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verstappenverse · 3 months ago

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Breaking Point

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Driver!Reader

Summary: Your rivalry with Max Verstappen is legendary, but behind your fierce performances a chronic condition is slowly wearing you down. When Max starts to uncover the truth he has to decide, win the title at all costs or protect the one person who may have come to mean more than it.

7.9k words / Masterlist

The crowd was deafening. Cheers, chants, and the rhythmic pounding of drums thundered through the air as you stepped onto the flatbed truck for the drivers' parade. Flags waved like wildfire, and fans pressed up against the barricades, screaming your name with faces painted in your colours. You gave them a wave, heart thudding not from nerves, not exactly.

The season wasn’t just heating up it was boiling over.

Roughly a third of the way through the calendar, the championship fight had already narrowed to two names. Yours and Max Verstappen’s.

The sport’s fiercest rivalry in years was dominating headlines, you’d traded podiums and paintwork, elbows out at every corner, and now, as you glanced across the flatbed and spotted Max surrounded by cameras your stomach twisted.

This wasn’t just about racing anymore.

The rivalry had been brewing for years and had in turn become infamous "the clash of titans," they called it. A new golden age of Formula 1. The media couldn’t get enough of the drama: two elite drivers, one championship, and absolutely no love lost. But they didn’t know the full story.

Because the truth was your battle with Max wasn’t only happening on the track.

You were hiding something. Something big. And if Max, or anyone, found out you weren’t sure you’d even make it to the final race, let alone walk away with the title.

You shifted your weight, careful not to wince. The pain had become familiar, a dull hum beneath your skin, a reminder with every breath that you were running out of time.

Max was only a few feet away now, stepping up onto the flatbed at the last second with his usual casual confidence. His race suit hung open at the neck, fireproofs damp with sweat already, and yet he looked unbothered, cool, collected, irritatingly calm.

As much as you sometimes hated to admit it, you’d always respected him.

“Ready for another close one,” he said, flashing you that infuriatingly smug smile, “or are you finally going to give me a little room today?”

You raised an eyebrow, already steeling yourself for the mental game he always played before a race.

“Room? I didn’t realise this was bumper cars Verstappen. Keep pushing me like you did last week and I’ll send you into the gravel.”

Max chuckled, the sound surprisingly light. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried. But we both know you’re going to be glued to my rear wing for half the race, just like usual.”

A twinge of frustration flared in your chest. Max knew how to get under your skin. His self-assuredness, his relentless confidence, it felt like he was mocking you, but that wasn’t what really stung.

What hurt was that he was probably right. You were slipping. You could feel it, the sharpness in your driving dulled by something you couldn’t control. The exhaustion was creeping in, and the physical pain was harder to ignore with each race.

You knew you were hiding it well enough from the cameras, the media, even your team, but for how much longer?

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant, “don’t get too comfortable up front. You won’t see me coming.”

Max studied you for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly. There was something indecipherable in his expression, a flicker of curiosity or concern, but it was gone before you could pin it down. He shrugged and gave a nod.

“We’ll see.”

As he turned away, you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Max didn’t know. No one did. You still had time to figure things out, time to win this race, this championship, before everything came crashing down.

The race had been brutal.

Max’s Red Bull stayed just barely ahead, the gap flickering between eight-tenths and half a second, a cruel reminder of how close you were, and how far. Every time you lunged, he countered. Every time you found grip, he found more, but as the final laps closed in, it wasn’t the tyres or the fuel or even Max that started to wear you down.

It was your own body.

The first flare of pain hit you under braking at Turn 6 a stabbing bolt in your ribs that nearly made you lift. You ground your teeth, forced your foot down harder, trying to drive through it. But it didn’t go away. It spread. Fast. Each breath felt like knives slicing through your chest, stealing oxygen, focus, control.

Your hands clenched the wheel in a death grip, sweat slicking your gloves, vision starting to grey at the edges. You were spiraling.

Not now. Not here.

You clenched your jaw, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. You’d been fighting this for too long. Too many sleepless nights, too many doctor’s visits in secret. The diagnosis had been a shock, a harsh reminder of how even the strongest athletes could be brought down by something they couldn’t control.

Chronic pain, they’d said. Something to manage, not to fix. And no one could know, not your team, not the press, and certainly not your rivals. If they did, it would be seen as weakness.

Weakness wasn’t an option.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered, the corners felt tighter, your vision slightly blurred at the edges, but you couldn’t afford to back off. Not now.

Max was just ahead, his rear wing taunting you down the straight. You pushed harder. Too hard.

On the second-to-last lap, you misjudged the corner. A split-second of lost focus, and your tyres hit the curb too hard, sending the car into a brief spin. By the time you regained control Max was already crossing the finish line.

The race was over.

Max had won.

The car coasted to a stop, and all you could do was sit there, helmet still on, pulse thudding in your ears, pain radiating like a siren call through your ribcage.

You’d lost. You slammed your fist into the steering wheel, the pain in your ribs now radiating with every breath. It wasn’t just the defeat. It was the knowledge that you weren’t at your best. That you might never be again.

As you climbed out of the car you could feel the weight of disappointment settle over you like a cloud. The team surrounded you, offering words of comfort and encouragement, but none of it really sank in. Your mind was elsewhere, consumed by the fear that had been growing in the back of your mind for months.

Max approached, still wearing his helmet and with a glint of triumph in his eyes. He pulled it off, sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead, and gave you a nod.

“Hell of a race,” he said.

You forced a smile. “Yeah. You got me this time.”

“This time?” He raised an eyebrow, his usual teasing tone creeping back. “I’ve been getting you quite a bit lately.”

You laughed, but it came out more like a cough. “Don’t get used to it.”

Max’s gaze lingered on you, more intense now. His eyes flickered down to your waist, where you’d been subconsciously holding your side. You quickly dropped your hand, straightening up.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice lower now, a little less casual.

“Yeah, just… just tired,” you lied, trying to sound convincing. “Long race. Long season”

Max didn’t say anything for a moment, then he shrugged, a small smile returning to his face. “Right, well, rest up.”

But the way he looked at you, you knew he didn’t entirely believe your answer.

The following weeks were grueling. Training sessions were harder than they’d ever been, your body refusing to cooperate despite your best efforts. Every stretch, every weight rep, every sim session pushed you closer to the edge. What used to be routine now felt like punishment, your body refusing to respond, refusing to bend without protest.

You spent more time in physiotherapy and doctor's offices than you did on the track, always in secret, always through back doors, under fake names on appointment logs, always careful to keep up the facade of strength. You couldn’t afford questions. Couldn’t afford whispers.

But the cracks were showing. And Max… Max was noticing.

At first, it was nothing, just the way he watched you more closely during press events, his eyes narrowing whenever you winced or shifted uncomfortably. The casual questions about your health, disguised as jokes. You tried to brush it off, deflecting with humor, but Max wasn’t stupid. He was as sharp off the track as he was on it. He saw patterns. He felt when something was off. And now, you were off and he was tracking it like telemetry data.

“Lose a fight with your seat insert?” he’d ask when you sat down a little too slowly.

You brushed it off every time. “Just sore from carrying the team,” you’d quip. But his eyes would flick to your side, or your hand when it rubbed a phantom ache across your ribs, and he didn’t laugh like he used to.

One evening, after a particularly brutal qualifying session where you’d barely managed to secure P7, Max found you behind the hospitality motorhomes, still in your race suit, half hunched over with one hand braced on a railing, trying to catch your breath without drawing attention. You straightened when you heard his footsteps, but it was too late.

“You’re not okay,” he said bluntly, his usual playful tone absent.

You blinked, surprised by his directness. “What are you talking about? I’m fine.”

Max crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen you, the way you’ve been moving, the way you’ve been driving. Something’s off.”

“I’m just tired Max, it’s been a long day,” you sighed, trying your best to divert the conversation, but Max wasn’t having it.

“Cut the crap. This isn’t tired. This is different. You’re hurting” he said, his voice firm. “What’s going on with you?”

You hesitated. No one had pushed this far before, not even your team. The truth burned on the tip of your tongue. You wanted to say it. Just once. To let someone else hold the weight of it, even for a second. But then you saw the season flash in your mind, what you’d risk, what you’d lose if it all came crashing down.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, turning to walk away.

Max grabbed your arm, not hard, but enough to make you stop. “You can trust me, you know,” he said quietly, his voice softer now. “If something’s wrong…”

His words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, you almost caved. Almost.

But then you remembered what was at stake. Your career. The championship. Everything.

You pulled your arm away. “I’m fine Max. Let it go.”

Max looked at you for a long time, his eyes searching yours. But eventually, he nodded, stepping back. “Alright. For now.”

You turned and walked away, but the pit in your stomach only grew, because Max was getting closer to the truth, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep running from it.

The race in Monza was supposed to be your redemption. After a brilliant quali this was a chance to prove you still had what it took to win, to show Max and everyone else that you weren’t done yet. That the whispers, the doubts, the endless speculation about your decline were nothing but noise, but it quickly became clear that your body had other plans.

The pain was worse than ever, radiating from deep within your chest and flaring through your ribs every time you hit a kerb or took a high-speed corner. You gritted your teeth and kept pushing, but by lap thirty your arms were trembling. Sweat clung to your skin beneath the race suit, and your hands shook as you tried to keep a steady grip on the wheel.

Max was behind you, closing in. Not just with raw pace but with that ruthless, unrelenting pressure he was known for. He was waiting for a mistake.

Your vision began to blur somewhere around lap forty. It took everything just to stay on the racing line, and then suddenly the rear snapped. The car spun. Your world whipped around in a blur of colours and screeching tires before the impact came, jarring your entire body and sending pain lancing through your ribs like a knife. The barrier caught you hard on the left side. The engine cut out and smoke billowed. Your hands were trembling as you ripped off your gloves and undid the harness.

As you sat in the wreckage of your car, the pain in your chest now unbearable, you couldn’t help but feel the crushing weight of defeat. It wasn’t just the end of the race. It was the end of the illusion. You weren’t okay. And no amount of pride or stubbornness could mask it anymore.

You felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. This wasn’t the place to break down. Not here, not now.

By the time the medical car got you out, you were biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out. You waved off their questions, said you were fine, but you weren’t even sure what fine meant anymore.

The walk back to the paddock felt longer than the entire race weekend. Your helmet dangled from one hand, your other pressed tightly against your ribs beneath the suit. But later as you walked back through the paddock Max was already there, he was leaning against a stack of crates just outside the Red Bull motorhome, arms crossed, cap pulled low, but when he spotted you, he straightened immediately. His expression shifted the moment your eyes met

You barely had time to react before he was in front of you, one hand reaching for your arm, the other hovering like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure where it wouldn’t hurt.

“Come with me,” he said under his breath, glancing around.

Before you could argue, he was already steering you gently but firmly into a quiet corner away from curious eyes.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked, voice sharp with worry. “You should’ve pulled into the pits. You could barely hold the car straight by the end.”

You opened your mouth, tried to say something, anything, but no excuse felt good enough. So you said the only thing you could.

“I didn’t want to stop.”

Max ran a hand through his hair, pacing half a step away before turning back to you.

“You’re done hiding this,” he said firmly, stepping closer. “Whatever it is, I’m not letting you keep it to yourself anymore.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you just stood there, the pain and exhaustion finally catching up to you.

Max looked at you for a long moment, then took another step closer. “You can barely stand,” he muttered. “Jesus, I knew something was wrong. I could see it in how you were driving, you never make mistakes like that.”

“I’m fine, this is none of you business Max” you tried, but the words were weak, barely more than a whisper. They sounded pathetic even to your own ears.

“No. You’re not,” he snapped, louder this time. “You’re not fine. You could’ve been seriously hurt. Or worse, do you not get that? You put the car in the wall going 200 and then walked back here like nothing happened, like you didn’t just scare the hell out of me—” His voice caught, and for a moment, it was like the weight of what he wasn’t saying hung between you. “Do you even understand how close that was?”

“I didn’t mean—” you started, but he cut you off with a frustrated breath.

“You didn’t mean to? That’s not good enough,” he said, voice sharp with emotion. “You drove knowing you weren’t okay. You risked your life because what? You didn’t want anyone to know you’re hurt?”

He exhaled hard, stepping back like he needed to breathe or else he might say something he couldn’t take back.

“I thought I was going to see you being pulled out of that car unconscious,” he said, his voice low now, broken at the edges.

You stared at him, your own throat tight, unsure what to say.

His expression softened, as his hand came up, hesitated, then landed gently on your shoulder. Warm. Steady. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He watched your eyes flicker, like you were on the edge of bolting, and his voice dipped, almost pleading. “Please.”

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t argue.

It was late that night when you finally told him. You sat together in the shadows, tucked in a forgotten corner behind your hospitality unit, your back against the cool metal wall, your legs stretched out.

Max still hadn’t left your side. Not after the crash. Not after the walk back. Not even after you tried to brush him off the fifth time with a tired excuse.

He just stayed.

And maybe that’s why the words finally came.

Of all the people you could tell, Max Verstappen probably wasn’t the smartest choice. He was your fiercest rival. The one person you’d spent the better part of your career trying to beat, trying to outdrive, outlast, outdo in every possible way. You had a whole history of near-misses and podium scuffles and tension thick enough to choke on. So why him?

You should tell your physio. Your team principal. Your family. Your press officer even. Anyone but Max.

But instead here you were, in a dark corner of Monza, unloading your deepest vulnerability to the one man who’d spent the year trying to beat you.

And yet… something about it felt right.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, not with pity, not even surprise, but understanding. Quiet and real and grounding. Like he got it, in some strange way. Like there was some unspoken language between you, forged through years of competition and split-second decisions and shared silence in the paddock long after the fans went home.

You hated how easy it felt with him.

And God, that scared you.

Because you didn’t want to need anyone, especially not Max, with his impossible standards and his cutting sarcasm and the kind of intensity that could burn through stone. You’d built entire walls around yourself to survive in this sport, and Max Verstappen was one of the only people who had ever seen behind them.

“Why are you even here, Max?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “You didn’t have to stay.”

He turned to you, eyes meeting yours in the dark. “Yeah,” he said simply, “I did.”

And damn it, there it was again, that thing. That something between you that neither of you ever named, never acknowledged, but always felt. It lingered in the way you pushed each other harder than anyone else. In the way he always found your eyes on the grid. In the way you could never quite root against him, no matter how badly you wanted to beat him.

“I have chronic pain,” you admitted, your voice small, barely audible over the distant hum of a generator. “It started last year. Nothing major at first, twinges, tightness… easy to write off, but it got worse this season. I’ve been hiding it, trying to push through, but… it’s not working anymore.”

Max didn’t speak. He turned slightly to face you, legs bent at the knees, arms resting loosely on them. He didn’t rush you, he just listened quietly, his usual brashness gone, didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions, he just let you talk.

“I’ve been hiding it from everyone. From my team. From you. I’ve been managing it or trying to, physio, meds. I thought I could push through, like always. Just grit my teeth and keep racing. I thought for a while maybe it was all in my head” You let out a hollow laugh. “It’s not.”

Max’s jaw tightened, but still he said nothing.

“I didn’t want anyone to know. If the team found out, they’d pull me. If the media knew, they’d crucify me. And you… I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

That’s when he finally spoke.

Max frowned at that, shaking his head. “Weak? You’ve been racing like this all year and you think that makes you weak?”

You laughed bitterly. “I haven’t won in months, Max. I can barely finish a race without screwing up. I put it in the wall today. That’s not strength. That’s pathetic.”

Max sighed, leaning back against the wall, his gaze fixed on the night sky. “You’re not weak,” he said after a long pause. “You shouldn’t have been in the car today. Hell, you shouldn’t have been in the car for the last few races. You’re stubborn as hell, but not weak.”

You let out a breath. Your whole body ached. Not just from the crash, but from months of pretending.

Max sighed, leaning back against the wall, glancing up like he was searching for the right words. “You’re not weak,” he said again, softer this time. “You’re just tired. And in pain. That’s not the same thing. You’ve been shouldering something most people wouldn’t even start a race with. And you kept going. Alone. That’s not weakness. That’s something else entirely”

You looked away, jaw tight, trying to keep the emotion from spilling over. It was one thing to admit it. It was another to have someone see it.

Max moved closer “You should’ve told me... or someone at least.”

“I didn’t know how,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to make it real. Saying it out loud makes it feel like it wins.”

He shook his head. “No. Saying it out loud means you’re still fighting. And you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You smiled, a small, grateful smile, but it didn’t last long.

“So what’s the plan?” He asked.

You blinked. “The… what?”

He shrugged, but there was nothing casual in the way his eyes locked onto yours. “You said it’s getting worse. You can’t keep racing like this. So what’s next?”

You looked down, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“Then let’s figure it out,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shook your head. “Max, this isn’t your problem.”

“You think I waited for you after every race, checked in between flights, watched you limp through interviews because I was just being nice?”

You looked up, and he was right there, eyes blazing.

“I care about you, and you trusted me enough to tell me,” he said, softer now, like it hurt to say it too loud. “That means this is my problem. Whether you like it or not.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s not that I don’t want you here Max. It’s just… I’ve been carrying this for so long, I don’t know how to let someone else in.”

He gave a small, almost sad smile. “Then start with me.”

You hesitated. “Even if the plan means stepping back? Even if it means disappearing from the grid for a while?”

“None of that matters,” he said. “What matters is that you’re okay. That you’re healing. That you’re not destroying yourself just to prove you belong, because you already do."

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. He was right, of course. You’d been fighting this battle on your own for too long, and it was killing you. But asking for help… it still felt like admitting defeat.

Max was quiet for a moment, then he looked at you, his expression serious. “You need help. Real help. You can’t do this alone anymore. Taking time for yourself doesn’t make you weak either, please believe that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, blinking back tears. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he admitted. “But I’ll be there, every step of the way. If you let me.”

“But if I stop now…” you whispered, “…it’s over isn’t it? I stop, and they’ll replace me. And even if I get better… what if I don’t get the chance to come back?”

Max shook his head. “No, it’s not. You take the time to get better, to figure out what you need to do. And when… when not if you come back… you’ll be stronger.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For all the years of rivalry, the banter, the competition, you hadn’t expected this.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking back tears. “You really think I’ll get the chance?”

“I think you’re one of the best drivers on the grid,” he said, without hesitation. “And I think anyone who’s seen you drive knows that. This isn’t the end. Not if you don’t let it be.”

You dropped your gaze to your hands, suddenly overwhelmed by how much you'd just given him. “You know this changes things right? You knowing.”

“I know,” he said. “But not in the way you think.”

You looked up at him again.

“I’m not gonna see you as anything less because of this,” he said firmly. “If anything, I respect you even more… if that’s possible. Even if I hate that you didn’t tell anyone sooner.”

“You could use this against me, you know,” you said quietly. “If you tell anyone…”

Max met your gaze, his blue eyes steady. “I won’t.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You won’t?”

Max shrugged. “I’m competitive, not cruel. If I’m going to beat you, I want to beat you at your best.”

You stared at him, searching his face for any hint of deception, but there was none. He was being honest.

For the first time in months, you felt a flicker of hope.

Maybe you didn’t have to fight this alone anymore.

“Thank you,” you said finally.

He gave you a small nod, then reached over and nudged your knee with his own. You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop smiling. Not this time.

The decision to step back wasn’t easy.

It didn’t happen in one dramatic moment. It was a slow, aching acceptance, drawn out over sleepless nights, quiet tears in hotel bathrooms, and the gnawing worry for the future that refused to be silenced. It took soul-searching. And honesty, the brutal kind. With yourself. With your team. And, surprisingly, with Max.

Somehow, over the course of the ordeal, Max had become your anchor. The rivalry that once defined your relationship had softened, twisted into something far more complicated. He listened without judgment, pushed when you needed it, and called you out when you tried to pretend you were still invincible.

“I think you’re brave enough to admit it,” he’d said one night, “and I think you’re strong enough to come back.”

That stuck with you.

So when the decision was finally made, it wasn’t with fireworks or fanfare. Just a quiet nod to yourself, a shaky breath, and the understanding that sometimes stepping away took more courage than staying in the fight.

You announced it publicly just before the next race weekend, standing in front of a press room full of cameras and microphones that never seemed to miss a tremor in your voice. You told them a half truth, the version of it you were ready to share.

You needed time. Time to heal. Time to breathe. Time to come back stronger.

The media response was predictable. Headlines spun into chaos. Speculation ran rampant. Some questioned your drive. Others called you finished. They debated what was “really” wrong, but through it all, Max stayed silent.

Not once did he give the press a quote. Not once did he betray what he knew. Even when reporters tried to bait him, digging for scraps of scandal or sympathy, he deflected effortlessly changing the subject, shutting it down with a single look.

You’d never been more grateful.

