🧸could You Do A Max One Where You And Him Introduces You Newborn To Jimmy And Sassy And They Become

the one to beat ⛐ 𝐆𝐑𝟔𝟑

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE 📀 it’s your relationship— or lack thereof— that keeps george on his toes.

♫ starring: george russell x journalist!reader. ♫ word count: 2.7k. ♫ includes: romance. feelings realization, george is down bad -ish, unspecified race win, kimi makes an appearance. @mvk1ma requested the alchemy by taylor swift. ♫ commentary box: i, too, love yearning. and with taylor swift as the soundtrack? chef's kiss. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“You know, you’re getting way too comfortable with me.”

George smirks across from you, a light chuckle escaping him as he leans back in his chair. The sound of clicking cameras and the low buzz of reporters settling in fills the air. It’s pre-race day, and the usual frenzy of the paddock has shifted into the waiting room for interviews. The white walls and sterile fluorescent lights above are almost too bright, making everything feel like it’s under a magnifying glass.

You and George have already carved out your own rhythm; you two have your own unspoken routine. Reporters from various outlets watch this interaction like it's a game they’re all too familiar with— George, the charming driver with a smile that can light up the room, and you, the reporter who doesn’t buy into any of it.

George’s eyes twinkle. “I thought we were past the formalities,” he quips, his voice a little too smooth for a simple pre-race interview. “Aren’t we supposed to be discussing strategy and tires?”

“You mean I should stop calling you out for your atrocious racing decisions?” You tap your pen against your notebook with an air of nonchalance. “I’m sure that’ll be a hit with your PR team.”

The other reporters exchange  knowing looks. They’ve seen this act before: George’s playful banter, your sharp critiques. It’s a dance you’ve both mastered over the past few seasons. He teases, you cut to the heart of the issue, and somehow, it all comes back to racing.

George’s shoulders relax, a slight laugh escaping him. “Oh, come on. You’re not that hard on me. Am I not allowed to have a bit of fun in this job?”

“You’re allowed to have fun,” you retort, not missing a beat. “But maybe you should focus on making fewer mistakes first. You know, like the last race— where you seemed to forget how to brake in the wet conditions.”

The group of journalists around you stifles a few chuckles, but George’s expression doesn’t let up. Instead, he leans forward, his hands folded in front of him. “Okay, that was one race. Can we let it go already? The car wasn’t exactly perfect, you know.”

“You’re not making it easy for me,” you reply dryly. “And you’re still saying it’s the car, not your decision-making?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll take the blame for the mistakes,” he says. “But we both know there’s more to it than just me, don’t we?”

“Don’t try to pull me into the ‘team effort’ talk. I know better than that.” Your eyes narrow in that critical way you’ve become known for. “You’re not fooling anyone with that nonsense.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in George’s gaze, but he tries to tamp it down. Instead, he turns slightly toward the rest of the room as if to break the intensity of the moment. You can tell he’s not really bothered. This back-and-forth is just as much a part of the game for him as it is for you.

“You’re really good at making me sound like a villain,” George notes thoughtfully, a playful edge to his tone. “Maybe I should start calling you out on your writing. How about that?”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair. “Try it. I dare you.”

George cackles before redirecting the conversation. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. Can we at least agree that you’ll cut me some slack if I do well this weekend?”

“Do well?” you echo. “If you actually do well, Russell, then we can talk about cutting you some slack. Until then, you’ll have to earn it. You’re not a rookie anymore.”

His smile fades slightly, replaced by the first hint of seriousness you’ve seen all day. “Fair enough,” he mutters, though the edge in his voice makes it clear that the playful George from earlier is still just beneath the surface.

The tension in the room shifts as the next set of interviews begin; you and George share one last look. It’s comfortable, the kind of quiet understanding that exists between two people who’ve known each other long enough to know how to push each other’s buttons.

As the next journalist steps forward, George stands up and shoots you a half-smile. “I’ll see you after the race. Just so you know, if I finish P1, I’m expecting a full apology.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Russell.”

He’s still grinning as he begins to entertain the next reporter. He takes your words as what it is— a challenge. And George Russell never backed down from a challenge. 

Kimi is uncharacteristically nervous. 

It’s not something George is used to seeing in his rookie teammate, who usually carries a quiet confidence despite the weight of being the youngest driver on the grid. Today, Kimi’s stance is stiff, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket as he glances over at you from a distance.

“Mate, what’s going on?” George asks bemusedly, leaning against the garage wall with his arms folded. 

The faint hum of activity in the paddock surrounds them— the roar of engines in the distance, the chatter of mechanics— and yet Kimi seems to have become a statue, eyes locked on you as you conduct another round of interviews.

Kimi gives his co-driver a sheepish look, then mutters, “I’m… I’m worried about my interview.” 

George chuckles, the sound warm but knowing. He can see the concern etched on Kimi’s face. “Ah, you’re afraid of her?” 

Kimi nods, his eyes still trained on you, as if trying to calculate how long he has until your attention shifts to him. “She doesn’t— I’ve seen how she’s been with you. She doesn’t hold back,” he says frantically. 

“Yeah,” the older man admits. “She’s tough. But that’s why she’s good at what she does.”

Kimi glances back at him uneasily. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I mean, I’ve heard her ask you some—” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “—hard questions.”

George laughs again, but there’s a soft edge to it now. A rare vulnerability in his voice. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t pull punches. She asks tough questions because she expects answers,” he elaborates. “She’s got an eye for detail. And she’s... honest.”

“You seem to handle it, though. Like it’s no big deal.”

George shrugs, an easy movement that masks the slight tension still coiled in his body. “I don’t know if I handle it that well. But you get used to it. With someone like her, you can’t be anything but real. She can smell a lie from miles away.”

His voice softens as his gaze follows you, the way you’re speaking to a reporter. Your sharp wit cuts through the small talk with surgical precision. George goes on, “It’s like... she’s not after the typical headlines. She wants substance. She doesn’t care if it ruffles feathers.”

Kimi hesitates. “So, I just need to answer honestly?”

“Exactly,” George says with a slow nod. “If she thinks you’re hiding something, she’ll dig. But if you give her the truth— even if it’s uncomfortable— that’s when she respects you.”

There’s a quiet pause, and then Kimi shifts on his feet, still looking unsure. “Thanks, George. I’ll try.”

George gives him a reassuring smile, though the weight of the upcoming race is starting to settle in. “You’ve got this, mate. And don’t worry— when it’s your turn, just be straight with her. She’s not going to bite your head off… unless you give her a reason to.”

Kimi laughs nervously, clearly trying to lighten the mood. He nods again and then walks off to prepare for his own interview.

George watches him go, but his attention quickly shifts back to you. You’ve just wrapped up with the last reporter, and now your gaze scans the paddock, sharp eyes landing on him. The briefest flicker of something takes over your expression as you catch his eye. It’s not friendly, it never is, but there’s something else there too. Something that keeps him coming back for more.

Kimi moves into his interview with you. George watches how you interact with the rookie from a distance, the easy way you break through Kimi’s nervousness with a few direct words. Your sharp questions force him to stand a little straighter. 

You’ve always been like this. Elusive and impossible to predict. 

It’s your relationship— or lack thereof— that keeps George on his toes.

He shifts on his feet, cracking his knuckles in the quiet lull before the storm. Today, the race feels different. More personal, somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s finally starting to understand how you work. How you see through him. How you make him think harder than anyone else.

That’s why he needs to win today. He can’t let you see any chinks in his armor.

He takes a deep breath, stepping forward. He’s not sure what drives him more— the race or the challenge of figuring you out. But today, he plans to give you something to write about.

Something that’ll make the headlines for the right reasons.

The final lap is a blur.

George feels the adrenaline surge through his veins as the roar of engines and the shouts over his comms meld into a single, deafening hum. The McLaren and Red Bull cars are breathing down his neck, just a fraction behind. His grip tightens on the steering wheel as he pushes harder, every muscle in his body responding instinctively to the challenge. 

There’s no room for doubt, no room for error— just the need to get to that line first.

And it’s in sight. The corners and straights blur into nothingness, and then, in one brief moment of glory, the checkered flag waves.

Mercedes has done it. George has done it.

P1. The first of the season. 

The roar of the crowd vibrates through the stadium even before he’s fully out of the car. He can feel it. The disbelief in the air, the feeling of the impossible having been achieved. His heart is still pounding as he climbs out of the cockpit, throwing off his gloves and helmet, his chest heaving with exhaustion and euphoria.

A few pats on the back from the team and cheers from the Mercedes team flood in, but it doesn’t matter. There’s something else he’s after.

Without a second thought, he’s striding through the mob of staff, reporters, and team members. His mind is a singular focus; he can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him; all of that fades when his eyes lock on you in the throng of people. 

You’re standing there, clipboard in hand, perfectly poised in the chaos of the paddock. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he sprints toward you, ignoring the reporters’ calls, the crew patting him on the back, even the ones offering him water. He moves faster than he’s ever moved from the pit lane to the paddock.

A team member shouts after him. “George! The podium, mate!”

He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care about the podium. 

The adrenaline isn’t just from the win; it’s about getting to you. Because now, with this victory, he wants something else— something more.

The crowd parts for him as he barrels forward. When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate. He’s there, eyes alight with the same fire that’s been there ever since you first made him sweat with your questions.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the two of you in this messy, chaotic world. He can see the surprise in your expression— brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.

“Russell,” you greet, your tone the perfect balance of shock and confusion.

“Where’s my interview?” he exhales, leaning in just slightly, hands still shaking from the thrill of the race. “You owe me an apology, and I’ve got a question for you.” 

The energy between the two of you shifts. There’s the usual edge, that same tension that’s existed since the moment he first met you. But now, there’s something else, something deeper. A sense of familiarity. An acknowledgement that the question is not going to be about his race, but rather his prospects. 

Not on the track, but with you.  

It hits him all at once, the realization that he’s no longer holding back. He doesn’t need to hide anymore. He doesn’t need to pretend he isn’t affected by your probing questions, by your constant scrutiny. Because, in this moment, he’s realized: He likes this. Likes you.

And for the first time, George allows himself to acknowledge it fully.

You’re still looking at him, the edge of a smile tugging at your lips as you cross your arms. He can’t tell if you’re bothered by all the attention this scene is attracting. No doubt, people would be talking about this moment for days, weeks to come. 

Race winner George Russell and the journalist who allegedly hates his guts. 

“What, no trophy?” you taunt, but the edge in your tone is softened by something that sounds an awful lot like hope. “You’re just going to run over here instead?”

George laughs, breathless but genuine. “Eh,” he says noncommittally, the energy of the moment catching up to him. “Podium’s overrated.”

You let out a snort of laughter. “Can I quote you on that?” 

“You want a quote?” George shoots you a look, one that feels like it’s meant only for you. His grin never falters. “Sure, but you might want to double-check the facts first.”

“Meaning?” 

He knows exactly what this looks like. The way the reporters are still watching, the buzz of their murmurs lingering in the air, as if at any moment they could pounce on whatever he says next. But this moment— right here, with you— it feels like his own. 

He knows he only has a couple of minutes. He’s going to make them count. 

“Meaning,” George says, leaning in even more as though he’s about to tell you something only you can hear. His voice drops a little, just enough for the two of you to feel like you’re in your own little bubble amid the chaos. “Podium? Overrated. But my favorite place to be? Right here, with you.”

He sees it immediately— the moment his words land, the way they yank the rug from underneath your feet. You blink, caught off-guard for a second. It’s the first time he’s been so open, so unfiltered. The kind of thing that, in the middle of the paddock, could make you question if he’s playing to the crowd or if the words are meant to stay between you two.

“Go on, then,” he continues, tone giddy and light all at once. “Write it down, make it sound like I'm all about the race results and trophies. But we both know the real prize is something a little... more personal.” 

The subtle shift in his voice is something new— an undercurrent of sincerity beneath the usual playful teasing. For the first time, there’s no joke in it, no facade.

He means it, you realize. To what extent, you’re not sure, but he means it. 

George is already pulling back before you can do something defensive, like knee him in the groin or demand he be serious. You gulp in some air and build your defenses right back up. 

“Like I said earlier,” you grumble. “Way too comfortable with me, Russell.” 

He giggles— an actual giggle!— and for a brief, electric moment, the tension that’s always hung between you seems to dissolve. There’s no resistance left in him anymore. He’s too used to you, too comfortable, and maybe, just maybe, you’re not as immune to the pull as you thought you were.

“If you think I’m getting comfortable with you now, just wait until the next race,” he says. “Keep your eyes on me, alright?”

He smiles, feeling more at ease than he thought he would. George is realizing that maybe, just maybe, this feeling, this tension, this push and pull is something he’s starting to understand.

The team drags him away. There’s an award ceremony, a national anthem, and a shower of champagne awaiting him; a whole lot of media obligations, too. 

But when he catches the hint of a grin on your face, he swears it’s the same win in a different font. He’s not the only one getting comfortable, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s the beginning of… whatever this is. A nameless, once-every-few-lifetimes type of chemistry. 

George isn’t about to try and fight the alchemy of it all. ⛐

Radio Silence | Chapter Seven

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, more angst (IM SORRY IT'LL GET BETTER SOON I PROMISE).

Notes — Welcome to Oracle Red Bull Racing, Amelia Brown.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2020

The office was quiet in the way only offices designed for genius could be; not sterile, but reverent. Drafting boards and CAD monitors hummed quietly in the background, interrupted only by the soft tick of a mechanical clock that someone had insisted on keeping analogue.

Amelia sat stiffly in the chair opposite Adrian Newey.

He was perched on a stool beside a massive whiteboard, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained faintly with pen ink, as though he’d been sketching ideas directly into the fabric of his shirt. His presence was oddly... nerve-racking. 

Neither of them spoke for the first few minutes.

Amelia rolled her golf ball between her hands in her lap, trying not to bounce her knee. Adrian made a few marks on a fresh sheet of paper, muttering under his breath. It sounded like a stream of formulaic gibberish to anyone else. To her, it was almost a lullaby.

He paused. Looked at her. “Do you have any thoughts?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear them.”

Adrian hummed, and then there was a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I will always listen. I will also always tell you when you are wrong.”

She swallowed, then nodded. Then she gestured to his paper pad. “You’re already sketching the '21 nosecone?”

“Yes. The frontal vortex targets under the new regs are… absolutely maddening. They’ll make cooling a nightmare.” He muttered. 

She shifted forward, almost involuntarily. “Mm. Not if you separate the low-pressure bleed early and feed it into the underside of the side-pod. It could trick the wake into thinking it’s interacting with a full-body airflow.”

He went very still. 

“Interesting,” he said slowly, standing and crossing to the nearest drafting board. He didn’t ask her to explain it again. He just started drawing. She stood too, walking around the conference table in order to stand at his side. Without looking at her, he handed her a pen. 

She made a face at it. “I like red.” 

He didn’t say anything. Just took the black pen back and found her a red one. 

By the time lunchtime rolled around, they had filled three boards, made seven sketches, and the early formation of a concept that wouldn’t just survive under the 2021 regs; it would thrive.

They hadn’t spoken much, not conversationally. Just fragments.

“This doesn’t breathe well at speed.”

“What if we taper the upper control arm here instead?”

“Why does this remind me of the '98 car?”

But somehow, it worked.

By mid-afternoon, Adrian glanced up at her from the schematic they were both hunched over.

“You think in shapes,” he said.

She blinked at him. “You think in sound.”

He smiled, and it was full of promise. “We will make a wonderful pair, Miss Brown.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Oh. Good. I was afraid that you would regret spending three million pounds on me.”

He stared at her for a long moment before laughing shortly. “No regret, Miss Brown. Not a single one.” 

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel anxious. Or lonely. Or burning with the guilt of abandoning McLaren, the team that was synonymous with her family name. 

She tucked the golf ball back into her pocket. “I’ll draw up a more formal aero flow map tonight.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, flipping to a new page. “We’ll build it first. Then reverse-engineer the explanation.”

She grinned, sharp and fast and excited. “We can do that?”

“We can do anything we want.” He told her. 

— 

Christian pushed open the door to the technical office with the kind of hesitant curiosity reserved for someone who was pretty sure they’d told everyone to go home six hours ago.

The light was still on.

At first, he thought maybe the cleaners had left it by mistake. But as he stepped inside, the faint scratch of pencil on paper, the rustle of blueprints, and the hum of two very intense brains in quiet dialogue stopped him dead in his tracks.

Adrian was barefoot now, barefoot, perched on a wheeled chair with one leg pulled up under him like some kind of engineering gremlin, holding a scale model in one hand and gesturing toward it with the other, mid-monologue.

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a yellow golf ball tucked beneath her heel, grease-smudged notebook balanced on her knee, jotting notes at lightning speed while murmuring confirmations like, “Yeah, but the boundary layer separation’s going to collapse here—unless we change the outwash angle…”

Neither of them noticed Christian standing in the doorway.

The room was covered in paper. The whiteboards had no white left. Someone, probably Adrian, had scrawled equations on the glass wall. There was a half-eaten croissant on the radiator. Half of the work was done in black ink. The other half was done in red. 

He took one silent step backward.

Paused.

Then slowly, quietly, pulled the door closed behind him.

From inside, he could just barely hear Adrian’s voice, “Did I ever tell you about the time I built a full wind tunnel model out of my wife’s hairdryer and a vacuum tube?”

Amelia sucked in a breath. “Did it work?”

“It blew the roof off my shed.”

She laughed, genuinely, full of lightness.

Christian exhaled and reached for his phone.

—

iMessage — 00:45am

Christian Horner

We are going to become world champions. 

Helmut Marko

How can you know?

Christian Horner

Newey is barefoot. His intern is laughing. 

Helmut Marko

Mein Gott.

— 

The drive home from Milton Keynes had been quiet; just the low hiss of the car heater and the soft murmur of the radio.

