Latest Posts by f1racingrecs - Page 2

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

i know love

summary: cute moments between lando and yn during their relationship, based on "i know love" by tate mcrae warnings: none

[The Paddock – Saturday Morning]

The paddock was alive, like always — a whirlwind of activity that buzzed in your bones. Engines hummed in the background, the scent of fuel hung in the air, and media scurried from one garage to the next. But amid the chaos, you found peace. Because his hand was in yours.

Lando walked with his cap pulled low, his race suit half-zipped and hanging around his waist. His other hand gripped a protein shake, which you were pretty sure he hated but tolerated because “the trainer would kill me otherwise.”

“Did you bring snacks?” he asked, turning toward you with that ridiculous boyish grin.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally sponsored by half the paddock. You want my snacks?”

“Yours taste better.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching into your tote and pulling out a granola bar. He accepted it with a victorious sound and a quick kiss to your cheek, uncaring of the mechanics and press that passed by. You still weren’t used to how bold he could be sometimes. How effortless it all felt for him.

“Thanks, love.”

That word still made your chest flutter. No matter how many times he said it. Maybe because it felt like he didn’t throw it around the way people assumed he did. When Lando said love, it always meant something.

[Late Night Stream]

He was shouting at the screen again.

“NO—WHAT? That’s total BS!” he groaned into his headset, falling back dramatically in his gaming chair. You were sprawled across the couch behind him, one of his hoodies drowning your frame as you scrolled through your phone, giggling softly at his chaos.

The Twitch chat noticed.

“is that Y/N in the back???” “their leg 😭 soft launch era over” “she really is real, huh?”

You tilted your head toward the camera with a smirk. “He’s still losing, by the way.”

“Oi!” Lando wheeled around to face you, scandalized. “You’re sabotaging me live in front of thousands of people. I’ll never financially recover from this.”

“Skill issue.”

He laughed, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing your hair out of your face. “Lucky you’re cute.”

“Lucky you love me.”

He stilled for half a second, just a beat. Enough for you to realize what you’d said.

“I do,” he said quietly, his eyes soft and sincere now. “You know I do.”

You nodded, cheeks warming. “I know.”

And you did. You really, really did.

[Phone Calls at 2AM]

Your phone rang.

The contact photo — him in sunglasses with a ridiculous filter you’d added — lit up your screen. You answered without a second thought, already sitting upright in bed.

“Hey,” his voice was groggy, gravelly — and entirely too intimate for a call across the world. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” you lied. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

There was a pause. One of those comfortable silences you only shared with people who knew you too well.

“I’ve been thinking…” Lando finally murmured. “This…us. It’s kind of insane, isn’t it?”

You smiled to yourself. “Yeah. But it’s a good kind of insane.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’ll get tired of all this. Of me being gone. The attention. The pressure. I don’t blame you if you do.”

“Lando,” you whispered, clutching the phone tighter. “I didn’t fall for the driver. I fell for the guy who eats cereal with a fork and quotes Shrek at 2AM.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Right. Can’t compete with that version of me.”

“I know love. It’s… messy, and inconvenient sometimes. But it’s you. And that makes it worth it.”

He was quiet again, but you could hear the soft exhale of breath on the line.

“I love you,” he said, a little cracked, like the words still scared him. “Just thought you should know.”

“I already did.”

[Arguments and Apologies]

It wasn’t always perfect.

There were days when texts went unanswered. When one too many sarcastic comments turned into a cold silence. When he forgot to call. When you snapped too quickly.

You stood in your kitchen, arms crossed as Lando leaned against the counter, the tension heavy in the room.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said, voice low.

“Then why do you keep doing things that hurt me?”

He sighed, raking a hand through his curls. “Because I’m scared.”

That stopped you cold.

“Of what?”

“Of screwing this up. Of you realizing you deserve someone easier. Someone who doesn’t bring a circus everywhere he goes.”

You crossed the room slowly, wrapping your arms around his waist, burying your face into his hoodie.

“I don’t want easy. I want you. Even when you’re stubborn and sleep-deprived and slightly dramatic.”

He let out a breathless laugh and hugged you tighter.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Then I’ll try harder. Because you’re it for me.”

[Fangirl Mode Activated]

You were trying to be chill.

But it was hard when your boyfriend’s face was plastered on a three-story billboard in central London, and he walked past it like it was nothing.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked, arms folded.

Lando shrugged. “It’s not that big.”

You gawked at him. “It’s bigger than my apartment.”

“You wanna take a picture?”

“…Yes.”

You posed in front of it while he took twenty awful, blurry, tilted photos, laughing so hard he almost dropped your phone.

“Okay, but imagine if I had a giant billboard,” you teased.

“I’d buy every single one,” he said. “And hang them in every room I walk into.”

[Knowing Love]

Lando was lying on the floor of your apartment, head on your stomach, scrolling through something on his phone while you played with his hair.

“This is it, right?” he asked suddenly.

You glanced down. “What is?”

“This. Us. Love.”

You studied him, the boy who used to flinch at the word, who now spoke it like a promise. Who showed it in forehead kisses, lingering looks, and middle-of-the-night calls.

“Yeah,” you said. “It is.”

Because now you know love.

Not the kind that’s always perfect.

But the kind that stays.

That grows.

That chooses you — every day, even in the chaos.

And in Lando Norris’ arms,

you finally understand the song.

Can you please write kimi antonelli fluff🙏

summary: It’s supposed to be their first real date, but nothing goes to plan—except how he looks at you like you hung the stars.

content: Pure fluff, soft awkward romance, first-date sweetness, hand-holding, cuddling, Kimi being a nervous wreck but trying really hard

word count: 5,5k

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!reader

a thought: thank you for the request anon! i hope this is fluffy enough hehe also thank god i was prepared for this one

You hear the knock before you’re even done fixing your sweater—two quick taps and one long. Familiar. Practiced. When you open the door, Kimi’s there, holding out a single daisy like it’s the most important gift in the world.

“It’s kind of wrinkled,” he says quickly, “I didn’t mean for it to get squished. I was holding it the whole way over. I didn’t want to put it in my pocket. It felt like… like it’d get lonely in there.”

He’s rambling. Adorably.

You take it gently, brushing his fingers by accident—he freezes like you’ve short-circuited him, then blinks fast and laughs under his breath, clearly trying not to combust.

“You look really…” He gestures vaguely, his voice softening. “Like someone who’s about to be complimented really badly, so maybe I’ll just stop.”

You try to respond coolly, but your cheeks give you away.

He’s clearly dressed up—new shoes, slightly-too-crisp shirt, hair that smells faintly like something expensive and piney, gelled just enough to look natural. It’s obvious he tried. For you. Like he wanted every tiny part of tonight to say, this matters.

The reservation’s gone when you get there.

He panics.

“I triple confirmed it,” he mumbles, shoulders tensing. “I set a reminder and everything. I even printed a backup email, who prints emails anymore—”

You slip your hand around his elbow. “Hey. It’s okay. Honestly, I’d rather just… wander with you.”

He blinks. “Really?”

You nod. “Really really.”

You end up back at your apartment, shedding shoes and expectations at the door. He hesitates on the threshold like he’s entering a holy space, eyes wide, hands politely still at his sides like he doesn’t want to touch anything unless he’s invited.

“You can sit,” you say, gently amused. “It’s not, like, a museum.”

He laughs nervously and perches on the edge of the couch, hands folded like he’s a kid in a waiting room. You sit beside him, and only then does he breathe out properly, like your presence is the real invitation.

“I’m gonna order pizza,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Any topping requests?”

“Whatever you like,” he says instantly. Then, after a beat: “Wait. No. Not pineapple. Unless you like pineapple. In which case, I can learn to like pineapple.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “No pineapple. You’re safe.”

You order something easy, something warm and cheesy and guaranteed to arrive in thirty minutes or less. By the time the pizza gets there, he’s taken off his shoes and curled one leg under himself like he’s slowly allowing himself to be comfortable here—with you.

The box lands on the coffee table with a satisfying thump. You bring over sodas and napkins and sit back beside him, legs brushing as you both lean in for a slice at the same time, almost knocking heads.

“Sorry—!” he laughs, backing up. “I swear I wasn’t going for a romantic pizza Lady-and-the-Tramp moment.”

“…Wasn’t?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He blinks. Then grins. “Okay. Maybe I was a little bit hoping for it.”

You bump shoulders and settle in, the pizza hot in your hands and the air filled with that easy silence only shared between people who really like each other. On the TV, a nature documentary plays quietly in the background, all soft narration and slow pans of forest animals. You’re both barely watching.

Eventually, you lean into him—just a little. His arm shifts, then lifts, tentative but hopeful.

You glance up at him.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, already halfway into wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

You nod, heart fluttering. “It’s better than okay.”

So he pulls you close. And you lean into his chest, warm and secure and smelling like pine and pizza and Kimi. His fingers play absently with the edge of your sleeve, brushing back and forth in the tiniest motion like he has to be touching you, even if it’s barely anything.

“I like this better,” he says eventually, voice quiet against your hair.

“Better than the reservation?”

“Better than everything,” he murmurs.

Your hand finds his where it rests on your shoulder. He squeezes, just once.

The night melts away in soft conversation, shared warmth, and the occasional slice of cold pizza you both pretend is still good. By the time you’re lying together on the couch, barely keeping your eyes open, he’s whispering something you can barely hear:

“Do you think... we could do this again?”

You smile, drowsy and safe.

You don’t know when the TV got turned off or how long it’s been since the last slice was touched. The apartment has gone quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You’re tucked into his side, his arm around you like it belongs there—and maybe it does.

Kimi’s head has tilted a little, resting gently against yours, his lashes fluttering now and then like he’s fighting sleep but losing, slowly. His body is warm under yours, chest rising and falling in a way that makes you feel like the world might actually be a soft place, just for tonight.

Your fingers drift upward before you think too hard about it, brushing gently into his hair—soft and a little messy now, no longer gelled into place, just warm strands that slip through your hand like silk.

He makes a small sound, not quite a word. A hum. His eyes flutter open, just for a second, then close again, this time with a deeper breath like he’s letting go completely.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep right here,” he mumbles.

“You already are.”

He smiles, just barely, the kind of smile that only shows when someone feels completely safe. “Keep doing that. It feels nice.”

You keep running your fingers through his hair, slow and easy, scratching lightly at his scalp, letting your nails drag in lazy circles near the nape of his neck. He melts under it, breath hitching a little when you hit a good spot.

“Okay,” he whispers, not even trying to hide how much he likes it. “Okay, you’re dangerous.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah. You’ve got… sleepy spell powers or something.”

He shifts just slightly, enough to nuzzle into your shoulder like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. One of his hands finds yours, linking your fingers loosely, like even in half-sleep he wants to make sure you’re not going anywhere.

You don’t say anything else—not because there’s nothing to say, but because this moment already says it all. The quiet warmth of shared closeness. The gentle weight of his head against you. The hush of a night ending with someone choosing to stay—not because they have to, but because there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

You keep playing with his hair until his breathing evens out completely.

And even then, you don’t stop.

So High School

Pairing: Andrea Kimi Antonelli x Chiara Battista (Original Character)

Summary: Chiara prints his worksheets. Kimi pretends to forget formulas just to talk to her.

It was all working—until she stopped helping, and he realized he might’ve already lost her.

Notes: It's Italian Grand Prix Week! I kinda felt like a cradle robber while writing this, because Kimi is a few years younger than me, but YA was and always will be my first love, so I felt like this was very much in my wheel house.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The school library was nearly empty that afternoon—just the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the steady scratch of pen against paper. Golden hour filtered through tall windows, softening the sterile white walls into something nearly warm. A lazy beam of light slanted across the long wooden table where Chiara Battista sat curled at the end, headphones in, highlighters fanned out beside her like a painter’s palette.

She was halfway through annotating a dense reading for their ethics seminar, blonde hair pulled back in a pencil-stabbed bun that had begun to lean to the left. She didn’t notice.

What she did notice was the sudden bang of the door slamming open.

She didn’t have to look up.

Only one person in their school had ever treated the library like a pit lane instead of a sacred hall of silence.

Kimi Antonelli.

She heard the sharp rush of his breath first—half-running, half-skipping steps echoing too loudly against the tile floor. He jogged toward her, slightly out of breath, sun-kissed and windblown from whatever race weekend he’d just flown back from. His backpack was hanging half-open over one shoulder, and there was a visible crease in the corner of his collar that said he’d either changed in the car or not at all.

“Hey,” he said, voice hushed but warm as he slid into her orbit like he belonged there. “Did we get that grammar packet? The one Mr. Rossi said he’d email?”

She didn’t even blink. “Printed you a copy,” she said, already reaching into her folder. “Figured you’d forget.”

He blinked, like he genuinely hadn’t expected that. “You’re actually a lifesaver.”

Chiara gave a small smile, sliding the neat stack of papers across the table. She didn’t say, I’ve been keeping a folder labeled “A.K.A.” for the last six months because you never remember anything and I never seem to mind. She just handed him the packet and returned to underlining a particularly obscure sentence about moral relativism.

Kimi didn’t move right away.

He stood there for a beat, fingers grazing the edge of the worksheet like it might slip out of his hands if he didn’t hold it gently. Like maybe he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t quite find the words.

Chiara glanced up from her notes.

“Did you win?” she asked, tone light, like this was all completely normal—like she didn’t secretly refresh live race trackers when she was supposed to be studying, heart pounding every time his name moved up the leaderboard.

“Huh? Oh—no.” He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “P6. But it was a decent drive. I think my engineer aged five years, though.”

Chiara smiled under her breath. “Poor man.”

“Yeah,” Kimi agreed, then added with mock gravity, “Pray for Bono.”

She laughed, and he lit up. Just for a second, like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“Thanks again,” he said after a moment, lifting the paper like a white flag. “You always think of stuff I forget.”

“You forget everything,” she teased, not unkindly.

His grin was all teeth, crooked and warm and just a little shy. “That’s true. But you don’t.”

There was something about the way he said it—soft and offhand but sincere—that made her glance up again. And suddenly they were just looking at each other.

It wasn’t new. But it was dangerous.

Because sometimes he looked at her like she was something steady. Something rare. And it made Chiara’s lungs feel too small for her chest.

She glanced back down, pretending to arrange her pens.

“Okay, I should—go,” he said, not moving. “Before Madame Ferragni starts hunting me down for Math homework I didn’t do.”

“You didn’t do it?”

Kimi immediately looked guilty. “I was a little busy driving a car at 300 kilometers an hour.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You had a week.”

“I was in Jeddah!”

“So was my cousin. She managed to post ten TikToks and finish the assignment.”

He laughed, short and surprised. “Right. Okay. I deserved that.”

She sighed but slid another annotated sheet across the table anyway.

He stared at it like it was a gift. “You even highlighted—”

“Don’t act surprised. You always forget the formulas.”

“I don’t forget. I just... deprioritize.”

“You forgot,” she said flatly.

“I forgot,” he agreed, holding up both hands. “But you didn’t.”

“You should go,” she said, more softly this time. “Library closes in ten.”

“Right.”

But he lingered.

“You coming to class tomorrow?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

“Unlike some people, I don’t fly around the world on weekends.”

He smiled again, that same quiet, unguarded thing he only gave her in empty hallways and between classes. The kind of smile that made her wish she could stop the moment and study it.

Then he nodded, tapping the edge of the worksheet against the table like a nervous tic.

“Thanks again, Chiara,” he said, voice low and sincere. “You’re kind of amazing.”

And before she could find anything to say—before she could ask him why he always came to her, why he always smiled like that but never acted on it—he turned and left.

The door shut softly behind him.

Chiara sat frozen for a moment, staring at her scattered notes, at the place he’d been standing. Then she exhaled slowly and picked up her pen again.

***

The courtyard buzzed with low conversation, the kind that floated lazily through the warm spring air alongside the scent of blooming wisteria and the occasional hum of a passing bee. A group of boys tossed a football across the far lawn. Someone played soft music from a cracked phone speaker. Birds chirped from the trees that arched over the stone pathways, as if even they were tired of studying.

Chiara Battista sat on the low stone wall near the edge of the flowerbeds, legs crossed at the ankles, sunlight warming the tops of her shoulders through her linen blouse. Her physics binder was open in her lap, pages fluttering in the breeze, her green highlighter spinning idly between her fingers like a coin she wasn’t sure whether to flip.

She wasn’t really studying.

Not in the focused, efficient way she usually did. Her eyes were on the formulas, but her mind kept wandering—to Miami, to engines, to a crooked smile and a hoodie that always smelled faintly like jet fuel and cinnamon gum.

Across from her, Giulia sat with her back against the wall, peeling a clementine with the kind of exaggerated slowness that said she wanted attention but was pretending not to.

The citrus smell was sharp in the air.

“So,” Giulia said after a beat, voice lilting and light in that deceptively gentle tone she always used when she was about to say something awful, “how long are you planning on being Kimi Antonelli’s personal secretary?”

Chiara blinked. “What?”

Giulia gave her a long, unreadable look, then popped a slice of clementine into her mouth with flourish. “Come on. You print out his notes. You remind him about tests. You keep spare pens for him like you’re part of his pit crew. It's kind of adorable. If it wasn’t so tragic.”

“I don’t—” Chiara began, heat creeping up her neck.

“You do,” Giulia interrupted, voice light and sing-song. “Which is fine. Really. He’s cute. I get it. He’s got the floppy hair, the whole baby-Mercedes-prodigy thing, the eyes. Honestly, I’d probably let him copy off my notes if he smiled at me the way he smiles at you.”

Chiara looked down at her highlighter, still gripped between her fingers, the green plastic suddenly too bright in the sun.

Giulia took another slow bite of orange and chewed, watching Chiara too carefully.

“But you’re smart,” she continued. “Like actually smart. You’ve got a shot at med school. Or engineering. Or politics, if you ever get over your allergy to speaking in public. And you’re wasting your time babysitting a boy who’s probably never even seen your handwriting on his own.”

Chiara’s fingers stilled. The highlighter slipped and hit her knee with a soft thud before rolling into the folds of her skirt. The green cap glinted in the sunlight.

Giulia leaned her head back, eyes squinting up at the sky like this was all just a mildly interesting observation, nothing personal.

“I’m just saying,” she added, quieter now, “he’s got his group. Enrico, Luca, all of them. You really think he’d still talk to you if you stopped printing out his worksheets?

Chiara’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat felt dry.

It wasn’t that the comment was harsh. Giulia wasn’t sneering or mocking her. That would’ve been easier to dismiss. No—this was worse. This was delivered like a kindness. Like honesty, served cold and sharp and gently poisonous.

The sun glinted off the green cap of the highlighter like it was mocking her. Chiara felt her fingers tense around it, her knuckles pale.

“I’m just saying,” Giulia said with a shrug, “I think he’s using you. Not, like, in a malicious way. Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But he is.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

They slid in quietly. Like they were meant to stay. Like they belonged somewhere deep inside her chest, where they could unspool later in the quiet hours.

Chiara didn’t say anything. She didn’t argue. There wasn’t a scene. She just shut her binder with a soft snap and reached down to tuck it under her arm.

Her smile came a second later—small, brittle at the edges, and practiced.

She stood.

“Where are you going?” Giulia asked, frowning.

“Inside,” Chiara said, without turning around. “I forgot something.”

She didn’t.

She just couldn’t sit there anymore. Not with the heat of the sun on her shoulders and those words seeping into her skin like ink.

She walked steadily, not fast enough to show she was upset, not slow enough to linger. Her shoes crunched over gravel, and her binder dug into her ribs with every step.

By the time she reached the hallway, her throat felt tight.

Because now all she could think about were the times he smiled like he meant it. The way he lingered at her desk like he wanted to stay. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking back.

And how stupid she must’ve been to think it meant anything at all.

***

It started small.

Kimi Antonelli wasn’t the most observant person when it came to school—he could memorize track layouts and sector splits like his life depended on it (because sometimes it did), but remembering whether ethics class was in Room 2B or 2C? Not his specialty.

But he noticed people.

And he definitely noticed Chiara Battista.

At first, he thought she was just tired. Exams were creeping closer, and she had that furrow between her brows that usually meant she was deep in study mode. But then she stopped handing him things before he even asked. No more worksheets quietly left on his desk. No more “Hey, by the way, Mr. Russo moved the deadline” in the hallway.

Nothing.

She wasn’t cold, exactly. Just… distant. Like she’d taken a step back and pulled some invisible curtain between them.

And he didn’t know why.

Kimi sat in class and stared at the side of her face while she took notes, neat and precise, a different-colored pen for every category. He used to tease her about it. She used to roll her eyes and pretend she wasn’t smiling.

Now she barely looked at him.

She hadn’t sat next to him during ethics the day before. She’d slipped into a seat near the window before he arrived. And when he’d caught up with her after class, breathless from literally jogging across campus to ask about the project, she’d answered his question with the same tone she used when telling the barista her name for a coffee order.

Polite. Blank. Forgettable.

And maybe that’s what scared him the most—that she seemed totally fine.

Kimi fumbled with the strap of his backpack as he walked across the courtyard, barely noticing when Enrico shouted his name from the steps. He waved vaguely in response, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had he said something wrong?

Had she overheard him joking with the others and taken it the wrong way?

He ran through every conversation they’d had in the last two weeks like it was onboard footage. Looking for a mistake. A missed flag. Something he could fix.

But all he found was silence.

His stomach twisted the way it sometimes did before a wet qualifying session—the anticipation, the nerves, the uncertainty. Only this time, there wasn’t a helmet to hide behind or a lap time to chase. Just Chiara, sitting under a tree across the courtyard, her nose buried in a book he didn’t recognize.

And for once, he didn’t know if he was allowed to walk over.

He used to just know. That invisible thread between them used to feel real. Reliable. Like she’d catch his eye from across the room and there’d be a look—a shared joke, a spark, something warm.

Now, she didn’t even glance up.

He pulled out his phone and opened their messages. The last few were short. Blunt. He scrolled higher, to when they used to send stupid memes or homework reminders with four exclamation points. Her little typing bubbles had always come fast and familiar.

Now they didn’t come at all.

Kimi sat down on the edge of a low wall and stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard like it might offer some kind of answer.

Then, impulsively, he typed:

Kimi A.: are you mad at me?

He watched the “Delivered” stamp appear.

Then… nothing.

No typing bubble. No reply.

Just the quiet weight of not knowing what he’d done, and the uncomfortable realization that, for all the times he’d texted her for help, he might have never really said the things that mattered.

The things he meant.

And now it might be too late.

***

Chiara told herself it didn’t matter. She told herself it didn’t hurt.

That it was fine, really. Normal. Temporary. That people grew out of things like school crushes and imagined connections. That Giulia hadn’t said anything cruel—just honest.

Blunt, yes. But not wrong.

Because when she thought about it, stripped down past the little moments she’d been hoarding like secrets, what did she really have? A handful of library smiles. A few text messages. Some inside jokes about French grammar and his inability to remember his own locker code.

It wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t even friendship, not really.

It was habit.

And maybe it was better to know now, before she got in any deeper. Before she built something out of glances and half-grins and the way he said her name when he was tired. Before she mistook kindness for something more.

So she stopped being proactive.

No more reminders. No more extras printed and labeled in neat folders with his name in the corner. No more nudging him in the hallway to say, You missed this, or, He changed the deadline. She didn’t ignore him—Chiara wasn’t cruel—but she was quiet.

Polite. Distant.

Unmistakably different.

And of course, that was when Kimi Antonelli started texting her more than ever.

Kimi A.: hey, did Mr. Russo say what the final project deadline is?

Chiara B.: Next Thursday.

Kimi A.: right. thanksKimi A.: do you know if we’re supposed to use the same groups as before?

Chiara B.: No, new groups. He said so in class.

Kimi A.: oh. I wasn’t there lol

Chiara B.: I know.

The “Read” receipt sat on the screen like a silent accusation. Four minutes passed.

She didn’t move. Just sat at her desk in her bedroom, textbooks spread in front of her, phone in hand, the quiet pressing in too tightly.

She should’ve been used to this by now—the ghosting, the silence, the slow burn of realizing someone was thinking about you less than you were thinking about them. But this was Kimi.

And Kimi was different.

Wasn’t he?

Her phone buzzed again.

Kimi A.: are you mad at me?

Chiara stared at the message until the screen dimmed and locked. Then she pressed the side button and brought it back again, as if the words might have changed in the dark.

Am I mad at him?

She wasn’t even sure.

Not exactly.

It wasn’t like he had done anything. He hadn’t broken her heart. He hadn’t stood her up or lied or made a promise he didn’t keep.

But he also hadn’t stayed.

He hadn’t noticed how much she gave. How quietly she rearranged her life around his chaos. How she’d memorized his schedule, his absences, his patterns.

He hadn’t noticed when she stopped.

And maybe that hurt more than anything else.

Not the rejection—but the realization that she was so easy to replace that he didn’t even notice when she disappeared.

Chiara glanced around her desk, at the binders and notebooks and that one stupid green highlighter he’d returned to her months ago after she dropped it in the hallway. It still had a faint smudge of oil on the cap. She still used it.

And every time she did, her heart did that annoying stutter.

She thumbed a reply.

Chiara B.: No. Just busy.

It wasn’t exactly true. But it wasn’t a lie either.

Final exams loomed. Graduation was a red circle on the calendar. Everything was ending—school, schedules, this weird little tether between them. And she had other things to worry about. College. Her future. Finding somewhere she belonged that didn’t hinge on how well she organized someone else’s life.

She had to stop wasting time wondering if every “you always think of stuff I forget” actually meant something.

She set her phone face down and tried to get back to her reading. But the words swam, rearranged themselves, refused to sit still.

The next morning, just after first period, her phone buzzed again.

Kimi A.: can I be in your project group?

Chiara read it. And read it again.

She should’ve said no.

She knew she should’ve said no.

But some part of her still ached to believe in him. Still wanted the version of Kimi who lingered after handing her a worksheet. The one who smiled like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

So she typed slowly.

Chiara B.: If you actually show up this time.

His response came faster this time. Too fast, like he’d been waiting.

Kimi A.: I will. Promise.

She stared at the screen.

Then locked her phone before she could respond.

Because even now, even after everything, even with doubt wrapped tight around her ribs—

Part of her still wanted to believe him.

And that part?

That was the most dangerous of all.

***

​​Kimi Antonelli was supposed to be having lunch.

 Instead, he was having a crisis.

“She’s not mad,” he muttered, arms crossed, pacing back and forth behind the table like he was walking a qualifying line he couldn’t quite stick. “She just… shut down. Like—quiet. Polite. It’s worse than yelling. She doesn’t even send me emojis anymore.”

Ollie Bearman, lounging like the human embodiment of ‘this is not my problem’, was leaned so far back in his chair he was practically horizontal, chewing absently on a pen cap. His Haas polo was wrinkled, and there were granola bar crumbs clinging to his collar, but he looked entirely unbothered by Kimi’s spiraling.

“You mean,” Ollie said, “she’s treating you like a classmate and not a potential boyfriend?”

“Exactly!” Kimi threw his hands up. “She used to send me PDFs with color-coded annotations. Now it’s just… black text. Periods. Not even an exclamation point! She used to remind me about class changes. Now she lets me walk into the wrong room and doesn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, no, that’s horrifying,” Ollie deadpanned. “Have you tried talking to her like a normal person?”

“I am talking to her,” Kimi snapped. “She’s just only replying about school stuff. Like, cold. Precise. Linguistically devastating. I asked if we could work on the physics project together and she just said, ‘if you actually show up this time’. That’s lethal.”

Ollie winced, cringing like he’d been personally struck. “Oof. That’s—yeah. That’s girl-code for ‘you’re on thin ice, bucko.’”

Kimi dropped into the chair next to him, slumped dramatically with his face buried in his hands. “This is hell. Actual hell.”

There was a pause, long enough for Ollie to sip from a sports bottle with exaggerated slowness.

“I still don’t get why you haven’t told her you like her,” he said, not for the first time.

Kimi looked up, hair flopping into his eyes. “Because she’s smarter than me. Because she has beautiful handwriting and  perfect grades and probably thinks I’m just an idiot in fireproof overalls who forgets his own password and uses ‘vibes’ to explain physics.”

“You punched her ex-boyfriend for cheating on her,” Ollie pointed out.

Kimi groaned. “That was your idea!”

“My idea was defend her honor, not uppercut the guy into next week!”

“You said, ‘make it clear he can’t treat her like that.’”

“Yeah! With words, not fists!”

“I panicked!”

“You panicked,” Ollie echoed, nodding like a therapist scribbling on a clipboard. “Because you’re in love with her.”

“Exactly!”

“I said to say something,” Ollie continued, exasperated, “not commit assault outside chemistry class.”

“I didn’t assault him! It was one punch!”

“One punch that required ice and a parental meeting!”

“I panicked!”

“You keep saying that like it’s a defense and not a personality trait!”

Kimi let out a strangled sound. “I don’t know how to do this! I know how to defend in Turn 1. I know how to nail a flying lap. I don’t know how to tell a girl that I remember her favorite pen color and I highlight things in green just because she does and I save her texts even when they’re about grammar exercises.”

There was a beat.

Then a voice cut through the chaos, dry and mildly horrified.

“…I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Both boys froze.

They turned simultaneously.

Toto Wolff stood in the doorway of the Mercedes junior debriefing room, espresso in one hand, jacket draped over his other arm, and the expression of a man who had walked into a live-action soap opera during what was supposed to be a technical meeting.

Kimi immediately sat up straighter, trying to brush his hair out of his face. “Hi, Toto.”

“Hello, Kimi.” A nod. Then: “Bearman.”

“Sir,” Ollie said, suddenly very upright, as if his posture might erase the incriminating conversation still echoing in the air.

Toto took a long sip of his espresso and closed his eyes like it might give him patience.

“Alright,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose with the kind of weariness that only came from mentoring teenage boys with fast cars and faster hearts. “First: no more punching. You are supposed to be a functioning adult, not an F1-themed vigilante.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second…” Toto looked between the two of them, gaze settling on Kimi. “Tell her how you feel.”

Kimi blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“But what if she—”

“If she doesn’t feel the same,” Toto interrupted coolly, “you’ll survive. It will hurt. But you’ll get over it.”

Kimi swallowed. “And if she does?”

Toto raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll stop spending engineering meetings texting her instead of listening to race strategy. Win-win.”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked mildly betrayed by logic.

Toto gave him a long look. “You’re not the first young man to like someone smart and good and feel like you didn’t know how to deserve her. Tell her. Before someone else does.”

He pointed at Ollie without even looking. “And don’t take advice from him.”

Ollie gasped like he’d been personally wounded. “I’ve been offended by a team principal. That’s going in my memoir.”

Toto turned to leave. Then paused in the doorway and added, without turning around:

“And if you must punch someone, do it off school property. Less paperwork.”

Kimi gaped. Ollie choked on laughter.

“I’m joking,” Toto said flatly.

(He was mostly joking.)

As he walked away, they heard him mutter to himself:

“I manage race strategy, investor relations, and now teenage hormones. God help me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Then Kimi looked at Ollie. “…Did Toto Wolff just tell me to ask out Chiara?”

“I think you just got father-figure pep-talked.”

“That was terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Ollie nodded. “He’s weirdly good at it.”

Then, a beat later, Ollie grinned.

“So… are you gonna tell her?”

Kimi stared at the wall, like he might find the courage in the pattern of the plaster. “…I might actually die.”

“You might actually kiss her.”

“…I might throw up.”

“You’ve driven Eau Rouge in the wet.”

“That was less terrifying.”

Ollie grinned and clapped him on the back. “C’mon, lover boy. Time to make Toto proud.”

***

They met at her house.

Neutral ground.

Safe ground.

Her mother answered the door in an apron dusted with flour, squinted at Kimi for all of three seconds, then said, “Is this the racing boy?” with a bright, knowing smile.

Before Kimi could respond—still half in his jacket and caught between alarm and confusion—she turned and disappeared into the kitchen with the ease of someone who had already decided she liked him. “There’s biscotti on the tray. Help yourselves.”

The scent of lemon zest and almonds lingered in the hallway like some kind of warm welcome Kimi wasn’t entirely sure he deserved.

They settled in her room—Chiara cross-legged on the carpet, laptop propped on a cushion, and Kimi sprawled beside her, shoulders brushing the edge of her desk, legs half-folded like he couldn’t quite figure out how to sit in one place for more than five minutes.

They’d been working for over an hour.

On paper, it looked productive. Slides moved. Notes typed. Bullet points organized.

But it wasn’t real.

A few awkward comments about font sizes and slide transitions. Some neutral territory filler like “do we need another diagram?” or “can you move that image left a bit?”

Nothing real. Nothing honest.

And it was unbearable.

Chiara had always been good at pretending—smiling through awkward dinners, nodding during group projects, making herself useful. But this was different. This was him. And the quiet between them wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed. Sharp and heavy, like static before a storm.

So, eventually, she broke.

“You know,” she said, still typing, not daring to look at him, “you don’t have to keep pretending.”

Kimi paused, glancing up from his phone. “Pretending?”

“That this matters to you.” Her voice was steady, but it was too practiced. Too careful. “The project. School. Me. You don’t have to keep texting. Or asking me for things. I’m not going to print your homework anymore.”

She said it like it didn’t cost her something. Like her throat wasn’t tightening and her chest didn’t feel like it was caving in around her words.

He blinked. His whole body went still.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she finished, and even though she tried to sound nonchalant, her fingers curled tighter around her laptop, like she needed something to hold her together.

Kimi’s brow furrowed, confusion washing across his face. “Chiara—”

“I’m serious.” She finally looked at him, and the effort it took not to let her voice shake made her jaw clench. “It’s fine. I get it. I was convenient. You needed someone to keep you afloat while you were flying around the world winning races. I was just… useful.”

The words hung there.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It rang. It roared in her ears.

Kimi sat up slowly, eyes wide, his whole body shifting like she’d hit him in the chest with something he hadn’t seen coming.

“You really think that?” he asked, and his voice was quiet, but not soft. It was stunned. Raw.

Chiara held his gaze even though it hurt. “What else am I supposed to think?”

Kimi leaned forward, disbelief written all over him. “I never used you.”

“You say that now—”

“I never used you,” he repeated, louder this time. The desperation in his voice cracked something inside her. “You are the only part of school I like! The only reason I didn’t drop out three months ago.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Because I printed things for you—”

“Because I like you,” he said. It burst out of him like a snapped chord. Breathless. Raw. Unpolished and real.

“Because I look for you in every hallway. Because I come to class after red-eye flights and brutal back-to-backs just hoping maybe you’d say hi. Because I have no idea how to talk to you without sounding like a complete idiot! So I asked about worksheets. I pretended I don’t understand physics! Because that was the only way I could keep talking to you without blowing it.” 

He kept going, voice lower now. “Because I saved every worksheet you gave me, even the ones I didn’t need. Because I still have the dumb green highlighter you let me borrow that one time. Because I thought maybe if I asked you enough questions, you’d start to like me too.”

Chiara froze.

Then she stared at him. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky laugh, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it. “I thought if I said anything real, you’d look at me and realize I’m just… some guy who memorizes apex speeds better than grammar rules. That you’d stop talking to me completely.”

She stared at him.

Then blinked.

Then said—very softly, very brokenly—

“…Then why didn’t you ever say something?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just small. Frayed at the edges. “Why did you let me believe I didn’t matter?”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it again. Looked so impossibly helpless it nearly broke her.

And then—he didn’t answer.

And Kimi—stunned, frustrated, helpless in the way only a teenage boy in love can be—did the one thing he could think of.

He kissed her.

No warning. No hesitation. Just leaned in and kissed her like she was the finish line and he’d been chasing her all season.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t practiced. It was a little clumsy, a little off-center, his hand curling into the fabric of her sleeve like he was afraid she’d pull away.

Chiara didn’t.

Her heart stuttered, brain blank. And then—melted.

She froze, breath caught—then melted into him.

Her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie before she even realized what she was doing. Her other hand slid to his cheek. 

He kissed her like he was terrified she’d disappear the second he pulled back. Like she was something he’d been waiting to find and never thought he’d get to hold.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his. They were both breathing too fast.

Chiara blinked, dazed. Her voice came out smaller than she meant.

“…That was new.”

Kimi gave a short, nervous laugh, cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah. Sorry. I panicked.”

She stared at him for a beat longer.

Then smiled—soft, surprised, and entirely real. “Do it again.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

QUIET LOVE MOMENTS - MAX VERSTAPPEN

.SUMMARY: .Just quiet love moments/gestures with Max (1k words)

Max Verstappen x she!reader

WARNINGS: just fluff This will be part of a series I've been thinking about a lot! 📝💭 Enjoy! ✨😊

He had set three alarms, just in case.

Max never did that. Not for flights. Not for race mornings. Not even for his own birthday.

But today was different.

She was landing in Miami after a very long flight from Monaco, and he knew how much she hated flying. The dry air, the jet lag, the ache behind her knees—she’d complain about it all, eyes barely open, limbs heavy with exhaustion. And still, she came. For him.

So he woke before the first alarm went off, heart thudding like something important was about to happen. Maybe it was. He hadn’t seen her in weeks, not properly—not without screens and timezones and poor connections in between.

He padded barefoot through the hotel suite, hair still mussed from sleep, and started organizing the breakfast he’d ordered an hour ago. And by "organizing," it really meant trying to find enough counter space to fit it all.

Croissants. Sliced strawberries. Fresh orange juice. A ridiculous stack of pancakes. Scrambled eggs she liked with too much cheese. Avocado toast she never finished but always insisted on having. Yogurt with honey. A random chocolate muffin because “it looked cute.”

He stood back for a second, frowned, then called room service again. “Do you have those tiny hash browns? The round ones?”

He just wanted everything to be perfect.

By the time the knock came, he was practically vibrating.

He didn’t even say hello. Just opened the door and pulled her in, arms wrapping tight around her waist like he needed to anchor himself. She dropped her bag with a soft thud against the floor and buried her face in his neck.

“I missed you,” he breathed into her hair. “God, I missed you.”

She smiled against his skin, hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt, cold fingers brushing the warmth of his back. “You smell like coffee.”

He kissed her like he hadn’t in years—slow, thorough, a little breathless by the end. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her. His fingers skimmed her cheeks, her jaw, like checking she was really there.

“Long flight?” he asked gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“The longest.” She laughed, stepping inside. Her eyes widened as she looked toward the dining table, which was now almost collapsing under the weight of breakfast. “Max. What is this?”

“Breakfast,” he said simply.

“For a football team?”

“For you,” he corrected, smiling like it was obvious.

She turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Are we hosting a buffet?”

Max shrugged. “I just didn’t know what you’d feel like after the flight.”

“So you ordered… everything I’ve ever liked in my entire life?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled, a little sheepish now. “Also, I was hungry.”

She walked over, taking in the chaos of plates and bowls and little napkins he’d tried to fold into shapes. It was so Max. A little clumsy. A little over-the-top. And all heart.

They sat down, knees bumping under the table. He moved his chair closer until their arms brushed every time he reached for something. When she tried to butter her toast, he leaned over and did it for her. When she poured juice, he swapped their glasses so she’d get the cold one.

“You’re doing too much,” she whispered with a smile.

“You deserve too much,” he whispered back, like it was nothing.

They were halfway through the second round of pancakes when the door clicked open. Rupert stepped in, eyebrows raised as he scanned the battlefield of food.

“Knew it,” he muttered, grabbing a croissant like it was owed to him. “Told the others you’d overdo it. You always overdo it when she’s here.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

Rupert gave her a grin. “Thank god you’re back. He’s been grumpier than usual.”

“I have not.”

“Max, you yelled at your phone yesterday because the Wi-Fi took too long to load her text.”

Max didn’t deny it. He just picked up a strawberry and popped it into her mouth like it might distract both of them.

She laughed, chewing around the smile spreading on her lips.

It was just breakfast. A table too full. A jetlagged girl in his hoodie. A tired boy who looked at her like she was all the calm in the chaos.

But it meant something. It always did, with Max.

If you have an idea or something you'd like to read about in this series, feel free to hit my inbox! 💌

Hey, I saw you done the reader speaks French but I was wondering if you could one with italian or something similar. My family on my mother's side is italian and I'm learning it again and I'm sometimes embarrassed by my lack of knowledge (spanish was easier for me) if this makes sense. If not that's okay, I love your writing.

Italian Lessons

Summary: You're trying to learn Italian again and what a better way to learn than to get your best friend's best friend to teach you.

Song: Earned It · The Weeknd

Author’s note: You are so relatable! I was born in Italy but as soon as I left, my Italian left with it 😭 I've been trying to learn it but I can't so I wish you the best! I wrote so much but Tumblr didn't let me fit it all so I had to shorten it! Unfortunately due to my exams being in less than a month, I won't post much. 😭 Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 34.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The scent of old leather and motor oil clung to Ollie’s car like a second skin, a familiar aroma that always grounded you. He swerved expertly through the London traffic, one hand drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel as a Formula 1 podcast droned from the speakers. He was talking, something about tire compounds and aerodynamic drag, but your mind was elsewhere, tangled in a knot of guilt and embarrassment.

"Earth to you! You’ve gone all quiet," Ollie chuckled, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. "Thinking about your impending Italian lesson?"

You sighed, leaning your head against the headrest. "Don't remind me. It's just… pathetic, isn't it? My own mother's language, and I can barely order a pizza."

Ollie, ever the comforting presence, reached over and squeezed your hand. "Hey, none of that nonsense. You're busy, you're successful, and you're finally doing something about it. That's all that matters. Besides," he added with a wink, "you know I think you're amazing, even if you only speak fluent English and sarcasm."

You managed a weak smile. Ollie always had a way of making you feel better. Years of friendship, countless late-night talks, and a shared history that stretched back to awkward teenage years had forged a bond unbreakable. He was family, the kind you chose, not just the kind you were born into. It was ironic, really, that he, an Englishman obsessed with speed and engines, knew more Italian phrases than you, the daughter of an Italian immigrant.

"It's just… Kimi," you muttered, the name feeling foreign on your tongue. Ollie’s best friend. An enigma wrapped in a charmingly gruff exterior.

"Kimi will be great!" Ollie declared, his voice radiating genuine enthusiasm. "He's a good guy, just a bit… quiet at first. But trust me, he's got a heart of gold hidden under that stoic exterior. And," he added with a knowing smirk, "he's fiercely proud of his heritage. He'll be thrilled you're making the effort."

You doubted that. You envisioned awkward silences, stumbling over conjugations, and Kimi's thinly veiled disappointment at your linguistic ineptitude. "What if I'm hopeless? What if I just embarrass myself?"

"You won't," Ollie said firmly. "And even if you do, so what? It's a learning process. Besides, Kimi's not judgmental. He's too busy being effortlessly cool to judge anyone."

You couldn't argue with that. Kimi did have an air of indifference that seemed to protect him from the world's criticisms. You'd always found it intriguing, that and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he did smile, which was a rare occurrence indeed.

Finally, the GPS announced, "You have arrived at your destination." You two pulled up to the paddock, a bustling hive of activity where Formula 1 cars were being meticulously prepped for the next race.

Ollie parked his sleek sports car with a flourish, the engine purring. You followed Ollie through the maze of garages.

In the Haas garage, the mechanics were a blur of movement as they worked tirelessly on the gleaming Formula 1 car. Ollie waved at them, calling out greetings in a mix of English and Italian that rolled off his tongue like a native.

He led you further into the garage, where the team was a blur of motion, focused intently on the gleaming Haas car. The sheer dedication and attention to detail were breathtaking.

"Right, let's get you acquainted with the place," Ollie said, clapping his hands together. “I’ll introduce you to Kimi after the race.”

“Kimi?” you asked, feeling a flicker of anticipation. This was it. The man who was going to help you reclaim your heritage. “So, he actually agreed to this?”

"Yep. He owes me a favor. Plus, he’s always up for a bit of a laugh."

You nodded, trying to absorb all the information. "Got it. And thank you, by the way. For all of this."

"Don't mention it," Ollie said, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he reached for his race suit. "It's the least I can do. I've always thought it was a shame you never learned Italian. Especially with your mom being so… expressive.”

That stung. He was right. It was a shame. And it was embarrassing. Your best friend, the one who’d grown up miles away from any Italian influence, knew more about your mother’s language than you did.

"Yeah, well," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Life happens."

"It does," Ollie agreed, his tone softening. He pulled the race suit on halfway, leaving the top part unzipped. "But it’s never too late to learn. Kimi's a great guy, and he's surprisingly patient. Just… try not to be intimidated by the accent. It can be a bit thick."

"Look, I gotta go brief with the team," Ollie said, his attention already shifting to the race ahead. "Just… enjoy the show. And try not to get run over."

With a final pat on the shoulder, he was gone, swallowed up by the organized chaos of the Haas garage. You were left standing there, feeling a strange mix of excitement, apprehension, and inadequacy. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber permeated the air as you meandered through the bustling F1 paddock, your eyes scanning the horizon of gleaming cars and tightly wound tension that only a Formula One race could muster. Your phone chirped with Duolingo's cheery encouragement, a stark contrast to the thunderous symphony of engines revving in the distance.

"Mi dispiace, non capisco," you murmured, feeling a twinge of pride as the app congratulated you with a cheerful "Ding!"

Before you could bask in the glow of your linguistic victory, a velvet voice caressed your ear, "It's actually 'mi dispiace, non capisco.'"

You whipped around, heart racing faster than the cars on the track, to find Kimi, Ollie's dashing Italian best friend, standing just an arm's length away.

"Thanks," you replied, trying to compose yourself, as your cheeks flushed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun beating down on the tarmac.

"I'm just trying to brush up on my Italian, you know, for when I get to Imola."

He grinned, his eyes dancing with a mischief that promised untold adventures. "Well, you're in luck," he said, his accent a siren's song that could make any language sound erotic. "I happen to be a native speaker."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound a little too high-pitched for your liking. "Yeah, I kind of figured that out," you replied, trying to match his cool demeanor.

"Well, then," Kimi said, his smile widening, "having a teacher will definitely help you a lot."

It was ironic, indeed, seeing as Kimi was the person Ollie had suggested to help you with your Italian.

The same Kimi who had a reputation for leaving hearts fluttering in his wake, the one who spoke Italian as if it were poetry caressed by the gods themselves. You felt a peculiar mix of excitement and nervousness at the thought of learning from him. His eyes, a deep brown that reminded you of freshly roasted espresso, bore into yours, and you couldn't help but wonder if he knew the effect he had on you.

Before you could respond, a sharp, authoritative voice blared over the loudspeakers, "All the drivers go to their pits."

Kimi's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eyes darkening with what could only be described as a predatory interest. "See you later, bella donna," he winked, his words a seductive promise before disappearing into the maelstrom of the racing world.

Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him go, his lithe figure weaving through the chaos with an ease that could only come from years of navigating the fast lane.

The term of endearment hung in the air, a sweet whisper that seemed to caress your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. You spent the qualifying session in the Haas garage with Ollie, nervously watching the timings and trying to decipher the technical jargon being thrown around.

During the race, you were a nervous wreck. You cheered for Ollie, of course, your loyalty unwavering. But your eyes kept darting to the silver Mercedes on the track, following Kimi's every move. The roar of the engines, the squeal of tires, the frantic pace of the race – it all faded into the background. All you could think about was the way he had looked at you, the sound of his voice, the playful glint in his eyes.

Ollie finished a respectable 5th, a solid result for Haas. Kimi, however, finished 4th, just shy of the podium. When the race ended, you waited impatiently for Ollie to finish his debriefing with the team, your leg bouncing with nervous energy.

Finally, Ollie emerged, grinning. "Not bad, eh?" he said, clapping you on the shoulder.

You managed a weak smile, your heart thumping. "Congratulations, Ollie," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ollie's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Ready to meet the Italian Stallion?" he teased, using his thumb and forefinger to mimic a mustache.

Your stomach somersaulted at the mention of Kimi's name. You nodded, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, sure. Lead the way."

As you followed Ollie through the bustling paddock, your thoughts raced. What would you say to Kimi? How would he react to seeing you again? The moment of truth came as you rounded the corner and spotted Kimi, surrounded by a group of team members and journalists.

A slow smile spread across his face, and for a moment, it was as if you were the only two people in the world. You felt a rush of heat, a shiver down your spine as he excused himself from his entourage and approached you, his strides purposeful and confident.

"Hey Kimi! Great race!" Ollie exclaimed, his arms open wide for a hug. Kimi embraced him warmly, their friendship palpable, and for a brief, painfully sweet second, you felt like a third wheel in your own fantasy.

But then, as if sensing your presence, Kimi pulled back and looked over Ollie's shoulder at you, the smile never leaving his face. "Thank you, Ollie," he said, his voice a velvety rumble that seemed to resonate through your body.

"Oh, this is…" Ollie started, turning to introduce you.

"Y/N," Kimi finished, grinning mischievously, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look. He extended a hand, and as you took it, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between you, setting your pulse racing even more.

"So, you're the one," he said, his accent thick and alluring. "The one who's going to learn Italian from me?" His smile grew wider, and you felt your cheeks flush under his gaze.

"Yeah," you replied, trying to sound casual despite the thunderous beating of your heart. "I've always wanted to, and Ollie said you're the best teacher around."

Ollie raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Wait, you two know each other?" he asked, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Kimi.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. "Well, we met briefly before the race," you began, your voice steady despite the tumultuous emotions swirling inside you. "I was practicing my Italian, and Kimi couldn't help but offer a few corrections as he passed by."

Kimi chuckled, a rich, deep sound that made your insides quiver. "Your accent," he said, his eyes sparkling, "it is… unique." The way he drew out the word 'unique' made it sound like an endearment, a secret shared between the two of you.

"I know it's not perfect," you admitted, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, "but I'm eager to learn."

Kimi leaned closer, his gaze intense. "I can tell," he murmured, his voice a purr. "And I'm more than happy to help. Italian is a beautiful language, full of passion. It's something you must feel, not just speak."

Your eyes locked onto his. The way his full lips moved as he spoke made your own mouth go dry. You swallowed hard.

"When can we start?" you asked, your voice a breathy whisper.

Kimi's eyes held yours, the intensity in them making your knees weak. "As soon as you're ready," he replied, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. "But remember, I don't just teach Italian. I make you experience it."

Ollie looked back and forth between you two, the light of understanding dawning in his eyes. He winked at you and clapped Kimi on the back. "Well, I've got some celebrating to do," he said, backing away. "I'll leave you to it."

As he disappeared into the throng of people, you were left standing there, alone with the man who had occupied your thoughts all day. Your heart hammered in your chest as he took a step closer, his hand still resting on yours. "Come," he said, "we'll find a quieter place."

You were acutely aware of every movement he made – the way his fingers tightened around yours, the way his eyes searched your face, the way his chest rose and fell with every breath. You found yourselves in a secluded spot, a small area behind one of the hospitality tents.