As the weeks turned into months, you watched the races from the sidelines. At first, it felt like slow torture. Your body rested, yes, but your heart ached. Frustrated because every fiber of your being missed the track, the competition, the sheer thrill of racing. And yet, there was relief too, quiet and unfamiliar. You were no longer holding yourself together with adrenaline and fear. For the first time in ages you were breathing without pretending.

Max of course continued to dominate the championship. Beneath the cold stats and glowing headlines, there were moments that didn’t make it into the press, moments that were just for you. He’d call or text, checking in, making sure you were doing okay.

He’d text after qualifying, sometimes just a one-liner:

Track’s a mess. U would’ve hated it.

A call between flights, memes sent at 2AM with no context, only to be followed by a simple you okay? And sometimes no words at all, just a photo of the garage, or the view from his balcony, or his cat curled up on a travel bag, like he was reminding you that life was still moving and you were still part of it.

He didn’t ask invasive questions, he never pushed, but he always checked in. Subtly. Consistently. Like clockwork. Like he was making sure the world hadn’t swallowed you whole while he was out there conquering it.

It was strange, at first, getting used to the version of Max who wasn’t trying to out-qualify you or bait you in press conferences. This Max was… patient. Steady. A little sarcastic still, the texts always came with a dose of dry humour, but there was warmth beneath it, a quiet sort of care.

And you found yourself replying more than you expected, telling him small things. That your shoulder finally didn’t ache when you lifted your arm. That you missed the smell of burning rubber. That you’d accidentally called your physio by your engineers name out of habit. That you'd tried your first ever Red Bull drink and hated it much to his chagrin.

The friendship that formed was easy in ways nothing else in your life was.

It didn’t demand anything of you. There was no pressure to be strong or fast or okay. With Max you didn’t have to pretend, he never told you what you should be feeling, he was just there in anyway he could be, again and again, until you started to wonder what life had even looked like before he was in it this way.

One evening, late after another one of his perfectly executed wins you picked up your phone and typed out a message. You hesitated before pressing send, unsure why you felt nervous. Maybe it was because lately your heart beat faster than it used to when you saw his name light up your screen. Maybe because this was all still new, this version of you, this version of him, this version of you and him.

Because you’d spent your whole career learning how to stand alone. How to keep everyone at arm’s length. Rivals were rivals. Friends were rare. And Max… well Max had never fit neatly into either box.

Congrats on the win. Just don’t get too used to it alright? I’ll be back soon.

You hovered over the send button for a second longer, wondering if he’d see through it. If he’d hear what you weren’t saying.

I miss it.

I miss you.

I don’t know what this is, but it’s starting to matter.

The reply came almost instantly.

Looking forward to it. But seriously take your time. We’ll settle this on the track when you’re ready.

There were no fireworks in the message. No confessions, no overreaching sentiment.

But it meant more than he probably knew.

You leaned back on the couch, phone still in your hand, the hum of the television playing highlights in the background. For the first time in months, you felt something like peace settle over you.

You didn’t know when you’d be back. Or if you’d ever be exactly the same driver you were before, but you didn’t feel alone anymore.

The new year and the new season came around quick, and finally after what felt like a lifetime of recovery, rehab, and soul-searching, you were ready to return to the grid.

It wasn’t easy. It never would be.

The pain hadn’t vanished. Some days were better than others, but you knew by now that it would always be there, lingering under the surface like a shadow. What had changed was how you dealt with it. You’d learned to listen to your body, to recognise the difference between pushing your limits and hurting yourself.

Telling your team hadn’t been easy either. There were long, uncomfortable meetings behind closed doors, doctors’ reports and second opinions, legal clauses and moral dilemmas. Everyone had the same questions: Was it safe? Were you sure? Could you handle it if it went wrong again?

You didn’t pretend it was foolproof. There were no guarantees in motorsport but there never has been. You looked them all in the eye and told the truth, you were ready, and more importantly you promised that if it ever got too much again, you’d say something. No more silence. No more hiding.

What surprised you most was that they said yes. That they took the risk on you. And somewhere in the mess of nerves and determination, that gave you a quiet sort of strength.

By the time race week rolled around, your nerves were frayed and your heart was racing before you even set foot in the paddock. But the second you did, something clicked. The smells, the sounds, the adrenaline in the air it all came rushing back.

And then there was Max.

He was one of the first people to spot you as you walked through the paddock gates, your jacket tied around your waist, race bag slung over your shoulder. He made a beeline towards you grinning like a kid.

“About time you showed up,” he said, his usual cocky tone back in full force.

You rolled your eyes. “Miss me that much Verstappen?”

He stopped in front of you, eyes glinting. “Maybe. Or maybe I just got bored winning without any real competition.”

“Careful,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “you’re starting to sound sentimental.”

He grinned. “Don’t get used to it. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

But then, softer, barely audible beneath the bravado he added, “It’s good to see you back.”

You looked at him for a moment longer than necessary, trying not to let the warmth in his voice get to you. But it did. It always did now.

The race that day was one of the hardest of your career. Every lap was a war between muscle memory and the cautious voice in your head. Every corner was a test of discipline, control, trust in your body. And when you crossed the finish line just behind Max you didn’t care that it wasn’t a win. You didn’t care that your suit was soaked with sweat. You’d made it. You’d done it.

You were back.

As you climbed out of the car, your chest heaving, Max was already striding toward you. He didn’t wait for the cameras to move. Didn’t play it cool. He pulled off his helmet, a wide grin stretched across his face and pulled you into a crushing hug.

“Not bad for your first race back,” he said, cheeks flushed, eyes alive with adrenaline, “but next time I expect you to give me a real challenge.”

You shot him a look, wiping the sweat from your brow. “Oh, don’t worry,” you said, breathless but smiling. “I will.”

The weeks following your return were a whirlwind, races, press conferences, back-to-back simulator sessions, long nights with your physio, and an endless stream of media narratives. They called it the comeback of the season, painted you as the fighter, the underdog, the miracle story. But you knew the truth.

It was hard. Every lap still demanded more from you than it ever had before. And the only constant, familiar and infuriating, was Max.

The rivalry between you had never been sharper. He didn’t go easy on you. If anything, he pushed harder, drove aggressively when you were in his mirrors, blocked with precision that made you curse into your radio. But even through the heat of battle, there was something else brewing.

It was in the way he waited for you after races now. The way his calls came after rough weekends without needing an explanation. It was in the long glances across the paddock. The casual shoulder bumps that held just a little too long. The way you both kept pretending it was nothing, even when it clearly wasn’t.

Max had always been your toughest competitor, but now… now, he was something more. He wasn’t just the guy pushing you on the track. He was the one who had stood by you when things had fallen apart. He had seen you at your worst and hadn’t walked away. He was the one who knew how bad your ribs hurt when the track leaned right. The one who’d stayed the night when you cried after a brutal practice in Singapore. The one who never once told you to be stronger, he just reminded you that you already were.

One late evening after a draining Friday practice session, you found yourself next to him on a concrete wall in the far end of the paddock, away from everyone you sat shoulder to shoulder.

The track was silent now. The stars were barely visible, but the moon hung low and bright, casting long silver shadows over the empty circuit.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” he asked.

You looked over at him, brow raised. “What’s weird?”

He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. Us. Sitting here. Talking. Not trying to rip each other’s heads off. You didn’t even call me a smug bastard today. I’m starting to worry.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Yeah it is a little strange. Guess we’ve come a long way.”

“Seriously though,” he said, his smile fading into something quieter, more sincere, “I never expected this.”

You tilted your head. “Expected what?”

“This... us. I’ve always kept people at arm’s length. Easier that way, you know? Just focus on racing. Keep everything else out.”

You swallowed, something catching in your throat. “Well, to be fair you were kind of an asshole when we first met.”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound light but a little sad. “I still am sometimes.”

He looked at you again, longer this time, the silence stretched on, not awkward, but heavy

“I think about it sometimes,” he murmured. “If things were different. If we weren’t in this job... or if we didn’t have to pretend...”

“Do you?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “Pretend?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat too long. “Every day.”

The air between you crackled. Your hand was resting next to his on the wall, your pinkies brushing lightly, and neither of you moved away. You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say.

“Max…” you began, not sure if it was safe to say what had been sitting on the tip of your tongue for weeks.

“Anyway,” he said, standing and stretching, slowly as if reluctant to break the moment. “We’ve got a race tomorrow better get some sleep.”

And as he turned to leave, his hand brushed against yours, deliberately this time and he let it linger just long enough to send your pulse racing.

You watched him disappear down the paddock, your heart a tangle of adrenaline, but this time it didn’t feel like an open ending. It felt like the beginning of something that had been slowly building, quietly, stubbornly, undeniably and now, finally, it was starting to take shape.

Your first win of the season felt like a dream. The chequered flag waved, the crowd roared, and for a moment, the entire world blurred into a rush of relief and triumph.

You’d done it. You’d won again.

You didn’t even get your helmet off before Max was there, grinning like he hadn’t just spent seventy laps trying to ruin your life.

“You actually made me work for that one.”

You pulled off your helmet, shaking out your hair, heart still pounding from the final laps. “Admit it you were sweating.”

“Oh, I was sweating,” he said, stepping closer. “Just not only because of the race.”

Your brows lifted, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Wow. Bold move, Verstappen you flirting with me now?”

He shrugged, eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second too long. “Been doing that for a while. You’re just slow.”

You let out a breathy laugh, half exhausted and half completely wrecked by the way he was looking at you, like you were the finish line and he’d been chasing you all season.

Later you stood on the top step of the podium, champagne dripping down your fireproofs, heart pounding as the anthem played. And right next to you, among the flashes of cameras you caught Max looking at you. Not with envy. Not with rivalry.

With something else entirely.

Pride. Awe. Maybe even something dangerously close to love.

You thought that was it. The end of a perfect day, but long after the night fell silent there was a knock at your hotel door.

You opened it to find Max standing there. Freshly showered, hair damp, hoodie half-zipped over a soft t-shirt, eyes impossibly blue in the hallway light.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze flickering from your face to your bare feet, then back up.

“You gonna invite me in?” he asked eventually, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips.

You stepped aside, pulse quickening as he walked in.

The room was quiet. You were still in the oversized team tee you wore to bed, the one that fell to your thighs and smelled faintly of fuel and champagne.

“You okay?” you asked, closing the door gently behind him.

He nodded. “Yeah just... couldn’t sleep.”

You tilted your head. “You? The king of sleeping through debriefs?”

He gave you a look. “That was one time.”

You smirked, walking over to the small kitchenette to grab a bottle of water, needing something to do with your hands. “So what’s really going on?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He moved toward the window, looking out over the glittering city lights, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell to say to you for weeks,” he said finally.

You froze, the cap of the bottle halfway twisted. “Yeah?”

He turned, and the look on his face was... different. Unarmored.

“You winning today,” he said softly, “it made everything harder.”

You frowned. “Harder?”

“Because I keep telling myself to keep this simple,” he went on, walking toward you now, slow and careful. “Just racing. Just rivalry. Just… whatever it’s always been between us.”

Your heart pounded louder with every word.

“But it’s not that anymore,” he said, stopping just a few feet away from you. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

You swallowed hard. “So what is it then?”

He looked at you like he wanted to memorise every inch of your face. Like saying the next words out loud might break him open.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, voice hoarse. “And it terrifies me.”

The air left your lungs. The words hit you like a gut punch not because they hurt, but because they were so impossibly vulnerable coming from him. For a second, you just stood there, blinking at him.

“Max…”

“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” he said quickly, “I just… I needed to say it. Because watching you win today, watching you come back from everything and still be that fucking brilliant made me realise that if I don’t say it now, I might never get the chance. When you won all I could think about was how much I wanted to be the first person you saw after you crossed that line.”

The room felt suddenly too small, the silence between you too loud.

You swallowed again. “Max—”

“I know what you’re gonna say,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “That it’s too complicated. That there’s too much at stake. But you can’t stand there and tell me you haven’t felt it too. Don’t do that to me.”

His voice cracked at the end, and it shattered something inside you.

Silence stretched, thick and fragile.

Of course you had felt it. You felt it in every late-night phone call. Every text that made your chest ache. Every glance across the garage. Every time his car sat just ahead of yours on the starting grid and you felt more pride than envy.

You stepped closer.

“I was afraid,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. We worked so hard for this friendship, for trust, and wanting more felt greedy. Like it might cost me the one person who never looked away when things got ugly. You reminded me who I was when I forgot. And I—I didn't want to risk losing that. Losing you.”

He gave a breathless laugh, almost disbelieving. “You think I could ever go back to before… to pretending?”

Your hand brushed against his.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

“I feel it too, of course I do.” you whispered. “You were there when everything fell apart. And you stayed.”

He reached for you then, not to kiss you, not yet, but to cradle your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently along your cheekbones.

“I’ll keep staying,” he said. “As long as you’ll let me.”

And that was it.

You leaned into him, your hands gripping the front of his hoodie, and kissed him like you’d been holding it back for far too long. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate. His hands found your waist, gentle at first, then firmer, like he’d been holding himself back for so long, unsure if he was allowed to want this. But now that the dam had broken, he wasn’t going to pretend anymore.

You kissed him like you meant it. Your lips moved with his like you already knew the rhythm, like your bodies had been waiting to catch up with what your hearts had already decided.

When you pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, he was smiling.

“So,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, “does this mean I can stop pretending I only text you for tyre strategy talk?”

You rolled your eyes, and kissed him again just to shut him up.

And just like that, the noise of the world faded, the lights outside blurred, and for the first time, your heart wasn’t racing because of fear, or pressure, or pain.

It was because of him.

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orangeblossomsintheair · 6 months ago

Text

ILLICIT AFFAIRS (1/3) | CS55

summary : “Bossy, isn’t he?” The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course—it’s Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.

wc : 9k

an : sorry for the lack of updates recently.. ehem.. anyway. rally driver carlos sainz. im making this a thing now.

“You’re staring,” Carlos says, voice low and gravelly. His smile is wolfish, sharp enough to cut through your resolve.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus on something other than the way his fireproofs cling to his frame or how the red of his suit gleams in the harsh light. “You’re filthy.”

“Occupational hazard,” he replies, shrugging. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Because you’re Charles Leclerc’s little sister, and that means Carlos Sainz Jr. is completely, irrevocably off-limits.

Charles would kill you both if he knew. He’s warned you before, in that brotherly-but-deadly-serious tone only he can manage.

Carlos is reckless, he said.

Carlos is trouble.

Carlos is not for you.

But damned it all, he looks good.

The kind of good that sinks its teeth into your chest and doesn’t let go. Mud-drowned, sweat-stained, grime-smeared.

Carlos Sainz Jr. wears chaos like it’s tailored for him.

By all accounts, you have no business so much as glancing twice at him.

Preciously guarded, perfectly poised, the crown jewel of your family’s otherwise tumultuous legacy.

Carlos doesn’t belong in the world that your family envisions for you. He’s nothing like the men you’ve been told to admire. His name carries weight, but for all the wrong reasons.

His reputation is as red as the suit he wears, all sharp edges and unapologetic flame. A bold, glaring warning sign.

—

The first time you meet Carlos Sainz is at the FIA WRC Prize-Giving Ceremony, a glittering vortex of champagne, sequins, and self-importance. The kind of place where you’d half expect someone to announce their yacht has feelings and everyone to applaud.

You’re standing near the bar, clutching a cocktail that tastes like fruit and regret, watching as yet another impeccably dressed couple glides by, all pearly smiles and whispered deals.

You’ve perfected the art of looking like you belong here. Chin up, shoulders back, face set in that careful neutral expression that says, Yes, I am both fascinated and entirely above this conversation.

Your dress, while beautiful, feels like it’s plotting against you.

It’s a designer masterpiece, sure, but also a silken cage, clinging to you with a vengeance. Moving feels like negotiating with an overly aggressive boa constrictor.

You’re mid-sip when a familiar warmth presses against your side, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of Dior cologne and something ineffably Charles.

He slides into your personal space with the precision of a Ferrari in a hairpin turn, arm looping over your shoulders in a practiced, casual gesture

“Hey,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He’s all sharp lines and understated ease, looking like he belongs here more than you feel like you ever will.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low, steady. You know what that particular combination usually entails.

“Charles,” you start, “why do I feel like you’re about to ruin my evening?”

“Because I probably am,” he says, his tone far too smug. “What’s with the silent brooding act? You’re usually better at pretending to have fun at these things.”

You shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s not brooding. It’s observational detachment. Very sophisticated.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unimpressed. “Observational detachment looks a lot like you wishing the floor would swallow you whole.”

You huff. “Look, not everyone thrives in a room full of egos and overpriced cologne. Some of us are just trying to survive without tripping over a waiter or accidentally insulting someone’s investment portfolio.”

Charles chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes you feel both comforted and mildly insulted. “Relax. Nobody’s looking at you.”

“Wow, thanks for that, Charles. Truly, your support is overwhelming.”

“Anytime,” he says, patting your shoulder like you’re a child who just learned how to tie their shoes.

Before you can deliver a properly scathing retort, a ripple of energy rolls through the crowd.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in the air, but then the room practically pivots in unison. You wonder for a second if someone's giving out free caviar.

Instead, you follow their collective gaze to a man.

He strides into the room with the kind of confidence that should be illegal. The tailored suit, the tousled hair, the jawline that could cut glass. It's like someone combined a Greek statue and a high-stakes poker player and gave it legs.

“Man of the hour,” Charles mutters, his voice tinged with something you can’t quite place. Disdain? Wariness? A general sense of foreboding?

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head toward him. “Friend of yours?”

Charles snorts. “Hardly. That’s Carlos Sainz Jr. Rally royalty. He's won the last 3 seasons. Toyota’s golden boy. Ferrari’s got some partnership thing with them next season, which is the only reason why we’re even here.”

You glance back at Carlos, who’s working the room with maddening confidence. “So, he’s basically Rally’s Verstappen?” you ask, your curiosity slipping out before you can stop it.

Charles gives you a look. “Don’t.”

“What?” you say, feigning innocence. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re not just asking,” he counters, his eyes narrowing. “I know that look. That’s the ‘who’s that guy, and how do I make him notice me’ look.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff, turning to face him fully. “I do not have a-”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’ve seen you use it. Monaco. Italy. That time in Barcelona with-”

“Alright!” you hiss, your face heating. “Fine. Maybe I’m curious. He’s… magnetic.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, magnets also attract negative things. Stay away from him.”

You smirk, leaning a little closer. “What’s the matter, Charles? Afraid I’ll charm him?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’m afraid he’ll charm you. And then I’ll have to deal with whatever disaster follows.”

“Relax,” you drawl, giving him a playful nudge. “I’m not that easy to charm.”

“Yeah, sure,” Charles mutters, clearly unconvinced. “Just don’t do that thing where you get all… wide-eyed and clever. Guys like him eat that up.”

You’re about to respond when you feel it— a gaze.

You glance up, and there it is.

Carlos’s eyes are on you. It’s brief, almost imperceptible, but it sends a spark down your spine.

Charles notices instantly. His grip on your shoulder tightens. “Don’t,” he warns again, his voice low and dangerous.

“I didn’t do anything!” you protest, trying to suppress a smile.

“Exactly. And you’re not going to,” he says, steering you toward the opposite end of the room like a bouncer removing an unruly guest. “We’re going to stand over here, away from trouble.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being predictable,” he shoots back, his jaw tight. “Trust me, mon cher, you don’t want to play with fire.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of Carlos as Charles practically barricades you with his presence. “You know,” you murmur, smirking, “sometimes you’re more fun when you’re not acting like dad.”

Charles glares at you. “And sometimes, you’re less annoying when you don’t flirt with people I don't even want to see once in my lifetime.”

“The fact that they annoy you is half the fun,” you say sweetly, earning a groan from him.

“God help me,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re going to kill me one day, I swear.”

—

“Alright, sœur,” Charles says as he adjusts the cuffs of his tuxedo. “I need to head out for some Ferrari business. Do not make me regret leaving you alone.”

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your cocktail with mock innocence. “Charles, please. What trouble could I possibly get into in a room full of racing legends and corporate sponsors?”

He levels you with a look so sharp it could shave ice. “I have seen you talk your way out of detention, past bouncers, and into a free round of drinks on three separate continents. You are a wildcard, sœur.”

“Flattering,” you reply, setting your glass down. “But seriously, I’ll be fine. I’ll stay right here by the bar, sipping my little fruity drink, not bothering anyone.”

“Promise me,” Charles says, and his tone is so dead serious you have to bite back a laugh.

“Promise,” you reply solemnly, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Charles doesn’t look convinced. “No cocktails that magically refill themselves.”

“Understood.”

“No sneaking out the back to avoid small talk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And absolutely, under no circumstances, are you to talk to Carlos Sainz.”