It had been her first week working at Red Bull Racing. She’d stayed in Max’s flat, the one he kept in Milton Keynes but only used when he was in town for sim sessions. 

The high of her first week was still humming under her skin; the buzz of purpose, of being understood, but underneath that, exhaustion tugged at her bones. She felt stretched thin. Too much stimulus, too many new faces. 

But the moment she stepped through the front door, into the warm, lemon-honey air of the house she’d grown up in, none of that mattered.

Her mum was in the kitchen, back turned, humming softly to the radio.

Amelia didn’t say anything.

She dropped her bag quietly, kicked off her shoes, walked straight over and folded herself into her mother’s arms from behind, pressing her forehead between her shoulder blades, breathing her in.

Tracy stilled. Just for a moment. Then she reached back, tugging Amelia around until she could hold her properly; one hand at the back of her head, the other wrapped around her shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles into her jumper.

“Hello, darling,” she whispered. “I missed you.”

Amelia pressed closer, her cheek against her mum’s collarbone. “I missed you too.”

They stood there like that for a long time, the hum of the radio filling the silence between them, a wooden spoon tapping gently against the edge of a pan.

“I saw the article,” Tracy said eventually, voice soft. “And the photos.”

Amelia tensed.

Another piece had gone live, following the Motorsport.com exclusive. Red Bull had shared her official announcement — complete with photographs of her in team gear, standing in the middle of Max and Alex. 

Tracy didn’t let her pull away. “You looked very professional. And happy.” 

“I am,” she said, too fast. Then again, slower. “I am. I just… I’m wishing that he wouldn’t make it so hard.”

Tracy sighed into her hair. “Your father’s not angry with you, love. Not really. He’s angry with himself. He had no idea that you were even receiving offers, let alone considering any.”

Amelia swallowed. Shrugged. “He didn’t want me at McLaren. He never offered. I gave him every chance to.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Tracy pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. “And you were right not to wait forever. You did the brave thing. You put yourself first. I’m proud of you.”

Amelia blinked fast. “I’m not used to that,” she admitted. “Putting myself first. It feels… selfish.”

Tracy brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. “No. Not selfish. It’s how you grow. You’re building race cars with Adrian bloody Newey. That’s something to be incredibly proud of.”

Amelia smiled, weakly. “They call me Mini Newey. All of the engineers. Christian. Max thinks that it’s funny.”

Tracy chuckled, pulling her into a tight squeeze again. “They should call you Better Newey.”

That pulled a real laugh out of her, small and sore and soft.

“Now,” Tracy said, letting her go, “go change into your favourite pyjamas and let me feed you. I bet you haven’t eaten a real meal all week.”

“I’ve been living on machine coffee and stale pastries,” Amelia admitted, already peeling off her jumper. 

Tracy shuddered. “Criminal behaviour. Go on, love. I’ll have dinner on the table in ten.”

As Amelia padded toward the stairs, warmth blooming in her chest, she heard her mum call gently after her. “He’ll come around. He loves you too much not to.”

She didn’t answer, but she nodded once, before disappearing up the stairs.

— 

iMessage — 01:43am

Lando Norris did u leave bc of me like. mclaren it’s okay if u did i just. i just need to know feels like maybe u did and idk. i feel shit also this is prob a bad time. i had like 5 beers and a shot of smth blue was v blue. tasted like acid

Amelia Brown No. Not because of you. You don’t matter to me that much.

Lando Norris ouch ok but like partly bc of me?

Amelia Brown Not everything is about you, Lando.

Lando Norris but some things are

Amelia Brown You started ignoring me. For no reason. Then I got a job designing a future championship-winning car. Those two things are unrelated.

Lando Norris when did u become so meannnn :(

Amelia Brown I’m not being mean. You’re just used to me being quiet when people treat me badly.

Lando Norris i didn’t mean to treat u badly i just panicked everything was getting weird and real and i didn’t know what to say

Amelia Brown So you said nothing. That’s still a choice.

Lando Norris yeah. i know. i’m sorry i miss u sometimes just thought u should know that

Amelia Brown That doesn’t change anything.

Lando Norris yeah i figured ok

Amelia Brown Go home. You are going to feel terrible tomorrow morning. 

Lando Norris already do thanks i guess goodnight mini newey 

Amelia Brown Don’t call me that 

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor with her laptop open in front of her, the Red Bull Racing CAD interface glowing on the screen. Max was half-stretched out on the couch behind her, a bowl of strawberries balanced on his stomach and a bottle of Heineken in hand.

“Okay,” Amelia said, tapping the trackpad. “Front wing redesign is about eighty percent locked. We’re still playing with DRS and airflow under braking, but I think what we’ve got is going to make the car ridiculously sharp into corners.”

Max took a sip of his beer, watching her over the rim. “Ridiculously sharp sounds nice.” He noted. 

“It’ll bite if you get lazy,” she warned him.

He shrugged. “So, just like you.”

Amelia didn’t even look up at him. Over the past few weeks of working with him, she’d learned how to decipher his tones — he was teasing her. “I’m not lazy. You’d die without me.”

He tossed a strawberry at her. She caught it and took a bite.

She turned back to her laptop, sighed, and opened up the email thread that she and Adrian had going. 

Max cleared his throat. “Ah, have you talked to your dad yet?”

Amelia’s fingers froze over the trackpad. “No.”

Max nodded. “He’s still not talking to you?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’. 

“Your mom?” He questioned. 

“She’s trying. He’s just… stubborn. You know what he’s like.” Amelia exhaled. “He thinks I betrayed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know that now.” She rubbed her temple, leaned her head back against the couch. “But I also think I became inconvenient. It was easier when I was just the kid who wanted to build toy cars in the corner. Now I’m—”

“Mini Newey,” Max offered, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She groaned. “Max, stop.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are, though. And you’re building my car, so I’m not complaining.” A pause. “Have you talked to Norris?”

Amelia blinked slowly, then shut her laptop with a quiet snap. “He messaged me two weeks ago. Drunk. Asked if I left McLaren because of him.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Of course not.” She scoffed. What a ridiculous idea. “He just… doesn’t get it. He thinks that everything is about him.”

Max laughed. “He’s nineteen. His brain is still soft.”

“I’m also nineteen,” she muttered, tipping her head back against the couch to look up at him. “I think he’s just emotionally illiterate.”

Max blinked, then grinned. “Tell him that to his face. I’d pay to see it.”

“You’re not a world champion yet,” she shot back. “You don’t get to make demands like that.”

He leaned in, until their faces were almost level. “I will be. And when I am, I’ll buy you a stupidly expensive watch for every podium we get.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You say that now.”

“Mark my words,” he said, puffing his chest in mock pride.

They sat there for a while — not quite friends, not just colleagues. Something in-between. Teammates in the truest sense. Bound by a shared obsession: a championship. A car so fast it betrayed the law of physics.

“I miss him,” she said quietly.

Max exhaled through his nose, slow and even. “He’s a nice boy. Stupid, but nice.”

“I know.” Her voice was barely a breath.

— 

iMessage — 18:15

Fernando Alonso How has your first month at RB been? Do I need to make any angry phone calls?

Amelia Brown It’s been great. Everything’s going better than I could’ve imagined. I’m already making progress. Adrian and I work really well together.

Fernando Alonso I told you so, did I not? You two are very alike!

Amelia Brown It’s a perfect fit, actually. I feel like I’m finally being heard.

Fernando Alonso Good, good. I knew it. You made the right choice. And now, you’re three million pounds richer. That helps too.

Amelia Brown Haha, yes. Very much. I would've probably taken £5, so, thank you for handling the negotiation for me.

Fernando Alonso Mi Nina, for your talents, they would have paid three billion.

Amelia Brown I miss you so much. When are you coming to visit?

Fernando Alonso Soon. I’ve got some meetings in London next month.

Amelia Brown Anything exciting?

Fernando Alonso You’ll be the first to know if there is.

Amelia Brown :)

— 

Lando stood with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, posture defensive. Across the polished meeting table, Zak leaned back in his chair, arms folded tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like it might offer him an answer he hadn’t already lost.

The silence had stretched too long. 

“She’s really gone, huh?” Lando finally muttered.

Zak didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Lando blinked hard. He wasn’t sure what he expected; some kind of denial, maybe. Some reassurance that there was still a version of this where she came back. That maybe Red Bull was just a phase. A test. Something to prove a point.

“She left a hole here,” Zak said eventually. “Not just in the team. In the culture. She was…” he paused, trying to find a word that wouldn’t sound too sentimental. “I didn’t realise how important she was to the team. How much she was involved in.”

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight. “We all let her down.”

Zak looked at him then. Really looked at him. “You liked her.”

It wasn’t a question. Not judgment, either. Just a fact. Like pointing out a flat tire or a burning building.

Lando flinched. “Yeah. I really liked her.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to us,” Zak said quietly. “Any of us. You should’ve fought for her.”

“I couldn’t.” Lando’s voice was sharp, brittle. “I was scared. And stupid.”

Zak let out a rough, humourless laugh. “And I was selfish. I never gave her the recognition she deserved.” He paused. “She was the brain behind the Mercedes deal.”

Lando’s head jerked up, eyes wide.

Zak’s voice dropped, heavy with something close to guilt. “She pulled it all together, handed it to me in a file with start-to-finish instruction. Never asked for credit. I knew she wanted more, deserved more, but I didn’t give it to her. Not because she wasn’t ready. Because I wasn’t brave enough.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I didn’t want to be the one who gave her a shot, because I knew what people would say. Nepotism. Favouritism. They’d talk about her name before they ever looked at her work. And I thought I was protecting her from that.” He shook his head. “But I wasn’t. I was just holding her back.”

Lando stared at him. Silent.

There it was.

The ugly truth of it all.

Lando swallowed thickly. “She was never going to stay.”

“No,” Zak said. “No. I don’t think so.” 

Lando ran a hand over his face. 

She had belonged here once. She had. And they’d both let her feel like she didn’t.

Now she was designing the future with the enemy.

And they just had to sit back and watch it happen.

— 

The paddock buzzed with the usual pre-season chaos; the rhythmic whirr of engines, the sharp sound of tires scraping against the asphalt, and the chatter of team members huddled in tight circles. 

Amelia stood near the Red Bull garage, her posture stiff but her eyes alert, scanning the familiar sea of cars and faces.

It was the start of the 2020 season, and everything felt both familiar and brand new. The sharp smell of fuel lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of freshly waxed cars. But this time, she wasn’t in McLaren orange or one of her father’s old team shirts; this time, she was in Red Bull team gear. Black and dark blue with that iconic bull on her chest, the Red Bull Racing logo proud on her back.

And tucked around her neck, a pair of navy blue Red Bull ear defenders. 

She glanced to her left. Max was chatting animatedly with Christian, the two of them gesturing towards the car as the crew worked around it. Adrian was nearby, bent over a laptop, his face creased in concentration. Amelia would soon be next to him, diving into the data and throwing out her ideas. But for a moment, she lingered at the edge of the paddock, trying to ease herself into this new, new, new. 

Amelia’s gaze drifted toward the McLaren garage, even though she knew she shouldn’t be looking. There was Lando, standing with her dad, his usual smile present but different. Amelia tried not to flinch.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her ear defenders, the cool plastic grounding her, just a little. She had left her golf ball in her office, determined not to need it. 

Her eyes flicked back to the Red Bull car, sleek and aggressive in its design. It was more than just metal and carbon fiber. It was partly her work, her heart and soul poured into something tangible. 

And then, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a camera crew approaching her.

Her stomach dropped. 

The journalist’s voice reached her first, though she barely registered the words. “Amelia, first season with Red Bull Racing. You’ve been working behind the scenes for a while, but now you're here, in the paddock, in full Red Bull gear. How does it feel to be wearing navy blue now, after spending so much time with your father’s team, McLaren?”

Before she could formulate any kind of response, a familiar presence appeared beside her. Max.

He stepped in without hesitation, his body language calm and protective as he leaned slightly into her space. His gaze shifted to the interviewer, who looked briefly excited at the new addition. 

"Need an out?" Max asked her, his voice low enough only for her to hear. His stance was relaxed, but there was something in the way he held himself; a quiet assurance that, if she needed him to, he would get her away. 

The camera crew hovered expectantly, but Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t let the pressure reach her. He stayed right there, like a grounding force beside her.

"Amelia?" The interviewer prompted, waiting for her response.

Max’s eyes softened as he glanced at her. “Say whatever feels right,” he murmured, offering her a smile that was small but understanding. “You don’t owe them anything.”

For a moment, Amelia felt the tension drain from her. This wasn’t a performance. She didn’t have to give them the perfect soundbite. She could speak her truth, on her own terms.

She took a deep breath and, feeling Max still there, solid and supportive beside her, looked directly at the interviewer.

“It feels powerful,” she said simply, her voice steady but soft. It was the truth. For the first time, it felt like she was owning her decisions, not just navigating them. Powerful because this was her journey now. Because, despite everything, she was in total control.

The interviewer didn’t push for more, probably sensing the finality in her words. But the moment lingered for a second longer, like they were all collectively taking a breath.

Max gave her a subtle nod of approval, his lips twitching into a smirk. 

And, just as quickly, the two of them turned and started walking away, the cameras still rolling behind them, but it didn’t matter. Amelia’s shoulders relaxed, a weight lifting, and her feet carried her toward the garage.

— 

iMessage — 19:51

Lando Norris I’m sorry. I know that’s not good enough but I am I’m really sorry. And I want you to know that I’m happy for you. I’m not being sarcastic. You looked beautiful on camera. I’m glad Max was there with you. I wish it had been me.

Amelia Brown Congratulations on the podium finish, Lando.

— 

The morning sun was bright over the circuit as Max and Amelia walked into the F3 paddock. Amelia was wearing a denim dress. Max, in his typical laid-back skinny jeans and plain shirt, had his hands in his pockets and a baseball cap perched low over his eyes. He was always eager to watch the younger drivers, always curious about who might be the next big thing in motorsport.

She was more used to the engineering side of things, but she’d been a fan of motorsport in general since she was a child. The thrill of being here just to watch was amazing. 

They settled into the VIP viewing platform. The race kicked off with an energy that seemed to buzz in the air. Engines roared and the young drivers raced past, navigating the tight turns and high-speed straights with a determination that made Amelia feel the thrill of the sport she’d always loved.

As the race unfolded, Amelia’s eyes were drawn to car 81; Oscar Piastri. The young Australian was carving through the field with an almost eerie calm, moving up with a precision that belied his years. He raced like someone who had been here for ages, his every move instinctive yet calculated, as though he had been born for this.

Amelia felt that familiar pull. It was the same feeling she had gotten watching Lando in Formula Renault all those years ago — a sense that she was witnessing something special. Piastri surged ahead, eventually crossing the line first, claiming the win in the season opener.

“Damn,” Max muttered, impressed. “Kid’s fast.”

Amelia leaned in closer to the barrier, watching as Piastri celebrated with his team, their joy radiating from every hug and high-five. She turned to Max, who was watching her closely, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Don’t get too attached,” he teased. “He’s not yours to claim yet.”

“I’m not trying to claim him,” she replied, her tone steady, though there was an undeniable certainty in her voice. “But I will. When the time comes. And I think...” She trailed off, watching Piastri for a moment longer. “It will come for him very soon.”

Max grinned, shaking his head fondly. “Always thinking ahead, kleine zus.”

Amelia’s eyes remained on the Australian driver, a quiet feeling settling deep in her chest. She couldn’t quite place it.

“His manager?” she asked, her gaze still on Oscar as he laughed with his team, the world around him seeming to pause for a moment.

“Mark Webber,” Max replied, his voice neutral, but his expression unreadable.

“Ah.” Amelia’s lips tipped upward into an amused smile. Mark Webber, who had been central to Red Bull's rise in the sport. She glanced sideways at Max, then back at Oscar. “Mark Webber,” she repeated, her voice soft. “It’s strange, isn't it? Fernando and Mark; rivals. And now, I’m working at Red Bull thanks to Fernando, and Oscar is under Mark’s wing.” She looked at Max, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Formula One is a funny place.”

Max grinned, clearly entertained by the thought. “You can make connections out of anything, can’t you?”

Amelia let out a soft laugh, her gaze returning to the young driver in the distance. “I guess I do,” she said, her voice quieter now, a subtle sense of realisation setting in. “And somehow, they always seem to circle back to Red Bull.”

It was funny how Formula 1 worked that way: legacies, rivalries, and new beginnings always intertwined.

—

iMessage — 00:42am

Amelia Brown

Are you in Woking?

Lando Norris

Yes…?

Amelia Brown

I’m home alone. Come over. I am still angry at you, but I’m ready to talk to you now.

Lando Norris

Ok im omw like right now

Florida; ln4

summary: lando’s frustration is getting heavier and heavier after the 2025 miami gp. and he realizes how much he needs you

➽───────────────❥

pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M)

tw: smut ; semi public sex ; ( you can probably sense some oscar and mclaren hate if you squint but i promise it’s just lando frustration, we love op81 in this house )

word count: around 5k

feedback is always highly appreciated <3

song recs: The alchemy and Florida by Taylor Swift

➽───────────────❥

ditch the clowns, get the crown. baby, i’m the one to beat.

There should have been rain for the whole race.

The forecast had screamed Class 3 to 4 conditions all morning: thunderstorms, visibility drops, full wets on standby. And for a while, it actually delivered, with buckets of water falling from the sky, the track shimmering with standing puddles forcing the F1 Academy race to get cancelled. Team staff and guests all hurrying to huddle in their hospitalities, watching helplessly as the radar lit up in angry, swirling colors.

But then…

Almost as quickly as it arrived, the storm moved on.

The clouds broke open just right before the race. The kind of break that should feel like relief, like the race gods were giving everyone a second chance; but instead, it only made things worse.