"So, what's your schedule like?" Kimi asked, his eyes never leaving yours. His voice was low, the vibrations resonating through your entire body.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on his question through the fog of desire that had enveloped you. "It's pretty open," you replied, your voice shaky. "I can work around yours."

"Good," he murmured, stepping even closer. You could feel the heat emanating from his body, the electricity between you growing stronger by the second. "Because I want to make sure we have plenty of time… to practice."

"I hope I'm not a bother," you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Kimi's smile grew, and his thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, sending shivers up your arm.

"Never, bella donna," he replied. "But do you have a boyfriend?"

You felt a thrill at the question. "No," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, as if looking for the truth within. "Good," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"Why?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

He took a moment to answer, his thumb still tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of your wrist. "Uh, nothing," he replied, his voice low and gruff. "I wouldn't want to worry him if you're with me all the time."

The answer didn't quite satisfy you, but the way he said it made your stomach flip.

"So, how do you want this to go?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kimi leaned in closer. "I was thinking," he said, his eyes dancing with a hint of mischief, "if I want you to truly experience this, we have to go on little adventures."

You blinked, surprised. "Like… dates?" The word slipped out before you could stop it, a nervous giggle following close behind.

He nodded, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "Si, like dates," he confirmed, his thumb now caressing your palm in a gentle, mesmerizing rhythm. "But not just any dates, bella. These will be… educational experiences. We will learn Italian, but we will also learn about passion, about feeling, about life."

Your heart skipped a beat. This was not what you had expected when you offered to help him practice English, but you found yourself nodding eagerly. "Okay," you breathed, your voice thick with desire.

Kimi stepped back, releasing your hand with a teasing smile. "Good," he said, his eyes lingering on your now-bare wrist, where his touch had left a trail of heat.

"But first," you managed to get out, your voice sounding more composed than you felt, "can I have your number?"

Kimi's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Sure," he said, pulling out his phone. His fingers danced over the screen with a practiced ease that spoke of years of handling high-speed machinery.

He rattled off a string of digits, and you typed them into your phone, your own hands trembling slightly. You felt a strange sense of excitement, as if you had just received the winning lottery numbers.

"Got it," you said, trying to sound casual despite the racing of your heart.

Before Kimi could respond, a Mercedes staff member, dressed in the sleek, silver team gear, approached with an urgent look on his face. "Kimi," he called out, "we need you for the victory celebration."

Kimi turned to the staff member, his eyes briefly leaving yours. "Arrivederci bella donna," he said to you, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

The paddock was a whirlwind of activity, team members hugging and congratulating each other, the sound of champagne corks popping in the background. You felt a pang of disappointment at being separated from him so soon, but also a thrill at the prospect of what was to come. As you made your way back to the Haas garage, you couldn't help but replay the moment in your mind. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at you – it was all so intoxicating.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of your phone. You looked down to see a text from an unknown number. "Looking forward to our first lesson," it read, with a winking emoji. You felt a warmth spread through your body, realizing it was from Kimi.

When you returned to the Haas garage, Ollie was busy signing autographs for a group of eager fans. His face lit up when he saw you, and he excused himself to come over.

"So, how was it?" he asked, curiosity etched across his features.

You couldn't help but smile at Ollie's question, your cheeks flushing as you recounted your encounter with Kimi. "It was…" you paused, searching for the right words, "intense."

Ollie raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Intense, huh? Did he give you a taste of that Italian charm?"

You nodded, still lost in the memory of Kimi's touch. "More than just a taste," you replied, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice.

Ollie chuckled, his eyes gleaming. "Looks like you're going to be busy," he said, giving you a knowing look. "Just don't let your schoolgirl crush get in the way of my friendship with him."

You rolled your eyes, feigning annoyance, but inside, you felt a thrill at his words. It was clear that he had noticed the chemistry between you and Kimi, and it was equally clear that he approved.

"Don't worry," you said, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. "It's just a language exchange."

Ollie nodded, but his knowing smile said he wasn't fooled. "Uh-huh," he said, winking. "Just make sure to keep me updated on your… progress."

You rolled your eyes again, but couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. "Don't worry, I will," you teased back. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The dreary Monday afternoon hangs heavy around you, the grey light filtering through your window mirroring the dull ache in your shoulders. You’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet for hours, the numbers blurring into an indistinguishable mess. The silence is a thick blanket, stifling and uneventful. Then, the vibration.

Your phone, lying face-up on the desk, jumps, the sudden movement shattering the monotonous quiet like a sonnet erupting in the middle of a slumber party. You glance down, your eyes widening slightly at the name glowing in the dim light: Kimi.

The message reads: "Hello bella donna, are you free tomorrow?"

You take a slow, deliberate breath, trying to quell the sudden heat that’s rising in your cheeks. You type: "Sure, what are you planning?" You need to know, need to understand the intention behind this sudden, charming overture.

Kimi’s response is swift, almost instantaneous. "How about a little dinner in my favourite restaurant in Italian? I promise to make it fun and interactive."

The playful wink emoji that follows does nothing to dispel the heat that has begun to spread through your body, a delicious blend of excitement and apprehension. You haven’t seen Kimi in a few weeks, not since that awkward bumping into each other at the coffee shop.

You’ve replayed that encounter in your head countless times, analyzing the subtle nuances of his smile, the lingering touch of his hand as he’d helped you gather your scattered belongings. You force yourself to take another deep breath. This is just dinner. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But a small, traitorous part of you hopes it does.

"Sounds perfect," you text back, forcing your voice, even in text, to remain steady. You fail. The rapid pulse that has started to thrum in your neck betrays you.

He replies almost immediately: "Okay bella donna, I'll pick you up from your apartment tomorrow."

The finality of the statement, the directness of the invitation, sends another shiver of anticipation down your spine. You stare at the message, your mind already racing ahead, envisioning the evening, the restaurant, his face illuminated by candlelight.

The rest of Monday crawls by in a blur. You can’t focus on your work, your thoughts constantly drifting back to Kimi and the Italian dinner. You imagine practicing basic phrases, stumbling over pronunciations, and his warm laughter filling the space between you. Tuesday arrives with an almost cruel slowness. You spend an inordinate amount of time getting ready, agonizing over every detail.

What to wear? Something casual, but elegant? Something that says, "I’m comfortable and confident," but also, "I put in effort for you." You try on three different dresses, discarding each one with a frustrated sigh.

Finally, you settle on a simple black dress that skims your curves in a flattering way. You add a delicate silver necklace and a touch of mascara, enough to highlight your eyes without looking overly done.

As you wait, your stomach churning with nerves, you pace your apartment, rehearsing Italian phrases in your head. "Buonasera," you murmur to yourself. "Come stai?" "Il conto, per favore." You feel ridiculous, like you’re preparing for a stage performance.

The buzzer rings, sending a jolt of electricity through you. It's him. You take one last deep breath, smooth down your dress, and tell yourself to relax. It’s just dinner. Just a friendly, Italian-themed dinner. You open the door, and there he is. Kimi.

He looks even more handsome than you remember. His dark hair is neatly styled, and he’s wearing a fitted, dark blue shirt that makes his eyes seem even bluer. His smile is warm and genuine, and it reaches all the way to his eyes.

"Ciao, bella donna," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends another wave of butterflies fluttering through your stomach.

"Ciao, Kimi," you reply, your voice slightly breathy.

He offers you his arm, and you take it, your fingers tingling against his skin. As you walk down the stairs, you steal glances at him, trying to decipher the look in his eyes. Is it just friendliness, or is there something more?

The restaurant he’s chosen is tucked away on a quiet side street, a hidden gem with dimly lit interiors, checkered tablecloths, and the aroma of garlic and basil hanging in the air. Soft Italian music plays in the background, creating a warm and intimate atmosphere. He pulls out your chair, and you thank him in Italian, stumbling slightly over the pronunciation of "grazie." He chuckles softly, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Don’t worry," he says, switching to English. "You’ll get there. I'm here to help you practice."

The evening unfolds like a dream. You order in Italian, with Kimi patiently correcting your mistakes and encouraging you to try new phrases. He tells you about his favorite dishes, describing them with such passion that you can almost taste the flavors. You try the osso buco, and it melts in your mouth, a symphony of savory flavors.

Throughout the evening, you catch him looking at you, his eyes lingering on your face, and you feel a warmth spreading through you, a feeling that goes beyond simple attraction. It’s a feeling of connection, of understanding, of being truly seen.

As the evening progresses, the conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and shared glances. The Italian phrases become less forced, more natural, as you relax into the moment. When the waiter brings the bill, Kimi insists on paying. You protest, but he just smiles and shakes his head.

"It’s my treat, bella donna," he says. "Besides, I promised you an interactive experience. The real fun starts now."

The real fun starts now. His words echo in your head, a promise that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. As you walk out of the restaurant, the cool night air kisses your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth you feel inside.

Kimi’s hand lingers at the small of your back, a gentle guide as you navigate the cobblestone streets. You lean into his touch, your heart fluttering like a captive bird in your chest. He opens the car door with the grace of a gentleman, and you slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against your thighs.

As he slides into the driver's seat, his eyes lock onto yours for a moment too long, sending a bolt of electricity straight to your core. He starts the engine, the purr of the vehicle blending with the soft music playing through the speakers.

As he drives you back home, the city lights stream past the windows, painting a kaleidoscope of colors across your skin. His hand rests casually on the gear stick, but your eyes are drawn to his strong, capable fingers.

You wonder what it would be like to have those hands on you, exploring every inch of your body, speaking a language more potent than Italian. The drive back to your apartment is a delicious mix of tension and comfort. His cologne fills the car, a scent that is both new and familiar. The conversation is easy, a blend of shared stories and teasing banter that you hadn’t quite anticipated.

As you approach your apartment, you feel a strange mix of disappointment and excitement. Disappointment that the night is almost over, excitement for what might happen next. The tension in the car is palpable, thick with unspoken desires.

He parks the car and walks you to your door, his stride purposeful, yet filled with a gentle hesitancy. You feel the warmth of his hand as it grazes yours, and you wonder if he feels the same electricity that's been building all evening.

The silence between you is a symphony of unspoken words, the quiet punctuated by the distant sound of a couple arguing in a nearby apartment and the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze. It's a comforting silence, the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket on a cold winter's eve.

As you stand in front of your door, the anticipation of what's to come hangs in the air, as tangible as the scent of your mingled perfumes. You fumble with your keys, your heart racing like a marathon runner approaching the finish line.

Kimi's eyes never leave yours, and you can see the question in them, the silent inquiry of whether this night will extend beyond the confines of friendship. Your hand shakes slightly as you insert the key into the lock, the metal cold against your skin.

The door clicks open, and you both hover in the threshold, the warm light of your apartment spilling out onto the darkened porch. He leans in, and for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you.

Instead, he whispers, "Grazie per la serata," his breath tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

You swallow hard, your eyes fluttering closed for a brief second. "It was… amazing," you manage to murmur.

Before you can say more, his hand reaches up, and he brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch is gentle, almost tender, and it sends a bolt of desire through you that makes your knees feel wobbly.

"The pleasure was all mine," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "But the night doesn't have to end here."

You look up at him, the question in your eyes mirroring the one in his. The air is charged, and the silence stretches out like a tightrope, thrumming with potential.

"I had a wonderful time tonight," he says, his voice soft.

"Me too," you reply, your heart pounding in your chest.

He leans in closer, and you close your eyes, waiting for his kiss. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he whispers in your ear, "A presto, bella donna."

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing at your door, breathless and wanting.

You step inside, the contrast of the cool apartment air against your flushed skin making you shiver. The evening lingers on you, a seductive perfume that you can’t quite shake off. You walk to the bathroom, looking at your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes are bright, your cheeks flushed with more than just the cold.

Was it just the Italian, the romance of the language, or was there something more? You can’t shake the feeling that Kimi’s gaze had held a promise, a silent invitation that you hadn’t quite understood.

You decide to let it go, to enjoy the thrill of the unknown. After all, tomorrow is another day, another chance to learn, to explore, to feel. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You felt a buzz of excitement as you approached your apartment, the anticipation of what lay inside the package he had mentioned growing with each step. Once inside, you placed the package on the kitchen counter, the weight of it a tantalizing mystery.

The cardboard was a stark contrast to the sleek, black leather of the bag you had brought home with you, the letters of his name scrawled across the top in a familiar script that made your heart flutter.

You carefully sliced through the packing tape, the sound of it tearing a gentle crescendo in the otherwise quiet room. As the flaps fell open, you gasped. Before you lay a treasure trove of Mercedes merchandise, each piece more opulent than the last.

A leather-bound notebook, a pen with the company logo engraved on it, a scarf with the signature silver threads, and even a keychain with a miniature replica of the iconic car. But it was the small card nestled among the luxurious items that made your pulse race.

The card was simple, white with a single red rose embossed in the corner. You recognized Kimi's handwriting immediately, the way the letters curved and looped like a lover's embrace.

"To continue your lessons," it read, "with a touch of elegance." You couldn't help but wonder what kind of 'lessons' he had in mind, and whether they would be as exhilarating as the ones you'd experienced the night before.

Picking up the leather notebook, you opened it to find the pages filled with notes in Kimi's handwriting, each one detailing a different aspect of the Italian language.

The pages were also sprinkled with phrases that were anything but academic, reminders of the passionate moments you had shared, and a promise of more to come. You felt a warmth spread through your body, a phantom echo of his touch. You took the scarf, running the soft fabric through your fingers, feeling the gentle caress of the threads against your skin.

The keychain caught your eye, the silver glistening in the soft glow of the pendant light above the counter. It was the perfect size to attach to the diary you had bought to log your language progress.

The diary that now held secrets far more personal than conjugations and vocabulary. You couldn't wait to delve into the treasure trove of Italian delights that Kimi had so thoughtfully curated. The promise of future 'lessons' filled you with a giddy excitement that was both thrilling and a little overwhelming.

You slipped the keychain into your pocket, the cool metal a constant reminder of the passion that awaited you. You took a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of leather and cologne that still lingered in the air from the package.

You sent Kimi a text, "What's the occasion?" you asked, curiosity piqued by the extravagant gift.

Kimi's response was swift and unabashed, "You look better in Mercedes than in Haas, wear this when you're coming to watch me in the Mercedes garage," accompanied by a winking emoji.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his audacity. "You're assuming I would switch from Ollie, who I've known my whole life, to you, who I've known for a week? How bold of you," you shot back.

Kimi's response was immediate. "Boldness is what makes life interesting, no?" he texted.

"It's definitely a persuasive argument," you replied, the smile on your face growing wider with every keystroke.

Kimi's response was as swift as it was seductive. "Persuasion is an art," he texted back, "but when the prize is as sweet as you, it's hardly a challenge."

You placed the notebook and keychain aside and picked up the phone, your thumbs dancing over the screen as you replied, "And what's the prize for passing these 'lessons'?"

Kimi's response was a masterclass in anticipation. "Ah, that would be telling," he teased. "I can't wait to see you in those clothes, bella donna," he replied, the Italian endearment rolling off his tongue like honey, sticky and sweet.

"I'll be sure to dress to impress, maestro," you replied, feeling a surge of playfulness in your tone.

Kimi's response was like a warm caress, his words wrapping around you like a silk scarf. "I have no doubt you'll leave me speechless, as always," he texted, his message sending a rush of heat through your veins.

You replied, "Bye for now," with a flirty wave emoji, your heart racing at the thought of seeing him again. You set the phone down and took a moment to revel in the feeling, the anticipation of what was to come a delicious ache. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The engine's roar echoed through the narrow streets of the bustling Chinese metropolis as Ollie's sleek Ferrari approached your apartment. Your heart raced in anticipation, not just for the exhilarating ride to the F1 paddock, but also for the secret thrill hidden beneath your clothes.

You had decided to wear the Mercedes merchandise today, a bold declaration of allegiance to the underdog team in a sea of Ferrari red. The tight-fitting T-shirt clung to your curves like a second skin.

"Hey Ollie," you greeted him, a playful smirk gracing your lips as you settled into the plush leather passenger seat.

Ollie looked over at you, a knowing glint in his eye. "Wow, really? You decided to switch to Mercedes that quick?" he quipped, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb. The car's vibrations thrummed through you, setting your blood pulsing in time with its powerful rhythm.

You shrugged, the fabric of the T-shirt sliding smoothly over your skin. "Just thought I'd try something different," you replied coyly, the wind from the open window teasing your hair and whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Ollie chuckled. "I heard Kimi is quite the Casanova. What's it like learning Italian from him?" His question hung in the air, ripe with innuendo.

You felt your cheeks warm. "It's… educational," you replied, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Ollie's teasing smile grew wider. "I bet it is. Kimi's got that certain… charm, doesn't he?" He winked, his hand briefly caressing the gearstick before shifting up to third. The car leapt forward, pressing you back into the seat.

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in your body releasing like the hiss of a valve. "Sure," you teased back, your voice light and airy, "but it's all very professional. We're just friends, helping each other out."

Ollie's eyes flicked towards you, a knowing look playing across his features. "Just friends, huh?" He smirked, his gaze lingering on the way the Mercedes logo on your shirt. "Well, if you say so."

Ollie pulled into an empty spot in the Haas-reserved parking lot, the car purring to a gentle stop. The heat from the engine radiated into the confined space, a stark contrast to the coolness of the air conditioning.

"Looks like we're here," he announced, the smirk on his face unwavering.

You nodded, your pulse quickening as you took in the chaotic symphony of sounds and smells that filled the air: the high-pitched whine of engines being fired up, the metallic clang of tools, and the faint scent of burning rubber.

Ollie turned off the ignition, and the sudden silence was almost deafening. The tension between you was palpable, charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with the car's engine. You both stepped out into the sticky embrace of the early summer heat, the sun glinting off the chrome and carbon fiber monsters that surrounded you.

As you two walked into Haas, a murmur rippled through the team members and mechanics, their eyes drawn to the unmistakable logo emblazoned on your top. The whispers grew louder, a symphony of surprise and curiosity.

"Look, it's Ollie with a Mercedes fan," one engineer quipped, his laughter cutting through the air like a knife.

You felt your face redden as Ollie chuckled, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back to guide you through the throng of people.

"You can go see your boyfriend when he arrives," Ollie teased.

The words hit you like a splash of cold water, your heart skipping a beat as you realized he knew about your secret rendezvous with Kimi. You tried to keep your composure, but the blush spreading across your cheeks betrayed you.

"What are you talking about?" you retorted, feigning ignorance.

Ollie's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, come on," he said. "I know that look. You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

You bit your lower lip. "What look?" you asked, your voice a little too high.

Ollie's eyes searched your face. "The one you get when you talk about Kimi. It's like you're melting from the inside out. Your pupils dilate, your cheeks flush, and your breath hitches ever so slightly."

"It's the same look you have right now."

"That's not true," you denied, the denial feeling weak even to your own ears. You busied yourself pretending to adjust the collar of his Haas polo to avoid his gaze.

Ollie didn't relent, saying, "Oh, it is. I've seen it. Remember last year's party when Kimi said 'Ciao bella' to you and you reminded me of that for a whole hour?"

Your cheeks grew hotter, and you felt a flutter in your stomach. You had hoped that incident would have been forgotten, but apparently, Ollie had a better memory than you gave him credit for. The way Kimi had looked at you that night, the way he had said those words, had left an indelible mark on your soul. It was a secret you had been carrying around for months, like a treasure you didn't know how to unlock.

"Well," you began, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice, "it was just a friendly greeting."

Ollie's eyes searched yours, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Friendly, huh?"

"And what about when he showed you those Italian phrases that are a little less… innocent?"

You had been captivated by his accent, the way his eyes danced with mischief as he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck. "They're just… phrases," you murmured, trying to sound nonchalant.

But before Ollie could respond, a familiar Italian accent pierced the air. "Hey guys!"

Your head swiveled around to see Kimi approaching, the sun glinting off his shiny helmet. The sight of him sent an involuntary smile stretching across your face, a smile that felt as intimate as a lover's caress.

You watched as Ollie's expression morphed into one of camaraderie as he stepped forward to greet his friend. The two of them slapped palms, a silent language of respect and friendship passing between them.

As they talked, you felt Kimi's gaze on you, a warmth that spread from the pit of your stomach to the tips of your fingers.

Finally, Ollie stepped aside, and Kimi was before you, his arms open wide for an embrace. As he wrapped you in his strong hold, his mouth brushed against your ear, and he whispered, "I knew Mercedes would suit you better," his breath sending shivers down your spine.

You hugged him back, your heart racing, feeling his muscular chest against yours, the scent of his cologne mingling with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline. You felt his hand slip down your back, resting for a second longer than necessary before pulling away, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

"I see you've decided to show some love for the competition," he said, a teasing smile playing on his full lips.

You stepped back, trying to compose yourself. "It's just a shirt," you protested, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kimi's gaze dropped to the logo on your chest, and his smile grew wicked. "Is it?" He stepped closer again, his hand reaching out to trace the outline of the Mercedes emblem with his fingertips.

Ollie cleared his throat, and you snapped out of the spell. You stepped back, trying to regain some semblance of control.

"It's just for fun," you said, your voice sounding too high-pitched even to your own ears.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, the warmth in them unmistakable. He leaned in, whispering so only you could hear, "I'm sure it is."

Ollie's gaze flicked between the two of you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He clapped Kimi on the back. "We've got a race to prep for," he said, the teasing note in his voice clear as crystal.

The two of them walked away, deep in conversation about setups and tire strategies, leaving you standing there, breathless and flustered.

As the day wore on, the paddock buzzed with activity. The air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline. You found yourself drawn to Kimi like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the gravitational pull of his charm. Every time you caught his eye, he'd give you a wink or a smile that made your heart flutter. It was a dance.

You watched from the garage as the cars rolled out for qualifying. The roar of the engines was a symphony, a crescendo of power and speed that made your blood sing. And there he was, Kimi, in his sleek silver Mercedes, looking every bit the god of the track that you had always imagined him to be.

He glanced up, catching your eye, and gave you a nod before climbing into the cockpit. He disappeared from view, leaving you with nothing but the sound of your own racing heart.

The hours passed in a blur of tire changes and strategy meetings. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and grease, the tension in the garage almost tangible.

And when Kimi finally emerged, his helmet under his arm, his hair damp with sweat, you felt the world tilt on its axis.

He was fourth on the grid, a respectable position, but you knew he had the potential for so much more. You watched as he peeled off his racing suit, revealing the tight, sweat-soaked fabric of his fireproof underwear. Ollie, on the other hand, had managed to qualify in eleventh place.

As the final practice session concluded, you found yourself gravitating towards Ollie, who was surrounded by his engineers, discussing the data with a furrowed brow. You hovered at the edge of the group, trying to appear inconspicuous, but his eyes flickered up to meet yours, a question in his gaze.

You took a deep breath and stepped closer, the smell of the track clinging to him like a second scent. His eyes searched yours, and he gave you a smile that was so forced it looked like it was painted on.

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Ollie's smile was tight, his eyes unreadable. "Yeah, just a bit of work to do before tomorrow." He stepped closer, his arm brushing against yours.

"I'm sure you'll do great," you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Ollie nodded, but the smile he gave you was forced, a mere shadow of his usual charismatic grin. You couldn't help but notice the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes searched yours for something unspoken. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Ollie," you began, reaching out to touch his arm.

He looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You should go and celebrate with your boyfriend," he said, his voice low and gruff. "Don't worry about me. I've got work to do."

You felt a pang of guilt, the weight of his words like a stone in your stomach. "Ollie, I—"

But he cut you off with a firm shake of his head. "It's fine," he said, his voice softer now. "You two have fun. You deserve it."

The words hung in the air, a strange mix of sadness and resignation that tugged at your heartstrings. You didn't know what to say, so you just nodded, the weight of his gaze heavy on your shoulders as you turned and walked away.

You found yourself in front of the Mercedes garage, the door open just enough to reveal the gleaming silver car that was the object of so much of your desire. Kimi was there, surrounded by his own team, his eyes scanning the data screens with a focus that was both intense and mesmerizing.

You took a tentative step forward, unsure if you should join him or keep your distance. But before you could decide, he looked up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

"Ciao, bella donna," Kimi said, his voice like velvet, smooth and warm.

You felt the tension in the air thicken as you stepped into the garage, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading into the background. The light caught the droplets of sweat on his face, making them sparkle like diamonds against his olive skin. You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Kimi's team members looked up, a mix of curiosity and surprise etched on their faces. You had never ventured into their sacred space before.

"I just wanted to… congratulate you," you managed to say, your voice a mere whisper in the bustling garage.

Kimi's smile grew wider, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Grazie, tesoro," he said, his Italian rolling over you like warm honey. He stepped away from his car, closing the space between you in a heartbeat.

His hand reached for yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "Come," he said, tugging you gently towards a quieter corner of the garage. The cacophony of the paddock faded away, leaving only the sound of your own breathing and the pounding of your heart.

You followed him, your body moving on autopilot, drawn to him like a magnet to steel. The air grew thick with anticipation, a silent understanding passing between you.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Kimi said, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he leaned against the wall of his garage. The shadows played over the contours of his face, casting him in a mysterious light that only served to enhance his allure.

You felt your pulse quicken, his words sending a rush of heat through your body. "I wanted to… I mean, I just thought I should… " You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushing as you struggled to form a coherent sentence.

He leaned closer, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "Piano piano," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "Take it slow."

The words were a gentle command, a whispered promise that made your heart race. You knew what he meant.

"Your hand is shaking," he observed, his voice low and soothing. "Are you nervous?"

You nodded, the admission feeling like a confession. "A little," you whispered, your eyes dropping to the ground.

Kimi's grip on your hand tightened gently. "Don't be," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "You're safe with me."

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning. His eyes were pools of warmth, inviting you to dive in and lose yourself in their depths. You took a deep breath, feeling your chest rise and fall with the rhythm of your racing heart.

"Kimi," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

He tilted his head, a question in his gaze. "Yes, tesoro?"

You swallowed hard, the word feeling both intimate and terrifying on your tongue. "I've missed you," you confessed, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Kimi's expression softened, and he stepped closer, his thumb still stroking gentle circles on the back of your hand. "I've missed you too," he murmured, his breath fanning across your cheek.

You tried to deny the shiver that rippled through you, the way your body leaned into him without thought. "It's just been a few days," you protested, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Kimi's smile grew wicked. "Doesn't mean I haven't thought about you," he murmured, his thumb brushing the pulse point on your wrist.

"We're just friends," you whispered, the words feeling inadequate.

Kimi’s smile grew, a knowing glint in his eye. "Friends can miss each other," he said, his voice a soft caress that seemed to wrap around you.

"It's only been a week," you thought to yourself over and over again, trying to anchor yourself to reality. A week since you last saw him, a week since stolen glances and whispered conversations in the dead of night in a small restaurant.

You tried to deny it. "It's only been a week."

Kimi chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through you. "Time is a strange thing, isn't it? Sometimes it feels like forever, sometimes like a blink. This week felt like a lifetime.” He paused, his gaze intense. “A lifetime too long."

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of insincerity, but all you found was raw honesty. You could see the truth in his words, the same truth that resonated within you.

Kimi looked happy to be in your presence. The way his eyes lingered on yours, the soft smile that played on his lips, the gentle touch of his hand – it all spoke volumes.

It was a happiness that both thrilled and terrified you. You knew the risks, the complications, the potential for heartbreak.

"I shouldn't be here," you said, the words a contradiction of your own desires. "Someone could see us."

Kimi shrugged, his eyes still locked on yours. "Let them. I don't care."

"But... the press, your team…" You trailed off, unable to articulate the myriad of reasons why this was wrong, why it could never work.

"Let them talk," he said, his voice resolute. "The only opinions that matter are yours… and mine."

The warmth of his hand sent a jolt through your body, a stark contrast to the cool breeze that danced around you. You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach.

"Kimi," you muttered, the syllables sticking to your tongue like honey, sweet and thick with emotion.

He leaned in, his smile widening slightly, "I promise, I'm not going to rush you for an answer now." His words were a gentle caress, a soft whisper that tickled your senses. The air between you grew charged with anticipation, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.

You felt a warmth spread from your cheeks to the tips of your ears, and your eyes searched for a hint of teasing in his gaze. But all you saw was sincerity. "But we do need to go on our next date," he continued, his voice a smooth melody that seemed to resonate with the rhythm of your own heart.

"Now?" you asked, the word slipping out before you could stop it. The question hung in the air, filled with both excitement and doubt.

"Yes, now," he grinned, taking your hand firmly in his. His touch was surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the garage door as it closed behind you with a gentle clank.

You felt your pulse quicken. "But what about your debriefing?" you asked, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice.

"I finished it quickly for you, bella," Kimi winked, his use of the endearment making your heart flutter.

You couldn't believe it. The race was the talk of the town, and he had managed to slip away unnoticed. "How?" you whispered, eyes wide with astonishment.

Kimi chuckled again, his grip on your hand tightening reassuringly. "I have my ways."

The private parking lot was dimly lit, the shadows playing tricks on the shiny exteriors of the luxury vehicles. His car, a sleek sports model in a deep shade of midnight blue, stood out like a beacon in the night. The cool metal of the car door was a relief under your fingertips as he opened it for you with a flourish.

You slid into the plush leather seat, the smell of new car and faint hint of his cologne enveloping you like a comforting embrace. The engine roared to life, the vibrations thrumming through your body as he revved it up. The headlights cut through the darkness as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

The wind in your hair was exhilarating, the city lights a blur as Kimi navigated the streets with the confidence of a seasoned racer. You couldn't help but let out a little laugh, the kind that comes from a mix of excitement and nerves.

He glanced over at you, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"Where are we even going?" you asked, the thrill of the unknown adding to the electricity in the air.

"Somewhere special," Kimi replied, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror briefly before returning to the road.

The car's engine purring beneath you was the only sound in the quiet cab, the city's din fading as you ventured into the less-traveled streets. The anticipation grew with each passing moment, your heart racing faster than the speedometer.

Without warning, he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a quaint, old-fashioned cinema. The neon lights flickered, casting a soft glow that painted the pavement a warm shade of red. You felt your brows knit together in confusion, but before you could voice it, Kimi had brought the car to a gentle stop.

He was out of the car in a flash, rounding the hood to open your door. You took his hand, allowing him to help you out, the soles of your shoes clicking against the pavement.

As you looked around, the deserted cinema looked like a relic from another era, a stark contrast to the bustling world you had just left behind. Kimi led you inside, his stride long and confident. The lobby was empty, save for an Italian cashier with a knowing smile.

They exchanged a few words in their native tongue, and you felt a twinge of curiosity. The cashier handed over two tickets with a wink and a nod, and suddenly you realized that you weren't just any couple out for a movie.

The theater was empty, the vastness of the space swallowing up the sound of your footsteps. The screen was already lit up, the opening credits of "Mamma Mia" playing to an audience of two.

Kimi took your hand, leading you to the middle of the theater. The smell of buttered popcorn filled the air as you sat down, the plush seats seemingly made for moments like these.

"This used to be my favorite movie," Kimi murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I think it will help you learn Italian."

You looked at him, surprised. "Italian?"

"Yes," he nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's a movie, but the lyrics are mostly in Italian. It's a classic romance, and the music... it's like a window into our soul."

The film started, the vibrant colors and catchy tunes of "Honey, Honey" playing out before you. Kimi leaned closer, pointing out phrases here and there, whispering translations in your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. 

As the story unfolded, so did his own, sharing anecdotes and childhood memories that wove themselves into the fabric of the movie.

You found yourself getting lost in the music, the emotions playing out on screen mirroring the tumultuous symphony within your own chest. His hand found its way to yours, fingers intertwining comfortably. You felt your heart swell with every word he whispered, every shared smile, every beat of the Italian love songs.

The plot grew more intense, the characters' passions colliding like the waves of the sea that surrounded the fictional Greek island. Kimi's eyes never left the screen, but his grip on your hand tightened during the emotional climaxes, as if the love stories of the film were echoing his own feelings.

As the movie went on, you began to recognize the phrases he had taught you, the words rolling off your tongue almost naturally. The romance of the film filled the air, and you found yourself leaning into him, his arm around your shoulder, protective and warm.

Then, the iconic duet "The Winner Takes It All" began to play. The female and male voices intertwined, a poignant expression of love and loss. 

Kimi started to sing the male part, his voice a little too deep for the high notes, but filled with passion nonetheless. You couldn't help but laugh at his earnest attempt, the sound echoing softly in the deserted theater.

He glanced at you, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "You think you can do better?" he challenged playfully.

Emboldened by his playful teasing, you opened your mouth and sang the female part. Your voice was soft at first, tentative, but grew stronger as you found your rhythm. The melody swelled, and despite the occasional off-key notes, your harmony with Kimi grew more beautiful with each line. You could feel his smile against your hair as you sang, his chest rumbling with his own laughter.

The song ended, the screen fading to black before the lights flickered back on. The theater remained empty, the silence a gentle cushion for the emotional intensity of the moment. You both took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and the unspoken feelings that danced between you.

Kimi turned to face you, his eyes searching yours. "I didn't know you could sing," he said, his voice filled with wonder.

You blushed, feeling a bit self-conscious. "It's been a while," you admitted. "But I guess the right company brings it out of me."

He leaned in closer, his gaze intense. "I like bringing out the best in you," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. "I want to see more of it."

The movie continued, the plot unfolding with the sweetness of a blooming romance and the bitterness of misunderstandings. You found yourself lost in the story, the emotions of the characters resonating with the tumult in your own heart. 

As the film progressed, Kimi's hand slipped from yours to rest gently on your knee, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

The plot grew more complex, the characters' relationships tangling like the vines that adorned the Greek isle's landscape. You felt your chest tighten as you watched the heartbreaking scenes play out, the raw emotion on the screen mirrored in Kimi's eyes.

The film's grand finale approached, the music swelling with hope and longing. You watched as the characters faced their fears, confessed their love, and found their way back to each other.

As the final credits began to roll, the theater was bathed in the soft glow of the projector's light. You took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the butterflies that had started a frenzied dance in your stomach. "Kimi," you began, your voice barely a whisper.

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread. "That was beautiful," you continued, feeling the weight of the words on your tongue.

He nodded, his thumb still making circles on your knee. "I know," he grinned.

The theater was empty, the only sounds the distant hum of the projector and the beating of two hearts echoing through the vast space.

"Thank you," you murmured. "For this, for everything."

"It's nothing," he replied. "We're just getting started."

As you stepped out of the theater into the cool night air, you realized that it was really dark, leaving a quiet, peaceful calm in its wake. The stars twinkled above, a silent backdrop to the symphony of your racing thoughts. Kimi's hand found yours again, and you felt the promise in his grip.

The world around you was a blur as he led you to the car, the neon lights of the city reflecting in the puddles left by the rain. You slid into the passenger seat, your heart still racing from the emotional rollercoaster of the film and the intensity of the moment.

He started the car, the engine purring to life beneath you, and pulled out of the lot. The city lights danced in the side mirrors, a blur of color and movement as you left the past behind you. 

The future was unwritten, filled with possibilities and unknowns, but as you looked at Kimi, you knew that no matter what lay ahead, you had someone to navigate it with. The quiet between you was filled with unspoken words and the sweet anticipation of what was to come. The night was young, and the adventure was just beginning.

Kimi drove with the confidence of someone who knew the city like the back of his hand, the car's headlights slicing through the inky blackness of the night. The salty scent of the ocean grew stronger with each passing mile, hinting at the destination that lay ahead. 

Before you knew it, the asphalt under the tires gave way to the soft crunch of sand as he pulled into a hidden cove, the beach stretching out before you like a canvas of moonlit tranquility.

"Kimi..." you began, the question in your voice trailing off as he turned off the engine and opened your door. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was the only music that played as you stepped out of the car.

"I wanted to give you a 'Mamma Mia' experience," he said, taking your hand and leading you down a winding path to the beach. 

The sand was cool between your toes, and the soft glow of string lights guided you to a picnic blanket laid out with a feast of Italian delights. The scent of garlic and herbs wafted through the air, mingling with the briny tang of the sea.

The picnic was set up with precision, a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket, surrounded by plates of bruschetta, cheese, and a selection of meats. 

The sight was like a scene from a movie, so perfect it was almost surreal. He had even brought a small speaker, playing the film's soundtrack at a low volume, the music a gentle serenade to the whispers of the night.

You couldn't help but smile as he pulled you into a dance, the sand shifting beneath your feet. His movements were fluid, his grip firm but gentle, guiding you through the motions with a grace that made your heart sing. 

As you danced under the stars, you felt a sense of belonging, a feeling that was as vast as the ocean that stretched out before you. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making your knees wobble. 

You weren't just any girl at any beach; you were in the arms of the man who you were slowly falling for.

The music grew softer as the night deepened, the stars above seeming to hold their breath as the tension grew between you. Kimi leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you want to sit?" he asked, his voice low and filled with meaning.

Nods and nods, your heart racing faster than the waves that lapped at the shore. You sat on the picnic blanket, the warmth of the sand seeping through the fabric, a stark contrast to the cold glass of wine he handed you.

You took a sip, the taste rich and full, complementing the salty air. The sound of the ocean was a gentle lullaby, the rhythm of the waves matching the beating of your heart. Kimi sat beside you, close enough that your legs brushed against each other. 

"How did you like this date, eh?" Kimi asked, his eyes searching yours. The question was a simple one, yet it held a universe of meaning.

You looked around the moonlit cove, the gentle waves whispering secrets to the shore, and back at him. "It's... perfect," you managed to say, the word feeling inadequate for the emotions swirling inside you. 

The Italian music played softly in the background, a serenade to the stars above. Kimi's smile grew, his eyes lighting up like the fireflies that danced around the beach. "I'm glad," he said, his voice a warm caress in the salty breeze.

You took another sip of the wine, the flavors blossoming on your tongue. "I didn't expect... this," you admitted, gesturing to the picnic spread.

Kimi leaned closer, his eyes searching yours. "What did you expect?"

You set the wine glass down, the tremble in your hand barely noticeable. "I don't know," you replied, a small laugh escaping your lips. "But definitely not this."

The question hovered between you, a soft echo of the waves. Kimi leaned closer, his gaze intent. "But what did you think of it?"

You took a deep breath, the briny scent of the sea mingling with the aroma of the wine and food. "It's more than I could have ever imagined," you confessed, your voice barely audible over the gentle symphony of the night. "I didn't know dates could be like this."

Kimi's smile grew, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "And how have you been treated before?" he asked, his voice a gentle coax.

You thought back to the dates that felt like they were pulled from a cookie-cutter, the men who had tried but never quite hit the mark. "It's just... nobody has ever made me feel like I'm the only person in the world," you murmured, the words a soft confession. "It's like you see me, really see me."

Kimi's eyes searched yours, understanding flickering in their depths. "You are special," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "You deserve to be seen, to be appreciated." He reached out, his thumb brushing away a stray hair from your face.

The touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. "Thank you," you whispered, the words feeling like a prayer. You had never been treated with such care, such consideration. 

The men from your past had been shadows compared to the vibrant, living color of Kimi. They had taken you to dinner, bought you flowers, whispered sweet nothings, but they had never made you feel like you were the center of their universe.

As you talked under the stars, the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the promise of change. The picnic had been a feast for the senses, and as the music grew softer, so too did your heart, filling with a warmth that seemed to radiate from Kimi's very soul. 

You could feel the moment drawing to a close, the inevitability of reality trying to break through the magical bubble you had created.

"Let's get you home," Kimi said finally, his voice a gentle caress. You nodded, not quite ready to let the night end but knowing that it had to. 

You helped him gather the remnants of the picnic, the plates and glasses clinking together like a sweet melody. The sand clung to your clothes, a reminder of the enchanting world you had just shared.

He drove you home, the car's headlights cutting through the night like a beacon guiding you back to the safety of the familiar.

You watched the world go by, the streetlights casting a golden glow over the city's nocturnal landscape.

When you arrived at your house, the car came to a gentle stop. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the quiet night. Kimi walked you to the door, his hand in yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you in the moment. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the anticipation of what was to come making it difficult to breathe.

"Good night, Y/N," Kimi said, his eyes searching yours. You leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, feeling the rough stubble against your lips.

"Good night, Kimi," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You watched as he stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. You slid the key into the lock, the metal cold against your trembling hand. With one final look, you turned the knob, the door creaking open to reveal the warm embrace of your home.

You leaned against the door, the wood cool against your flushed cheek. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the echoes of his words with it.

You slid down the door, the adrenaline from the night leaving your body in a rush. Your heart felt like it was racing in a marathon, each beat echoing the rhythm of the waves from the cove. 

The house was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall, a gentle reminder that the world didn't stop spinning just because you had found a moment of happiness. You stepped inside, the warm light of the foyer wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. 

As you closed the door, you felt a strange sense of both longing and contentment. The night had been perfect, a memory you would cherish, but now you were left with the bittersweet realization that it was over.

The door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the silent house. You leaned against it, the imprint of Kimi's hand still burned into your skin. The taste of him lingered on your lips, a sweet reminder of the promise that hung in the air. . . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Every weekend, without fail, he would whisk you away to a new Italian-inspired adventure. Museums, where the air had the scent of ancient oils and the hush of reverence, became your classroom. You'd stand before paintings of rolling landscapes, Kimi pointing at the vibrant hues and insisting you name them in Italian.

It was as if he were feeding you a piece of the language with every brushstroke you took in. The cobblestone streets of the city's Little Italy echoed with your tentative words as you stumbled through phrases that once danced so effortlessly from your tongue.

The restaurants were his grandest stage. He'd select the most authentic trattorias, where the chefs had names that rolled off the tongue like the perfect pasta al dente. You'd sit at a table set with a red-checkered cloth, the aroma of garlic and tomatoes teasing your senses.

Kimi would order for you in rapid-fire Italian, his eyes gleaming with excitement as you tried to decode his words. The servers, with their genuine smiles, seemed to understand the silent struggle of your rekindling romance with their mother tongue.

They'd nod encouragingly as you fumbled through your menu, eventually pointing at a dish with a name that sounded like poetry but was just spaghetti to your unpracticed ears.

As the weeks rolled by, you began to feel a strange kinship with the language, as if it were a long-lost friend you were slowly getting reacquainted with. The frustration of forgotten vocabulary and grammar rules slowly melted away, replaced by a warm nostalgia for the days when Italian was your secret garden of words.

You started to anticipate the weekends, the thrill of the challenge growing with every mouthwatering dish and every sculpture that told a story you could almost remember. It was as though Kimi had cast a spell on you, and the incantation was the melodic cadence of his Italian commands.

One particular evening, the stars aligned. You stepped into a dimly lit enoteca, the walls lined with bottles that gleamed like jewels in the soft light.

The hum of conversation was a soothing backdrop to the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Kimi had a twinkle in his eye as he handed you a glass of deep red wine and told you to order

You took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through you, and then took a deep breath. "Posso avere un piatto di bruschetta, per favore?" you asked, your voice stronger than it had been in what felt like an eternity.

The waiter nodded, a knowing smile playing at his lips, and disappeared into the kitchen. As you waited, the anticipation grew, not just for the food, but for the sense of triumph that was about to be yours.

The words had come so naturally, so confidently, that you could almost believe you had never lost them at all. It was as if you had just found a key to a door you didn't know was locked.

Kimi's smile grew wider as he heard your request. "Che bella voce!" he exclaimed, raising his glass to you in a silent toast. His voice was filled with pride and joy, and his eyes sparkled like the stars outside.

"You're doing it," he whispered, leaning closer across the table. "You're bringing it back to life."

The bruschetta arrived, a plate piled high with crispy slices of bread topped with a symphony of tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella. The waiter placed it down with a flourish, the scent of garlic and balsamic vinegar wafting towards you. As you took a bite, the flavors exploded on your taste buds, transporting you to a summer evening in a small Italian piazza.

Kimi's eyes never left yours, a gentle nod of approval etched into his expression. "Anche la tua pronuncia," he said, praising your pronunciation.

His voice was a warm embrace, a gentle nudge that encouraged you to keep going. You felt a blush creep up your neck, but it was a blush of pride, not embarrassment.

You took another bite of bruschetta, savoring the tangy sweetness of the tomatoes and the creaminess of the cheese.

As you chewed, you tried to think of the next thing to say, eager to keep the conversation flowing in Italian. Kimi watched you, his gaze filled with affectionate amusement, as you wrestled with the words.

"Grazie," you said finally, the word rolling off your tongue like a well-practiced aria. "E' deliziosa."

Kimi's eyes lit up like the candle on the table between you. "Non é solo il cibo," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Ma la lingua stessa. L'italiano é come la danza. Ha il suo ritmo, la sua grazia."

You nodded, understanding what he meant. Italian was indeed like a dance, one that you were slowly learning to perform again. You felt the rhythm of the language in the way the words flowed from his lips, and the elegance in the way he moved his hands as he spoke.

As the weeks turned into months, the lessons grew more intimate. It was no longer just about the words, but the emotions behind them.

Kimi would tell you stories of his childhood in Bologna, his voice painting vivid images of the bustling markets and the warmth of his nonna's kitchen.

You found yourself falling in love with him, not just for his passion for his culture, but for the way he shared it with you. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You were walking to Kimi's garage, the sun glaring down on the concrete, when you felt a gentle tug at your trousers. You looked down to see a shy girl, maybe eight or nine, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and a shy smile playing on her lips. She looked up at you with big, hopeful eyes.

"Hey there, sweetie," you said, bending down to her level. "What's up?"

The girl clutched a small, colorful bracelet in her tiny hands. It was a simple thing, woven from bits of plastic and thread, but to her, it looked like the most precious treasure in the world. "Can you give this to your boyfriend?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Confusion wrinkled your brow. "My boyfriend?" You didn't have one, at least not that you knew of.

"Yeah," she said, nodding fervently, "the one with the big car. The fast one. He's nice to me."

It dawned on you then. Kimi. You chuckled and took the bracelet. "Kimi, huh?"

The girl's cheeks turned a shade of pink that matched the plastic flowers on the bracelet. "Please," she whispered, her eyes shimmering with hope. "It's for him."

You straightened up and nodded, tucking the bracelet into your pocket with a smile. "Alright, little one. I'll make sure Kimi gets it."

Her eyes lit up, and she beamed a grin that could've powered a city. "Thank you!" she exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

With a chuckle, you then took the Mercedes hat that belonged to Kimi from your head and placed it on her head. It was a bit too big, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she looked like she'd just been crowned royalty.

The hat sat atop her head like a cherry on a sundae, slightly askew, with the brim casting a shadow over her freckled nose.

Her eyes grew wide with excitement, and she giggled as she felt the fabric of the hat against her forehead. "Wow!" she exclaimed, "I feel like I can drive a car now!"

With that, she dashed off, the hat bobbing comically with every step she took. You watched her until she reached a woman standing a few feet away, who looked at you with a grateful smile.

The girl threw her arms around the woman's legs and whispered something into her ear, glancing back at you. The woman looked surprised for a moment, then her gaze softened, and she nodded, glancing in the direction of the garage. She whispered something back, and the girl beamed up at you before running off.

You chuckled and continued your journey to the garage, the warmth of the sun on your back. The girl's excitement had brightened your day, and you couldn't help but wonder what Kimi would think of the bracelet.

When you arrived at the garage, the sound of a revving engine and the smell of gasoline filled the air. You walked into the cluttered space, passing by a wall of tools and a rack of greasy car parts, and all you could see were mechanics in blue jumpsuits scattered around, working tirelessly on various vehicles.

You squinted through the dusty light, looking for Kimi. There was no sign of him anywhere. You felt the heat of the engines and heard the rhythmic clinking of metal on metal, but still, he was nowhere to be found.

Then, in the corner, you spotted a glimpse of a familiar face—Bono, Kimi's race engineer, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was hunched over a table with a sheaf of papers spread out in front of him.

He had a pencil in his hand, scribbling furiously, and he looked utterly engrossed in whatever calculations he was doing.

Finally, you caught sight of Kimi. He was standing next to Bono, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression equally frustrated. The two of them were so focused on the paperwork in front of them that they hadn't noticed you yet.

You took a moment to watch them, the tension in their postures speaking volumes about their current predicament. As you approached, the sound of your footsteps echoed through the garage, and Kimi looked up.

"Looks like you have a secret admirer," you said, tossing the bracelet to him.

He caught the bracelet you tossed, and his expression grew more serious as he studied it. "What's this?" he asked, fingering the plastic threads.

"It's from a little girl," you said. "She wanted you to have it."

Kimi's eyes softened, and he looked up at you, his smile widening. "Really?"

You nodded. "She said you're nice to her one day."

Bono looked up from his calculations, his curiosity piqued by the exchange. "Everything okay?"

Kimi held up the bracelet, his grin unshakeable. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's great."

The two of you shared a look, and you could see the weight of their earlier frustration lifting. For a brief moment, the garage didn't seem so chaotic, and the only thing that mattered was the simple act of kindness captured in the plastic flowers of that bracelet.

"Well, that's sweet," Kimi said, his eyes never leaving yours. "But why did she give it to you?"

You felt a blush creep up your neck. "Um, she thought… I was your girlfriend," you admitted, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Kimi's smile grew even wider. He looked down at the bracelet again, then back at you, his eyes filled with amusement. "Did she now?"

You nodded, your cheeks burning hotter than the engine of one of the cars in the garage. "Yeah, she thought I was your girlfriend, so she asked me to give it to you."

Kimi's eyes glinted with mischief. "And what did you tell her?"

"I just said I'd give it to you," you replied, feeling more nervous by the second.

Kimi's gaze didn't waver. "But did you tell her anything else?"

You swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in your throat. "No, nothing else," you replied, hoping your voice didn't betray the lie.

Kimi's smile grew into a full-blown grin, and he took a step closer to you, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Are you sure?"

You felt your heart flutter as his proximity sent waves of heat through your body. "Positive," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Well, if you're my girlfriend," he said, his voice low and teasing, "I suppose I should be giving you something, too."

With that, he took off one of his own bracelets. It was a sleek, black leather band with a silver charm that looked like a tiny car. "What are you doing?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

"Exchanging," he said, his eyes locked onto yours. He took your hand and slid his bracelet on your wrist. The warmth of his skin lingered on your skin, making you shiver. "Now, every time I wear this, I'll think of you."

The leather felt smooth and cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that was building within you. You looked down at the charm, your heart racing as the reality of the situation sank in.

Kimi had never made a move like this before, and you weren't quite sure how to react.

You felt your breath catch in your throat as he fastened the bracelet around your wrist. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

Your eyes remained fixed on his, the intensity of his gaze making it hard for you to look away.

Bono, who had been quietly observing the exchange, cleared his throat. "We have a revision to do, Kimi," he said, his voice cutting through the thick tension like a hot knife through butter.