At this, you can’t help but grin. “Ah, so we’re naming names now.”

“I mean it,” Charles says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping. “He’s not for you. He's the kind of guy that makes people do stupid things.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Are you warning me or complimenting him?”

Charles groans as he steps back, hands on his hips, his expression a mix of concern and mild irritation. If he had a clipboard, you’re pretty sure he’d be writing up a contract for you to sign in blood just so he can rest easier.

“Alright,” he says. “Repeat it back to me. What are the rules?”

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your too-tight dress. “Charles, I’m not five-”

“Rules.” His tone is firm, his eyes narrowing like he’s daring you to argue.

You roll your eyes but indulge him anyway. “I will stay here, I won’t get drunk, and I will absolutely not talk to Carlos Sainz.”

“And?”

You blink. “And… I won’t commit arson?”

He glares at you, unimpressed. “You won’t look at Carlos Sainz.”

“Charles-”

“Not even a glance. Not even one of those polite ‘oh, I accidentally made eye contact across the room’ things. Nothing. He doesn’t exist to you. Got it?”

You try to keep a straight face but fail miserably. “What happens if he sneezes near me? Do I ignore that too? Should I call security?”

“Sœur, this is not a joke,” he huffs, his hands moving to your shoulders like he can physically shake the mischief out of you. “Carlos is… he’s trouble.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Trouble? Or, like, annoyingly charming?”

“Both!” Charles exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And don’t give me that look. I’ve seen what happens when you’re around guys like him. You think they’re all charming smiles and nice suits, and then next thing I know, you’re calling me to help you get out of some ridiculous situation-”

“I called you one time,” you interrupt. “And that was because the guy had a pet snake, and I panicked!”

“And who ended up having to rescue you from the snake guy?”

“Okay, fine, you made your point,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “I won’t talk to Carlos. Happy?”

“No,” Charles says flatly. “But I have to leave anyway. Ferrari’s calling.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Abandoning your defenseless sister in the lion’s den. What a hero.”

He leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “I’m serious. Stay here, don’t drink too much, and if you see Carlos coming, you run.”

“Run? In this dress? Are you kidding me?”

“Figure it out,” he snaps, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking off. He glances over his shoulder twice—twice—as if expecting to catch you breaking a rule the moment he’s out of earshot, before narrowing his eyes at a man who isn’t even Carlos but looked at you for half a second too long.

You wait until he’s fully gone before exhaling in relief.

“Bossy, isn’t he?”

The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course— it’s Carlos Sainz.

You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run.

RUN.

“I was beginning to think he’d never leave,” Carlos adds, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You blink at him, momentarily caught off guard. “You were… waiting for him to leave?”

“Only because he kept looking at me like I’d stolen his wallet,” Carlos replies, leaning casually against the bar. “Or his car. Or his sister.”

You open your mouth to respond but close it again, realizing there’s no good way to play this off. “He’s just… protective.”

Carlos chuckles, his eyes scanning your face with a kind of slow, deliberate curiosity. “I noticed. So, did you make him that promise? No drinks, no sneaking out, no talking to me?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, deadpan. “I told him I’d only talk to the nice drivers.”

Carlos clutches his chest like you’ve just shot him. “Ouch. Harsh.”

“I’m just being polite,” you say, your lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” he replies, leaning closer, his voice dropping slightly, “if this is you being polite, I think I would very much like to see what happens when you are not.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re trouble.”

He grins wider. “So I have heard.”

You glance around, half-expecting Charles to materialize out of thin air and haul you away, but thankfully, the coast is clear. “If Charles sees us talking…”

“I will tell him I was complimenting his suit,” Carlos says, completely unbothered.

“Complimenting his suit?”

“It is the diplomatic approach,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, I am not here to talk about your brother.”

You feel your cheeks heat slightly but manage to keep your tone light. “Oh? And what are you here to talk about?”

Carlos tilts his head, considering. “I was going to ask what you are drinking. But now I am more curious about what it takes to make you smile like that.”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “Like what?”

“Like you have just outsmarted someone,” he says, his grin softening.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Likely not,” he admits. Carlos leans against the bar, his grin firmly in place, the picture of someone who knows they’re being just a bit too charming for their own good. “Alright then,” he says, folding his arms casually, “if flattery is off the table, will you take honesty?”

You arch a brow, intrigued despite yourself. “Honesty? Bold move. Let’s hear it.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Honestly… I do not think I have ever seen someone look so uncomfortable in such an expensive dress.”

Your mouth falls open in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“You look stunning,” he says quickly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, “but also like you are plotting the designer’s bankruptcy for making it impossible to sit down without no strategy.”

You try to fight the grin tugging at your lips, but it’s hopeless. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.” He gestures toward your drink. “That is why you are sticking to cocktails, am I wrong? Easier to hold when you cannot sit.”

“First of all,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “I’ll have you know this dress is art. Secondly, yes, it’s also a medieval torture device.”

Carlos laughs, the sound warm and rich. “I knew it. You should have gone for something more comfortable. Like a race suit.”

“Oh, sure,” you say dryly. “Nothing screams elegance like fireproof overalls.”

He raises a brow, amused. “I pull it off, no?”

“Debatable.”

Carlos gasps, hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” you tease, swirling your drink. “Coming over here and making fun of my dress. Bold move for a guy who was scared of my brother five minutes ago.”

“I was not scared,” Carlos protests, though his grin gives him away. “I was being… strategic. Big difference.”

“Strategic?”

“Of course. If I had approached with him still here, I would not have had a chance to make you laugh like this.”

You blink, caught off guard by the way his words land. Playful, sure, but with just enough sincerity to make your heart skip a beat. You glance down at your drink to recover. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when it is worth it,” he replies smoothly.

You roll your eyes, though you’re still smiling. “You know, Charles warned me about you.”

Carlos leans in slightly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Did he, now? What did he say?”

“That you’re trouble.”

He grins, clearly delighted. “Smart man, your brother.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m starting to think he undersold it.”

Carlos’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, his smile softening. “And yet, here you are. Still talking to me.”

“Out of politeness,” you counter, though your tone is anything but serious.

“Ah, of course,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Politeness. Nothing else.”

Before you can respond, a familiar figure catches your eye— Charles, weaving his way back through the crowd, his sharp gaze already scanning the room.

Carlos notices too.

He straightens slightly, his grin turning almost boyish. “Looks like the bodyguard is back.”

You feel a pang of panic and glance at Carlos. “You should probably go before he-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off with a wink. “Relax.”

Before you can protest, he pulls a small card from his pocket and slides it across the bar toward you. “Call me sometime. You know, if you ever need a break from all the rules.”

Your eyes widen, and you stare at the card like it’s going to combust. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly,” he says, stepping back with an easy confidence that somehow makes the gesture feel entirely natural.

You glance back toward Charles, who’s getting closer. “You’re insane.”

“Very likely,” Carlos agrees, his grin never wavering. “But you are smiling again, so I will take my chances.”

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd just as Charles arrives, his expression immediately suspicious.

“You’re… red,” Charles says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Why are you red?”

“I’m not red,” you reply quickly, tucking the card into your clutch before he can notice.

“You are definitely red.” His eyes scan the room like he’s searching for a culprit. “Did someone talk to you? Was it-” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

“Who?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I leave you alone for ten minutes-”

“Nothing happened!” you say, cutting him off before he can spiral. “I stayed in place, I didn’t get drunk, and I absolutely did not talk with Carlos Sainz.”

Charles glares at you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. “If I find out you’re lying…”

“You won’t,” you assure him, fighting to keep your expression neutral.

Charles mutters something in French under his breath, his protective instincts still on high alert. But for now, he seems to let it go.

You take a deep breath, trying not to think about the card burning a metaphorical hole in your clutch.

Trouble, indeed.

—

The next evening, you’re sitting on the edge of the couch in the hotel you're staying in for the week, the card in your hand like a magnet pulling your thoughts.

Carlos Sainz Jr.

His name, elegant and bold, hovers just above a phone number.

You’ve been staring at it for an hour, maybe two.

It’s reckless. You know exactly where this could lead. But after weeks of licking your wounds post-breakup, maybe reckless is what you need.

You grab your phone, dial the number, and press call before you can second-guess yourself.

The line rings twice before you hear his smooth, amused voice. “Did not expect you to actually call. Could you not resist me after all?”

You snort, leaning back in your chair. “You’re lucky I was bored.”

“Boredom. My favorite reason to hear from someone,” he says, the grin practically audible. “Let me guess, you are curious too?”

“A little bit.”

“Well, what are you curious about then? My irresistible charm? Perhaps my car collection?”

“How you manage to stay humble, obviously,” you deadpan, sinking back into the cushions.

Carlos laughs, warm and easy. “Touché. So, to what do I owe the honor of your time?”

“Honor?” you repeat, grinning despite yourself. “You’re laying it on thick, Sainz.”

“Is it working?” he teases.

“Not even a little.”

“Well that just breaks my heart,” he says, the amusement still lacing his voice. “So, what’s the plan? Coffee? A five-course dinner? A museum? A chess tournament, maybe?”

“Very funny.” You can’t help but roll your eyes.

He chuckles. “Not doing it for you? Then.. how about something a little more… fun?”

You pause, caught off guard by the openness of the invitation. He clearly doesn't shy away from what he wants. “Define ‘fun.’”

“Well, that depends,” he replies. “Do you like questionable choices?”

You laugh lightly, your shoulders relaxing. “That’s vague enough to sound both exciting and mildly concerning.”

“Only if you're afraid of a little adventure,” he says. “So, what do you say? Feel like breaking a rule or two tonight?”

It’s tempting, more than you care to admit. After the mess of your last relationship, something casual, something fun, feels like exactly what you need.

No strings, no complications, just one night where you don’t have to overthink.

“Fine,” you say before you can change your mind. “But if it’s boring, I’m blaming you.”

Carlos chuckles, confidence palpable even over the phone. “Deal. Wear something you can run in just in case.”

“Run?” you repeat, half-laughing. “What are we doing, robbing a bank?”

“Not unless you want to,” he quips. “Pick you at nine?”

“Make it ten,” you counter.

“Perfect,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you then.”

At exactly 10 p.m., you step out of your building to find him leaning against a sleek black car, his arms crossed casually over his chest. He looks up as you approach, his grin lighting up the cool night.

“Punctual,” he says, straightening. “I like that.”

“Don’t get too excited. I had to pull some serious James Bond moves just to get down here without getting caught.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, his grin already threatening to take over his face. “You had to sneak out? Please tell me this involved climbing out a window, a grappling hook, or at least a dramatic roll through the bushes.”

“Dial it back, Hollywood,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “Charles is in the same hotel, so I had to wait until he was distracted. Then it was all service elevators and a full-on sprint through the lobby. Not my proudest moment.”

Carlos lets out a laugh that’s so loud it practically echoes. “A sprint? In heels? I would’ve paid to see that. Did you also hurdle over a concierge desk? Maybe slap on a disguise?”

“Oh, sure,” you say dryly. “I borrowed a waiter’s tuxedo, grabbed a martini tray, and dramatically whispered, ‘The eagle has landed’ into my nonexistent earpiece. Happy?”

Carlos is practically wheezing now. “God, I love this. The mental image alone is worth every risk of me getting yelled at by Charles later.”

“Glad my suffering is your entertainment,” you grumble, though you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

“It’s not suffering,” he teases, opening the passenger door with a flourish. “It’s resourcefulness. And it’s sexy, honestly. Nothing like a woman who can evade capture.”

Sliding into the car, you’re greeted by the smell of leather and something distinctly spicy- his cologne, no doubt.

You buckle your seatbelt with a sigh. “Let’s just hope Charles doesn’t find out. I don’t need another lecture about ‘dangerous distractions.’”

Carlos rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat, shooting you an amused look. “Dangerous distractions? That is what he calls me?”

“Paraphrased,” you say, tilting your head. “But yeah, you’re not exactly his favorite person.”

Carlos starts the car, the low rumble of the engine filling the air. “Dangerous, distracting… mysterious? I mean, he is not wrong, no?”

“Sure, if you consider reckless confidence a mystery,” you deadpan, smirking.

The car glides through the streets, city lights flickering like distant stars. Soft music hums in the background, but it’s the easy rhythm of his laugh that keeps drawing your attention.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “do you make a habit of this? Sweeping women off their feet with late-night escapades and mediocre charm?”

Carlos glances at you, his grin widening. “Define habit.”

“Something you do as often as breathing, blinking, or inflating your ego,” you reply, deadpan.

He chuckles, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture grandly. “First of all, I don’t charm everyone. I have standards. Second, I don’t see you as a stranger. More like… a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in—”

“Don’t say mystery,” you cut in, groaning.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “A challenge. And I love challenges.”

You arch a brow. “So what you’re saying is, I’m a Rubik’s Cube in heels?”

“Exactly,” he says, like it’s the highest compliment he could ever give someone.

“Oh, well, as long as I’m colorful and frustrating,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

Carlos grins. “And completely irresistible.”

“Please tell me that’s not your go-to line,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in mock despair.

“Of course not,” he huffs, mock-offended. “My go-to line is, ‘Hi, I’m Carlos. Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.’”

You practically choke on your laugh. “That’s horrible. That’s, like, pick-up line rock bottom.”

“Rock bottom?” he echoes, feigning shock. “No way. It works every time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does.” You shake your head. “On toddlers and tourists.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, your laugh betraying you. “I’m here despite you, not because of you.”

Carlos smirks, his voice dripping with mischief. “Keep telling yourself that, mastermind. But I know the truth- you couldn’t resist the ‘dangerous distraction.’”

You groan, sinking further into your seat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, shooting you a quick, playful glance, “are having the time of your life, admit it.”

For once, you’re not entirely sure he’s wrong.

The car eventually pulls into the driveway of a sleek, modern hotel, its lights gleaming against the night sky.

You turn to Carlos, raising a skeptical brow, putting on your best impression of someone highly offended as he parks in front of the gleaming hotel. “So, this was the plan all along? Fancy hotel, late-night charm, and then…?”

You don’t even have to finish the sentence because his grin, the one that’s already halfway to insufferable, answers for him.

“And then what?” he fires back, leaning one arm against the steering wheel like he’s posing for a GQ article.

“You know exactly what,” you say, narrowing your eyes dramatically.

Carlos gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just insulted his entire family tree. “Wow. So that’s where your mind went? I bring you here for the view and the ambiance, and you’re already casting me as the villain? Shame on you.”

“Oh, please,” you reply, fighting to keep your laugh in check. “I’m just cutting to the chase. Save us both the trouble.”

Carlos turns to face you and nothing in his face says he's particularly ashamed to admit his intentions. “Look, I could tell you some noble story about how I just wanted to show you the city from a better perspective.”

“But?” you prompt, raising a brow and you cover a laugh when he tuts at your impatience.

“But, I figured you’re too smart for that,” he admits with a shrug. “So yes, I brought you here thinking we would share a night.”

Your stomach flips at the sheer confidence of his answer, but you force the neutral expression to stay. “Bold of you to assume I’d even be interested.”

Carlos leans in slightly, voice dropping to something softer, teasing. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have taken the whole ‘call me’ thing as you wanting to discuss philosophy?”

He leans in, smirk turning positively dangerous. “Plus. Trouble’s half the fun, is it not?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not paying for room service if this whole charade involves a well-rehearsed speech,” you shoot back, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Speech?” he echoes, already stepping out of the car and coming around to your side. He opens your door with an exaggerated bow that is far too ridiculous to be charming but it manages to be anyway. “If I were planning a speech, it would be Oscar-worthy. Full drama, perhaps a soundtrack. But alas, I left my tuxedo at home.”

“Shame,” you deadpan, stepping out. “A tux might’ve added some credibility.”

Carlos shrugs before gently taking your hand. “M’lady, allow me to escort you to… whatever this is.”

“You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” you say, stepping out.

“Thick is how I do everything,” he replies. “Thick charm, thick dessert layers.. Thick..”

He trails off, wiggling his eyebrows.

You groan, unable to help yourself. “Are you 13, Sainz?”

“Going on 30.”

The elevator ride is like a high-stakes staring contest, except Carlos is clearly cheating by smirking every time you glance his way.

He leans against the wall like a man who’s never faced consequences in his life, while you remain firmly committed to ignoring him.

“I could get used to this silence,” he finally says, breaking it. “Very... peaceful.”

You don’t even look at him. “If you wanted peaceful, Carlos, you picked the wrong girl.”

His laugh echoes in the small space, low and entirely too confident.

—

The suite is jaw-droppingly beautiful, the kind of place you’d expect to see in a movie where the protagonist definitely can’t afford it.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a cityscape so gorgeous it feels like you’ve just walked into a tourism campaign.

Even Charles doesn't splurge this much on hotels. Much less hotels to spend a one-night stand in.

“Alright,” you admit grudgingly as you step onto the balcony. “This is… adequate.”

Carlos sidles up beside you, resting his elbows on the railing. “Adequate? Adequate? That’s like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a decent sketch.’”

“Relax, da Vinci,” you reply. “It’s a view, not the eighth wonder of the world.”

He shakes his head in mock dismay. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to book this place? I practically had to arm-wrestle a guy named Greg for it. Poor man is probably crying into his budget tiramisu right now.”

You snort, folding your arms. “I hope Greg writes an angry Yelp review. ‘Carlos stole my room and ruined my tiramisu dreams.’”

“Hey, I was thinking of your happiness,” Carlos counters, gesturing grandly to the suite. “You should be thanking me.”

“Oh, thank you, generous benefactor, for saving me from the horror of Greg’s tiramisu,” you deadpan, though your lips twitch toward a smile.

Carlos taps his fingers on the table like he’s just cracked the da Vinci code wide open. “Boom! A smile! My evil plan is working.”

You squint at him, feigning shock. “You have an evil plan?”

“Obviously,” he says. “I am a professional at this stuff. There’s a whole spreadsheet.”

“Spreadsheets? Really? What’s in Column A? ‘Step one: tiramisu. Step two: convince her I’m worth her time’?”

“Not quite,” Carlos waves a hand as though dismissing your obvious lack of understanding. “Step two is actually ‘compliment her taste in balcony design.’”

You roll your eyes. “Well, in that case, I’ll have to charge you for emotional damages.”

Carlos grins, taking out his phone with an easy flick of his hand. “No need to worry, it’s all part of the strategy. Tiramisu’s on the way, and my evil plan is flawless.”

You cross your arms and step away from the window, keeping your eyes locked on his. “Define ‘flawless,’” you tease, your voice sharp with mock suspicion.

Carlos steps closer, smirking like a man on a mission. “Flawless enough that it is guaranteed to work on you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

His eyes flicker to your lips, and suddenly the air between you feels warmer. “Really,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, teasing with the kind of certainty that makes your heart do a little flip.

“You’re not really gonna make me wait for that tiramisu, are you?” You ask, leaning in just a little, challenging him with a smile that’s all confidence and mischief.

Carlos doesn’t even flinch.

In fact, he takes a step closer, his fingers brushing your wrist with a too-easy familiarity. “Greg can have it.”

Your breath catches as his forehead comes to rest against yours.

“Do I have your consent to skip to the good part?” he whispers, hand brushing against your waist, lingering for your permission. “I promise I’ll wine and dine you next time.”

You can’t help but smile, and he mirrors it, that same knowing look in his eyes.

Both of you know there's not going to be a next time. This is it.

Carlos leans in, just close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your skin. "I mean it. Next time, you get the full treatment.”

You smirk. "No need to get romantic. We both know that's a lie.”

For a split second, he doesn’t answer.

Then he shrugs, as if he’s made peace with the fleeting nature of this whole thing. "Yeah, probably," he admits, not at all shy.

The world is big and messy. Tomorrow, you'll wake up with responsibilities, regrets, maybe even some bruised pride.

But not tonight.

Not in this room.

You lean in, the air thick with anticipation, and that's all it takes.

Carlos surges forward, catching you off guard with how quickly he takes the lead. His hands cradle your face like it’s something precious, his fingers spreading across your jaw with a touch so warm and careful it makes your chest tighten.

For a moment, everything goes still.

The absurdity of it all melts away as you sink into the kiss, soft and electric all at once.

The heat of him consumes you, the world blurring into nothing but Carlos and the way he tastes. Sweet, intoxicating, and just a little messy. Lips collide, teeth graze, and the rhythm is anything but steady, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Carlos moves the two of you toward the bed, gently backing you up until your knees hit the mattress. His dark eyes shine with a playfulness that’s new to you, and he can’t help the grin tugging at his lips when you let out the softest gasp as you fall back against the pillows.

He leans over you, his fingers already searching for the zipper of your dress. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, “Strip for me, baby.”

You’re hesitant for a beat, cheeks flushing pink, but then you comply, your movements shy but determined as you step out of your dress. Carlos watches, captivated, as if seeing you like this is the most enchanting thing in the world.