The Florida heat returned with vengeance.

And this time, it stuck around like punishment. Now, it clung to every surface, every exposed patch of skin. Heavy and damp, like the air was draped in soaked cotton. The smell of burnt rubber clung low in the atmosphere, mixing with overripe fruit, cheap suncream, and the sweat of 80,000 people packed into the grandstands.

On the contrary, yesterday had been euphoric.

Lando had crushed the sprint race. Calm. Ruthless. Precise. Fierce. With some luck, yes, but he drove like the win had always belonged to him, like he’d just reached out and taken it. And he had, without overthinking, without apologizing. You’d seen it in his face when they gave him the trophy. That pride, that stubborn glint in his eye. The soft kind of smile he wore when he was proud of himself but still pretending not to be. The kind of smile he saved for when he thought no one important was watching.

It had meant something to him.

But today?  A whole different story.

Today, everything had started unravelling from lap one. Like a giant “Fuck You, Lando Norris” sent by the racing gods or something. Or by Max Verstappen.

You saw it happen in real time, and it almost ended you, right there. Max shoving Lando wide like it was a bloody go-kart race at a local track, not an F1 Grand Prix. Your stomach dropped as Lando lost positions, the papaya streak falling back to sixth. You’d barely unclenched your jaw since. Watching him claw his way back up was like watching a lion fight uphillgraceful, strategic, but charged with this quiet, snarling fury.

P2. He got to P2.

And to anyone else, it must’ve look great. But you knew better.

He wanted—deserved—more.

The moment he parked up and climbed out of the car, you could see it all in the way he moved. Not the usual spring in his step. Not the half-silly, smug little strut he had when he was buzzing. This was… restrained. Composed, but tight, like his body was a bottle someone had shaken repeatedly and left sealed.

Oh, he was pissed.

His face was stony, tight-jawed, the way it always went when trying to hold it all in. The helmet came off with a tug, his curls soaked, his brow shiny with sweat, and you could definitely see his fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides, the adrenaline still running hot in his veins.

And then, he looked for you.

Your hand gripped the barrier, unsure if he’d just head straight to debrief or if the press pen would swallow him whole first. But he spotted you, eyes scanning the crowd until they softened the second they landed on yours. He crossed the distance with long strides, the cheers of the crowd a muffled blur in your ears as he reached over the barrier. No words. Just his hand cupping your jaw gently, pulling you into a kiss that was soft, surprisingly soft, considering the war raging behind his eyes.

“Hi,” you whispered as you pulled away, thumbs brushing his cheek. “Good job out there”

“Yeah…” he echoed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. It was so forced it didn’t reach his eyes.

His dad was waiting just beside you, and Lando pulled him into a hug, clapping his shoulder like he was reminding himself to feel normal emotions, to be proud. You stayed quiet, letting the two of them have their moment.

You could practically see the inner monologue running behind his eyes: smile for the cameras, answer the questions, clap for the fans, pretend he’s not absolutely fucking seething.

Under the podium, you tried your best. You cheered, you clapped, you whooped his name loud enough to earn a few laughs from the mechanics around.  But his shoulders were still stiff. He kept glancing over at Oscar like the 1-2 finish was a loss, not a team win. And that pit in your stomach only grew.

By the time you got to his driver’s room, after media duties, the air between you had changed. Everyone else was off celebrating the double podium, but you slipped in behind him, closing the door softly. He peeled his race suit off halfway, sweat clinging to his fireproof undershirt, and tossed his gloves on the table a little too hard. Then came the silence. Long, thick, crackling.

You stayed quiet, back against the door, watching him pace. You’d seen this version of him before. Not often, but when things went sideways just enough to sting, this side of Lando emerged. The one who laughed on camera then collapsed behind closed doors. The one who shouldered the weight of being a contender but carried the guilt of not being enough, in his own head, at least.

“I’m so—fucking tired of this,” he muttered, low, almost to himself.

You said nothing.

“I get pushed off, I fight like hell to get back, and what do I get? ‘Oh, Oscar’s so consistent, Oscar’s leading the championship,’” he snapped, spinning toward you with fire in his eyes. “I won yesterday, out-qualified him and today everyone’s still up his ass like he’s already won the championship as if I didn’t lose the victory because I got forced off .”

You nodded gently, still silent.

“I’m not weak,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “I’m not the fucking number two driver.”

“You’re not,” you said quietly.

He paced again. “And I knew Max would pull that shit. I knew it. But no one says anything. They’re just like ‘oh, hard racing! Max’s so aggressive!’ It’s bullshit, it’s complete—”

“Bullshit,” you echoed, folding your arms when he glanced at you. “Total bullshit.”

You walked up to him slowly, like approaching a wild animal you didn’t want to spook. His hands were on his hips now, the rage simmering, eyes red-rimmed from heat and exhaustion and the effort of not losing it.

“And the media,” Lando snapped, turning suddenly and making you take a half-step back so he didn’t run into you. “Oh my God, the questions. The same stupid shit over and over. ‘Why did it take you so long to overtake Max?’” His voice went high-pitched and mocking as he mimicked the reporter, eyes wide and incredulous. “‘Don’t you think you lacked the aggression and the precision Oscar had?’ Like—what? Are they blind? It took me the exact same amount of time and laps! But no one gives a shit when it’s me. It’s always, what’s wrong with Lando!”

You stayed quiet, leaning against the edge of the table where his helmet sat, still smelling faintly of sweat and champagne. He was spiralling, that much was clear. But he needed to. If you interrupted now, if you tried to comfort him too soon, he’d bottle it up again. You could see it in the way his fists clenched, the tendons in his forearms tight like cords about to snap.

“... then I get snappy—rightfully, by the way—and suddenly I’m the asshole,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. “Watch. I guarantee by tonight, the clip of me telling that guy to go read the lap data before opening his mouth is gonna be trending. ‘Lando Norris is rude to the media!’” he said in a mocking announcer voice. “‘So arrogant and unprofessional!’ Yeah, well, maybe if they asked something useful, I wouldn’t have to babysit them through basic logic.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. He turned away from you, facing the lockers, shoulders heaving. You gave him a second. Then another. Then pushed off the table and walked over slowly, deliberately. You touched his back gently, just a light hand between his shoulder blades.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing heavily.

“I’m trying,” he said after a long moment, voice lower now, tired. “I’m trying so hard. We’re improving the car, I’m changing my driving, adapting every race. And it’s never enough. Oscar finishes ahead, and suddenly he’s the best man ever, and I’m just – some guy hanging on. Like I’m lucky to even be here.”

“You’re not just some guy,” you said quietly, your fingers curling into the damp fabric of his fireproofs.

“I feel like it,” he whispered. “Like no one’s actually with me. Not the media, not half the fans, and lately… I don’t know. Even in the team, sometimes it’s like I have to fight twice as hard to be heard.”

He turned around to face you then, eyes glassy with exhaustion, frustration, and something almost too vulnerable to name. “I don’t want to be second. I don’t race for fucking second.”

“I know, baby” you murmured. “I know”

You reached up to cup his face, thumbs brushing gently at the sweat gathering at his temples. He leaned into the touch like it hurt to stand on his own and your heart cracked a little at the sight.

Lando’s breath stuttered as your fingers brushed down his cheek, his jaw twitching beneath your palm like he was trying to keep it from locking tight again. But the pressure, the sheer weight of what he was holding in, was too much. And it cracked out of him, fast and sharp.

“And the FIA—oh, don’t even get me started,” he spat then, stepping back abruptly. His voice was suddenly louder, echoing slightly off the walls of the cramped driver’s room. “Max pushes me all the way to the goddamn wall, and what? Nothing. Not even an investigation. I had to back out, or I’d be face-first in the barrier at two hundred kph, but that’s just ‘race battling.’ Apparently, risking my life is fine as long as it’s Max doing it.”

You winced, not at his words, but at the way he rubbed the back of his neck roughly, like he wanted to scrape the frustration out of his skin. His fireproofs were still clinging to his frame, unzipped halfway, the tie of the sleeves bouncing loosely at his hips as he paced the room like a man caged in his own thoughts.

“Lando,” you said gently, “I know you’re angry—”

“I’m not angry,” he snapped, rounding on you with a fire in his eyes that startled you. “I’m furious. Because it’s crash or not pass! Literally and if I did that move, if I was the one that pulled the same shit Max did—they’d have me in front of the stewards before I even unbuckled my seatbelt.”

You opened your mouth to try again, softer this time. “But you didn’t crash. You backed out. You chose safety, and that’s not weakness, that’s—”

“Oh, come on,” he bit out, voice rising again. “You think they care that I played it safe? That I didn’t risk a crash? No one gives a damn. All they see is that I didn’t send it and fell to P6.  So they can add it to their ‘Lando’s not aggressive enough’ narrative. That’s the story now. That’s the headline.”

Your stomach turned at the venom in his voice, not because it was directed at you, but because you knew where it was really aimed. At himself. At the world. At everything he couldn’t control. You stayed where you were, though, rooted in place, refusing to flinch.

Then his eyes locked onto yours, and it hit him all at once: how loud he was being, how sharp, how undeserving you were of being the target.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face before dragging them down to his chest like he was trying to center himself. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“I know,” you said, voice quiet.

He looked up again, guilt shadowing the edges of his expression now. “I’m sorry,” he added, softer this time, taking a cautious step toward you. “I shouldn’t be pissed at you.”

The silence that settled between you both was heavy, thick like molasses, filled with words neither of you knew how to shape yet. The only sound was the low hum of the AC unit overhead, the occasional pop of distant champagne bottles echoing faintly from the podium celebrations still happening outside. The contrast felt obscene. There was glitter and celebration barely a wall away, and yet here he was, twisted up in knots so tight it looked like it hurt to breathe.

Lando stood there, motionless for a second, eyes on the floor like the scuffed tile might offer some kind of answer.

Then, softer, voice low and tired, he said, “I’m being a dick.”

You blinked, watching the way his jaw clenched when he said it, like the admission physically pained him.

“I’m being a complete dick and you have nothing to do with it. You’re just… here. Trying to help. And I’m taking it out on you.”

His voice cracked slightly, the sharp edge of vulnerability creeping through. His arms dropped to his sides, limp, like he’d finally let go of the last of his defenses.

“It’s okay, Lan… I know you’re not angry at me”

Your heart ached. You didn’t move at first, afraid that if you did, he might retreat again. But he didn’t. He stepped closer, just one slow, tentative step, followed by another until the space between you evaporated.

And then he folded himself into you.

His arms wrapped tight around your waist as his forehead pressed to your shoulder, and you felt him exhale like he hadn’t properly breathed in hours. You circled your arms around him just as tightly, fingers tracing soft lines against the back of his fireproofs. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

But then he shifted. Pulled back just enough to look at you. And before you could read the look in his eyes, he was kissing you.

It started slow. Tentative. Like he was testing whether he deserved it—this comfort, this soft place to land— or not. His lips were warm and familiar, brushing against yours with a kind of quiet reverence that made your chest tighten.

Without you even realizing it, something slightly changed, the kiss deepened, quickly, like a match catching fire.

His hands moved up: one to the side of your neck, the other pressing into your back, pulling you closer, needing you closer. His breath came faster, more erratic, as if kissing you was the only thing keeping the world from spiralling. His fingers tangled in your shirt, grip tightening, and your back hit the wall before you realised he’d even walked you there.

He kissed you urgently, hungrily, like he was trying to drown out the noise in his head with the press of your mouth. He mumbled against your lips, the words slurred and desperate.

“Just— Please. Help me switch it off.”

Your heart clenched, and not from surprise. You knew this part of him. The version of Lando that needed to do something when the world spun too fast. The boy who’d always been louder with his actions than with words. You could feel the edge in his kiss, the kind of need that wasn’t just about desire, but survival.

So you let him.

You let him kiss you like you were his personal oxygen. Let him press you harder into the wall, bodies flush, fingers fisting the hem of your shirt like he was terrified you might slip away. You ran your hands up into his damp curls, tugging just a little, grounding him to you. His lips left yours only to trail desperate, scattered kisses down your jaw, along your neck, then back up like he couldn’t bear the distance.

There was a soft noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, when your hands slid down to his hips and pulled him impossibly closer. And through all the tension, through the fire inside him and all that frustration, something undeniably tender in the way he clung to you, like he was afraid the second he stopped, the floodgates would open again.

You whispered his name once, just to remind him you were still there, and he stilled, just briefly, forehead resting against yours, eyes closed.

You could feel his heart pounding through his chest and directly to your veins.

“I’ve got you, I’m here” you whispered, your breath brushing his lips.

And he nodded, just once, before kissing you again like the world outside didn’t exist.

His lips never left yours as his hands began tugging at your clothes impatiently, almost clumsy. He moved with no finesse, no teasing glint in his eye this time, no slow burn. Just raw need. Urgency. Like if he didn’t touch your skin right now, he’d go insane.

You tried to catch his wrist, just for a second. “Lando, wait—people are still right outside…”

“Then we’ll be quiet,” he breathed against your mouth, his voice rough and low, a rasp of heat that slid straight down your spine. “… and quick. Just—please, I need you right now. Can we?”

You nodded, and your back inevitably hit the wall again as he yanked your shirt off and shoved your jeans down your legs with a desperate, shaking kind of hunger. His mouth caught yours in yet another bruising kiss, not even bothering to undress you completely before his hands were between your thighs, pulling your underwear aside, just enough.

You fumbled at his waist, breath short and sharp, helping push the fabric down just enough for him to free himself. His cock was already hard, thick and desperate; and you barely registered the drag of his fingers against your hip before he hooked one arm under your thigh and lifted it, lining himself up in the same motion.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t ease in.

He pushed inside you in one long, unrelenting thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and the thoughts from your head. You gasped, back arching off the wall, one hand scrambling against the cold tile behind you while the other clutched at his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, voice shaking. “Sorry, was it too much?”

You shook your head, barely able to form words. “No,” you rasped, voice breathless and shaky, “... don’t stop.”

His body stilled for a second, as if to give you a chance to catch your breath. But you responded with your hips, tilting up and grinding against him with need that was far beyond coherent language.

That was all he needed.

You were already pulsing around him, the stretch overwhelming as he began to move. Deep, fast, his hips snapping forward with a raw, almost frantic pace. There was no rhythm at first, not really. Just need.

No buildup, no play. Just his body crashing into yours like he needed to fuck the madness out of his brain and you were the only way he could do it.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and broken between words. “I’m sorry,” he panted. “… for snapping at you, you’re always so good to me”

Your hands cupped his jaw as best you could, nodding, lips parting around a whimper as he hit that spot inside you again and again, each thrust just a little harder, deeper, like he was driving out every demon that had been riding his back since the checkered flag dropped.

You couldn’t speak, not properly. Just gasps and soft moans, the occasional whispered “Lando…” falling from your lips like prayer.

“I’m here,” he whispered, repeating your exact same words hoarsely while kissing your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve always got you.”

And he did. Even in the chaos. Even when the world outside that door made him feel like he wants’t himself or worthy of love. He had you. Or even better, you had each other.

His hand moved to your ass, gripping hard to hold you up as he thrusted in faster, rougher, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the small room. You couldn’t help but tilting your head back against the wall as your breath came in shorter and shorter gasps, teeth catching your lower lip to keep quiet at every move.

And he noticed. He always noticed.

“Good girl,” he growled, hips still crashing into you relentlessly. “So good. Always so fucking good for me.”

Oh, Lando.

He knew exactly how to get you melted in his arms.

You clenched around him at those words, because that was the effect his praises had on you, earning a deep groan from his chest next. His teeth grazed the line of your jaw. “Fuck baby—this is exactly what I needed. You… you’re everything.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure twisted hot and sharp in your belly.

All you could see, touch, feel was him. Inside you but everywhere. Inside your veins, your brain, your heart.

There was no space for anything else at that moment.

His grip on your thigh faltered, just slightly, a tremor of strain in the way his fingers clenched, muscles tensing beneath the weight of keeping you upright while buried so deep inside you.

You felt it, even before he muttered, breathless against your cheek, “Hang on— c’mhere.”

And then he moved, one arm curling behind your back, the other hooking fully under your leg, and in one fluid, breath-stealing motion, he lifted you and turned, setting you down on the narrow table behind him. The cool press of the metal bit into your skin, but you barely noticed; your whole world narrowed to the heat of him, still pulsing inside you, the way he didn’t even pull out when he shifted you, just slid deeper with the change in angle.

Insane.

A choked gasp left your lips as your back arched, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, arms winding around his shoulders to pull him closer.

So close. Too close. There was no boundaries between where he ended and where you you began.

“Fuck Lan…” you hissed, forehead pressing to his again as he adjusted his stance, sliding one hand to your waist to hold you steady, the other braced on the table behind you.

Then he started moving again. Like a man who couldn’t control himself.

The new angle dragged him even deeper, his thrusts slower now but no less intense. Each one purposeful, hard, and you could feel everything: every thick, perfect inch of him—and he fucking made sure you did.

You clung to him like an anchor, as if letting go would send you both crashing into the chaos that was waiting for you just beyond that thin wall.

And that wall was thin.

So thin that, even now, muted laughter and the occasional whoop of celebration echoed from the other side, reminders that the world hadn’t stopped spinning even though it felt like yours had. A bottle popped somewhere nearby. Applause rippled.

And here you were, gasping quietly as Lando fucked you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

Then he shifted, just a little, and his next thrust hit that spot inside you. The one that made your eyes roll back, the one that usually tore screams from your throat without warning.

You jolted, a sharp cry slipping from your lips before you could catch it.

Because a pleasure like that, it was so difficult to keep inside quietly.

But Lando’s hand was on your mouth in an instant, not harsh, just urgent. Gentle pressure. “Shhh, baby, I know. I know. But you have to be quiet for me, okay?” His voice cracked with the effort of holding back, of not losing control even when he was this deep inside you.