Kimi's gaze didn't leave yours for a second, a silent question lingering in his eyes before he finally nodded. "Right," he murmured, his voice a bit gruff.

Bono cleared his throat again, louder this time. "Kimi," he prompted.

Kimi's eyes snapped away from yours, and he took a step back, breaking the spell. "Ah, yes," he said, his voice returning to its usual, business-like tone. "We do have a revision to do."

You watched as he turned to Bono, the bracelet on your wrist a constant reminder of the moment that had just passed between you. Bono gave you a knowing look before focusing back on his papers.

You felt a strange sense of calm while KImi was stressing over maths. Numbers danced in your head, equations unfolding like graceful dancers in a silent ballet. You knew calculus. You understood it in a way Kimi never would.

"I just… I don't get it," Kimi groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. His brow was furrowed in frustration as he stared at a page filled with integrals, the nemesis of his academic existence.

"It's like trying to understand a language no one speaks," Kimi muttered, pushing the textbook away.

You stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, the warmth of his skin seeping through his shirt and into your palm. "Let me take a look," you offered, your voice soothing.

Kimi hesitated before handing over the book with a defeated sigh. You sat beside him, the scent of engine oil and sweat mingling with the faint aroma of his cologne—a surprisingly pleasant combination that you'd come to associate with the garage.

The pages of the book fell open, revealing the tangled web of formulas that had him so flustered.

"It's not that hard," you assured him, leaning closer so that your bodies touched. "It's just a matter of practice."

Kimi sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I know, but it's just not sticking."

"I could teach you if you wanted?" you offered tentatively, glancing at both Kimi and Bono.

Bono's eyes shot up from the paperwork he had been engrossed in, and a look of relief washed over his face. "Yes, please," he said, his voice a mix of hope and desperation. "Anything to get this little gremlin to understand calculus."

Kimi rolled his eyes playfully, but you could see the hint of gratitude in them. He leaned back in his chair, his muscular arms flexing as he did so, and gestured to the open textbook.

"Be my guest," he said with a smile, his gaze lingering on your hand that still rested on his shoulder.

Bono looked up from his paperwork, his expression a mix of hope and skepticism. "If you can get him to pass this class, I'll owe you one," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of challenge.

You took the textbook into your hands, feeling the weight of the responsibility, but also a thrill at the prospect of being able to help Kimi in a way that was uniquely yours. "Let's start with the basics," you suggested, turning to the first chapter.

As you delved into the world of derivatives and integrals, you found yourself enjoying the process of explaining concepts to him. His eyes would light up when he understood something, and the way his brows furrowed when he was concentrating was endearing.

You felt a strange sense of intimacy, not just because of your physical proximity, but because you were sharing a piece of yourself with him that you had never shared with anyone else.

Kimi's mind was sharp when it came to cars—he could dismantle and reassemble an engine faster than you could recite the alphabet. But math? It was his Achilles' heel.

You found yourself getting lost in his eyes as you explained the rules of calculus, the gentle slope of his cheekbones, and the way his bottom lip pouted slightly when he was confused. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The faint scent of fresh ink and paper filled the room as you meticulously scrutinized Kimi's Maths homework, the soft whispers of the words dancing in the air like an intimate serenade. The bracelet he had given you weeks ago jingled with every turn of the page, a delicate reminder of the secret bond you shared.

"That's my brother's favorite bracelet," said a sweet, unfamiliar voice, piercing the silence like a softly played note on a violin.

Looking up from the academic tapestry laid before you, your gaze fell upon the speaker. A girl, no older than thirteen, with a cascade of long brown hair that shimmered under the muted lamplight, and eyes so deep and rich they could have been pockets of pure, untouched chocolate, stared back at you.

Her smile was a mirror of Kimi's, but there was an innocence in it that made your heart flutter like a caged bird discovering an open window.

"Really?" you replied, your voice a cocktail of surprise and curiosity. "How do you know?"

The girl leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've seen him wear it a hundred times," she confessed, her voice a gentle caress on the silence. "But he said he gave it to you."

Her revelation hung in the air, thick with the anticipation of an unspoken question. You felt your cheeks flush, the warmth spreading from your core like wildfire. The bracelet grew heavier on your wrist, a silent testament to the secret you'd been keeping from everyone, including yourself.

"Is... is that okay?" you stuttered, fidgeting with the delicate trinket. The girl's eyes searched yours, a mix of amusement and something you couldn't quite place. "I mean, I didn't know it was his favorite."

She giggled, a sound so pure it could have been the tinkling of wind chimes on a perfect summer evening. "Don't worry," she assured you, "I think he's happy you're wearing it. It looks good on you."

"I'm Maggie, by the way. Kimi's little sister."

"Oh, it's nice to finally meet you, Maggie," you managed to say, trying to compose yourself. "Your brother's been helping me with Italian."

Maggie's smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Ah, yes," she said, her voice a melodious symphony of knowing and innocence. "Kimi's always had a knack for languages. And for helping people, too."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking in. The bracelet grew warmer, a silent pulsation that seemed to echo the rhythm of your racing heart. "He's been amazing," you confessed, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. "He's really patient with me."

Maggie nodded sagely, her smile unwavering. "He always has been," she said. "But I've noticed a different kind of spark in his eyes when he talks about you."

You felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation coil in your stomach. "He talks about me?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Maggie nodded, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "All the time," she said, her words a gentle tease. "He tells me how much you've been improving, how much he enjoys your company."

Your heart skipped a beat, the warmth from the bracelet spreading up your arm like a lover's caress. "Really?" you murmured, trying to keep the hope from bubbling over into your voice.

Maggie nodded emphatically, her youthful exuberance infectious. "Yeah!" she exclaimed, her cheeks dimpling. "He says you're the best student he's ever had."

You couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled up from your chest, a warm, velvety sound that seemed to resonate through the room. "I think I'm the only student he's ever had," you said, the words tumbling out with an ease that surprised even you.

Maggie's laughter joined yours, a sweet harmony that filled the air with the lightness of feathers dancing on a summer breeze. "You're probably right," she admitted, her eyes shining with affection for her brother.

Then, as if on cue, a shadow fell over the two of you, and a familiar, playful voice rang out, "Hey! That's mean from both of you! Especially you, sorellina!"

You turned to find Kimi standing beside you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. You looked up into his eyes, and the world around you melted away into a pool of molten chocolate, rich and deep.

"I've taught Ollie Italian too," Kimi added, a smug grin playing on his full lips.

Maggie rolled her eyes and playfully swiped at her brother. "Yeah, but you didn't give him a bracelet!"

Kimi's grip on your shoulders tightened slightly, his eyes dropping to the bracelet on your wrist. "It's just a little something," he said, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to resonate through your very being. "A small token of friendship."

"Kim told me you're Italian," Maggie asked, her curiosity piqued. "Is that true?"

You looked into her eager eyes, feeling the warmth of Kimi's hands on your shoulders, his presence a comforting embrace that seemed to bolster your courage. "Yes," you admitted, your voice a soft caress. "My mother's side of the family is from a small town outside of Verona."

Maggie's eyes widened with excitement. "Really?" she squealed, her voice a delightful trill. "That's so cool! Do you speak Italian fluently?"

You nodded, a warm smile playing on your lips as you felt Kimi's hands tense ever so slightly. "I used to," you admitted. "But it's been a while. That's why I've been asking Kimi for help."

Kimi's thumb stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle dance on your skin. "Well, it's definitely coming back to you," he said, his voice a soothing balm to the nerves that had suddenly taken up residence in your belly.

"It's all thanks to you," you replied, the words slipping out like a sigh of contentment. You felt a thrill rush through you as his eyes searched yours for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lingering on your mouth before dropping back to the bracelet.

The sudden, unexpected announcement crackled over the intercom, jolting you both out of the intimate moment. "Attention, all drivers," the disembodied voice called out, "please report to your designated garage immediately."

Kimi's eyes snapped to the clock on the wall, his expression a mix of surprise and excitement. "The race," he murmured, his thumbs ceasing their gentle exploration of your skin. "It's starting sooner than I thought."

"Can I watch with y/n?" Maggie's voice was a breath of fresh air, filled with excitement and innocent curiosity. The question hung in the air, a delicate thread connecting the three of you in a way you hadn't anticipated.

Kimi's eyes lit up with an idea, his grip on your shoulders loosening as he stepped away. "Why don't you?" he suggested, turning to face you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It'll be like a little reunion, and maybe she can even help me teach you some Italian."

You felt your heart race as you looked from Kimi to Maggie and back again, the warmth from their gazes a gentle embrace that seemed to melt away the barriers you had so carefully constructed around your feelings.

"I'd love that," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "It'll be like a miniature Italian lesson."

Maggie's eyes lit up like stars in the night sky, and she clapped her hands together. "Yay!" she exclaimed, her youthful exuberance infectious.

Kimi leaned in to whisper into your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. "Okay, I'll leave you two beauties to it," he said. "But remember, I expect full reports of your language lessons later."

His lips curled into a knowing smile as he pulled away, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "And please, take care of each other."

With those words hanging in the air like a seductive promise, Kimi turned and strutted out of the room, his confidence a palpable force that seemed to electrify the very air around him, leaving you alone with his sister again.

Maggie's gaze followed him, her eyes filled with a mix of adoration and something else, something that looked suspiciously like mischief. "So," she said, turning to you with a knowing smile, "do you like my brother?"

The question hung in the air, a delicate thread of curiosity that seemed to tug at the fabric of the room itself. You felt your heart race, the warmth from Kimi's touch still lingering on your skin like a lover's brand.

"Kimi?" you asked, playing coy despite the heat that flooded your cheeks. "He's a good teacher," you managed, your voice a soft caress that seemed to resonate with the vibrations of your racing pulse.

Maggie's eyes danced with mirth as she sat down beside you, her youthful energy a stark contrast to the intensity that had filled the room moments ago. "I know," she said, her voice a gentle purr. "But do you like him?"

"Maggie," you began, choosing your words with the same care you would a delicate pastry at an Italian café, "Kimi is more than just a good teacher to me."

Her smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with the excitement of an untold secret. "I knew it," she whispered, her voice a conspiratorial giggle that tickled your ear. "He talks about you all the time, you know. Like you're some kind of... I dunno, Italian goddess or something."

Your cheeks burned with a blush that could have rivaled the sunset over the Tuscan countryside. "He does?" you whispered back, your voice a tremulous note in the symphony of emotions that played within you.

Maggie nodded eagerly. "All the time," she said, her eyes sparkling like the stars in an Italian summer night. "He says you have a way of making him feel alive, like nothing he's ever felt before."

The words hung in the air, thick with the promise of something more. You felt your heart race, the thrill of his confession echoing in your very soul. "Really?" you murmured, the tremble in your voice belying the tumult of emotions within you.

Maggie nodded, her eyes shining with the excitement of a conspirator. "He says you make him feel like he's home when you're around," she revealed, her voice a whispered secret that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the room.

"And you know what?" she leaned closer, her breath a sweet scent of mint and youthful innocence, "I think he might have a crush on you."

The words hit you like a gentle gust of wind, sending a shiver of excitement down your spine. You felt your pulse quicken, the blood rushing through your veins like a river of liquid fire.

"Yeah," you said, trying to keep the excitement from your voice as you began to gather up the scattered pages of Kimi's homework. "Enough gossiping. We have to meet up with your parents to watch the race."

Maggie's smile grew even brighter, her eyes lighting up with the excitement of an impending adventure. "I know, I know," she said, bouncing to her feet with the grace of a gazelle.

Together, you walked to Kimi's garage, the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with the beating of your heart.

As you approached the garage, you saw Kimi and Maggie's parents deep in conversation, their heads tilted towards one another as they spoke in hushed tones.

They were an elegant couple, evident in the sharpness of their features and the warmth of their skin. The mother, a svelte woman with hair as dark as a moonless night, looked up and noticed you first, her eyes lighting up with a smile that was as welcoming as a warm embrace.

"Ah, you must be the one Kimi's been speaking so fondly of," she said, her Italian accent wrapping around the words like a velvet ribbon.

Her voice was like the sound of a cappuccino machine in a quiet café, a comforting hum that seemed to resonate within your very being. She stepped forward, her arms opening to envelop you in a warm hug that smelled faintly of gardenias.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," she said, her accent a siren's call that seemed to weave a spell of comfort and belonging around you. You felt your muscles relax into the embrace, the warmth of her touch seeping into your very bones.

Kimi's father, a man built like a statue chiseled from the very marble that adorned the ancient Italian cities, looked up from his conversation with a proud smile. His eyes, so much like Kimi's, sparkled with the same mischief that you had come to know so well.

"Mamma, Papà, this is..." Maggie paused, a hint of shyness coloring her voice.

"Yes, yes," Kimi's mother interjected, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "We know who she is. Kimi has told us so much about you," she said, her smile reaching out to you like a warm hand. "We're so happy to finally meet the one who has stolen our son's heart."

You felt your own heart stutter in your chest at her words, the warmth of her embrace spreading through you like the first sip of a fine wine. "Signora," you began, your voice a soft crescendo of nerves and excitement, "I don't know what Kimi has been telling you..."

But she waved a hand, her smile a gentle dismissal of your modesty. "Ah, ah," she said, her eyes twinkling, "we know our son. He doesn't speak of just anyone like this."

Her words were a warm embrace that seemed to melt away your doubt, leaving you feeling both vulnerable and exhilarated.

Kimi's parents noticed your arrival, their conversation with themselves trailing off as they turned to face you. The love and pride in their gazes was unmistakable, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had grown between you and their son.

"Ciao," Kimi's father boomed, his deep voice a warm baritone that seemed to fill the garage. He stepped forward, extending a hand that was rough from years of working the cars. "I am Marco," he said, his grip firm and reassuring as you took his hand.

You felt a jolt of something unnameable as your skin met his, the heat of his touch a stark contrast to the cool metal of the garage. His handshake was firm but gentle, a silent promise that you were now a part of their world.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Antonelli," you replied, your voice a soft symphony of nerves and excitement.

Marco's eyes twinkled with mirth as he released your hand. "Call me Marco," he said, his voice a warm bass that seemed to resonate through the garage. "And this," he continued, turning to Kimi, "is the young lady you've been keeping from us?"

Kimi strolled over from his small meeting with Bono, his race engineer, his strides long and purposeful, his eyes lighting up as they landed on you. He was a vision in his fireproof suit, the fiery emblem of the Mercedes team blazing across his chest like a declaration of war.

"Ciao, bella," Kimi greeted, his Italian rolling off his tongue like a lover's caress. His eyes were a tempest of emotions, a mix of excitement for the race and something deeper, something that seemed to resonate in the very air between you.

Marco's smile grew wider as he stepped back, his gaze flicking from you to Kimi and back again, as if he could see the unspoken conversation passing between the two of you.

"We must go," he said, his voice a gentle nudge towards the reality that awaited outside the garage. "The race will begin soon."

Kimi's eyes remained on yours for a moment longer, a silent question lingering in the air. Then, with a nod that seemed to convey a world of unspoken answers, he turned to his father. "Yes, Papà," he said, his voice a rich timbre that seemed to resonate with the anticipation of the race.

He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to his mother's cheek. "Ciao, Mamma," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll make you proud today."

Her smile was like a warm embrace as she patted his cheek. "We know you will," she said, her voice filled with a love that seemed to echo through the garage.

You watched as the family shared a moment, feeling like an outsider peering in on a private dance.

Marco slapped his son's back, the sound echoing in the garage like a gunshot. "Vai avanti," he said, a mix of pride and urgency in his voice. "You're going to be late."

Kimi nodded, his eyes still locked on yours, the unspoken promise of something more burning in their depths. He took a step back, the heat of his gaze a palpable force that seemed to cling to your skin like a second skin.

"Vincere per me," you said, the words rolling off your tongue with surprising ease. It was a declaration of intent, a promise that you would win the race, not just for yourself, but for him.

Kimi grinned, his teeth flashing white against the tanned skin of his cheeks. "Of course, bella," he replied, the endearment slipping out as naturally as if you had been lovers for a lifetime.

The warmth of his smile seemed to fill the garage, casting a spell that made everything else fade into the background. His eyes searched yours, a silent conversation passing between you that spoke of desires and promises unspoken.

Kimi's movements were fluid as he slid into the cockpit of his sleek, silver Mercedes, his body melding with the machine as if they were one.

The sound of the engine roaring to life was like the crescendo of an orchestra, a symphony of power and passion that seemed to resonate through every atom of the air. You felt the vibrations in your chest, a thrumming beat that echoed the rhythm of your heart.

He flashed you one last smile, the kind that could make the sun jealous, and then he was gone, speeding away into the bowels of the circuit like a bullet released from a chamber.

You stood with Kimi's family the whole race, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. The grandstand was a sea of faces, a tapestry of colors, all united in their love for speed and the thrill of the chase.

Maggie's hand was a small, warm presence in yours, her excitement palpable, a heartwarming reminder of the innocence and purity that often accompanied youth.

As the checkered flag waved, the air was pierced by a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the grandstand.

"And for the first time, Kimi Antonelli reaches a podium position!" the commentator's voice boomed through the speakers, sending a wave of euphoria crashing over the crowd. The words echoed in your ears, a sweet symphony of triumph and vindication.

Kimi's parents erupted into cheers, their faces a canvas of unbridled joy as they leaped to their feet. Marco's deep baritone laughter rumbled through the air, his eyes shining with the pride of a man who had seen his son conquer the world.

His wife clutched her chest, her eyes brimming with tears of happiness as she watched her little boy, now a man, stand tall on the podium.

Maggie's hand in yours grew tighter, her nails digging into your palm as she bounced up and down with excitement. The vibrations of her energy seemed to resonate through your body, mingling with the thundering applause that filled the grandstand.

As the race concluded, the whole team, a blur of silver and black, sprinted towards the parc ferme, where Kimi's car would come to a majestic stop in front of the third-place podium.

The sound of their footsteps was a cacophony of victory, each step a declaration of their collective triumph. You watched, transfixed, as the mechanics and engineers, their faces a mix of exhaustion and elation, gathered around Kimi's car like bees to honey.

The car, a gleaming silver streak, pulled up to the sign, and the crowd's roar grew deafening as Kimi emerged, a modern-day gladiator stepping out of his metal chariot.

He raised his visor, revealing eyes that shone with the fierce light of a thousand suns. His helmet was plucked off, and his sweat-dampened hair stood on end, a testament to the battle he had just won.

The scent of victory, a heady mix of burning rubber and adrenaline, wafted over the team as they congregated around him. Kimi's eyes scanned the sea of faces, and the moment he spotted you and his family, a grin as wide as the Italian coastline split his face.

He was quick to spot you all, and with a bound fueled by the elation of his victory, he sprinted over, his heart hammering in his chest with excitement and love.

As he neared, the warmth of his presence washed over you, like a gentle Tuscan breeze that brought with it the promise of a summer's evening spent under the stars. His eyes danced from you to Maggie and back again, the love and pride in them a beacon that could guide ships lost at sea.

HIs father was the first to reach Kimi, his arms enveloping his son in a hug that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

The fabric of Kimi's fireproof suit crunched as his father's embrace tightened, a silent declaration of the bond that had been forged over a lifetime of shared passions and dreams. You watched as Marco whispered something into Kimi's ear, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate with the very essence of pride.

Next was Kimi's mother, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she stepped into the fold of their embrace. Her slender hands rested on Kimi's shoulders, her touch as gentle as the stroke of a feather, yet it seemed to hold him as firmly as any steel embrace.

As she pulled back, she reached for you, her eyes searching yours with a knowing look that seemed to speak of shared secrets and quiet understandings.

Then, it was Maggie's turn. She launched herself into Kimi's arms, her small frame enveloped by his broad chest. Her giggle was a sweet symphony that seemed to hold the very essence of joy.

His arms tightened around her, and you saw the softness in his gaze, a tenderness that was reserved only for those who held his heart.

As she stepped back, her eyes met yours, and she winked, a knowing glint in her gaze. You felt the heat of his stare on you.

And then, there you were, standing before him, the world around you a blur of color and sound. Your heart was a drum in your chest, the rhythm of it echoing the roar of the engines that had just fallen silent.

Kimi stepped away from his family, the warmth of their embrace lingering on him like the scent of their homemade pasta sauce. His eyes locked onto yours, the depth of his gaze a promise that had been simmering since the first time you'd met.

"Bella," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress that seemed to wrap around you like a warm blanket.

His arms encircled you, pulling you into a tight embrace that seemed to banish the rest of the world. You felt the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the scent of his sweat and adrenaline a potent aphrodisiac that made your knees weak.

Hiding your face in the crook of his neck, you inhaled deeply, allowing his scent to fill your lungs and your soul. It was a scent that was uniquely Kimi, a blend of engine oil, leather, and victory.

You didn't dare look up, fearful that the paparazzi lurking just outside the garage would capture the intimacy of this moment and twist it into some salacious headline.

You knew the price of fame, the way it could devour relationships, turning the purest of moments into the fodder for tabloid frenzies.

So, you held onto him, your eyes closed, your heart racing, as you silently prayed that the world would swirl on without noticing the two of you standing there, entangled in a dance of passion and friendship.

The scent of his neck was intoxicating, a blend of cologne and sweat that spoke of his fiery spirit and the intense physicality of the race. It was a scent that was uniquely his, a scent that had been burned into your memory the first time you had been this close to him.

You felt his heart hammering against your chest, a wild, untamed stallion galloping in time with yours.

"Hai vinto nel mio cuore," you murmured into his ear, the words a soft, secret whisper that seemed to resonate through his very soul.

His embrace tightened for a fraction of a second, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you closer. It meant 'you won in my heart'.

The warmth of his body seemed to seep into yours, a gentle warmth that spread through you like honey on warm bread.

His chest was a wall of solid, unyielding muscle against which your soft curves melded like wax. You felt his heart, beating a staccato rhythm that matched the tempo of your own.

Kimi's chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibrations sending delightful shivers down your spine. "Only in your heart, bella?" He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a playful smile dancing across his lips.

"Well," you replied, the words slipping out with the ease of a warm summer breeze, "you've certainly won my respect and admiration today."

Kimi's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made you want to kiss them. "That's a start," he murmured, his voice a soft caress that seemed to stroke the very fabric of your being.

With a gentle nudge, he stepped back, allowing you to breathe. His eyes never left yours as he turned to his team, his voice a mix of gratitude and adrenaline.

The team responded with cheers and slaps on the back, their faces a kaleidoscope of nationalities and emotions, all bound together by the shared victory.

You watched as Kimi moved from one person to the next, his voice a crescendo of gratitude as he thanked each member of his team, his words a balm to their weary souls.

His touch was a gentle reassurance that they were all part of something greater than themselves, a symphony of precision and passion that had just played out on the track.

Each mechanic, engineer, and support staff member beamed under his praise, their eyes shining with the light of a thousand suns.

The garage was a maelstrom of activity around you, yet all you could focus on was the way Kimi's hands moved, the way his fingers danced as he spoke, the way his eyes crinkled with every genuine smile he offered.

The warmth of his skin was still imprinted on yours, and you felt a sudden, overwhelming need to touch him again. The bracelet on your wrist felt like a lifeline connecting you to him, a tangible symbol of the secret bond you shared. . . .

The next week arrived swiftly, bringing with it the Imola Grand Prix, a momentous occasion for him as it marked his first time racing on home soil. A wave of anticipation washed over him as he prepared for the event, fueled by the desire to perform well in front of his countrymen. He knew the pressure would be immense, but he was determined to channel that energy into a strong and memorable performance.

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a white noise Kimi barely registered. He was in the zone, a place where the world narrowed down to the vibration of the steering wheel in his hands, the precise pressure of his foot on the accelerator, and the dance between man and machine that defined his life.

He was in the lead. Again.

The words felt foreign, almost unbelievable. Kimi, leading a Grand Prix. It wasn't a common occurrence in his career, a fact that gnawed at him more than he let on. But today, the stars were aligning in a way that felt almost…surreal.

Max had crashed spectacularly with Hamilton, sending sparks and debris flying across the track. Lando was nursing some kind of brake issue, forced to bleed speed into every corner.

Oscar, usually a consistent threat, was struggling with pace, falling further and further behind. One by one, the obstacles had fallen away, leaving Kimi alone at the front.

“Mate, everything is going well, you can win this!” Bono’s voice crackled in his ear, a burst of static in the otherwise focused silence of the cockpit.

Kimi didn't respond. He didn't need the encouragement. He could feel it. The car was responding perfectly. The tires were holding. The gap was growing. He just wanted to finish the race. He just wanted to see you.

He pictured you, sitting nervously in the team garage, your fingers twisting a stray strand of hair around your finger. He knew how much this meant to you, how you'd believed in him even when he'd started to doubt himself.

Your unwavering faith was a constant source of strength, a gentle push in the back when he felt like the weight of the world was pressing down.

That first time you'd tried to learn Italian with Duolingo, you'd been adorably lost. The way your cheeks had flushed when you'd confidently pronounced 'ciao' as 'choa' had made him laugh until his sides hurt.

But it was the determination in your eyes as you'd looked at him for correction that had made him realize he had feelings for you. It was the spark of curiosity, the hunger to learn and grow that mirrored his own passion for racing.

You understood the pressure he was under, the relentless scrutiny, the constant demands of sponsors and team bosses.

You saw past the stoic facade to the man beneath, the man who loved to cook, who enjoyed long walks in the woods, who valued loyalty and honesty above all else.

And somewhere along the way, that understanding had blossomed into something more. A quiet, comfortable love that grounded him, that gave him a reason to keep pushing, even when the races were tough and the defeats were crushing.

Now, with the finish line in sight, that love was his driving force. He wanted to win this for you. To prove to you, and to himself, that he still had it in him. That he could still stand on that top step of the podium and feel the spray of champagne on his face.

Lap after lap, he maintained his lead, his focus unwavering. He ignored Bono’s constant updates, the times of the cars behind him, the changing wind conditions. It was all background noise. All that mattered was the track ahead, the next corner, the next braking point.

He pushed the car to its limits, knowing that a single mistake could cost him everything. He felt the tires begin to degrade, the car starting to slide slightly in the corners, but he held his nerve, adjusting his driving style to compensate.

He could see the checkered flag now, a blur of black and white in the distance. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white, and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

The roar of the engine filled his ears as he crossed the finish line, the crowd erupting in a frenzy of cheers. He had done it. He had won.

He slowed the car down, pulling into the designated area, his heart pounding in his chest. The relief was overwhelming, a wave of emotion that threatened to spill over.

He unbuckled his harness, his hands shaking slightly, and climbed out of the cockpit.

The moment his feet hit the ground, the frenzy began. His team rushed towards him, yelling, pushing against the fence that held them up.

They were a sea of color, a blur of faces and hands reaching for him. He could see the raw excitement in their eyes, the unbridled joy that came from victory.

Kimi took a deep breath, the sweet scent of burnt rubber and gasoline mingling with the cool air. He felt the heat of the car behind him, a testament to the fierce battle he'd just fought. The fence groaned under the pressure of his ecstatic team, their voices a cacophony of congratulations and relief.

"Kimi, Kimi!" They chanted his name like a war cry, their faces flushed and eyes gleaming with excitement. He couldn't help but smile, a rare occurrence on the podium, as he approached the barricade.

Through the chaos of the celebration, his eyes searched for you. Finally, they found you, standing apart from the rest, your face a portrait of shock and disbelief. He could see your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, your eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.

He broke free from the crush of his team, his legs feeling like lead but propelled by the magnetic pull of your presence.

You looked so beautiful, your hair disheveled from the wind, your cheeks flushed with excitement. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride as he approached you, the roar of the crowd a testament to his triumph.

His family, always his first priority, were right beside you. He saw his mother's eyes, filled with the kind of pride that could only come from a mother's love, and his father's firm nod, a silent acknowledgment of a job well done. Maggie, her face a mix of awe and admiration, ready to embrace him.

Kimi stepped through the barricade, the world around him fading into the background. His gaze remained locked on yours as he approached, his heart swelling with every step.

He threw his arms around his mother and father first, feeling the warm embrace of their love envelop him like a warm blanket. They had been there since the start, supporting him through every high and low, and their pride was palpable as they held him tight.

"You did it, son," his father whispered in his ear, his voice gruff with emotion.

Kimi pulled back, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked at his parents. The love and support reflected in their faces was the ultimate prize.

He hugged his mother tightly, her familiar scent of lavender and sunscreen bringing him comfort amidst the overwhelming chaos of the race. She kissed his cheek, her warmth seeping into his bones.

His father's embrace was firm, a silent nod of respect and understanding of the beast that was racing, and the battles that came with it.

Maggie was next, her arms wrapping around him with a fierceness that surprised him. Her perfume, a blend of vanilla and jasmine, filled his senses as she whispered congratulations into his ear.

The bond they shared was strong, unyielding, and had only grown stronger through the years. They had been through so much together, and her belief in him had never wavered.

He held her for a moment longer, feeling the tremble in her body as she fought back tears. The emotion of the moment was almost too much to handle, but he knew he had to keep it together. This was for them, for all the sacrifices they had made.

"Your girlfriend was cheering for you the whole time," Maggie muttered into his shoulder, her voice thick with emotion.

He whispered back to Maggie, "She's not my girlfriend yet," his voice low and filled with a hint of mischief.

Maggie pulled back, her eyes searching his, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yet?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Kimi couldn't help but chuckle, the sound lost in the din of the celebration. He knew what she was implying, but now was not the time to explore that particular avenue of thought.

He had to find you, to share this moment with you, to show you that you were his inspiration, the reason he had pushed so hard.

He broke away from the embrace, his gaze finding yours once again. The distance between them closed in a heartbeat, the electricity of the moment crackling in the air like a live wire. You were frozen in place, your eyes wide and unblinking, as if you couldn't quite believe what was happening.

You looked at him, your eyes brimming with joy, and before you could say a word, he pulled you into his arms. Your body melded into his, fitting perfectly as if it had been made to be there.

His heart raced as he felt your softness pressed against him, the warmth of your embrace a stark contrast to the harshness of the race.

Kimi's hands slid down your back, feeling the curve of your hips and the gentle give of your body beneath your clothes. His fingers found purchase in the fabric of your shirt, his palms feeling the heat of your skin, the tension of your muscles as you held onto him.

You buried your face into his neck, inhaling deeply the scent of his sweat and victory, a heady mix that sent shivers down your spine.

"Thank you," he murmured into your hair, the vibration of his voice sending a thrill through your body. "Thank you for believing in me."

You pulled back, your eyes searching his, looking for any trace of doubt. But all you found was the unbridled passion of a man who had conquered his demons and emerged victorious. "You did it," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He took a deep breath. "May I… can I kiss…"

Before he could finish the question, before doubt could solidify in his mind, you leaned forward. Your lips met his, a soft, hesitant pressure at first, then deepening as he responded.

The rain seemed to fade, the fairy lights blurred, and suddenly, the world was just the two of them, a connection forged in a stolen moment.

The sensations in Kimi's stomach were a swirl of butterflies, a tornado of excitement and anticipation. It was a feeling he knew well from racing, but this was different.

This was a victory of the heart, a win that didn't come with a podium or a trophy, but with the sweet taste of your mouth and the feel of your breath mingling with his own.

Your lips were like a soft pillow, welcoming and familiar, yet charged with an electricity that sent currents through his body. He felt your breath hitch as you deepened the kiss, your hands tentatively moving to his shoulders, then sliding up his neck to tangle in his hair.

It was as if you were trying to hold onto him, afraid that if you didn't, he would vanish into the ether of the moment.

Unfortunately, you pulled back, your eyes searching his with a sudden shyness that was as endearing as it was surprising. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the color rise in your cheeks, the way your gaze darted from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, feeling a little out of breath, your heart racing from the intensity of the moment. "I shouldn't have—"

But Kimi silenced your protests with a gentle shake of his head. "No," he whispered, his voice a hoarse rumble against your ear. "You're exactly what I needed."

You hadn't meant to kiss him. It was an impulse, a reckless, beautiful mistake. Now, you just had to figure out what to do next.

"You should probably go to your interview," you murmured against his ear, your voice a soft caress as you tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

Kimi's grip was firm but gentle, his hands warm and reassuring on your back as he held you close. "I know," he whispered, his breath hot on your skin. "But I don't want to let you go."

"I promised we'll speak," you said, the words slipping out before you had a chance to think.

"Okay," Kimi grumbled, his arms reluctantly releasing you. His eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the air.

"Yes, we'll talk," you assured him, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions inside you. You stepped back, trying to regain some semblance of composure, the feel of his arms around you still lingering like a warm embrace.

Kimi nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, a promise in them that this was far from over.

He stepped back, allowing the press of his team to guide him towards the podium. The flash of cameras and the cacophony of voices grew louder as he approached, but all he could hear was the echo of your heartbeat in his ears.

The interview went by in a blur, questions about his strategy and the race's pivotal moments that felt almost trivial compared to the tumultuous symphony of emotions playing out between you and him.

Yet, he answered with the grace of a seasoned champion, his mind still reeling from your kiss.

Each word was a battle to focus, his eyes straying to the spot where he knew you were standing, holding onto Maggie for support.

The podium ceremony was a whirlwind, a flurry of flashing lights and applause. As the Italian national anthem played, Kimi felt a strange disconnect, his thoughts racing to the conversation you had promised.

He watched as the trophy was hoisted high, the gleaming silver a stark contrast to the vivid colors of the setting sun. The weight of it in his hands was a reminder of what he had achieved, but it was your eyes that he sought, your approval that he craved.

He looked down at the sea of faces, a blend of sponsors, team members, and fans. And there you were, nestled among them, holding onto Maggie like a lifeline.

She looked up at him, her smile proud and knowing, giving him a subtle nod of encouragement. You were a vision, your hair a wild mane in the breeze, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and your grip on Maggie's hand a silent declaration of your own victory.

The Italian fans had gone wild. The air was thick with the scent of their excitement, a potent mix of sweat, passion, and victory.

They yelled and screamed, waving flags and banners, their voices a symphony of pride and jubilation. They were his countrymen, and their roars of approval were music to his ears.

Kimi looked out into the stands, his heart swelling with emotion. The tifosi, the Italian fans, were a force unto themselves. They were notorious for their unyielding support of their own, and tonight, they were in full voice.

He could see the undulating sea of red, white, and green, a tapestry of love and national pride that stretched as far as the eye could see.

The podium was a cacophony of noise as the champagne bottles were popped, the sound echoing through the air like a string of mini explosions.

The golden liquid arced through the sky, catching the last rays of the setting sun and casting a shimmering shower of light that bathed the podium in an ethereal glow.

The moment the podium interviews ended, Kimi was whisked away to the cooldown room, his body still humming with the high of victory.

He could feel the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving in its wake a tremor in his hands that he hadn't noticed before. His heart was still racing, but it wasn't just from the race anymore.

It was the kiss, the promise in your eyes, and the unspoken words that hung in the air like an unresolved chord in a symphony.

The cooldown room was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy outside, a sanctum of white and chrome that gleamed under the harsh lights.

The air was cooler here, a welcome respite from the heat of the podium. He sat down, the chair a strange embrace after the tight confines of his race seat, and took a deep breath, trying to calm the tumult of his emotions.

In the corner, Charles and George, who had secured second and third place, were already watching the race highlights, their faces a mix of exhaustion and elation. They looked over at him as he entered, raising their bottles of water in silent salute.

The three of them sat down in front of the large screen, their eyes glued to the replay of the race that had just unfolded. They watched as Kimi's car sliced through the pack, a sleek and deadly predator hunting down its prey.

The commentators were gushing with praise for his driving, their voices rising and falling with the tension of the race.

Charles, his cheeks flushed with the exertion of his own battle for second place, leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Mate, that was incredible," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You had the car dancing today."

George nodded in agreement, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Couldn't agree more. That overtake on Turn 3 was sheer poetry," he added, referring to Kimi's daring move that had secured his victory.

"Thanks, guys," he said, his voice a little rough. "Couldn't have done it without the team."

He took a swig of water, the cool liquid sliding down his dry throat. His eyes never left the screen, watching the replay of his victory lap, the car snaking through the track like a serpent celebrating its triumph.

The media scrum was a beast he knew all too well. It waited outside the cooldown room, a sea of eager faces, microphones, and cameras ready to devour every morsel of his triumph.

They would ask about his strategy, his thoughts on the race, and the inevitable questions about his future in the sport. But all he could think about was you.

As he stepped into the fray, the questions bombarded him from all sides, a cacophony of voices that seemed to blur together into a single, insistent drone. He felt a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the designated spot.

The team's PR manager, a tall, elegant woman with a no-nonsense air, whispered a few words of encouragement in his ear. He nodded, a forced smile plastered on his face, as he faced the barrage of questions with the practiced ease of a man who had done this countless times before.

"Kimi," a journalist from the front row shouted, waving a microphone in the air. "What does this victory mean to you?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes searching the crowd for any sign of you. "It means everything," he said, his voice steady despite the tumult of emotions still coursing through him. "But without my team behind me, it would have been impossible."

The questions kept coming, a relentless wave of inquiries about the race, the strategy, and his feelings on the podium. Yet, all he could think about was the taste of your lips, the way your body had felt against his, and the promise of what could be.

"Kimi, can you tell us about the final laps, when you knew you had it in the bag?" a journalist with a thick Italian accent called out, her voice eager to capture the drama of the moment.

He took a deep breath, the memory of the race still pulsing through his veins. "It was about the last ten laps when I knew I had a good shot at it," he replied, his eyes distant, lost in the replay of the moments that had led to his victory. "The car was perfect, and I just had to stay focused and keep pushing."

The questions kept coming, a relentless wave of words that he navigated with the skill of a linguist. Yet, his mind was elsewhere, replaying the sensation of your touch, the way your body had leaned into his during that spontaneous kiss.

It was like a secret shared only by the two of you amidst the chaos, a silent promise that echoed through his soul.

When Kimi was finally able to escape the media and the swarm of reporters, the first place he went was the family waiting area.

He walked down the corridor, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline fading into the background as he approached.

His heart raced not from the adrenaline of the race, but from the anticipation of seeing you. His steps were quick, almost a jog, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of you.

The family waiting area was a stark contrast to the chaotic garage. It was a serene oasis of white leather couches and chrome accents, designed to give drivers and their loved ones a moment of peace before and after the race. The doors slid open, revealing a space bustling with energy, filled with his family.

But you weren't there.

The realization hit him like a blow to the gut. His eyes searched the room, desperate for a glimpse of your familiar form, the way you'd stand with your hands clasped tightly in front of you when you were nervous.

His heart sank as he saw only unfamiliar faces, a sea of congratulations that washed over him without touching the core of his being.

"Kimi!" His mother's voice broke through the haze, her arms open wide, her eyes shining with joy. He forced himself to move, to hug her, to accept the praise and love of his family, but his thoughts remained focused on you, the woman who had become the very air he breathed.

"Where's y/n?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, the question slipping out before he could catch it. His father's proud smile faltered for a moment, his gaze shifting to Maggie, who looked equally puzzled.

Maggie, ever the diplomat, stepped in, her eyes flicking towards the exit. "She said she had to go to the bathroom," she replied, her voice carefully neutral. Kimi's heart sank. Had he read the situation wrong? Was she upset? Or was she just overwhelmed?

He excused himself, the warm embrace of his family's congratulations feeling like a cocoon of well wishes that he was desperate to break free from.

His eyes searched the corridor, looking for any sign of your retreating form. The sound of his heart was the only thing he could hear above the din of the celebration, a thunderous rhythm that matched his steps as he moved away from the safety of the waiting area.

The hallways of the paddock were a blur, the faces of team members and officials passing by in a whirl of congratulations and handshakes.

He nodded and smiled, his mind racing, trying to piece together where you could have gone. The bathroom? Too obvious. To the garage to watch the podium from a distance? Perhaps.

But something in his gut told him you needed space, needed time to process the intensity of what had just happened between them.

He found it hard to believe that he had actually won. The victory felt surreal, as if it were a dream that could shatter at any moment. Yet, the kiss you had shared was very real.

The way your lips had moved against his, the gentle pressure of your hand on his neck, the softness of your skin under his touch—it was burned into his memory like the tire marks on the asphalt of Monza.

Kimi made his way through the garage, the sound of his boots echoing through the vast space. The team was busy dismantling cars and discussing strategy, but he barely noticed them.

His eyes scanned the area, looking for a flash of your hair, a glimpse of your smile. His heart thudded in his chest with each step, the anticipation growing with every passing moment.

Finally, he reached his driver's room. The door was slightly ajar, the dim light spilling into the corridor like an invitation. He pushed it open gently, his breath catching in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

There you were, curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. The softness of your features, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the peacefulness of your slumber—it was like a painting, a moment captured in time that he never wanted to forget.

You looked so vulnerable, so beautiful. The weight of the world had been lifted from your shoulders, and in your sleep, you were free from the worries of the day. Kimi's heart swelled with an emotion he couldn't quite name.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving your peaceful form. The scent of leather and oil was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the chaos of the podium. The air was cooler here, a gentle whisper that carried the faint scent of your perfume, a sweet and subtle floral note that made his stomach flutter.

As he approached, the shadows played across your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes.

He knew you hadn't slept well the night before, plagued by worries about your mother's reaction to your Italian lessons.

The quiet click of the door closing behind him was the only sound in the room. He approached you slowly, his steps measured and deliberate, not wanting to disturb your peaceful slumber.

As he got closer, he could see the worry etched into your features, the tension in your forehead, the tightness of your mouth.

He reached out, his hand hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of your body radiating through your shirt. He could feel the pulse of your heart beating in time with his own, a silent rhythm that connected them in a way that was more profound than any podium finish.

He brushed a lock of hair from your cheek, the softness of your skin sending a shiver down his spine.

Kimi took a deep breath, his senses filling with the sweet scent of your perfume. He knew he should leave you be, that you needed your rest, but the pull was too strong. He had to be near you, to feel the warmth of your breath against his skin.

He sat down on the edge of the sofa, his body aching from the race, the adrenaline that had fueled him now dissipating into a gentle hum of contentment. He watched you sleep, his mind racing with thoughts of the future, of what could be.

The gentle thrum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the room, a white noise that seemed to echo the rhythm of his thoughts. He knew he should be celebrating, reveling in the victory, but all he wanted was to hold you, to feel your heart beat against his chest.

With a silent sigh, he slid onto the couch, his body moving with a grace that belied his exhaustion. He eased himself down, the leather cool against his skin, the cushions molding to his frame as if they had been waiting for him all along. His eyes never left you, the curve of your body a siren's call that beckoned him closer.

The couch was big enough for the two of you, a silent invitation to share in this moment of triumph. He reached out, his hand brushing against the warmth of your shoulder.

The fabric of your shirt was soft under his touch, the heat of your skin seeping through, a silent promise of the warmth you offered.

Slowly, so as not to wake you, he slid closer, his body aligning with yours, his legs stretching out alongside yours. He leaned in, the scent of your hair filling his senses, a sweet, vanilla scent that was as intoxicating as the smell of victory.

The couch was a sanctuary, a place where the outside world couldn't reach them. He could feel the tension in your body, even in sleep, the weight of the world still pressing down on your shoulders.

His own muscles ached, a symphony of pain that was a reminder of the battle he had just fought and won.

He slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, the heat of your body a balm to his soul. He could feel your breath against his neck, the soft exhale a comforting lullaby that soothed the beast inside him. His eyes closed, and for the first time that day, Kimi allowed himself to relax, to let the tension bleed out of him.

He didn't know what would happen when you woke up, but for now, he was content to simply exist in this moment, the two of you entwined, the world outside forgotten. . . .

Your senses were a jumbled symphony as you gradually surfaced from the velvety depths of sleep. The scent of burnt rubber and the faint aroma of victory champagne lingered in the air, intertwined with the rich, earthy musk that was unmistakably Kimi.

His arms were a warm, comforting vice around you, his breathing steady and deep, as if he were lost in the most peaceful of dreams. You didn't dare move, fearing the spell might be broken, the reality of his embrace evaporating like mist under the glare of the morning sun.

Kimi's features were relaxed in slumber, the tension of the race and the weight of his historic victory seemingly forgotten as he lay beside you.

His dark lashes brushed against his flushed cheeks with every exhale, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest made your own heart stutter with an unfamiliar rhythm.

The soft light filtering through the hotel curtains cast a warm glow on his skin, highlighting the sheen of perspiration that still clung to him from the night's triumph and celebration. You studied the contours of his face, the way his full lips parted slightly, the stubble on his jaw that was just the right amount of rough.

His hair, usually meticulously styled, was a wild tangle of brown locks, sticking to his forehead in the most endearing way. The sight of him, so unguarded and vulnerable, made you feel an unyielding wave of tenderness and desire.

Your fingers itched to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the coarse stubble under your fingertips, but you held back, not wanting to disturb him.

The last time you had seen him, your mouth had been on his, tasting the sweetness of victory and the salt of his skin. Now, in the quiet aftermath of passion and glory, you felt a strange mix of emotions—elation at his success, awe at the depth of your connection, and a hint of fear that this moment might never come again.

But for now, you were content to simply be there, in the sanctuary of his arms, with the promise of the dawn just outside the window and the warmth of his love enveloping you like a blanket.

As the room slowly brightened, the whispers of daybreak painted shadows across Kimi's features, revealing the stark beauty of his profile.

His chest, a landscape of sculpted muscles and scars from past battles on the track, rose and fell with each breath, a silent symphony of life and vitality. The room was filled with a gentle hum of contentment, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric as his fingers flexed against your bare shoulder.

You hadn't been sleeping well for days, the excitement and nervousness of speaking to your mother in her native language in a few days. So, when he had been called away for his media duties, you had seen it as an opportunity to grab some much-needed rest.

As you stirred to consciousness, the unmistakable weight of his presence beside you sent a jolt of surprise through your body. You had not expected to find Kimi here, not after he had left earlier to face the barrage of questions and flashing lights.

Yet, here he was, his hand resting protectively on your waist, his leg thrown over yours in a possessive tangle that spoke of deep trust and comfort.

The heat from his body seeped into you, warming you from within, as your senses slowly sharpened to the world outside the cocoon of Kimi's drivers room.

Kimi then moved, his hand sliding down to the small of your back, his touch featherlight and electric. You held your breath, your heart hammering in anticipation, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing unchanged. His fingertips traced the curve of your hip, sending a shiver down your spine, as if he was unconsciously mapping the territory of your body.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Kimi's eyes began to open. The thick lashes lifted, revealing the warm whiskey hue of his irises. 

For a moment, there was a dazzling clarity to his gaze, as if he were seeing you for the very first time. The room, the race, the victory—it all melted away as he took you in.

As he blinked away the last remnants of sleep, a lazy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he whispered, "Good morning," his voice a smoky rumble that resonated through your core.

"I think it's the evening, Kimi," you joked quietly, a playful twinkle in your eye as you glanced at the clock, the digits blinking an indecipherable message.

Kimi's eyes snapped open, the smile on his lips deepening as he took in the sight of you. "Ah, evening," he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of amusement.

"Were you looking for me before?" you asked, your voice a soft melody that seemed to resonate in the quiet air.

Kimi's smile grew more pronounced, his eyes finally focusing on you with a warmth that seemed to set your very soul alight. He took a moment to process your question, the gears of his thoughts whirring behind those mesmerizing eyes.

"Before what?" he responded, his voice still thick with the residue of sleep.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his groggy state, the sound a soft, musical note that danced in the air around you. "Before you came back to the room," you clarified, the memory of his earlier departure still lingering.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, a flicker of understanding crossing his features as he pieced together the timeline of the night. "Ah," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very bones.

He leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours, the stubble of his cheek a delightful abrasion that sent a shiver down your spine. "I was," he admitted, his breath warm against your lips. "Couldn't stay away from you. You're like a gravitational pull, always drawing me back."

His words were simple, devoid of grand pronouncements or poetic metaphors, but their sincerity resonated deeply within you. Kimi wasn't one for empty words. When he said something, he meant it with every fiber of his being.

His eyes wandered onto your teal dress. "Did I ever say you look beautiful in this dress?" he asked, his gaze lingering on the way the fabric flowed around your curves.

You felt your cheeks warm at the memory of when he had first seen you in it. "You might have mentioned it," you replied with a coy smile, your heart skipping a beat.

Kimi's hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently caressing the skin just beneath your eye. "You always do," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that sent a delicious thrill down your spine.

The room was suffused with a warm glow, the light from the setting sun casting a soft halo around his head. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the rumpled couch, highlighting the contours of his bodysuit, the strong lines of his shoulders and chest. His eyes searched yours, a silent question in their depths.

"Does your family know that we're here?" you asked, your voice a whisper in the cocoon of quiet that surrounded you.

"Ah, i was looking for you so much that i forget to tell them i found you," Kimi replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Your heart fluttered at his admission, his Italian accent wrapping around the words like a caress. You felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with the way he looked at you—like you were the prize he had been chasing all along, and not just the victory trophy.

"It's like 10pm now," you muttered, the reality of time slipping through your fingers like sand. The race had ended hours ago, yet it felt like mere moments since you had been lost in the whirlwind of his victory.

"Mamma mia," Kimi groaned, his hand still resting on your hip as he sat up with a stretch, his muscles rippling under the tight confines of his bodysuit.

You mirrored his movement, your own body protesting after hours of inactivity. You looked outside the window and realized the world had moved on without you, the inky blackness of night having descended outside. The only illumination came from the distant city lights that twinkled like stars scattered across the velvet sky.

"We've been asleep for hours," you murmured in disbelief, your voice a soft caress that seemed to float in the air.

Kimi's gaze never left yours as he nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile that was as warm as the afternoon sun in Sicily. "You needed it," he said, his thumb making lazy circles on your skin. "You've been so tense lately."

You couldn't deny it. The upcoming conversation with your mother had been weighing on your mind like a lead balloon. But here, in Kimi's arms, it all felt so far away, as if the world had stopped turning just for a brief moment to allow you this stolen slice of happiness.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice a soft sigh that seemed to melt into the air. "For everything."

Kimi's eyes searched yours, his thumb continuing its gentle dance on your skin. "What for?"

You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his hand spreading through your body like wildfire. "For helping me learn Italian," you said, your voice a soft crescendo of emotion. "And for giving me back my confidence."

Kimi's smile grew more earnest, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He leaned in closer, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "It was nothing," he murmured. "Your beauty and strength are all your own. I just helped you remember them."

His hand slipped away from your cheek, reaching for yours. But as you went to take it, you paused. "Flattery won't get you anywhere Antonelli," you said, your voice playful but firm as you picked up your bag, the warmth of his hand a sudden absence that sent a shiver down your spine.