“God, you’re so cute,” he says, his voice filled with awe and a touch of amusement.

The moment your bra joins the pile of discarded clothing, his hand reaches behind you, fingers deftly undoing the clasp with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Done this before?” you tease softly, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Carlos chuckles, his grin widening. “Maybe once or twice.”

His hands cup your breasts gently, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. The way your body trembles under his touch makes his chest ache with affection. He dips his head, lips wrapping around a nipple, his tongue swirling teasingly as his eyes meet yours.

The little sounds you make are almost too much for him. Every gasp, every whimper, every squirm beneath him sends his heart racing.

“Still okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You nod quickly, your expression so earnest and trusting it makes his chest swell. “Yeah,” you whisper, your voice trembling but sure.

Carlos smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before trailing his hand down your body, his fingertips brushing over your stomach, then your thighs. He hooks his fingers into your panties, sliding them down your legs with an almost reverent care.

“You’re so wet, cariño,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with wonder. His fingers trail through your slick folds, teasing lightly before pressing against your clit in soft, deliberate circles.

The way your body arches, the quiet, desperate whimpers spilling from your lips—it’s almost too adorable for him to handle.

He pauses, bringing a finger to his lips and sucking your taste off it with a hum of satisfaction. “I’m going to go down on you,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with anticipation. “Let me take care of you, hmm?”

You whine, covering your face with your hands, clearly embarrassed, but Carlos just chuckles, his heart melting at how cute you are.

“Look at me,” he coaxes gently, his tone soft but firm.

When you peek at him through your fingers, your nose scrunching slightly, he grins. “Good girl.”

The shudder that runs through you at his words doesn’t go unnoticed, and he files that reaction away for later.

He shifts, settling between your thighs before shouldering your knees apart, taking a moment to admire your glistening cunt, flushed and swollen with desire.

Carlos is aching in the confines of his jeans, hard and dripping precum into his boxers, but that can wait.

It’s going to wait.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his fingertips barely grazing the sensitive flesh as he spreads you open for his hungry gaze. “Mierda..”

His eyes follow a drop of come that escapes your clenching cunt, enraptured. He smears it along your clit, relishing in the way your body jerks up on the bed.

Leaning in, he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one slow deliberate lick, savoring.

"Mmmm..I could spend hours worshipping this pretty little cunt.” Carlos hums, his eyes fluttering shut. The taste of you, sweet and heady, has him groaning softly.

Your body responds instinctively, your back arching as you clutch at the sheets, soft cries spilling from your lips.

He repeats the motion before he can even think about it, tongue flicking across your clit.

He does that a few more times before shifting, grimacing as his covered bulge rubs against the mattress.

Carlos flicks over the bundle of nerves, then wraps his arms around your legs, lifting them from where they're settled and placing them above his shoulders. He spreads your lips, and then gets started.

“Fuck!” You gasp, back arching as you scramble for purchase, sanity fraying with every plunge of his tongue inside of you.

He seals his lips around your clit and suckles gently, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly over the sensitive bud.

“I'm- Ah! Oh god, oh shi-it..- Please..” You're not quite sure what you're begging for. All you know is that you're going to die if Carlos stops.

"I'm gonna put in a finger, okay?" Carlos asks, looking up at you for your permission.

Usually, he’s not big on communication, not because he dislikes it, but because he’s rarely found it to be necessary.

But now, here you are, putting on a brave face and quietly defying your brother for the night.

He finds himself pleasantly surprised to enjoy the opportunity to guide you through it.

He grins when you nearly weep in relief.

"Yes, god yes..”

"Just tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”

He circles your entrance for a moment, placing a kiss on your clit for the sake of it before slowly sinking a finger inside your slick heat.

He waits till your hips start shifting, seeking some sort of friction, before pumping them in a steady rhythm, his palm grazing your clit with each pass.

You’re tight, walls clenching down on just one of his fingers but your wetness makes it a little more easy to slide inside.

He gives a few slow pumps, checking your reaction, before picking up the pace and licking at your clit again.

You’re starting to make a mess, dripping down onto the sheets, and he wonders just how wet he can get you. Will you drip? Will you leak? Will you squirt?

"There we go.." Carlos praises, his words vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

“One more?”

You nod eagerly.

“Words, cariño,” he chides softly, his lips quirking into a playful smile.

“Y-Yes, please, Carlos,” you manage, your voice trembling but eager.

“There’s my good girl,” he praises again.

A shiver runs through you again and he grins, pushing back in with two fingers. Your face twists at the intrusion for just a moment before your hazy eyes are back on him, nodding as you catch his silent question.

Carlos curls his fingers slightly, stroking that spongy patch high on your front wall, easily finding your g-spot in another second as he tilts the angle of his wrist and your jaw drops, eyes widening.

"Oh mon dieu, don't- don't- stop-” you sob.

He laughs, has half the mind to tease but decides to do as you ask and make better use of his mouth by sucking on your clit again.

Your juices gush around his pistoning fingers as he feels your silken walls clamp down on the invasion, rippling and squeezing him in their velvety grip.

Carlos doesn't let up even as you try to squirm away from him, feet planted on his shoulders and trying to push him off your pussy.

He only growls, drags you closer to his mouth, his wicked tongue working your throbbing clit furiously.

"Yes, yes, that's it, let it all out for me," he coaxes between slurping kisses to your twitching sex. "Soak my face. Come on. Know you're close, baby.”

Carlos massages that spot inside you that has your toes curling, and the noises your wet pussy is making are completely obscene, seem to echo in the room.

“Wait-” a panicked wail leaves your lips but Carlos is too far gone, gulping for air as he replaces his tongue with his hand, the red and swollen bud of your clit rubbing against the rapid back and forth of his palm.

But Carlos doesn’t stop, too caught up in the sudden gush of fluid from your body.

His determined ministrations, almost frantic now, send droplets scattering across the bed and even onto his face.

You gasp at the mess, cheeks flushing as you take in the drenched state of his light blue button-up. "Oh my god, I’m so sorry-"

Carlos pauses, sitting up slightly as he glances down at his drenched shirt. For a moment, you think he might be upset, but then he grins. A slow, lazy, thoroughly pleased grin that makes your heart skip.

“Sorry?” he echoes, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside. “Baby, don’t apologize for that. That was incredible.”

His hand moves to your cheek, cupping it gently as he brushes his thumb over your flushed skin.

Your eyes dart away, but he tilts your chin up, coaxing you to meet his gaze.

“You’ve never done that before, have you?” he asks softly, his voice filled with warmth and curiosity.

You shake your head, feeling a little bashful. “I didn’t even know I could.”

“Well, now you do,” he murmurs, his grin softening into a fond smile. “And it was beautiful. You were beautiful.”

His words make you blink up at him, your lips parting as if to argue, but the sincerity in his gaze stops you. Instead, a small, shy smile tugs at your lips, and you nod.

Carlos leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before his lips brush against yours, slow and tender. “Do you trust me to keep going?” he asks quietly, his breath warm against your skin.

Your response is immediate, a soft and eager, “Yes,” escaping your lips as your fingers thread into his hair, holding him close for just a moment longer.

Carlos groans, before pulling back and sliding off you.

His movements are deliberate, gaze flickering to meet yours as he reaches for the waistband of his jeans.

You can’t help but follow his every move, your eyes heavy with anticipation as he tugs the denim down, revealing inch by inch of him.

He steps out of his pants with a casual confidence that makes your pulse race. His smirk deepens as he notices your unabashed stare, the way your gaze lingers. “Enjoying the view?” he teases, his tone rough but playful.

You bite your lip, a shy but knowing smile creeping onto your face. “Maybe,” you admit softly, your voice laced with just enough mischief to make him chuckle.

“Well, then let’s make sure you enjoy the rest, too,” he says, removing his boxers.

As he does, his erection comes into full view, thick and heavy and already leaking precum at the tip.

Your eyes widen as you take in the impressive sight, a rush of fresh arousal surging through you.

You breathe out, trying to compose yourself. You chance a glance at him and he meets your eyes, nodding his head.

Your fingers wrap around Carlos’ wrist, pulling him back to the bed with a surprising determination that has him raising a brow.

Before he can say a word, you’ve moved between his legs, your intentions clear. Carlos barely has time to process what’s happening before his breath hitches.

“Fuck.”

Your warm, wet mouth enveloping his cock sends a jolt of pleasure straight through him and his eyes nearly roll back.

You move deliberately, letting your tongue glide along his length before pulling back to focus on his tip, swirling and teasing in a way that has Carlos groaning low in his throat.

His hands find their way to the back of your head, resting there more for balance than control, though he murmurs praises that tumble out unbidden.

"That's it, baby, just like that," he breathes, his voice rough with restraint. "Good girl… Fuck, you're such a good girl."

That last phrase draws a muffled moan from you, the vibrations traveling through him like a shockwave, making his stomach clench.

He can’t stop the thought that flashes through his mind— such a good fucking girl.

You find a rhythm, bobbing steadily while your hand works what your mouth doesn’t reach.

Each flick of your tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock has him twitching, a breathy curse escaping when you take him deeper, testing your limits

The warmth and pressure make his head spin, but when your eyes meet his, wide and glimmering with mischief, Carlos feels his control slipping.

"Shit-" he gasps, the sensation overwhelming as he feels the tip of himself graze the back of your throat.

The way your tongue works at the base sends a spike of pleasure so sharp, balls tightening, that Carlos has to act fast, pulling you off with a groan before he cums before even fucking you.

You look up at him, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, a glimmer of satisfaction in your expression.

A thin line of saliva clings to your chin, and you swipe it away casually, your grin both coy and triumphant.

"Holy fuck," he breathes out, running a hand over his face.

It's all the warning you get before he grabs you, flipping your positions in one swift motion so he’s above you again, his body crowding yours.

“Where'd a pretty little thing like you learn how to suck cock like that, huh?”

Your grin doesn’t falter as you murmur, “Wouldn’t you like to know.

Carlos smirks, leaning down close enough that his breath brushes against your skin. He murmurs, voice dark with promise, “let’s see what else you can do."

Carlos leans over you, his hands bracketing your sides as he captures your lips in a slow, heated kiss.

Pulling back just enough to speak, his voice drops to a low, husky murmur. “Dios mío, I can’t wait to fuck you...”

You’re breathless, your lips parted and your gaze heavy-lidded, but there’s a spark of challenge in your tone as you manage to say, “Then do it.”

His eyes darken as he takes in your defiance. “Oh, don’t worry, cariño,” he says. “I will.”

Carlos pulls a condom from beneath the pillow with a sly grin, ignoring your quiet laugh.

He makes quick work of rolling the latex sheath down his length. Making sure you see just so you don't feel uneasy about it.

Reaching for a bottle of lube that he'd asked the hotel staff to leave in the bedside drawer, he opens the cap slowly.

He notices the quizzical look in your eyes and addresses the unspoken question with a shrug. "Just to be safe. Better overdone than under, eh?”

Carlos lubes up his fingers thoroughly before reaching down to massage your slick folds.

His fingers trace teasing circles around your entrance, dipping in just enough to feel you flutter and squeeze, like you’re already trying to pull him closer. It’s almost too cute how your body responds, eager and impatient.

As Carlos begins to press in, the head of his cock breaching your tight entrance, your features twist in the most adorable way, your brows pinching together, lips parting slightly as you adjust. He can’t help but marvel at how perfect you look, even like this.

He exhales sharply, trying to stifle a groan.

Carlos isn’t usually the type to get too vocal, but the way you feel is making it impossible to hold back.

“Shhh, relax for me, amor,” he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring.

One hand strokes soothing circles on your lower back while the other cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your flushed skin.

He’s trying to be patient, gentle, because he doesn’t want to rush you, doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

He pauses whenever your expression tightens, his eyes fixed on you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

The way you wriggle your hips a little, trying to get used to him, only makes his heart clench. You’re trying so hard for him, to take his cock, and it’s impossibly endearing.

Finally, you nod, your voice a soft whisper. “Okay… Okay, you can move.”

Carlos doesn’t need to be told twice.

He starts slow, his movements careful and deliberate, as if he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. Each sound you make, the tiny gasps, the way you breathe his name, sends a shiver through him.

He's going to be obsessed with you if you keep it up.

The way your back arches beneath him, how your hands cling to his shoulders, and the soft “oh” that slips from your lips when he pushes a little deeper. All of it makes him want to be drunk with you.

When he’s as far as he can go, he pauses, watching your face, his voice laced with affection and just a hint of smugness. “Never been this full?”

You shake your head, biting your lip in that shy way, your hips shifting against him instinctively.

He chuckles softly, starting to move again, his pace slow and steady at first. But as you begin to meet his thrusts, matching him perfectly, he picks up speed, his movements more purposeful.

Each deliberate snap of his hips pulls the sweetest, most melodic sounds from you, soft gasps and little whimpers that only spur him on.

You’re perfect. So fucking cute.

The slick heat between you makes every movement smooth, though Carlos slips out a couple of times, only to guide himself back in easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint marks that spur him on, and your cloudy, pleasure-drunk eyes roll back in the most pretty way, making his chest ache with something more than just lust.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with need.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice trembling as you nod eagerly.

There’s a flicker of shyness in your movements, a hesitation that only makes you more endearing to him.

Even though your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, you don’t hesitate, shifting so Carlos can lie on his back while you straddle him. He watches you with rapt attention, his lips quirking into a small, affectionate smile as you position yourself over him.

His hand wraps around his length, teasing your folds with the head, and he’s utterly mesmerized by the way your lips part, the way you bite down on them as you begin to lower yourself.

Inch by inch, you take him, and he can’t help but think of how you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

His hands find your hips instinctively, gripping you gently but firmly.

Despite his intention to let you set the pace, his need wins out, and he begins guiding you up and down before you even have a chance to adjust.

A loud, sweet moan escapes your lips as you lean forward, kissing him with an urgency that’s almost too cute for words.

Your teeth tug at his lower lip, making him groan softly, his hands tightening on your waist.

Then you start to move on your own, bouncing on him with a surprising confidence, and your wide, innocent eyes flick up to meet his. Even as the heat radiates from your every motion, there’s something so sweet in the way you look at him, like you’re trying to get his approval.

“Like this?” you slur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, just like that,” Carlos breathes, his voice thick and low.

The lewd, wet sounds of your bodies moving together threaten to push him over the edge, but he focuses on the adorable way you’re trying so hard to be good for him.

“You’re so good for me,” he groans, his words spilling out without thought, and the way you whimper in response, your lips parting in a needy gasp, makes his heart race.

You sink down fully, grinding against him, and he watches your expression shift. When you find the perfect angle, your eyes widen in a mix of wonder and surprise, locking onto his like you can’t believe how good it feels.

“Keep going, baby,” he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit and circling it gently, his voice filled with awe. “You’re perfect. So perfect. Let go for me.”

Your movements grow frantic, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body trembles. Carlos watches in utter fascination as your lips part in a choked whimper, and then you cry out, your release hitting you in waves.

Warmth floods over him, soaking his skin and the sheets beneath, but all he can think about is how beautiful, how absolutely adorable, you are in this moment.

The sight, the sound, the feel of you. It’s too much. Carlos’ grip tightens on your waist as he thrusts upward one last time, his own climax crashing into him.

His body shudders beneath you, his head tipping back as he empties himself completely, groaning your name softly.

When it’s over, you collapse onto his chest, your breaths mingling as both of you struggle to steady yourselves.

Carlos’ hands wander to your lower back, tracing gentle circles near the dimples that make you squirm slightly, a halfhearted giggle escaping your lips.

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The two of you lie there in the quiet, the warmth of each other’s presence wrapping around you like a blanket.

After a long pause, Carlos speaks, his voice filled with playful affection. “You want tiramisu?”

The sleepy laugh you let out is so cute it makes his heart flip, and he knows he’d do anything just to keep hearing it.

The thought makes him sick.

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23victoria · 21 days ago

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crashes and crushes

pairing: 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊 & 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

word count: 1.1𝒌

synopsis: 𝒐𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓

warnings: 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒂𝒓 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉, 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇

authors note: 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅!! 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚!

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕?! CLICK HERE!

F1 MASTERLIST

Oscar didn’t need medical attention.

That was what he told the team over the radio after the crash. He was fine. Sure, the car was totaled and his head rang from the impact, but he was conscious, moving, and most importantly—embarrassed. He’d collided with Lando. His teammate. During qualifying. He didn’t want to be checked over. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

But then the FIA insisted he be evaluated. Concussion protocol, standard procedure. Lando too. The medics were already there before he could argue.

He reluctantly followed them to the circuit's medical center with Lando walking a few steps behind him, both of them silent. Tension heavy between them. No one said a word—until the doctor pulled back the curtain.

And then Oscar forgot how to think.

“Hi,” you greeted softly, offering a polite smile as you stepped into the small exam area. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He opened his mouth to say he hadn’t waited long at all, but no sound came out.

You were stunning. Soft features, intelligent eyes, a warm expression that didn’t match the fluorescent buzz of the med bay lights. Even your scrubs looked like they were custom-tailored to perfection, hugging your figure in a way he didn’t know medical uniforms could.

His heart picked up speed, and he was suddenly grateful there wasn’t a monitor hooked up to him. That thing would be screaming.

“I’m Dr. Y/N L/N,” you said, glancing down at his chart. “You’re Oscar Piastri, right?”

He nodded quickly, then found his voice. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Well, I need to check for signs of concussion or any other trauma,” you said gently, setting your clipboard down. “Do you feel dizzy?”

“…A little.”

“Headache?”

“Kind of.”

“Neck or back pain?”

He paused. “Lower back. I think I jarred it.”

That part might have been exaggerated. But you nodded like it was important, and he tried not to look directly at your hands as you reached for a pair of gloves.

“I’ll need you to take off your suit from the waist up so I can check for bruising and swelling, alright?”

Oscar blinked. “Now?”

You raised a brow playfully. “Unless you’d like to come back after the race?”

He flushed. “No. Now is good. Totally fine.”

He fumbled with the zipper, trying not to seem self-conscious about peeling off his fireproofs. He wasn’t usually shy. But the way your gaze dropped briefly to his torso—quick, clinical, but not without heat—made his ears burn.

“Alright,” you said gently. “Turn around for me.”

Lando didn’t need a doctor either.

That was his stance. He was sore, yeah. His thigh had taken a hit, his ribs were definitely bruised, but he didn’t want to sit in a room while someone poked at him. Especially not while Oscar was in the bay next to him after that crash.

But then the curtain pulled back.

And his jaw nearly dropped.

You stepped inside holding a fresh clipboard, that same calm professionalism on your face, but your eyes—God, your eyes—made his stomach flip.

“Hi, Lando,” you said brightly. “I’m Dr. Y/N. Just here to check you out.”

“I—I’m sorry. What?”

You blinked. “Your vitals. Injuries. That kind of check.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. That makes more sense.”

You smiled kindly, not missing the way he floundered. “I heard you’re dealing with rib pain?”

He nodded. “Yeah. And maybe my thigh. Nothing serious though.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you teased. “Shirt off, please.”

Lando froze. “Already?”

“Unless you’d like Oscar to go twice.”

He sighed dramatically and tugged the zipper down, trying not to wince as the suit shifted over his sore side.

You were careful when you placed your fingers along his ribcage, your touch gentle but firm. “You’re bruised. Probably nothing broken, but I’d like to get you on ice and something for the swelling.”

“Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say, doc.”

Your brow lifted as you met his eyes. “You always this obedient?”

He gave a boyish grin. “Depends on who’s giving the orders.”

Oscar and Lando ended up in the same room.

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

They were quiet for a minute, Oscar sitting on the edge of the bed with an ice pack under his shirt, Lando lounging with his arm propped against a pillow.

“She laughed at my joke,” Lando said, breaking the silence.

Oscar glanced over. “You mean the one where you couldn’t form a full sentence?”

“She smiled more with me.”

“She touched my back.”

“She touched my ribs.”

Oscar glared. “I might’ve had a concussion, you know.”

Lando smirked. “And yet you remember that back rub crystal clear.”

Before Oscar could reply, the door opened.

And in walked Zak, Andrea, Carlos, Charles, and Max.

Oscar and Lando both froze.

“You’re alive,” Charles said first, sounding both relieved and exasperated.

Carlos folded his arms. “You crashed each other, man. Like, what even happened?”

“Split second miscommunication,” Lando mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Oscar added. “Just… bad timing.”

Zak stepped closer, his usual smile slightly dimmed with concern. “You guys alright?”

They both nodded.

“I’m not mad,” Zak said, voice calm. “Just… disappointed. You know the car damage will cost us quali tomorrow. But the important thing is that you’re safe.”

Oscar exhaled. “Thanks, Zak.”