You nodded against his palm, pupils blown wide, hips shifting as your body begged for more. He kissed your temple, your cheek, whispering low into your ear, “You’re doing so good. I’ve got you.”

His hand slipped down, only to be replaced with two fingers that he gently pressed against your lips. You knew what he wanted. And you let him.

You opened your mouth and took them in. Your tongue curling around the pads instinctively, and the sound you made around them was now muffled.

“There we go, such a good girl” he praised you again, thrusts never faltering. “So fucking good.”

His eyes locked with yours, intense and unblinking, like he was memorizing the way you looked with your lips around his fingers, your body trembling around him, your soul practically laid bare.

It was honestly absurd the way a raw and intense situation like this, made you feel loved beyond belief.

You felt it in the way his free hand cradled the back of your head, protecting you from the wall behind you when he leaned in, chest pressed to yours. You felt it in the way he whispered your name between thrusts like it grounded him, like it was the only word he could remember.

You moaned softly around his fingers as he kept driving into you, the table rattling quietly beneath your ass with every push. Your whole body burned, nerves lit up like wire, pleasure surging higher with every deep grind of his hips.

He was still holding back, still doing everything he could to keep you quiet, even as he fucked you like a man on the edge.

“I’m right there,” he breathed, forehead to yours. “So close. Can you come for me, baby? Together, yeah ?”

You nodded again, frantic, hips rolling up to meet his as he angled just right—there, that spot again, and you clenched like crazy around him with a strangled sob.

And you were gone.

Your whole body shook as you came. You pulsed around him, fluttering tight, and that’s what finally broke him.

With a soft curse, Lando buried himself deep, holding you there, locked in place as he came hard, his whole body trembling with it. He pressed his lips to your cheek, to your jaw, to the corner of your mouth as he breathed through the waves of it.

But he didn’t stop.

Even as he came, even as his body trembled from the intensity of it, Lando didn’t fucking stop. His hips stuttered once, twice, then picked up again, slower but deeper, like the need was still burning through him, like one release hadn’t been enough to purge whatever storm raged inside.

“Shit, Lan…” Your breath hitched as he moved again, pushing deeper than before and enough to make your spine arch and your fingers clutch at his shoulders. One of his hands sliding down to hook under your thigh. He lifted it: high and open, curling it around his waist as he shifted forward, and the new angle punched a moan out of you so sharp you had to bit down his fingers.

Your whole body was already trembling from the first orgasm, nerves raw and sparking, and now he was chasing another.

Again, insane.

But at the end of the day, you knew he had stamina. And energy. And adrenaline to burn down.

“You feel too good, baby…” he murmured against your neck, his lips dragging heat along your skin. “I can’t stop...”

But then he did something extremely dangerous: he pulled his fingers from your mouth.

And as predicted, your gasp came out instantly, too loud, too full of need, and your hand slapped over your own mouth to muffle it again.

But Lando was grinning. Wicked, breathless, sweat dripping from his temple.

“Oh no,” he teased, voice rough, cock still thrusting slow and deep, “you’re gonna get us caught, baby. Gotta be quiet, or I’m gonna shove those fingers right back.”

You shot him a glare, but it crumbled into something softer, something delirious with lust. And love.

You surged forward, lips crashing against his in a kiss that was messy and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues tangled. A moan escaped into his mouth, and he swallowed it like oxygen.

His pace picked up again.

No more slow thrusts. He was driving into you now with wild intent, a man chasing dopamine, chasing something only you could give him. Each stroke rocked the table beneath you more and more, his hands gripping your hips tight, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get close enough.

But then—footsteps.

And a voice.

“Mate, you in there? Debrief in five!”

Everything froze.

Your entire body froze in panic, tensed around him, eyes wide, hand flying back over your mouth. Lando’s eyes snapped toward the door, but he never pulled out. His breath hitched, then he leaned into your neck, lips brushing your ear.

“Yeah,” he called, casually. Too casually. “Just a minute, man. I’ll be out in a few.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Every cell in your body screamed at you to stop, to push him away, to get dressed and get out before someone walked in on you. But then he moved again.

Thrust.

Unhurried.

Deep.

Intentional.

“Lando,” you hissed, laughing softly but still half-panicked. “We almost got caught.”

“Yeah, almost,” he whispered, voice low and hot against your neck.

You let out a strangled sob into your hand as he rolled his hips once more, lips curling against your skin. “I’m not leaving you hanging love, don’t worry,” he whispered, so low it vibrated straight through you. “We’re not done.”

“You’re insane”

“Yeah?” He kissed your neck, soft and reverent, then drove into you again, this time faster. “And you are so close again. I can feel it.”

You whimpered, fingers digging into his back like it was the only way to stay grounded.

“Let me feel it one more time, yeah? Give it to me.”

You were trying so hard not to cry in pleasure. Overwhelmed, overstimulated, and yet, still aching for it.

He reached between you, hand finding that sweet bundle of nerves just above where you were joined. Two fingers circled there, slow and practised, just enough pressure to make you see vivid galaxies before your eyes.

“There you go. That’s it. ”

Your entire body clenched, and the second orgasm hit with a force that nearly blacked you out.

Lando caught your mouth with his as you came, swallowing every whimper, holding you so tight your bodies might’ve fused into one another right there.

He followed just seconds later, his rhythm faltering, one final thrust that sent him over again, shaking, spilling every drop inside you and clinging to you so tightly you could feel him everywhere.

You didn’t move at first.

Neither did he.

There was something sacred in that silence: your bodies still locked together, your breathing synced as if even your lungs refused to let go. Lando’s forehead rested lightly against yours, his eyes closed, lashes damp at the corners. He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry,” he murmured softly, voice thick. “You’re very much the only thing that keeps me sane in here”

Your fingers smoothed through the curls at the back of his head. “Don’t apologize,” you whispered, your voice barely noticeable. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes opened, just a crack, and the look he gave you made your chest ache. There was so much in it. Gratitude. Guilt. Love. And maybe some exhaustion.

“We always got each other, right? ” you said gently. “That’s what matters.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just stayed there, holding you like he didn’t quite trust the world not to take you away if he let go.

Eventually, he shifted, kissing your cheek once more, then your jaw, and the soft spot just below your ear, before he finally, reluctantly, eased out of you.

You both flinched a little at the loss of warmth, of closeness. He pulled his fireproofs up with shaking hands, then turned to you immediately, helping guide your legs back down to the floor, steadying you with both hands on your waist. You wobbled, knees uncooperative, and he let out a breath of laughter so soft it was almost fond.

“Easy,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours again. “I may have been a little rough.”

“A little?” You smiled, lips brushing his as you replied, “…I’m not complaining” making him giggle a little.

He helped you with your clothes next while you tried to clean up as best you could. And when his thumbs swiped gently under your eyes to clean the smudged mascara, his touch feather-light, you were sure you felt your heart jump inside your chest.

You caught his wrist before he could pull away.

“Lando.”

He looked up, eyes locking with yours. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d said it, of course. But right now, in this moment, after everything, when you were both messy and vulnerable and exposed, it landed differently.

He needed to hear it. Needed to know that someone was there for him, through heaven and high water.

As his eyes softened, he smiled, taking your hand in his. “I know baby, I love you too,” he said.

Then, you leaned forward and kissed him again. It was slower now, sweeter. When you finally pulled away, you tapped the tip of his nose with your finger. “Okay, now go,” you said. “They’re waiting for you. Go do the debrief. Analyse, dissect, argue, whatever it is you guys do in there.”

He groaned, head tipping back. “I don’t want to.”

“I know,” you said with a small smile, straightening the collar of his suit. “But you know you’ll feel better after. Wrap it up, then we’ll go home, crawl into bed, and hit reset.”

He kissed you once more, just a quick but tender peck in your lips before he finally stepped back. He looked down at himself, smoothed his hair out with his fingers, and gave a deep sigh. “Alright. But I want massive burgers later!”

You nodded and gave him a gentle push toward the door, slapping his ass. “Yeah I know, with fries and dips. ”

Again. - Lewis Hamilton.

The dim glow of ambient lighting flickered over the elegant living room, casting a warm haze over the intimate gathering. Conversations hummed around the space, glasses clinking, low laughter drifting between groups of people. It was one of those nights—exclusive, understated, filled with familiar faces, but not enough to make it overwhelming.

And then there was him.

Lewis.

You had barely set foot inside before your eyes landed on him, just as he turned toward you, as if he could sense your presence before even seeing you. For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in his gaze—recognition, warmth, hesitation—before he smiled.

"Hey, bunny."

His voice was warm, a little softer than you expected. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, the scent of his cologne stirring something deep in your chest. For a moment, you almost forgot how long it had been.

"Hi, Lew."

It was simple. Casual. Pretending that nothing had changed, even though everything had.

And then, just as quickly, the moment passed. He stepped back, let his hand linger on your arm for a beat too long before walking away, joining a group of his friends.

The night went on like that. Lingering glances. Almost interactions. The strange push and pull of two people who had once shared everything but now lived in separate orbits.

You were doing fine. Or at least, you thought you were—until someone approached you.

He was attractive, confident, clearly interested. He struck up a conversation with ease, his charm effortless. And why not entertain it? You were single. You owed Lewis nothing.

But before things could go anywhere, before the man could even brush his hand against yours, Lewis was there.

Right there.

The shift in the atmosphere was instant.

Lewis didn’t push or shove, didn’t raise his voice. He simply stepped into the space between you and the other man, placing a hand on his shoulder in a way that was both firm and dismissive. His expression was neutral, but his eyes burned.

"You’re done here."

It was polite. Technically. But there was no mistaking the command in his tone.

"Relax, man. She can—"

"I said, you’re done."

The other man hesitated. He looked at you as if to gauge your reaction, but before you could say anything, he scoffed, shaking his head before backing away.

And then, silence.

You exhaled, the tension still heavy between you and Lewis.

"You can’t just do that," you murmured, crossing your arms.

"I can do whatever I want," he shot back, his voice low, rough.

And damn it if that didn’t send a shiver down your spine.

"You don’t get to decide who talks to me."

"Maybe not." He took a step closer, eyes locked on yours. "But I’ll be damned if I stand there and watch someone else touch what’s mine."

Your breath caught.

"Lewis—"

"Come with me."

It wasn’t a question.

And maybe you should have said no. Maybe you should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

The ride to his place was quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy with words unspoken. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

By the time you stepped into his apartment, the weight of the night settled around you.

"We always do this," you sighed, leaning against the counter.

"Do what?"

"This." You gestured between you. "Get pulled back into each other like this."

He didn’t argue. He just watched you, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Because it’s never really over," he finally said, voice softer now. "Not for us."

Your chest ached.

"We tried, Lew."

"We didn’t try hard enough."

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head.

"You travel. I work. We barely saw each other. It wasn’t working."

"So? I’ll take you with me."

You blinked, stunned into silence.

"What?"

He stepped forward, hands resting on your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress.

"Wherever I go, you go. I don’t give a damn anymore. You think I care what anyone says? About schedules, logistics?"

You scoffed, looking up at him. "And my job? You’re out of your mind."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "You know money’s not an issue here."

Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could say anything else, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’re mine. And no one—no one—touches what’s mine."

And then, just like that, his lips were on yours.

And you were gone.

PRESSED BETWEEN PAGES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever." - Lord Alfred Tennyson

ᝰ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: fluff!!! mention of one (1) fight, yuki is in love ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: turns out me and a have a shared favorite quote! i'm a big lover of the language of flowers so this one is special to me ꨄ︎ requested by @hello-car-fandom !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Yuki doesn’t say much when you change the flowers.

It happens quietly, usually on a Sunday. The kind of slow morning where the sky hangs low and the light in the apartment turns golden for no reason at all. Sometimes he’s just getting back from a run, shoes damp with dew, shirt clinging to his back. Sometimes he’s on the couch, scrolling through lap data, one leg tucked under him and his hair still damp from the shower.

You move through the room like it’s something sacred—plucking limp stems from glass jars, fingertips stained with water and wilting green. On the kitchen counter. By the window. Once, tucked inside a toothbrush cup by the bathroom sink.

You never make a big deal out of it. Just hum under your breath and hum again when the new bouquet unfurls its petals under the faucet. It’s the only way you really keep track of the seasons, you told him once, hands full of lilacs and eucalyptus. When you don’t have time to notice the air changing or the daylight shifting, you trust the florists to do it for you.

He listens to that in the back of his mind, files it away. Like how tulips mean spring. Daisies mean rain is coming. Marigolds mean you’re starting to sleep with the fan on again.

He never says anything when the old ones go. Just watches as you slide them from their vases, one by one, and lay them gently into the compost bin. The petals fall apart in your fingers sometimes, thin and papery. The stems bend too easily. They’ve softened with time.

But when you leave the room—off to take a call, or switch on the kettle, or pull laundry from the dryer—he moves.

Softly. Like it’s a secret. Like he’s doing something wrong, though it never really is.

He reaches into the bin, fingers threading through damp coffee grounds and orange peels until he finds the stems. Not all of them. Just one. Maybe two. The ones still holding their shape, even if their color has started to fade.

❀˖° THE TULIP - APRIL °˖❀

The front door creaks open with the soft click of a key turning too carefully, like he’s afraid to wake the walls.

Yuki drops his duffel bag quietly just inside, his shoulders stiff from the flight, neck aching from hours spent tilted awkwardly against the seat. Tokyo rain clings to the sleeves of his hoodie, tiny dark circles blooming where it soaked through.

He’s barely taken a step inside when he sees you—curled up on the couch, arms folded tight against your chest, knees drawn in like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. You’re asleep, mouth parted just slightly, hair falling across your cheek. The TV flickers with the low hum of some late-night rerun, casting moving shadows over the blanket tangled around your legs.

He moves quietly, kneeling beside the coffee table. That’s when he sees the bouquet—still wrapped in brown paper, tulip heads peeking shyly from the fold, pale pink and a little bruised around the edges.

The receipt is folded underneath it, timestamped from hours ago. You must have picked them up right after your shift. You must’ve waited.

Yuki swallows around something that tastes too much like guilt and gratitude and everything in between. He should wake you. He doesn’t.

Instead, he touches one of the tulips lightly, presses the soft edge of its petal between his fingers. He smiles, just a little. Then he stands, pads over to the kitchen, and pulls an old mug from the cupboard. Fills it halfway. Snips the stems like you always do.

By the time you stir awake, groggy and blinking through the television static, the tulips are standing tall in the center of the kitchen table, catching the soft, early light of dawn.

You don’t even notice the single tulip missing from the bunch.

But Yuki does. He presses it between the pages of an old notebook that night, the faintest scent of your waiting still clinging to its petals.

❀˖° THE DAISY - JUNE °˖❀

The clouds break with no warning.

One second it’s thick summer air, heavy with sun and the low buzz of heat, and the next it’s thunder cracking over the buildings and rain hitting the pavement like applause.

You don’t even flinch.

Yuki’s still drying his hair from a post-run shower when he hears the balcony door slide open. The curtain lifts with a gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet concrete and ozone.

When he walks into the living room, towel draped over his shoulders, he freezes at the sight of you—barefoot, already soaked, arms outstretched like you’re trying to catch the sky in your hands.

You laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed—spinning once on your heel like a kid. Your white T-shirt clings to your sides, and your hair sticks to your forehead in wet strands, but you don’t seem to care.

“It’s raining,” you say, like he hadn’t noticed.

“I can see that,” he replies, deadpan—but he doesn’t pull you back inside. He leans on the doorframe, watching you twirl barefoot on the slick tiles, lightning stitching its way across the clouds.

There’s a tiny jar by the railing with a single daisy, already sagging under the weight of the water. You must’ve grabbed it from the little garden box, some spontaneous, sunlit moment made permanent in glass.

He’ll take it inside later—after the sky clears, after you’ve come back in, dripping and radiant, tugging him by the wrist to dance with you in puddles.

That night, while you’re brushing your hair out, back turned to him in the mirror, he plucks the daisy from its jar and slips it between the pages of a half-filled journal.

Even months later, it still smells like summer rain.

❀˖° THE MARIGOLD - LATE AUGUST °˖❀

The silence after the argument feels like its own kind of noise.

Yuki sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. You’re in the kitchen, pretending to do dishes, though all he hears is water running and not much else.

Neither of you meant for it to go that far. The fight was stupid—about groceries, or maybe laundry, or maybe the way he sometimes shuts down when things get hard. You’d raised your voice. He’d left the room.

Now it’s sunset, and the apartment glows with that soft, golden hush that only comes once a day, like the light is trying to forgive everything it touches.

When you appear in the doorway, your expression isn’t angry anymore. You’re holding something in your hands—a marigold, still bright, pulled from the vase on the table.

You walk up to him slowly and offer it out, wordlessly.

He looks up, meets your eyes. Then he laughs—quiet and a little embarrassed—and takes the flower from you, twirling it once between his fingers.

“I was an ass,” he says.

“You were tired,” you reply. “So was I.”

He tugs you down beside him, your thigh pressed against his. The marigold rests between you on the bedspread, its orange glow catching the last of the sun.

Later, he pretends to be asleep while you make dinner. He slips the marigold into a folded napkin and places it gently in the spine of his notebook.

It smells like apologies and soft light and the feeling of coming home again.

Each flower is carefully flattened between the pages of an old notebook he keeps zipped up in the lining of his suitcase. He doesn't need to label them. He remembers. Which flower came from which Sunday. Which week you couldn’t sleep. Which day you laughed so hard you spilled water all over the counter.

Sometimes, he tucks one into his pocket before a flight or race weekend. It crumbles a little each time he does, but it’s still enough. Just a whisper of the color, the shape—of you.

You never notice.