Kimi's smile didn't falter, his eyes still holding yours as he leaned back against the couch cushions. "But it's not flattery," he protested, his accent thick and tantalizing. "It's the truth. You're like a fine wine, only getting better with time."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing in the room as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "Smooth, but still not going to work," you teased, taking a step away from the comfort of his touch. The coolness of the air was a stark contrast to the heat he emanated, and you felt the sudden urge to return to his embrace.

Kimi watched you with a knowing smile, his eyes never leaving yours as he sat up, stretching his long limbs like a cat rousing from a nap. "Ah, but you know I mean it," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of your bones.

"Come on, don't you have a family to find?" you asked, trying to lighten the mood, a playful lilt in your voice.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, a spark of mischief lighting up the whiskey hue. "Eh, they probably went home," he replied with a nonchalant shrug, the fabric of his bodysuit stretching with the movement. "They know I like to sleep after the race."

You couldn't help but chuckle, shaking your head at his incorrigible charm. "They're going to be worried about you," you pointed out, the playfulness in your tone belying the concern you felt for him.

Kimi's gaze never left yours as he slowly rose to his feet, the fabric of his bodysuit clinging to his form like a second skin. "They know I'm in good hands," he said, the words a gentle caress that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You think you can get what you want after winning one race?" you replied, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

"I'd hope so," Kimi grinned, his teeth flashing white against the darkened room. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he took a step closer, closing the distance between you.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls, as you grabbed his hands and pulled him up. His muscles, still warm from the race, bunched under your fingers as he stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the floor.

"Come on," you said, your voice a teasing purr that seemed to dance around the room. "Let's get your delusional ass back home."

Kimi's laughter rumbled in his chest, a rich, full sound that made your heart swell with affection. He allowed you to pull him to his feet, his fingers tightening around yours briefly before releasing. You felt the loss of his touch like a gust of cold wind, but the warmth of his smile was more than enough to keep you from shivering.

"Let me go get changed and then we can go," he said, his voice a smoky promise that had your heart racing. You watched as he disappeared into the en suite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The sound of running water and the rustle of clothing filled the silence, and you couldn't help but wonder what he was doing in there. The anticipation was almost too much to bear.

The ring of his phone pierced through the quiet, and you reached over to grab it from the nightstand, your heart skipping a beat when you saw it was his mom. "Kimi, your mom is calling," you called out, your voice echoing through the steamy bathroom.

Kimi's muffled response came through the shower curtain. "Can you answer it?" The urgency in his tone was palpable, his voice tinged with a hint of nerves that was foreign to the usually unflappable racer.

You picked up the phone, feeling the weight of his trust in your hand. The screen glowed with his mother's name, the very woman whose language you had been so meticulously preparing to conquer. The call to action was a stark reminder of the real world waiting outside the sanctuary of his arms.

"Ciao, Signora Antonelli," you greeted, your voice a soft melody that carried through the phone's speaker. The Italian words felt strange and yet oddly familiar, as if they had been coaxed from a dormant part of your soul.

Kimi's mother's voice was a flurry of warmth and concern. "Ah! Y/n! Non mi ero accorto che eri ancora con mio figlio," she exclaimed, a blend of surprise.

"Sorry," you murmured into the phone, your cheeks flushing. "Mi sono addormentato nella sua cabina di guida, non volevo trattenerlo. Ora sta facendo la doccia e sta tornando a casa."

Kimi's mother's laugh was warm and comforting, the sound wrapping around you like a blanket. "Non preoccuparti," she said, her words a soothing balm to your nerves. "Sono contenta che tu abbia riposato un po'. Kimi ha detto che sembri stanco in questi giorni."

You couldn't help but smile at her maternal concern, feeling a sudden kinship with her. "Lo ero," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could censor them. "Ma adesso mi sento meglio."

Her response was a delightful tapestry of Italian that you only partially understood, but the love in her tone was universal. "Ma lasciami indovinare, anche lui si è addormentato?" she asked, her voice a warm caress over the phone line.

The question hung in the air, a gentle tease wrapped in the velvet of her words. "Sí, siamo tutti e due un po' stanchi," you replied, hoping the truth wasn't too evident in your voice.

Kimi's mother's laughter spilled over the line, a rich, warm sound that made you feel as if she were in the room with you, sharing the moment. "Ah, che bello," she said, her voice a soothing balm to the nerves you hadn't realized you had. "Ma Kimi è sempre in movimento. Non so come fa a rimanere sveglio."

You chuckled, the sound a little too loud in the quiet room. "Lui ha una forza incredibile," you agreed, the words slipping from your tongue with surprising ease. It felt natural, speaking Italian to this woman who had given birth to the man you had come to love.

"Comunque, per favore, di' a Kimi di tornare subito a casa." she said, the warmth in her voice now tinged with urgency. "Dobbiamo ancora fare una festa in famiglia."

"Va bene signora Antonelli," you said, a smile playing on your lips.

The call ended with her final laugh, and you set the phone down, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment. You had managed to have a conversation with Kimi's mother without any major linguistic mishaps.

The bathroom door opened with a soft click, and a cloud of steam billowed out, carrying with it the scent of Kimi's spicy aftershave.

He emerged from the mist like a Greek god, his skin glistening with moisture, his hair slicked back from his face, showcasing the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. The black tee clung to his still-damp torso like a second skin, tracing the contours of his chiseled abs and broad shoulders, while the dark trousers hugged the muscular curves of his legs.

Kimi looked like a man who had just conquered the world—and in a way, he had. The victory earlier in the day was etched in every line of his body, in the proud tilt of his chin, the way his eyes shone with an inner light that could outshine the neon of the Vegas strip outside.

He padded barefoot across the plush carpet, droplets of water clinging to his skin, shimmering like diamonds in the dim light of the hotel suite. The way the fabric of his black tee hugged his form was a delicious sight, revealing the play of muscles across his chest and the flat plane of his stomach. His dark trousers hung low on his hips, hinting at the V of his pelvis.

You watched him, unable to tear your eyes away, as he approached you, his movements liquid and predatory. The warmth of the shower had brought a flush to his cheeks, and his eyes, those whiskey-colored pools of passion, were fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart stumble in your chest.

"What did my mom say?" he asked, his voice a low, velvety rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air around you.

You took a deep breath, savoring the scent of his aftershave, a heady mix of spice and musk that was uniquely Kimi. "She said she's happy I've been helping you rest, but you should get back for your family celebration."

His gaze held yours, the warmth of his smile reaching out to you like a gentle caress. "And how was your conversation with her?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

You felt a sudden rush of emotion, the weight of his question more profound than you had anticipated. "It was... good," you replied, the words a whispered confession. "It felt good to talk to her in Italian."

Kimi's smile grew broader, his eyes lighting up with a proud spark. "You sounded amazing," he said, the sincerity in his voice making your cheeks flush with heat.

"Thank you, we should get going," you said, trying to keep the tremor from your voice.

Kimi nodded, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Grazie," he murmured, his voice a warm caress that sent a thrill down your spine. "You've been working so hard."

You looked up at Kimi, his damp hair still hanging in his eyes, and felt a surge of affection so intense it almost brought tears to your eyes. "Thanks to my teacher," you said, the words slipping out before you could think better of it.

The engineers and staff that had been working tirelessly around the car looked up as Kimi's smile grew wider, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

"Thank you, all of you," he called out, his Italian accent thick and warm as he clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space of the garage. "Couldn't have done it without you."

The remaining engineers and staff looked up from their tasks, a mix of weariness and pride etched on their faces as they returned his smile. They had been Kimi's rock through the season, the unsung heroes behind the scenes who had made his victory possible.

"Ciao ragazzi," he said, his voice carrying a hint of the exhaustion that lurked just beneath the surface. Despite the fatigue, his eyes held a fiery determination, a promise that the celebration of this win would be one to remember.

With a nod to the remaining crew, Kimi led the way out of the garage and into the parking lot, his hand sliding into yours with a familiar ease that sent a jolt of electricity up your arm. The cool evening air was a stark contrast to the warmth of the garage, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The parking lot was a maze of shadows and reflections, the only light coming from the flickering streetlamps and the distant glow of the city beyond. Kimi's car sat in the corner, a beacon of luxury in the sea of concrete and metal.

The coolness of the night was a stark contrast to the warmth of Kimi's hand in yours as you approached the sleek, black sports car. His grip was firm, his thumb tracing circles on your skin in a gesture that was both reassuring and electrifying.

Kimi opened the passenger door with a flourish, his eyes never leaving yours. The motion was so smooth, so practiced, it was like watching a ballet dancer perform a perfect pirouette. You slid into the seat with a sigh, the leather cool against your bare legs. The scent of the car's interior was a heady mix of leather and his cologne, a scent that had come to symbolize safety and desire.

He moved around the car with the same grace, his movements fluid and economical, every gesture a silent symphony of intent. The door shut with a soft thunk, sealing you both inside. The engine roared to life with a purr that seemed to resonate through your very soul, the vibration a delicious promise of the power that lay just beneath your fingertips.

Kimi's hand slid from yours to the gear stick, his fingers wrapping around it with a confidence that made your stomach flip. He shifted into gear and the car surged forward, the tires biting into the asphalt as he navigated the winding path out of the circuit.

You watched his profile, the sharp lines of his jaw and the firm set of his mouth, the way his eyes never left the road. It was a stark contrast to the tender way he had held you in his arms just moments ago, the gentle caress of his thumb on your skin.

"Are you free tomorrow?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the car's engine.

The question hung in the air, thick with implication, like the scent of his cologne that lingered in the enclosed space. You turned to look at him, his eyes focused on the road ahead, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the stubble of his jaw.

"Tomorrow?" you repeated, the word echoing in the quiet. It was a simple question, but the anticipation in his voice was palpable, a silent promise of something more than just a casual get-together.

"Yes," he said, his gaze never leaving the road ahead, but his hand tightening on the gear stick, a subtle hint of his excitement.

You felt the weight of his answer in the air, a silent promise that hung between you like a ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. "What did you have in mind?" you asked, your voice a soft melody that seemed to dance around the edges of the car's cabin.

Kimi's smile grew more pronounced, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief as he finally turned to look at you, his gaze lingering on your face. "I want to show you something," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very fabric of the car. "It's a surprise."

"A surprise?" You couldn't help but echo his words, your heart racing with excitement. Kimi's surprises were always... unexpected.

"Mm-hmm," he hummed, his eyes flicking back to the road as he expertly maneuvered the car through the quiet streets. His smile grew, the kind that made your stomach flip-flop and your skin tingle with anticipation. "I think you'll like it."

Your heart raced at the thought of what could be in store for tomorrow. The way his eyes lit up, the excitement in his voice, it was infectious. "Kimi, you know I trust you," you murmured, leaning back into the seat, your eyes never leaving his profile.

He glanced over at you, his smile widening. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very core. "Because it's going to be something special."

The ride to your house was indeed quick, a blur of neon lights and darkened streets that seemed to fly by as Kimi's car ate up the asphalt beneath it. His driving was masterful, his hands firm on the wheel, his eyes never straying from the road ahead.

The leather seats hugged your body, the scent of his cologne mingling with the new car smell, creating a heady cocktail that intoxicated you further. You watched his profile, the way the passing streetlights played across the sharp planes of his face, casting him in an ever-changing palette of shadows and light. His jaw was set, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he navigated the maze of Italian streets.

The engine purred beneath you, a living entity that responded to his every touch. You could feel the power of the car, the beast that had carried him to victory, now carrying you both away from the chaos of the day's events. The tension in the air was palpable, a potent mix of exhaustion and desire that seemed to thicken with every passing mile.

As Kimi pulled up to the curb in front of your house, the car's headlights painted a warm, golden path across the cobblestone street, briefly illuminating the ivy that crawled up the ancient brick walls. The windows glowed with a soft light, casting a warm, welcoming beacon into the night.

Your heart fluttered as you realized the significance of the moment. This wasn't just a casual drop-off. This was Kimi bringing you home after the most incredible day of your life—his historic victory and the sweet promise of tomorrow's surprise.

The car's engine purred to a stop, the sudden silence echoing in the narrow Italian street. Kimi's hand slid from the gear stick to yours, his warmth seeping into your skin like a healing balm.

"Kimi," you whispered, the name a prayer on your lips as you turned to face him. "Thank you."

With a gentle nod, Kimi opened the car door for you, the cool night air rushing in to mingle with the warmth of the interior. He stepped out and came around to your side, his movements a silent poetry of masculine grace. The way he held the door open, his hand lingering on the frame, was a silent declaration of chivalry in a world that often forgot such things.

As you slid out of the car, the leather whispered against your skin, leaving an imprint of comfort that lingered like a ghostly embrace. Kimi's hand found the small of your back, guiding you up the cobblestone path to the heavy wooden door of your house. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into your very bones, chasing away the last vestiges of the evening's chill.

He waited patiently as you fumbled with your keys, the tension between you growing as palpable as the scent of his victory still clinging to his skin.

Once the door swung open, you turned around to face him, his eyes burning into yours with a fierce intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. The warmth of his gaze seemed to melt the last of your resistance, leaving you feeling as vulnerable as a butterfly pinned to a board.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kimi," you murmured, your voice a soft caress in the velvety silence of the night. The words hung in the air, a promise of more to come, a sweet agony that made your pulse race.

With a gentle tug, you drew him closer, your hand sliding up to cradle the strong line of his neck. His eyes searched yours, the whiskey warmth deepening as he leaned in, the anticipation a palpable force that seemed to electrify the very air between you.

Your pulse hammered in your ears as your lips met, the kiss a soft, lingering caress that spoke of unspoken truths and unbridled desire. The scent of his skin, a potent blend of sweat and victory, filled your senses, making you dizzy with longing.

Kimi's hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer, the heat of his body a warm embrace that seemed to chase away the last remnants of doubt and fear.

You melted into him, your body fitting against his as if it were made to do so, his muscular chest a wall of protection and desire that made your knees weak.

With a gentle nudge, you managed to pull away, smiling up at him through eyes glazed with desire. "I'll see you tomorrow," you whispered again, your voice a siren's call that seemed to echo in the night.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, his smile mirroring yours as he stepped back, allowing you the space to breathe. "I'll be counting the minutes," he murmured, his voice a warm caress that seemed to follow you as you stepped into the house.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night like a final note in a symphony. You leaned against the cool wood, your heart racing, the taste of him still lingering on your lips. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The remnants of yesterday still clung to you like the scent of champagne and burning rubber. Sleep had been a fleeting visitor, chased away by the racing thoughts that consumed you. Kimi's win, the roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne, the taste of his lips…twice. It was all a dizzying, exhilarating blur. He had finally done it. He was on top of the podium, victorious. And you were there, right beside him. And then, the surprise. He hadn’t given you any details, just a mischievous glint in his eyes and a promise that you wouldn't be disappointed.

Four o'clock. He’d texted you the time with typical Kimi brevity. It was perfect, really. 2 PM felt like an eternity away, but it gave you ample time to prepare. You wanted to look…effortless, but also breathtaking. It was a ridiculous paradox, but you were determined to achieve it.

The shower was long and luxurious, the hot water washing away the last vestiges of sleep. You shaved your legs with extra care, smoothing on a fragrant body lotion afterwards. In the mirror, you saw a reflection that seemed brighter, more vibrant than usual. You were alive, truly alive, and it was all because of him.

Makeup came next. You opted for a natural look, a soft blush, a touch of mascara, and a hint of gloss on your lips, the same lips that Kimi had kissed, twice. You felt a shiver run down your spine at the memory.

Your hair was a bit more challenging. You finally decided on loose waves, pinning a few strands back to keep them out of your face. You felt a pang of insecurity as you stared at your reflection. Were you good enough for him? He was a world-class athlete, a champion, a veritable ice man to the world. What did he see in you?

You pushed the doubts away. He had kissed you, hadn't he? He had invited you to share in his victory. He wanted you, and that was all that mattered right now.

The dress you chose was a simple, elegant affair. Knee-length, in a shade of soft blue that complemented your eyes. It was comfortable, yet flattering, and you knew Kimi would appreciate its understated charm. You paired it with delicate silver sandals and a small clutch.

And then, the waiting began.

You paced the apartment, a whirlwind of nervous energy. You checked your watch every few minutes, the hands seeming to move with agonizing slowness. You tried to distract yourself by reading, but the words swam before your eyes. You tried listening to music, but every song seemed to be about love, loss, and longing, only amplifying your anxiety.

What could the surprise be? A romantic dinner? A weekend getaway? Could it be… something more? The thought sent a jolt of panic through you. Were you ready for something serious? You hadn't known Kimi for very long, but the connection between you felt undeniable, powerful.

You replayed the events of yesterday in your mind. The way he had looked when he crossed the finish line, the pure, unadulterated joy on his face. The way he had held you close during the celebrations, his hand warm against your back. The way he had looked at you, his eyes filled with…what? Affection? Desire? Something deeper, something you couldn't quite decipher.

You remembered the kisses. The first, spontaneous and charged with adrenaline, a celebration of his victory. The second, softer, more tender, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings that were blossoming between you.

You were lost in these thoughts when a knock echoed through the apartment. Your heart leaped into your throat. This was it. You grabbed your bag, took a deep breath, and walked towards the door. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the handle. You opened the door, and there he was.

Kimi Antonelli, standing on your doorstep, looking impossibly handsome. He was wearing a suit, a dark, impeccably tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean physique. But it was the absence of a tie that struck you. It was a subtle detail, but it somehow made him seem more approachable, more… vulnerable.

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile that lit up his face. "You ready?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

You could only nod, your voice caught in your throat. He held out his hand, and you took it, your fingers interlacing with his. His touch sent a wave of warmth through you, instantly calming your nerves.

"Where are we going?" you managed to ask, as he led you down the hallway.

"It's a surprise," he repeated, his eyes twinkling. "But I promise, you'll like it."

You didn't press him further. You were content to be in his presence, to feel the warmth of his hand in yours. You followed him out of the building and into a waiting car.

The drive was a blur. You were too busy stealing glances at Kimi, admiring the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way his jaw was set with determination. He seemed focused, almost…nervous? It was an unfamiliar expression on his face, and it intrigued you.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, you leaned back in your seat and began to ask questions. "Where are we going, Kimi?" you inquired, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced at you with a mischievous smile before returning his gaze to the road. "You'll see," he teased, his eyes never leaving the horizon.

The car's engine hummed soothingly, lulling you into a gentle doze. The city streets had given way to the open road, and the scenery outside the window was a blur of green and brown. You felt your eyelids growing heavy, and despite the excitement bubbling within you, the lack of sleep from the previous night began to take its toll.

Kimi noticed your struggle and reached over, placing a gentle hand on your thigh. "You okay?" he asked, his thumb rubbing small, comforting circles.

You startled awake. "I'm fine," you lied, hoping he hadn't noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The truth was, you hadn't slept well last night, your mind racing with thoughts of him. The gentle sway of the car and the warmth of the afternoon sun had conspired to lull you into a state of drowsiness.

Kimi's hand remained on your thigh, his touch a comforting constant. You felt the heat of his palm through the fabric of your dress and the steady rhythm of his thumb against your skin. It was a small gesture, but it filled you with a warmth that spread through your body, dispelling the lingering fatigue. You leaned into it, savoring the sensation.

As the drive continued, the gentle thrumming of the engine became a lullaby, and despite your best efforts, your eyes grew heavy. The scenery outside the tinted windows blurred into a mosaic of light and shadow. You blinked, fighting off the seductive pull of sleep, but the quiet, rhythmic journey was too much to resist.

Kimi's hand remained on your thigh, his thumb continuing its hypnotic dance. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of your dress, creating a soothing contrast to the coolness of the car's air conditioning. Your eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, until you couldn't hold them open any longer. You leaned your head against the headrest, allowing sleep to claim you.

You didn't know how much time had passed when you were jolted awake by the car coming to a stop. You blinked rapidly, the world coming into focus once again.

You looked around, and for a moment, you thought you had slipped into a dream. The scenery outside the window didn't look like the bustling city streets of Imola you were used to. It didn't even look like the countryside surrounding the Imola racetrack, where Kimi had claimed victory just yesterday. It looked like… Verona.

The cobblestone streets, the ancient buildings bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread. It was like stepping into a memory, a painting come to life.

You turned to Kimi in shock, your hand flying to your mouth. "Verona?" you whispered, the word barely audible.

He nodded, his smile growing wider. "Surprise," he murmured, his eyes alight with mischief. "I thought it was time for a change of scenery. Something… romantic."

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication, and your heart skipped a beat. Was he really taking you on a romantic getaway? The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. You had never been the type to indulge in fairy tales, but with Kimi, everything felt possible.

He opened the car door for you, and as you stepped out, the cobblestones beneath your feet felt alive with the history of the city. The warmth of the setting sun kissed your skin, and the air was alive with the sounds of a place untouched by the modern world. You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the intoxicating blend of antiquity and passion that seemed to pulse through the very air of Verona.

With a gentle tug, Kimi led you down an ancient path, his hand firm yet reassuring in yours. "Trust me," he said, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to resonate within you. He reached into his pocket and produced a velvet blindfold. "You have to wear this. You don't get to spoil the surprise," he grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

What could he possibly have planned? The soft velvet of the blindfold brushed against your cheeks as he secured it around your eyes, plunging you into a world of darkness. Your other senses heightened, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck as he leaned in to whisper, "Are you ready?"

You nodded, your pulse quickening. The anticipation was exquisite, a thrill you hadn't felt since that first kiss on the podium. He guided you through the unfamiliar streets of Verona, the cobblestones cool against the soles of your sandals.

With each step, your hand tightened in his. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the unspoken promise of something extraordinary waiting just around the corner. The sounds of the city grew distant, replaced by the steady thump of your own heart and the comforting echo of your footsteps in tandem with his.

You walked for a while before you stopped, the sudden cessation of movement surprising you. The air grew thick with anticipation as he gently tugged at the blindfold. You felt the warmth of his breath on your neck as he whispered, "Okay, you can open your eyes now."

Slowly, you lifted the velvet shroud, blinking as the light flooded back in. Your eyes widened as they adjusted to the scene before you. You were standing in a courtyard, surrounded by lush greenery and the sweet scent of blooming roses.

Directly in front of you was a large, ornate sign, painted in a whimsical script that read, "Vuoi essere la mia ragazza?" You felt your cheeks flush at the translation: "Do you want to be my girlfriend?"

Kimi's nervous smile grew even more pronounced as he watched your reaction, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand. The courtyard was lit with soft, twinkling lights strung from the branches of the trees overhead, casting a magical glow over the entire scene.

You took in the sight before you, the beauty of the moment sinking in. "Ever since I saw you trying so hard to study Italian," he began, his voice low and earnest, "I knew I had to help you, but I didn't know that I would fall in love with you that quickly." His words were like a caress, gentle yet firm, leaving no room for doubt or misunderstanding.

A warmth spread through your chest, filling you with a feeling of belonging that was both exhilarating and terrifying. You had studied Italian for so long, driven by an unexplainable fascination with the culture, the language, and the passion that seemed to pulse through every word. And now, here you were, standing in the heart of Verona, with the man who had unwittingly become the embodiment of that passion for you.

Kimi stepped closer, his hand still holding yours firmly. You could feel the calluses from his years of racing, a stark contrast to the velvety softness of your own skin. "I've watched you struggle with the pronunciation, the grammar," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I couldn't help but be drawn to your determination, your spirit."

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession. "But why me?" you asked, your voice barely audible. You felt like you were floating, suspended between reality and a dream.

"Your dedication, your passion," Kimi murmured, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. "It's inspiring. And the way you light up when you get something right… it's like watching the sun rise over the racetrack." His grip tightened, his eyes searching yours.

You felt your heart flutter in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. The way he talked about your Italian studies was as if he were recounting the plot of a romance novel, and you were the heroine whose perseverance had captured the heart of the stoic protagonist. It was a feeling so foreign, so intoxicating, that you could hardly believe it was real.

"Yes," you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. The word felt like a declaration, a confession, a surrender to the whirlwind that had become your life.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, looking for the truth in your response. "I know it's fast," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But sometimes, when you know, you just know."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a warmth that was more than just the sun on your skin. It was the warmth of his words, the warmth of his touch, the warmth of his love. You knew you were falling for him too, and it was happening at a speed that defied logic, but somehow, it felt right. "I know," you said, your voice soft and sure. "I feel it too."

The courtyard was a whirlwind of sensation around you. The scent of the roses filled your nose, their velvety petals brushing against your bare arms as you stepped closer to him. The cobblestones felt rough and ancient beneath your sandals, a stark contrast to the smoothness of the dress that clung to your damp skin. The air was thick with anticipation, with the promise of something new and thrilling.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the space between you. You felt your heart hammer in your chest, the thud of it echoing in your ears like the purr of a finely-tuned engine. His hand was still wrapped around yours, a silent declaration of intent. You knew what he was asking, what he wanted from you. And in that moment, you realized that you wanted it too.

"Eh," he began again, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very air around you, "Vuoi essere la mia ragazza?" It was a simple question, yet it held the weight of the world. Will you be my girlfriend? The Italian words rolled off his tongue, a soft caress that seemed to ignite a fire in your veins.

You felt your heart stutter, your breath hitch. The question hung in the air, a delicate balance between hope and fear. Kimi's gaze bore into you, his eyes a stormy sea of emotion. The nervousness that flickered in those depths was endearing, a stark contrast to the cool confidence he exuded on the racetrack.

Slowly, you nodded. "Yes," you breathed, the word escaping on a sigh that seemed to carry with it all the unspoken moments between you, the shared glances, the stolen touches, the whispers of attraction that had grown into something more substantial.

Kimi's expression softened, his eyes warming as he leaned in closer. The world around you grew quieter, the sounds of the city fading into a gentle hum that melded with the beating of your hearts. His lips met yours in a kiss that was tender yet insistent, a silent declaration of his intentions. The warmth of his breath mingled with your own, and the sensation sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

As your arms snaked around his neck, you felt his hand tighten around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. The fabric of his suit was smooth against your skin, a stark contrast to the roughened calluses of his palms. The buzzing warmth grew, enveloping you in a cocoon of sensation, making you feel as if you were floating.

His other hand found its way to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a gentle caress. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the steady thump of his heart matching the rhythm of your own. His scent was intoxicating, a blend of leather, engine oil, and victory, and it wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

As the kiss deepened, you felt a sudden pop, and then, there was confetti. It rained down around you, a shower of color and light that made you jump back in surprise. You pulled away from Kimi, staring up at the confetti floating above your heads like a cloud of pure joy. He chuckled, a low, delighted sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

"There's another present," Kimi murmured, his eyes glinting with excitement.

Before you could react, he turned you around with a gentle touch on the shoulders. You blinked in surprise as your eyes fell upon a sight that made your heart swell. There, standing in the courtyard, were your parents. They looked as shocked as you felt, their eyes wide with delight and disbelief.

Your mother, her hair a fiery halo around her face, had her hand pressed to her heart, a single tear tracing its way down her cheek. Your father, stoic yet beaming, had his arms open wide, ready to envelop you in a bear hug that spoke volumes of his pride and love.

"Mamma, Papà," you managed to murmur, your voice thick with emotion. Kimi's grip on your waist was the only thing keeping you upright.

The confetti continued to fall around you, a whimsical touch to an already surreal moment. Your mother rushed over, her eyes sparkling with joy. She wrapped you in an embrace that was all too familiar, her warmth and the scent of her perfume grounding you in reality. "Oh, my darling," she whispered in your ear, her words tinged with a hint of an Italian accent she had never lost despite moving to the United States before you were born. "I knew this man was special the moment you talked about him. And now, he brings us to Verona."

Your father's hug was next, his strong arms lifting you off the ground. "You've made us so proud," he murmured in your hair. "And not just because you're with a Formula One driver." His laughter was contagious, and you felt a weight lift from your chest.

Kimi's hand remained on your waist, his touch a comforting reminder of the new reality you were navigating. As you pulled away from your parents, you couldn't help but feel a bit overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. You looked up at him, his brown eyes holding yours with a fierce intensity that made your heart race.

"How did you do this?" you asked, gesturing to the courtyard and the confetti that still danced in the air.

Kimi's smile was filled with the pride of a man who had just pulled off an impossible feat. "I have connections," he replied with a wink. His eyes searched yours, looking for the spark of wonder that you knew was reflected in your own. "And I wanted to make sure that when I asked you to be my girlfriend, it was a moment you would never forget."

The confetti continued to flutter around you, the gentle kiss of the breeze carrying the whisper of a thousand paper secrets. You reached up, plucking a piece from the air. It was a delicate pink square, with "Amore" written in flowing script. Love. The word seemed to encapsulate everything you felt in that moment.

"There's another surprise," Kimi grinned, his eyes glinting with excitement. Your heart raced. What could possibly top this? You looked around the courtyard, but nothing seemed out of place. The roses swayed gently in the breeze, the lights above you casting a warm glow on your skin.

"What could it be?" you asked, your voice a soft whisper that seemed to carry the weight of your anticipation.

"Only the best," Kimi assured you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I've booked a whole restaurant for you and your parents to catch up," he announced. "They've been dying to hear about your life, your work, your… everything."

The realization that your parents were here, in Verona, because of Kimi's thoughtfulness, brought a rush of emotion.

You felt your eyes well up with tears as you looked at the man standing before you, his hand still resting gently on your waist. The gesture was more than just a show of affection; it was a declaration of intent, a promise to support and cherish you. You knew then that this was no fleeting fling, no whirlwind romance destined to burn out as quickly as it had ignited. This was something real, something that could withstand the tests of time and distance.

As your parents approached, the reality of the situation sank in. Kimi had done all of this for you, had brought your worlds together in a way that was both beautifully romantic and utterly unexpected.

The restaurant was a hidden gem, tucked away down a narrow alleyway. The walls were a warm terracotta, adorned with ivy and fairy lights, giving it a cozy, intimate feel. The scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, mingling with the soft murmur of Italian conversation and the clinking of glasses.

The meal that followed was a feast for the senses. Each dish was a testament to the rich tapestry of Italian cuisine, a symphony of flavors that danced on your tongue. You could feel the love and care that had been poured into each morsel, the tender embrace of a culture that reveled in the joy of food and the company of those you shared it with. The wine flowed freely, and your cheeks grew flushed as the warmth of it spread through your body.

Throughout dinner, you watched Kimi as he chatted with your parents, his Italian accent thickening with his enthusiasm. The way he spoke about his passion for racing, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his love for the sport—it was infectious. You felt a swell of pride in him, in his dedication and his success, and you knew that he was the kind of man who would never stop pushing himself to be better.

The conversation flowed easily, a tapestry of languages and laughter. Your mother spoke of her own youth in Italy, her eyes sparkling as she recounted tales of her rebellious days that made you blush. Your father spoke of his love for your mother, their bond still strong after all these years, and you found yourself looking at Kimi, wondering if that could be you someday.

Kimi reached across the table, his hand finding yours. He laced his fingers through yours, the touch sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. The intertwining of your hands felt natural, as if your hands had been searching for this connection since the moment you had first laid eyes on each other.

You took a deep breath, feeling a sudden urge to speak in the language that had brought you so much closer to him. "Mamma, Papà," you began, your voice a soft caress as you spoke in Italian, "Kimi mi ha portato qui per dirvi qualcosa di speciale."

Your parents' expressions shifted from surprise to astonishment, their eyes widening as they took in your words. You had never fully learned Italian in all those years. Yet here you were, speaking fluently in the language of love and passion, all because of the man beside you.

"Mamma, Papà, Kimi mi ha insegnato l'italiano," you continued, a blush spreading across your cheeks as you revealed the secret. Kimi's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his eyes filled with admiration.

Your mother's hand flew to her chest, her eyes wide with shock and delight. "Davvero?" she exclaimed, her voice filled with incredulity. "Ma come?"

Your father's smile grew wider, his eyes glistening with pride. "È vero," Kimi said, his own Italian smooth and confident. "Tua figlia ha lavorato duramente. Voleva farvi una sorpresa."

You felt a thrill of excitement at the way your parents' gazes darted between you and Kimi, their astonishment clear. It was a moment you had never dreamed of, a moment where the two halves of your world collided in a beautiful mess of love and passion.

"Sí, mamma," you continued, your Italian rolling off your tongue with surprising ease. "Kimi mi ha mostrato il vero amore per l'italiano. Mi ha insegnato parole, frasi, mi ha raccontato storie."

Your mother's eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she took in the transformation before her. Your father leaned back in his chair, his hand on his chin, a proud smile playing on his lips.

"Incredibile," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You never cease to amaze us."

Your mother's grip on your hand tightened, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. "Che bella," she whispered, her voice filled with awe.

Kimi's thumb traced comforting circles on the back of your hand as you spoke, his eyes never leaving yours. The way he looked at you, with such admiration and love, made your heart swell in your chest. You had studied Italian for so long, but speaking it in front of your parents, with the man who had inspired you to finally master it, was a revelation.

Your mother's cheeks were flushed with emotion as she listened, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Mi dispiace," you said, switching to English. "I didn't mean to shock you. I just wanted to show you how much I've learned, and how much Kimi has helped me."

Your father leaned in, his gaze soft. "It's not every day you hear your daughter speaking Italian like a native," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "It's… incredible."

You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of their happiness pressing against your chest. "Thank you," you whispered, squeezing Kimi's hand. "It's all because of him."

"That's a story to tell your kids," your mom teased, wiping away a tear with the edge of her napkin. "You found love by Italian lessons?"

You couldn't help but laugh at the irony of it all. The journey that had started with a simple curiosity about a language had led you to the love of your life.

As the evening grew later, the conversation grew quieter, more intimate. You found yourself leaning closer to Kimi, the warmth of his body a comforting presence. His thumb continued to stroke the back of your hand, sending waves of pleasure up your arm, and you felt a sudden urge to kiss him.

Before you could act on the impulse, he leaned over and pressed his lips to your cheek. The softness of his touch, the gentle brush of his stubble against your skin, made you giggle involuntarily.

The sensation of his kiss lingered on your cheek, a warm imprint of his affection. You felt your cheeks flush as you turned to look at him, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "What's so funny?" he asked, his voice a low purr that seemed to vibrate through you.

"It's just… I wasn't expecting that," you replied, your voice a soft giggle. The gesture was so tender, so unexpectedly sweet, that it had caught you off guard. Kimi's smile grew, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But I'm not complaining," you added hastily, feeling the blush deepen.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours. "You know," he began, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo through the emptying restaurant, "I've had a lot of amazing moments in my life. Winning races, standing on podiums, living my dreams. But nothing… nothing has ever made me feel like this."

His thumb stopped its lazy circles, his hand stilling in yours. "You," he continued, his eyes searching yours with a depth that made your heart flutter, "are the best surprise I've ever had."

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your cheeks burn. The room grew quiet around you, the whispers of the last diners fading into the background as you became lost in his gaze. Your eyes fell to your entwined hands, the stark contrast of your fair skin against his tanned, calloused fingers.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words that had been hovering just beyond your lips for what felt like an eternity. "I love you, Kimi," you finally said, the words tumbling out in a rush of air.

Kimi's smile grew even brighter, his eyes lighting up like the stars that had just begun to peek through the inky sky above. "And I love you," he responded, his voice a soft caress that seemed to envelop you in a warm embrace.

The words hung in the air, a declaration that seemed to resonate through every atom of the universe. The love that had sparked between you during those Italian lessons had grown into a fiery inferno, and you were both lost in its embrace.

Kimi leaned in, capturing your lips with his, the kiss a sweet symphony of passion and promise.

You melted into the warmth of his embrace, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease away. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

"I'm glad I took those Italian lessons from you," you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by his shirt.

Kimi's chuckle rumbled through him, his hand tightening around your waist. "They've served us both well," he said, his voice a velvety purr that sent shivers down your spine.

You leaned back into him, the scent of him enveloping you like a warm embrace. "More than you know," you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken desire.

The Italian language had become more than just a bridge between you—it was a secret language of love, a shared history that only the two of you could understand. . . .

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. ”

Notifications and Nervous Glances (L.N)

Lando Norris can't help but smile when fans tease him for continuously checking his phone for a certain someone to message.

The midday sun hung lazily over Monaco, casting golden stripes of light through the open balcony doors of Lando’s apartment. The sea beyond glittered like a jewel, but Lando was inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffed in every direction from running his hands through it too many times. He was mid-Twitch stream, headset on, fingers flying over his controller.

“Alright, alright, I swear this is the last race,” he laughed, eyes flicking toward the live chat as messages scrolled faster than he could read. “If I win this, you all have to stop saying I'm washed, deal?”

“Yeah right, mate!” came Max Fewtrell’s voice through the headset. “If anything, you’re gonna rage quit before we even hit the third lap.”

Lando grinned. “Not this time.”

But just as the race loaded, a soft chime rang out—his phone, buzzing on the desk to his right. His hand twitched toward it instinctively before pulling back.

He kept his eyes on the screen. Focus. Except now he wasn’t focused at all.

The chat noticed.

"👀 not you checking your phone AGAIN" "who you waiting for, loverboy?" "she texted yet???" "just CALL HER YOU COWARD" "lando’s in his 'will she text me' era"

He blinked, trying not to smile. Tried and failed.

“You guys are so annoying,” he muttered, adjusting his mic. “Can’t a guy check the time?”

“Time?” Max said dryly. “Mate, your phone’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree and you haven’t stopped sneaking glances since we started.”

Lando flushed. “It’s not—okay, shut up.”

The chat went wild again.

"GUILTY!" "he's so whipped and it's not even official" "bet it’s that girl from the paddock 👀"

And okay, maybe they weren’t wrong.

You’d met during the chaos of the last race weekend—some mutual friends, a few too many drinks, and the kind of conversation that left him grinning long after it ended. You weren’t a celebrity. Weren’t chasing fame. Just... smart, grounded, and funny in a way that disarmed him.

You’d left the next day for a work trip, but you’d been texting every day since. Nothing flirty, not exactly. But something was there. At least, he hoped so.

The last message had come a few hours ago—“Landing soon. Might be off the grid for a bit, but I’ll message you when I can! :)”—and he’d been low-key checking his phone ever since.

Just in case.

As the race ended (he came second, to Max’s eternal smugness), Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending not to care as he casually picked up his phone.

Nothing.

He dropped it again, face slightly warm.

“You know,” Max said, his tone teasing but not unkind, “you could just text her first. Say hi. Ask if she landed okay. You’re allowed to show interest, mate. It's not a crime.”

“I know,” Lando mumbled.

But still, he didn’t.

The chat rallied again, this time with emojis and messages of encouragement and chaos in equal measure.

"we believe in you 🫶" "text her or we riot" "lando, you’re literally a Formula 1 driver and you're scared to double text???"

“Alright, that’s it,” Lando said, throwing his hands up. “This stream is bullying now.”

He was laughing though, eyes crinkled in that way his fans loved, cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll text her,” he added under his breath, like it was a secret he couldn’t help but share.

And he did. Right there, in front of thousands of people.

“Hey, just checking in—hope your flight went okay :)”

He hit send, then instantly tossed his phone onto the sofa like it had burned him.

“I’m done for today,” he declared, stretching with a groan. “That’s enough emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” Max repeated. “You texted a girl ‘hi.’ Are you twelve?”

“I hate you.”

The stream ended not long after, fans flooding Twitter and Tumblr with screencaps and memes: Lando’s face mid-phone-check, the exact moment he blushed, the chat going absolutely feral.

But Lando barely noticed.

Because twenty minutes later, while he was lazily scrolling through delivery apps and wondering if gelato for dinner was socially acceptable, his phone buzzed again.

“Just saw your message—landed safely :) stuck in traffic now but excited to finally be home. Also, I missed talking to you. ❤️”

Lando stared at the screen, lips parting in a slow, dumb smile.

Then, with a quiet laugh, he typed back:

“Welcome home. Wanna come over later?”

And this time, he didn’t throw the phone away. He held onto it, just in case the reply came quickly.

It did.

hihiiii carlos + 43 maybe? 😊

43. giving them a piggy-back ride

pairing: carlos sainz x friend!reader

DISCLAIMER: YOU ARE NOT A FAN OF HIKING.

It’s solid as a fact. Unmovable. Unchangeable. You simply cannot find the appeal of waking up in the crack ass of dawn to go on an uneven trail, only to reach the top, and then have to do it again. So, yeah, not a fan.

Carlos Sainz, however—childhood friend, sportsman, Formula One driver, annoying pain in the ass—is a fan of hiking.

And this wouldn’t normally be a problem. Carlos is an avid enjoyer of many things you don’t particularly have a fondness for, but it’s never been an issue. The problem here is that Carlos… he knows you too well. Because while you may not love hiking, he’s well-aware you do love taking pictures of pretty things.

Every time the two of you go out—regardless of whether it’s the city, the beach, the streets—he’s always stopping besides you, patiently waiting as you pull out your phone to snap a quick picture of whatever had caught your attention. Clouds, sunsets, birds on wires, pretty signs— you name it. Your phone’s storage is crying out for help.

And the truth is, you are weak. Because the pictures Carlos showed you of the view from the top were breathtaking. Truly, you caved way too easily.

(Beautiful sights and Carlos leaning close to you with those dumb, pretty, stupid doe eyes of his? It’s not like you’re made of ice.)

And while the sights awaiting you ahead were somewhat motivating, the climb certainly wasn’t.

“I hate you.”

Carlos chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I do. I really hate you.” You huff, feeling cold sweat between your shoulder blades. “Actually— no, I hate myself.”

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Stop being such a baby. You’ll get over it.”

“I’m dragging you to one of my dissertations next week— see if you love it as much.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Ass.”

Carlos laughs, stepping over large roots that poke outside of the earth. He’s fast— why is he so fast?

“Watch your step.”

He gets a few paces ahead quickly, as if he’s doing it on purpose. Always so goddamn competitive. Your lips part to shoot something, but whatever you were gonna say dies on your tongue. You don’t mean to do it— it just happens. And before you can help it, your eyes are on Carlos’ ass.

Damn.

“Enjoying the view yet?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

“The view,” Carlos repeats, stopping as he turns to face you. You think you see the corner of a smirk on his lips. There’s mischief in his eyes that’s gone in a blink. “You can start to see the city from here.”

“Ah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “The city. Yeah.”

Carlos chuckles, shaking his head at you. “Come on,” he throws his head to the upcoming trail. “Only a little more to go.”

“Only a little,” you repeat under your breath. Your jaw twitches. “I’m Carlos Sainz, I’m so sporty and fit and I don’t even sweat,” you mutter in a high-pitched voice.

“What was that?” he calls from up ahead.

“I said you— SHIT!” you yelp, sneaker snagging on an overgrown root, sending you tumbling onto the dirt. You think you swallow a handful of twigs on your way down.

Great. Fantastic, actually.

“I told you to watch your step,” Carlos says helpfully.

“Okay, I’ve had about enough of you and your little—” You try to stand up, but pain shoots up your ankle. You promptly stay on the ground.

Carlos laughs, watching you slump onto the dirt. “Come on, bonita. You agreed we’d get to the end of the trail.”

You shake your head, rolling down your sock a little to get a better look. You grimace. “No, Carlos—fuck, I think I sprained my ankle.”

Carlos stares at you with a disbelieving look, mirth evident in his half smile. But then, the longer you stay on the ground, the faster his smile drops, and concern festers in its place.

“Ah, really?” He mutters a curse you don’t really catch. You hear him rush towards you before halting besides you. He kneels down, gesturing with his hand to bring your leg closer to him. “Okay, let me see.”

He presses the pads of his fingers onto your ankle, feeling around when his brows furrow. Whatever one-sided mischief he’d been enjoying earlier seems to be long gone. He gently presses against a sore spot, making you wince.

Carlos exhales. “Yeah, it’s definitely sprained. Come on.”

You watch as he turns his back to you, still crouching. You huff. “Carlos, I’m not getting on your back on a trail like this.”

“You are, because I don’t want you putting any more pressure on your ankle.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “Right, then you trip and we both end up injured? I don’t think so.”

He exhales loudly. “Preciosa,” he says, a warning in his tone.

You hate the warmth you feel in your gut whenever he calls you that. Bonita, preciosa, guapa. Even if it’s some dumb joke from when you were younger. Feeling flustered when your gorgeous friend calls you pretty as a nickname? Who’s gonna sue you, huh?

You shake your head. “I’m all sweaty and gross. You’re gonna drop me.”

His face twists as he looks at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he actually looks offended. “What? I am not gonna drop you.” You open your mouth to protest, but Carlos beats you to it, his jaw twitching. “Can you stop being stubborn for two minutes and just get on my back?”

“Fine. Moody.” You limp a little as you climb onto Carlos’ back. You breathe deeply as you place your legs around his buff torso, your arms around his neck.

“Hold on tight, okay? I don’t want you falling off,” he says quietly. You nod, even though he can’t see it. Carlos’ big hands curl around your thighs, and you have to swallow a squeak. You hold on to him a little tighter.

Carlos braces himself as he starts stepping down the trail. Your brows knit together. “Are we not reaching the top?”

“No.” There’s a finality to his voice, a sternness he so rarely uses with you. “We should get that ankle checked out as soon as possible. Make sure it’s nothing too serious,” Carlos says, tone indecipherable.

Your hand squeezes his shoulder, and Carlos tenses beneath you. “But—” You press your lips together. “It’s not that bad, I promise.”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You’re not even walking.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you decided to pick me up and throw me on top of you,” you retort, and you can feel heat crawling up Carlos’ neck.

His voice feels hoarser when he protests, “That’s not what I—”

“We came all this way already,” you interrupt. “I didn’t just break my leg to just see trees.”

“You didn’t break your leg,” Carlos says, rolling his eyes. You can hear a small smile forming on his lips.

“Exactly! Now, if you think you can carry me to through the last stretch…” you trail off. You’re tilting your head against his shoulder, feeling a breath that rumbles beneath his skin. Your hands around him tighten slightly. “I think I wanna see what the view looks like,” you murmur, a quiet admission.

Carlos stops his descend, as if weighing his options. You feel him swallow sharply.

You smile against his back, teasing. “Unless, of course, you think you can’t carry me all the way up and then down. Which, I mean, Carlos Sainz Jr, sportsman extraordinaire— Mr. I am amazing and competitive at every sport I—” You yelp as Carlos turns around sharply, making his way back up the trail.

“You told me you didn’t watch that interview,” he grumbles.

You grin. “I lied.”

You laugh into his shoulder as he mutters a string of words under his breath, fixing your arms around his neck. He adjusts his grip on your thighs, pushing you higher on his back.

“Joder. Las cosas que hago por ti.”

You bite down another laugh. You don’t know what gives you the confidence— maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the situation, the fact that Carlos’ thumb is unconsciously drawing small patterns on your leg, or the strange physical closeness. You’re still stifling your laugh when you lean into his ear and whisper, “You’re too easy.”

Carlos scoffs a laugh, a deep, rumbling sound beneath his skin. He turns his face near imperceptibly. Beautiful brown eyes glance at you with unbearable fondness. “Only for you.” He looks away just as quickly, and you pray to whatever god is up there that he can’t tell just how much those three words got to you.

“Let’s go get you that picture.”

a/n: yeah i’m sorry my biggest pet peeve in carlos fics is when spanish isn’t used appropriately (ESPECIALLY in terms of nicknames) so this is vindication :)

translations: bonita — pretty / preciosa — beautiful / guapa — gorgeous / joder. las cosas que hago por ti — fuck. the things i do for you.

pairing: photographer!reader x lando norris

a/n: based on this moodboard i made a while ago + i wanted to write something for lando’s win <3

“Let’s get a picture of you with the trophy.”

The floral and citrusy scent of champagne feels heavy inside the McLaren Motorhome—not that you mind. You’ve long since learned to associate the smell of champagne with the warm feeling of a well-deserved victory.

And today, no one shines brighter than Lando does. There’s still champagne dripping from his hair in scattered droplets, curls peeking at odd angles with his recent mullet, his fireproofs haphazardly tied around his waist. He can’t seem to temper down his grin—you’ve noticed him trying as you snap more pictures of him with his trophy. He holds it over his shoulder with beaming pride. P1. Another win under his belt, and you couldn’t be happier.

Well…

You click your tongue as you check the pictures you’ve taken so far. They’re not bad, per se. You don’t think it’s an easy task to take a bad picture of Lando. But it’s his second win. You don’t want him to just have an okay picture. You want him to have the perfect one—and you wanna be the one to give it to him.

You purse your lips together, the pictures you’ve taken of him thus far flashing across the small screen of your camera.

You hear Lando lower his trophy. “Something wrong?”

“Uh, no, no, just…” It takes you a second to place why the photos you’re taking of him feel off. You furrow your brows, bringing your camera closer to you as you zoom in on Lando’s face. The angle that he’s looking at feels awkward. He’s not looking into the lens—which would work, if it weren’t for the fact that he seems to be looking somewhere slightly above it.

“What’re you looking for?” Lando asks, nudging his shoulder against yours. Sparkling wine overwhelms your senses. You’ve been working as a photographer for McLaren for nearly as long as Oscar’s been a part of the team. Nearly two entire seasons of working closely with both drivers. You like to think you have a good enough relationship with both Oscar and Lando that you aren’t required to sugarcoat and gentle-parent your suggestions and critiques.

You angle your camera towards Lando, who ducks his head to see what you’re pointing at. “See how you’re looking over the lens?” You tap your screen over one of the pictures. Lando nods, straightening as you shrug. “I don’t know… I feel like we can do better.”

“Okay, yeah, definitely.” There’s a faint pink hue to his cheeks that you can’t help but find endearing, even if it’s only from the post-race high.

Lando gets back into place, picking up his trophy with one swift motion. You manage to snap two pictures of him grinning and one that’s more on the serious side before his eyes drift sideways, as if trying to find you past the lens.

You lower your camera. “Lando,” you say, like a reprimand—or, more accurately, a reminder.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Is that my jumper?”

Heat crawls up your cheeks. “What?” You blink down at your clothes. It’s not his hoodie—and the momentary panic that buzzed beneath your skin is completely baseless. After all, you don’t have any reasons to be wearing his clothes. You feel a swarm of butterflies fluttering their wings in your stomach. A beat. You shake yourself out of your stupor with a flustered laugh. “O-Oh, you mean your merch.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds slightly breathless. His green eyes linger on the cloud-colored hoodie you’re wearing, his tiny LN logo embroidered in black in the upper right corner.

Lando clears his throat. “Y’know, you could’ve asked me—I’d have gladly sent you some.” He gives you a bashful closed-lipped smile that makes your stomach twist. “You didn’t have to buy it.”

You inspect the hoodie you recall buying a few races ago. “I guess so,” you concede. You meet Lando’s gaze with a teasing smile as you adjust your camera back into place. “But I think I like supporting my favorite driver.”

Your camera flashes, and Lando’s grin is even brighter than before. The photo appears near instantly after you lower your camera. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth. Even if the McLaren social media team doesn’t choose to post it, you decide this one is your favorite picture of him.