Lando nodded too. “Yeah. We’re sorry.”

Andrea gave a small smile. “Let’s just make sure you’re cleared to race. We’ll fix the cars.”

Then Charles raised an eyebrow, noticing the snacks on the table and the two boys still shirtless with ice packs. “Okay… be honest. Did you both fake your injuries to stay near the hot doctor?”

Oscar and Lando spoke in unison. “No!”

Max looked between them. “You both have the same face right now. Guilt. And thirst.”

Carlos grinned. “So which one of you’s gonna ask for her number?”

Oscar sat up straighter. “I’m thinking about it.”

“I already did,” Lando muttered under his breath.

Oscar’s head whipped around. “You what?”

The room erupted into laughter as Zak sighed and shook his head, walking out.

You peeked in again twenty minutes later.

“Just came to let you both know your scans are clear,” you said, eyes dancing. “You’re good to go.”

“Even his ribs?” Lando asked.

“Bruised but manageable,” you said. “Just ice, fluids, and no more crashing.”

Oscar smiled. “That last part was mostly his fault.”

Lando scoffed. “Was not!”

“Alright,” you said, laughing. “Out. Both of you.”

Oscar stood, then hesitated. “Hey, uh… do you work every race weekend?”

You tilted your head. “I rotate circuits, but I’ll be in Monaco and Canada next.”

Lando grinned. “Guess I’ll crash again there.”

Your brow shot up. “Please don’t.”

Oscar smiled. “But if we do, at least we know the best doctor on the grid.”

You rolled your eyes, turning away before they saw the blush creeping up your neck.

Outside the clinic, as the group walked back to the paddock, Oscar leaned close to Lando.

“So… did you actually ask for her number?”

Lando smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Oscar groaned. “We’re literally never gonna hear the end of this, are we?”

Max laughed from behind them. “Not a chance, Romeo.”

Canada

Final lap. Final bloody lap. A tight wheel-to-wheel moment with Oscar at Turn 8 had turned into clipped tires and a slide straight into the barrier. Not a big crash—more frustrating than dangerous—but the hit was enough to end his race. No points. No glory. Just a bruised ego, a banged-up car, and the sting of what could’ve been.

He sat in the cockpit for a second, breathing hard, helmet still on, watching the marshals wave the yellow flag and jog over. And in the comms, he could already hear the team asking if he was okay.

"I'm fine," he grumbled, finally climbing out of the car and shaking his head. Oscar had finished the race. Lucky bastard.

By the time he made it back to the garage, Zak Brown was waiting for him, arms folded, a mildly amused expression already forming.

“You okay?” Zak asked as Lando tugged his helmet off.

“Peachy,” Lando muttered. “Little sore, pissed off, but yeah.”

“Go to the medical center.”

“What?” Lando frowned. “Zak, I’m—”

Zak held up a hand. “No argument. It was a wall hit. You know the protocol. Go get checked out.”

Lando opened his mouth to protest, then… paused.

A smile crept in. A slow, guilty one.

Zak blinked, then smirked knowingly. “Oh. You think she’s working this race, don’t you?”

Lando shrugged, trying to hide how pleased he was. “I mean... it's Canada. Maybe.”

Zak chuckled. “You didn’t even fight me on it.”

“Can’t be too careful with concussions, mate,” Lando said innocently, already heading for the medical center.

You were reviewing a chart when you heard the door open.

Without looking up, you called out, “Give me one second—”

“Take your time, doc,” came a familiar voice.

You lifted your head—and there he was. Lando Norris. Looking far too pleased with himself for someone who’d just retired from a race.

“Let me guess,” you said, arching an eyebrow. “Crash on the final lap, light impact to the wall, FIA sent you here for protocol.”

He raised both hands. “You know me so well.”

You couldn’t help the smile. “Come on back.”

He followed you into the same little room as last time, plopping onto the exam bed with a sigh. “Nice lighting in here,” he commented. “Same as I remember. You change your hair?”

You chuckled softly. “Nope. You just forgot what it looks like. Concussion, maybe?”

“Ohhh,” he grinned, pointing at you. “That was smooth.”

You smiled, shaking your head as you slipped on a pair of gloves. “Let’s get through the basics.”

“Let’s,” he said, settling back on the table and watching you with that same wide-eyed amusement as before.

“Headache?”

“Mild.”

“Dizziness?”

“Only when I think about your smile.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Lando…”

“Sorry. Keep going, Dr. Heartbreaker.”

You rolled your eyes. “Neck pain?”

“Nope.”

“Chest? Ribs? Lower back?”

“Little tightness here,” he said, pressing a hand to his side—conveniently where the suit clung the most. “Probably from tensing up.”

You hummed. “Take the top half of your suit off. I’ll check.”

Lando grinned. “Didn’t even have to ask twice this time.”

He unzipped the suit with far too much enthusiasm, tugging it down to his waist and tossing his gloves aside. You moved in, fingers gently pressing along his ribs, assessing for swelling or tension. He barely even winced—because he wasn’t focused on the discomfort.

He was too busy staring at you.

You looked up after a moment and caught the expression. Mischievous. Warm. Utterly unbothered by the crash.

“You know,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “for someone who just crashed out of a Grand Prix, you look really happy.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. ‘Cause I get to see you again.”

Your hand stilled against his ribs, heart skipping once—annoyingly. You glanced away with a small laugh and a roll of your eyes. “Mhm. You might have a concussion after all.”

He leaned in just slightly. “Oh yeah? Think you should come closer and check?”

You gave him a look, then grinned. “Oh, you wanna play that game?”

His brow lifted. “Depends. Am I winning?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped forward, slow and steady, until you were close—really close. You brought one hand up to cup the side of his face gently, the other slipping under his chin to tilt it toward you. His breath hitched, and your face was just inches from his now.

Lando’s eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes and back, lips parted, the lightest blush dusting his cheeks.

You smirked. “Pupils equal. Responsive. Breath rate a little fast, but…” you tapped his chest playfully, “…probably not from the crash.”

He let out a breathless laugh. “Doctor’s orders?”

You leaned in just a hair more, your voice dropping. “Drink water. Get some rest. And stop flirting with your doctor.”

“Impossible.”

Bonus:

Ten minutes later, Lando was cleared to go, ice pack tucked under his arm, vitals logged, a cheeky grin still glued to his face.

“Thanks, Dr. L/N,” he said as you walked him to the hallway.

“Anytime,” you replied, biting back another smile.

He took a step back, then paused. “So… Monza next?”

You raised a brow. “What, planning your next crash already?”

Lando just winked. “Only if you promise to be there.”

You shook your head with a soft laugh. “You're ridiculous.”

He shrugged. “Ridiculously into you, maybe.”

Before you could respond, Oscar appeared at the end of the hallway, bruised but smug as he leaned into the wall.

“Let me guess,” Oscar said. “You’re trying to flirt your way back to her office next race.”

Lando smirked. “Working better than my race.”

Oscar grinned. “Touché.”

And as they both turned to leave, you called out behind them.

“Try not to crash next time, yeah?”

They didn’t answer. But both of them turned around just long enough to shoot you identical, wide smiles.

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thef1diary · 6 months ago

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teamprincipal!carlos fingering you after he heard you say bad things about yourself after a race and making you praise yourself 😵‍💫😵‍💫

— good god nonnie 🥵 he will never let anyone speak badly about his driver. 18+ content below

The door to Carlos’ office slammed shut behind you, the tension in the air thick enough to suffocate. You paced the room, tugging at the sleeves of your race suit, anger and self-loathing swirling in your chest. The race had been a disaster—or so you thought—and the words spilled from your lips before you could stop them.

“I’m so fucking useless,” you muttered, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I’m a goddamn joke out there—”

“What did you just say?”

Carlos’s voice stopped you in your tracks. It was low, sharp, and full of disbelief. He stood by the door, his arms crossed, his dark eyes narrowing on you like you were a problem he needed to fix.

“I—” you stammered, caught off guard by the intensity of his glare.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you. His tone softened, but it was no less commanding. “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that.”

Before you could respond, his hands were on you, one gripping your chin to tilt your head up, the other slipping around your waist. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your apology, silencing every self-deprecating word you wanted to say.

The kiss was rough, possessive, yet tinged with something almost tender. You gasped into his mouth as he pulled you closer, your bodies flush. His hardening cock pressed against you, and your hips instinctively ground against him, desperate for any kind of friction.

“Do you have any idea how fucking incredible you are?” he murmured against your lips, his voice laced with both anger and something softer—almost hurt. “How can you think otherwise?”

His hands found the zipper of your race suit, tugging it down to your waist. Beneath it, your fireproofs clung to your body, but Carlos was quick to strip you of the top, exposing your bare skin. His gaze raked over you, dark and hungry, as his hands cupped your tits.

“Let me remind you,” he said, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, rolling them between his fingers until they hardened under his touch. The sensation sent sparks straight to your pussy, and you couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped your lips.

“Sir,” you breathed, your body arching into his hands as he pinched and teased. The attention he lavished on your nipples had you squirming, your thighs pressing together in search of relief.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice softening as his lips brushed along your jaw, then down your neck. “So beautiful, so fucking perfect.” His hands continued their work, alternating between gentle caresses and rough pinches that left you gasping.

The heat pooling between your legs was unbearable by the time he pulled back, his hands sliding lower. He turned you around, pressing you against the edge of his desk. His palm slid beneath the waistband of your fireproof leggings, finding your bare, slick cunt.

“You’re dripping,” he said, his tone low and full of approval. “All this for me, hermosa?”

You nodded, your breath hitching as his fingers dipped into your folds, spreading your arousal.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, sliding two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit. His pace was maddeningly slow, deliberate, and utterly devastating. “Now, tell me what I want to hear.”

“I—I’m sorry,” you started, but his fingers froze. His other hand grazed up your back until he reached the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair before he tugged harshly.

He leaned closer, and you were able to feel the heat of his body surrounding you. “Wrong answer,” he whispered in your ear, his voice dark and dangerous. He pulled his fingers out of your pussy and slapped your clit, the sharp sting making you cry out.

“Sir, please!” you whimpered, your body trembling as he teased you mercilessly.

“Try again,” he said, sliding his fingers back inside you with a rough thrust. “Say something good about yourself.”

“I—I’m good enough,” you stammered, the pleasure building in your core.

“Louder,” he commanded, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

“I’m good enough!” you cried out, your hands clawing at the desk for support.

“And?” he pressed, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, making your legs shake.

“I’m a good driver,” you whispered, the tears pooling in your eyes as you struggled to believe your own words while focusing on the pleasure building.

“The best,” he corrected, his pace quickening. “Say it.”

“I’m the best!” you sobbed, your body shaking as the tension coiled tighter and tighter.

“Good girl,” he purred, his lips brushing against your ear as he worked you closer to the edge. “Now cum for me. Show me how much you believe it.”

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as he continued to thrust his fingers into you, drawing out every drop of your release. The wet, filthy sounds of your orgasm filled the room, your cries of pleasure muffled by his hand over your mouth.

As you slumped against the desk, breathing heavily, Carlos carefully flipped you over, a small smile gracing his lips as he noticed your tinged cheeks. He leaned down, grazing his lips over your neck before pressing a firm kiss to the spot behind your ear.

“Remember this, princesa,” he murmured, his voice softer but no less authoritative. “You’re mine. My driver. The best one on the grid. And I don’t let anyone—not even you—talk shit about my driver.”

want more team principal!carlos? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

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callikari · 1 month ago

Text

DELICATE ★ P.SH

PRECIS 。 "this ain't for the best, my reputation's never been worse. so you must me for me."

박성훈 x fem!reader 833 fluff + angst if u squint .. ceo!sunghoon x model!fem!reader ─ mentions of industry pressure implied mistreatment bruises self isolation themes of emotional safety

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

my reputation’s never been worse, so… you must like me for me.”

you knew the second the footage leaked, it would explode.

a three-second clip. that’s all it took.

your voice raised. your hand swatting away a producer who grabbed your wrist too hard backstage during a chaotic new york fashion week rehearsal.

someone filmed it. someone sold it.

now the headlines are everywhere:

“yn l/n lashes out in violent outburst.”

“too pretty to behave?”

“industry insiders call her ‘unprofessional’ behind the runway glamour.”

they don’t mention the bruise on your arm.

they don’t talk about how you hadn’t slept in 36 hours, how your stylist quit that morning, how they told you to lose four pounds in five days or be dropped from the show.

they don’t talk about the handprint.

so, you hide.

in your penthouse with the curtains drawn, phone flipped face-down, eating nothing but apples and silence. you haven’t cried. not really. just blinked too long and felt the ache behind your eyes stretch wide.

when the elevator dings at 2am, you already know it’s him.

you don’t look up when the front door opens.

don’t move when his shoes click softly against the marble.

don’t breathe until his voice, soft and sharp, slices the air like truth.

“why didn’t you call me?”

you stare at your knees.

sunghoon walks in like he owns the building — which, technically, he might. black dress shirt. hair still perfectly swept. jaw locked in that terrifyingly calm way that makes board members flinch.

but when he kneels in front of you, all of that melts.

he’s not a ceo. he’s not new york’s sharpest mind.

he’s just the boy who keeps a toothbrush in your bathroom drawer.

you try to speak, but your voice cracks.

he cups your jaw gently. “angel. look at me.”

you do.

and he sees everything.

the exhaustion. the bruise. the way your mascara smudged down hours ago and you didn’t bother to wipe it off.

you expect him to say “we’ll fix this.”

you expect a lawyer’s name. a PR strategy. a fireproof plan.

instead, he says, “i’m sorry they hurt you.”

your lip trembles.

“i should’ve been there.” his voice drops. “i should’ve known something was off the second you left that show early.”

you shake your head. “it’s not your job to save me.”

“it is,” he says, brushing your cheekbone with his thumb. “when i love you this much, it is.”

your heart clenches.

“sunghoon…”

“no one’s pulling you out of this mess,” he says, quieter now, “except me.”

you don’t realize you’re crying until he moves to wipe your tears, one by one, like they deserve time.

“they’re not scared of you because you’re difficult,” he murmurs. “they’re scared because you’re powerful. and because you said no.”

you lean into his touch, finally.

“you’re not going to lose everything,” he promises. “not your contracts. not your career. and definitely not me.”

you blink. “but your investors—”

“can kiss my ass,” he replies smoothly. “i’ve already pulled your campaign from the rotation until you say you’re ready.”

“you did that?” you whisper.

he nods. “and i’ll do it again if they speak your name wrong one more time.”

you let out the tiniest laugh. shaky, but real.

he smiles, only for a second. “there’s my girl.”

he lets you sleep in his apartment for a while — uptown, far from paparazzi.

he brings you tea and rubs your legs when you curl up in his hoodie, too small for his shoulders but perfect for yours. you watch him type emails with one hand while the other rests on your thigh.

every night, he traces the bruise like it offends him.

every morning, he kisses it like an oath.

and then comes the call.

you’ve been asked to close the muse show. your name cleared quietly. an apology whispered behind sleek conference doors. your agent barely finishes the offer before you say yes.

it’s time.

sunghoon helps you pick the dress — sculpted velvet, off-shoulder, like night itself. he kisses your temple before you leave and tells you, softly, “you don’t have to prove anything, baby. just walk.”

the lights are too bright.

the cameras flash like static. you take a breath backstage, steadying your nerves as the music builds.

then the curtain lifts.

you step out.

post-scandal. post-panic. post-penthouse isolation.

your chin is high. your walk is clean. your skin glows.

the crowd stirs — part awe, part reverence, part guilt.

you hit the end of the runway, hold your final pose—

and your eyes catch on him.

sunghoon.

front row. uninvited. unmoved.

dressed in all-black, collar open, one knee crossed. he looks like a storm. a storm that chose to show up.

he doesn’t smile. not at first.

but when he sees your mouth twitch — just slightly, barely brave —

he does.

slow. certain. only for you.

you turn. walk back. and this time, it feels like taking your power with you.

vi says :: for all my sunghoon lovers ♡ also more taylor swift inspired fics coming soon bc i love her

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @cheruphic @chrrific @jungwonbropls @manariees @ijustreallylike2read @ijustwannareadstuff20

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fxrmuladaydreams · 2 years ago

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use me (mv33)

max x reader

summary: max needs a way to take his frustrations out, you offer yourself to him

notes: !! contains smut minors dni !! i have other stories in the works but as a max girlie this took precedent, it had to be done after watching the singapore quali

You were on the edge of your seat watching the remaining 15 cars zoom around the track. Both the Red Bulls had been having issues during the weekend, not driving as fast as they had been in previous races.

You watched as your boyfriend, the reining world champion, made his final lap in Q2, scoring fairly low, and just falling further down the list as other drivers crossed the line. Liam Lawson of all people was the one to push Max down to 11th. You had to admit the kid was talented, but you knew Max was going to be very unhappy with the results.

You knew you were right when you saw Max get out of his car before they had even pulled it into his garage. He stormed away, pulling his helmet off his head as someone practically had to chase after him.

“He’s going to be pleasant.” A voice pulled your attention away from the scene in front of you.

Christian stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his headset now resting around his neck.

“He’ll be fine.” You tell him, however you know just how explosive Max can get when he doesn’t do well.

“You should go see him, calm him down. He won’t kill you.”

You snort. “Right.”

“Think you can calm him down in the next 30 minutes?” He asks.

“I can try.” You stand up to start heading in the direction Max walked off in.

You find him sitting in a corner, drinking from his water bottle, his eyes trained on the ground ahead of him.

You stand next to him and run a hand through his hair. While he would usually lean into you, craving more of your touch, he doesn’t react now, unmoving from his current position.

“How are you?” You ask, in an attempt to tread safely.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m great, how are you?” He doesn’t hide the sarcasm in his tone.

You tilt his chin up so that he’s looking you in the eyes. You can practically see the anger swimming around in the blue eyes you fell in love with.

“You know the press are going to eat you alive if you walk in with that attitude.” You tell him.

He rolls his eyes, and looks back down ahead of him. “They’ll be cheering, dancing on my grave.”

You glance down at your watch. 25 minutes until Max will be needed for press. 25 minutes to bring back your happy Max.

“C’mon.” You take his hand, and slowly pull him up.

“Where are we going?” He asks, following you.

You lead him back to Red Bull hospitality, taking him up to his driver’s room. It’s small, a massage table sits in the corner, a shelf against the wall with more race suits and fireproofs.

“You need to get your anger out before you go do press.” You tell him as you lock the door.

“What, do you want me to throw things around the room?” He asks with his hands on his hips.

“I want you to fuck me.” You tell him, your voice completely serious.

He looks shocked for a moment. The two of you were always pretty private in your relationship, never showing too much PDA, and never having sex anywhere outside of your home. His shock soon dissipates, and turns into thoughtfulness, as if he’s thinking about the risk versus the reward.

You walk towards him in the center of the room. Your hands lift to his shoulders, softly massaging them before your arms wrap around his neck. You lean your head towards his, softly nudging your nose against his. He already looks like he’s losing his self control, his eyes watch your lips as you whisper to him.

“Use me, Max.”

He dives down to kiss you, his lips firm against yours. There’s no asking for permission for his tongue to enter your mouth, it pushes past your lips and tangles with yours.

You grip onto his hair as he hoists you up on the massage table. He stands between your legs, trailing his lips down your neck, leaving a trail of teeth marks on any skin he can find.

He tugs your shirt and bra off, flinging them to some corner of the room, desperate to have access to more of you. He travels down your chest, his lips wrapping around one of your nipples, teeth softly biting at it while his fingers find the other, pinching at it. After he’s satisfied he switches to the other, continuing his work.

Your pants and underwear are the next to come off as Max trails his fingers along your center. He smirks when he feels your hips move to meet his hand.

He pulls a whimper from you when his thumb brushes against your clit. He kneels down, pulling you to the edge of the table and lifting your legs over his shoulders. His hands press down on your abdomen to keep you still as his tongue laps over you.

His nose brushes against your clit, send a jolt to your hips. His hands press down harder on you as his eyes look up to meet yours. They’re a stormy blue now, his pupils enlarged and eyelids hooded.

“Stay still.” He says, his voice low and rough.

His tongue is quick to continue prodding against you, slowly pushing inside you as you let you a long moan. One of your hands flies to his hair, tangling itself in his light brown locks, as your other keeps yourself propped up.

Your taste is sweet, one of his favorite flavors really.

“You taste so good mijn liefje.” He softly moans against you as he eats you out, his nose now bumping your clit over and over until you cry out his name, cumming on his tongue.

This only encourages him, as he takes everything you give him. Your body is tired, exhausted from keeping yourself upright, ready to collapse on the table.

Max stands up and it’s only then you realize that he’s still in his clothes, his race suit still hanging off his hips, while you’re completely bare in front of him.

