as you willed his tongue to engulf you, to be a tool in your pleasure.

Again your phone rang, but he grabbed it quickly, pausing only a second to silence it and discard it on the bed beside you, sitting it further up the bed where it would no longer be a distraction to him.

He dove right back in, and you rewarded him with wave after wave of fierce moan, your writhing body only restricted by a hand snaked up onto his stomach. You still pushed against his face, practically fucking it as he flattened out his to guess and let you chase your high.

“Spencer!” You gasped and moaned, voice dripping with lust and desperation, mouth not even properly forming words now you were so close.

You propped yourself up slightly, looking down as Spencer's eye caught your own, his chin slick with your juices, his eyes dripping with lust. You grabbed a handful of his hair and jumped that little bit faster as you felt that long forgotten whisper of pleasure, that all-encompassing explosion of satisfaction, and you came apart on Spencer's tongue.

“Thank you, thank you, Spencer, shit, thank you,” you whimpered, falling back again into the bed as you rode out the high. When you managed to open your bleary eyes again, Spencer was propped up above you, but instead of paying you attention, he'd grabbed your phone and bought it to his ear.

“You heard that? Good. I'm sure you're aware now that she won't be returning your calls tonight. Goodbye.”

His voice, his words, were like a cold bucket of water to your brain as you sat up, reaching for him and finding him as his hips circled your waist.

“Was that-?” He cut you off with a kiss�� a sweet, soft one.

“Yes.” He kissed you again and you melted into his touch as he pulled you into his lap again.

“H-He-”

“He knows now what a real orgasm sounds like. He knows you're not interested anymore. He knows you're mine now.”

You shivered at the words, your lust addled brain flooding your senses, and your cunt as you reacted to the possessiveness of his words, his tone. Part of you was turned on by the exhibitionism as well. You'd had to walk in on your ex boyfriend completely exposed, and there was satisfaction in kicking him to the curb with a similar fuck you. A fuck you that you'd enjoyed a lot.

You pressed your lips against Spencer's and rocked your hips against him again, tasting yourself on his tongue as he laid you down once more. His cock twitched against your leg as he propped you up on the pillows, and your hands trailed down to show it some attention as your sighed into his kiss.

He eagerly shed his clothes, first his top, sitting up and pulling it over his head, giving you a deliriously enticing shot of his chest and soft stomach before dropping down to cover your body again. You let your hand find the sprinkling of hair on his lower stomach, though, following it down as you encouraged his pants off. His cock was thick and heavy in your hand, and you gladly stroked it as he kissed the plains of your body again. He found the side of your neck that he'd neglected earlier, licking and sucking until it was almost as loved as the first side, before pulling your hand away from his cock.

You pouted and began to protest when he quickly lined his cock up with your cunt, and slid in deep and soft before you could.

“Needed to be in you,” he whispered in your ear, gripping your hips and sliding your legs up and around him as he pushed that little bit deeper. “Keep them nice and wide for me,” he said, dropping one last kiss to your lips, before his chest rose, and his hips pulled away again.

When they snapped back into you, you let out a generous scream of pleasure that almost had you wishing you'd never hung up. He set a quick pace, a furious pace as he too moaned into the contact of your cunt and his cock, two desperate people searching for release.

“So tight, Y/N, you're so tight,” he moaned, flesh hitting flesh as you dug your nails into his arms, already so wet again, you could feel the sheets under you growing damp. His hand left its perch on your hip and found its way to your clit once again, and you knew that you weren't going to be able to keep to this pace without cumming a second time.

“Keep moaning for me baby, show me how much you want it,” his voice begged, almost a rumble with how lustful he sounded. You let your voice carry, each moan a little bit more unrestricted than the last.

“Louder, Y/N, please. I want to hear how much you're enjoying this, you don't know how much I enjoy hearing your pleasure.”

His prayers were answered when he lowered his head back down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, gently grazing it with his teeth between licks and sucks. You practically screamed his name, pressing your chest up to grant him better access.

You liquefied beneath him, pressure building and building until you felt him rock, lifting his chest as you came. He pulled his cock out, teasing it through your folds as you stuttered around him, your arousal squirting across his cock and sheets as you fell back to the bed, gasping in pleasure. Your hips stuttered against him, and he soothed you gently, still working his cock through your folds gently as your clit went from overwhelmed to calm to quickly overstimulated.