Eyes crinkling at the corners. His beaming grin. There’s a glint in his gaze that makes you want to save the picture for yourself.

“I’m your favorite driver?”

You exhale, struggling to hide your matching grin. “Not a word to Oscar.”

You position your camera back up. You snap another picture, and Lando looks unbelievably giddy.

“Mhm,” Lando hums with an eager nod, biting down his smile as he poses for you once again. “Not a word.”

a/n: this was supposed to be out much earlier but between uni and the whole logan/franco news this was very much forgotten……. anyway shoutout to viv who suggested i do a drabble on the photographer!reader moodboard i made a while ago !!!!!

as always, reblogs and comments are really really appreciated <3

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

pairing: isack hadjar x fem!reader

“Are icebaths even comfortable?”

You peer at Isack from your seat, just a few inches away from his plastic tub. The water reaches his clavicle, jaw trembling a little from the cold. Still, you could see the instant relief in his face as soon as his body hit the icy water.

Isack licks is lips in an attempt to avoid clenching his jaw too much. “They are not supposed to be comfortable, chérie.”

You tilt your head. “What are they for, then?”

Isack’s body shivers as he shifts inside the tub. “Muscle soreness, circulation, recovery—” his voice hitches inside his throat, “putain…”

Isack groans, leaning his head back and exposing his neck to you. You’re unsure why the combination of the sound and the sight of him make your cheeks feel warmer. Actually—that’s a lie. You know why. You’ll just never admit it… not outloud, anyways.

It has only been until very recently that you’ve started seeing Isack in a new light. Sure, you’ve always found him to be cute, that with his pretty brown eyes and bright grin. That’s not new. But as of late, the butterflies in your stomach seem to grow more and more prominent—and you’re not quite sure what else you can do to squash them.

“Do you enjoy watching?”

Your heart jumps inside your ribcage. Heat burns your cheeks as you meet Isack’s gaze. “W-What?”

Isack closes his eyes, another softer groan escaping him. “The practice. I know it is not the same as watching a race.”

The tips of your ears feel hot. “Ah,” you say, sounding much too relieved. “Yeah, yeah, it was nice. I still get nervous, though.”

“Nervous?” Isack opens one of his eyes, the corner of his lips curving upwards. “For me?”

You roll your eyes, biting your tongue as your stomach does that weird twisty thing again. “Duh. You’re the only one I’m rooting for.”

“So, I am your favorite driver?”

The water splashes over the sides as Isack leans closer to your side. Your eyes drop for a fraction of a second, just as your brain registers the fact that he is very much shirtless. His muscles tense slightly over the ice. Your mouth feels dry.

You swallow. And before Isack can notice and point out your flustered state, you reach inside the tub and splash his face with water. You hiss. “Oh, fuck—it is cold.”

Isack slumps back into the tub, running a hand through his face as he chuckles. “Obviously.” He pokes his cheek with his tongue, as if considering something. Then, with a smile forming on his lips, he asks again, “I am your favorite driver, then?”

You click your tongue dismissively. “Your head is getting too big,” you say, standing up as you see someone else from the team stepping in. You can still feel Isack’s gaze on you when you add, “But yeah, you are.”

Obviously.

a/n: you can consider this as occurring in the same universe as this isack smau i did <3 also this was absolutely inspired by this pic i found of isack:

reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

they should call you sugar ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

isack has a soft spot for you. (or: the one where you think isack can't hurt a fly.)

ꔮ starring: isack hadjar x reader. ꔮ word count: 0.9k. ꔮ includes: fluff, romance. rookies make an appearance. title from tyler, the creator's sweet / i thought you wanted to dance. ꔮ commentary box: people starting to love on isack YUPPP!!! i used to dream of times like this 🙂‍↕️ a quick lil somethin' as part of my soft spot mini-series. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first time you hear about Isack being this formidable, foul-mouthed figure on the grid, you nearly bust a stitch laughing. 

Isack? Your Isack? Screaming over the radio, cussing out in the open? 

What are these people on? 

In all the time you’ve known him, Isack hasn’t raised his voice within your vicinity. Not once. There are a handful of times where he would have gotten away with it, you think. The wrong order at a restaurant after an hour wait. Or that one time you accidentally spilled coffee on his brand new team kit. 

He’d always been patient, level-headed. It was to the point where you felt like you were dealing with an actual angel. 

So, now— when the other rookies try to warn you about his supposedly colorful way of expressing himself? 

“That is not Isack Hadjar,” you say in between chuckles, the words muffled behind your palm. “You’re all being absurd. Isack is an absolute sweetheart.” 

Gabriel actually snorts out his drink through his nose. As Ollie and Kimi rib him for it, Jack nudges you in the side. 

“How does he treat you, then?” the Alpine rookie asks, a corner of his mouth twitching upward in a light smirk. 

“You know,” you stammer. “As he should. Opening the door for me, carrying my stuff.” 

You don’t like the look the boys share. It’s like you’re on the outside of their inside joke, and Kimi is completely unable to hide his amusement. 

“You should call him ‘sugar’,” the youngest snickers, “because he’s just so sweet to you.”

The four share a laugh. You give them a heatless glare before stalking off somewhere else to the paddock. You’d come to surprise Isack on his first day of free practice sessions, wanting to watch your best friend officially kick off his Formula One 2025 campaign. 

The other rookies had spotted you and made a jab out of it, leaving you confused. Isack was nice to everybody.

Wasn’t he?

It’s a good day on track. Isack comes out as top of the rookies in the first session, and finishes at an even better place by the second session. By the time you’re weaving over to where the Racing Bulls are, you’re mildly surprised you haven’t been found out yet. 

Isack texted in between sessions, asking if you’d watched from home. You held back on responding, wanting to make the surprise good. 

In the end, you’re the one who ends up surprised. 

Because Isack— who is yet to see you— is cussing in both languages as he jokes around with his social media team. “I am telling you,” he’s arguing, laughter edging his tone, “the ‘it’s Britney, bitch!’ TikTok will do numbers! Putain, just let me at it!” 

It’s a bit fascinating. Here’s Isack with the people he sees everyday, acting more larger-than-life than you’ve ever seen him. You falter in your steps, feeling a bit out of your depth. Are you welcome here? 

Before you can even consider leaving, maybe acting like you were never here, Isack’s eyes skip over you. 

He does a double take. And then he comes to a full stop, his jaw going completely slack. 

“Ma moitié!”

The nickname he’d given you some time back— my better half— lands like a punch to the gut. You’re frozen in your place until he’s jogging up to you, his expression caught between shock and excitement. 

“What are you doing here?” 

His voice is softer, now. More reverent. It’s a stark difference to how he had been interacting with the others, and it reminds you of the other rookies’ teasing. 

You swallow. Now is not the time for a crisis, you mentally chide yourself. “Are you kidding?” you say. “I wouldn’t miss this race weekend for the world.” 

Isack is positively beaming. He reaches out, his fingers ghosting over your wrist, as if to check if you’re real. When he seems to realize that you are, he actually giggles before tugging you in for a quick hug. 

“I still have to do some more social filming,” he laments. “But I am free after for a— what do you want? A meal? A drive?” 

“Anything, anything,” you say affectionately as you pat the small of Isack’s back. “We’ll figure it out later. Go film, ma moitié.” 

He squeezes you tight before pulling away. His eyes are bright; his smile, a little different from the practiced one he had been donning earlier. You have a suspicion that this smile, this softness, is the real Isack. 

“Okay. Later.” He pauses for a beat, his grin breaking wide across his face. “You can’t just surprise me like this. It’s going to make my heart stop.” 

You laugh. “Wouldn’t want that. Now, shoo!” 

And then— because Kimi had planted the idea in your head— you call out as Isack leaves, “See you later, sugar.” 

Your best friend trips on his shoelaces. 

He throws you a look over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. It looks like there’s a cuss on the tip of his tongue, but he shakes his head and sticks out his tongue instead. It’s as if he’s physically incapable of swearing at you, no matter how small the offense. 

You wave at him as he leaves. People could say what they wanted, but Isack would always be sweet when it came to you. ⛐

ur writing is soo gorg! can i request friends to lovers isack hadjar with the prompt about comparing hand sizes to hold hands? :)

pairing: isack hadjar x best friend!reader

warnings: swearing and also kinda suggestive? reader is horrendously down bad and isack is oblivious (or is he?) + reader discovers she has a hand thing

You’re staring. You’ve been staring for a while already—in fact, you’re surprised Isack hasn’t called you out on it already.

You don’t know why exactly you only noticed it now. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the first time in a while that you’re going to the gym with Isack. Ever since he started prepping for his Formula 1 season, he’s been held to a rigorous schedule his trainer has been meticulously enforcing. But today—today Isack asked you to join him since his trainer called in sick. Not as a replacement, obviously, but to have someone keeping him company while he works out.

A part of you regrets accepting his invitation. Because, had you said no, you wouldn’t be trying to workout while having Isack next to you. Isack, who has sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. Isack, who apparently grunts a lot more than you remember when he’s doing bench presses. Isack, whose hands keep drawing your eyes whenever he adjusts his grip around the weights.

This is the sixth time you’ve caught your eyes drifting down to Isack’s hands—which, in turn, makes you a shit spotter.

Isack lifts the weights back onto the rack, the sudden metallic clang snapping you back to reality. Isack sits back up on the bench, pulling out one of his earbuds as he peers up at you. “Are you okay?”

“H-Huh?” Your body feels hot. Too hot. You really hope he doesn’t catch on. “Sorry?”

“You look… distracted,” Isack notes, tilting his head slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m—I’m okay. I’m great. All good.” Things would be easier if the earth split in half and swallowed you whole.

Isack gives you a hint of that lopsided smile of his, brows a bit furrowed in confusion. “…Are you sure?”

You’ve been friends with Isack for a long time—longer than any of your other lasting friendships. It’s why you can’t exactly tell him that hearing him groaning while he weightlifts is making all sort of feelings stir in your gut—feelings you shouldn’t have for someone who’s just a friend. Or how watching the way his hands tighten around the different weights has planted a seed in your head as to where else Isack’s wrapped hands would look good—

He is still looking up at you expectantly, and your mind goes blank. “You know you could bench press me,” you hear yourself say. A spark of electricity buzzes beneath your skin. “I-I mean, ‘cause of the amount weight you’ve been lifting. Um.” Your throat closes and your palms feel sweaty. Fuck, you feel like you’re back in high school again. Sudden death doesn’t seem so terrible anymore.

But Isack’s lips simply curl up into an amused smile. “Oh?” His accent feels thicker when he asks, “Do you want me to?”

Your throat feels dry. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights. “Do I want you to what?”

“Bench press you,” Isack says, as if it’s the most normal response in the world. If you didn’t know any better, and this wasn’t Isack you were talking to, you’d almost think he was flirting with you.

You balk, and before you can find your voice to answer, a laugh bubbles out of Isack. “Seriously, you are too tense today. We can finish earlier, if you want.”

Your face feels warm. “No—no, I’m fine. Promise.”

Isack shrugs his shoulders, though you can still see a hint of a smile on his lips. “If you say so.”

This might’ve been the longest gym session you’ve ever had, even despite the fact that Isack eventually pretended to tire out sooner than usual—probably for your own benefit.

You walk out of the gym, both his and your bag slung over Isack’s shoulder. He insisted, as per usual, claiming that broad shoulders should be used for something useful.

The two of you are walking back to your apartment when Isack says: “You were looking at my hands. Earlier, I mean.”

Your stomach twists into knots. Your brain feels like it’s overheating from how quick you try to come up with an excuse that isn’t I realized I think your hands are kinda hot.

“Oh! Um, yeah, I was just thinking that…” you lick your lips, an action that draws Isack’s eyes for just a fraction of a second—not that you seem to notice. “I mean. I realized while you were doing bench presses that your hands are bigger than mine. Um. Yeah.”

Isack quirks a brow. He flexes his fingers. “Are they?”

You hum in response, hoping you manage to keep your anxious tone out of your voice.

Isack murmurs something you don’t manage to catch, before he gently reaches for your hand. He presses the heel of his palm against your own, his fingers not only longer, but significantly thicker than yours. You blink.

“Oh. You’re right,” Isack hums, turning his head as the light for the sidewalk turns green. He drops his hand as the two of you cross the street, though his fingers still remain intertwined with yours.

Neither of you comment on the fact that you stay that way for the rest of your walk home.

a/n: still a firm believer that isack is the one that would get more easily flustered BUT this was purely self indulgent cause those pictures of him playing football left me feeling unwell.

comments and reblogs are always appreciated

i'll come home to you ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

ih6 x uni!reader

in which lovedrunk! isack shows up at your door

warnings: mildly suggestive

word count: 696

masterlist

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Isack knows that this is a bad idea. He doesn’t want to scare you off, because…

Well, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to him, including becoming a Formula One driver. 

He’s thinking about you, the way you smile at him and the kiss you’d left on the corner of his mouth the last time he saw you. 

He’d been out drinking with some of his friends, but he needed to see you, desperately. 

He’s been really desperate lately, so much so that Liam flicks his forehead every time Isack gets a text from you to clear his face of the cheesy, down bad smile. 

It’s worth it, though. He’d endure a sore forehead as long as you keep texting him about your day. 

That’s why he finds himself, tipsy and flushed at your doorstep. 

You open the door, face and legs bare. 

“Baby?” You ask, surprised, but moving to let him in. 

He has a hard time crossing into the doorframe, distracted by the smooth skin of your thighs, and the fact that you’re wearing one of his Hugo Boss hoodies he’d given you on your second date. 

This is your third, if you count showing up at the doorstep of your kind-of girlfriend at 12 AM. 

Melting into your arms, he greets you with a slurred French pet name. 

Your giggle reaches his ears just as he blows a raspberry into your neck. 

You squeal, trying to escape, but he lands the two of you on the couch. 

He digs his face into your chest, breathing in your body wash. 

“Hi, handsome. Where’d you come from?” You coo, fingers tracing his earlobe.

He shivers in pleasure, half from the sheer happiness of being in your presence, half from the feeling your hands on him. 

Slipping his hands under the thin tank you wear with the unzipped hoodie, he mutters to you about his evening. 

You hum at his story, laughing when he tells you how Yuki jumped on a table to dance. 

By the time he’s finished, you’re stripping off his hoodie due to the heat of his body pressed up against yours. He doesn’t mind at all as you push him gently up so you can take the hoodie off. 

Not when he gets to pull you onto his lap. 

“Isack, what-“ you start, but the feeling of his lips on your pulse point cuts you off. 

Isack practically purrs when your neck falls back as he mouths across your soft skin. The little whimpers you’re letting out is sending heat straight to his groin, and he groans when you shift even closer to him, clinging to his shoulders. 

“Mm,” he tells you, which you answer by threading your fingers into the short, black locks on his head. 

His eyes roll back in pleasure, at the feeling of you, desperate for him as he was for you. 

“You are so drunk,” you murmur, slipping off of his lap, grin a bit teasing and a bit disappointed. 

“Mon chérie, non!” He complains, trying to tug you back onto him. 

“Baby, c’mon. Let’s go to bed.” You start your way to what he assumes is your bedroom, looking back with wide, expecting eyes. 

He follows, half-hard and eager like the world’s most loyal puppy. 

“To sleep,” You clarify, and he deflates. Then, he bounces his steps because that means he gets to cuddle you all night. 

The two of you get unready together, brushing your teeth side by side and he lets you smooth on skincare onto his skin. 

He takes his shirt off, wearing only his boxers as you slip under the covers. You watch him, eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. 

Isack has to look at the ceiling and think about Helmut Marko for about ten seconds until he can join you. 

“Goodnight,” he pulls you into his bare chest, and you press a kiss to his heart, and then his lips. 

As you fall asleep, with his stomach warm from thick, heavy affection, he realizes this is where he wants to be forever. 

In your arms, in your bed, no matter where he is. 

With you, he thinks. 

Always with you. 

WINNERS OF ALL HEARTS.

People love your and Oscar’s relationship since the beginning; Moments of you and your boyfriend Oscar during Drive To Survive season 7.

pairing. Oscar Piastri x fem! reader

warnings. est. relationship. In honor of Oscar’s win in Bahrain! 🫶🏻 I have never seen a single episode of dts and I definitely don't plan to. Everything here is made up and doesn’t relate to the actual season. // I’ll do Lando version too!

[episode one]

The season opener buzzed with energy. You walked hand in hand with Oscar, people and cameras around you. It was nice to be back after winter break.

As you strolled along, you glanced down and noticed your shoelace was untied. Stopping mid-step, you turned to Oscar, handing him your handbag with a casual smile.

“Could you hold this for me, please?” you asked with smile.

Oscar ignored your question, but instead of standing there as you’d expected, he knelt down beside you, his movements swift and deliberate. His fingers worked deftly to tie your shoe, the knot firm yet careful.

“Thank you,” you said, your smile soft and genuine, appreciating his thoughtful gesture. He returned the warmth with an easy smile of his own. “No problem,” he replied with smile.

Netflix editors made it funnier by cutting to Lando rolling his eyes as he walked past you.

[episode two]

The atmosphere in the McLaren garage was relaxed as you lounged before practice. Lando, leaned over with his phone in his hand, sly grin across his face.

“Y/n, look what Oscar sent me,” he said, showing you a TikTok video that was anything but innocent. You couldn’t help but laugh at the dirty text, but before you could say anything, Oscar’s voice cut through the moment.

“I already apologized!” he exclaimed, his face flushed with embarrassment as he overheard your conversation. His reaction only made the situation funnier, and you burst into laughter.

“How can this even happen?” you managed to say through fits of laughter, struggling to catch your breath.

Oscar, still blushing furiously, threw his hands up in defense. “It was an incident!” he protested, his voice almost cracking under the weight of his embarrassment, which only made you laugh harder.

As you and Lando laughed, the editors cut to Oscar, subtitles read: [tremendous embarrassment]

[episode three]

Before the race, the cameras captured a quiet yet heartfelt moment. You carefully adjusted Oscar’s helmet, ensuring everything was perfect. Satisfied with your work, you smiled warmly at him. “Good luck,” you said, pressing a light kiss on his helmet.

“Thank you,” he replied softly, his voice full of gratitude. Then, with a tender smile under the helmer, he added, “I love you, babe.” The simplicity of his words carried the weight of something steady and true.

After this clip was published, fans went crazy and it became viral on tiktok.

[episode four]

Oscar had done it—his first Grand Prix win, a moment he’d dreamed of and worked tirelessly for. The roar of the crowd faded into the background as he climbed out of the car, his eyes immediately scanning for you. Without hesitation, he sprinted toward you, his emotions overwhelming him.

Before you could say a word, he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you, the world seeming to pause in that heart-stopping moment. The victory was his, but the celebration was yours together.

While you celebrated his achievement, the camera cut to Nicole and Hattie doing heart from hands as they pointed at you two.

[episode five]

Oscar moved through the fan zone with ease, signing caps and shirts as he greeted the crowd. In his hand, his phone rested casually, the screen occasionally lighting up with his touch. Each time it did, it revealed his wallpaper—a candid photo of you, beaming with joy as you cuddled your dog. It was a quiet reminder of what grounded him amid the chaos of his world, a glimpse of the happiness he cherished most.

Fans took photos and posted it online saying, “He loves her so much it can’t be even real.”

[episode six]

With the cameras buzzing in the McLaren garage, the two of you had too much time on your hands. Oscar was focused, attempting to braid your hair—a task far more challenging than he anticipated.

“Oh my god, this is so hard! It’s like a puzzle,” he groaned, frustration clear in his tone.

You couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You drive a F1 car and can’t do a braid? Osc, c’mon,” you teased, your grin widening as his struggles made the moment all the more entertaining.

Netflix narrative saying, “Let’s hope Oscar is not hairdresser in his next life.”

[episode seven]

The interviewer beamed as they addressed Oscar, “So Oscar, great job today, your first pole position, how do you feel?”

Oscar’s smile was radiant as he replied, “Yeah, just great... the car, the team,” but his gaze shifted, seeking you out in the crowd. His expression softened even more as his eyes landed on you. “My girlfriend’s here, so it’s the best,” he added, his grin unmistakably proud.

The camera panned to you, catching the sweet moment as you blew him a playful kiss, drawing even more smiles from the onlookers.

“Would you say your girlfriend is your biggest supporter?” the interviewer pressed.

Without hesitation, Oscar nodded. “Definitely, she’s just perfect,” he said, his voice brimming with sincerity and affection. It was a small yet touching moment that reflected how much you meant to him.

Fans kept saying in comments under this clip when F1 posted it, “May this love attack me.”

the good luck charm

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. max vertsappen x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

you kiss max's forehead one race morning "for luck". he wins. it becomes a thing.

It started as a joke. As most things do.

You were both exhausted and half-dressed in a hotel room in Monza, Max trying to stretch out sore muscles while you searched (unsuccessfully) for your other shoe. Something about the early morning, the nerves, the jetlag, the weird sleepy love you always carry for him—it made you lean in, cup his face in both hands, and press a long kiss to his forehead.

"May your tires be warm, your brakes be cool, and your competitors forget how to drive," you said solemnly, eyes still half closed.

He gave you the flattest look imaginable, though the end of his ears blushed a faint pink from the kiss. As they always did. “What are you doing?”

“Blessing you,” you replied, as if it was obvious. As if it had happened a hundred times before. "So you win."

Max snorted, jokingly thanked you for your wise words, and then won the race.

The next weekend in Baku, just before he headed back into the garage, he stopped in front of you. Didn’t say anything. Just stood there with his helmet under one arm, brows raised. Waiting.

You blinked at him. “…Yes?”

Max looked around and then lowered his voice. “Aren’t you gonna do your weird blessing thing?”

You smiled. You were obnoxious about it. You made it a whole scene. Two hands to his cheeks, a huge dramatic smooch in the exact middle of his forehead, a made-up chant about tire degradation and curses upon the other drivers' decision making capabilities. He pretended to hate it.

He won again.

Now it’s a ritual. It practically part of his warm up routine.

He always finds you. Doesn’t matter if it’s Silverstone or Suzuka, if you're sitting quietly in hospitality or standing in the garage trying not to get run over by a mechanic on a scooter. He finds you. Every single race.

Helmet in hand. Suit half-zipped. That laser-focus look on his face until he sees you. Then it softens—just slightly. His jaw unclenches. His hands flex like they want to hold something. You.

You rise on your toes, brush your lips across his forehead, whisper the familiar words: “For luck.” Because sometimes he doesn't need the big speech, the dramatic show, the curses upon the other cars—he just needs you.

He never says much. Just nods, or gives you the tiniest smile. Once, after a win, he muttered “works better than pole” with a blush he tried to pass off as heat exhaustion.

You didn’t tease him for it. Much.

One day the camera's pick it up, and suddenly it becomes clear that your little tradition is not a secret and private as you once thought. Even the Sky Sports commentary team has something to say:

“And there’s Max Verstappen’s girlfriend giving him—what’s clearly become—a bit of a pre-race tradition. Can’t argue with results.”

It's nice. You like being part of the flow of race day. Its nice to be relied upon, even for something as small as this.

And then… one weekend, you’re not there.

You tried. You really did. But your flight got cancelled, the backup was overbooked, and Red Bull’s private jet was full of engineers and people who don’t think “I give Max forehead kisses before lights out” qualifies as essential personnel.

You call him from the airport instead, bags at your feet, coffee in hand. Max offered to send his own jet back to pick you up, but it would never have arrived in time.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I really wanted to be there.”

Max is quiet on the other end. “You tried.”

“I’ll scream your blessing into the sky from here, okay?”

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds tight. “Might need it. Grid’s a mess.”

“You’ll handle it. You always do.”

You want to say more. Something sappy. But you can already hear noise in the backgorund of the call. He's being pulled away by Christian or Helmut or someone asking about tires. So you settle for, “I love you. Drive safe.”

His voice softens. “Love you too.”

Back at the track, people notice something’s… off.

He’s still fast—because of course he is—but there’s a tension in his shoulders. The calm, razor-sharp version of Max that usually shows up on race day feels thinner, more like a mask.

Christian corners him right before the anthem. “You good?”

“Fine,” Max says. Short. Clipped. Cold.

But his eyes keep scanning the garage, looking for something—or someone—he knows isn’t there.

The race goes okay. Not amazing. A few things go wrong. His start is messy. Pit stop’s a second too slow. He finishes second, which for anyone else would be great, but for Max it’s a shrug and a “whatever.” Second place always hurts. Always has for him.

After the cooldown room, after media, after debrief, he ducks away from everyone and finally calls you.

“You cursed me,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“I had no forehead kiss. And now look. P2. Disaster.”

You smile, curling up in the airport lounge chair. “Guess you need me, huh?”

He exhales like he doesn’t want to say yes, but then, quietly: “Yeah. I do.”

And then impossibly quieter: "I always do."

The next weekend, you’re definitely there.

He doesn’t even say hello when he finds you sat in the garage. He just walks up, stands in front of you, and tilts his head down expectantly.

You blink. “Wow. No ‘how are you,’ no hug—just forehead service?”

He glares at the ground, but there is a small smile on his face that you can just barely see. “Do the thing.”

You grin, place your hands on his cheeks, and kiss him gently on the forehead.

“For luck,” you murmur.

He exhales. Content. “There it is.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the one casting spells on my head.”

You lean in a little. “They work, don’t they?”

Max just smiles. The small, secret one. The one he saves for you. Then he nods.

After he wins that race, he dedicates it to the team. Then, on the radio, voice quieter:

“Tell her thanks. It worked again.”

You hear it. Of course you do. And when he lifts the trophy, champagne flying, there’s a tiny smile on your face that says yeah. you’re welcome.

Until Now || LN4

landonorris x fewtrell!reader | friends to lovers

summary: Growing up you were always around your older brother Max, and through this obvious also around Lando. You adored the two older boys with your whole heart. But also made it your rule to definitely never get involved with drivers. Ever. They’re a slippery slope to heartbreak. Who would’ve thought that out of everyone Lando was the one making you questioning your rule.

warnings: none

5.5k words

masterlist

Growing up in the world of motorsport wasn’t exactly something you chose — it just… happened. Being Max’s little sister meant that racetracks, grease-streaked overalls, and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber were just part of your childhood. And with Max came Lando.

Where Max was protective and sometimes overbearing, Lando was your chaos. He brought the laughter, the late-night sneaking around the paddock, and the kind of endless teasing only someone who’s known you since you were five could deliver.

You adored them both. These two were constants. They were family. And you’d made a rule early on, somewhere between watching Max crash at a karting event and Lando sweet-talking his way out of trouble for the fifth time that day: Never fall for a driver.

They lived fast, loved fast, and left too many broken hearts behind them.

But that rule — that precious, unshakeable rule — hadn’t accounted for Lando looking at you the way he did last weekend for the last few months.

It hadn’t accounted for the way your heart reacted when you realized he wasn’t just being goofy anymore. He was watching you — really watching you — like he’d just now seen you for the first time.

You’d always been “Max’s little sister.” That was your title, your label, your shadow. And it never really bothered you — not when Max was your best friend growing up, and not when it meant Lando Norris was practically your second older brother.

You were thirteen when Lando stole your favorite hoodie and wore it to a karting event “for luck.” He was sixteen and already had that spark — the kind that turned heads and made people whisper his name with curiosity. You didn’t mind. You were just proud to know him before the world did.

Now, years later, you stood in the VIP area of the Silverstone paddock, watching the chaos unfold. Lando was a full-blown F1 star. Max had switched over to streaming and helping Lando manage Quadrant. And you… well, you were just trying to blend in, stay out of the way, and uphold your golden rule: Don’t get involved with drivers.

“Oi, you’re zoning out.”

Lando’s voice pulled you back to reality, and when you turned, he was leaning against the railing next to you — sunglasses pushed up into his curls, grin lazy and familiar.

“I wasn’t zoning out,” you lied, ignoring how your pulse jumped just from him being this close.

He tilted his head. “You’re thinking about how cool I looked out there, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but the banter came slower than usual. “I’ve seen you drive since you were in a kart. It’s hard to be impressed anymore.”

Lando laughed, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. And for a second — just a second — the air between you shifted. Like something unspoken had cracked open, just enough to let the possibility sneak in.

You looked away first.

“You’re staying for the after-party, right?” Lando asked, his tone easy but eyes fixed on yours.

“Not sure,” you said, trying to sound casual. “I told Max I might head back to home.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting into a half-smirk. “Shame. I was hoping for a dance.”

You rolled your eyes, heart skipping. But before you could offer another sarcastic retort, you felt it — the soft brush of his fingers against yours on the metal railing. Barely there, almost like an accident… but not quite. He didn’t pull away.

You glanced down. His pinky lingered next to yours, the warmth of the contact a silent pressure point, subtle but completely impossible to ignore. Your breath caught.

Your eyes met his again. And there it was — something unspoken hanging heavy between you. You didn’t move your hand. Neither did he.

“Hey.”

The voice cut through it like a blade.

You both turned — Max.

He was walking up, eyes flicking between the two of you. You couldn’t tell if he noticed the hand thing, but Lando had already stepped back, casually adjusting his watch like nothing had happened at all.

Max gave Lando a look. “We gotta get going if we wanna make it to London in time. Come on, we’re already late.”

Lando clapped his hand on Max’s shoulder, the grin back on his face like a mask. “Alright, alright. Just making sure your sister doesn’t disappear before the party starts.”

Max rolled his eyes and turned to you. “You coming?”

You hesitated. Your fingers were still tingling.

“Don’t leave without that dance.”

You couldn’t even form a response. Not with the way his voice dropped at the end of that sentence. Not with the way it made your rule — your stupid, carefully crafted rule — shake a little at its foundation.

When did the comfortable familiarity of friendship turn into something else?

You hadn’t realized it at first — at least, not consciously. But the moments had added up: the lingering touches, the private jokes that felt more like secrets, the way his eyes seemed to find you in a room full of people.

The shift had started weeks ago, maybe even months. There were the little things, like the night in his apartment.

The rain had started around noon — soft at first, then heavier, smearing the windows of the taxi as you rolled through the wet Monaco streets. Max had called an hour before, his voice scratchy through your phone speaker.

“The meeting got moved, I won’t make it todad. I’m flying out tomorrow.” Max and Lando had planned a quiet weekend, inviting you to Monaco to hang out as a trio again. You would’ve flown in together from London, but Max had a meeting scheduled with Quadrant, hence why he planned to come later.

You didn’t even have time to protest before he added, “Lando said you can crash at his. He’s already expecting you.”

Of course he was.

By the time you buzzed into Lando’s building, the streets were quiet, washed in silver reflections and the occasional flash of headlights. His door was already open when you got to it.

“Took you long enough,” he said with a grin, hair damp and wild, socked feet padding across polished floors. He wore one of Max’s old hoodies — the one you’d stolen once, only for Lando to steal it from you back.

“Blame Monaco traffic and Max’s shocking lack of planning. Aren’t you the big boss? Why are you not in England right now?” you muttered as you stepped inside, brushing raindrops from your coat.

He smirked, stepping aside to let you in. “Because I’m the big boss, that’s why.” He just laughed and shut the door behind you. “Well, welcome to Casa Norris.”

You’d been to Lando’s place a handful of times before, but never alone. There was something different about it now — quieter, more personal. Your eyes drifted down the hallway, catching the glint of the Miami replica trophy standing proudly on a pedestal by the end wall. Right next to it stood two photos, one of the three of you from when you were kids and one from his Abu Dhabi win last year.

You dropped your bag in the hallway and wandered to the couch.

“You hungry?” he called from the kitchen. “I was gonna order in anyway, so you can decide.”You dropped your bag near the couch and called back, “Pizza.”

A beat. Then his voice floated around the corner, smug: “Knew you were gonna say that.”

He appeared in the doorway with his phone already in hand. “You’ve ordered the same thing since we were twelve — margarita, extra cheese, dark crust.”

“That’s the best thing!”

“It’s basic.”

“It can be basic and the best thing at the same time,” you argued back, dropping on to the couch and snatching the remote to turn on the TV.

“Right,” he said, tapping in the order.

Behind you, you heard the shuffle of socked feet on the hardwood, then the quiet thump of Lando dropping down beside you — close, like always, but tonight it felt… different. His thigh brushed against yours as he leaned back with a sigh.

“You’re the guest, you pick,” he said, stretching an arm lazily across the back of the couch. “But if you make me watch another season of Vampire Diaries, I’m walking out.”

You smirked, scrolling past sitcoms and dramas. “Relax. I’m in the mood for chaos.”

As if on cue, the thumbnail for Drive to Survive popped up.

You both paused.

He gave a low groan. “Oh no.”

You laughed. “C’mon, it’s a classic.”

“It’s a hit piece.”

“It’s entertainment.”

He tilted his head, side-eyeing you. “You really want to watch me get dramatic slow-mo edits and brooding piano music?”

You grinned. “Absolutely.”

He leaned in slightly, voice warm with teasing. “You just like watching me in fireproofs.”

You looked over at him — his expression playful, but there was something else in his eyes, lingering just behind the smirk.

Your stomach did that thing again.

You clicked Play, but before the intro could even start, Lando leaned forward and grabbed the remote from your hand.

“Wait—no. If we’re doing this, we’re watching the Miami episode.”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half suspicious. “You really want to sit here and watch yourself strut around in sunglasses, acting like the paddock prince?”

He smirked. “That’s exactly why we have to watch it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I won that race,” he said with mock offense, thumbing through the episode list until he landed on it. “You can’t just skip the peak of my documentary character arc.”

“You mean the part where you wink at the camera and say something like ‘I’ve got unfinished business here’?”

“Iconic.”

“Nope. We’re watching the final episode. Abu Dhabi.”

He looked at you, halfway through settling back. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” you said, snatching the remote back. “Because I’m in that one.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Oh, that’s why.”

You scrolled past Miami, ignoring his dramatic sighs, and clicked on the finale.

“You just want to see yourself on camera,” he teased.

You smirked. “Of course I do!”

You remembered Abu Dhabi like it was yesterday, the shock in lap one when Oscar got spun out, all the expectations and pressure laying on Lando’s shoulder to secure the World Championship for Mclaren. And of course after the race. He hugged his mum, before pulling you into a tight hug, clinging to trophy like it was his first born and his body sticky with champagne.

He groaned. “God, I was soaked. And sticky.”

“You were also grinning like a lunatic.”

He leaned back, suddenly quiet. “It was a good day.”

You hovered over the play button. “Okay fine, but skip through the first half. I don’t really fancy rewatching Brazil,” Lando muttered. His eyes flicked to yours — there wasn’t any teasing remark in your eyes, just understanding.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Fair enough.”

The episode passed in a blur — fast cars, flashing cameras, champagne, and that moment he hugged you, still clutching the trophy like it was a lifeline. You saw your own face on-screen, a flash of laughter and teary eyes as he pulled you into his chest.

Neither of you said much after it ended. But you did, in fact, get him to watch another few episodes of The Vampire Diaries — because once you curled deeper into the couch and gave him that look, he didn’t stand a chance.

He groaned when the title card popped up. “Again with the vampires?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know everyone’s names now.”

He muttered something about emotional manipulation and teenagers with terrible decision-making skills, but he stayed exactly where he was. Closer than before, shoulder against yours, blanket somehow shared between you without either of you talking about it.

Two episodes in, somewhere between Elena spiraling and Damon being dramatic, Lando shifted slightly, head tipped back against the couch, voice low and unguarded. He was slouched on the other end of the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. The soft flicker of the TV lit up the side of his face, casting warm shadows along the edge of his jaw.

“I forgot how nice it is having you around.”

Something inside you tugged. Tightened.

“You get lonely?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, without looking at you, he murmured, “Sometimes. But I don’t think I would if you lived here.”

The words sat between you like an open drawer — casual, careless even. But you didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, like he wished he could take it back. Or maybe like he meant it more than he wanted to admit.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

But that night, when you curled up in his guest room, the rain still whispering outside, the echo of his words kept you awake far longer than they should have.

Or that day of your birthday.

Your birthday was always something you liked to keep simple. No loud clubs, no flashy photoshoots — just dinner with the people who knew you best. Max had taken the lead this year, pulling together a table at one of your favorite little spots in London. It was relaxed, warm, loud with laughter. And even though everyone you expected was there, even though the food was good and the cake better — there’d been something missing.

Until he walked in.

Lando arrived late. Rain clung to the ends of his hair, his jacket damp from the short sprint between car and restaurant. He looked a little windblown, cheeks flushed, a cupcake box in one hand and a gift bag — haphazardly folded and slightly crumpled — swinging from the other.

Your face lit up — you felt it happen. That automatic reaction you couldn’t fake if you tried.

“You’re late,” you said, but it came out soft, not scolding.

“I know, I know,” he said, coming toward you. “Traffic. And I might’ve wrapped your present in the care. Don’t judge.”

You were already laughing by the time he reached you — and then his arms were around you.

“Happy birthday,” he added in a whisper.

It was familiar. Lando always hugged like he meant it. But this one…

This one lingered.

His arms locked around your waist, firm but gentle. One hand settled low on your back, fingers flexing for just a second like he didn’t want to let go. His chin brushed your shoulder, and you felt the breath he let out — quiet, steady, like the world had calmed the moment he found you.

You didn’t know how long it lasted. Just that it was longer than it should’ve been.

And when you finally pulled back, your hands slid from his shoulders — but your eyes didn’t. They caught his, and held. There was something there. A hesitation. A question. Something just slightly too intense to ignore.

It was the kind of look that changed things. Or could’ve.

Until Max cleared his throat — loud, purposeful.

“So,” he said, breaking the moment like a rock through glass, “you gonna open that mess of a gift or what?”

You blinked, stepping back, clearing your throat to match. “Yeah. Right. Let’s see how bad this wrapping job really is.”

You forced a smile, pretending your hands weren’t still buzzing from where his arms had been and tugged at the crumpled tissue paper, peeling it back slowly — more careful than you meant to be. First, a small white box slid into your hand. You opened it, and there it was: a delicate silver bracelet, the chain fine and light, with a tiny sun charm dangling at the center. Simple. Familiar.

You looked up, brows lifted.

He shrugged lightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the sun, remember? That’s what I- uh- we used to call you when we were kids. You’d boss us around and still somehow be the one making us laugh.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you glanced back down at the charm, fingers brushing over it — warm from your touch already.

And then there was the second part: a small white envelope. Inside, a Polaroid. You recognized it immediately.

“It’s the one from your apartment, how did you get it in a Polaroid?” You called.

It was that photo. The one from Abu Dhabi. You, him, and Max, just after the race. Lando still in his fireproofs, champagne stains down the front, the trophy tucked into his arm like it might vanish. His mum off to the side, grinning. And you, right next to him, beaming up at him like he’d just given you the world.

“Secret,” he smiled, giving your shoulders a squeeze.

“I… love it, thanks!” you said, finally, and you meant it in a way that startled you.

Across the table, Max shifted. Someone else cracked a joke to ease the quiet, and the moment folded back into the night — but not before Lando gave you one last look, softer than it had any right to be.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it — the quick glance between P and one of your other friends across the table. The raised brow. The small, knowing smirk. Max, already pouring another drink, avoiding looking at either of you altogether.

You were sure they’d noticed it.

The pause. The shift. That beat-too-long hug and the way you’d both clung to it, like you weren’t entirely sure where the lines were anymore.

But no one said anything. And neither did you.

Something shifted and it was getting only harder to ignore that. And it was only getting harder to ignore.

You pressed your fingers to your temple, half-smiling at the absurdity of it all. This was Lando — your older brother’s best friend. You’d known him forever, and this was the kind of thing that was supposed to be safe.

Except now, you weren’t so sure.

When exactly had things stopped feeling safe — and started feeling like the kind of danger you couldn’t seem to pull yourself away from, no matter how much you told yourself to? The kind of danger you maybe, just maybe, wanted to run toward?

You didn’t have the answers, and that was the problem. But as you walked back inside, heart still racing, you couldn’t ignore the whisper of a thought: Maybe you didn’t need to have the answers right now.

The rooftop was buzzing — champagne fizzed in flutes, neon lights danced off glass panels, and the beat of some house remix pulsed through the floor. You weren’t sure why you came. Maybe it was Lando’s voice in your ear, or the way his pinky had barely touched yours and left a ghost of warmth behind.

You slipped through the crowd, dress clinging to your skin a little too tightly in the heat of the night, eyes scanning — not for Max. For him.

You found Lando by the bar. He was laughing with someone from McLaren’s PR team, head thrown back in that way you knew meant the joke wasn’t even that funny. But the moment his eyes caught yours, everything about him shifted. His smile softened. He handed off his drink without a word and made his way to you.

“You stayed,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“You said something about a dance.”

He took one step closer, just inside your space. “Still want it?”

You should have said no. You should’ve thought of Max, of the rule you’d carried like a shield for years. But you nodded.

He didn’t take your hand — not right away. Instead, he backed up slowly, eyes locked on yours, and gave you a small, playful bow. Then he turned and led the way to a quieter corner of the rooftop where a string of fairy lights curved over a smaller platform, just beyond the reach of the DJ’s crowd.

He offered his hand this time. You took it.

The music shifted to something slower, smoother — a beat that begged for movement just a little too close for comfort. The rooftop lights shimmered above, and Lando’s hand slipped around your waist like it had always belonged there. Your hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the other still curled in his.

He spun you once — not expertly, not even that smoothly — and you stumbled into a laugh, nearly bumping into him. His arm caught you, steady at your waist again, and your laughter tangled with his like it had a thousand times before. But this time… it felt different.

He didn’t let go right away.

A few feet back, just out of sight, Max stood near the corner of the rooftop with P, a drink in one hand and narrowed eyes trained on the two of you.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” he muttered, his voice low and clipped.

P smirked behind the rim of her wine glass. “If what you’re seeing is your little sister wrapped around your best mate, then yeah. I’m seeing it too.”

Max didn’t move, his jaw tight, fingers tapping slowly against the side of his glass.

“They’re laughing,” P added. “Lighten up. They’re cute.”

Max’s eyes didn’t leave the scene.

Lando twirled you again — this time slower, smoother. You spun into his arms like you knew exactly how to fit there, and the way you looked up at him… yeah, Max definitely noticed that.

He said nothing.

Just kept watching — trying to convince himself he was imagining it.

The rooftop was winding down. Lights dimmed, music fading into a mellow background thrum. Most people had already filtered out, laughing and stumbling into waiting cars. You’d stepped away to the edge of the terrace, needing air, the night cool against your skin.

You didn’t hear him approach. You never really did.

“Want me to drop you home?”

You turned. Lando stood just behind you, hands in his pockets, curls slightly messy from the humidity, tie loose around his neck. The easy confidence he wore in public had slipped — now he just looked… real.

You hesitated. “I was going to call a cab.”

He shrugged. “So? I didn’t drink and I’m offering.”

You studied him for a moment. His voice was calm, but his eyes searched yours — looking for something you weren’t sure how to give.

“Alright,” you said finally, voice quiet.

He nodded, and the two of you walked in silence down the back stairwell, avoiding the last of the half-sober team members still clustered near the entrance. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It never really was, not with him. But tonight it felt heavy.

His car was parked a little further down the road, tucked under streetlight shadows. He opened the passenger door without saying anything, and you slid in, tugging your coat tighter around you.

The drive home was quiet. Soft music played from his speakers, the window of his Mclaren rolled down. When Lando came to a stop in front of your house, the engine idled, and for a long moment, he just sat there. His fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel, the hum of the car the only sound in the space between you. Then, his head turned toward you, his eyes studying your profile in the dim light spilling from the streetlamps.

“You good?” he asked, his voice soft but searching.

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts, and forced a smile. “Yeah.”

But he wasn’t buying it. Not this time. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving you. “You sure? Because you’ve gone quiet. Quieter than usual.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap, feeling the weight of the silence press down on you. The words were right there, but you couldn’t seem to make them come out. “Max saw us.”

Lando’s jaw tightened for a split second, his eyes flicking forward, but he didn’t look away for long. “Yeah.” A breath escaped him, low and steady. “I know.”

The silence stretched then, thick and awkward, hanging between you like a question neither of you wanted to ask but both of you knew was there.

You finally broke it, the words coming out in a rush. “I didn’t mean for tonight to… I don’t know. Cross a line.”

Lando’s eyes softened, a quiet shift in his expression. His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, but his voice came out softer, more vulnerable than you expected.

“What if I wanted you to?”

You froze. The words hung in the air like a confession — a truth neither of you had dared speak aloud until now. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t joking. This was serious.

Your heart kicked against your ribs, and the air between you seemed to thicken, as if the whole world had paused to let the moment linger.

He leaned a little closer, but not enough to close the space completely. Just enough that you could feel the weight of his presence beside you, just enough to make your pulse quicken.

His voice was quieter now, more serious. “You know,” he started, eyes meeting yours in the dim light, “we’ve known each other forever. Been through so much crap together. I’ve always been able to mess around with you, tease you, joke like we’re still kids racing karts in the backyard… and it was always just that. We were always just… friends, you know?”

You nodded, but your stomach flipped at the way he was talking. The way his words felt like a confession before the real one had even come.

“But lately,” Lando continued, his voice softening, “something’s changed. And I know you feel it too. It’s not just me.”

His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for confirmation, but even if you hadn’t said anything, you knew he saw it in the way you were holding yourself, in the way your breath had caught when he’d leaned in a little too close earlier.

“You’ve been there. You’ve always been there,” he said, the quiet sincerity in his tone heavier than any of the teasing he’d ever thrown your way. “And I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want to screw this up with you. But I also… I don’t want to ignore what’s happening. What’s changed between us.”

His words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. “It’s like we’ve been walking this line for months now, and I’m scared it’ll wreck everything. But at the same time… I don’t want to keep pretending like it’s not there.”

He let out a small breath, the weight of it settling between you like something both heavy and hopeful.

“I’m not saying I have all the answers,” he continued, his voice quiet but firm. “Hell, I’m scared. But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Because… I don’t think I can go back to just being the guy who’s always hanging around. Not anymore.”

You stayed silent, heart pounding, every part of you wanting to say something, but also unsure if the words you wanted to say would make things real. But Lando’s gaze never wavered, and for the first time, you saw the unguarded part of him. The part that wasn’t teasing. The part that was truly there — not just for the laughs, but for whatever this was that had been quietly building between you both.

You swallowed “I don’t think I can go back either,” you muttered quietly.

He leaned closer, just enough that you could see the softness in his expression — the flicker of nerves beneath the confidence he usually wore like armor.

“So tell me to stop,” he whispered. “And I will.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just leaned forward, meeting him halfway.

The kiss was soft — the kind that lingered in its silence, not rushed or messy, but careful. Like a promise. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, and your breath caught somewhere between the kiss and the moment he pulled back.

He rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes still closed. “That felt like a line I’ve wanted to cross for a while.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

And then his eyes flickered to something behind you — or someone. Your head turned around to find a shape in the dark and your heart dropped when you figured out who the figure on the front step was.

Lando pulled back, eyes flicking toward the house just as Max stepped into the porch light. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Watching.

Lando’s lips parted — caught, but still somehow relaxed — and after a single beat, he lifted one hand casually in greeting.

“Hi, mate.”

careful, he's on fire | kimi räikkönen

୨ৎ : featuring : husband!kimi x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : after a rough race, no one dares approach an absolutely fuming kimi räikkönen, no one except his wife. while the paddock walks on eggshells, she walks straight into the fire, and kimi melts the second he sees her.

୨ৎ : genre : romance ୨ৎ : word count : 423

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

the paddock was walking on eggshells.

you could feel the tension in the air the second you stepped past security — thick, blistering, coiled tight like a storm about to snap. no one had to tell you that kimi had a bad race. you could tell by the way people were whispering in corners and actively avoiding the alfa romeo motorhome like it was cursed.

“is she—?” a mechanic whispered as you passed, eyes wide.

“is that—?”

“oh god. someone stop her before she walks in there—”

a brave soul, maybe one of kimi’s engineers, jogged up beside you. “uhm, mrs. räikkönen—he’s not in the best mood. i just—maybe give him a little time? he’s kind of… you know. hot.”

you blinked. “hot?”

“like—like radiating anger. you might burn your eyebrows off.”

you smiled sweetly and kept walking.

because you knew better.

kimi was sitting in the back of the garage, fireproofs tied around his waist, hair damp with sweat, jaw clenched so tightly you were pretty sure it could snap steel. his race suit hung limp off his shoulders, and his eyes were locked on the floor like it had personally offended him.

no one dared speak. no one dared breathe.

until you stepped into view.

and everything shifted.

he looked up. you saw it in real time—his entire expression flickered, softened, shattered. his hands unclenched. his shoulders dropped. and then came the most shocking thing of all:

a grin.

“kulta?” he said, voice a low rasp, and it hit you right in the heart.

you didn’t hesitate. you walked right into his space, cupped his cheeks with both hands, and pressed your forehead to his.

“you okay?” you whispered.

he didn’t answer at first. just pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, wrapped his arms around your waist, and buried his face in your shoulder.

“i hated today,” he muttered against your skin.

“i know,” you murmured, fingers brushing through his hair.

“but i love this,” he added quietly. “you here.”

someone cleared their throat awkwardly behind you. then another voice, way too smug:

“well, look at that. the ice man does melt.”

you looked up to find sebastian vettel and fernando alonso grinning from a few feet away, arms crossed. valtteri was trying not to laugh. lando and charles were just wide-eyed.

“should we start bringing her to every race?” joked seb.

“she’s clearly the key to unlocking kimi 2.0,” lando added.

kimi just rolled his eyes and tugged you closer.

“you’re all annoying,” he grumbled.

but he was still smiling.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

౨౿ BEHIND THE VISOR — LN4

lando norris x reader / est. relationship / library

syn. a compilation of moments of lando and his girlfriend during drive to survive season 7. none of the episodes are according to the actual dts season, i made em all up for the plot :)

[season 7 episode 1]

[scene: paddock walk, bahrain]

the cameras catch you walking beside lando, trying to keep up with his long strides. he’s mid-conversation with his engineer but still reaches back to grab your hand absentmindedly. “lando, mate, focus,” his engineer laughs.

“i am focused,” lando insists, barely sparing him a glance. “just also making sure she doesn’t get lost.” the editors cut to you rolling your eyes, but the mic picks up the way you mumble, “yeah, wouldn’t want to get left behind again.”

“one time!” lando groans, looking straight at the camera like it’s an episode of the office.

[episode 2]

[scene: pre-race grid, singapore]

the cameras catch you adjusting the collar of lando’s race suit while he stands still, arms at his sides. it’s a quick, quiet moment—one that’s almost drowned out by the chaos around you.

“you good?” you ask. lando nods but doesn’t let go of your wrist when you pull away. “yeah.”

the broadcast cuts to the starting grid, but fans later notice that just before he puts his helmet on, he taps the top of it twice—something he’s never done before.