“I’m not finished with you yet schat.” He shakes his head as he pulls you upright to kiss you.

You can taste yourself on him, but it doesn’t matter to you, not when he’s kissing you the way he is. It’s all tongue and teeth and it’s messy, but still so good.

He pulls you off the table, your legs slightly wobbling beneath you. You’re surprised when he turns you around, keeping your body trapped between his and the table. You hear his clothes move around some more, the thick fabric of his race suit rustling around, then you feel him softly kick your ankle with his leg.

You spread your legs for him, wide enough to allow him room, but still close enough that you can stand comfortably.

He reaches a hand around you to feel between your legs.

“Think you’re wet enough to take me?” He asks. Max has always been a caring lover, even in his dominant moods he still checks in with you.

“Yes Max, please fuck me.” You lean forward against the table and push your ass back against him. You can feel his cock press against you as he grabs onto your hips.

He fists himself a few times before lining himself up with you then pushing in.

The stretch is a lot but feels so good. Max stills for a moment, leaning down to press a kiss against the flushed skin on your back.

His sweet demeanor quickly turns back to his dominant one though, slowly pulling out, then giving a harsh thrust back into you. You try to grip onto the table for dear life as Max pounds into you from behind.

Your moans aren’t quiet, yet neither are his grunts. The door being the only thing blocking you from the rest of the Red Bull team is the farthest thing in your minds at the moment.

He wraps an arm around your middle pulling you up so that your back is pressed against his chest. He’s still wearing his fireproofs, only having pulled the pants down far enough so that he’d be able to bury himself inside you.

The new angle causes him to sink even deeper in you. You feel so full, so consumed by Max.

He grins when he feels you clench around him. His right hand travels over your body, squeezing your breasts before stopping over your neck. He wraps his hand around it, putting a slight pressure on it as his other drops back down to where the two of you meet. He finds your clit, and rubs quick harsh circles into it.

He lets out a low laugh as you clamp down even tighter around him. He leans his head down, his lips brushing against your ear as he teases you. “You like that? Does that feel good?”

Your mind is so clouded over that you can only moan in response.

“Oh, you can’t use your words? You’re just dumb for my cock huh? It’s a good thing you’re so pretty.” He bites down on your neck, sucking a dark hickey onto it. “Are you going to be a good girl and cum for me again?”

You nod your head, feeling something tighten in your core for the second time tonight.

It only takes a few more rough thrusts before he’s got you cumming again, his name falling out of your mouth like a prayer.

The hand on your clit moves to your hip so that he can control his movements. His release follows as his thrusts become sloppy and erratic. You feel his warm cum fill you up as he holds himself inside you. He keeps himself there as you both come down from your highs. He softly presses kisses to your back as you catch your breath.

You hiss when he slowly pulls himself out. His hand falls away from your neck as he uses both to make sure you don’t collapse to the floor. He turns you back around and lifts you back up onto the table.

He finds a towel and spreads your legs to help clean you up. The sight in front of him causes his cock to stir with interest again, his cum is seeping out of you, trailing down your thighs. Your skin shines with the layer of sweat that’s coated your body. Your chest rises and falls with every deep breath you take. Your neck has several marks along it, fresh hickeys to show what you’ve been up to.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” He asks, throwing the towel away to a corner of the room.

You give him a lazy smile. “Not at all. I really enjoyed that.”

“I love you.” He says, helping you back down from the table.

“I love you too.”

You’re both quiet at you get dressed again. You still feel a little wobbly on your feet, but are beginning to regain your balance.

“So do you think you can handle the press without chewing anyone’s head off?” You ask him as you both head to the door.

“Oh definitely.” He grins.

He wraps an arm around your waist as you leave his driver’s room and head back to the main area of the paddock.

Max gives you a quick kiss before he separates from you to do his post qualifying interviews, leaving you with the rest of the team.

When Christian spots you he sighs. “Y/n… no…” he says as he looks at the marks along your neck and the way your legs shake if you stand in one spot for too long.

You shrug. “What? You told me to calm him down.”

Needless to say everyone was surprised when Max was calm cool and collected during his interviews.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen smut #max verstappen #formula one #formula one x reader #mv33

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mv1simp · 9 months ago

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Haunted ♥️ Part 2 of 2

Alpha!Max Verstappen x Reader (Omegaverse AU)

READ PART ONE HERE

it’s where we go, it’s what we'll be (I know if i’m onto you, you must be onto me)

As Mercedes’ rookie female driver, you garner a lot of media attention, even more when you reveal you haven’t presented. You don’t care about true mates or presenting - all you wanted was the championship. You’d be a lot closer to it, if it wasn’t for the dominating Alpha Max Verstappen. But after your late presentation, you two realise there’s a lot more to your bond than competition.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, size kink, primal themes, dom!Max, Sub!Reader, enemies to lovers. WC: 10k

After the scandalous events of the rooftop, where you and the tall blond Alpha had ended up in an intoxicating kiss, you take your avoidance of Max to the next level. You remain glued to George, furtively glancing from side to side in case your cocky rival decides to appear and terrorise you off the track. Your teammate found your sudden paranoia rather amusing, tousling your curls and making you puff your cheeks up and pout. Max watches the scene unfold with narrowed eyes as he walked into the interview room, finally catching a glimpse of you for the first time in two weeks. He notices you're wearing your jacket fully zipped up despite the warm weather - probably because his hickeys still littered your neck, he thinks smugly. Although next time he’d have to leave some so high up you couldn’t hide them and your loser teammate knew exactly who you belonged to. The possessive though rises up within him before he could even process it, as his inner Alpha seethed at seeing another driver touch his Omega so familiarly. The cameras don't miss the steely glare the Dutch champion delivered to the British Mercedes driver. It gave commentators something to speculate about and ask if Verstappen was threatened by Russell ahead of today’s race in Zandvoort?

And their commentary got even more heated during Lap 31 as they watched the Redbull driver slow down his leading pace, clipping George’s Mercedes car in a sharp and aggressive movement. It sent the Brit spinning into the barricade, letting you take his place in P2 instead. Afterwards, George had found him in the Parc Femme, parked comfortably in P1, and demanded to know what the hell that had been for, mate. Max just coolly told him to keep his greedy hands off what didn’t belong to him. George looked at him, confused, but chose not to argue with the clearly pissed off and aggressive smoky scent Max was radiating.

The cameras ate it up, thinking Max was referring to how George had come dangerously close to taking the Dutchman’s home race trophy. But you knew better, side eyeing Max dubiously when you gingerly sat next to him for the post race interview. You focused on getting through the questions, ignoring how handsome he looked in his white fireproofs, all sweaty and muscly post race, his tousled blonde locks contrasting his intense blue eyes. His large arm lay draped across the back of the couch, and you swore you could feel the heat radiating to your back even through the sofa cushions.

Again, post interview, you hurriedly sprinted away without daring to look Max in the eye. Your self control was getting more fragile every night you spent away from him. You could tell what your body ached for, with every wet dream becoming more vivid, making you ache and drip all down your legs for a man that you hated. And it was this Alpha's name was on your lips when you couldn't take it anymore, choosing to relieve the tension with a buzzing vibrator, praying that it’d be enough to settle the desperate omega inside you. Spoiler alert - it wasn’t, judging by the way you’d had to grip the interview sofa with clenched fists to stop yourself from climbing onto the man next to you and guiding his lips back onto yours, then to your neck, then maybe your sensitive nipples-

You don’t get far with that particular train of dirty thought as you’re yanked into a passing RV motor home. You'd been so distracted you don’t realise you’ve walked into the Redbull plot - and ended up falling right into the home of the one driver you'd been trying to avoid. Because Max goddamn Verstappen is in front of you, your Alpha the slutty inner omega croons, telling you to enjoy the way his strong, tall frame has you caged against the now locked door. Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you immediately regret it as you get an burst of Max’s heady scent. Now carefully only taking shallow breaths, you demand he backs the hell off, because you aren’t interested in whatever games he wants to play, you don’t want him.

Really, prinses? the handsome Blonde huskily murmurs into your ear, making you tense when he bends down, inhaling your deliciously sweet scent. You nod furiously, adamantly protesting how truly, you didn’t need him for anything, you’re a strong capable Omega and the entire concept of this ridiculous fated mate bullshit is sexist and outdated-

He chuckles, voicing his agreement that you’re undoubtedly the strongest Omega he’s ever had the misfortune - or blessing, now - of meeting. A good match for the strongest Alpha here, hmm? He teases. But it’s too bad you didn’t need your Alpha for anything, he muses, because he was so ready to help his pretty little mate with anything she wanted, that she needed. Especially that ache in her virgin cunny that just doesn’t seem to go away no matter how many toys she uses?

You yelp, blushing, brown doe eyes wide as you look up at Max in shock. You're half mortified that he knew and half extremely turned on by his suggestion. You’re stammering out your questions, asking how the hell did he know about that, had he been doing some creepy possessive Alpha male stalking-

Max laughs, the genuinely happy sound sending butterflies swirling through you. The soft side to the competitive driver made you so crazy for him, for getting to have both sides whenever you wanted while the rest of the grid got his wrath. No, schat, he reassures with a teasing smile, there was no creepy stalking.

Then he explains how, leading upto the claiming, mates were often given visions when the other was thinking intensely about them - in an effort to help them find each other. And once the mating bond was complete, this two way channel became fully established between an Alpha and Omega. Like a constant shared stream of consciousness, he explained patiently, but able to be closed off when one wanted to, only leaving the most intense emotions to radiate down the bond rather than every thought. You pondered the information curiously, not having come across this in your desperate research after finding out you were Max’s mate. So, this means I could technically get inside your head during a race and figure out your race strategy?

Max grins at your adorable expression, reminding you that he, too, could be inside your mental walls during a race. As you pout cutely, cheeks puffed, he can’t resist the urge to gently press a kiss to your forehead. The sweet gesture makes you tense again, but this time it's because you’re about to cross the line you’d told yourself you were never going to do again. You couldn't resist your desire for your Alpha in this moment, not when you've spend night after night failing to ease your frustrations and he's right here. Standing on your tiptoes, you meet Max's soft lips with your own, eyelids fluttering as his skilled tongue sweeping against yours has sparks shooting down to your aching core. As he easily lifts you up, bringing you over to the sofa and sitting you down to straddle his lap, you remember a missing detail in his explanation. You didn’t say, you say with a blush when he pauses your steamy make out to toss his fireproof shirt off, noting how you’d cast a wandering gaze to his broad chest. Biting your lip, you continued- you didn’t say how you knew about me being a…virgin.

You look down, suddenly shy, missing the predatory glint in Max’s eye as he pulls you flush against him and devilishly purrs Oh, that? I could taste it on the slick you ruined my pants with last time, prinses. Saved yourself all for me, yeah?

Your surprised gasp is cut off by him deeply kissing you again, your hands now eagerly running along his thick, swollen shoulders and neck. Oh, the real thing was so much better than anything you could have dreamed up. You help Max undress you in between desperate kisses, an undertone of urgency to feel his large palms on your bare skin. You flush cutely under his hungry gaze as he pauses to admire the sight of you in his lap.

You're in a pretty baby pink lace set you’d had on underneath your Mercedes suit, and you let our a whine from the intensity of his darkening blue eyes. You nervously shifting your arms to cover yourself up but he doesn’t let you, keeping a strong grip on your wrists with one hand so he can enjoy the delicious view. Your Omega is going into overdrive now, and you’re desperately grinding on his thick thigh again, hoping he’ll resume running his hands along your waist or flex his thigh to help send you over the edge. But he doesn’t to any of that. Instead, he just leans back with a smug expression, enjoying the sight of you trying and failing to get yourself off on his lap.

Huffing in annoyance, you try to redirect his hands to your hips, indicating that you wanted him to take over and bounce you up and down his leg with that brutish strength of his, but he easily deflects, telling you he needed to hear the words, schatje.

Ugh, so goddamn arrogant - apparently finding out he was your mate did nothing to keep his ego in check. Make me cum, Verstappen - it’s just this once, you demand, making his eyes narrow at your bratty tone. He’d need to teach his Omega some manners, clearly. Resting his face against his propped up hand, he watches you with an almost bored look as he deepens his scent, making it even more headier and stronger. Now, you struggle to think clearly through the fuzziness you’re now feeling, overwhelmed with how sensitive you feel after inhaling him. You're dripping all over his muscled thigh as you throw your head back, whining, hoping to tempt him with your open neck. Again, Max looks uninterested by the show you’re putting on, drawling out a like I said, prinses, you’re going to have to ask me nicely.

You lose the game within seconds as you hand over the control to him on a silver platter, pleading for him to please, please help take the ache away, Max. He hides his pleased smirk behind the palm he’s leaning on, making you desperately whine for him a few more times before finally touching you.

So that’s how you find yourself spread out on his sofa, delicate bra ripped off you so he could climb on top of you to twist and lick your sensitive nipples, making you arch into his wicked mouth. He’s running his long fingers along your slit through your ruined panties, ever so gently, making you teary from how badly you need him to do more. The sight of you crying out of desperation for him turns Max on in ways he hadn’t realised were possible. He’s doing everything he can to hold himself back from ramming his hard cock into you right there, knowing you’d never forgive him for taking your precious virginity like this. So he tortures you in other ways, by kissing in between your breasts, licking at the bruises that have formed from his strong grip, and then continuing down, down, to your cute soft tummy and then-

Oh, Max! You moan his name sweetly, over and over again as he runs his large nose along your swollen folds, inhaling deeply and growling at the honey sweet, unclaimed scent that awaited him. Even then, he only pulls your soaked lacey panties to the side to leave antagonisingly shallow kitten licks.

You have no idea how he’s managing to keep his composure while you’re practically falling apart. And then he tells you that you’d been a very bad Omega, ignoring your Alpha for two weeks and then letting other horny Alphas put their dirty hands all over you. So if you wanted him to help you now you’d have to beg me for it, prinses.

You give in so easily, sultrily moaning your rival’s name as you beg Maxie, please kiss me down there, please, your tongue feels so good, I need it to cum-

Smirking at having ruined his mate, his rival like this, he stops his torture and buries his face between your thighs, eating you out like a starved man. You’re so loud, crying and begging for him as he thrusts his wicked tongue in and out your puffy folds that he has to slip his fingers into your open mouth for you to suckle on and keep quiet. As much as it drives him wild to hear your sweet moans, he’s mindful of the buzzing paddock just outside, and how anyone standing too close would only have to catch one whiff or hear one breathy moan to figure it out. He’d kill anyone who got to hear the precious sounds you were making - they're all for him, and him only. Fuck, he should have used something other than his fingers though, because now you’re eagerly sucking and drooling all over them and it’s sending lightning bolts to his already hard cock, as he imagines you sucking him there instead.

Ripping off your soaked panties, he meanly stuffs them into your open mouth, making your eyes widen but successfully muffling your moans. You don’t get to be annoyed by his filthy move, though, because he’s using his fingers to now fuck your tight pussy, hissing at how tight you were for him, prinses, you’re going to feel like heaven around his cock when he claims you.

You moan uncontrollably at the thought, fresh slick gushing out from your core and straight into his waiting mouth. You're pulling at his soft blonde locks, your teary doe eyes meeting his intense blue ones as he looks up at you, still flicking his talented tongue over your clit. You won’t ever ignore your Alpha again, hmm?

You nod frantically, breathlessly agreeing yes, yes Maxie, I promise I'll be good for you and he rewards your good behaviour with further kisses and licks along your slit, the filthy sounds of him messily eating you out filling the air. And then you're cumming, screaming his name as the most intense orgasm you've ever had overwhelms you, squirting your slick all over his lips and couch. Dropping your head back against the sofa, you struggle to stay awake as you come down from the bliss, taking deep gasps of air as Max had gently removed your makeshift gag.

After a few minutes, though, you dazedly realise that you can't close your legs because Max is holding them wide open across his shoulders, his large hands gripping your soft thighs. Lifting up slightly to look at him, you feel your face flush at the hunger in his icy blue gaze as he takes in how pretty you looked when coming undone for him. You can take another one for me, right schat? He croons, eyes never leaving yours as he smirks darkly and leans down, making sure you see him dragging his wide tongue through your puffy, overstimulated folds.

Your eyes widen again, because no, you did not think you could handle another mindblowing orgasm like that and walk out of the motorhome on two legs- Shhh, prinses, you promised to be good for me, remember? And he makes sure you stick true to your word by cumming again, desperately moaning his name, now completely ruined with the need for your Alpha.

You hadn't been able to avoid Max after that. What girl could, after having her pussy worshipped and eaten out like it was the best meal on the planet? Instead of your automatic scowl or snappy retort at him though, you now would go pink at the sight of him, at his captivating blue eyes, remembering how they'd been intensely fixed on yours as he kissed your most innocent areas. Or when you'd look at his veiny arms and thick hands, remembering how they'd held your shaking thighs open for him. No matter how many suppressant tablets you'd double up on, or deep breathing exercises you would do before entering the paddock, you couldn't keep your inner slutty Omega's desires at bay. Your team had noticed your odd behaviour too, with George sniffing the back of your neck briefly one day and commenting that you smelt different. You spun around, paranoid that your sweet Omega scent had started showing, but George had hummed thoughtfully and said you smelled deeper and warmer these days, like burnt amber. Maybe you’re going to have a second presentation as an Alpha? he joked, missing the panicked expression on your face when he inadvertently described your scent taking on Max’s whenever you two would see each other.

Meanwhile, Max’s behaviour towards you had started changing, not just behind the safety of closed doors but in public view as well. It started at the media conferences, where you two would often be next to each other as race winners. The FIA loved to stoke the flames of the Redbull-Mercedes rivalry by giving you an opportunity to argue with each other easily due to proximity. You’d both certainly fallen into the trap a few times, making news headlines and viral videos, but now Max’s aggression towards you had changed to something far more…you didn’t know how else to describe it, except for protective. Now the ones met with Max's hostility would be reporters anytime they directed sexist questions to you or implied that your driving wasn’t good enough for F1, that you were only here for representation.

You’d been very irritated at this particular theme of questioning that had starting occurring more frequently as you won more races. Distracted, you hadn’t even realised how involved your rival was getting in your affairs - until your publicist set her iPad in front of you to play the most recent viral interview. Even before she clicked play, the cover photo made your heart flutter. It was a side profile shot of you on the media couch, arms crossed and an obviously upset expression on your face as you looked on towards a rude journalist. Max sat next to you on the semi circular couch, facing the camera front on. The angle captured the way his large arm was slung across the back of the sofa to just graze your shoulder. At that time, you remember thinking his heat radiating through the cushions had felt soothing. His legs were spread apart in a show of casual dominance but the dark expression on his face clearly reflected how the journalist was going to be meeting the fangs of the Dutch Lion if he didn’t stop talking. And when your publicist pressed play, you saw how Max’s observant eyes flickered to your upset face when it was clear you’d grown sick of the tirade of frustrating questions, ones that you’d normally sassily retort to and earn laughs for, but were now getting overwhelmed with. And then he had intervened, smoothly cutting the next rude question off with a equally aggressive response, saying that really, shouldn't they be asking Max if he'd slept his way to P1 - given he actually won the race?

You'd thought for sure your publicist was suspicious there was something going on. But to your surprise she's beaming and telling you it was great PR to see the Mercedes princess get along with Redbull's Mad Max. Since it had gone so viral it wouldn't hurt for the two of you to get along and be photographed more, yes? You mutely nodded, still half bewildered that she hadn't snapped her fingers at you to say Aha! I knew it, you're his Omega! Perhaps you were getting a touch over paranoid.

So when Max had found you at the end of the day, asking if you wanted to come to dinner with him, you said yes, knowing that your PR manager would be internally giving you a thumbs up. Opening his car door for you, Max noted your glassy stare and tired expression from the race and constant pestering questions afterwards. He drove you to one of his favourite local places, a warmly lit Turkish eatery with falafel and barbecued meat. And it was discreet, too, no one looking your way which you were thankful for, given how casually dressed you were in a hoodie and jeans, too tired to dress up for any stray cameras. Max didn’t seem to mind your simple attire, of course, wearing a practically identical one. The restaurant had just the sort of comfort food you'd been craving and you moaned into your kebab, telling him thank god the Dutch had learnt to bring back food from places they'd tried to colonise.