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you started tying the stems with twine now, something softer and easier to unwind, like you’re giving permission. Like you’re saying, go on, take this one too.

And he does.

Quietly, always.

Growing Pains | Max Verstappen ( The Masterlist )

SUMMARY — It started with berry stained fingers. Karting suits that were slightly too big. The sickening crunch of metal and the silence that followed.

If you asked Max Verstappen to pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Mila Meijer, he'd say, 'Lonato, Italy. 2005. Behind my father's van. In a blackberry bush.'

If you asked Mila Meijer when she fell in love with Max Verstappen, she'd smile, blush, and ask, 'Which time?'

WARNINGS — Career ending spinal-injuries and the aftermath, coming of age, abusive parents (very vague), death of a parent, racing accidents, PTSD, chronic pain, time skips, eventual smut.

AUTHOR NOTES — Welcome to the Mila/Max universe! I hope you guys fall in love with them the same way that I have.

No taglist! If you want notifications for my updates only, follow @pitlanelive and turn on notifications!

Chapter One

Insomniac

Toto Wolff x wife!Reader

Summary: you’re tired of falling asleep in an empty bed due to your workaholic husband’s sleepless nights

Based on this request

You rub your eyes and blink a few times, adjusting to the soft glow of the lamp on the end table as you lift your head from the couch cushion.

2:17 AM.

Again.

This makes the fifth night in a row that you’ve fallen asleep alone on the living room sofa, having given up on the hope of Toto joining you in your shared bed upstairs. The cashmere blanket wrapped around your legs does little to ward off the chill of the night, and you suppress a shiver as you sit up.

With a sigh, you slide out from under the afghan, the plush carpet soft under your bare feet as you quietly make your way out of the living room and down the hall. The sliver of light peeking out from underneath the closed door of the study confirms your suspicions — Toto is still awake, still working at this ungodly hour.

Ever since the news broke that Lewis would be leaving Mercedes for Ferrari at the end of the season, Toto has been unable to relax. He barely sleeps, poring over stats and projections deep into the night as he tries in vain to figure out how to move forward.

You know he feels responsible — for building the team into what it is, for leading it to seven constructors’ titles, for creating an environment where Lewis could thrive. Letting him go feels like a monumental failure in Toto’s eyes, even though rationally there was nothing else to be done. Lewis’ mind was made up.

But knowing how reasonable a decision it was does nothing to quiet the ceaseless chatter of Toto’s anxious thoughts. He second guesses himself constantly, running through hypotheticals and what-ifs over and over.

What if he had offered more money? More freedom? What if he had anticipated Lewis’ wandering eyes and somehow convinced him to stay? But you know better than anyone that his hands were tied — Mercedes’ board of directors simply would not cooperate with his suggestions.

You understand Toto’s anguish, but his sleepless agonizing is starting to take a toll. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, and the weight of his responsibilities hangs heavily from his slumped shoulders. His embraces are no longer as warm, his kisses no longer as tender. He retreats into his own head, consumed by doubts and regrets, and you feel him slipping away day by day.

Enough is enough, you decide. If Toto won’t take care of himself, then you will have to take matters into your own hands.

You tiptoe to the kitchen and quietly replace Toto’s usual late-night dark roast with decaf. It won’t stop him from working, but at least it won’t add fuel to the fire of his racing thoughts.

After preparing for bed yourself, you head down the hall, suppressing a shiver as your bare feet meet the cool wood floors. Pausing outside the study door, you turn the thermostat down just a couple degrees. It’s a subtle change, but you know Toto will notice, and it just might make him long for the warmth of your shared bed.

Taking a breath, you gently rap your knuckles against the door and let yourself in. Toto is exactly where you expected, hunched over his desk with his brows furrowed, staring fixedly at his laptop screen.

“Hey,” you say softly so as not to startle him. “It’s getting pretty late, I’m going to head to bed.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs absently, barely glancing up.

You stifle a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. “Are you coming?” You ask hopefully.

“In a bit,” Toto mumbles. “I just need to finish this analysis.”

You sigh, walking over to him and sliding your arms around his shoulders. “Toto, please,” you plead, nuzzling into his neck. “Come to bed. You need to rest.”

He reaches up to give your hand a quick, distracted pat. “Soon, liebling. I promise.”

Accepting that you won’t sway him now, you kiss his stubbly cheek and head for the door. “Don’t stay up too much longer,” you implore, then make your way back down the hall.

Once in your bedroom, you go through your regular bedtime routine, brushing your teeth and washing your face. But instead of climbing into your big empty bed, you find yourself wandering further down the hall to the nursery.

Pushing open the door, you pause to gaze at your sleeping infant daughter in her crib, her little chest rising and falling with soft even breaths. The corner of the room holds a cozy cushioned rocking chair, and you sink down into it with a yawn, the lateness of the hour finally catching up to you. Your eyes drift closed as you let the gentle motion lull you towards sleep.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when you feel strong arms sliding under your knees and behind your back, lifting you from the chair. You let out a soft murmur, still more asleep than awake, as Toto carries you from the nursery. Resting your head against his chest, you breathe in his familiar scent as he brings you down the hall to your bedroom.

Gently, he lays you down on your bed, brushing a wisp of hair back from your face as he pulls the covers up around you. Through bleary eyes, you see him cross to the dresser and begin shedding his clothes, swapping his button-down and slacks for a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Finally, he climbs in beside you with a weary sigh, and you immediately nestle against him, seeking his warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead as his arms encircle you.

You lift your head to meet his tired blue eyes. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I know this has been hard for you.”

He shakes his head slightly. “That’s no excuse. You shouldn’t have to deal with my restlessness.”

You reach up to cup his cheek. “We’re in this together, remember?” You remind him gently. “For better or worse.”

The corners of his mouth twitch in a hint of a smile. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Hmm, I don’t know if it’s come up,” you tease.

He gives you a playful little squeeze. “Well I do. So much.” His voice grows more serious then. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m thankful for you every day.”

You grin and snuggle impossibly closer. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Wolff.”

His low chuckle rumbles pleasantly against your cheek. “I mean it though. You’re my rock. My safe place. With everything going on ...” He trails off with a heavy exhale.

Reaching for his hand, you lace your fingers through his and give a supportive squeeze. “I know. But it’s going to be okay. Mercedes will find their way again, with you leading the charge. You’re the heart and soul of this team, Toto. You brought them this far, and you’ll bring them even further.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” he admits softly. “I just hope I can live up to it.”

“You will,” you say without hesitation. “You’re the most driven, passionate person I know. Your commitment is unmatched. If anyone can navigate these changes, it’s you.”

Toto is quiet for a moment, his thumb gently caressing your knuckles. “Thank you,” he says finally. “Just … thank you. For believing in me. For supporting me. For loving me, even when I’m being a stubborn arschloch.”

You grin. “Well, you’re my stubborn arschloch. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He laughs then, the sound warm and rich, and you feel some of the tension leave his body.

“No more working until sunrise though, okay?” You implore, threading your fingers through his hair. “You need to take care of yourself too.”

He nods, eyes shining with affection. “Okay. I promise.”

Satisfied, you nestle against his chest once more, comforted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His lips find the top of your head in a tender kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “So very much.”

You smile softly, already drifting towards sleep in the safety of his arms.

“I love you too,” you whisper. And with a contented sigh, you surrender to the pull of peaceful slumber, the two of you wrapped up in each other as you should be.

No more empty beds or sleepless nights. Just the comforting nearness of the man you love.

Your partner.

Your home.

my only sunshine — george russell

george russell x fem!reader [1.9k] summary: george feels like the whole world has come crashing down, but he luckily has you to pick him up. warnings: 18+ explicit smut & language, hurt & comfort a/n: i felt so so bad for george last night that i couldn't help but imagine how it'd be like to comfort him afterwards. i wasn't originally planning on writing smut but figured i'd throw it in there. anyway, hope you like this, lmk if you do!! <3

Silence. It’s all you’re in after the day has slid toward its end, the rumbling of the car providing you with the slightest comfort as you sit next to the man who’s given you so much. So much love, hope, inspiration and everything that you can’t seem to reciprocate at the moment because you can see that he’s dissociating, eyes staring off into the distance but it’s like he’s not looking. Just… seeing.

His hand in yours is warm, clammy, but he’s holding it tightly like he can’t seem to bear to let it go in fear of breaking down completely; Like your hold is the only thing tethering him to sanity. It makes your stomach twist and your heart ache with gruelling worry.

He mumbles hello’s and thank you’s as he guides the both of you through the lobby of the hotel, saying nothing as you press the elevator button. You can’t stop looking at him, wondering what he’s thinking but you know it can’t be anything good judging by his glassy eyes, red-rimmed with unshed tears.

George had been so close to podium, so close to getting that win he deserved and fought hard for. It had almost felt like reality slipped from your fingers as you watched his car lose control, taking him out of the race before any of you had time to blink. The garage had been in despair for your boyfriend and so had you, conflicted with Lewis’ win as he raced toward the finish line. Nothing has quite managed to break your heart as hearing your boyfriend’s voice over the radio, holding back tears for the sorrow he must’ve been feeling.

You stare at the tension in his back as he walks into the hotel room, shuffling through your thoughts and wondering whether you should speak or not. You know from experience that he’ll come to you eventually, and he will seek comfort in his own, wordless way but it doesn’t stop you from desperately wanting to reach out to him.

George turns when you drop your bags on the floor, giving you a slight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and you give one back.

“Go have a shower, I’ll order us something to eat.” You grab his hand in yours and watch as his fingers scramble to hold on, head nodding slowly. You press a kiss to his open palm. “Go.”

He goes without any preamble, leaving the door ajar and you walk around the room to redress into something comfier before calling for room service.

It’s a hot and stuffy night, but you welcome the slight breeze when you crack open the balcony doors and walk outside to take a look. It’s a gorgeous city filled with good memories, and you’d hate to think that tonight would taint them.

The sound of the shower running acts as background noise, and you get lost in your thoughts before the creak of the bathroom door pulls you out of them. You turn around and timidly walk inside, trying to tamper the sudden speed of your heart at the sight of your boyfriend walking across the room in his underwear; scrubbing his wet hair with a towel with way more aggression than necessary.

It’s the first sign he’d given you that he’s angry, ever since he first jumped out of his crashed car. He sniffles, the sound too loud in the silent room and you gingerly sit on the bed because you don’t know what to say to make it better.

You know that it’s something that he’ll eventually get over. Not completely, but the feeling of sadness and disappointment will dissipate with time. Right now, he just needs to lick his wounds.

He flings the towel in the direction of the sofa, missing it completely and it falls with a thump on the floor but you don’t focus on it for too long, watching George as he finally meets your eyes.

He’s been crying.

George’s eyes are red, watery and it makes your heart clench fiercely as you stretch your arms out for him to fall into. He doesn’t say a word as he lets you hold him, the shaking of his shoulders a clear indication that he’s finally broken down.

“You’re okay.” You whisper into his wet hair, holding his head so delicately as you fight your own tears off.

He doesn’t say anything as he cries and you don’t even know what you whisper to him, but it seems to work because his sniffling eventually fades off. You stroke his wet hair and kiss his head, pulling him in closer to you, like it’s possible to be any closer than you already are.

“I fucking had it.” He says it so quietly that you almost miss it.

But it’s there, and he sounds angry with himself.

“I know.” It’s all you can say, knowing that there’s nothing else that can help him.

“I just had to go fuck it all up.”

You tighten your grip on him, guiding his head from your chest to look at his face. It’s heartbreaking to see the dried streaks on his cheeks, long eyelashes clumped together from the tears but he looks as beautiful as ever.

“You didn’t fuck anything up.” Your voice is firm, thick with emotion but you power through. “Shit happens, you can never predict the outcome of these races and you know it better than anyone. It was a long race, and you did your best. That’s all you can ask of yourself.”

He shakes his head.

“I should’ve done better.” His eyes fill with tears again, eyebrows scrunching up in anguish. “I could’ve done better.”

“Maybe so.” You brushed a thumb under his eye. “But you did your best at that moment, baby. It’s a tough track.”

He made a noise of dissent and you leaned forward to press a kiss to his warm cheek, keeping your lips there. The way he subconsciously leaned into it made your chest tighten in adoration.

“You’ll always be amazing to me, Georgie.” You whispered against his skin. “I don’t know if that counts for something, but it’s the truth.”

He turned his head so your lips caught the corner of his, making you smile.

“It means the world, and you know it.” He said, squeezing your hip. “I love you.”

“I love you.” You waited until he turned his head fully, accepting the kiss that he was quick to press to your mouth.

It was like a switch had been flipped the moment your lips opened up to each other, George placing both hands on either side of you so he could guide you up the bed until he was looming above you. You sucked in a well needed breath when he trailed his lips down, kissing and sucking your jaw and throat in urgency.

“George…” The sound of his name from your lips made him stop and glance up, eyes trained on you. “Are you sure you wanna do this now?”

His answer came in the form of a kiss that stole the breath from your lungs, your legs caging his hips in and bringing your crotches together. The shudder that he let out was like music to your ears, low and heavy. Almost like some weight had been lifted off his shoulder and just that alone made you want to do more, to distract him from tonights loss and show him how great he was.

“Nothing I want more.” He murmured against your lips, fingers slipping into your joggers and underwear, slicking up his digits.

A shudder left your lips, hands gripping his shoulders and spreading your legs wider for him to properly settle between as he slowly fingered you. It was quick, thumb circling your clit just the way he knew you liked until you were coming apart under him.

He loved on your lower lip as you cried out your orgasm, eyes trained on your face because he just couldn't look away from how pretty you looked. It made him physically hurt how much love he had for you, how grateful he was that you managed to pick him up so easily when all he wanted to do was close in on himself.

No one had ever managed to simultaneously fill him up with so much love and inspiration like you did, and the adoration he felt for you in that moment felt like too much to bear. So, he hurried his movements when he felt you starting to shudder from overstimulation, reaching down to push his underwear far enough to get himself out of the confines.

"George, please." Your pleas made his hands shake as he slid the length of his cock up your pussy, wetting it in the process and hearing you moan. "Please, just hurry up and fuck me."

He didn't need to be told twice, notching himself by your hole and glancing up at you; waiting for your nod of consent before he pushed himself inside. The both of you moaned in unison, George's mouth dropping open at the combined feeling on your tightness and wetness, the warmth enveloping his cock as you reached your hands up to grab at his damp hair.

"Oh, fuck." He bottomed out, arms shaking to keep himself hovering over you. "Fuck, you feel good."

You pushed your chin out and George almost smiled at the gesture, knowing what you wanted without you having to verbally tell him. He got down on his elbows instead, caging your head in before he leaned down and licked into your mouth.

His thrusts were jerky, like he couldn't focus on one thing and you really couldn't blame him. It was clear that he needed the release and you desperately wanted to give it to him, clenching around him and hearing him moan against your ear; voice hoarse and broken.

It wasn't long before he was burying his face in your neck, hips working into you harshly before he grunted and buried himself to the hilt. George came with a bitten moan, shuddering as he shot off inside of you and it made you tighten up weakly, prompting another sound from his mouth.

The both of you laid wrapped up in each other, listening to each other's breathing and the silence dragged out for so long that you'd almost expected George to have fallen asleep. But then he made a noise in his throat and picked his head up from your chest to peer up at you.

He looked more relaxed than before, but there was still a sadness in his eyes that nothing but time could wipe away. You picked up a shaky hand to brush a finger under his eyes, watching his long eyelashes flutter at the touch.

"Japan will be yours." You said in a whisper, like it was a secret and it made George smile sadly.

"Don't hold your breath." He said it so self-depracatingly that you shook your head in a stubborn manner.

"I'll hold my breath, Russell. Better yet, I'll be right there to scream the loudest for you."

That prompted a laugh out of him, pushing into your hand when you swept his bangs out of the way.

"Thank you." He murmured and your face softened at the sincerity in his voice. "I don't know how you manage to do it, but you always make my losses hurt less."

"I'll always be here, you know that."

He nodded because yeah, you always were and you had never proved him wrong. It made something spark in his chest, something that felt a lot like hope and determination for the next weekend.

He'd bring the win home. If not for himself, then for you.

Small Friend? | IH6

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x Reader

Summary: You've seen many drivers get a seat at Racing Bulls, but only one managed to charm you. So thank God that it's not for your knowledge of French that the team hired you, because it almost cost you a relationship.

Author's Note: ok so I'm acc posting later than i had originally planned bc i realised i hadn't proofread the fic nor decided on da pics till an hour ago😭 (+ i gotta edit on tumblr so it takes even more time) anywayyyys i hope you enjoy<3

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

Since working for Racing Bulls, there was one opinion you’ve always had over the last couple years: you had seen way too many different drivers go through one single seat. You also thought they’d had too many name changes but this was a whole other thing.

You had first joined the team during an internship for your first year of university. You were starting the engineering degree you’d always dreamt of, and landing an internship in motorsports had been your main goal when your teachers were asking every student to find something before the end of the first term.

You had been lucky enough to end up at AlphaTauri, which had been employing the iconic duo formed by Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda at the time. You were obviously not working at the track during race weekends, but you had eventually met them after a few months at the factory where you spent every other week. You were over the moon when the team accepted to keep you for your second year of university, glad to have shown them your potential.

You hadn’t expected it, but you were apparently doing good enough of a job that you were one day allowed to assist the team during a grand prix. This wasn’t the first race you attended – having gone to Imola and Monza when you were younger, courtesy of your father who was a big motosports fan – but this was the first race you worked at. It was everything you had expected, but so much more at the same time. The paddock was overwhelming and the garage was even louder than the noise you would hear at the factory, but in a good way. You felt like a kid opening their Christmas presents, and you couldn’t wait to prove to the team that they wouldn’t regret having brought you there.

And it worked. Despite a couple rookie mistakes that were insignificant, you had done your job correctly and you were soon to be rewarded for it.