“Spencer,” you whimpered, almost unable to take all the pleasure he was offering you. “Spencer, it-it hurts.”

“Don't you want me to stop?” He asked, stopping his movements for a second as you deliberated your answer. The lack of movement was answer alone, and you shook your head no wanting to feel his cock against you, inside you, one more time.

“Louder, Y/N, tell me what you want.”

“I want to keep going,” you said, as he began slowly rocking his cock against you again, sticky from your cum.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, teasing a nipple with his hand as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Please fill me up again, please I want to cum again.”

“One more time?” He asked.

“Mhmmm… one more… one more, please.”

You were cum drunk, so horny that you couldn't fathom stopping there. He pressed another kiss to your lips and encouraged you to flip over, propping a pillow under your stomach as he pulled your legs into the right position.

You snuggled into the pillows at your head, pushing your ass up for him slightly as he nudged his cock against your entrance once more.

“Where should I cum Y/N?” He asked, reaching under you to slowly circle your clit again.

“H-hmmm…” you said, eyes shut, focused more on the pleasure than the question. You didn't care anymore. You didn't care where he came, just as long as he let you do it, too.

“Y/N, I expect an answer. Where should I put my cum?”

“Anywhere,” you pouted, pressing your hips back into his cock in the hopes that he'd just fuck you again already.

“That's not an answer,” he said, gently slapping your ass as he pulled his cock away.

“On your back?” He asked, fingers still working your clit underneath, but trailing lower until they found your cunt, two entering you to keep you wet and stretched for him.

“You'd need to shower before you could pass out, but I'm happy to help clean you off. They have communal showers in prison, so I'm not shy.” You moaned at the suggestion but couldn't answer further.

“On your stomach? Again we'd have to shower off, but I would love to see your boobs decorated all nicely.” Your moans were whimpers now as he edged you with his fingers, his words gentle in your ear but dripping with so much lust and promise you couldn't stand it. You didn't want to make decisions anymore.

“On your face?”

“Not on my face,” you snapped quickly, and he nodded and stroked your hair, hooking a strand behind your ear as he agreed.

“Okay. Where, Y/N? Be a good girl and tell me.”

“I-Inside. Cum inside me. Please.”

“Of course. Good job.”

He pulled his hand free gently, and quickly replaced it with his thick cock, and you moaned again at the weight of it against your walls, the familiar stretch of it. In this position, he reached deeper somehow, his thrusts slower, more precise as he drew out his own orgasm as long as possible, maximising his ability to pleasure you.

“Good girl,” he muttered against your skin, dropping a kiss to your back. “Good girl.”

“Wanted to do this for so long, Y/N,” he confessed with each thrust. “Look at how pretty this pussy is, how wet it is for me. I wish your boyfriend could see it. I wish he could see how well-behaved you are for me. How nicely you take my cock.”

His deep, slow strokes, his words, the kisses he pressed against any inch of your skin he could reach combined to push you over the edge a third and final time. This one wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was a steady shudder of pleasure from your hips and a quiet, satisfied sigh.

You didn't say anything but Spencer knew, he felt it, and he came moments after, cock deep inside as he filled you with his cum.

“You're on birth control, right?”

“IUD. Pill. Yeah.” You say between breathy sighs of contentment.

Muttering something behind you, he pulled out finally, leaving for a minute to grab a washcloth and clean himself off before returning to help you as well.

“What did you mumble?” You asked, as he crawled back into your arms, looking up at him.

“What?” He asked, ears turning slightly pink as you stared at him intently.

“Just now. I told you I was on birth control, and you mumbled something.”

He looked away, refusing to meet your gaze before dropping to kiss you sweetly once again.

“Tell me,” you said, and he kissed you again.

“Spencer, tell me,” you pouted, and he kissed the pout away.

You almost asked again, but he kissed you too quickly, too deeply and you lost your breath again.

“I said,” he started, leaving you panting under him again. “It was good you're on birth control, because I like the sight of my cum dripping out of you.”

The remaining breath left your body as you gasped, your face growing hot. You burrowed your face in his chest and let him hold you as you drifted into sleep, wrapped up in each other.

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