He chuckled, giving you a warm smile that made you blush a bit from how handsome he looked. You avoided those intense blue eyes of his and tucked back into your kebab, changing the topic to ask him what his other favourite spots in the city were growing up. After paying, despite your protests to split, he offered to drop you back to your hotel. You'd had a lot more energy on the way back to take in your surroundings, noting how confidently Max manoeuvred the steering wheel with one hand as he talked, the other resting on the console. When he pulled up to your accomodation, ready to walk you in, you gently tell him not too. The media backlash would be bad towards you as a female driver if they saw you with a guy going into your hotel. Max scowled, the icy fire returning to his eyes as he was reminded of the sexist standards you'd been dealing with all day. You instinctively reached for his hand on the console, making his eyes flick towards where your small fingers grasped his much larger palm. Thank you, Max, you say genuinely, for dinner and also for helping out with the media stuff today. I can normally handle it, but today...you trail off, a frustrated look on your face. I know you can handle it, Max reassured firmly, his fingers intertwining in yours, but that doesn't mean you should always have to do it alone. Trust me, it gets old really quick. And on the days you're over it, I definitely don't mind telling all those assholes to fuck off.

You giggle at his words, telling him you know this is why they call you Mad Max, right? He watched you laugh with a pleased expression, his inner Alpha content at having taken care of his Omega. As you start to open your car door, once again turning down his offer to walk you in, you hesitate and glance back towards him. Then, quickly, almost as if you knew you would lose the courage to do it if you overthink it, you press a kiss to his cheek, letting your cloyingly sweet scent wash over him so he knows how satisfied you feel with him. And then you're sprinting out the car, hightailing it through your hotel doors with a single nervous glance backwards to Max, who watches you with suddenly dark eyes and a tight grip on the wheel.

The papparazzi don't catch wind of that night's dinner, but as Max and you start seeing each other more regularly under the guise of him taking you to his favourite restaurants, it’s only a matter of time. Pictures blow up online overnight of you two after a Spanish dinner back in Monaco, as Max caught onto your preference for spicy foods. You’re thankful that you’d chosen to dress up a bit that night, in a cute white summery minidress with tie up bow straps and matching heeled sandals. You’re admiring the shot of you, emerging first from the restaurant, thinking you actually looked pretty in the paparazzi shots for once. But your eyes widen at the second photo when you swipe next. Max emerges behind you, and his much larger and taller figure makes for a very protective figure at your back. In fact, he does look like he could be a bodyguard, with the comfortable hoodie he’s wearing that stretches across his broad shoulders and highlights his muscular build. The angle of the photo means only the back of Max’s blonde head is captured, and subsequent pictures continue keeping his face obscured but show him holding your Dior bag for you - having automatically put his hand out for it when you’d gone to the bathroom earlier while he paid. You can see why the flood of comments are asking who the Mercedes’ driver’s hot new bodyguard was?! He’s so well trained! and that this is the height difference every girl deserves!! Is she finally on a date?

You feel a bit flustered, a foreign sensation fluttering in your chest at seeing how natural you and Max look together. The viral dinner photos then turn into a full blown PR scandal the next day, where a fan leaks a picture of you two at dinner from another angle. You're smiling sweetly up at Max when he opens his car door for you, his large palm resting gently on your lower back. This one was a bit harder to explain, and you anxiously bite your lip as you scroll through the new comments, which say things like the mystery Blonde bodyguard last night was MAX VERSTAPPEN??? HER LITERAL RIVAL THROUGH THE WHOLE ROOKIE YEAR? and that this was so enemies to lovers coded!!

You don’t think this is what your PR manager meant when she said she wanted to see more positive interactions online of you with the Redbull driver. But to your surprise, she seems very pleased with the outcome. And she makes it clear to Toto and George, who both had reacted suspiciously to the pictures, asking why you were suddenly so friendly with the dickhead Alpha who’d tried to run you off the track not once but twice?

Their overprotective stances relax a little when your PR manager assures them that it was all good media and that you were acting under her orders. The Redbull team was in on it too, apparently, with both your and Max’s publicists seen giggling as they reposted various memes of the two of you being seen together. You promise Toto and George that Max has surprisingly been nothing but the perfect gentleman. But they still caution you not to let your guard down, because if Max found about about your closely guarded secret of being an Omega….

You laugh nervously, because really, the closely guarded secret was now the fact that the dominant Alpha they wanted to protect you from was actually your mate. But you hadn’t lied - Max had been acting like the perfect gentleman lately. You were surprised by how much you got along with the Dutchman these days, enjoying dinner conversations filled with your mutual interests and laughter at each other’s jokes. Racing, obviously, continued to be a hotly debated topic - but now it seemed to be less of an explosive argument and more like two good friends bickering. You told him this one night as he drove you home - that although it was obviously the right thing to do, you were still grateful that he hadn’t become the over territorial, controlling Alpha mate you’d been scared of. Actually, I - you blush a bit - I actually think this is kind of…nice. I feel like you always know what I’m thinking or feeling without me having to say it. But not in an intrusive way...It's more like knowing I always have someone who will understand?

Max grins at you as he responds warmly, reassuring that it was exactly the same for him, schat. Guess the biology of the mating system did pay off after millions of years evolving, huh? he gently teases, making you roll your brown doe eyes, but you're smiling. Turns out you spoke too soon about the Dutch Alpha, though.

Because the very next week, he pissed you off to no end, resulting in many heated arguments. It started with him pointedly glaring at one of the sponsors who approached you and asked if you’d accompany him to an upcoming gala. You said yes, of course, thinking it would be a good opportunity to source funding for your team - and your boss Toto agreed, pleased. As you got ready for the black tie evening in a hotel room upstairs from the gala in the ballroom, your stylist ducked out after getting a phone call. You assumed she’d returned a few minutes later when you hear the door open, and you called out that you’re In the bedroom, could you please have a hand zipping up the dress?

You’re standing in front of a floor length mirror, pressing your hands to your full chest to hold up the off shoulder beautiful silk evening gown you were wearing. Your doe eyes widen in surprise when it’s not your stylist, but a tall figure dressed impeccably in a well fitted suit that comes behind you in the mirror. Max!? you gasp, confused as you whirl around at his sudden appearance and ask him why he was here. He explained that he’d run into your stylist in the elevator, and she said she had some emergency or the other…asked me to come up and give you this. He holds up a velvet jewellery box, clearly containing the matching accessories for your outfit. Your stylist had mentioned earlier she’d loaned the perfect set of jewels to match the opulence of the gala.

Oh, you say, blushing a bit at the new development but declining when he notes your expression and offers to go hunt your stylist back down. No, that’s okay, I’m sorry to ask but would you mind…you trail off, feeling shy about asking him to zip you up. Despite how steamy things had gotten between the two of you before, this felt far more romantic and intimate. Max hmms, his deep voice rumbling through his broad chest, and gestured for you to turn around with an unreadable expression on his face.

You try to keep you eyes firmly on the ground, staring at the sparkly strappy heels you’re wearing, but you can’t stop your gaze from looking up when you feel Max’s large hands brush against your silk dress. You find his intense gaze is already on yours when you meet his blue eyes through the mirror. He slowly slides the zip up, and you swear you can feel static electricity crackle from how much tension is in the air. When he reaches the top, his fingers brush against your bare back, making you gasp as a jolt runs through you.

Sorry, he murmurs, eyes still locked in on yours through the mirror, but he doesn’t sound like he is in the slightest. His heated gaze then wanders over your smaller form, taking in your blushing face and soft curls that are pinned up, how your dress fell attractively off your shoulders, revealing your elegant neck and collarbones. His gaze lingers there for a long moment before it moves down to take in how your luscious curves are highlighted in the flattering, tight dress. You feel flustered by Max’s attention on you when you’re dressed like this, and quickly busy yourself in opening up the jewellery box - only to gasp at the diamond set that’s revealed.

Where on Earth did she find this? you saw in awe, entranced by the multiple sparkling diamonds that make up the choker-style necklace. You’d have to give your stylist a raise, because you’d never seen such a unique and lavish cut of jewellery in any store. Max shrugs, expression inscrutable as he watches you admire the jewellery you were going to wear tonight. When you struggle to clasp it together behind your neck, shyly looking up at him again in the mirror, you find him already watching you again. He offers his hand out to you for the necklace. May I?

If there was tension before, now it’s so thick that you would need a knife to cut through it. You watch Max’s massive, veiny hands brush across your collarbones as he loops the necklace around. You’re expecting his touch this time, but it doesn’t make it feel any less electric. Warmth spreads through you at seeing how small and delicate your neck looks with Max’s palm across it - a far more effective choker than the delicate jewellery he clasps, you think, unable to suppress the desire that’s swirling in you. Max’s lips are almost brushing your ear from how close he’s standing as he leans down, the high heels you’re wearing giving you a boost to meet the much taller Alpha. And he looks so handsome tonight, his dark suit accentuating his thick legs and swollen biceps, contrasting against his light features and gorgeous blue eyes. You can’t deny that the Dutch Lion is an incredibly attractive man, just your type.

All done, he whispers huskily in your ear, almost teasingly brushing his fingers along your bare collarbones and making you flinch before he pulls away, smirking lightly at your reaction. You look so beautiful, schat he murmurs lowly, the sight of you in the diamonds and silk positively angelic. You turn to face him, wanting to say thank you but the words become stuck in your throat as you see how dark his blue eyes are. Your lips are tantalisingly close, and for a second you’re both leaning in, breaths mingling-

When your stylist loudly re-enters the hotel room, full of apologies for her absence. You immediately move away from Max, avoiding his eyes, the moment broken and your heart racing as you let yourself be guided out the door. You avoid Max like the plague the rest of the evening, rattled by how overcome you’d been earlier, ready to kiss him not in a moment of your usual sexual frustration but rather out of genuine passion. You aren’t ready to admit that you’ve started to feel something deeper for the Alpha, terrified of what it would mean for the future. So you laugh and charm your way through many conversations with sponsors throughout the night, diligently staying by your date’s side, even when you can feel Max’s sharp eyes narrowing at your back and sending shivers through you. Your date is certainly taken with your dolled up appearance, complementing you endlessly. You notice early on he keeps glancing down repeatedly at the stunning choker you wore, like many of the partygoers who’d been admiring it. Assuming that maybe he’d been the one to loan out the set to your stylist for the night, you thanked him for it, but with a strained smile he tells you it wasn’t him. He excused himself, saying that you had his apologies, he wouldn’t have asked you to accompany him tonight if he’d known.

You have no idea why your date was suddenly acting strange and decide to get some air on the balcony, the refreshing night breeze blowing across your warm cheeks. You’re tracing the necklace, perplexed at why everyone seems enamoured with your choice of jewellery tonight. Sure, the diamonds were luxurious, but this was a charity gala in Monaco - surely the guests were used to such opulence?

You feel the hair stand up on the back your neck before Max joins your side, murmuring that you didn’t look like yourself with such a serious expression instead of your usual shit-eating grin. What, scared off your date already? You’re pulled out of your train of thought immediately, the earlier tension with him diffusing as you scowl at his teasing - but there’s no real anger. You end up talking to him for over an hour on the balcony, laughing and enjoying how easy conversations with him are compared to the more stifling, tedious ones you’d been having indoors. As you’d gone to bed that night, you found yourself feeling happily content with the recent development in your relationship with the Dutch Alpha.

But that all changed the next morning, when you woke up to a million notifications buzzing on your phone - the latest one being an ominous “Call me” from Toto. Confused, you start going through your social media, trying to make sense of what’s happening - and your doe eyes widen in shock when you realise just why everyone had been unable to stop looking at your neck last night. Because it turns out the stunning jewels you had been wearing weren’t just some loaned Tiffany’s set your stylist had picked up. No, they were none other than a custom-made, half a million Euro worth, piece of aristocratic jewellery that had been passed on from Omega to Omega in Max Verstappen’s family.

The media had gone ballistic. Headlines like Mercedes rookie driver looks dazzling in Verstappen family jewels and F1 champion Max Verstappen lays claim on his rival driver! fill every newspaper, magazine and gossip forum. And to make it even worse, there’s an undeniable chemistry in the accompanying photo someone had taken of you two on the balcony that night. You look the very picture of a mated couple with how close you stood, him leaning down to intently watch you talk animatedly about something. And those godforsaken diamonds glimmered around your bare neck for all the world to see, proof of his claim on you.

As if you would ever accept the title of being a Verstappen Omega after what had happened to Max’s mother in the very same career.

You’re so incredibly pissed that you’re seeing red for the next few hours, ready to go knocking at Max’s apartment and scream at him for setting you up like this. You had no idea why he’d done this, and with a start you realise the horrible emotion you’re feeling is betrayal, because you’d thought Max actually understood and respected your ambition to be a F1 driver. So instead, you block all his calls when he finally wakes up that morning and decide to see your boss, knowing it’s time to have a long overdue conversation.

Toto watches you silently as you stand before him in his Monaco office, taking a deep breath before confessing that you’d found out soon after your presentation that you had a true mate. Unfortunately, that mate just happened to be Max goddamn Verstappen, and you had no plans to proceed with any sort of relationship with him whatsoever, you tell Toto firmly. I admit my recent friendship with him made me lower my guard, but now- your voice trails off, the hurt clear in your voice, before it becomes resolutely firm again. But now it’s crystal clear that the only thing I should be focusing on is the championship.

Toto closed his eyes with a sigh, leaning forward and pinching his nose. He didn’t speak for a few minutes and you nervously shuffle, but you never anticipated what he said next. Because instead of firing you or yelling at you for hiding this, he said that there was no point running away from your true mate - even if it was an Alpha as distasteful as that brutish Redbull upstart, he says venomously. But despite his sour tone, your boss explains that you two had been lucky to find your true mate at such a young age - he’d had to wait till his second marriage before he found Susie, he reminds you.

You frown, not having expected your normally strictly professional boss to give you personal advice. You’re a great driver, Toto says, ruffling your hair. I admit, I am not a fan of your choice of boyfriend, but if you two have already known you were mates for months and your performance has been outstanding…I have no issues with it. You widen your eyes, immediately protesting and saying Verstappen is absolutely not my boyfriend-

Sure, sure your German boss says, rolling his eyes and showing you to the door. Just be thankful that all this media exposure about you two being a couple actually seems to be drawing the sponsors in instead of scaring them off, like we’d thought.

He cuts off your adamant refusal with a gentle push out his office door. See you at the practise track on Monday, da? Don’t come smelling like that Dutch dog. He closes the door in your bewildered face, muttering something about how kids these days will be the death of him.

Reassured that your job was still secure for now, you take a moment to recheck your phone which you’d been anxiously avoiding all morning. To your surprise, you found that Toto had been right - while there were obviously some negative and sexist articles about you sleeping your way into F1 and seducing the drivers, the overwhelming majority of the media seemed to be going crazy with excitement at the prospect of the first couple who drove within F1 together. It seemed the public still believed you to be Unpresented and romantically involved with the Alpha Redbull champion. They media had not yet caught onto the fact that you were actually Max’s Omega - but you knew it was only a matter of time before that secret was out in the open.

Determined to delay that particular PR scandal for as long as possible, you finally return to your apartment, already knowing who would be waiting. Max stands with a tense jaw and crossed arms outside your front door, immediately turning towards you as the elevator doors ding open. You pointedly ignore him as he begins talking to you animatedly, instead unlocking the door and walking into your apartment. He follows you in, apologising about what had happened but you’ve tuned him out, looking disinterested as you slip off your sneakers and head to your kitchen. Max’s yapping trails off at this point, the normally in command Alpha now appearing uncharacteristically nervous as he looks at you.

Schatje? Can you say something? He says, looking worried now. If you weren’t so mad, you think you might even find his soft blue eyes and scrunched brow rather cute. But you’re still very furious, letting Max know just how fucked up it had been to find out the necklace you’d been wearing had actually been his goddamn family heirloom. Wearing his choker around your neck like a collar, what, like I’m your property? A pretty pet to be put on display for the strongest Alpha? Not to mention that it’s been worn by all the Omegas in your family, you hissed at him. You’re lucky no one has started accusing me of secretly being one yet!

Max absorbs all your anger, apologetically telling you he admits not disclosing history of the necklace had been a bad idea, a mistake that he promises he would never make again. You can feel the genuine sorrow and guilt at having hurt you radiating off him. Feeling calmer now, you ask him just why he’d given you the choker to wear. You’re not my property, Max says firmly, blue eyes now steely. And I wouldn’t ever want you to feel like that. But you’re mine, just like I’m yours. I wanted to make that clear to any other Alpha who may be...interested. And trust me, there were more than a few.

Your jaw drops as you realise his intentions, and you’re completely floored. So basically, you were just jealous I was there with another guy? A sponsor? Max runs a hand through his tousled locks, now looking a bit embarrassed and you finally take in his appearance. He was still dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, with cat slippers - clearly having gotten straight up and driver to yours. Despite your initial anger, you feel yourself soften a bit when he tells you it was mostly just instinct that made him take the necklace out of the family safe when he heard you’d be attending with a date. If I couldn’t be seen publically as your date, then I wanted to be able to offer you something else - and that necklace has been gifted to the Omegas that the Alphas in my family have been courting for the past few hundred years. Not as a collar of ownership - he adds hastily, already knowing where this could end up - but rather an offer to you that I could provide and take care of you however you like. If you’ll have me, of course. His blue eyes find yours, studying your reaction closely to his tempting invitation.

You take in his words, finding a warm flush spreading through you at the foreign idea of having an Alpha like Max promise his loyalty and dedication to you, and only you. There was something about your normally prideful rival admitting his jealousy, his possessiveness, that awoke your inner Omega. She purred at the thought of your Alpha wanting to publically declare you as his, consequences be damned. You decided to move on for now, telling him wryly that next time there might be better ways of handling his jealousy than pawning out his half a million Euro necklace.

Smiling, relieved at your extended olive branch, Max can’t resist a cheeky you’d seemed to love the diamonds last night though? You flush at the teasing, telling him there was no need to bring that up and that reminds you, it was way to expensive to just be sitting on your dresser like that and you needed to return it-

Keep it, Max says, icy fire in his eyes now as his usual assured tone returns. It was almost meant to be gifted to my Omega. It’s yours, now, just like the rest of me. Your heart flutters at his declaration, and you counter that okay, okay, but could he at least store it in his safe again for now, you did not have the contents insurance to cover it if you got robbed? Conceding, Max agrees to your compromise, and your offer to stay for breakfast as well.

Smiling at how adorably excited he looked after earning your forgiveness, you’re humming to yourself as you return to the kitchen after collecting the necklace from your bedroom. You find Max standing still, a small bottle in his hand - that you realise were actually your heat suppressants. He looks perplexed at the label, looking up at you, asking Why you had these? You feel defensive at his demanding tone. What? Obviously I’ve been taking them this whole time, especially with the way you keep trying to rile me up every race.

Max looks completely floored at the new information that you’ve been suppressing your scent, your biological reactions to him. And then he connects to dots to say you hadn’t had a real heat then? After your presentation? You eye him a little suspiciously, asking him where he was going with this but he impatiently prompts you to answer him. I haven’t, you huff, cheeks pink. I haven’t had my first heat yet.

Max’s blue eyes darken at your words, his grip on the bottle tightening so much that it actually gets crushed under his hand. He tells you that you should stop taking these suppressors immediately, that delaying your heat was going to make it much more painful for you when it finally happened. You should pick a safe time and place to come off them, let your heat happen naturally and-

No fucking way, Verstappen you say, rolling your eyes. What, just cause you want to hear me beg for your help again, huh?

Yes, Max says rather straightforwardly. I’ve been dreaming about the day you let me claim you properly. You blush a bright pink, hating how your stomach did backflips at his possessive words, remembering how insanely mind-blowing your sexual experiences have been with him so far. You can’t deny that it's been a recurring theme in the vivid dreams you've been having, that have become more and more frequent and realistic every time. They've left you wondering what your first heat would be like...and how it would feel if you let Max fuck you through it.

But still, you firmly deny his proposal, telling him to shut up because there’s no way you can stop suppressants in the middle of the season. He wisely chooses to bite his tongue at your raised eyebrow, instead putting himself to work mixing pancake batter before you kick him out, still irritated with his thoughtless demand of stopping your suppressants.

But your words come back to haunt you much sooner than you anticipated - two race weekends later. You've been avoiding coming within a 10 feet radius of Max, especially with how rabid the media have gotten, wanting to interrogate the two of you on your relationship status. You only give brief, clipped media-trained answers, saying you were here to be a racing driver and not some gossip column celebrity.

It's almost hilarious how quickly your facade crumbles, barely onto Lap 11 of the race. You'd already been feeling unwell in qualifying the day before but chalked it off as nerves from the scrutiny of thousands of eyes on you. You even took a triple dose of suppressants that morning, blatantly ignoring the health warnings on the label. You'd had to get a fresh supply after Max practically crushed all your old ones to dust, and you scowl just thinking of the memory. Goddamn arrogant Alpha, thinking it all revolved around him, around the relationship - when your first priority was always going to be the world championship. Just like you were certain his priorities lay. Why should you have to sacrifice your career just because you're an Omega?