[episode 3]

[scene: mclaren garage, monaco]

it’s been a tough quali for lando and he is slumped on the chair in the garage eyes lowered down and chest heaving from the heat in the cockpit. the camera shows you walking upto him and sitting down next to him, leaning forward to look at him in his eyes.

the camera catches you crouching beside him, peeling an orange for him.

lando only has enough energy to simply nod and jerk forward with a sigh at the pressure of the performance he has to put on tomorrow for a good result. the camera captures the quiet moment of unspoken support.

your hands coming behind him massaging his neck, lando leaning into the touch head thrown down. sometimes mumbling supportive words to him.

[episode 4]

[scene: paddock post race, silverstone]

lando won. lando had won the silverstone grand prix — his home race. the mclaren garage was a cacophony of screams and yells of happiness as the camera showed different montages of the shared joy.

it landed on you showing tears in your eyes and your folded hands covered your face, eyes bright staring at the screen looking at lando turn into his victory lap.

the camera stilled on you long enough to catch you send a prayer with your eyes closed and the biggest smile on your face. the next time you’re on screen it’s lando rushing towards you suit and helmet on, into your arms. you kiss his helmet and lando rubs your back.

twitter goes crazy when this clip drops.

[episode 5]

[scene: post-race debrief, japan]

it was a shitshow of a race. lando finished p9 after a last-lap battle that he should have won. the cameras catch the way he storms into the garage, jaw tight, hands curled into fists.

he yanks off his helmet and slams it onto the table. the crew gives him space, but you don’t. you’re already there, waiting, arms crossed.

“lando,” you say softly. “don’t,” he snaps, not looking at you.

the netflix mic catches the way you inhale sharply, but you don’t walk away. instead, you grab a towel and push it into his hands. “you need to breathe.” lando talks to you venting it out as the audio changes to background commentary— although his frustration was visible.

later, netflix editors choose not to include what he mutters next. “i just didn’t want to let you down.”

but lip-readers figure it out anyway.

[episode 6]

[scene: media pen, post-race, silverstone]

“lando, you had an incredible drive today. p1 at your home race! how are you feeling?”

lando, still a little breathless, grins at the sky before looking at the interviewer. “yeah, buzzing. car was mega, team did an amazing job. it’s just…” he trails off, looking past the camera.

the interviewer follows his gaze—to where you’re standing just outside the media pen, wearing one of his hoodies over your sundress, smiling at him. lando’s face softens, his whole demeanor shifting.

“yeah,” he says again, eyes still on you. “pretty good day.”

the internet loses its mind.

reblog and follow <3 all rights reserved to norrissm please do not copy, save or translate my works.

Half a Step - KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x Wolff!reader

Summary - Kimi and the daughter of Toto Wolff find themselves enamoured with each other from across the garage.

Contains - pure fluff, awkward teenage love

The sun hung low over the paddock, casting everything in golden light. Race day was winding down, and the buzz of engines had given way to the softer sounds of crew laughter and debriefs. The clamour of the crowd was gone, replaced by something more intimate, the quiet hum of a team catching its breath.

Y/n Wolff leaned against the railing outside the Mercedes hospitality suite, sipping on a melting strawberry smoothie and watching the bustle below. She’d grown up around these tracks, the daughter of Team Principal Toto Wolff, but it never got old, the energy, the thrill of it all.

And lately, it had gotten even harder to ignore one particular part of the scenery.

Kimi Antonelli

Mercedes’ newest young driver. Barely 18, full of raw talent and the sweetest smile the Wolff girl has ever seen. Kimi had joined the Mercedes academy years ago but his presence in the garage became more prominent in 2024 as he prepared to step up to formula one.

Y/n had to pretend her heart didn't stutter every single time he entered the garage, she had to pretend that him simply walking past and giving her a friendly wave didn't make her cheeks flush and head spin. And now with the boy being in the garage full time, she was finding it harder and harder not to fall hopelessly in love with the boy.

And she had no idea that, across the garage, Kimi Antonelli was doing exactly the same thing.

Kimi sat perched on one of the low pit wall barriers, boots dangling, helmet resting beside him. His hands twisted the strap of his gloves absentmindedly as he tried — and failed — to focus on the technical debrief happening a few metres away.

His eyes kept drifting.

To her.

Y/n was a vision in the fading light, her hair catching the last strands of sunshine, her laugh — even when faint and tucked into a private conversation with one of the mechanics — sending an ache straight through his chest.

He knew he shouldn't stare. She was Toto’s daughter, practically paddock royalty, and Kimi was just the kid. The rookie trying to prove himself worthy of the same seat greats had sat in.

But it was hopeless.

Every time she was near, it was like the whole garage shifted, the world blurring at the edges until there was only her.

She was sunshine. And he was a boy who wanted to be worthy of standing in it.

From her spot by the railing, Y/n felt it — the weight of his gaze.

It had been happening more and more lately. Little glances from across the garage. Half-smiles traded over laptops and telemetry sheets. A kind of silent conversation neither of them was brave enough to voice.

Her father wasn't strict, but she knew he watched everything. And if Toto had noticed the soft way Kimi’s eyes lingered on her, or the way her laugh brightened whenever Kimi was around, he hadn’t said anything yet.

At least, not out loud.

Because Toto had noticed.

He'd caught the way Kimi looked at his daughter once — when she wasn’t watching — a gaze so open, so careful, it had stopped him mid-sentence. And he'd seen it in Y/n, too — the way her face lit up the moment Kimi entered a room, the nervous twirling of her fingers when Kimi was nearby.

Toto had seen it in both of them, separately, quietly.

And while a part of him was protective — would always be protective — another part of him, the part that understood how rare it was to find something real in the high-speed, high-stakes world they lived in, was quietly, secretly rooting for them.

The garage lights buzzed on overhead, casting a cooler glow over everything now that the sun was sinking fast.

Kimi slid off the barrier and tugged at his race suit sleeves. He should go. The engineers would be waiting for him. There was data to review, meetings to attend, future races to prepare for.

But instead, he found himself walking toward the hospitality suite.

Toward her.

Y/n spotted him immediately, her stomach flipping in that stupid way she couldn’t control.

He slowed when he reached her side, a little breathless — maybe from the walk, maybe from the nerves that always prickled under his skin around her.

"Hey," he said, voice softer than the background chatter of the packing crew.

"Hey," she answered, setting her smoothie down and turning fully toward him.

For a moment, neither spoke. They just stood there, a few feet apart, the world busy around them but somehow silent between them.

"You were amazing today," she said finally, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Kimi flushed — not from the compliment itself, but from the way she said it. Like she really meant it. Like he wasn’t just some rookie. Like he was hers to be proud of.

"Thanks," he mumbled, a little shy. "I... uh... I saw you watching."

Y/n laughed under her breath, biting her lip. "Busted."

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, gloves still twisting in his hands. "I always... I mean, I always look for you. After."

Her heart stuttered.

"Oh" she whispered, not sure what to say as a pink blush spreads across her cheeks.

The air between them stretched and tightened, sweet and terrifying all at once.

Kimi took a half-step closer, so close now she could see the faint freckles dusted across his nose, the nervous flutter of his lashes.

"I don't really know what I'm doing," he admitted, voice barely above the breeze. "But I... I like being around you. I always have."

Y/n smiled, slow and wide and aching.

"I like being around you, too."

A long, full moment passed — the kind of moment that feels like the edge of something big, the kind you only get once if you’re lucky.

From a distance, tucked into the doorway of the hospitality suite, Toto watched them.

He saw the look on Kimi’s face — the one he’d caught before — and the way Y/n smiled back at him, unguarded and full of something too bright to be anything but real.

He shook his head with a quiet smile, already resigned.

Maybe he couldn’t protect her from everything. Maybe he didn’t even need to.

Maybe sometimes, you just had to let good things happen.

Kimi swallowed hard. "Maybe we could, um... hang out sometime? Outside the garage?"

Y/n’s heart swelled, almost painfully.

"I’d like that," she said. "A lot."

He smiled, a real one, bright and a little crooked, and more beautiful than any trophy.

Their awkward smiling and blushing moment was interrupted as Kimi was approached by Bono for a debrief. They stood staring at each other unsure of what to do but as Bono called for Kimi again he gave her a wave and a smile, backing away still looking at her until he hit a wall.

She giggled softly at his clumsiness and his blush only grew, he had to reluctantly turned around following Bono into one of the meeting rooms, leaving Y/n planted in her spot.

Her trance was broken by the sound of someone's voice clearing, that someone being her father as he passed her by on his way to the meeting room following after Kimi and Bono. He looked at her with a knowing smirk and a wink before he disappeared into the meeting room.

Y/n's eyes widened and her cheeks grew impossibly redder.

Oh shit.

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────────────────────

Word count: 1.3k

Hi can I pls request a Sebastian Vettel x reader where he and reader were teamates back in the day now are married reader has won many championships and seb is now her wag.... Attends the races with the kids etc.

U r bloody amazing luv, ur fics r brilliant!!!!!!!

♪ — 𝗪𝗔𝗚𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟 𝗢𝗙 𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘 sebastian vetteln x wife! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You started out chasing the dream with him by your side—racing, rising, falling into something more. Now, the world watches you shine, but his eyes have always seen you brightest (1.3k words)

( master list | more of sebastian vettel ) ( requests )

You never thought you'd be the one still racing.

And you definitely never thought he'd be the one on the sidelines.

But maybe, if you really look back, the signs were always there—quiet and golden, tucked into late-night debriefs and lingering glances in the Red Bull garage. You and Seb were teammates back then. Just teammates.

Except… not just. Not when the eye contact lasted a little too long after qualifying.

Not when his laugh cracked open something warm in your chest.

Not when the two of you took the podium by storm, spraying champagne with the kind of reckless joy that felt like forever.

You did everything together—test days, press conferences, summer breaks. You learned each other’s tells before you learned your own. And somewhere in between fighting for fastest laps and stealing bites of each other's desserts, you fell in love.

Fast-forward to now: you’re not just together. You’re married married.

House in Switzerland. Shoes by the door. Kids who’ve inherited both your curls and his stubbornness. He still smells like warm leather and hotel shampoo and something soft you can’t name—but now, it’s wrapped in the domestic comfort of someone who knows where your favorite hoodie is and folds your race suit when you forget.

You always thought you'd retire together. After all, your careers were twined like vines from the beginning—Seb and Yn. Yn and Seb. Champions. Icons.

But after he bowed out—graceful and grinning and a little emotional—life changed fast. You took a year off to have the twins, certain that this was your new finish line. Your body was different. Your priorities shifted. The fire was still there, but quieter, buried beneath lullabies and late-night feeds.

You remember telling him—softly, almost like a confession—“I think I’m done.”

And he just looked at you across the kitchen, cradling a baby in one arm and making coffee with the other, and said:

“You should go win a fourth. And a fifth. I’ll take care of the twins.”

And just like that, the dream flickered back to life.

So you did.

You returned to the grid like a comet, burning hotter than before. Won your fourth title with spitfire precision and a mother’s patience. Your fifth with a calm kind of fury that made pundits whisper you might be the greatest of all time. Meanwhile, Seb packed snacks, braided hair, helped the kids paint glittery signs with "GO MUM GO!" in messy, proud scrawls.

Sometimes reporters still ask if he misses it. The competition. The adrenaline. The roar of the crowd. He always smiles, eyes tracking you from pit wall to podium.

“Not as much as I love watching her win.”

Because now he’s the one in the paddock with a baby strapped to his chest and a juice box in his back pocket, grinning when your name lights up on the timing screen. He holds your helmet like it’s holy. He’s first to clap when you step onto the podium and first to kiss you behind closed doors, murmuring, “My champion.”

You never thought you'd be the one still racing.

But here you are—five stars next to your name. A garage full of trophies. And a husband who was once your fiercest rival… now your fiercest supporter. Still yours. Always yours.

And he's never missed a race.

Your race weekend starts like always—with him kissing the back of your neck as you zip up your fireproof suit, his touch warm and grounding, like the sun peeking through a cold garage. The kiss isn’t rushed or showy. It’s gentle, familiar. A ritual older than your kids but still new enough to make your pulse stutter.

“Win today,” he whispers against your skin, voice low and smiling. “But don’t forget, we’ve got pasta night after.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow like he’s not being painfully obvious.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you miss Italian catering,” you reply, grinning as you tap the tip of his nose.

He shrugs like a man who knows he’s been caught but doesn’t mind one bit. You catch a flash of silver in his beard that wasn’t there last season, and it hits you all over again how lucky you are. That he chose this. Chose you.

Your oldest, Leo, is already at your side, tugging at your glove with eager hands and wide eyes. He holds up his homemade flag with the pride of someone who’s just revealed a masterpiece—“GO MUM GO” scrawled in chaotic, glitter-glued glory. It's crooked and smeared and perfect. You crouch to kiss the crown of his head, feeling his curls bounce under your lips.

The twins are seated on the pit wall, feet swinging as they bicker in loud, animated whispers about who has the cooler paddock pass—yours, obviously, or Uncle Charles’s. You don’t even have to weigh in. Your pass glows crimson with five little stars etched under your name. Their mother: the reigning champ.

Seb hoists the baby onto his hip like it’s second nature, the way he once handled steering wheels and gear shifts. One arm around a toddler, the other adjusting the straps on a mini backpack shaped like a race car. He’s dressed in casual neutrals, ball cap low over his eyes, but the moment the cameras spot him—something shifts. There’s a pause, a flicker of awe. The four-time world champion, the legend, now better known as your husband.

And you swear—every single time—you see it in their faces: respect, nostalgia, and then something softer. Because while the world remembers the fearless Red Bull driver who conquered the world, you know this version of him is even more heroic.

He’s the man who makes your pre-race playlist. Who tells bedtime stories in three languages. Who wipes glitter off the baby's face and still manages to wave at the fans with a grin that hasn’t changed since 2010.

And when your name lights up on the timing screen in P1, he cheers loudest—arms raised, baby bouncing, heart bursting. The cameras always catch him. But you? You only ever look for him.

Because in a sport that never stops moving, he is your still point. Your home. And his favorite title these days?

Mr. Five-Time World Champion’s Husband.

Your race weekend ends like this: helmet off, hair damp, heart thundering under your suit. The roar of the crowd is still fading when you see them—your team already crushing you in hugs, radios buzzing with congratulations, and then them. Your whole world, running toward you like the final straight at Suzuka.

Seb reaches you first, with the twins hot on his heels, their little arms waving and voices high and breathless.

You open your arms wide, wide enough for all three of them to fit inside, and they do—like they always do.

You press a kiss to the top of each messy-haired head, and then to Seb—longer, deeper. The kind of kiss that steals time. The kind that says you did it again, and thank you for holding the fort, and I love you more than winning.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, just like he did when you first met, and laughs—eyes bright with nothing but pride.

“Still the fastest one in the family,” he says.

“Always will be,” you wink.

Later, when you climb the podium—champagne still misting off your suit, the sun dipping low behind the paddock, gold spilling across the sky like someone knew you’d win—you look down and spot him.

He’s grinning like the day he first won Monza. That wide, boyish smile that once lit up entire circuits. But this time, you’re the one standing up there, drenched in champagne and glory. And he’s not holding a trophy—he’s holding your kids. Both of them balanced on his hips, fists pumping the air, chanting your name like it’s the only word they’ve ever learned.

Five stars glitter next to your name now. One husband who never let your light dim. Two kids who think you hung the moon.

Not bad for a girl who started out in his shadow.

Now he lives in yours—and he loves the view.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Warning: SMUT, like literally pure smut no plot, dirty talk, dom!max, maybe mean max, breeding kink, SIR KINK, dutch petnames, spanking, squ!rting, guys im telling you this is filth ohmygod

Notes: I wrote this in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I was two edibles deep, so… please enjoy this absolute dirty, nasty smut.

You sighed as you stirred the tip of your finger around in your glass, nudging the lone ice cube in slow circles.

In moments like this, you regretted being the dependable one. A less loyal friend would’ve left already—but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave until you knew she was safe.

Closing your eyes, you let out a silent groan.

She’d vanished with some guy hours ago, leaving you with nothing but a wink and the vague promise she’d “be fine.”

The only reason you’d even come tonight was to be her plus one. You didn’t like parties. You didn’t want to be here anymore.

A girl passed by, laughing loudly. You cringed.

Almost 1 a.m.

You adjusted the black frames on your nose and sighed. You had to make a choice. You couldn’t just sit here forever, waiting for her to remember you existed.

You opened your phone and pulled up his contact. Pinned, of course.

—

  To: Max

I feel like a bad friend but I want to come home

  Read: 1:16am

  From: Max

What happened?

  Read: 1:18am

  To: Max

She left with some guy. Not answering. I’m alone

  Read: 1:20am

  From: Max

You at J’s place?

  Read: 1:22am

  To: Max

Yeah x

  Read: 1:22am

  From: Max

Give me ten. I’m coming.

  Read: 1:23am

—

You set your phone down, heart skipping a beat. Your lips tugged into a small smile.

The next twenty minutes, you kept your head down. The last thing you wanted was someone striking up a conversation. You were always awkward with strangers—nervous, stumbling, too much in your head.

You liked to be the “quiet” one. People always assumed you were shy. They didn’t understand it — the kind of strength that silence held.

Growing up, people would always assume that your behaviour was rooted in insecurity. But it never was, not really—you just understood that real power didn’t always need a voice.

So when you met Max at that race afterparty your friend had dragged you to, you hadn’t expected much. But then there he was, standing next to you with that calm intensity in his eyes, offering you a drink and a wry, knowing smile.

And tour world had never been the same since.

—

He didn’t keep you waiting long; never did, if he could help it.

“Hey, schat.” His voice, low and smooth, cut through the noise around you.

You turned—and there he was. Max. In black jeans and a dark tee, blonde hair slightly tousled, looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

He offered you his hand and helped you off the bar stool, his eyes scanning you quickly. “You look good,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Really fucking good.”

You blushed. “Thanks.”

His arm slipped around your waist, warm and commanding. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

You hesitated. “But… my friend—”

Max didn’t even flinch. “If she wanted a ride home, she should’ve answer her phone. This is her choice.” His tone was simple, final.

You sighed, but you knew he was right.

You let Max lead you to his car—sleek, black, low to the ground. A different kind of power than he had on the track, but still his. He was always in control, and his car screamed it.

—

The drive was beautiful.

Windows down, the night cool, music humming softly through the speakers. His hand on the wheel—precise, steady. You let your hair down and sang along quietly to the music.

He glanced at you. “You’re cute when you sing.”

You smiled. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

He reached across the center console, letting his hand rest on your inner thigh. His voice was low. “You’re mine, lieverd. You say the word, I’m there.”

Your breath caught. The way his fingers brushed higher on your leg, teasing. You pressed your thighs together, heart fluttering.

He noticed.

“Oh,” he smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Are you feeling needy?”

You nodded.

He smiled darkly. “We’ll be home in five minutes. Try not to fall apart on me before we make it.”

You shivered.

One hand on the wheel. The other on you.

By the time Max pulled into the underground garage, your breath was unsteady and his hand was pressed firmly against the heat between your legs, over your panties.

He killed the engine. Looked at you. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “All for you.”

He didn’t waste another second.

—

“Oh, my girl,” Max growled as he pushed you down onto the bed, voice taut with control. His Dutch accent thickened slightly, low and dangerous. He shoved your white lacy panties to the side, gazing down at you between your thighs, eyes dilating rapidly. “Kijk nou… You’re dripping.”

You whimpered, hips twitching.

“Please, Max…”

His hand landed across your cunt with a sharp slap. You gasped.

“That’s not what you call me.”

You swallowed. “Sorry… Sir.”

His eyes darkened. “Better.”

He stripped you with efficient movements—dress off, panties aside—but he left them on, pushed just far enough for access. Max liked the control of denial. The teasing. The reminder that you were his.

“Are you going to fuck me, sir?” You whispered, wide-eyed.

He leaned forward, lips ghosting your clit. “You want that? Want me to fill you up with my cum, schat? Make you mine forever?”

You nodded desperately.

But Max didn’t rush.

“No,” he murmured against your skin. “Not yet. You’re not desperate enough.”

You were, though.

He dove in, tongue flicking, licking, circling your clit with cruel precision. You cried out, arching off the bed.

“Don’t move.” His hand slammed down on your hip. “If you move again, I stop.”

You nodded quickly, panting. “Yes, sir. I’ll be good.”

He rewarded you with his mouth—devouring, relentless. His stubble scraped perfectly, adding heat and texture and something primal.

He pulled your thighs over his shoulders, his nose pressed into your clit as his tongue circled your entrance.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Say my name.”

“Max,” you moaned.

“Louder.”

“Sir!” you cried, the room spinning around you.

He tutted when you tried to grind up against his lips, pulling back just enough to be able to spank your pussy in one short move. “You don’t get to tease me, meisje.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you breathed, voice shaking.

“Are you going to be a good girl?”

“Yes. Promise.”

He smirked, and his mouth returned to your pussy with punishing intent. He sucked your clit hard while pinching your nipple between two fingers, twisting just the way you liked.

Your body trembled, the edge close.

He looked up, lips wet. “You’re going to come on my face, schatje. You hear me?”

Then he pushed two fingers inside you.

Curled them.

Your eyes rolled back. You were close—so close—

You came hard, release gushing, gasping for air as Max growled in satisfaction, not stopping until you begged him to.

He gently lowered your legs and dragged you down to the edge of the bed. You stared at him, dazed.

“Hi, Maxie,” you whispered shyly.

“How’s my pretty girl doing?”

You clung to him. “Sensitive.”

“Perfect,” he said, lips brushing your temple.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” you asked, biting your lip.

He stood up, stripping calmly. “Your pretty cunt is already mine. But it doesn’t hurt to remind it.”

His cock was thick and long, flushed and leaking. You whimpered.

“You going to beg me, lieverd? Beg me to fuck you?”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, sir. I need you inside me. Fill me. Ruin me. Make me yours again.”

He kissed you softly, then pushed inside you with one smooth thrust.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Take me like the good girl you are.”

His thrusts were slow at first—deep, deliberate. His hand pressed to your stomach, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you.

“Takin’ me so well,” he murmured, gaze locked with yours.

You clenched around him, already aching to come—but you didn’t dare let go without his permission.

He started to move faster, whispering filth in your ear.

(“Such a good slut for me.”

“My perfect girl.”

“No one fucks you like I do.”)

Each word out of his mouth set you on fire. Your moans grew louder, body trembling, begging, chanting “sir” under your breath.

He saw the tension in your body and slowed, wrapping a hand around your throat.

“You want to come again?”

You nodded desperately. “Please, sir. I need it. I need it. I’m so close.”

“You are only going to come when I reach the count of ten. You understand?” He asked, voice rough and low and full of need.

“Yes, sir.” You breathed out, high-pitched and burning.

He circled your clit with the pad of his thumb, pressing just enough for the pressure to feel like heaven,

“One. Two. Three.”

Then he was fucking you. Without mercy. Without any hint of restraint.

You were sobbing, feeling completely out of control of your body, fisting the bedsheets, sweating, shaking.

He slowed. Gave you a five-count to breathe. Then:

“Four. Five. Six.” He said them so slowly, a smirk in his voice, breathing heavily.

You could hardly think. Could hardly remember how to exist.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.”

Then he fucked you with everything he had—relentless, punishing.

“Ten.”

You exploded around him, sobbing with release, legs shaking violently.

He kept going, chasing his own high, until he came inside you with a sharp, possessive groan. His head pushed into the curve of your neck, the vibration of his moans making your entire body light up with sensation.

Eventually,

Max worked his way down the bed to inspect the damage, peeling your lips apart and placing tiny little kisses on the swollen, red skin.

“You did so good,” he whispered. “Come on. Bathroom. Then bed.”

You clung to him, boneless and warm.

You slept for ten hours that night.

And Max stayed the whole time—holding you, protecting you, keeping you warm.

Because you were his.

Always.

butterflies

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: After a tough triple header, Lando’s feeling the pressure, and you’re there to offer him comfort. As he opens up about his struggles, a surprising confession slips out.

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: swearing, mental health

The triple header was finally over. But it had chewed Lando up and spat him out along the way.

Three weekends. Three countries — Japan, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia — each one stacking exhaustion, frustration, and pressure on his shoulders like invisible weights he couldn’t shake off.

It had started so well. Pole position. A first win of the season. A lead in the championship standings. For a brief, brilliant moment, it felt like everything was falling into place.

And then, almost overnight, it began to unravel.

A costly mistake during qualifying. A crash in Saudi that left him stranded in P10 on the grid. Every misstep gnawed at him, louder and sharper than any of the praise that followed.

His team, his fans, his family, they all tried to reassure him. Finishing P4 from a backfoot start was an incredible recovery. They told him they were proud. They told him to hold his head high.

But Lando being Lando, he carried the weight of every mistake like a scar carved into his chest.

Everyone saw it, the way each race seemed to pull him a little further away from himself. The slump of his shoulders, the blankness in his gaze when he thought no one was looking. When he scrolled through his phone late at night, the hateful comments and cruel jokes flashing across his screen, dissecting him, mocking him, criticizing every tiny misstep like he wasn’t even human.

Hours after the Saudi race, the four of you — Max, P, Lando, and you — ended up crashing in Lando’s hotel room, ordering a late dinner to fill the silence no one really wanted to break.

Lando was half-sprawled across the sofa, lazily scrolling through his phone. His leg bounced restlessly up and down, his other hand busy chewing at the edge of his thumb, a nervous habit he never quite managed to shake. You watched him from your spot across the sofa, feeling the unease bleeding off of him in waves.

Max and P had disappeared to pick up the food, leaving just you and Lando behind in the low hum of the AC in the hotel room.

You sighed, placing your phone down in your lap.

“You wanna talk about it?” you asked gently.

Lando glanced up, almost like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone. His leg kept bouncing, hand slowly dropping from his mouth. “Hm?” he mumbled.

“You want to talk about it?” you repeated, shifting forward so you were properly facing him. “Whatever’s been bothering you.”

He cleared his throat, mirroring your movement like it gave him something to do. “I’m good,” he said, a little too quickly.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

“You’re clearly not, Lan,” you said, frowning. “When’s the last time you had proper sleep? No offense, but... you look like shit.”

He actually chuckled at that, a low, rough sound. Five years of friendship meant he expected nothing less than brutal honesty from you.

“I’m fine, Y/N. You worry too much.”

“Because I care,” you shot back, voice softer now. “You’re too hard on yourself, you know that? You’re doing a great job—"

“—I’m not,” he interrupted sharply, voice cracking just slightly. His hands scrubbed roughly over his face. “I’m not. And I should be. Everyone expects better from me, and I can’t fucking deliver.”

The words spilled out fast, like he couldn’t hold them in any longer.

You felt your chest tighten at the way he said it, like it wasn’t frustration talking. It was something deeper. Defeat.

Quietly, closing the gap, sitting closer to him without a word. You didn’t try to tell him he was wrong. You didn’t start listing achievements or statistics he already knew by heart. Instead, you leaned your shoulder against his, solid and steady.

“You’re allowed to have bad days, Lan,” you said simply. “One race doesn’t erase who you are. What you’ve built. You’re not just... results on a page.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His leg stilled. His phone slipped from his hand onto the cushion.

For the first time all night, he let himself lean into you, just a little. Just enough. Head ever so gently resting on your shoulder

And for now, you took that as a win.

You sighed, letting your head rest lightly against his, your fingers finding his hand and tracing slow, soothing circles across the back of it. "It’s only been... what? Five races?" you said quietly. "You’ve got so much more ahead of you, Lan."

He let out a bitter laugh, low and tight in his chest. "It’s only been five, and I’ve already fucked up every single one," he muttered. "If I haven’t ruined the whole race, I’ve made at least one critical mistake every damn time."

"You’re not perfect, Lan," you said, squeezing his hand a little tighter, grounding him.

He shook his head against you, the words tumbling out faster now, rough around the edges. "Oscar’s not making mistakes like I am. And Max — everyone keeps saying he shouldn't be that fast in the Red Bull, but he is. He's that good. And me—" He broke off, swallowing hard.

"You’re not Oscar," you said firmly.

"You’re not Max... you’re not Lewis either. You’re Lando. And that’s more than enough."

You pull away slightly, shifting so you’re fully facing him, needing him to see that you mean every word. "It breaks my heart to see you like this," you say quietly, your voice thick with feeling. "Doubting yourself. Look how far you’ve come, Lan. You should be proud."

He offers a small, tired smile, nodding once. "I know..." he murmurs. "It’s just— sometimes it gets too much, you know? I knew what I was signing up for, but... that doesn’t mean the comments, the criticism, all the shit people say... it doesn’t mean it doesn’t get to me. I wish I didn't care so much about what others thought about me"

Your heart twists painfully in your chest. Without thinking, you squeeze his hand again, anchoring him. "Then you wouldn't be you anymore...and we know you’re worth more than anything they have to say," you say, shrugging like it’s the simplest truth in the world. "I want you to be world champion, Lan. I want you to chase every dream you’ve ever had. But if it means losing yourself in the process..."

You shake your head, voice turning fierce with emotion. "If it means losing the Lando I know and love? Fuck the championship."

"Yeah?" His head snaps toward you, a smirk pulling at his lips, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"You love me?"

You roll your eyes, suddenly finding your nails very interesting, anything to distract from the heat creeping up your neck. "Out of everything I just said, that’s what you choose to focus on?"

He laughs, a real one this time, soft and a little mischievous, and nudges his knee against yours. "I love you too, you muppet."

He sighs, settling back against your shoulder like it’s the only place he wants to be. "Having you here with me... it helps," he says quietly.

"I hope you know that. You make everything easier."

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest, and press a soft kiss to the top of his head before resting yours against his again. "Mind saying that again?" you tease, voice light. "Maybe once Max gets back... just so he can hear who your favourite friend really is?"

Lando laughs, and it’s music to your ears, its bright, real, almost like you could see the weight slowly lifting off his chest. "Oh, trust me," he says, nudging you. "He knows he lost to you a long time ago. He doesn’t give me butterflies in my tummy like you do."

You chuckle, a surprised laugh slipping out. "I give you butterflies?"

"Oh, shut up..." Lando muttered, letting out a soft yawn as he nuzzled closer to you, his face buried in your shoulder. "Sometimes I feel like you rile me up on purpose."

"Hey, I do not!" you protested, slapping his leg.

"Ow!" Lando dodged, laughing through the pain. "Alright, fine. Maybe it’s just my tiny crush on you talking."

You smirked, teasing him. "You have a crush on me? How old are you, ten?"

Lando shot you a playful look. "How old are you, ten?" he mocked, sticking out his tongue. "I’ve liked you for a while now, you knob."

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. What the hell? Was he serious, or was he just messing with you? You sat there, stiff and dumbfounded, unsure of what to make of it.

"You're just tired. Sleep it off," you said, trying to brush it off, though your mind was spinning.

"I’m fucking exhausted," he yawned again, his eyes already fluttering closed. "But it doesn’t make me a liar." He shifted slightly, his voice softer now.

"You can even ask Max when he comes back."

Silence.

You couldn’t think of anything to say. Your mind raced with a thousand different scenarios, trying to figure out if he was joking or if there was something real in his words. Surely, he was just messing with you, right?

"Since when?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

No response. Just the hum of the AC and Lando’s steady breathing. As much as you wanted to wake him up and demand answers, you knew he needed the rest more than you needed clarity.

You stayed still, afraid to disturb him. Just enough movement to pick up your phone and scroll through your feed, passing the time as you waited for Max and P.

Lando's head was now resting gently on your lap, his legs curled up in a relaxed position, peacefully asleep. Not long later, Max and P arrived, chatting softly as they entered the room.

As soon as they were both in view, you held a finger to your lips, signaling them to keep quiet. P smiled, nodding, and walked over to the kitchen to grab some utensils. Max, however, made his way over to you with the bags of food in hand.

"Finally got him to sleep, huh?" Max said with a grin.

You nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Took a while, but he's resting."

Max took the opportunity to pull his phone out of his pocket, immediately snapping photos of you and Lando.

You quickly grabbed the throw pillow beside you and tossed it at him.

He dodged it with ease, raising his hands in surrender. "He’d want photos," he said, the smirk never leaving his face.

He’d want photos? Now you were even more confused.

You cleared your throat, trying to brush off the confusion as you gathered your thoughts. "He... uh... he said something to me before he nodded off."

Max’s attention was fully on the food now as he unpacked the containers, "Yeah?"

You took a deep breath, still unsure of how to approach it. "He told me he had a crush on me..." you said with a nervous chuckle.

Max didn’t even flinch. He continued unpacking, casually licking the sauce off his finger, "Oh, you really didn’t know?"

You frowned, your confusion deepening. "What do you mean?"

Max shrugged, clearly not fazed. "I've always assumed you noticed it by now... or that P had told you a while back." He casually shrugged again, tossing the food containers onto the counter. "Thought you were just pretending you didn’t know until he actually confessed."

No fucking way. After all these years of keeping your feelings to yourself, to find out this man — the one napping on your lap right now — likes you too?

"You're fucking with me," you laugh in disbelief. "Since when?"

Max scoffs, clearly amused. "Since months after you two first met?"

"I'll help P out, I’ll grab some ice too," he adds, before heading off into the kitchen.

You stay frozen, your mind racing, still trying to process the whirlwind of emotions.

"Believe me now?"

Lando’s voice pulls you from your trance. You glance down, finding him looking up at you with sleepy, half-lidded eyes and a cheeky grin tugging at his lips.

You roll your eyes, reaching down to pinch his cheek. "You’re so annoying."

"Secrets out..." Lando chuckles, sitting up and stretching. "Gotta take you out on a proper date now."

"I’d love that, actually." You smile softly, feeling a warmth spread through you. Without thinking, you offer him the box of spring rolls.

Lando reaches for a spring roll, popping it into his mouth with a relaxed smile.

"This is good," he says, rubbing his tummy in satisfaction. "Gotta keep the butterflies fed."

The Night She Finally Gave In | LN4

🎀 summary ━━━━━━━ For eight months, Y/N teased, denied, and kept Lando chasing—but he never gave up. Until one night she finally gives in. 

🎀 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎀 word count ━━━━━━━ 7.9k

🎀 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, teasing

Based on this request.

The persistent hum of the city pulsed against Y/N’s ears as she stepped off the crowded London sidewalk and into a cozy Shoreditch lounge. Music throbbed under low lighting, and the place was already bustling with familiar chatter. Tonight, she was meeting Pietra and Max for casual drinks, but she knew one other person would be there—someone who’d been on her mind more than she cared to admit. Lando Norris.

She spotted Pietra first, her friend waving her over from a corner booth. Max, Pietra’s boyfriend and Lando’s best friend, grinned in greeting. Y/N slid into the booth and unwrapped her scarf, letting the warmth of the lounge soak into her. Before she could even settle, an electric awareness sparked at the base of her spine. She sensed him near before she actually saw him. And sure enough, there he was—leaning against the bar, exchanging an easy laugh with the bartender, but already casting sideways glances in her direction.

For over half a year, Lando had chased after her with single-minded obsession. The moment they’d been introduced—eight months ago at a friend’s barbecue—he’d made his interest painfully obvious. Texts at odd hours, random calls whenever he was in London, spontaneous outings with their mutual friends that always ended with him trying to corner her for a private moment.

She found it thrilling at first. She teased him mercilessly, indulging in the attention of someone so persistent and quite obviously smitten. She’d let him buy her drinks, whisper silly compliments that made her cheeks warm, and flirt back just enough to get his heart pounding. But any time he tried to escalate—from a lean-in kiss to a direct request for a date—she’d reject him. Gently, but firmly. Over and over.

Why did she do it? Maybe she wanted to protect herself from the potential heartbreak of dating a man adored by millions. Or maybe she reveled in the power of knowing that someone as high-profile as Lando Norris was practically wrapped around her finger. Whatever the reason, the game had dragged on for months, and he never gave up. If anything, each rejection only seemed to strengthen his resolve.

And how he persevered. In those eight months, she had watched him run himself ragged trying to impress her. No matter what she threw at him—a dismissive laugh, a pointed change of subject, a half-hearted excuse—he always came back stronger. She’d catch glimpses of his frustration sometimes, in the tight line of his mouth or the way he’d fist his hands at his sides, but he never unleashed that frustration on her. Instead, he teased, he flirted, he praised. And every time she knocked him down, he got up again, more determined than ever.

Lando was desperate. His affection for her had morphed into an all-consuming fascination. When he was away in Monaco, racing or fulfilling sponsor obligations, he’d tell Max how he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d message Pietra, trying to get any new details about Y/N’s day. He was head over heels, losing sleep, replaying every interaction they’d ever had—each brush of the fingers, each clever remark that made him laugh, each time she chewed her lip and pretended not to look at him, even though he felt her gaze.

She, meanwhile, was enjoying the slow burn. It was cruel in a way, but exhilarating. She loved the sense of power over a man who had the entire world at his feet yet seemed willing to crawl if it meant she’d say yes. She wasn’t intentionally cruel—she did like him. In fact, she liked him a lot. But the thrill of him chasing and her evading was addicting. She made sure to flirt just enough to keep him on the hook—an extra lingering stare, a subtle graze of her hand across his chest whenever she passed by him at a party, a playful text that ended with a winking emoji—only to turn cold if he tried to corner her for anything more.

And it worked. She reeled him in, then pushed him away, over and over. Each time, he fell deeper under her spell, thoroughly bewitched by the side-smiles, the confident tilt of her chin, the way she’d arch an eyebrow whenever he tried to inch closer. Lando found himself wanting her with a fierceness he’d never felt before. Some nights he’d lie awake in Monaco, scrolling through photos of them at group events—her bright eyes, her maddening half-smiles—and wonder what he had to do to make her his.

So here she was again, sliding into a lounge booth with Pietra and Max, fully aware of Lando’s presence across the room. She greeted her friends with a sweet smile, but her pulse fluttered. Lando soon made his way over, wearing a casual denim jacket and a grin that betrayed a hint of nerves. He paused by the table, his gaze locking onto Y/N’s.

“Evening,” he said softly, eyes gleaming.

She cocked her head, forcing a pleasant smile. “Hey there, Norris. In London again?”

He shrugged with forced nonchalance. “Yeah, had some meetings earlier. Thought I’d stick around for the weekend.” It was a lie. He’d finished his obligations days ago, but no one doubted he’d stayed in town solely for her.

Pietra nudged Y/N with a playful smirk. “Glad you two can finally catch up. We’ve barely seen you in the same place these last few weeks.”

Lando lowered himself next to Y/N on the booth’s bench, the cushion sinking beneath his weight. She could practically feel the heat radiating from him. He smelled fresh and warm, a subtle cologne mixed with something distinctly him. “I’m starving,” he announced to no one in particular, though his attention stayed fixed on Y/N. “Hungry?”

She had eaten earlier, but she smiled coyly. “Might nibble on something if it’s good enough,” she teased.

His gaze flickered over her lips as she said the words. “I’ll make sure it’s good,” he murmured, voice dropping lower.

Goosebumps prickled her skin. She had to look away, heart drumming. If there was one thing Lando excelled at, it was firing her up with a single line of flirtation. She tensed her jaw, determined not to let him see just how much she liked that.

As the night wore on, Max and Pietra chatted about their upcoming travel plans. Lando and Y/N lingered at the edge of the conversation, occasionally joining in, but mostly locked in a subtle battle of words and glances.

At one point, Y/N excused herself to go to the bar, deliberately leaving him behind, half-hoping he’d follow. Sure enough, a moment later, a figure slid in beside her, resting an elbow on the wooden counter.

“You’re really not going to sit next to me all night?” Lando asked, feigning a pout.

She shrugged with a lazy grin. “You seemed too eager. Didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

He let out a soft groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she teased. “I’m counting on it.”

He placed a hand on her lower back. Not too low, but enough to make her heart jump. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accused, though the corners of his mouth lifted in admiration.

She pursed her lips. “I might be.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Why do you keep saying no?”

“Because…” She trailed off, letting the unspoken tension fill the gap. She could have easily told him she was afraid or uncertain, but that wasn’t the game she was playing tonight. Instead, she flashed a small, almost innocent smile. “Maybe I just like watching you try.”

His expression tightened, eyes flashing with frustration and something hotter. “Then watch me,” he said. “I’m not quitting.”

She gulped, momentarily stunned by the heated timbre in his voice. A flicker of genuine nerves fluttered inside her because she sensed his patience was wearing thin, replaced by a more urgent desire. For all her playful torment, she couldn’t deny a thrill ran through her at the thought of him finally snapping—that the slow burn might become an inferno that neither of them could control.

They returned to the booth, but an hour later, the small party started to disperse. Max and Pietra had an early morning. With warm hugs and goodbyes, they headed out, leaving Y/N and Lando alone amidst the lounge’s dwindling crowd.

He slid closer, draping one arm along the back of the booth. “So… are you gonna run away now?”

She pretended to check her phone. “It’s getting late. I might call it a night soon.”

He exhaled a barely concealed groan. “You always do this. We hang out with friends, you tease me, and then you leave me high and dry.”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” She batted her eyelashes, an expression of false innocence.

“Barely,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. Then he steeled himself. “What if I said I’m done taking no for an answer?”

Her pulse skittered. She arched an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerously close to an ultimatum, Norris.”

He looked straight into her eyes, unwavering. “I want you. You know it. You’ve known it for months. I’m tired of playing the same game where I lose every time.”

Her stomach twisted with both excitement and the faintest tremor of guilt for having strung him along so long. But her desire to keep him on the edge remained strong. “You sound desperate,” she murmured, leaning forward.

His cheeks flared with color, but he didn’t back down. “I am desperate. Do you have any idea how you’ve been driving me crazy?”

She placed a hand delicately on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath her palm. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” she quipped, pressing just enough to keep him leaning toward her.

He caught her wrist lightly. “And you’re unbelievably gorgeous when you’re tormenting me.” His gaze darkened as he whispered, “Come home with me. Or let me come home with you. Either way, let’s stop pretending we don’t want this.”

For a moment, she was silent. The tension between them was near stifling. Every inch of her body buzzed with anticipation, and she had to swallow hard to steady her voice.

She trailed her fingers up his neck, pausing to toy with the hairs at his nape. “My place,” she whispered. Her heart pounded at the stunned look that crossed his face. “You coming or not?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

They left the lounge together, the cool air of the London streets a sharp contrast to the heat that had built between them. Neither spoke much on the walk to her flat—a short distance that felt endless in the taut silence. Lando’s hand found hers, and she didn’t pull away this time. In fact, she threaded her fingers through his, sending a jolt of excitement right through them both.

He followed her inside the building, up two flights of stairs to her door. She fumbled with her keys, her nerves betraying her calm façade. Once inside, she discarded her coat, setting it on a rack by the door.

Lando shut the door behind them. No small talk. No polite questions about whether he wanted a drink. The second they were alone, he crossed the space in two strides, cradling her face with both hands and pressing his lips to hers in a long-awaited, bruising kiss.

A whimper escaped her as she leaned into him, arms sliding around his shoulders. Their mouths moved in a frenzy of pent-up hunger. She could feel his desperation in every breath, every gasp. He’d waited so long for even a taste, and now he devoured her lips, tongue stroking against hers as though trying to claim every inch.

She broke away momentarily, panting. “Hungry?” she teased, voice uneven.

“Starving,” he growled, eyes flickering with a mixture of relief and raw need.

Without warning, he scooped her up around the waist, drawing a startled laugh from her. She hooked her legs around his hips as he backed her up against the wall, ignoring her protest that she could walk just fine. His lips returned to hers, trailing hot kisses along her jaw, down her neck.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this?” he breathed against her throat. “You, in my arms, not running away?”

She shivered, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “And do you know how many times I’ve thought about you losing your composure like this?” She let out a shaky exhale as his teeth grazed her skin. “I love seeing you barely holding it together.”

He groaned. “You really do get off on tormenting me, don’t you?”

She only smiled, unrepentant. “Maybe.”

With an exasperated laugh, he carried her deeper into the flat, pushing open a door until they tumbled into her bedroom. He set her down carefully, but kept her pinned against him, lips still fused.

Clothes became an unwanted barrier. They stripped each other down in hurried, desperate movements, fabric hitting the floor carelessly as they pressed closer. His palms roamed her curves, mapping them with reverence and urgency all at once. She marveled at the firm lines of his shoulders, the warmth radiating from his skin.

He nudged her gently onto the bed, following her down in a tangle of limbs. She let out a soft moan when his lips trailed over her collarbone, pressing open-mouthed kisses that made her toes curl. It was overwhelming, this culmination of half a year’s worth of tease and denial.

His breath hitched as she slipped her fingers through his hair, guiding him up to meet her eyes. “You like to lead me on, but trust me,” he said, voice husky. “Tonight, I’m the one in control.”

She smirked at the newfound edge in his tone. “Prove it.”

That challenge was all he needed. With a low growl, he leaned in, pressing a series of heated, possessive kisses along her throat. “I’m going to make you beg,” he rasped into her ear. “And you won’t be rejecting me this time.”

Her heart stuttered. She’d never seen him this way—intense, almost predatory in the best sense. It ignited a fire in her she hadn’t known existed. “Show me,” she whispered, arching against him.

His hands slid lower, and she gasped at the sensation of his touch, every nerve in her body singing with tension. She tangled her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, fueling the friction that built with every heated breath. The months of frustration erupted into a raw, almost desperate passion, making them both reckless.

Lando’s hands were firm on her hips, his lips trailing down her neck with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her breath hitch. Y/N’s back arched instinctively, her fingers gripping the sheets as he hovered above her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there was a new edge to him—a sharpness that hadn’t been there before.

“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “But now it’s my turn.”

Before she could respond, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, cutting off any protest. His tongue swiped against hers, demanding, claiming, and she felt herself melting into him, her body betraying the control she’d so carefully maintained for months. His hands moved to her wrists, pinning them above her head with ease. She let out a soft whimper, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he deepened the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, she was breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He smirked down at her, his expression a mix of satisfaction and something far more dangerous. “You’ve been teasing me for months, love,” he said, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “Do you have any idea what that’s done to me?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he silenced her with another kiss, this one brief but no less intense. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to control this. I’m in charge now.”

Her stomach flipped at the command in his tone, a wave of heat pooling low in her core. She nodded, her eyes wide, and he smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Good girl,” he purred, the words sending a jolt of electricity through her.

His grip on her wrists tightened as he leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You’ve driven me wild for months,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “Now it’s my turn to make you lose control.” His free hand trailed teasingly down her body, fingers skimming over her ribs, her waist, her hips, making her squirm beneath him. “Stay still,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Or I’ll stop.”

She whimpered, her body trembling with restraint as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration. His hand moved back up her side, fingers brushing the underside of her bra. “So beautiful,” he whispered, his gaze locked on hers as his fingers found the clasp. God, he’s doing this with one hand, she thought, her breath hitching as she watched him. How is this so fucking hot?

With practiced ease, he undid the clasp, the material loosening against her skin. He slid the straps down her arms, his eyes never leaving hers, a smirk playing on his lips as the bra fell away, exposing her breasts. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to get my hands on these.” His palm cupped her breast, his fingers fitting perfectly around the soft curve. He squeezed gently at first, then more possessively, his grip firm as his thumb brushed over her nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from her.

He unpinned her wrists, but she didn’t move, as if waiting for permission. He didn’t give her any, too focused on her breasts, his hands now free to explore every inch. He cupped them both, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he squeezed them together, his eyes filled with hunger. “Fuck, baby, they fit perfectly in my hands,” he said, his voice rough. “Like they were made for me to touch.”

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above her skin. “They’re even better than I imagined,” he murmured, his breath hot against her as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. She gasped, her hands finally finding his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he lavished attention on her breasts, alternating between them with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

His mouth was relentless, kissing, licking, and sucking as if he couldn’t get enough. “God, baby, they’re so soft,” he groaned against her skin, his voice trembling with need. “So fucking perfect. I could spend hours right here.” He buried his face between them, his hands still kneading her breasts, squeezing them together as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to her skin.

She arched into his touch, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he worshipped her body. Every flick of his tongue, every squeeze of his hands sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, and she couldn’t help but moan his name. “Lando…”

He looked up at her, his lips swollen, his eyes burning with desire. “You’re mine now,” he said, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

She nodded, her body trembling with anticipation as he returned to her breasts, his hands and mouth working in perfect harmony to drive her wild. She’d never felt so wanted, so completely claimed, and she loved every second of it.

Lando’s lips left her breasts with one last, lingering kiss, and she whimpered at the loss of contact. But he wasn’t done—not even close. His mouth trailed down her body, leaving a scorching path of kisses along her skin. He kissed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, each press of his lips deliberate, maddeningly slow. Every inch of her felt like it was on fire, and she could barely keep herself still as he moved lower, his lips brushing the top of her hip bone.

Her breath hitched as he reached the hem of her underwear, his hands skimming over the fabric as if he were memorizing every curve. “So soft,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending shivers through her. He kissed just above the waistband, his breath hot against her skin, and she let out a desperate whimper. “Patience, sweetheart,” he said, smirking up at her. “You made me wait for months. You can wait a little longer.”

She groaned, her hips lifting off the bed as if begging for him to touch her where she needed it most. But he didn’t. Instead, his lips moved to her inner thighs, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wider, and she felt exposed, utterly at his mercy. “Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “So desperate already. What happened to all that teasing confidence, love?”

She could feel the dampness pooling between her legs, her underwear clinging to her in the most embarrassing way. The fabric was soaked, a dark patch spreading across the front, and she knew he could see it, could smell how turned on she was. He kissed her thigh again, his lips brushing so close to where she needed him that she thought she might scream. “Every time you told me no,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, “I pictured this exact moment—how I’d have you writhing, begging for me.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t deny the truth. She was writhing, her hips moving restlessly as he continued his torment. “Lando, please,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers hooking under the waistband of her underwear. “You’re so wet for me,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “And I’ve barely even touched you properly. How bad do you need it?” She whimpered in response, and he smirked, slowly sliding the soaked fabric down her legs and tossing it aside.

He spread her thighs wide, his hands firm on her hips as he leaned in to inspect her. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his voice trembling with awe. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” The evidence of her arousal was impossible to ignore, her pussy glistening, her folds swollen and needy. He kissed her inner thigh again, his lips brushing so close to her clit that she nearly came undone. She gasped, her hips lifting off the bed, but he held her down firmly. “Keep still,” he warned, his voice low and commanding. “Or I’ll stop completely. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

She shook her head frantically, her hands gripping the sheets as he leaned in, his tongue finally dragging through her folds in one long, slow lick. She moaned, the sound desperate and broken, and he groaned against her. “You’re clenching around nothing,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You poor thing. Maybe I should just leave you like this.”

“No!” she cried, her voice trembling with desperation. “Please, Lando, I need you.”

He smirked, his breath hot against her sensitive skin. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you beg,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Go on, let me hear you.”