Having noticed you for your young age, Pierre and Yuki had both wanted to know more about you as they only knew your name from when they had met you at the factory. They asked you questions about your life, your dreams, and how you felt amongst the team. They had both been so nice and welcoming, you were glad that they were the current pairing for AlphaTauri. It seemed that you had also made a good impression on them because several weeks later, you were being called for another grand prix, and another, and another, until you were coming to almost every race for the last half of the season.

The team knew that you had to focus on your studies as well, but they were pulling a few strings that were mysteriously improving your attendance even when you weren’t even present in the classroom. The AlphaTauri duo had eventually let it slip that they had vouched for you to have more responsibilities, and you sometimes wondered if you were really that good at your job or if they just enjoyed your company – both, if someone were to ask them.

So as you spent more time with the drivers, you actually befriended them. They taught you about the spots to hit around certain tracks, recommended you good restaurants – mostly Yuki, and they even forced you to know some basic sentences in their respective native language. Pierre was definitely a better teacher than Yuki, and it also helped that French was easier to learn since you already knew Italian.

The next year, you unfortunately had to say goodbye to Pierre who was joining Alpine and this was the season during which you had seen too many driver changes. From Nyck de Vries starting the year to Daniel Ricciardo who had then replaced him, you had also met Liam Lawson. It was hard for you to actually create a bond with each driver, and you mostly stayed in Yuki’s side of the garage. On the one hand, you wished for Yuki to one day join Red Bull because you knew that he had the potential. On the other hand, you were kind of glad that he was still in AlphaTauri with you.

Eventually you were reaching your fourth year of university, and you still couldn’t believe the fact that you had spent almost the entirety of the first three with the same company. To be honest, it had played in your favour that the F1 seasons and academic years weren’t the same. This meant that every time you were starting a new school year, you were technically still employed for the end of season, and the team didn’t think much about keeping you for the next one.

So here you were, in the last term of your final year, ready to make the 2025 F1 season a success. AlphaTauri had become Racing Bulls the previous year – actually VCARB – and you were still wondering why they needed to change their name so often. Now more than ever, you really hoped that after completing your degree, the team would keep you and offer you a full-time job for the rest of the season. According to Yuki, you were already doing as much of a job as the other employed engineers, but he understood why you wanted the actual validation that came after your years-long internship.

Part of you was still missing Pierre years later, but Yuki having a new French teammate made you think about the Japanese driver attracting them. You hadn’t talked much with Isack since he had been given the RB seat, but from what Yuki told you, he was really nice and always matching his energy.

You had met the F2 vice-champion during the pre-season tests and to say that it was still haunting you was an understatement. You had actually been excited to meet him at first: he was a couple years younger than you, but you were glad that you wouldn’t be the youngest anymore in the garage. You had even practiced your rusty French – which you hadn’t talked much since Pierre left – but when Yuki had introduced you to Isack, your brain had short-circuited for whatever reason. It was definitely not because Isack had the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. You remembered the lack of words coming out of your mouth, as you had then awkwardly settled for a regular greeting in English before Isack replied more confidently with his thick accent.

Following this meeting, you’d had no choice but to give up on speaking French with Isack, too scared that you’d embarrass yourself once again. This fear somehow grew bigger every time you’d hear Isack let some French slip up, force of habit you supposed. You had heard the occasional “putain” (fuck) and “merde” (shit), which meanings were quite easy to remember from the amount of times that Pierre had also said those words.

However, your lack of knowledge regarding actual grammar, conjugation, vocabulary – literally everything, let’s be honest – was soon evident to Isack. Indeed, you had once caught him talking to Laurent Mekies – in French, of course – and the confusion on your face had been so obvious that Yuki had begun laughing next to you. It wasn’t like Yuki had understood anything himself, but he knew that you were supposed to be more familiar with the language than him. Safe to say, he hadn’t wasted any time texting Pierre and talking to Isack about it. On the one hand, the oldest of the two Frenchmen had relentlessly teased you, disappointed that you hadn’t kept learning despite his departure from the Italian team. On the other hand, the youngest driver had thought of another idea.

From one race weekend to another, Isack had started to come up to you more often as the season went by. You were glad for the blossoming friendship, but one of his actions always left you confused at the end of your conversations. It would always start as usual: discussing the race, the possible weather, the choices of tyre strategy… Yuki would be present the majority of the time; but every time it would just be you and Isack, the driver would always end the conversation with something in French. So this was what happened during your most recent one:

“J’adore ton maquillage d’ailleurs (I love your makeup by the way)”, Isack had told you. “Ton rouge à lèvres fait ressortir ton beau sourire (your lipstick highlights your pretty smile)”.

Obviously, you had been completely lost as to what it meant. The only things you were familiar with were “lèvres” (lips) and “sourire” (smile) as you remembered learning how to describe yourself, but that was about it. The next time wasn’t any better as it had been a similar situation: another French sentence, another confusion.

“Tu devrais attacher tes cheveux plus souvent, c’est plus facile pour admirer tes yeux (you should wear your hair up more often, it’s easier to admire your eyes)”.

You wished you could be mad at him every time you asked him to translate, your head tilting to the side with a frown, but the innocent smile he kept giving was always enough to immediately make you forget about whatever he had said to you.

And as the races went by, Isack didn’t stop this little ritual, even pushing it to actual pick-up lines – not that you would notice the change in meanings. You couldn’t even write down what Isack was saying to translate it later; he was speaking so French-y that you had a hard time even picking up individual words. Your only hypothesis was that he was teasing about something – what, you didn’t know – but given his tone and what you knew about him, it could never be something mean or hurtful. 

…..

It had been a few months since Isack had begun the tradition. You had to admit you were a bit frustrated by the fact that you still didn't understand him any better, even though you had started to study French again to improve your level. Talking with Pierre or Esteban was sometimes useful, but they weren’t part of your team and you didn’t want to practice with Isack until you had reached a somewhat acceptable level.

However, it seemed that this milestone would happen sooner than expected as a conversation with Pierre about Isack’s quirk made you realise what had been obvious from the beginning.

“You want to tell me you didn’t get that he was flirting with you for all those months?” If Pierre’s eyes could go any wider than how they currently were, they would. “Oh mon Dieu… (oh my God). You’re unbelievable!”

“I mean… whenever we talk, it’s in English and about racing!” You retorted. “I never understand what he’s saying in French, how would I know it was flirting?”

“The way he looks at you?” Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Avec son sourire niais là (with his stupid smile). This is un-be-lie-va-ble,” he repeated while accentuating each syllable.

“How do you even know what’s he been saying to me?” You wondered. “I don’t remember seeing your bald head lurking around my garage.”

“I’m gonna forget the bald comment and reply anyway.” The driver leaned back on the wall, with a sigh. “You don’t think Isack thought of every pick-up line by himself, do you?”

“They were all pick-up lines?”

“Most of them”, Pierre explained. “It was just compliments at first.”

“Wow, okay…” You didn't know what to think anymore.

Isack had always been friendly, of course. And you liked spending time around him. And you liked whenever he had time to talk to you, something he didn’t do with every member of the team. And yes, you even liked the random French sentences even if you couldn’t understand a word for months. And you liked his smile, his laugh, his determination, his passion for racing, his kindness. And–

“Hello?” Pierre waved his hand in front of your face. “What are you daydreaming about, now?”

“Just thinking about what I should do now…”

“Easy,” someone other than Pierre replied. “You flirt back in a language he doesn’t understand. That way, you’re even.”

Without a care, Yuki – who had been listening to the conversation for a couple minutes – went to stand next to Pierre.

“How long have you been listening?” You asked, confused as to why you hadn’t noticed.

“Didn’t hear everything,” Yuki admitted. “Just from the part when Pierre says he helped Isack flirt with you, which is the most surprising part of the story.”

“Okay, rude? First, please don’t gang up on me. Second, I agree with the idea though. She gotta flirt back now that she finally realised – even if it wasn’t alone – that Isack is in love with her.”

“Let’s not go that far and say he’s in love with me,” you argued.

“Close enough, to be honest.” Yuki thought for a second. “You know I love you, but I cannot stand hearing him simp for you every fucking time I’m with him.”

“Okay, so what? I flirt back, and then?”

“I don’t know, go make out or whatever young people do when they like each other.”

“Respectfully Pierre, absolutely not. Even though it didn’t start like a normal relationship–”

“There’s no relationship right now,” Yuki clarified.

“Seriously?” You glared at Yuki, and kept going. “Anyways, even though it didn’t start – yet – like a normal relationship, I’m not fucking up everything based on Pierre’s stupid idea. But, I guess I can just ask him out directly.”

“You actually like him?” Yuki asked, feigning confusion.

“Yes? I swear to God, you make zero effort to help me.” If you could, you would just leave the conversation. “Pierre, I’ll unfortunately be counting solely on you so please give me like one or two good French pick-up lines so I can kinda get back at him. Not the same that you gave to Isack, though.”

“You can count on me, don’t worry. I’ll coach you on your pronunciation and delivery for the next race, you’ll be ready in no time.”

“Thank you. At least someone is being helpful.”

“Guys this was literally my idea,” Yuki complained. “You’re ungrateful. I hope Isack rejects you.”

“No you don’t?” You argued.

“I don’t, yes. But still you’ll get karma for your disrespect”, Yuki threatened.

“Eh, send it my way.” You shrugged, a smile on your face.

The conversation then ended in a playful atmosphere. You were glad to still have a solid friendship with both –formerly – AlphaTauri drivers, and truly hoped that you would soon be able to share the good news of being successful with Isack.

…..

Fast forward to the next grand prix, you and Pierre had dutifully practiced some pick-up lines for you to use on Isack. Saying that you were nervous was an understatement, and you really hoped that only one of them would be enough to charm Isack. But of course, things wouldn’t go as you had planned.

Waiting until after qualifying to not disrupt him before getting in the car, you had also distracted your own brain from the stress while talking about some strategies for tomorrow with other engineers. When Isack was out of the car, you lingered not far away in the garage in order to find the best moment to come up to him. When he was done talking to Laurent, you jumped at the opportunity of having Isack alone. As he saw you, his smile brightened. You knew he would eventually throw another French sentence at you, but your current goal was to be the one to say it first. So as usual, you talked to him about the weekend and congratulated him on his good qualifying position. Then, as the moment felt right, you went for it:

“Tu sais que si tu étais le temps d’un verbe, tu serais le plus-que-parfait? (you know that if you were a verb tense, you’d be the plu perfect – to be literally translated as more than perfect)” You tried to put on your most innocent smile, as if you hadn’t played him at his own game. Your accent hadn’t been the best, but Pierre had assured you that your words were perfectly understandable and that it was even more charming.

“Quoi? (what)” Isack almost didn’t hear what you had said, not expecting at all for you to speak French. “Wait, what did you say?”

Thinking about what he had always done, you didn’t cave in and didn’t repeat yourself. You were about to continue the conversation in English as if nothing had happened, but fate had other plans.

Out of nowhere, Isack’s PR manager came up to the two of you. She gave you a smile and a nod, before taking Isack’s arm.

“Canal wants a word with you, Isack. You did great today, so they need to interview their country’s driver.”

“What?” Isack was half-listening, still hung up on your words. His manager motioned for him to follow her, which he mindlessly did. His gaze, however, was still on you as he walked towards the media pen. “We’ll talk later!” He exclaimed, almost out of hearing from the other side of the garage.

…..

You hadn’t talked later, not on that same day at least. After Isack had been pulled away from you for his interviews, you had been called by the senior engineers who wanted to share some information about the car with you. Therefore, you hadn’t seen Isack for the rest of the day.

It was now Sunday. The race would start soon, and you knew that you would be thinking about the situation for the next two hours, but you couldn’t go to Isack now and risk disrupting his focus. Your own concentration would have to stay still and not waver. The support Yuki and Pierre had given you yesterday had been helpful, after you had texted them a pretty self-explanatory message:

I think I fucked up lol

Their only replies had been to set a dinner time for the three of you to meet, and you had all spent the entire evening discussing the situation. They agreed that you hadn’t “fucked up”, as Isack hadn’t rejected you. You still had a chance, and it would wait until after the race to be proven true.

…..

The race had gone well for Isack and your friends. All finishing in points, you were proud of their performance. You knew your team would celebrate later tonight, having been asked to join. And you would have accepted, if not for the eye contact that you had exchanged with Isack when he got out of his car. His eyes were still filled with the same determination that fueled him during the race, but there was also another purpose hidden behind.

Like a silent conversation, you and Isack were agreeing without a word to talk later – actually talk later this time.

So after the car was dismantled; after Isack had done every interview he was asked to; after you exchanged about the race with the rest of the team and was finally ready to leave the paddock, you sent a quick text to Isack:

Meet me @ the main entrance, near the parking lot

Isack hadn’t replied, but you didn’t mind as he was walking towards you mere minutes later. You were glad that most people – as in the fans – had left, except for some team employees, as the area was quite empty. You hadn’t expected you and Isack to actually talk there, thinking that you would both go back together to the city, but he apparently had other plans.

“So, what was that yesterday? You’re fluent in French now?”

“Absolutely not”, you admitted. “I still have the knowledge of a toddler, but yesterday was courtesy of Pierre – whom you can also thank I think?”

“Touché”, Isack chuckled with a shrug. “Guess he’s been rooting for both of us, then.”

“Rooting for what, exactly?” You asked, feigning ignorance. Although you had been determined to make the first move this weekend, it hadn’t gone like you had originally planned and you were now more comfortable with letting Isack take the reins as he had been doing so for the past few months.

“For us to ask each other out”, he casually replied. “Or at least for me to do so.”

“And will you do that?” You were faking confidence; but deep down, you were internally giggling and blushing at the situation. This wasn’t everyday that your crush was asking you out, and you had to stay composed.

“If you can already tell me that you’ll accept, then yes I’ll pop the question.” This was Isack’s way to make sure that you were both on the same wavelength.

“If you were to pop the question that actually means getting married, I’d say it’s a tad too soon.” Isack blushed at your words, not realising he had planned your future a bit too far ahead, and scratched his head with a nervous laugh. “But a question regarding a first date? Yeah, I think I’ll say yes to that.”

“Okay, so dinner tonight? You and me?” He flashed you one of those smiles that you adored.

“Lead the way”, you said with a grin.

So Isack did. You thus both ended up at a restaurant not far away from the track, with a beautiful view of the city illuminated by the street lights under the night sky.

Dinner had been more than pleasant. The atmosphere had been friendly like it usually was between the two of you, but something else lingered. You hadn't yet confessed your respective feelings, but it was clear to each of you that the other was sharing the same thoughts.

You complimented Isack on his race, your smile softer than usual. He thanked you for the support you always offered him and the team. You both talked about your graduation that would happen soon, and you hinted at needing a date for the event. He gladly took up your offer, and told you how much he was proud of you for achieving your dream. You then also reminded him that he had been achieving his for so many years as well.

When you were done, Isack walked you back to your shared hotel – where most of the Racing Bulls employees were staying. You hadn’t seen how time flew by until you were in front of your room. Isack had been a floor below yours, but he had argued that he was a proper gentleman and that he should do things right when you mentioned him getting off the lift before you.

So here you were, both awkwardly standing in the corridor. This was the moment of truth: were you supposed to confess right now? Right before going to bed? Would he want to kiss you?

A strange newly-found confidence suddenly rose in you, and you thought of the one sentence that would seal the deal, without ruining the vibe.

“Wanna know something?” You first tried to catch his attention by using English, which worked as Isack looked at you before nodding. “Je viens de me rendre compte que tu ressembles beaucoup à mon futur copain (I just noticed, but you look a lot like my future boyfriend)”.

It took the driver a few seconds to process your words. But when he did, he began laughing and the smile on his face kept getting wider.

“Oh mon Dieu… (oh my God)” Isack put his face in his hands, as he tried and failed to hide how much he was blushing. “Did Pierre give you this one too?” You nodded with a proud smile and Isack couldn’t help but think that you looked really cute right now – more than usual. “Wait, you do mean copain as in boyfriend, right?”

“Is that not what it means?” You didn’t think you had mistaken the word, repeating exactly what Pierre had taught you.

“It does, yeah. But it’s like… slang, I guess?” Isack was unsure how to explain. “Not exactly slang, but usually we would say petit copain for boyfriend, and copain alone is actually just a friend.”

“So like, small friend?” You translated with a chuckle. “It’s quite fitting you, I guess.”

“That’s mean, you’re literally the same height as me!”

“I deeply apologise for my rudeness then, small boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say yes, though.” Isack played pretend, but deep down he was still flustered by you speaking French.

“Yet”, you pointed out. “But I didn’t actually ask a question.”

“Which I’m waiting for you to ask.”

“I like you Isack,” you said with honesty in your tone. “Like… really like you. So, hmm… veux-tu être mon petit copain? (do you want to be my boyfriend?)”

“Je vais pas dire non (how could i refuse).” When you looked at him in confusion, Isack realised that Pierre definitely hadn’t covered that in your French lessons. “I can’t say no to that, so… Yes, I absolutely want to be your boyfriend.”

Despite being in your early twenties, you could now proudly say that you finally had your first boyfriend. And what was even better was that he shared your love for racing. You couldn’t wait to see the look on Pierre’s and Yuki’s faces when you would tell them the news, but for now your focus would still be on Isack for a couple more minutes.

“We kinda have to go to sleep now,” you reluctantly reminded him. “Getting quite late and I don’t know about you, but I have an early flight tomorrow.”

“I actually think I do too. I’ll see you tomorrow before you leave?” Isack knew you had to go back to university until the next race.

“Yeah, of course!” You happily nodded. “We can have breakfast together,” you suggested.

“That’s perfect,” Isack confirmed. “So… good night, then?”