She whined, her hips lifting off the bed again, but he pressed her down firmly. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, his grip on her thighs unyielding. “You’re gonna let me see how much you need this.”

And then he dove in, his tongue lapping at her pussy with relentless precision. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair as he swirled his tongue around her clit, sucking lightly before pulling back, leaving her trembling on the edge. “Oh, you want to come?” he teased, his voice smug. “After making me wait all this time? Not yet, sweetheart.”

He pinned her hips to the bed, his tongue working her over with slow, maddening strokes. Every time she felt herself close to the edge, he pulled away, leaving her gasping and desperate. “Lando, please,” she begged, her voice breaking.

He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against her skin. “Shh, love. No whining. You teased me for eight months—this is only fair.”

And then he returned to her pussy, his tongue flicking over her clit with just the right amount of pressure to drive her wild. She was close, so close, but he pulled away again, leaving her trembling and desperate, utterly at his mercy.

Lando pulled away from her pussy, leaving her trembling and desperate, her body arched off the bed in search of more. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “But you’re not getting off that easy.” He stood, stripping off his boxers in one fluid motion, and her breath caught at the sight of him. His cock was thick, fully erect, and glistening with precum, a testament to how badly he wanted her. She couldn’t help but salivate at the sight, her pussy clenching around nothing, aching for him to fill her.

He climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. She instinctively tried to close them, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation, but he grabbed her thighs, pinning them apart with a firm grip. “No, baby,” he said, his voice dark and commanding. “You don’t get to hide from me anymore. You wanted this. Now take it.”

He aligned himself with her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against her slick folds, and she whimpered, her hips lifting in a silent plea. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. He pushed into her slowly, inch by torturous inch, his eyes locked on hers as he stretched her open. She gasped, her back arching off the bed as he filled her, the sensation overwhelming and euphoric all at once. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire. “Feel that? That’s me, stretching you open, making you mine.”

He bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, and paused, letting her adjust to the sheer size of him. Her pussy fluttered around his cock, gripping him like a vice, and he groaned, his head falling back in ecstasy. “You feel that?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How you’re wrapped around me? This is where you belong now—taking every fucking inch of me.”

Y/N was already a mess, her hands gripping the sheets as she struggled to stay still. Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation, and she could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as he moved inside her. It was too much and not enough all at once. “Lando, please—please move faster,” she begged, her voice breaking.

But he just smirked, his grip on her thighs tightening. “Oh, no, love. I decide how you take me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in with the same slow, deliberate pace, drawing a desperate whimper from her. “You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “You made me wait for months, love. Now it’s your turn to suffer.” He thrust into her again, deep and slow, his hips rolling in a way that had her toes curling. Her pussy throbbed around him, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure through her, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed him to go harder, faster, to give her the release she was hovering on the edge of. “Lando, I swear to god, if you don’t move faster—” she started, but her words were cut off by a moan as he slammed into her again, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

Her pussy was soaking wet, the slickness making every thrust smoother, every movement more intense. For Lando, the sensation was indescribable. Her walls clenched around him like a fist, hot and tight, and every time he pushed into her, he felt like he was losing his mind. She was perfect, perfect, and the way she moaned his name only drove him wild. “You love the way I fill you up, don’t you?” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “Look at you—already so fucking wrecked.”

She nodded frantically, her hips lifting to meet his, but he stopped her, his hands gripping her waist to keep her still. “No, love,” he said, his tone firm. “You stay right there and take it. Don’t move.” She whined, her body trembling beneath him, but she obeyed, her hands gripping the sheets as he continued to fuck her with the same slow, maddening pace. “Stop holding back,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “You’ve wanted this for months, so take me.”

He chuckled, leaning down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “Oh, I’m taking you, sweetheart,” he murmured against her mouth. “Every. Single. Inch.” Each word was punctuated by a deep, controlled thrust, and she moaned, her body writhing beneath him. But he kept her still, his hands firm on her hips, his pace unrelenting. “Fuck, Lando,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “I’m begging—please, just give it to me.”

He smirked, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “Maybe I will,” he said, his voice teasing. “But not until I’m done with you.” He shifted slightly, angling his hips so that each thrust brushed against her clit, and she cried out, her body trembling on the edge. “That’s it, love,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Let me ruin you properly.”

His cock felt like heaven inside her, stretching her open in the most delicious way, and she could feel every inch of him as he moved, slow and deep, his pace maddeningly controlled. For him, the sensation was almost too much. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, and every time she clenched around him, he felt like he was going to lose it. But he wasn’t going to give in—not yet. He was going to make her suffer, just like she’d made him. “You’re mine now,” he growled, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

She moaned, her body trembling beneath him, her pussy gripping him tighter with each thrust. She was close, so close, but he wasn’t going to let her come—not yet. He was going to draw this out, make her beg for it, make her feel every second of the torment she’d put him through. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice dark. “Say you love the way I fuck you.”

She hesitated, her eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure crashed over her, but he tightened his grip on her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Say it properly,” he growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Or I stop right now.” She whimpered, her body trembling beneath him, and finally, she said it, her voice trembling with need. “I… I love the way you fuck me.”

He smirked, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good girl,” he purred, leaning down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. “Now let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.” And with that, he finally picked up the pace, his thrusts deep and relentless, driving her closer and closer to the edge. She was a mess, her body writhing beneath him, her moans filling the room as he fucked her exactly how he’d promised—deep, slow, and completely in control.

And she loved every second of it.

Lando’s hands moved to her hips, his grip firm and unyielding as he lifted her effortlessly, flipping her in one fluid motion. Her breath caught in her throat as she found herself straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside her. Her tits bounced with the sudden movement, and he didn’t miss the opportunity, his hands immediately reaching up to cup them, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he squeezed possessively. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his voice thick with desire. “Now let me see you ride me, but don’t you dare move faster than I let you.”

His hands were like iron, gripping her hips and holding her steady as he thrust up into her, his cock sliding in and out of her slick pussy with maddening precision. She tried to lift herself, to take control of the rhythm, but he held her down firmly, making her take every inch of him at his pace. “No, love,” he said, his voice dark and commanding. “You don’t get to set the pace. I do. And I want to take my time with you.”

His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he fucked up into her, his hips driving with a steady, relentless rhythm. Every thrust made her pussy clench around him, her body trembling with the effort of staying still. “Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Let me move.” She could feel every inch of his cock inside her, stretching her open, filling her in the most delicious way. The sheer size of him was overwhelming, and she could feel every ridge, every vein as he slid in and out of her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands holding her down as he thrust into her again, deeper this time, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

“God, you feel so good,” she moaned, her head falling back as he continued to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, controlling every movement. “Fuckin’ perfect around me,” he growled, his voice rough. “You take me so well, like you were made for me.” She could feel his cock twitching inside her, his control slipping just slightly, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clinging to him like a vice, greedy for more. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and it was driving her mad.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Trying to squirm away. You’re not going anywhere, love.” His hands gripped her tighter, holding her down as his cock plunged deeper into her, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her moan his name. Fuck, he’s so big, she thought, her body trembling on top of him. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she loved it. His cock was thick, hot, and hard, and every time he thrust into her, she felt like she was losing her mind. Her pussy was so wet, so slick, and every movement felt like pure bliss. She could feel the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, and she knew he could feel it too.

“Stay still,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You’re going to let me use you exactly how I want.” His hands were like iron, gripping her hips and holding her steady as he thrust up into her, his cock sliding in and out of her slick pussy with maddening precision. She tried to lift herself, to take control of the rhythm, but he held her down firmly, making her take every inch of him at his pace. “No running, no hiding,” he growled, his voice dark and possessive. “You wanted to tease me for months? Now you’re going to feel what that did to me.”

Her pussy was on fire, every nerve in her body alight with sensation as he continued to fuck her, his hands gripping her hips, controlling every movement. She could feel his cock twitching inside her, his control slipping just slightly, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clinging to him like a fist, greedy for more. But Lando wasn’t rushing. He was going to make this last. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, and it was driving her mad.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” His hands gripped her tighter, holding her down as his cock plunged deeper into her, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made her moan his name. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her, and she loved it. Her pussy was so wet, so slick, and every movement felt like pure bliss. She could feel the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him tight, and she knew he could feel it too.

“You like this, don’t you?” he teased, his voice smug, the satisfaction evident in his tone. “You like me holding you down, making you take every inch.” He kept his pace steady, his hands holding her in place, not letting her move as he fucked her exactly how he wanted. She was a moaning mess, her hips lifting slightly, trying to meet his thrusts, but he wasn’t giving her an inch. His hands tightened on her hips, holding her down, making her take everything he gave her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough. “You’re going to take everything I give you, and you’re going to love every fucking second of it.”

“Lando, please,” she begged, her voice trembling with need. “I need more. Please.” His hands gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh as he thrust into her again, deeper, harder, hitting that perfect spot that made her cry out. “Beg me properly,” he said, his voice dark. “Show me how much you need it.” She bit her lip, her body trembling beneath him, and finally, she said it, her voice trembling with need. “Please, Lando. Please fuck me harder. I need it. Please.”

"Good girl," he purred, his fingers threading into her hair as he guided her head down, tilting her face down to meet his. Then, he captured her lips in a searing kiss, possessive and deep.

“Now let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.” With a growl, Lando flipped her onto her back again in one fluid motion, his cock still buried deep inside her. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wide as he loomed over her, his eyes blazing with hunger. He didn’t give her a moment to adjust before he started fucking her again—hard, fast, and without mercy. His hips driving into her with a savage rhythm, his cock slamming into her pussy with such force that the bed shook beneath them.

His cock was thick, rigid, and unyielding, every vein pulsing with the sheer intensity of his arousal. It was hot, almost searing, as it stretched her open, the girth of it filling her to the brim. Every thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through her, the friction of his cock sliding in and out of her slick walls making her toes curl. Her pussy was so tight, so wet, and every time he pushed into her, she could feel every inch of him—the way he stretched her, the way he filled her completely, the way he hit that spot deep inside that made her see stars.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire. “Feel that? That’s me, fucking you just the way I’ve wanted to for months.” His hands moved to her hips, gripping her hard enough to leave marks as he pulled her down onto his cock with every thrust. “You take me so fucking well, love. Like you were made for me.” His words were low and possessive, dripping with a primal need that sent shivers down her spine.

She could feel his cock twitching inside her, the hot, hard length of him pressing against her walls, stretching her in the most exquisite way. Every time he thrust into her, she felt a wave of pleasure crash over her, her pussy clenching around him, desperate for more. “Lando, please,” she gasped, her voice trembling with need. “I need you. Don’t stop.”

He smirked, his eyes filled with satisfaction. “You think I’d stop now?” he growled, his hips slamming into her with even more force. “Not a fucking chance, love.” His cock was relentless, pumping into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and euphoric. She could feel the way her walls clung to him, gripping him tight, as if begging him never to leave. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation as he continued to fuck her with a ferocity that left her breathless. She could feel the tension building inside her, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. “Lando, I’m close,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Please, let me come.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. “Go ahead, baby,” he whispered, his voice dark and teasing. “Come for me. Let me feel you.” His hands moved to her breasts, squeezing them roughly as he continued to thrust into her, his cock hitting that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her body convulsed as the orgasm ripped through her, her pussy clamping down on his cock as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She cried out, her voice trembling with ecstasy as she came apart beneath him.

Lando groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt her walls clench around him, milking his cock for every drop. “Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking tight,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “I can’t hold back anymore.” With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, his cock pulsing as he came, filling her with his release. The sensation was overwhelming, the heat of his cum spilling deep inside her, marking her as his.

They came together, their bodies trembling with the force of their orgasms. She could feel every pulse of his cock inside her, the way his cum filled her, the way his body shuddered with pleasure. It was intoxicating, the way they fit together, the way they moved as one. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “That was… fucking incredible.”

She could barely speak, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her pussy felt so full, so satisfied, and she could still feel the way his cock twitched inside her, as if he wasn’t ready to pull away just yet. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice soft and trembling. “That was… I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her softly. “I told you I’d make you mine,” he murmured, his voice low and possessive. “And I meant it.” He stayed inside her, their bodies still connected, as they caught their breath together. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the air thick with the scent of their passion. And in that moment, she knew she was his—completely and utterly his.

They lay entangled in the aftermath, the sheets tangled around sweat-slick skin. The room was quiet save for their ragged breathing. After a moment, Lando turned to gaze at her, still looking slightly astonished. “You’re real,” he murmured. “I’ve waited so long to have you here, like this.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her hand resting on his chest. “Didn’t think I’d give in, did you?”

He brushed a thumb over her lower lip. “I hoped you would. No matter how much you pushed me away, I couldn’t imagine stopping.”

She met his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re everything.” His voice was soft, laced with sincerity. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for months. I can’t even remember what it was like not wanting you.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she allowed herself a rare moment of honesty. “You made it hard for me, you know,” she admitted quietly. “Staying away when you’re so… persistent.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle, clearly remembering every time she’d laughed off his attempts or walked away. “You’re a damn expert at playing hard to get, though. You had me by the throat. I was basically begging.”

She smirked, eyes gleaming in the low light. “Still are,” she teased gently. “You’ll keep begging for more, right?”

His laugh turned into a low, contented hum. “Oh, definitely. But don’t worry.” He shifted, rolling partly on top of her again, the warmth of his body reminding her just how good it felt. “I’m not letting you slip away this time.”

She didn’t resist as he captured her lips once more. The tension was different now—still electric, but edged with relief. They no longer had to pretend or play a cat-and-mouse game. The slow burn had finally exploded into a full-blown blaze, and there was no going back to careful distance.

Eventually, they drifted into a comfortable silence, bodies exhausted from the release of so many months of pent-up desire. She nestled into the crook of his arm, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Lando, seemingly unable to stop touching her, lazily traced patterns on her arm with his fingertips. Each brush of his skin still sent a small thrill through her, a reminder of what had finally happened between them.

In a half-drowsy state, she heard him murmur, “I can’t believe this is real.”

She let out a soft laugh, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I guess I teased you long enough.”

He sighed contentedly. “Too long,” he teased back, though his tone was affectionate. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”

Warmth spread through her at his words. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone, ignoring the tiny voice inside her that warned of complexities and future uncertainties. For now, all that mattered was that the months of dancing around each other had led them here, to a tangled bed in a London flat, hearts still racing from the aftershock of passion.

The game they’d played was over, the final move sealing a mutual surrender. But as she looked up and met his eyes, she realized something else: a new chapter had begun. One where neither of them had to hide their attraction or maintain a careful distance. One where he didn’t have to pine and she didn’t have to tease—unless, of course, they both wanted to for the fun of it.

She gave him a sly smile. “I’m guessing you don’t regret staying in London this weekend.”

His quiet laugh rumbled in his chest. “Not even a little bit.” Then he leaned in, brushing his lips to her ear. “But don’t think I’m done yet. After all these months? We’ve only just started.”

Her breath caught, a new wave of heat coursing through her. “So show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. With a wicked grin, he drew her closer, tangling their limbs again under the dim glow of early morning light. Their laughter faded into soft groans and murmured confessions, and everything else—every worry, every reason she’d ever had to say no—melted away.

In that moment, the only thing that mattered was the closeness they’d finally earned, and the thrilling promise that this was just the beginning.

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

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

Aerodynamic expertise | OP⁸¹

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

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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

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

🏁 rating ──── explicit

🏁 category ──── F/M

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

🏁 word count ──── 3.5k

🏁 date ──── Jan. 18, 2025

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oscplain it to me then,” she challenges.

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

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

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

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

Oscar chuckles, “It’s just basics.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to show you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar’s breath hitches, and a quiet curse slips from his lips. “Shit,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at her flushed face. “You’re soaked already. Should we work on optimal traction here or?”

Her laugh is breathless, almost a whimper, as he presses a finger inside her, curling it just enough to make her shudder. “Optimal… something,” she whimpers, her thighs trembling slightly as he adds a second finger, stretching her just enough to make her squirm.

“Ease into it, baby,” he encourages her, his focus split between the way she reacts to his touch and the growing tightness in his own body. His free hand grips her hip, holding her steady as her movements grow more animated by the second. “Too much too fast, and you’ll spin out before we get to the apex, remember?”

She tries to reply, but all that escapes her is a high-pitched moan as his thumb brushes against her clit. And then his name, like an intense prayer dripping from her lips.

The sound of her voice, breathy and pleading, sends a jolt straight through him, his arousal pressing almost painfully against the fabric of his pants.

His lips twitch in a half-smile, though there’s a rough edge to his voice when he speaks again. “That’s it,” he says, his fingers working her with practiced ease. “Controlled inputs. Smooth handling. The sweet spot.”

Her body responds to him as usual, her inner walls clenching around his fingers as a broken cry falls from her lips. “Oh my—Oscar,” she gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders for support.

Oscar exhales sharply, his jaw clenching as he fights to keep his composure. “Fuck, I know. I know,” he mutters under his breath, the sensation of her squeezing his fingers making his mind wander. He imagines how good she’d feel around his cock instead, warm and tight, pulling him in and driving him to the brink.

The thought nearly undoes him, and he grips her hip tighter, guiding her as she rocks against his hand. “You’re doing so well, baby,” he says, the words slipping out in a low rasp. “Yeah, look at you.”

Her head tilts forward as her moans grow louder, her movements more frantic, almost never enough for her to relax. She watches through her eyelashes as his fingers pump in and out of her pussy without hesitation, feeling the tips putting pressure inside with each stroke. “Please. Feel so good,” she moans softly, her voice breaking, alerting Oscar that she’s close.

“I hear you, love. Come on, then,” he says, his tone both encouraging and commanding. “I’ve got you.”

It is his voice that pushes her over the edge. He sounds like he is utterly intoxicated by her and the way her body responds to him, always. His words seem to be covered in a generous layer of honey and equal worshipping, which drives her higher and higher. Her body tenses, and then she shatters around him, her release hitting her in waves that leave her trembling. Her cries echo in the small room, mingling with the sound of their heavy breaths.

Oscar watches her with a mix of satisfaction and awe, his fingers still gently stroking her as she slowly comes back to herself. His chest rises and falls heavily as he sees how affected she is. Gently, he withdraws his hand, his fingers glistening with her arousal. With his other hand, he brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb lingering on her cheek.

“You okay?” asks Oscar in a tender voice, a stark contrast to the rough edge it held moments ago.

She nods, a small, blissful smile playing on her lips as she meets his gaze. Her hands are easily sliding down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms.

But then her gaze drops, and her smile grows mischievous. “Are you okay?” she asks, her tone dripping with mock innocence as her hand trails down to the unmistakable bulge straining against his pants.

Oscar stiffens slightly, his breath hitching when she palms him through the fabric. “Bloody hell,” he mutters.

“You know, I’d give it some attention,” she muses, her thumb tracing over his tip through the material. Her eyes flick up to meet his, playful yet wicked. “But you’re obviously so busy with work. It can wait, I guess.”

His eyes snap back to hers, narrowing slightly as he reads her intent, but before he can respond, she’s pushing him back into his chair. Oscar exhales sharply, his hands instinctively gripping the armrests as she stands, retrieves the laptop from the windowsill, and places it back on the desk in front of them.

“Stop,” he warns, his voice low, but it’s more a plea than a command.

“Stop what?” she asks in an innocent manner as she tugs her shorts back up, the fabric clinging to her curves.

Smiling, she leans down to gather the papers scattered on the floor, clearly putting on a show for him. Her movements are purposeful, the curve of her ass drawing his gaze like a magnet.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” says Oscar, almost annoyed at her audacity. “And it works.”

She glances back over her shoulder, with a playful glint in her eyes. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about, babe.”

Once she’s seated back on his lap, her thighs slick with the remnants of her orgasm, she shifts slightly, her weight settling over his aching length. Oscar lets out a shaky breath, his fingers instinctively finding her waist again, gripping her softly.

She starts scrolling through his laptop documents, pretending to focus on the technical details in front of her. “Hm, were were we? Ah, yes. Air flow dynamics…” she reads, her tone intentionally casual.

It’s pure torture for him.

Her warmth is teasing him through the thin fabric separating them, and the subtle movements of her body have his control is slipping.

Almost defeated, Oscar pushes her hair to the side and presses his lips against the sensitive curve of her neck while she keeps reading off the screen. He stopped listening long ago, too high on her simple presence. His kisses are soft at first, but as his need grows, they become much more desperate; he is hungry, after all. For her.

One of his hands slides up under her shirt, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her stomach.

“Can I slip inside?” he whispers, his voice husky and full of need.

She tilts her head back slightly, smirking at him. “Can you multitask?”

That’s all the permission he needs.

Oscar works quickly, freeing himself from his pants, just as his hand slides between her thighs, pushing her shorts to the side just enough to expose her. The tip of his cock presses against her heat, and the fullness as he slowly pushes inside has them both moaning simultaneously.

“Fuck, so warm,” he swears, resting his forehead against her back for a moment as he adjusts to the feeling.

Her body opens up for him immediately, clenching tightly around his length as he lifts her hips slightly, only to pull her back down. She’s slick, her arousal making it easy for him to glide in and out, but the tightness still has his breathing ragged.

Her head falls back against his shoulder as she moans softly, turning her head to continue with her teasing, “The coefficients and flow angles could really—”

Oscar exhales sharply, cutting her off. “Alright, fuck. I’ll finish tomorrow,” he says, his voice strained, giving in entirely.

He stands suddenly, bending her over the desk as he cups the curve of her ass, guiding her hips back onto his cock. The angle shifts, and the deep stretch makes her gasp. His thrusts are slow and measured, but the way her body clenches around him makes it impossible for him to keep it as simple as that. Gradually, he picks up the pace, the sound of their bodies joining mixing with her muffled moans.

Her elbows rest on the desk as her head drops between her shoulders, every movement pulling her closer once again. It is too much, yet still not enough. She wants to feel all of him, but then Oscar is pulling out, forcing another cry out of her.

She tries to protest by pushing back against him, and Oscar is not wasting a breath, chasing a well-known feeling as she grips at the edge of the desk. Even though he just took care of her, nothing compares with feeling of him fucking into her from behind.

The heat between them builds rapidly, their muscles tense as they chase their release. Her thighs tremble, and her breaths come in short, sharp gasps. Oscar seems to follow that sound, caressing her sides just for as long as he slips free to pull her shorts slightly lower on her thighs, for better access. His cock nudges back against her swollen clit immediately, causing her thighs to press together at the pressure. It makes Oscar see stars, driving him to thrust his hips harder at the feeling and let his cock slide along the slick, puffy folds.

When her walls clench around him, the tight, wet heat sends him spiraling. “God, baby. You feel so good,” he groans, his voice rough as he thrusts harder, his hips snapping against hers. “Always. So fucking good for me.”

The room fills with the sounds of her pussy squelching while Oscar keeps thrusting in and out, her release hitting first. The pleasure washes over her as her body spasms, gripping him tighter, and the sensation pulls Oscar over the edge almost instantly. He buries himself deep inside her as he comes, his groans muffled against her shoulder.

As they catch their breath, she looks down at her ruined shorts and laughs softly. “Well, these are done for.”

Oscar grins, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. “Guess we’ll add laundry to tomorrow’s to-do list.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

true north

max verstappen x reader | 3.8k

Four times you and Max find each other over the course of your relationship.

cw: softness, aftermath of a race crash (that i totally made up, btw), growing relationship, fem!reader

a/n: this came out of a dream i had about max. no joke. thanks for that one, brain. --

A BEGINNING

This whole thing is very new to you, but it's not as intimidating as you expected.

Partying with race car drivers and their friends and girlfriends at a club you'd normally have to wait for hours to get into isn't how you've been spending your weekends. In reality, it's much the same as going out with your friends. Drinks, dancing, laughter, flirting. It's fun. And you're just dipping your toe into this world, thanks to one guy -- Max Verstappen. 

Somehow you ended up in his orbit and he asked you to come out with everyone so here you are. It's a bit unbelievable, really. And now that you're here, you're not sure what to do about it. Do you talk to him? Do you ask him to dance? It all feels so big, even though you know it's not. You're just getting to know each other. 

The club is loud, crowded, sweaty. You need another drink and maybe the bathroom, just a moment to collect yourself. You slip away from the area where the others are dancing, spying Max talking to Charles as you head for the bathroom. He's laughing, drink in hand, blue shirt unbuttoned around his throat. You look away before he can catch you, but you swear you feel eyes on your back as you head across the dance floor. The hallway with the bathrooms is all the way on the other side of the club, and it takes a bit to get through the throng, but once you're there you take a few deep breaths in front of the mirror. 

This is fun, it really is. You just -- you don't know why, but you want to be near Max so badly you're avoiding him. It makes no sense but it's true. You're not even together, barely seeing each other, but already you know he's something special. The way he makes you feel is special. 

God, you wish there were some drunk girls in here with you to give you a pep talk. You try the next best thing. 

"Go out there," you say to yourself. "Go out there and dance with him."

You return to the hallway and get two steps towards the bar when the back of your neck tingles. It's the strangest thing, like all of your senses are dialed up to 11. And then --

Max is in front of you. 

"Oh," you say, smiling. "Hi." Something in your chest slots into place at his arrival. 

"Are you okay?" 

There are lots of people around, but he steps close enough that it feels like it's just the two of you. He's a little sweaty, hairline damp and cheeks flushed. The drink he was holding earlier is gone, his hands floating in the space between you like he doesn't know what to do with them.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I just needed to go to the bathroom. And get another drink."

You didn't realize how tense he was until he relaxes before your eyes, shoulders rolling down his back and his jaw unclenching. Did he think you were in trouble?

"Okay," Max says, boyish and easy. "Let me do that?"

It's a question more than anything, somewhere between confidence and shy flirting. Maybe he's just as nervous as you, even though he asked you to come.

You nod and he places himself at your side, palm firm on the small of your back to guide you to the bar. He orders what you were drinking before -- you didn't even know he noticed that -- and you wait. He leans on the bar, the cuffed sleeve of his shirt exposing his tanned forearm, golden hairs visable all the way up to his wrist as his eyes sweep across the room. 

"How did you find me?" you ask him. Though you're in the pocket of space he's carved out at the bar, Max doesn't hear you over the music. His brows furrow and waves his hand in annoyance and steps closer, so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. 

"What?"

You repeat it, lips close to his ear. 

"Oh," he says, leaning back so he can look at you as he talks. "I looked around for you but didn't see you. Then I just headed in the right direction, I guess." He shrugs and absentmindedly rubs his chest with his palm, right in the spot where you felt something shift when he found you.

"Impressive," you tell him. You mean it.

He grins crookedly. "That's me." The bartender hands him your drinks. "I'm glad you came," he says, so quick you wonder if he meant to say it at all. 

"I am too," you reply. You smile at each other like idiots until Max seems to realize you're taking up space at the bar and hands you your drink. His palm finds your back again as you make your way back to the section where your friends continue to dance. 

"You found her!" Charles shouts when you get there. "Nice job."

You duck your head and lean into Max before you realize you're doing it, but he doesn't take his hand from your back, just slides it around so his palm rests on your hip. Charles just laughs.

It's easy to stay close to Max for the rest of the night once you realize you don't really want to be anywhere else. He seems to feel the same, if the way he keeps looking at you is anything to go by. You dance, you laugh, you feel the world righting itself.

Later, much later, when you're waiting outside the club for the car he's called to take you back to your hotel, you lean into his side again, and wind an arm around his waist. He drapes his across your shoulders and you breathe together.  ___

A FRIGHTENING MIDDLE

It's not your first race, but the first one you're present for where it's ended like this for Max. 

Watching from the Red Bull garage has taken some getting used to. The noise, the people doing a thousand things at once, and Max at the center of it all. You do your best to stay out of the way and not worry too much but it's hard. Especially on days like today. 

He had a great getaway from the front row, capturing the racing line and heading into the turn just ahead of everyone else. It continued like that, as it so often does, until the first pit. Max came in, losing a few places you were sure he'd make up. But then -- someone, you're still not certain who, went in the wall at the worst possible part of the track. A curve that they all know in their sleep, but if you come around it and find a car stalled in the middle? 

Carnage. 

Max got there first, reflexes quick enough to avoid the car but there was nowhere to go. The rear went out from under him and you could only watch in horror as the Red Bull sailed into the wall. Red flag. Verstappen in the wall at lap 32! Verstappen out!

Later, you'll see stills of your face. Your hand over your mouth, your eyes wide. Sheer horror. Max will look at them with his mouth pressed into a grim line before he pulls you close.

But in the moment, you hear his radio and nothing else. Not the commotion in the garage, not the whispers around you. Just GP asking Max if he's okay and his voice, staticky down the line: I'm OK. I'm OK.

They cart him off to medical anyway. 

You get told to wait. 

"It's not that bad," the chatter says. "It's just a routine check." Not that bad? you think. He hit the wall at 200 mph. 

"Bruised ribs," someone says. "Probably. Maybe neck strain. Classic stuff."

You're going to lose your mind. It's no one's fault that they won't take you to see Max. You have no way of knowing if it's a top-down order, or if you're just being overlooked. You're newer in the paddock than most, so it wouldn't surprise you. But, God, you want to see him. Your chest is tight and all you can do is wait. 

A kind employee whose name you don't yet know says you can go to a hospitality suite but you say you'll sit in Max's driver room, thank you very much. You know he has to stop there before the debrief and you want to catch him. Waiting in there is nothing new, but the deep pit of anxiety in your stomach is. You don't care that you're missing the rest of the race. The reason you watch them went in the wall.

"It's fine," you say out loud. "He's fine." They would have told you otherwise, right?

After what feels like a thousand years, you hear voices come down the hallway. Max's voice. 

"She could have some with," he's saying. He sounds annoyed. "You made her wait here? The whole time?"

You stand up just as the door flies open and Max steps into the room. There are people behind him but he shuts the door before they can follow. 

That thing in your chest happens. The one you're used to, by now. He takes another step towards you and everything feels a little bit more okay.

He looks fine. Stressed, honestly. Jaw clenched, eyes wide, but otherwise fine. 

"Max," you breathe. Your hands flutter in the space between you, reaching for him but not sure where you can touch. 

"I'm fine," he says, immediately. "Come here."

He envelops you in his arms and you inhale. He smells like sweat but you don't care. 

"Are you okay?" you whisper. His hand presses up and down your spine.

"Yeah," he sighs. He's holding you so tight that you feel his ribcage against yours. "I'll be sore tomorrow. I'm sore already. But nothing major."

You pull away just enough to kiss him, a closed-mouth press of your lips to his. Proof that he really is okay.

"That was scary," you say. "They said you were fine, but I was scared."

The tension returns to his jaw and you cup his face to try to smooth it away. 

"The rear just got away from me when I swerved," he grinds out. "I can't believe they didn't let you come to the med tent."

You pull out of his arms to gather the clothes he'll change into before going to the press pen to recount the crash. 

"It's okay," you say, though it certainly was not. You feel much better with him in the room, so much so that you're willing to let this go. "Don't yell at anyone." 

Max gingerly balances his foot on the bench to unlace one race boot, then the other. 

"I think I should yell at some people, actually," he says. "It's fucking ridiculous. I can only imagine how awful it was to wait."

He unzips his race suit and you help him shimmy it off. 

"Fucking? That'll be 30,000 euro, please," you tell him. It earns you an eye roll. You tug off his fireproofs and he winces. "Careful."

His chest isn't bruised but you worry that it will be. Max shrugs on a clean Red Bull shirt and frowns. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," he says. You want to protest but honestly, you agree with him. He traces your bottom lip with his thumb. "I was looking for you the whole time."

"Yeah?"

Max nods. "Always am. You know that."

You smile at him. "You seem more angry about this than the crash," you tease.

He clicks his tongue. "Oh, I'm angry about that, too. But one thing at a time."

There will be plenty to say about it later. Why the red flag took so long, why the grip abandoned him, the points lost. A thousand things to analyze, per usual. 

You hand him his pants. "Do you need help with these?"

"I can put my jeans on by myself, thank you very much," he deadpans. "Feel free to take them off later, though."

"Flirt." He finishes dressing and you perch on the table to watch. "Come here," you say, once he's done. "Let me fix your hair."

He frowns and makes a disgruntled noise. "I'm sweaty."

"Max." Maybe you just need to touch him. Maybe he can tell, because he steps between your knees and allows you to fuss. 

"I'm just going to put a hat on," he reminds you, but doesn't pull away. For a second, you have a hard time pushing away all of the things that could have happened. He came back to you. That's what matters. 

Max, as he always seems to, senses the train of your thoughts. He pulls you close, pressing your ear to his chest so you can hear his heart. 

"Don't you have to go to the media pen?" you say into his shirt. He strokes your hair and sighs.

"They can wait." ___

REUNION

He's never explained why, but Max likes to pick you up at the airport. It's a bit of a drive from Monaco to Nice and he could easily send a car, but he refuses every time. 

If you won't ride on the jet at least let me drive you, he says. So you fly commercial to Monaco and he meets you. You try to arrive late at night so the airport is mostly empty, and, despite being a World Champion, Max knows how to blend in when he wants to. That, or maybe the people of Monaco don't mind all that much that he picks his girlfriend up at the airport. 

The terminal is dotted with people doing what you do late at night in airports. Sprawled in seats, feet up on their luggage, yawning or asleep. You shoulder your duffle and head for baggage claim, an old Red Bull cap of Max's tugged low over your brow. Immigration, Customs, and then, finally, the exit doors to the arrivals level. 

As soon as you're through them you see him. 

Max stands there alone in his hoodie and jeans, scrolling on his phone. He's got one hand tucked in his pocket and a decidedly not Red Bull hat on his head -- this one is just a solid black. His under the radar look.

You're looking at him for barely a moment before he looks up, right at you, and grins. The hook in your chest warms, pulls, sings. You pick up your pace, practically jogging over to him, duffle banging on your hip. 

He's ready for you, catching you with one arm and wrapping you in the other when you collide with his chest. Your bag drops at your feet and you laugh into his neck.

"Hi," he says. "That didn't take long."

You'd texted him when you landed but expected it to take longer to come out the other side. "Guess I'm lucky today."

He gently puts some space between you so he can whip off your hat, cup your jaw and kiss you lightly before replacing it.

"This looks familiar," he says. "Have you at least washed it?"

"Probably," you tell him. "What if I like your sweaty hats?"

"You're weird." Max leans down and shoulders your bag, laughing. "How was the flight?" You can't help it, you kiss his cheek quickly just to feel his stubble under your lips. He looks amused but allows it before draping his arm across your shoulders. 

"Fine," you tell him. "Long." 

He smells good. Freshly showered, probably, with a hint of cologne. You could tease him about it, about tidying himself up for you, but god, you've missed him. There are probably paps somewhere, people you don't know snapping pictures of moments that should be just the two of you, but you can't bring yourself to care much this time. 

"What have you been up to?" you ask. 

It's a little chilly once you step outside, but Max never parks far from the doors. 

"Eh, not much," he says. "Cleaned the litter box." Ah, that might explain why he showered. 

"You spoil me," you tease. "What more could a girl want? And how are your darling cats?"

Max pinches your hip and you gasp. "They missed you," he says. "Expect them to want to sleep on your face tonight. Did you eat?"

It's a little late for dinner so you shrug, but Max says your name in his no-nonsense tone. 

"A snack," you confess. "Back before takeoff."

"Hm. What do you want?" he asks. "We can stop somewhere, or I can make you something when we get home."

Home. "You can cook for me, if you want," you say, a bit shy. "But don't you have meeting tomorrow morning? We don't need to stay up late."

Max waves away the idea. "I pushed everything."

You want to argue with him about it but you don't. Max will do anything for you -- to make sure you're comfortable, you're fed, you're happy. It makes you feel very loved but it is also overwhelming, to be loved like that. All he asks is that you let him, so you try. 

He fishes the car keys from his jean pocket and unlocks it. His car -- a fancy thing with too many buttons for a street car, in your opinion -- flashes its lights. Max pulls away from you and puts your bag in the car as you head to the passenger door. 

It's a low car, so you flop into the seat and then he's there, one hand on the top of the car and the other on the door, looking down at you. Even in the vaguely lit parking lot he is so handsome. Blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles, dark blonde hair a bit windswept from the French breeze. Sometimes you don't know where to look. His jaw? His cheekbones? The freckle on his lip?

Max seems to be staring at you just as intently. "What?" you ask, squirming a little.

He smiles even wider. "Nothing," he says. Then he leans down and you lean up and out of the car, tugged forward by that damn string between you, to meet him in another kiss. Firmer than the first, but still quick. His teeth flash in a pleased grin when he pulls away and then he's closing the door. 

You press the back of your hand to your cheek and feel how hot it is. Truly absurd, how flustered he can make you. 

Max slides into his car and starts it up, reversing out of the parking lot and heading for Monaco. It shouldn't take too long to get there, maybe a half hour. He turns on the radio and you wince.

"You can pick the music," he mutters, eyeing your grimace. 

"Oh, thank god." You turn off his club hits playlist and put on something more to your taste. He shakes his head at you in mock disgust and you just laugh. 

The lights of the highway from Nice illuminate Max's face and you just watch. His brow, his jawline, his nose. He reaches over between shifting gears to squeeze your knee.

"Missed me?" he asks. 

"Missed your pretty face," you reply. He flushes.

"Enough," he says, but he grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth so he can kiss your palm. ___

TRUE NORTH

It's not new, not anymore. You know the ins and outs of a race weekend. Where to be, what to expect. And by now you've seen it all -- crashes, losses, safety cars. Rain, botched strategies, podiums. 

And this. 

Wins.

It's clear that Max has it with more than 20 laps left, but anything can happen on track and everyone knows it. So you hold your breath. The McLarens disappeared from contention back at the start. 19. 15. He makes his way through lapped cars with no issue. The Ferraris can't catch up. The interval only increases. Verstappen ahead by 15 seconds! It's a remarkable showing after such a poor qualifying and what seems like everything against him. 10 laps to go. 5. Final lap.

The garage rushes out to the fence to wave him by. You can't tamper down your grin as you're ushered with everyone else to the barriers, the team knowing to have you right at the front. FIA officials put out the podium place markers and the other two cars  -- Charles and Carlos -- come in but you only have eyes for one. 

Max takes his time getting out, but when he does, he pumps his fists in the air and points at the number on his car. 1. That's right. 

He hops off his chassis and full-out runs to the barriers, jumping into the arms of his team. The mechanics who work tirelessly every weekend, who are behind him 100%. Cameras flash and everyone roars. They set him down and he turns to find you, doing so with ease. He winks, but Carlos's hand on his back pulls him away to congratulate the other two and get his weight ticket. 

You wait your turn. He always comes home to you. 

Max makes quick work of it -- taking off his helmet, his balaclava. A quick swallow of water, hat shoved on his head, and then he's jogging back to the barriers, straight for you. 

You're ready. He wraps his arms around you in a tight and sweaty hug. He's still calming down his heart rate based on how it pounds against you through his race suit and he steals your exhale with a kiss, quick and hard. 

"There you are," he says. "Found you." Thousands of people scream around you and cameras flash but, as it always is with Max, that all fades away. It's just the two of you, the thread between you pulled taught. 

"Always do."

He really should leave you to do his post-race interview, but he keeps his gaze on your face, smile wide and eyes bright. 

"How was that?" he asks. 

You purse your lips and tilt your head to one side. "Decent," you tell him. "Simply lovely."

He laughs. You reach for him, trace the helmet lines on his cheek with your thumb, and kiss him again. Someone whistles and your smiles only get wider pressed against each other.

Later, he stands on the top step of the podium as his national anthem plays. You hum along, chin tipped high to keep your eyes on him. And Max, as he grins ear to ear, finds you in the crowd instantly. You feel it in your entire body when he does -- a flame that's lit beneath your ribs, a skip of your heart in your chest like he's holding it. His eyes return to you again and again. When he waves at the fans, when he hoists his trophy high in the air, when he sprays his fellow drivers with bubbly. He'll do his post-race responsibilities and celebrate with the team, and then you'll leave together. It's a beautiful future.

Magnets, you think. A compass, always pointing you home. 

OK OMG can i request sub oscar literally having to take a break from fucking because he’s gonna come too quick? 🙈

♪ — 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 oscar piastri  x  girlfriend! reader (smut) fic summary . . . after weeks apart due to Oscar’s F1 commitments, he and you finally have time with each other. the deal to not indulge in sexual pleasure while apart comes to bite oscar in his ass (562 words)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, p n v sex, overstim, vanilla sex, begging, sexual frustration, light teasing)

an — i love getting these types of oscar requests. finally getting around to writing them, thanks for the request lovie <3

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar’s forehead presses against your shoulder, his breathing already unsteady, hands gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life.

He hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds.

You can feel the tension rolling off him, the way his muscles shake as he forces himself to stay still. And you know why.

It’s been too long.

Between his F1 schedule and all the traveling, he’s barely had time to breathe, let alone spend a night tangled up with you. And after weeks of teasing phone calls, half-whispered confessions about how much you missed each other, you made a deal—no touching, no getting off, nothing—until you were together again.

At the time, it seemed like a fun way to build up anticipation.

Now? Oscar looks like he’s about to combust.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, his voice strained. His hands flex at your hips, like he wants to move but knows he shouldn’t. “I just—I need a second.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smirk. He’s barely inside you, buried to the hilt but still, and he’s already this close to falling apart.

“You okay, baby?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Oscar groans, lifting his head just enough for you to see how wrecked he already looks—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, flushed all the way down his chest.

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “I—I can't. You feel too good. It’s—fuck, it’s too much.”

You tighten around him just to be mean, and holy shit—the way he shudders, a choked whimper spilling from his lips, makes heat coil low in your stomach.

“Jesus,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut. “D-Don’t do that. Please.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “What happened to my sweet, patient boy?”

Oscar exhales sharply, gripping your waist tighter. “She left me stranded on the other side of the world for weeks and made me promise not to touch myself,” he grumbles. “Now she’s acting surprised that I’m losing my fucking mind.”

His words make you clench around him again, and he whines, dropping his forehead to your shoulder again.

“Okay, okay—seriously, I need a second,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut. “If I move, I’m gonna come in like, two thrusts, and you’re gonna make fun of me forever.”

You hum, running your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly at the roots just to hear him whimper. “You’re already giving me plenty to tease you about, baby.”

Oscar groans. “You’re evil.”

You tilt his chin up, making him look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips bitten raw, and you feel a rush of affection mixed with arousal at the sight of him like this—so desperate, so yours.

“Take your time,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I want you to feel good.”

He exhales shakily, nodding, but there’s still frustration in the furrow of his brows.

You smile. “And when you can’t hold back anymore, I’ll take care of you. Okay?”

Oscar swallows hard, gaze flicking to your lips. “You—” He stops, taking another deep breath, trying to ground himself.

Then, finally, he moves—just a little, a slow roll of his hips that sends a full-body shudder through him.

He groans, high and so needy. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, voice breaking.

You smirk, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep him close.

“That’s the fun part, baby.”

in the paddock

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Lando Norris and Y/N’s playful moments around the paddock never go unnoticed, the quick banter and unexpected distractions, they bring chaos, laughter, and a little extra love to every race weekend.

Words: 4.0k

Warnings: swearing

Ice Cream

It was media day, and Oscar had been assigned to create a short vlog documenting his weekend leading up to the race. He sat in his driver room, holding the camera to his face, giving a tour of his space and casually showing off the contents of his bag. He was making an attempt at being interesting, but the excitement just wasn't there. That is, until he heard muffled voices and laughter coming from the thin walls of the adjacent room.

A mischievous grin spread across his face, and you could practically see a light bulb light up above his head.

“You know what, guys, I might have something more interesting to share with you,” he said, standing up, camera still in hand but now pointing forward, walking towards the door.

He stopped just before it, straining his ears to listen to the voices outside. As soon as he knocked, the noise stopped abruptly, like a record scratch.

With a grin, he slowly opened the door and peeked his head in, the camera capturing a glimpse of Lando's room.

"Mind if I hang here for a bit?" he asked, winking at the camera.

Lando chuckled, looking up from where he was sitting on the couch. "Of course, mate. Woah, you're full-on vlogging now, huh?"

Oscar sighed, dropping the camera on the table across from the couch before plopping down next to Lando. "Media duties. They told me it's your turn next weekend, so don’t be teasing me," he said, shooting Lando a playful look.

Lando raised an eyebrow, glancing to his side. Just out of frame, someone else was sitting next to him. "Wanna join my vlog?" Oscar asked, turning the camera towards them.

A soft voice answered, "Can I?"

Oscar smiled as the camera panned to reveal Y/N, ice cream in hand, waving shyly at the camera. "Of course you can," he said, scooting over to make room on the couch for her.

Lando grinned at her fondly. "Gotta introduce yourself, love."

Y/N laughed nervously, taking a small bite of her ice cream before speaking. "Oh! Hello, I'm Y/N."

Lando smirked playfully, looking at Oscar. "She's my girlfriend."

Y/N’s face flushed a soft pink, and she gave a shy nod, still holding her ice cream cup. "Yeah, that's me," she added with a small smile.

Oscar tilted his head slightly. “Could hear you two all the way from my room.” He raised an eyebrow, setting up the shot like he was getting ready to expose them.

Y/N, her eyes widening at the comment, quickly set her ice cream cup down as if ready to explain herself. “This man right here—”

Lando leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms, and sighed dramatically. “Oh, here we go…”

Y/N crossed her arms, leaning back on the couch, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she looked at Lando, who was now sitting upright with an exaggerated, almost dramatic expression.

"I got here probably an hour or two after you guys did," she started, holding the ice cream cup in her hand for emphasis. "He texts me saying, 'Oh babe, we have ice cream down at hospitality, it's the flavour you like.' It was all a plot so he could eat off of mine, ‘cause John has him on a diet."

Lando immediately shot up in defence. "No! Liar—baby, is it or is it not the flavour that you like?" His eyes were wide, as if he was about to win the argument with this one fact.

"It is, but—" Y/N raised her eyebrows.

Lando quickly interrupted, triumphant. "Exactly! I texted you with the intention of letting you know we had ice cream, you know, because I’m thoughtful like that—"

"—Yes, but did you or did you not immediately grab the cup from me and start eating it?" Y/N leaned forward, smirking at him.

Lando's expression faltered for a moment, then he leaned back with a sheepish grin. "You exaggerate."

Y/N raised a finger, not letting him off the hook. "Lan, you opened the door, said hi, and took the cup from me without even saying 'hello' properly!"

Oscar, who had been sitting quietly next to them, alternating between watching the argument unfold and glancing at the camera with a growing grin, finally spoke up. He shifted the camera slightly to get a better angle of the chaotic scene.

"I deal with this every time she attends a race," Oscar said, his voice full of mock exasperation, his grin widening. "It's like a whole drama series, but with ice cream."

Y/N glanced at Oscar, raising her eyebrows. "Oscar, don't act like you're not entertained by it."

Lando nodded, a smug look on his face. "Exactly. You love the drama."

Oscar just shook his head, chuckling. “Who needs Netflix when I have this to watch?”

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

Doting

It was the end of a rainy weekend, and the paddock was winding down. Teams were busy packing up, their trucks being loaded with gear, while the last few fans remained outside in the wet weather, holding out caps and posters, hoping for a last-minute signature from their favourite drivers.

Lando was walking hand-in-hand with Y/N, umbrella in his other hand, holding it above them both. He was visibly exhausted from the race, his shoulders slumped slightly as they walked toward the exit. Y/N, sensing his desire to head back to their hotel, gently tapped his arm and motioned toward the fans still waiting.

“You should go say hello for a bit,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the rain. “They’ve probably been waiting all day.”

Lando glanced over at her, a little reluctant but knowing she was right. He nodded in agreement. “Yeah, alright.”

They made their way toward the barricade, where the fans eagerly held out their items. Lando let go of Y/N’s hand for a moment, reaching out to grab a sharpie from a fan to sign a couple of caps. He was focused, signing with a practiced speed when he noticed something, Y/N was no longer under the umbrella.

She was standing off to the side, smiling and chatting with a few fans on her own, completely unbothered by the heavy rain, her hair starting to curl from the moisture.

Lando’s face immediately shifted from casual focus to concern. “Hold on a sec—” He handed the signed cap back to the fan, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Y/N. “Baby, please, it’s raining. Come here.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she waved him off. “I’m fine!” she called over the noise of the crowd and the rain, her voice warm with affection, though it was clear she didn’t mind the water.

“No, you’re not. It’s pouring, my love,” Lando sighed dramatically, looking at her like she was stubborn beyond belief. With a quick glance at the fans, who seemed content, he jogged back over to her, the sharpie still clutched in his hand.

As he got closer, Y/N raised an eyebrow playfully, “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting you under the umbrella, where you belong,” Lando said with a soft smile, holding the umbrella above her head and taking her hand again. He gently pulled her closer, the water dripping from his jacket, though he didn’t seem to mind.

Y/N laughed, leaning into him as the rain continued to fall. “I told you I’m fine. But thanks, though.”

“You’re stubborn,” Lando teased, a hint of amusement in his voice as he leaned down to kiss her temple. “But I’m not letting you catch a cold after all this.”

One of the fans who’d been watching the interaction smiled brightly and shouted out, “You two are adorable!”

Lando, still holding the umbrella for Y/N, looked up with a grin, giving a quick wave to the fans. “Alright, alright, you’ve seen the cute moment—now, let’s get going before she pulls the ‘I’m fine’ card again.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, squeezing his hand as they made their way toward the car, the rain finally easing up just as they reached the hotel.

The fans, still waiting outside in the drizzle, had a bit more to talk about that night, the sweet little moment between their favourite driver and the person who always seemed to make him smile.

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

Stole my girl

It was race day in Australia, and the paddock was buzzing with excitement as the drivers began to make their way in for FP1. Fans crowded near the entrance, eager to catch a glimpse of their favorite drivers, and the media was ready to pounce with their questions. As Lando made his way through the throngs of people, he paused to sign a few autographs and answer a couple of questions. But one fan’s inquiry caught his attention.

"Y/N isn’t coming today?" the fan asked, their voice laced with curiosity.

Lando chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, she’s here, alright. And funnily enough, I know exactly who she’s with.”

He wasn’t wrong. As soon as Lando stepped into McLaren hospitality, the sound of a familiar laugh reached his ears, and he couldn’t help but smile. He spotted Y/N sitting with none other than Daniel, chatting animatedly like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

“Glad to see you two are having fun,” Lando said with a smirk, walking over to the pair. He stopped just beside Y/N, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek before sitting down next to her.

“They were looking for you, love,” Lando continued, grinning at Y/N. “I told them I knew exactly who you were with, and I was right.”

Daniel grinned playfully at Lando. “Mate, I haven’t seen her in ages!”

Y/N rolled her eyes and shot Daniel a deadpan look. “We literally visited two months ago, Daniel.”

Daniel shrugged dramatically. “Two months is way too long.” He leaned back in his chair with a smirk, clearly enjoying teasing her.

Y/N chuckled before her eyes lit up with excitement, reaching down beside her to grab her tote bag. “Oh! Look, Lan!” she gasped, pulling out a hoodie and a shirt. She held them up to show him with a grin. “Daniel got me some Enchante merch!”

Lando raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “You barely even wear my merch,” he said, crossing his arms in mock frustration.

Y/N shrugged with a grin. “What can I say? His stuff’s just that good.” She winked at Daniel, who gave a dramatic bow in response.

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “I swear, you two are plotting against me.” He leaned back, letting out a dramatic sigh. “You are my girlfriend, right?”

Y/N leaned in closer, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. “Of course, I am,” she teased, “but I’ve got a soft spot for good merch.”

“Just wait until I drop my new line,” Lando said, giving Daniel a sly grin. “Then you’ll see who’s really got the best stuff.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Sure, Lando, sure.” He grinned at Y/N, adding, “Just saying, you've got high standards to live up too now”

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

We're not getting a dog

Lando’s mind raced as he walked through the paddock, his eyes scanning every corner for any sign of Y/N. He had checked all the usual spots, asked a handful of people if they'd seen her, but she was nowhere to be found. His phone was practically glued to his hand, and after calling her multiple times with no answer, frustration began to settle in.

"She's here."

The voice came from behind him, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. He turned around to see a woman, unmistakably a Ferrari employee, flashing him a knowing smile.

"I'm sorry?" Lando asked, his tone more confused than anything.

"I assume you're looking for Y/N?" she asked with a teasing glint in her eye. "I saw her walk in with Charles and Alex. She’s inside."

Lando, without hesitation, started following her, eager to find his girlfriend. The woman led him to the other side of Ferrari's hospitality, and sure enough, there she was. Y/N was sitting on the floor with a giant grin on her face, playing with both Leo and Roscoe. The dogs were having the time of their lives as Y/N gently tossed a toy for them to chase, completely unaware of Lando’s arrival.

Charles, who had been standing nearby chatting with Lewis, glanced over at Lando and raised an eyebrow. “Got an AirTag on her or something, mate?” he joked, clearly amused.

Lando sighed, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to call her for an hour. I’ve literally been walking around like a madman trying to find her.”

Y/N finally looked up at the sound of Lando’s voice, her expression softening as she met his gaze. She flashed him a pout and held up one of the dogs in her arms. “We need one.”

Lando crouched down beside her, reaching out to pet Roscoe, who was sitting loyally by her side. “Need what, my love?” he asked, his voice full of affection.

“A dog,” Y/N sighed, her eyes following Leo as he zoomed around the area, chasing after the other dog. “Look at them. How cute would it be to have one with us?”

Lando couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the sight of her glowing face. But before he could respond, Lewis, who had been listening from the side, grinned and added, “I can give you a contact”

Y/N’s face immediately lit up at the thought. “Really?” she asked, her excitement palpable. But then, her gaze flickered to Lando’s face, and she noticed the slight tension in his features.

Lando shook his head gently, a small smile tugging at his lips, but there was a hint of concern in his eyes. “Baby… we can’t. We both travel so much. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog.”

Y/N’s enthusiasm faltered slightly, and she shot a glance over at Charles and Lewis, who had their dogs lounging nearby without a care in the world. “But Charles and Lewis seem fine with theirs,” she protested, her voice laced with hope.

Lando simply sighs noding reluctantly knowing he'd already lost "Alright baby, we'll look into it"

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

At Williams

"I don't think you're going to lose her mate" Oscar said, chuckling as he walked over to Lando and Y/N

Lando had been holding onto her hand ever since they entered McLaren hospitality, not letting go once

"Oh trust me she's a runner" Lando laughs

Y/N rolls her eyes earning a side eye from Lando "I've already had to grab her from William's 3 times since we arrived at the paddock"

"I was catching up with Lily and Rebecca!" she exclaims earning a laugh from the boys

"What were too boring for you now?" Oscar teases

"Yeah, your Lily isn't here this weekend so you're not much help to me either" Y/N snaps back poking her tongue out at him

"I try to convince myself that she's here for me every now and then" Lando shrugs jokingly

After plenty of banter and laughs, Oscar and Lando were finally ushered into one of the private rooms for a quick meeting, leaving Y/N behind in McLaren hospitality.

Naturally, she took it as the perfect chance to sneak off, back to Williams, much to Lando’s growing frustration.

For the fourth time that day, Lando found himself walking into Williams hospitality, this time greeted by a few chuckles and sympathetic smiles from the staff, who were starting to see him around as much as their own drivers.

Spotting Caco sitting at a table in the corner with a coffee, Lando made a beeline over.

"I'm guessing she's with Lily and Rebecca again?" he asked, already half-defeated. "Mind pointing me in their direction?"

Caco laughed, setting his mug down. "Actually, she's with Carlos this time. Straight ahead, mate."

Lando gave him a tired wave of thanks and headed further into the building. He only made it a few steps before stopping dead in his tracks.

There she was — Y/N, wearing a pair of Apple Vision Pros, standing next to Carlos, who was mid–golf swing with another set on. Alex and Lily lounged on the sofa nearby, watching the chaos unfold, while Rebecca recorded it all on her phone, laughing.

Lando just blinked, almost in disbelief. "Really? Team bonding now?"

At the sound of his voice, Y/N pulled off her headset, flashing him an innocent, wide grin. Carlos, oblivious, continued his virtual golf game with full concentration.

Lando shook his head as he walked over, dropping down onto the sofa beside Alex with a groan. "You're playing VR golf?! You always say no when I ask you to play with me."

Y/N just shrugged, still grinning. "Maybe you need a better sales pitch, babe."

Alex clapped Lando on the back, trying (and failing) to hide his laugh. "Welcome to Williams, mate. We know how to recruit properly."

Lando could only sink deeper into the cushions, watching his girlfriend cheer Carlos on like she was the biggest Williams fan in the world, and knowing full well he was absolutely losing this battle.

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

New contract

On the few race weekends Y/N could attend, she usually spent her downtime in the paddock with the WAGs, Lando’s family, or some of the McLaren team members.

This weekend, however, things had taken an unexpected turn, all thanks to a little controversy that had set social media on fire: rumours of Lando’s future at Mercedes. And the root of it all? Photos and videos of Y/N, casually sharing a cup of coffee with Mercedes team principal, Toto Wolff, before Free Practice 1.

It was now Saturday. Qualifying had just wrapped up, and Lando made his way into the media pen, fully expecting the storm that was about to hit. He and the team had already laughed about the rumors earlier, finding it almost impressive how far people would stretch the truth just for a headline.

And, like clockwork, the questions came flying in.

"Can we expect to see you in a different car next season?" The same question, for what felt like the fourth time that day.

Lando let out a small laugh, running a hand through his messy hair. "Like I’ve said, I think for the world record eighth time today — I’m not going anywhere."

"But the meeting? With Toto Wolff, and your girlfriend?" The interviewer pressed on, eyebrows raised like they were uncovering some major scandal.

Lando just shrugged, tilting his head a little in disbelief. "So what?" he said, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous it all sounded. "My girlfriend knows Toto personally. She's good friends with Susie, knows their kids too. It's not all business around here, you know? A lot of us actually form meaningful friendships outside of racing."

He gave the camera a half-smile, hoping that would finally put the fire out.

Not long after, Lando made it back to his driver's room, still a little amused by the chaos he'd just walked out of.

Inside, Y/N was already there, sitting patiently on the small couch, her hands nervously picking at the hem of her sweater.

When she heard him come in, she looked up, giving him a sheepish smile. "I’m sorry..." she said softly, guilt written all over her face.

Lando frowned slightly, pulling off his fireproofs and grabbing a clean shirt from his bag. "For what, my love?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"I saw them... asking you about Mercedes," she said, rubbing her palm across her forehead in frustration.

Lando chuckled, ruffling his hair as he pulled the shirt over his head. "PR and Zak actually found it hilarious," he said with a grin.

"Not funny, Lan..." Y/N groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. "I think I might’ve caused you a bit of trouble."

He walked over, dropping onto the couch beside her and placing a reassuring hand on her thigh. "Baby... it's really not that big of a deal," he said, his voice soft. "It’s their fault for reading too much into it."

Y/N pouted up at him, her big eyes making his heart squeeze in his chest. "I was just talking to them about their kids," she mumbled.

Lando laughed again, pulling her gently into his chest. "I know, baby," he said, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "And even if you were plotting to ship me off to Mercedes... I’d still love you."

Y/N let out a small laugh against his chest, feeling the weight in her stomach finally ease. "I’d never send you anywhere," she whispered, smiling.

"Good," Lando said, squeezing her closer. "Because McLaren’s stuck with me... and you’re stuck with me too."

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

Biggest Fan

It was finally Lando’s home race at Silverstone, and the energy in the air was electric. The entire weekend had been building up to this moment. The thought of racing at home, in front of his fans and family, gave him a boost of motivation. This wasn’t just another race , this was the race.

Lando was on the truck for the driver’s parade, clutching his umbrella to shield himself from the relentless British rain. The crowd's excitement was palpable, but the weather? Not so much.

The interviewer approached, microphone in hand. "Lando! Home race for you today, and pole position too. How confident are you about taking home the win?"

Lando flashed a wide grin, nodding gratefully. "I’m pretty excited. My whole family’s here, so that’s a big bonus. Oscar’s starting right behind me, so hopefully, we can secure an easy 1-2 today. Big points on the line."

The interviewer raised an eyebrow. "But are you worried at all? Max is starting in P3, and we’ve got George in the Mercedes not too far behind either."

Lando leaned forward, a serious glint in his eye. "Honestly, I’m more focused on getting a good start. Hopefully, the weather clears up a bit before the race…" He trailed off as his eyes flicked to the crowd ahead. He squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of something. "Uh... sorry, I think I just saw my girlfriend in the stands."

The interviewer followed his gaze. "She’s in the grandstand?"

Lando nodded, fully turning his attention to the crowd now. There she was, standing right in the middle of the stairs of his dedicated "Landostand," among his fans, waving and pointing frantically in his direction. As soon as she realized he had spotted her, she raised a banner high. It was a custom banner, with Lando’s helmet design and his initials and number bold and clear for him to see.

Lando let out a soft laugh, grinning. "You're insane, I love you." He blew her a kiss through the camera. "Why are you even out there in the rain, baby? It’s pouring!" He laughed into the mic. "I don’t even know if she can hear me."

The other drivers, who had been watching the interaction, couldn’t help but chuckle at the cute moment. Carlos, ever the jokester, waved to Y/N from where he stood on the truck. She immediately waved back with enthusiasm.

Lando laughed, shaking his head. "And... there she goes. Lost her attention already," he said, still scanning the grandstand with a soft smile. "Love you, baby. Get back to the garage before you catch a cold."

Hearing him through her phone stream, Y/N quickly gave him a thumbs up and blew him an exaggerated kiss. Lando grinned, reaching out to theatrically catch it mid-air, then pretended to tuck it safely into his pocket.

"Saving that one for later," he said with a wink, turning back to the camera, still smiling like an idiot.

Jon’s idea; ln4

summary: lando needed your emotional support. so you fly across the world to deliver. jon’s idea.

➽───────────────❥

pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M)

tw: smut +18, mental struggles

word count: around 8k

feedback is appreciated!! <3

➽───────────────❥

the darkest night never felt so bright with you by my side

You had three problems.

One, your phone was at 4%.

Two, you were loitering in a corner of Bahrain International Airport, waiting on a sketchy-sounding “transfer” from someone named Majid who may or may not have your name on a piece of paper.

Three, you were here to surprise your very handsome and very famous boyfriend, Lando Norris after almost three weeks apart, so problems one and two really needed to get sorted. Fast.

You checked your messages — again — only to be reminded that your battery was now at 3% and you were sweating through your hoodie in a country where it was 35°C… after sunset.

Your brilliant, not-at-all-last-minute plan had begun two weeks ago after Japan. Lando got a podium — P2, champagne, cameras — and still, when you FaceTimed him later, he looked like someone who’d just finished a tax audit.

You knew that face. You’d seen it even after some of his best races. It was the “my car fought me the whole way but I smiled for the photos anyway” face. That McLaren was fast, yeah, but it wasn’t easy. It wanted to kill him in every high-speed corner, and he was wringing results out of it just thanks to his amazing talent — and maybe a little miracle.

So you teamed up with Jon — Lando’s trainer, therapist, part-time babysitter — and Lando’s dad, Adam, who was surprisingly into it.

“Lando doesn’t need more advice,” Adam had said on the call. “He just needs you.”

Which made you go awww But also: arghhh because of the pressure.

Of course, your schedule didn’t make it easy. You’d managed to book a flight that landed in Bahrain late Saturday night, which meant if all went well, you’d show up just in time for race day.

If all didn’-tgo well — well, you’d die at the airport with a dead phone and a melted protein bar in your pockets.

But you were happy to discover that the SUV Jon called for you was indeed real. And so was Majid. He stood just outside the terminal, holding a limp A4 paper with your name on it. Well, a version of your name. It was spelled wrong by at least three letters, but the enthusiasm was there, and honestly, that was good enough for you.

You gave him a tired smile and a grateful nod, and before you could even ask if there was air conditioning, he had your suitcase in the back and was peeling out of the airport lot like he had a pit lane speed limit to beat.

You were thrown back against the seat, trying to casually plug your phone into the car charger while your life flashed before your eyes.

Eventually — miraculously — your pulse returned to normal and your phone screen flickered back to life. You had just enough signal to pull up the F1 app, ignoring the 17 unread texts and the 2% battery notification that had haunted you all the way from the passport controls.

Qualifying results: Bahrain GP.

You scrolled, heart racing slightly.

And there it was.

Lando: P6.

You stared at the screen. What?

On one hand, not terrible. Definitely solid. Top ten, third row.

On the other hand, P6? When he couldn’t stand less than a pole position? You knew he was going to be annoyed. He was qualifying like a machine, but that McLaren didn’t want to give him a break.

He’d never say it publicly — he’d smile for the cameras, give the usual “We maximized what we could” line — but behind closed doors, he’d overanalyze every tenth. He was hard on himself. Always had been. Even when he was dragging an uncooperative car into podiums, elbows out, eyes narrowed, white-knuckling through corners at 200 mph — it still somehow wasn’t enough for him.

You clicked your phone off and looked out the window. The Bahrain skyline blurred past, golden and glowing, desert dust curling around low streetlights.

Twenty minutes out.

You were sweaty, sleep-deprived, overdressed for the heat, and very possibly getting mild whiplash. Your hoodie had fused to your back, your sneakers were sticking to the floor mat, and your deodorant had clearly clocked out somewhere over Istanbul.

But when you saw the first sign for Bahrain International Circuit, your heart skipped.

This was real. You’d actually pulled it off.

Jon had texted you as soon as you crossed the checkpoint at the paddock gate, saying that a McLaren assistant was already waiting for you.

Sure enough, that McLaren team assistant appeared outside the SUV a few minutes later like some kind of F1 secret agent, complete with headset, clipboard, and the professional deadpan of someone who had walked VIPs through much weirder scenarios than a sweaty, mildly delirious girlfriend arriving in a getaway car driven by Bahrain’s fastest civilian.

“Hi!” she said with a tone that was both cheerful and terrifyingly efficient. “Let’s go. Jon’s expecting you. I’ll take you through the side route so you don’t bump into Lando or media.”

You thanked Majid — who winked and said, “Tell Norris I root for him!” — and then followed your escort past layers of fences, tents, and roped-off areas, trying to act like you totally belonged here and definitely weren’t running on caffeine, adrenaline, and blind faith.

The paddock smelled like rubber, espresso, and very expensive sunscreen. Staff moved like clockwork, gliding around with laptops and radios.

McLaren’s hospitality looked like a spaceship had crash-landed in the desert and been converted into a five-star hotel. Cool lighting, glass panels, and a giant monitor showing a replay of qualifying.

Your guide stopped at the entrance. “You’re good from here. Jon’s inside.”

You pushed open the door and walked into what felt like air-conditioned heaven. It was quiet — mostly PR people typing aggressively and mechanics drinking bottled smoothies like they were performance fuel.

Jon spotted you immediately from a back corner and gave you a thumbs-up before mouthing: “He’s still in media.”

Two minutes later, your phone was finally charging properly, you were gulping down a cold water like it was life support, and your eyes drifted up to the giant TV screen overhead — just in time to see him.

Lando. Fresh from qualifying. Race suit unzipped to the waist, undershirt clinging to him, curls flattened by the headset, a microphone way too close to his face.

“Yeah… just wasn’t good enough today. Not the car’s fault. Honestly, it’s me. Felt like I’d never driven an F1 car before.”

You froze.

He was smiling, technically. But it wasn’t a real smile. It was the polite, automatic, “I’m contractually obligated to answer this without swearing” smile. The eyes were flat. Tired. A little glazed over.

He rubbed the back of his neck — a nervous habit. He always did that when he was frustrated but trying to play it cool. You saw it even when no one else did.

Your heart twisted.

You wished you could reach through the screen and shake him. Or better — hug him. Not say anything, just let him deflate for a minute without having to pretend he was fine.

You could see it in his posture — the way he rubbed the back of his neck, shifted uncomfortably in front of the cameras, barely made eye contact with the reporter. He was disappointed. Not with the car, not even with P6. With himself. That familiar, frustrating kind of disappointment that sat deep in his chest like a weight no one else could see.

Your heart ached watching it.

And for a second — just one beat — you wondered what version of Lando was about to walk through that door. The jokey sarcastic one? The “nothing’s wrong but everything’s wrong” one? Or the quiet, emotionally constipated one who just needed to crash on the nearest couch and breathe?

Didn’t matter. You weren’t here to fix anything. You were here to be here. And that was the whole point.

So you took a deep breath, gave a quick wave to the McLaren staffer who now looked slightly invested in your relationship arc, and headed down the hall toward the driver rooms.

You slid into the room — small, private, quiet. A couch, a massage table, Lando’s backup race suit half-draped over a chair. His headphones were on the table, and a banana he probably wasn’t going to eat sat next to a bottle of electrolyte water.

You sat down on the couch, hands in your lap, heart thumping a little too loud in your chest. It was silly, you knew. You’d planned this. You were supposed to be here. But now, right before it was about to happen, your nerves caught up.

The door opened three minutes later.

You didn’t have to look. You heard it.

First Jon’s voice “Alright, mate, just decompress here before the next—”

Then Lando, mid-rant: “I swear, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. It’s like I forgot how to brake. Sector two? I might as well have been blindfolded. I’m literally—”

He stepped inside, pulled off his cap—

—and froze.

Mouth still slightly open. Mid-sentence. His eyes locked on you like you’d just apparated out of thin air.

You gave a tiny wave from the couch. “Hi.”

The silence was so long, you could’ve written a novel in it. He blinked, then turned slowly to Jon like he was trying to confirm this wasn’t some elaborate concussion symptom.

“Mate,” Lando said, low and slow. “What the hell?”

Jon, grinning like the cat that delivered chaos, simply shrugged. “Surprise.”

Lando looked back at you. Still stunned. His brain was clearly buffering. “What are—how—wait, are you actually here? Or am I just super dehydrated and hallucinating?”

You stood up and opened your arms a little. “I mean, if this is a hallucination, it’s a pretty well-organized one.”

He just stared. Then laughed, this small, startled, incredulous laugh that cracked the weight on his shoulders like a window finally letting in air.

“Holy sh—what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in London.”

You stepped closer. “Got on the wrong plane, I guess”

Lando turned to Jon again, who had now backed toward the door, hands up like he was fleeing a crime scene. “You’re welcome,” Jon said, before disappearing with the speed of a man who had no intention of watching anyone cry in real time.

Lando turned back to you, still processing, still somewhere between overwhelmed and stunned. “I’m so confused — hi, baby”

Then, without a word, he pulled you into the kind of hug that said everything.

It wasn’t dramatic or movie-scene perfect. It was sweaty and tight and slightly awkward because his race suit was half on and you were way too sweaty, but it felt right . You felt him exhale against your shoulder, that first full breath he hadn’t taken since he got out of the car.

He pulled back, but didn’t let go. His eyes were glassy, but not in a he’s crying way. More like he was just finally… not holding it all together for a second.

“Can I get a kiss?” you asked, tilting your chin up.

You didn’t even finish the sentence before his hands were already on your face — gentle, a little shaky — like he was still making sure you were real.

It was one of those kisses that undoes a person — slow at first, but so full of all the things that hadn’t been said in the last three weeks. The missed calls, the glitchy FaceTimes, the texts that said I’m fine when he really wasn’t. You felt it all in the way his fingers slipped into your hair, in the way his thumbs brushed your cheeks like you were something fragile and familiar.

He kissed you like the race weekend had never happened. Like the weight of qualifying didn’t exist. Like there was no world outside that tiny, overly air-conditioned driver room with the ugly banana still sitting on the counter.

And you kissed him back like you hadn’t crossed three time zones and a customs officer who was weirdly suspicious about your backpack contents.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“God, I must look awful,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair.

“You look like you qualified sixth after wrestling a barely drivable car in 35°C heat while being emotionally constipated.”

“Emotionally constipated?”

He huffed a laugh — tired but real — and leaned into you a little more, his forehead resting against yours like he was finally letting himself exhale. The edge in his shoulders started to fade, piece by piece, like the tension had been holding him up and now he could just… lean. On you.

And then he said, like it had just hit him: “You saw the interviews, didn’t you.”

You winced. “Yeah…”

He groaned and hid his face in your neck. “Jeez, I sounded like a dramatic teenager.”

“Not at all… but you are a little dramatic sometimes.”

You pulled back slightly, not all the way — just enough to study him properly. His curls were damp and messy, sticking to his forehead. His eyes still had that post-race fog in them. But he looked a little less cracked around the edges now. A little more like himself.

“Hey,” you said gently, brushing a bit of sweat-matted hair away from his brow. “You really weren’t okay out there, were you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I’m… better now.”

His gaze dropped, and for a second you thought maybe he wasn’t going to say anything — that maybe he’d try to shrug it off like he usually did. But then he exhaled, a soft, shaky breath that sounded like surrender.

“I just…” he paused, voice quieter now. “I get in the car, and it’s like I know what to do. I know it. But then I miss one corner, or the balance shifts mid-lap, or the tires drop off earlier than I expected, and suddenly I feel like I’m chasing something I already lost.”

You didn’t say anything. Just listened. Let him keep going.

“It’s frustrating,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, his telltale stress tic. “Everyone’s saying I’m doing great, but I don’t feel great. I feel like I’m holding on by a thread, and one bad session away from everyone realizing I’ve just been winging it.”

You felt his fingers twitch in yours, like the words themselves were hard to say out loud.

“I feel like — ,” he added with a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I feel like I really suck sometimes.”

“Everyone sucks sometimes,” you said gently, thumb brushing against the back of his hand.

He didn’t move, but you could feel the resistance in his silence — like his brain wanted to argue. Wanted to dissect the data, relive every corner, every mistake, until he could prove his own self-doubt was valid.

So you leaned in, nudging your forehead lightly against his. Soft. Certain.

“But now it’s not the case,” you added. “Because you’re not just doing okay, you’re doing amazing. You’re fighting for everything — in a car that tries to throw you off track every time you blink. And you’re still pulling out results most people couldn’t dream of.”

He tried to shrug, but it was half-hearted. “Yeah, but P6—”

“You’re not your quali result, Lando.”

He blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He was quiet for a beat, processing. And maybe a little overwhelmed.

You stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, everything quiet except the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of tire trolleys being rolled down the paddock.

Then — right on cue — there was a knock at the door.

“Five minutes, mate!” came Jon’s voice from the hallway, muffled but unmistakably chipper. “Engineering briefing. Don’t make me come in there!”

You could almost hear the smirk behind his words.

Lando groaned and tipped his head back. “Why does he sound so happy?

“Because he orchestrated this entire emotional ambush and now he’s smug.”

“He should be smug. This worked too well.”

You patted his cheek, smirking. “Go do your job. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He hesitated, eyes scanning your face like he didn’t quite trust the moment not to disappear when he turned away. Then he kissed you again — quick, but warm — and grabbed his water bottle like he had something against it.

At the door, he turned back one more time.

His voice was quieter now. “Thank you. For coming.”

You smiled.

And then you waited. For what felt like forever. And you didn’t care.

Time passed in that weird post-qualifying blur. You dozed off for a bit on the lumpy driver room couch, woke up to the sound of someone wheeling a tire jack past the wall, scrolled through TikTok until you hit the weird part of the algorithm, and texted Jon just to know how long you had to survive without food in your belly.

He replied: He’s almost done. Hang in there

You didn’t answer but eventually, the door creaked open.

There he was again — hair damp from a rinse, hoodie half-zipped, a little more disheveled and still a bit distracted, but less tightly wound than earlier. His eyes lit up the second he saw you, like the reset button had finally clicked.

“You didn’t have to wait for me, baby,” he said, sounding more surprised than he should’ve.

You stood, brushing imaginary wrinkles off your already-wrinkled jeans. “What part of ‘I’ll be here’ did you think was optional?”

He shrugged, stepping in, reaching for your bags without asking. “You know me. Worst case scenario thinker.”

You let him take it, watching as he hoisted it like it weighed nothing and slung your tote over his other shoulder. “Look at you, carrying my stuff. So chivalrous.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but you caught the little grin he tried to hide.

You walked side by side out of the McLaren building, past a few remaining engineers still half-talking telemetry in the hallway, and out into the desert night air. It had cooled, but only slightly. The heat here lingered — stubborn and dry — clinging to the asphalt and the sleeves of your jacket.

An assistant — maybe the same one from earlier — met you both at the exit and guided you toward the van waiting near the paddock lot. You and Lando walked hand in hand, his thumb stroking small circles against your skin, a quiet rhythm he probably didn’t even realize he was doing.

He wasn’t saying much now. Not moody, just… quiet.

That kind of quiet where you could feel the gears in his brain turning behind the silence. Still stuck in the debrief, probably replaying every slide of telemetry, every question from the engineers. Wondering if he said the right thing. Wondering if he was the problem.

You didn’t push. You just walked next to him, let the silence stretch. Sometimes being close was louder than words anyway.

The van ride was short and uneventful. Lando sat beside you, hand resting loosely on your knee, head tilted back against the seat with his eyes closed. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping, though. His jaw was tight. You didn’t say anything — just gently squeezed his hand once, and he squeezed back.

The hotel room was clean, minimal, definitely expensive — the usual F1 fare. The lights were low when you entered, casting soft shadows across the white sheets and glossy tabletops. You tossed your bags near the foot of the bed and flopped down with a tired groan that came straight from your soul.

“Shower’s yours,” you said, pointing toward the bathroom without lifting your head. “Gonna order something to eat! Did you have dinner?”

From the bathroom, over the sound of a zipper and a muttered “Kinda. They had food during the briefing. I inhaled a sad piece of chicken and, like, one bite of rice.”

You lifted your head, squinting toward the door. “So no, then.”

There was a pause. “It was technically edible.”

“I’ll take that as a yes to food.”

The water started running, and a minute later, steam slipped through the cracked bathroom door. You grabbed your phone and started confirming your order: one grilled chicken wrap, one giant bowl of fries, hummus, two extra sauces and some kind of mystery dessert.

With that out of the way, you sprawled across the bed again, letting your body fully deflate into the duvet.

And then… he stepped out.

Hair damp and messy. A plain black t-shirt clinging in all the right places. Joggers slung low on his hips. Skin still flushed from the heat and the shower and the day.

You sat up slightly, mouth going dry.

“Okay,” you said. “Not to objectify you, but you currently look like a Mediterranean god who just conquered Sparta.”

He raised an eyebrow, toweling his hair with one hand. “That’s weirdly specific.”

“So is your jawline right now.”

He smirked, walking over slowly, towel now draped around his neck. “You missed me, huh?”

You looked up at him, really looked — at the lines under his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged just a little less now, the familiar tilt of his smile.

“More than you can imagine,” you said.

And you meant it.

Because seeing him again — close, relaxed, here — reminded you of everything you’d been missing in the spaces between calls and texts. The little things. His scent, his laugh up close, the way he looked at you like you were the calm in the storm.

You reached up, curling a hand behind his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his damp hair.

“So,” you murmured, “food’s on the way. You’re in charge of opening the door when it arrives.”

“I got it, boss!”

“And also…”

You pulled him down into a kiss — slow, familiar, and unhurried. The kind that felt like grounding. Like home.

He smiled into it, one of those real, barely-contained grins that made your heart thud just a little too hard.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, voice low and teasing.

“You also need a shower. Like, desperately.”

You gasped, hand to chest like he’d just insulted your lineage. “How dare—”

“Your airport aura is strong,” he said, all smug and serious, like he was doing a public service by telling you.

“I flew halfway across the world to emotionally support you,” you argued, grabbing your toiletries bag like a sword.

“And now I’m emotionally supporting your hygiene,” he shot back, unfazed.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He winked. “I know.”

Still muttering your pretend-offended curses, you headed to the bathroom, flipping him off over your shoulder just for good measure. You could hear his satisfied chuckle as the door closed behind you.

Inside, you peeled off the long day — the recycled plane air, the half-slept hours, the airport stress still clinging to your skin. The hot water hit your back like absolution. You stood there for a long moment, head bowed under the stream, letting the weight of travel and tension swirl down the drain. You’d made it. You were here. And despite Lando’s teasing, you knew he needed this — needed you. Even if he didn’t say it out loud.

By the time you stepped out, towel wrapped tight around you and skin still steaming, you felt like a marginally more functional human.

You opened the bathroom door to find him exactly where you left him — sprawled on the bed, shirt slightly rumpled, legs stretched long over the duvet. But now he was holding his phone, thumb flicking rapidly over the screen, eyes sharp and a little too focused.

You recognized that look immediately. It wasn’t just scrolling. It was doomscrolling.

The post-qualifying comment section rabbit hole.

A classic.

You dried off your arms with one corner of the towel, watching him in silence for a moment. The frown tugging at his brow. The way his lips pressed together like he was biting back every emotion at once.

You tried a gentle approach first.

“So,” you said lightly, moving to the minibar, “Majid—the airport driver—he told me he’s a fan”

No response. Not even a twitch.

You raised an eyebrow. “He said he even met you at one of your signing events last year.”

Still nothing.

Okay. Plan B.

“I also got sniffed by a drug dog at security. Not because of anything illegal, but because I had a protein bar in my pocket. I got scared for a moment.”

His eyes didn’t lift from the screen.

Right.

Guess it was time for the big guns.

You crossed the room silently and climbed onto the bed, still towel-wrapped, still half-damp, and positioned yourself directly on top of him — one knee on each side of his hips, your hands planted firmly on his chest.

That got his attention.

Men. So simple sometimes.

“Jesus—” he startled, phone nearly flying out of his hand. “What are you doing?”

You tilted your head innocently. “Hi there! Getting your attention?”

You softened then, leaning down slightly, palms pressed to his chest. “Seriously, babe. Put the phone down. You already did the hard part today. Let the internet argue about it — they’ll do it no matter what.”

His hands found your hips, resting there like he didn’t want to let go.

“I just hate that they’re right sometimes,” he said quietly.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone. “You just hate that you’re human sometimes.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his gaze searched yours — like he was trying to find reassurance and didn’t know how to ask for it — was answer enough.

So you kissed him — slow and deliberate, like a reminder that he was still here, still wanted, still doing more than enough.

When you pulled back, his expression had softened, the fight draining out of his shoulders.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “You win.”

You grinned. “Always do.”

You didn’t move from your place straddling him — still warm from the shower, still wrapped in the towel that was hanging on for dear life. His phone had landed somewhere on the bed, face-down and forgotten, exactly where it belonged. His hands stayed planted on your hips like they were glued there, thumbs brushing circles on your skin like he was grounding himself — like you were the only thing tethering him to the moment.

And maybe you were.

“I missed you,” you said again softly, your voice catching just slightly.

He looked up at you, eyes still searching, but this time, they warmed. His fingers tightened just a little on your waist. “Yeah, you said that” he murmured, voice low and a little rough. “I missed you too, love.”

You smiled, and for a moment, it was sweet. Soft. Like a breath taken after holding it too long.

Then you tilted your head with that familiar glint in your eye — that dangerous sparkle that always meant trouble. The good kind.

“Do you think… ” you began, slow and teasing, “a little sex with your amazing girlfriend who flew across globe to be here, would make you feel better?”

His brows shot up, and his mouth twitched like he was trying to fight a grin — and failing spectacularly. “Mhhh, like… for therapeutic reasons?”

“Oh, yeah totally,” you said, nodding solemnly, even as your fingers traced light patterns across his chest. “Very clinical. Completely evidence-based. I’ve read studies.”

“Uh-huh.” He laughed, hands still gripping your hips, like maybe he wasn’t going to let you get away that easy. “Well, I mean... there’s definitely zero chance it’d make me feel worse.”

“Exactly.” You grinned, shifting your weight forward until your nose brushed his, breath ghosting over his lips.

You kissed him like you were testing a hypothesis. Soft at first—warm pressure, mouth molding over his. But then he caught your bottom lip between his teeth and gave it a tug, and you made a noise that gave away how the theory had just been violently confirmed.

You pulled back just enough to murmur against his mouth, “We’ve got at least twenty minutes before the food gets here. Maybe twenty-five if the driver gets lost.”

He didn't answer at first. He just looked at you. Really looked. Eyes dragging across your face like he was cataloguing expressionsl—how your cheeks flushed when you flirted, how your mouth hovered open post-kiss like you were still tasting him. Then his gaze dipped lower, locked on the spot where your towel clung to your chest—sparse fabric stretched over skin gone warm and flush.

“Twenty minutes?” he repeated, voice all gravel and silk, and one hand slid beneath the hem of your towel like it belonged there. “Let’s make it fifteen. I want a little extra time to gloat after.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The smirk stayed, but it turned dangerous at the edges, teeth flashing like the playful mask was starting to slip. He hooked a single finger beneath your towel and tugged, slow and deliberate, until the whole thing unraveled like a magic trick undone in reverse—fluttering down, baring your chest, your belly, the soft heat of your thighs as air kissed every inch exposed.

He made a noise deep in his throat, a growl curled into a purr. “Jesus.”

He groaned against your mouth, one of those long, involuntary sounds that vibrated through your ribs and made heat flicker behind your navel. Then he twisted, rolling the two of you until you were on your back and he was propped over you on one elbow, staring down with a grin that could’ve launched a thousand extremely questionable research grants.

And then he lunged.

Not for your mouth this time, no, this time his lips found your neck, hot and hungry, tongue flattening over your pulse before teeth grazed the curve of your throat. You gasped, shoulders twitching, head tipping back to give him room—your breath coming faster, shallower, like he was siphoning it straight from your lungs.

“Mmmh—shit—Lando—wait—” You tugged at his curls, trying to pull him up, panting. “I wanted to make you feel good—”

That got a laugh out of him, and it buzzed against your chest as his mouth dipped lower, trailing heat over the swell of your breast. “Baby,” he murmured, tongue circling your nipple in a slow, languid swirl that made your toes curl, “you are. Trust me.”

Your breath caught. Gone. Just gone. Like he’d sucked it out of you with his mouth and kept it hostage somewhere in his chest. “I can’t believe you’re here”

He sucked—sharp, hungry. Your back arched like it had a mind of its own, a squeak slipping out of your mouth that didn’t sound like it came from an adult with any dignity left. “Oh—god, that’s—” you gasped, biting your lip as he switched sides, his mouth claiming the other nipple with the same greedy reverence, the kind of worship that made your thighs rub together without conscious thought.

And then he kissed lower.

No preamble. No bullshit. Straight down, warm trail of kisses melting across your belly, his tongue dipping into your navel just to hear the way you squirmed and gasped and maybe cursed his name in three different decibels.

And then he said, too calmly, “Babe, legs up.”

You obeyed. Instinct. Maybe survival. Legs bent, knees lifted, thighs parting around his shoulders to welcome him.

He didn’t go for your pussy. Of course not. That would’ve been too merciful. No, Lando fucking Norris, smug bastard, kissed the inside of your thigh instead—slow, deliberate, a kind of sinful affection in every press of his mouth. Lips so soft it hurt. A little bite, just under the curve where thigh met hip. You gasped. He grinned. He did it again.

Another kiss. Higher. A tongue-drag that made your muscles tense and twitch, that left a smear of wet warmth behind, cooling just in time for his next breath to chase it.

Your thighs tried to close but his shoulders were there, solid, bracing, and he just laughed—laughed—like he was genuinely enjoying your struggle.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice a low rumble against your skin. “I haven’t even started yet.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem! You’re killing me,” you hissed, every syllable vibrating with tension, hips canting forward like you could beg with the angle of your body alone.

“Mmm. Am I?,” he said, and his hands slid under your ass, spreading you open like the most beautiful goddamn buffet he’d ever seen. And then—then—finally—

His mouth dropped to your cunt like it was gravity.

The first lick was long and greedy. He groaned as he did it, nose pressed right where you were pulsing, tongue flattening and dragging through your folds like he’d waited all fucking day for this one taste.

You sobbed. Straight-up sobbed, breath caught in your chest, eyes rolling back, hands flying into his hair like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Ohh fuck—fuck, Lando—”

“Shhh,” he said, lips slick against your thigh. “Let me work. It’s been too long”

And then work he did.

He licked you like he was solving a puzzle. Every stroke was purposeful, searching, his tongue curling against your clit just right, just so a flick here, a broad press there, the wet slide of his lips around your whole damn pussy as if he needed to taste every part of you before he’d be satisfied.

Your thighs trembled around his ears. Your moans had lost all rhythm—just helpless, fractured cries that started low and ended in obscene high-pitched gasps. He moaned back into you like a call and response, mouth sealing around your clit and sucking until your hips bucked and your scream broke in your throat.

You were ruined.

Absolutely, unrepentantly, ruined.

One hand was still tangled in his curls, the other covering your mouth in some feeble attempt to quiet the sounds tearing out of you.

But he was undeterred. Focused. Determined. His hands tightened beneath your ass, lifting you higher into his mouth as he devoured you, obscene and wet and so fucking good it made your eyes tear up.

“Jesus—Lando—I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to your clit before diving right back in, tongue fucking you now with real, deep thrusts “You’re so fucking close, baby. I can feel that.”

Your whole body convulsed at the sound of that and then he went back to sucking, not even giving you the decency of a buildup this time. Just relentless pressure, precision, every motion dragging you up and up until your thighs locked, your back arched, and the orgasm hit you like a brick wall through the glass.

Straight-up, no filter, raw and glorious, like your soul had decided to exit your body to ascend. Your vision whited out, your entire core clenching around nothing, spasms rocking through you like your nerves were short-circuiting under the weight of his mouth.

And still—still—he didn’t stop. He slowed, yes, his tongue gentling, easing you down like you were fragile glass, but he did not fucking stop.

It left you shaking.

Boneless.

Gasping, splayed across the mattress like a crime scene.

You weren’t just fucked out—you were chemically altered, neurons misfiring, heartbeat galloping. Your whole body trembled, overstimulated and liquid-soft, every nerve humming, nipples tight from the air and from where his face had dragged, again and again, over your chest on the way down. You blinked at the ceiling, trying to locate your name, the date, your tax bracket—anything.

And from between your thighs, Lando finally lifted his head, face soaked, cheeks flushed like he’d been on a treadmill, mouth swollen and glistening with everything he’d just wrung out of you.

He looked up at you, his curls matted to his forehead and he had the audacity to grin like he was fucking pleased with himself. Radiating that infuriating Norris smugness like he was waiting for a goddamn trophy to materialize in his hand.

He leaned in, nuzzling your inner thigh, breath warm and still a little ragged from the intensity of his work, then just pressed a kiss right above the curve of your knee. “You okay?” he murmured against your skin, voice sticky-sweet and full of too much fake innocence.

You let out a breathless laugh that dissolved halfway into a groan. “Define okay,” you wheezed, lifting a limp hand to push your hair back from your sweat-slicked forehead. “Pretty sure I forgot how to breathe for a full thirty seconds.”

“I noticed…” He chuckled, rubbing his cheek against your thigh. “So, that’s a yes?”

“I mean,” you nodded smiling dazedly and dragging your fingers down your ribcage just to make sure it was still intact, “I’d love to return the favor, I really do, but… I don’t think I can suck your dick right now. I might fall asleep on it.”

Lando snorted, then laughed—loud and unfiltered, like he couldn’t help it—and you felt the vibration of it where his chest was still pressed against your legs.

“Damn,” he said, mock-solemn and before you could retort he kissed your cunt again—so casually, like it was just another soft kiss goodbye. A warm, messy little press of lips to your swollen, tender center that made your whole body twitch and a breathless gasp claw its way out of your throat.

And then he just grinned up at you. “We’ve got plenty of time to get your energy back for that, baby. No rush.”

You rolled your eyes and stroked a thumb along his jaw, his skin damp and rough with stubble, thumb sliding over the corner of his mouth where your slick still glistened. He kissed your hand instinctively, lips brushing your palm. It was so stupidly tender you almost melted into the mattress all over again.

“I did also wanted to be on top,” you confessed, half-whining, tracing his cheekbone like you were painting him from memory. “That was the plan. Ride you and do the work. You know? Look hot and stuff, but I’m afraid my legs are not gonna survive that shit right now.”

Lando grinned. Not just a smile—a full-blown, eyes-crinkling, dimples-flaring, you-just-set-him-up-on-a-silver-platter kind of grin. Like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment.

“Doggy?” he said, voice dipped in mischief, already shifting toward you like gravity was in on the joke.

You burst out laughing, hands flying up to cover your face, chest shaking as your body curled slightly toward itself “Jesus…”

“What?” he said, innocence nowhere to be found, voice lilting as he crawled over you. “Less legwork for you. All gas, no brakes for me. You know I love it”

You were laughing so hard it shook your whole naked body, your thighs brushing together with every breath, your hair a wild mess across the sheets. You barely had time to gasp a response before he was on you—not heavy, not rough, but decisive—hands already on your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of flesh like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred.

Then he flipped you.

Not with a grunt or a yank or any clumsy struggle—just manhandled you, gentle but so damn sure of himself. One hand wrapped your waist, the other slid under your thigh, and he rolled you over like it was nothing. You squeaked, legs flopping gracelessly before he adjusted you like furniture he owned—propped you on your stomach, nudging your knees apart with one cocky sweep of his thigh, his palm bracing the center of your back, keeping you down.

Every inch of skin he touched lit up. His grip was hot and possessive, but still… soft. Like even now, as feral as he could get, he couldn’t help handling you like you were some rare, beloved thing that might break if he wasn’t careful.

You arched instinctively, hips lifting, breath catching when you felt the heavy weight of his cock brush between your ass cheeks. And then—smack.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm. A flat-palmed slap to your ass that cracked through the room like a gunshot.

You yelped—actual yelp, high-pitched and stunned—and then burst into laughter that crashed into a whimper halfway through. “Lando—!”

“What?” he said innocently, the smug bastard, rubbing the sting out with his hand, fingers caressing the fresh heat as if he was apologizing to it.

The sheets were cool against your cheek. Your thighs parted instinctively, knees digging into the mattress, hips high—presented, waiting. Lando’s palm slid down your spine, then both hands cupped your ass, thumbs pulling you apart just enough to bare you to the air.

You whimpered.

He leaned down and kissed the curve of your back, slow and molten, lips pressing over each vertebra one by one like he was climbing a ladder to heaven. Your skin broke into goosebumps as he moved lower, kissing a trail down your spine, his tongue flicking over your tailbone before his hands smoothed over your hips again.

You could feel him behind you now—hard, hot, the weight of his cock nudging against your thigh, dragging along your folds with a teasing rock of his hips that made your toes curl.

You didn’t even registered when he took off his clothes. Or how.

“You good to go?” he asked, voice hoarse now.

You nodded frantically. “God, yes. Just—please, Lando—do it.”

He groaned—low, deep, animal—and you felt the head of his cock press right against your entrance, slick with you already, no resistance. You were wet, ready, needy in that frantic way that came after climax, your body greedy for more.

And when he pushed in—

It was a stretch. A thick, slow glide that had you gasping into the pillow, back arching, hands clawing the sheets as inch by inch he filled you up. No frantic pace. Not yet. Just the feel of him sliding in until he was flush against your ass, his hips pressed tight, his fingers digging into your waist.

“Holy fuck,” he hissed, leaning forward to press his chest to your back, lips brushing your ear.

You moaned, high and sharp, pushing back against him. “Move, move, please, just—”

And when he pulled out and thrust back in—it was devastating. Smooth, deep, a rhythm that was slow but deliberate, every roll of his hips making your breath hitch, your eyes roll back, your body sing.

He set a rhythm—deep and purposeful, each thrust grinding his cock right against your sweet spot, each snap of his hips sending jolts of pleasure right through your core. You were gasping now, nails tearing into the sheets, back arching to meet every roll of his body.

The bed creaked. Your moans filled the room, ragged and loud, his name slipping out of your mouth like a prayer and a curse all at once. He fucked you with focus, control, like he knew every part of you, like he’d been studying your responses, cataloguing every cry, every squeeze, every tremble.

And when his hand slipped under to rub your clit—

You almost blacked out.

One second you were clenching the sheets, the next you were gone, obliterated. Your entire body seized, a shudder ripping through you like a seismic event centered right between your thighs. Your mouth dropped open, no sound—just the shape of it, like a scream that hadn’t caught up yet to your brain, or maybe your brain had left the building and ditched your body.

Your legs kicked, spasmed, every muscle twitching in perfect disharmony, hips locking forward as pleasure crested again in a wave so sharp it felt like drowning. You collapsed forward onto the mattress, gasping, face pressed into cotton, fingers curling until your knuckles cracked.

And Lando—fucking Lando Norris—he felt it. Felt your cunt clench around him in fluttering, helpless pulses, felt the slick suction of your body begging for him. His breath caught like he’d been punched, his pace stuttering for a split second before he rammed into you again, harder now, frenzied.

“Shit ,” he growled, voice wrecked, hips snapping with punishing rhythm. “So tight—fuck—you’re choking me, baby—”

He folded over you, chest to spine, all that heat pressing down as he chased his own climax with single-minded desperation. His cock slammed deep, relentless, thick and fast and fucking perfect, gliding through your drenched heat like you were made for this—made for him.

“You feel so good,” he hissed into your ear, lips grazing your temple as his hand snaked under you again, rubbing circles on your clit in tandem with the rough grind of his hips. “So fucking perfect—I missed this—I missed you —god,”

“Lan, I’m close,”

“Yeah,” he panted, his mouth right at your temple, his voice thick with strain and smugness and pure fuck yes euphoria, “I can feel that.”

And he could—god, he could. Your pussy was fluttering around his cock, clenching in staggered pulses that made his thighs twitch and his breath hitch and his hips stutter. You were so tight, soaked, velvet-wrapped and convulsing around him like your body knew he was close too, and it wanted to drag him down with you.

His fingers didn’t let up. If anything, he doubled down, circling your clit faster, just how you needed—your body jerking beneath his, a whimper clawing its way up your throat as you slammed a fist into the mattress like it could stop you from exploding.

“Come for me,” he whispered against your skin “Let go, baby. You can do that for me, yeah? Let me feel you—fuck”

That did it.

The permission. The pressure. The rhythm.

Your orgasm detonated in your spine—white-hot and brutal, sparking up through your core like lightning.

You were moaning his name like it was the only word left in your vocabulary, drawn out and breathless and wrecked. Your back arched into him, your cunt milking him with every violent pulse of your orgasm, and he was right there, right there, holding you through it, groaning, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, “you’re gripping me—so tight—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Then his thrusts turned erratic. Wild. No rhythm now, just raw fucking need, his hips jerking forward as his cock throbbed deep inside you. His hands were locked on your hips like they were his last tether to this plane of existence, his mouth hot on your neck as he groaned one last time—deep and desperate—and came.

Thick. Spilling into you in heavy spurts that you felt, that pushed you into a dizzy spiral of overstimulation as he buried himself to the hilt and held, trembling. His entire body shook as he filled you up, panting against your ear, forehead pressed to the side of your face like maybe he needed the contact to keep breathing.

“Holy—fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked, fingers twitching against your skin.

You both collapsed, boneless and sticky and tangled, your bodies slumping together like someone had unplugged the tension and left only heat and the aftermath. His cock slid out slow, your breath hitching at the loss, at the sudden drip of him from between your legs—messy, obscene, and weirdly tender. He groaned at the sight, eyes dazed, lips parted in dumb awe.

“Look at that,” he murmured, cupping your ass lazily, dragging his thumb through the wet slick pooling between your thighs. “You’re leaking, baby. That’s so hot.”

You snorted into the sheets, eyes still squeezed shut. “You’re disgusting.”

Lando’s laugh came fast and boyish and utterly wrecked, his hand still lazily tracing nonsense circles over the swell of your ass, thumb occasionally dipping just a little too low—teasing, like he couldn’t help himself even if he tried. His chest was heaving with breathless amusement, sticking faintly to your back with sweat and skin and the kind of intimate mess that left no room for modesty. Not anymore. Not after what you’d just done to each other.

You reached back blindly, your hand landing on his hip, dragging him close even as you rolled halfway onto your side. And he went with it, limbs lazy, letting you pull him into a pile of tangled, sticky limbs. His arms wrapped around you instantly, instinctive, tight but not too tight, just enough, like he needed the contact as much as you did. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was soft , real slow and unhurried. Full of that something that made your chest ache in a way sex couldn’t reach.

When he pulled back, his forehead dropped to yours, noses brushing, and he exhaled like he was finally letting go of something he’d been holding all night. “Thank you,” he murmured, barely more than a breath.

Your brows knit, eyes still fluttering half-lidded. “For what?”

“For coming,” he said. “For surprising me, I needed that.”

The quiet in the room stretched, warm and thick like honey, the kind of silence you didn’t want to fill because it already said so much. He kissed you again before you could answer, firmer this time, lingering. His thumb brushed your cheek. “I love you,” he whispered into the kiss.

You inhaled like you’d forgotten how. And then you exhaled with a laugh that cracked apart on your lips, hands tightening around him, fingers sliding into his hair as you tugged him closer and buried your face in the curve of his neck. “I love you too, silly ” you whispered back.

He laughed softly, arms wrapping tighter, like he couldn’t get enough of holding you.

You kissed his jaw, lazy and smiling, then leaned back enough to look at him. His curls were a mess, cheeks pink, mouth kiss-bruised, and his eyes—those goddamn eyes—were molten, soft at the edges, sparkling.

You pressed your forehead to his again, grinning through the haze of sweat and post-orgasm endorphins. “I’m pretty sure this is definitely not what Jon had in mind when he proposed this idea to me.”