“Good night, Isack.” You gave him a smile and, thinking about how you would regret it if you didn’t do it, closed the space between you and the driver before you kissed his cheek. “Sleep well,” you added before entering your room.

Isack was now left alone in front of your door, unable to properly think or react to your action. His feet mindlessly walked him back to his own room, while he couldn’t help the giddy smile that appeared on his face. Once back in his room, Isack went to the bathroom to get ready for bed and that was when his eyes caught something in the mirror.

A faint trace of pink lipstick adorned his cheek, where you had kissed mere minutes before.

Isack smiled to himself, and he really hoped that tomorrow before you left, you would leave a lipstick mark on his lips.

..........

And that's it🤭 i really liked writing this one, and i hope you liked reading it!!

I was afraid of not doing isack justice so i hesitated a bit ab when i first started my draft, but the amount of vcarb tiktoks + what i had seen ab him during the 2024 f2 season helped a lot

Btw i miss isuki every single day so let's pretend that yuki is still in vcarb w isack for the rest of the season🤗 (there's no real timeline btw bc we're barely 3 races in so)

Also let's pretend ik shit ab engineering and how its degree works lol like that's absolutely not my area of study so i kinda winged it

Please tell me your thoughts in the comments, and don't be shy to like or reblog if you enjoyed this🤍🤍

See you soon, stay safe, have a happy life, love y'all xx

Lando Norris x Reader x Oscar Piastri, roommates!au

Masterlist

Summary: You, Lando, and Oscar are roommates. The three of you promise to take care of each other. It takes you all far too long to admit just how much you mean it. featuring dj!Lando for cece :) based on a blurb I wrote for my 1k celebration so if the first bit feels familiar that’s why! 7.4k words

Warnings: alcohol, mentions of vomiting (non graphic), illness, a breakup, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)

Lando’s not expecting the phone call he gets from you. It’s late, too late, really, for him to even be awake, let alone for you to be calling. Oscar’s sitting on the couch next to him, gaming controller in hand, and when Lando swipes to answer the call, he mouths the words who is it? Lando mouths your name in reply, and Oscar’s half asleep flat expression turns into a look of concern. The three of you are roommates, but you’re gone for the night. Lando didn’t ask where you were going when you left.

“Hello?” He asks, waiting for your response.

There’s a sniffle, then a hiccupy gasp for air that has Lando sitting up straight in his seat. “Lan. Could you- fuck, m’sorry, just- d’you think you could pick me up?”

Lando stares widely at Oscar for a moment, heart clenching in his chest. You sound upset- more than upset, really. He stands up, already searching frantically for his keys.

“Yeah, love, of course,” he says as Oscar follows suit and stands up. “Should I bring Oscar?”

You sniffle again. “Yeah, please, just…”

“It’s okay. Send me your location, yeah? Take a deep breath, we’ll be there soon.”

You mumble something, and then you hang up on him. Lando shoves his phone in his pocket and looks up at Oscar, who’s holding the keys to his car. That works. Oscar heads for the door, while Lando makes a pit stop in the kitchen. When he meets his friend in the entryway, Oscar’s staring at him with confusion.

“She’s crying,” Lando says in explanation, holding a paper bag close to his chest.

They make it across town in record time. Oscar groans when they pull into the apartment complex you’d sent the location of.

“Isn’t this her boyfriend’s place?” He asks, brows furrowed.

Lando doesn’t get a chance to answer, because you step out of the front door, and they’re both distracted. Oscar swears under his breath, and Lando follows suit at the sight of you- you’re in a t-shirt and shorts. There’s snow on the ground. Oscar pulls his hoodie over his head just before you make it to the car door.

You climb into the backseat and collapse in on yourself. Both Lando and Oscar are turned towards you, and Lando’s sure their facial expressions are matching looks of concern. They both hand over their items without a word- Oscar’s hoodie, and Lando’s carton of ice cream and a spoon. You pull the hoodie over your head and open the ice cream.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Oscar says, voice low.

Lando nods. “Yeah. We can just sit here together until you feel up to anything else.”

You nod and chew on your lower lip, and the light from the street lamp outside catches on the tear tracks on your cheeks. “He dumped me. Can we just go home?”

Lando reaches his hand back to squeeze yours. Your fingers are ice cold. “Of course,” he says softly.

As Oscar pulls away, he and Lando exchange a look of worry and anger. They’ve never liked your boyfriend, but they hate to see you hurting, too.

“Thanks,” you add, voice small in the backseat. You hold onto Lando’s hand tightly. “I knew I could count on you guys.”

Lando squeezes your hand again. You’re quiet most of the way back, and he lets it go. Oscar’s right to not push you to talk about it. That’ll come in its own time.

Oscar drives back to your shared apartment, pulling into a parking space in the garage. He gets out before Lando and slips around to the backseat, opening the door for you. The Aussie wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side.

When you all get upstairs, you collapse onto the couch. Lando follows suit, not wanting to leave your side. Oscar isn’t far behind. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, something quiet that Lando doesn’t pay attention to. He just watches you for signs of distress. You stare at the tv blankly and chip away at the ice cream with your spoon, leaning on Oscar as Lando leans on you. Slowly, the three of you melt into the couch, none of you wanting to break the silence and suggest going to bed.

…..

Oscar wakes up on the couch at 3 in the morning, and when he looks around, this awful feeling hits him. It’s like someone’s reached into his chest and clawed his heart out. You’re laying there, your head on his stomach, one of your arms over his thigh. Lando’s laying nearly on top of you- together, the three of you are like a stack of toppled dominoes. There are blankets strewn over all of you. Oscar can vaguely remember Lando’s attempt to cover all three of you up as you all began to drift off.

You’re fast asleep, and when Oscar peers down at you he can still see the tear tracks on your cheeks. He’s never liked your boyfriend- ex boyfriend, now, thank god- but breakups are awful no matter what. He’s got half a mind to go over and confront the guy, because who leaves their girlfriend- ex girlfriend- to walk out of their apartment in the dead of winter in a t-shirt and shorts? Even if you had broken up, he seemingly hadn’t given you the chance to put on sweatpants and a hoodie. Or maybe you hadn’t wanted to stay long enough.

Lando shifts in his sleep, pressing closer to you. It’s only now that Oscar notices Lando’s hand linked with yours, fingers knitted together on your stomach. A pang of something flares up in him at the sight, at how right it feels to have you both right here like this. He does his best to tamp it down. He brushes his fingers against your cheek tentatively, relaxing just a bit at the feeling of your soft skin under his fingertips.

You nudge into the touch, eyelids just barely fluttering. Oscar wonders to himself how anyone could ever let you go. The sight of you in the backseat, teary eyed in his hoodie, is burned into the back of his brain. He’d do anything to keep you from ever crying again.

When he wakes up again, it’s much later in the morning. You and Lando are both gone, and something about that makes his heart clench. But he hears noise in the kitchen- Lando, talking to someone, the sound of food sizzling on the stove. He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes before trudging his way over there.

Lando’s at the stove, cooking something that smells awfully delicious and makes Oscar’s stomach growl. You’re sitting on the counter nearby the way you always do, still in Oscar’s hoodie, hands folded in your lap. You’re the first one to spot him- you smile, but it’s subdued. There’s a tinge of sadness to it. Something aching behind your eyes.

“Morning,” he finally says.

Lando turns over his shoulder with a smile. “I was just about to send her to wake you,” he says. “I made breakfast.”

Oscar nods. “Thanks. Smells really good.”

He takes his normal spot on a stool at the kitchen island. He passes by both of you on the way there, and you reach out to squeeze his upper arm. He brushes a hand over your knee and smiles at you.

You’re quiet. Usually, you’d be chatting their ears off. But Lando plates up the food and distributes it without a word from you, and it has Oscar feeling sick to his stomach. You stay sitting on the counter, and you push the food around on your plate with one hand. Lando sits next to Oscar and exchanges a look with him.

Both boys clear their plates without a word from you. You’ve only taken a few bites. Oscar clears his throat as he clears his and Lando’s plates. Your eyes flicker up to meet his.

“I stand by what I said last night. We don’t have to talk,” he says. “But if you want to talk, we’re here.”

You shift and smile just a little. “Not much to talk about, really. The breakup has been coming for a long time, I think. So. It’s fine, really. Just weird, you know? We’d been dating for a year- that’s a year of my life… not wasted, but. Weird to lose someone like that so quickly.”

Both Oscar and Lando nod in understanding. You nod back. That’s that. If you don’t want to talk about it more, they won’t force you. It’s enough to know you’re safe at home, really.

…..

When Lando has his first DJ set after your break up, he begs you to come and watch. Much to his and Oscar’s surprise, you agree eagerly. They’d both thought it would be a harder fight. Lando’s been getting bigger and bigger DJ gigs- not enough to quit his day job yet, but enough to get excited about. You haven’t been to them recently, which had been a bit of a sore spot for Lando, though he’d tried not to let it on to you. So. If you want to go, he’s not going to question you on it.

On the way there, you size him up in the back of the Uber. You tug at the collar of his shirt.

“You’re too buttoned up,” you say, nose wrinkled.

Oscar laughs and nods. “Yeah, lose a button,” he adds.

He reaches over and undoes the top button of Lando’s shirt with nimble fingers, and great, now Lando’s sweating.

“Or two,” you chime in.

When you reach up and undo another button, Lando thinks the blush must be obvious on his cheeks now. It’s probably running down his neck, washing over his chest, just like the soft touch of your fingers against his skin.

“Why not three?” Oscar says, smirking.

Before he can undo the third one, Lando bats Oscar’s hand away and glares at him. Oscar’s had a shot before they left the apartment, pregaming because he hates crowds and loud places and social environments. He’s definitely a little tipsy, and because of that, he’s a bit more daring. It’s going to be the death of Lando.

By the time he’s halfway through the set, Lando’s gone and lost both of you in the crowd. He won’t lie, it makes him a bit nervous. He knows you were there one second, and then the next time he looked, you were both gone. He knows in his head Oscar won’t have let you out of his sight, but it doesn’t stop his heart from clenching. He thinks of his phone, down under the stage, itches to have it in his hand so he can text or call or find you, somehow.

When he finally climbs down and grabs his phone, it’s lit up with a bunch of notifications. He swipes past the ones from Max asking how late his set goes, past the ones from friends who stopped by, telling him how good he did. In the middle, there’s a text from Oscar.

Call when you’re done.

He calls. When Oscar answers, he gives him directions to meet the two of you in a bathroom and then promptly hangs up. Lando would be more concerned with the two of you apparently hiding out together in a bathroom if Oscar hadn’t told him about it. He doesn’t have the energy to let himself get jealous. He just heads towards the two of you. He knocks on the single bathroom door, calls out to Oscar, and it swings open.

“She had a little too much,” Oscar says.

Behind him, you’re kneeling next to the toilet, Oscar’s jacket underneath your knees. It’s such a sweet touch that it makes Lando’s heart ache- there’s just something about seeing Oscar taking care of you. But he does his best to focus and steps into the bathroom. Your hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. Your skin is pale, and when you turn to look at Lando, your eyes are bloodshot. He hisses and turns to Oscar.

“I know, I know, I said I’d watch her-“ Oscar says, raising his hands defensively. “She’s good at pretending to be sober. Until she’s way too far gone, and then…”

“Lan!” you call out, high pitched and wobbly. “I love you.”

Lando widens his eyes at Oscar, who nods.

“There’s been a lot of that. About both of us. She was not happy when I pulled her out of sight of you.” Oscar sighs. “I can’t figure out if it’s just- you know, she loves her friends, or-“

Oscar trails off. Lando furrows his brows.

“Lan,” you repeat again, and he turns over his shoulder to look at you, then tries not to visibly wince. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, love,” he says, softly. “You done throwing up, you okay to move?”

You shrug, then nod. Great. Not super convincing. When he turns to Oscar, he winces. Lando drags a hand down his own face. Interrogating Oscar will have to wait- the first priority is to get the three of you out of there, hopefully without you throwing up on them. He sighs heavily and makes a plan in his head.

Lando’s not sure what god he pleased, what good karma he’s earned, but the three of you make it outside without you throwing up again. He breathes a sigh of relief. Then he and Oscar spend 5 minutes debating on whether walking or getting a ride would be better- you’re drunk and wobbly, but at least if you threw up, it’d be on the sidewalk. Oscar hates that idea, is worried about you tripping and falling on the way, about how they’ll manage to get you all the way back. You stand there and watch them argue, Oscar’s hand on your shoulder to keep you from falling over.

“Boys, stop fighting,” you say hazily. “You’re both so pretty.”

Lando’s eyes go wide at that. He stares at Oscar, who seems to make a face that says I know. Lando turns to you. You’re smiling widely up at him, blinking glassy eyes and tilting your head. You reach out and tap your fingertip against his nose, then laugh. Lando swallows tightly.

Oscar uses his distraction to flag down a cab. Lando can’t find the energy to argue anymore. They’d normally put you in the middle, but this time they sit you next to the door, just in case you do need to throw up. You spend the entire ride with your head on Lando’s shoulder, and he can tell you’re starting to get drowsy just from the way you sag against him. When they climb out of the car, Oscar puts one of your arms over his shoulder, and Lando does the same on the other side.

By the time they get you up to the apartment and into the bathroom, you’re half asleep, leaning heavily on both of them. When your hand slips against the bare skin of his chest, he swallows tightly. Oscar puts toothpaste on the toothbrush for you, and Lando helps you brush your teeth, his hand wrapped around yours gently.

Then they head for your bedroom. Lando grabs you a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from your dresser. He sets them on the bed and gets ready to leave the room so you can change, and then slaps his hand over his eyes when you start to take off your dress before he even gets the chance. He hears Oscar’s hand hit his own face, too.

“We live together,” you say, and Lando can practically hear your eye roll. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Lando sighs. “It is, and you’re drunk, so.”

You laugh. “I guess. I’m dressed now.”

Lando groans when he uncovers his eyes and spots the pair of shorts still on the bed. He puts one hand over Oscar’s eyes, one back over his own, and says, “Shorts. Now.”

You grumble something about taking them off later anyways, which has Lando melting into a puddle over the thought. He hears you shuffling around, and then you grab both of his wrists and tug them away from his and Oscar’s faces. You’re fully dressed this time, and you collapse backwards onto the bed.

“Will you guys stay till I fall asleep?” you ask, softly.

Both of them nod and sit down on the edge of the bed. You curl up in the middle, each of them on either side. Oscar lays a tentative hand on your shoulder, while Lando brushes hair from your face. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, melting into the bed.

When you do, Lando nods silently towards the door. Oscar nods in agreement, and they both slip out of the bedroom. Lando looks back to check on you as he shuts the door. You look peaceful, finally.

Oscar heads for the kitchen, and Lando follows. He reaches into the fridge and comes back with two cans of sparkling water, which Lando accepts eagerly. He’d been unaware of just how thirsty he was until that moment. He drinks half the can in one go and then looks at Oscar expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Oscar prefaces. “I’m not sure about anything. But. She couldn’t stop staring at you up on the stage, and she told me about ten times how pretty you were. And then she said it about me, too. To my face. And like, right after that she threw up, but.”

“But,” Lando repeats. “You saw something. Different than her just being a drunk mess.”

“It felt different,” Oscar says, softly. “Just. I can’t explain it.”

Lando nods. He presses his lips into a thin line. Oscar follows suit, rubbing his hand against the smooth surface of the countertop.

“What do we do?” Lando asks quietly. He feels wildly out of his depth here. “I mean. D’you think she has feelings for…”

Me? You? Lando’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what he wants the answer to be either. Suddenly, he feels sick to his stomach. In an ideal world, he knows what he’d like to happen here, but that’s a pipe dream. Unrealistic.

“She’s really vulnerable,” he says, before Oscar can even answer. “And like. That would really make a good roommate situation weird, right?”

Oscar laughs, but it sounds forced. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Lando says. “Okay. So. We just let it go.”

Oscar nods. There’s something in the look on his face that makes Lando think maybe there’s more to this. That they shouldn’t brush it off so easily. But it’s late, and he’s exhausted, and this topic feels so, so difficult to broach right now. So he claps Oscar on the shoulder with an open palm, and then disappears into his bedroom.

Lando’s avoidance of the subject doesn’t last long, because the next morning, before you wake up, Oscar corners him in the kitchen.

“We need to talk,” Oscar says, which is never a good sentence to hear at any hour, let alone before the sun has even risen.

Realistically, he should’ve known this was coming, because Oscar never willingly wakes up this early on a weekend. It’s still dark outside. Lando can barely make out Oscar’s facial expressions in the dim light. He flicks a light switch and watches the other man wince.

“Rude,” Oscar grumbles.

“Yeah, that’s what you get for starting off my morning with that sentence,” Lando defends. When Oscar frowns, he softens. “What’s up?”

As if he hadn’t expected to actually get to this point, Oscar shrinks in on himself. Lando leans against the counter and tilts his head. Oscar’s younger, but he’s usually the more mature one. It’s odd to see him so lost for what to say.

“Last night,” Oscar starts, chewing on his lip when he pauses. “She- I- I can’t stop thinking about…”

Lando’s gut wobbles. “About her. You like her. And you think she feels the same.”

There’s this weird jealousy in his chest. He’s jealous of both of you, he realizes, and he grips the counter behind him with his hand. He wants to be the one you like, and he wants to be the one Oscar’s into, too. He’s known it for a while, really, but this is the first time he’s had to confront it head on. And it’s - it’s a problem, probably. His best friends and his roommates. He can’t have both. Can’t have it all.

Oscar frowns and shakes his head. “No. Well. Yeah, but- it’s more than that. It’s.”

Lando tamps down the ache in his chest, plasters on a smile. “Oscar. It’s okay.”

“No,” Oscar says, dragging out the sound. “You don’t- you don’t get it.”

“You guys would make a cute couple,” Lando says quietly. “Like. Really, Osc, you’d be good together-“

“I don’t just want her,” Oscar interrupts, and Lando's heart skips a beat. “I don’t- fuck, it sounds crazy, but. I woke up that morning, after we picked her up, and you were both on the couch with me, and I just thought, yeah, this is how I want to wake up every day. And if that’s crazy then- forget I said anything, but-“

Lando clears his throat. “It’s not crazy.”

Oscar freezes, one hand halfway through his hair. “It’s not?”

Lando shakes his head and bites his lip. “No. I think I’ve been feeling the same. Just… I felt crazy, you know?”

Oscar nods. Lando can’t stop staring at him, at the red flush on his cheeks, the wide eyes. He reaches his foot out and nudges it against Oscar’s shin.

“I meant what I said last night, about her being vulnerable,” he says, and Oscar sighs heavily. “She needs friends right now. And she doesn’t need friends who are caught up in figuring out their feelings for each other and maybe her, too.”

Oscar huffs. “So we just…”

“Wait and see?” Lando asks sheepishly. “Feels shitty, I know, but our first priority is making sure she’s okay.”

Oscar nods. Lando nods back. And that’s that, for a while. And maybe for a while, it’s enough to know that Oscar feels it, too. To know he’s not alone.

…..

You know Lando well enough to know he’s not one to admit when he’s sick. You’d think he’d be the exact opposite, but he tends to try and tough it out until the very last minute. He hides it well, except when it comes to you and Oscar.

He’s getting ready for a DJ set nearly a month after the one where you’d gotten far too drunk. There’s loud music playing through the apartment as he eats dinner, dancing along to the beat. You sit on the kitchen counter in your usual spot, and Oscar stands next to you. You’re both watching Lando bounce around the room. He’s trying to convince you he’s fine without actually saying it. It’s not working.

He leaves the room for a moment, looking for his phone. Oscar looks up at you.

“He’s sick, isn’t he?” He asks.

You nod and worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Definitely.”

But Lando says nothing about not feeling well, so you do your hair and makeup and get into an Uber with him and Oscar to head for a club. You and Oscar exchange a glance when Lando presses his forehead to the window of the car. He’s mumbling along to the song that’s playing over the speakers. There’s sweat on his temple. You’re starting to worry.

He tumbles out of the car and into the club with you and Oscar in tow. Once the bright lights and loud music hit him, he perks up a bit. If you know him, you know it won’t last. He’s going to wear himself out during his set and then fall apart right after. He sends the two of you to the bar, tells you to put it on his tab. Oscar loops his hand in your arm to keep you close- you’re not complaining. Without saying anything to each other, you each order plain Cokes. Lando won’t question if there’s alcohol in it. You order him his go to drink- a gin & tonic, but ask the bartender to go light on the gin. You hand it off to him before he heads up for his set, and when he hesitates to kiss your cheek like he normally would, you eye him carefully.

“I’m fine,” he says, which tells you more than anything that he’s definitely not fine.

Next to you, Oscar scoffs. You press the back of your hand to Lando’s forehead and sigh. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. He’s burning up.

“It’s a short set,” he says, slurred but loud enough to be heard over the thud of the bass. “I’ll be fine.”

You watch as he walks away. Oscar takes your arm in his hand again, pulls you away to a nearby booth. Normally, you love watching Lando’s sets, love listening to the music he’s chosen, and watching his face light up at the crowd’s reaction. But now, as he takes his place, you just feel worried. You can tell Oscar’s worried too, just from the way he drums his fingers against the table in an unsteady pattern. Normally the two of you would find yourselves out on the dance floor, especially when Lando plays the songs he knows you both love, but you can’t find it in you tonight.

When he stumbles off stage from his set, he’s grinning ear to ear, but his eyes are half closed and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his skin that you know isn’t from the dj-ing. You and Oscar stand to meet him, and you brush damp curls from his forehead to check his temperature again. He feels even worse. Oscar winces as Lando sways in front of the two of you.

“Let's get you home,” you suggest, and he just nods.

When you get back to the apartment, you deposit Lando on the couch. Oscar stays with him, pulling a blanket over Lando and propping him up with pillows. You head for the bathroom first and open the medicine cabinet.

“Lan, what’s wrong?” You call out.

You hear his disoriented grumbling. Oscar translates. “He says he’s fine.”

You lean out into the living room and fix Lando with a glare. “Shut up. You need medicine. What’s wrong?”

He sighs and sinks into the couch. “Sore throat. Headache. Little bit of a cough.”

You nod and return to the surprisingly well stocked medicine cabinet. You grab the cold medicine that describes his symptoms the best and head back to the living room. Lando has the blanket wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon, and he has his head resting on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar’s running his hand up and down Lando’s upper arm, a look of concern on his face.

You hand Oscar the medicine. “Here. Give him a dose, will you? I’m gonna heat up some soup or something.”

“M’not a baby,” Lando mutters.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Oscar teases gently.

Though the medicine cabinet was well stocked, the kitchen is less so. None of you like grocery shopping. You manage to find a can of chicken soup in the back of a cupboard, and it’s not expired, so you heat it up quickly. You return to the living room with the soup and a large glass of water.

Lando is fully tucked into Oscar’s side now, draped messily across the other boy. You sigh at the sight, at the way Oscar runs his hand through Lando’s hair, at the content little smile on Lando’s lips. Even when he’s sick, this is enough to bring him comfort. You wonder, then, if you could be enough, too. The memories pass through your brain- the way they’ve both taken care of you after your break up. Now it’s your chance to return the favor.

You sit down on the couch on Lando’s other side. Oscar takes the bowl of soup from you carefully, and then you hold the glass of water up to Lando’s lips. He sips carefully, then pulls away with a soft sigh. His cheeks are rosy red, and he shivers. You and Oscar both wince in sympathy.

“You should’ve told us,” Oscar says, quietly. “Should’ve canceled the set.”

Lando shrugs and elbows him lightly. “Got through it, didn’t I? Can’t go around canceling sets if I’m gonna make it big, can I?”

You roll your eyes and nudge the Brit slightly. “Your health is more important than you making it big,” you chide.

He turns to look at you, gaze hazy but still amused. “Mm. You won’t be saying that when I’ve got enough money to take care of the two of you for the rest of your lives.”

“Is that your plan?” Oscar asks, a teasing tone in his voice.

Lando closes his eyes and nods. “You two can be my sugar babies,” he asserts. “Never work another day in your life.”

“Okay, Norris,” you say, biting back a laugh. “Eat your soup.”

He does as he’s told, melting back into the couch as he holds the bowl and spoon in shaky hands. Oscar keeps his hands on the bowl, too, just to be safe. To show your support, you lean against Lando’s shoulder to help prop him up. As much as you hate to see him not feeling well, you think that maybe you could get used to this.

You tuck him into his bed later that night. Oscar’s next to you, having carried him into the bedroom from the living room. Lando was pretty much dead weight, high on cold medicine and his fever and so, so out of it. You pull the covers up to his chin and smooth sweaty hair from his forehead. You cringe at the clammy feeling, and Oscar laughs.

Lando blinks up at both of you with heavy eyes. “Meant it, you know.”

“Meant what?” You ask.

He lets his eyelids fall closed. “Gonna take care of you two. The same way you take care of me. I think abou’ it all the time.”

He yawns, turns his head, and falls asleep nearly immediately after that, lips barely parted, chest rising and falling smoothly. You feel frozen for a moment. He looks so peaceful. He wants to take care of you. Your heart is pounding.

Oscar wraps his hand around your elbow and squeezes softly. “He’ll be okay.”

He thinks you’re worried. You don’t know how to tell him that Lando being sick isn’t the problem. The what’s got you all mixed up inside is the way Lando says it so easily. Never work another day in your life. I think about it all the time.

You swallow and back away from the bed, because you have the strongest urge to crawl right in next to him and drag Oscar right with you, until you’re all curled up in a pile together. You can’t do that. Oscar leads you out to the living room. You think he knows something’s up, because he doesn’t let go of you the whole time, but he doesn’t say anything either. You need to shake this feeling. You can’t think about them like this. It won’t end well.

“I’ll make us some popcorn, yeah?” Oscar suggests. “We can watch Bake Off.”

You nod as you make your way over to the couch. You try to tell yourself you should keep your distance, should sit far away from him. But when he sits down and pulls you into his chest, you can’t help but sigh happily.

“When we inevitably catch whatever he has,” you say, “we’re gonna need more chicken noodle soup.”

…..

Oscar comes home from work one day a few weeks later, and finds the two of you in the living room- a pretty normal occurrence lately. You’re laid out on the couch, your ankles in Lando’s lap. You smile up at him happily, and he laughs. He’s glad to see you, honestly, both of you. He’s had a rough day. This is exactly what he needed to come home to.

“Comfy?” He asks.

You nod eagerly. “We saved some pizza for you. It’s in the kitchen.”

He snorts. “Gee. Thanks. Couldn’t wait till I got home?”

You pout up at him. “I was hungry.”

Lando nods in agreement. “She was being whiny, Osc, had to feed her.”

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, leaning over to ruffle your hair. You press into the touch, like a cat. “And then I’ll have dinner.”

“Ooh, take a shower beer,” you suggest.

Lando laughs. “I was gonna say the exact same thing.”

Without even thinking, Oscar leans over the couch and kisses both of your foreheads. “Geniuses, the both of you.”

Neither you or Lando seem to question it, or the blush on his cheeks, so he doesn’t even try to explain.

By the time he finishes showering, and finishes his shower beer, a bit of the stress has melted away. He sighs heavily when he steps out, towel dries his hair, and pulls on a pair of shorts and a hoodie. He eats a slice of pizza, cold, in the kitchen.

When he makes it back to the living room, you’re curled up in Lando’s arms, halfway in his lap. He grumbles, not even realizing he’s making the noise until you look up at him. You throw one arm out wide, beckoning him close. Lando looks up with a happy, soft smile and pats the open space on his chest. And really, Oscar’s had a shit day, and the spot between Lando’s jaw and chest looks quite cozy, and if he’s being invited, then-

He collapses into the two of you, slips his arm around you and presses the side of his face to Lando’s chest. Oscar takes a deep breath, smells Lando’s cologne and your perfume, the intoxicating mix of both of you, and closes his eyes. He feels someone’s finger drag down the slope of his nose, and another hand brushes his hair from his forehead.

“Bad day?” You ask.

He’s exhausted, and everything is a bit hazy feeling. Syrupy and slow. He could fall asleep like this, probably. You sound a million miles away, and also like you’re tucked away in his chest, like he’d like for you to always be. Close and protected.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Really bad day.”

A thumb brushes over his cheek. There’s a hand in his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He lets out a fluttering sigh.

“Poor baby,” you say. He thinks the hand on his face is yours, the hand in his hair, Lando’s. “We just gotta wait for Lan to make it big, yeah? ‘nd then me and you can be his sugar babies, let him pay for everything. Just like he promised.”

Oscar laughs and rubs his cheek against Lando’s chest in some sort of nod. He can feel Lando laughing, too, high pitched and breathless. His hand squeezes at your hip, where it landed when he sat down.

“I’d take such good care of the two of you,” Lando says, quietly.

Oscar knows how much truth the words hold, and suddenly his stomach aches with want. Because Lando already takes care of both of you and him any way he can, and Oscar does it for you and Lando, too, and they both wish they could do it even more so. Could kiss away your tears, could hold your hand when you cross the street. He wants it. So does Lando.

“You already do,” you say, even quieter.

Oscar feels Lando’s breath hitch in his chest. He opens one eye and finds your eyes closed, your hand pressed to his cheek. Lando’s hand, banded around Oscar’s back, squeezes softly. Oscar holds his breath.

You shrug, like you know they’re watching without even opening your eyes.

“You both do,” you add. “Picked me up when I called, checked on me ever since…” you sigh and bury your face deeper into Lando’s chest. Oscar reaches up and cups your cheek in his hand tentatively. “Couldn’t ask for more.”

Even on the worst of days, Oscar thinks that maybe you’re right. He couldn’t ask for more. He’s got everything right here.

…..

A few nights later, Lando wakes up to the creak of the door, and his eyes fly open. He turns to look and finds you standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Love?” Lando asks, quietly. It’s the dead of night. “You alright?”

You shrug and sigh. “Can we cuddle?”

He blinks and nods, wonder fleetingly if he should go and get Oscar, because this feels unfair, but- then you step backwards, walking away. You must want to go to your bed, must feel more comfortable there. Lando slips out of his bed, takes his phone with him, and follows after you. His confusion grows when you don’t stop at the door to your bedroom. You walk right past and head for Oscar’s room. You open the door, and Lando looks past you to the warm glow of the lamp Oscar always forgets to turn off, to his sleeping form.

“You’re easier to wake up,” you say, softly.

Lando blinks wildly as you trudge your way over to the bed. “Love?”

“Want cuddles,” you state as you climb into the bed next to Oscar, who’s snoring softly. “From both of you. Come on.”

And, well. You should probably all talk about this, really. But you’re already tucking yourself under the blankets, and Oscar looks cute, and Lando’s so, so tired, and he wants cuddles, too, so. He sighs and makes his way over to the bed. You grin and roll towards Oscar, who finally shifts awake at the motion.

“Hi?” He says, confused, sleep coating his voice.

You don’t bother to explain, just slip an arm around him and curl close. Lando sits down on the edge of the bed and makes eye contact with Oscar, who seems frozen between confusion and happiness.

“She wanted cuddles,” Lando explains. “From both of us. I’m easier to wake up, apparently.”

Oscar shrugs and nods. He rolls towards you and throws his arm over your middle. His fingers motion towards Lando, who breathes a sigh of relief. Sure, they’ve talked, but there was always a chance Oscar changed his mind, or that this would be weird. But, if he’s offering…

Lando crawls into bed next to you. You let out a soft sigh when he lays down next to you, and he can’t fight the smile that crosses his lips. He slips his arm around you, his skin brushing against Oscar’s, too. Oscar presses a kiss to your forehead. Lando bites back a flare of jealousy, and he’s not even sure which one of you he’s jealous of. Then Oscar brushes his fingertips against his bicep, a soft, gentle touch that reminds him he’s part of this, too. Lando kisses the back of your neck and closes his eyes, already sleepy again.

…..

When Oscar wakes up the next morning, you and Lando are still in his bed. He breathes a sigh of relief at that, having been worried one of you would wake up and panic and leave. He watches the two of you for a few moments before he lets his eyes slip closed again. The weight of your head on his chest is comforting, and the soft rise and fall of Lando’s ribs under his hand is even more so. It’s rare that he’s awake before either of you unless he has to be up early.

He opens one eye again, just to look, just to take it in. Lando’s head is pressed against your shoulder, the top of his forehead and his mass of curly hair just visible to Oscar. He could get used to this. He’d like to wake up like this all the time, the three of you all wrapped up together. And maybe that’s wishful thinking, but for at least one morning, he gets to have it.

If he wasn’t so worried he’d wake you up and spoil the moment, he’d trace the lines of your face with his fingertips and draw patterns on your shoulders. He’d do it to Lando, too- shove his tank top up until he could touch the bare skin of his ribs, run his fingers over the bumps. But he wants this to last as long as possible, so he just lays there and stares.

Eventually, you start to stir, and with you, so does Lando. It’s strange, the way it makes Oscar’s heart clench in his chest. He wants so badly for both of you to just stay right here, with him. If he could hold you both in his arms like this forever he would.

When you open your eyes, you smile softly at him. Lando shifts behind you and opens one eye, and the same soft smile slips across his lips. You press yourself farther into Oscar, and reach a hand behind you to pull Lando close.

“My boys,” you say, quietly. “My favorite boys.”

And. That’s when it hits Oscar, like a punch to the chest. There’s something in the way you say it, something about the look on your face. He just knows. He knows because he sees it in himself, in Lando. He doesn’t need to talk about it right this second, doesn’t need to ask. He just knows you feel it too. So he leans up and over, hears the way Lando’s holding his breath. He moves his hand and presses his lips to your cheek, to your warm, soft skin. Then he does the same to Lando. You smile even wider. Lando, not one to be left out, does the same to you, then Oscar, leaving his skin burning. You follow suit, and your lips are warm against Oscar’s jaw. He thinks maybe he’s in heaven.

The three of you fall back asleep in a tighter pile, wrapped up in each other’s limbs. There’ll be time to talk later. For now, it’s enough to just know.

…..

A month later, you’re in the front of the crowd at Lando’s DJ set, watching with wide, bright eyes. He has three buttons undone, the work of you and Oscar during the car ride over to the club. He’s grinning down at you as someone hands him a shot, and then he tosses it back with a grimace. You wonder if he sees the stars in your eyes as you look up at him.

Oscar’s behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist. He has a drink in his other hand- your drink, taken from your own grip when you started moving your hands to the music. His nose is pressed behind your ear, and when he speaks, his breath tickles against your skin and makes you shiver.

“Y’know, he said he’d take care of us,” Oscar says, loud enough to be heard over the music, but just barely. “But all I can think of right now are all the ways I wanna take care of him.”

You laugh, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “It’s the unbuttoned shirt,” you tell him, gesturing at your other boyfriend. “S’like kryptonite.”

Never mind the fact that the shirt’s only unbuttoned because of the two of you. Oscar laughs and squeezes his arm around your middle. Lando tilts his head at the two of you, like he knows exactly what you’re up to.

“Yeah,” Oscar agrees. “But that’s less buttons for us to deal with later.”

You nod in agreement. “Good point.”

When Lando’s shirt is laying on the floor later, next to Oscar’s shirt and your dress, and you’re all slumped together on the bed in a pile, you remember what Oscar said earlier and laugh. Neither of them bother to ask what you’re laughing about. They just kiss your cheeks and join in with laughter of their own.

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