The universe laughs at your determination, and on that fateful Lap 11 the rising dizziness you'd been feeling becomes stronger as you approach your rival's Red Bull car ahead. The closer you get to him, the more your head spins, and as you come within a couple metres - the crowd screams in excitement and shock as an involuntary shudder through your body almost makes you spin out.

And suddenly you can't breathe, or think, or do anything else because it hits you all at once. Max. Your inner Omega croons, calling out for her Alpha, the man preselected to provide and care for her in every way. And somewhere on the other end of the bond, you feel that heady, intense aura of your mate responding to the call. I'm right here. You're safe.

You almost lose all control of your car as the most intense, burning need you'd ever felt in your life overtakes you completely. And you only want one thing - your Alpha, Max. With a screech of the tires, your car goes barrelling into the barricades, safely cushioned amongst the rubber. Luckily, you aren't hurt, dazedly yanking off your wheel and belt as you stumble out of your car, ignoring the frantic messages over your team radio. You keep your helmet firmly on, trying desperately to focus on taking one step in front of the other and get off this track, no longer caring about the massive fine you were going to get slapped with for disrupting the race.

You barely remember what happened next, keeping your eyes closed and clenching your fists because of how much your head pounded. Blood rushes to your ears, your veins chanting for Max, Max, your Alpha, you needed him-

Your team is tripping over themselves in a rush to come grab you as you stumble to the Mercedes garage. But when quite a few of them freeze, staring at you in shock, you finally realise that you couldn't hide your secret anymore. Because the delicious, sweet scent of an unclaimed Omega in her primal heat radiated off you in thick waves. You're crying at how distressed you feel, thankful for the helmet hiding your reaction. Toto appears at some point, pulling you into his side to navigate through the crowd. There's people talking around you rapidly but you can barely piece together their words, and then you hear Toto's strong voice cutting through it, speaking to you with his authoritative voice. Your Omega hones in for a second, taking in something about getting you out of here, to a safe location for a few days- but then you lose interest, because this isn't the Alpha that you so desperately wish was by your side right now.

You're being led quickly to a discreet car around the back end, and your boss is impatiently ushering you towards it, pausing for a second to yank your helmet off so you can hear him better. Bad, bad idea - he takes one look at your flushed, dazed face before he swears, stumbling back when your sickeningly sweet smell hits him now that your neck is exposed. You reach out instinctively, wanting him to stay by your side and protect you through this confusing mess but he turns around stiffly, pressing his hand to his nose to block out any scent.

Your manager - a Beta - steps in and guided your distressed figure into the backseat, whispering reassurances to you that it was all going to be okay. The last thing you remember is Toto's face as he turns to see your car drive off, his face tense. With a jolt, you realise that the unfamiliar darkness in his eyes was a response to your heat, because it was so strong it had even affected a mated Alpha.

A few hours later, you're well away from the racetrack. Your manager had somehow managed to smuggle you onto an emergency chartered jet to take you back to Monaco. But instead of letting you rest in the comfort of your apartment, she insisted you go shower and clean up while she packed a bag. You spend a good 30minutes under the icy cold shower, enjoying the relief against your skin which had started to become very warm. But your temporary relief is put to an end when you're once again ushered out, into another car, and then she's driving you out towards the Italian farmlands outside of the city.

You don't recognise the double storied terracotta house she pulls upto in the late afternoon, in the middle of a sprawling vineyard without any other houses visible for miles. You confusedly ask her what was going on as she helps you into the house, letting you rest on the sofa as she makes sure all the windows are locked shut. Turning on the AC to maximum, she turns to explain you were in a safe house, a good 45 minutes away from the nearest inhabitants of a rural Italian village.

It's actually a very cozy place, with a traditional exterior but modern interior, the kitchen fully stocked and high grade security locks on the windows and doors. For you to spend your heat safely, your manager says firmly. She makes you promise that you'll stay inside, and not to be scared, because no one knows you were here - not even Max. She hesitates, then, looking sympathetic at your flushed figure as you start burning up uncomfortably despite the aircon. It'll be a painful, getting through this first heat alone. It's a pity you and Max weren't able to work it out before it started...but maybe next time. Leaving your phone plugged in for any emergencies, she leaves, telling you she'd return in a week's time.

And then you're finally alone. The sheer exhaustion of the day hits you, the realisation that the whole world had seen, had smelt the secret you'd been hiding. You fall asleep on the sofa, wanting to forget it all and escape. When you wake a few hours later, the sun is setting over the horizon. You're not sure what woke you up, and then your brain catches up the suddenly unbearable heat radiating from your body. You shrug out of your outer layers, still panting despite being left in a thin camisole singlet and tiny shorts. You needed some air, it was so goddamn hot -

Ignoring your manager's warning, you unbolt the front door and step outside into the dusky twilight. Your senses are still muddled, feeling fried from the aching heat, but then a few seconds later you feel yourself regaining some clarity. You think it was the evening breeze that soothed you - but your inner Omega hones in on something else carried over in the breeze. A smoky, amber scent fills you senses, and makes you suddenly gush an embarrassing amount of slick into your panties.

And when you turn to look at the source, you see your Alpha agitatedly prowling towards you through the grapevines, his dusty Jeep parked haphazardly behind him. He comes to a stop a few metres away, watching you intensely with a tilt of his head, his own chest rapidly rising with deep pants. The sight of the Dutch Lion has the desperate need to be fucked going overdrive within you, and his low growl carries across the gap as he catches a hint of how delicious your slick in heat smells. Missed me, my sweet Omega? Max murmurs, velvet voice deep as he takes in your bare neck and inviting breasts as you breathe him in.

But your little game isn't over yet, and in the brief moment of sanity you're asking him how the hell he had found you? Eyes darkening at your shaky voice, ice blue eyes roaming over your barely dressed figure, he huskily murmurs a What do you think? I just followed the delicious scent of my Omega in heat. There was no way in hell I was finishing that race as soon as you called for me through the bond.

Your heart beats even faster at his confession. You hadn't known the Dutchman had given up his position in P1 to come to you. You'd find out later too that the Redbull driver had stormed into the Mercedes garage minutes after you'd left, demanding to know why you'd been smuggled away from him. And he'd taken one look at Toto Wolff's face, seen his eyes overcome with desire at smelling you, Max's Omega...and promptly seen red. It had ended up taking 4 Alphas to separate the Dutchman from the German team principal, and that was after Max had gotten three strong blows in. The FIA were going to be gleefully rolling in cash from the amount of fines they were sending the latest grid couple's way.

But you weren't aware of any of that in the present. All you could think about was how he'd made you wait hours today. It had been pure torture when he should have been by your side, reassuring you, taking care of you in the way only he can. You test him one more time, telling him if he'd come all the way here thinking you were going to get to fuck me then he was going to be disappointed. You weren't going to let an Alpha who was late to his mate's first heat lay his claim, you say with a sniff.

You smirk coyly at the warning rumble in Max's chest at your stubborn challenge. Then, in an instant, you're taking off, sprinting like a wild rabbit through the vineyard fields as the full moon lights the way. Your body is moving on instinct, and you've heard of this before, the Priming - the final test an Omega performed to see if the Alpha was able to keep up with her, to catch her successfully and make her his mate.

You laugh excitedly, the sound travelling in the air, when you look back and don’t see him anymore. You think you've outsmarted him when you cut through a hidden pathway, almost at the edge of the field and into the woods-

When a large, muscled arm knocks the wind out of you when it wraps firmly around your waist and yanks you back. And then you’re pressed into a warm, hard body with a possessive hand snaking around your neck, and you know your game is over. You gasp when Max bends down to your level, your tiny frame barely brushing his upper chest. He turns your chubby cheeks with his large hand to meet his intense, hungry gaze. The last flecks of the beautiful ocean blue have completely disappeared as darkness swirls in Max’s eyes. I’m going to claim you now, my sweet little Omega he purrs, enjoying how your tits bounce up and down as you pant in response to in his intoxicating, dominating scent.

And when you bite your lip, your doe eyes completely glazed over with lust as you tilt your delicate neck back invitingly, he knows you’re finally all his. Licking a stripe up the column of your throat as a teaser of what was to come, he smiles at the shaky hitch in your breathing. More slick drips out of you, drenching your panties and making you press your thighs together desperately. Smirking now, he teases you as he presses that big nose you adore against your collarbone, his deep accented voice murmuring against your feverish skin. You’re so wet for me and I haven’t even touched you there yet. Didn’t I tell you this would happen with those fucking suppressants? But my Omega is just too stubborn to listen to me, hmm?

He teases you more, his voice husky and magnetic as he moves his lips by your ear to whisper into it. What do you want me to do about this mess, schat? You can’t take this torture any longer, and with a whine you wrap both your hands around his thick, veiny forearm to pull it from your waist and instead cup your soaked core through your thin shorts. Max, you whine, Maxie, Maxieee, yo-you’re gonna take care of me, right? Like a good Alpha? You promised you would when you gave me the necklace!

Your desperate pleas have him growling, and he lifts you up easily to toss you over his broad shoulder. You squeal in shock at the sudden change in position as he stalks off back to the house, locking it firmly behind him once past the front door. And then there’s nothing standing in the way of his large hands exploring your sensitive body, the only salvation to your burning fever. His strong hands easily rip away your camisole, your shorts, and his eyes - that are completely black now - hungrily roam over your heaving tits and wet cunny. He inhales deeply as he climbs on top of you, taking in the scent of his sweet Omega as she begs for him to claim her.

And this time, he wasn’t going to stop until his cock was buried deep inside your pussy, and his fangs on your exposed throat as he leaves his mark there for the world to see who you belonged to.

—————————————————————————

A/N: Tysm for ur patience guys sorry this took so long 🥹🥹 hope u enjoy!!! Love me some primal feral max can't believe i wrote 10k lol. was gonna split it into part 2 and 3 but was like nah ya'll have waited long enough x

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #18+ mdni #omegaverse

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norrisjpg · 28 days ago

Text

── ☆ champagne & complications

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series: my kind of woman, LN⁴

content: the miami grand prix, swearing, mclaren's team strategy, zak brown being oblivious

pairing: lando norris x fem!oc

rora's thoughts: hey everyone! i am on a rollllll, and feeling super motivated. i also watched the entire team redline stream last night and honestly max is so funny i can't even - and on that note, i have opened a max blog! nothing is posted on there as of yet, but i do have a fic in the works. enjoy!

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THE MIAMI HEAT hit like a punch to the chest as soon as she stepped off of the air-conditioned paddock shuttle. humid, blinding, and impossible to ignore, let alone avoid. lily winced, taking a deep breath and adjusting her sunglasses as she looked around the bustling paddock – taking in the sound of generators, turbocharged engines, and distant team chatter.

“i swear it wasn’t this hot last time.” max muttered beside her, pulling his cap off and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“you say that everytime we go somewhere that’s not england.” lily quipped, rolling her eyes.

lando’s invitation to max had backfired, in his favour for once. pietra had an unmissable modelling shoot so she wasn’t able to attend the race weekend – providing lily with a perfect opening. but again, lando wasn’t aware of the younger girl’s presence yet, and she didn’t know that he hadn’t been told she was there either – great job, max.

max gave a shrug and turned to face her, paddock pass around his neck swinging. “no i don’t. anyway, welcome to miami, try not to melt.”

“i am already,” lily muttered, adjusting her tank top on her lower back. “how far away is the hospitality?”

“like a ten minute walk i think?” the brit shrugged, like a ten minute walk wasn’t about to feel like miles to them, and as if he wasn’t going to complain the whole way.

her nerves knotted a little tighter as the engine revs got louder, and the luxe papaya hospitality building came into view. she was walking onto his turf unannounced, again. she was hopeful that they’d fall back into their normalness like they had at the weekend, and that he’d be his usual self – kind and sweet to her. but she wasn’t so sure, she’d never been in the mclaren garage on a race weekend, let alone when he was stressed and fighting for the lead of the championship.

“this is a mistake,” lily said to her brother as they walked up the stairs. “i don’t want to throw him off or something.”

“don’t be so dramatic, el.” max replied, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. “it’s character-building.”

“you said that when i broke my arm after you pushed me out of a tree.”

“well, it still is.” he gave her a stupid grin, fiddling with his lanyard as he plopped down on one of the couches. “besides, it’s not like you had better plans this weekend.”

“i was planning to see harry, actually.”

“like i said, not like you had better plans.” he repeated, shrugged. “i’ll see you in a bit, i’ve got some hilton stuff to do in the stadium.”

“are you kidding–”

“later, sis!”

before she could say anything else – which was probably for the best – max was disappearing back down the stairs with a wave and quick glance. typical max. drop her in the deep end and then swan off somewhere else.

she lingered near the staircase, toying with the bracelet on her wrist as she tried to muster up the courage to walk downstairs and explore the paddock. the unit was buzzing – hospitality staff constantly moving between floors, fans clustered at the fences, mechanics rushing back and forth between the garage and the motorhome. everything was bright and loud and a little too fast.

and then she saw him.

cap pulled low, head down, clad in his mclaren kit. race suit rolled and hanging around his hips, fireproof undershirt clinging to his torso. he looked flushed from the heat, or maybe from rushing around – either way he looked hot.

he hadn’t seen her yet. he was walking up the stairs with purpose, eyes glued in front of him like he had somewhere very important to be. lando just so happened to scan to his right, and their eyes locked, just for a second – but it stopped him in his tracks.

“lily?” his brows pulled together slightly, a surprised expression crossing his face. “i didn’t know you were coming?”

“sorry, didn’t max tell you?” she winced as she spoke, shifting on her feet nervously.

“no, it’s a nice surprise though.” his voice softened, a smile gracing his lips. “you good?”

“a little nervous, it’s um… it’s a lot here.” lily nodded, glancing around. “are you?”

“hot, very hot.”

she hummed in agreement, nodding her head and avoiding his gaze for a couple seconds. “yeah, sorry max didn’t tell you, we only decided on like… tuesday – p had a shoot.”

“oh, i see.” lando pursed his lips, but the look in his eyes never wavered. “don’t apologise though, it’s good to have you here.”

“uhm… thankyou.” she smiled.

“have you ever been in a garage before, like at a race?” he asked, tilting his head.

“not properly.”

“criminal behaviour from your brother.” he shook his head, taking a step back from the stairwell so there was enough space for her to squeeze in front of him. “come on, let me fix that.”

“it’s okay, you’re really busy–”

“come on,” he repeated. “let me give you a deluxe tour – i’ll take you places even max hasn’t been.”

lily smiled appreciatively, and walked down the stairs in front of him, grateful for the movement – and even more grateful for how normal he was making all of this feel. and just like that, lando norris was guiding her through the paddock, her heart pounding in a rhythm only he ever seemed able to disturb.

• • • •

THE MCLAREN GARAGE was a cluster of engineers tapping away at tablets and mechanics elbow-deep in machinery. towering stacks of tyres with two names on them were loaded into their designated spaces, making everything seem carefully orchestrated – like a live performance, only the lead actors wore fireproof suits, and the supporting cast lived in headsets.

the pair stopped near the back wall of the garage, where two driver headsets hung from their hooks beside a sleek monitor glowing starkly with live data. lando reached for the one with ‘LN4’ printed neatly on the sides.

“c’mere.” he said gently, motioning for lily to get closer to him.

“hm?” she hesitated, brows lifting as he held out the item.

“just–” he stepped closer to her, fingers brushing her face as he slid the headset down over her ears. “trust me.”

lily held still, hardly breathing at all, the faint scent of polo red drifting through the heat around them. his fingers grazed the side of her neck as he adjusted the size, and a current practically zipped down her spine – sharp and unexpected.

a collection of precise words filled the headset – voices overlapping, data being exchanged, tyres being discussed like sacred artifacts. the world sharpened in her ears. engineers talked in clipped phrases, strategies cross-referenced with cool precision. one voice called out lando’s lap deltas; another referenced oscar’s tire temperatures. it was intimate in a whole new way – a language she didn’t understand, but one that lando lived by.

she turned her head slightly, eyes slightly wider than usual – he leant in, mouth near her ear so that she could hear him through the noise.

“that’s what i hear before every quali, every race, any time i go out on track.”

“it’s intense.” she swallowed, nodding her head.

“only place i don’t overthink things.” he said, gently taking the headset off of her head, leaning down a little so his face was level with hers.

for a moment, it felt like the rest of the garage had disappeared. the noise dulled, the buzz softened, and they were standing too close in a space that wasn’t meant for moments like these. his expression was open in a way she’d hadn’t seen before, not even over the previous weekend. a flicker of vulnerability under all the easy charm.

“most people think i just wing it.” he smiled, small and a little crooked.

“how on earth do you stay calm?” she asked, voice quiet enough to be heard by only lando.

“i don’t,” lando admitted. “not really. i’ve just… learnt to breathe through it.”

“doesn’t it all get a bit much sometimes?” her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

he hesitated, “yeah, it does.”

it was quiet, almost confessional – the type that wasn’t mean for press conferences or a netflix microphone. just for her ears, and her only.

“you don’t wing it,” lily said softly. “it’s all right there.”

he looked at her – really looked – something unspoken shifting in the way he held her gaze. vulnerable. not unguarded, but reluctant to be seen.

“no one’s ever said that to me.”

the fewtrell girl gave a small, shy smile, “then no one is paying enough attention.”

lando’s mouth curved gently, but his eyes stayed serious. for a heartbeat, neither of them moved. she was sure that if she leant in, then they’d be a lot closer than they were allowed to be. but what she wasn’t certain of was the look he was giving her, pliant and almost desperate. the air between them crackled – not just with attraction, but understanding. a quiet, undeniable gravity.

then someone called out his name – sharp and professional – and the spell snapped like a taut-pulled thread.

“quick, follow me,” he said quietly, “let me show you my driver room before i get dragged off to another briefing.”

his hand slipped over hers, tugging her back out toward the paddock and through the chaos. lily followed him, steps steadier than her heartbeat as fans swarmed him. his grip on her hand tightened a little as the crowd thickened, keeping her with him.

“jesus fuckin’ christ.” lando mumbled as the doors slid shut behind them.

“tell me about it.” she laughed, slightly overwhelmed by the volume of people and the fact that lando was still holding her hand.

“i’m this way,” he nodded, gently guiding her down the hallway toward the door labled – lando norris.

the room was small, cooler than the garage had been, more clinical and less personal than she’d expected. there was a grey couch underneath a mirror, a doorless wardrobe, a mini-fridge humming away in the corner filled to the brim with monster energy cans, along with a built-in bathroom. it smelt like him too – lemon and cedarwood and cologne.

“it’s… blander, than i was expecting at least.” she said quietly, glancing around the small room.

“disappointed?” lando rolled his eyes playfully.

“tiny bit.”

“i’ll tell zak to add a disco ball for next year.”

she laughed and dropped onto the couch, exhaling softly. “is this where you go when you want to be alone?”

“sometimes,” he replied, shrugging as he plopped down next to her. “or i’ll just sit in the car with my helmet on and pretend my radio isn’t working.”

lily chuckled softly, before sobering. “do you like the silence?”

“sometimes, it depends what kind of loud i’m escaping from.” he said with no hesitation.

she nodded, understanding more than he knew. they sat there for a couple minutes, lando’s body leaning into her own ever-so-slightly, legs pressed together.

he checked the richard mille on his wrist – “i’ve got a sponsor block in ten, you can stay in here if you want.”

“it’s okay, i should probably get back upstairs, max will be back soon.” lily said, standing and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “thankyou, for showing me all this.”

lando smiled, a little tired but clearly genuine. “you’re not just any other guest, you know?”

“what do you mean?”

“you’re max’s sister, and more importantly, you’re you.”

there was something in the way he spoke to her – a subtle weight, like the sentence meant more than the content of the words. like he was giving her space in his world and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it just yet.

he smiled at her thoughtful silence, “see you after quali, yeah?”

“yeah, good luck, lan.”

• • • •

THE REST OF THE MORNING passed in a blur of heatwaves and engine echoes. lando had hurried off toward a flurry of sponsors, media, and his own carefully-constructed routine before qualifying, while lily lingered just inside the cool air-conditioned lounge with a bottle of water and her phone.

although her and max were chatting way about who they thought was going to get pole position, her mind stayed behind – back in the garage, the headset, the softness of lando’s voice and the hotness of his breath on her skin. the subtle moment before something pulled him away – before something shifted and everything returned to normality.

it had been nothing, so why did it feel like something?

lily, in the end, didn’t have much time to think about it – because soon, a mclaren staff member was ushering them to the papaya garage and handing them headsets to wear at the back of the garage.

he was there, of course. lando was clad in his relatively tight race-suit, hanging around his race engineer with his fluorescent helmet on, visor flicked upward so his piercing eyes were visible. the driver was frowning, furrowing his eyebrows at what the older man was saying, and shrugging. he’d glanced over, gave a small wave and a wink – small enough to mean nothing, big enough to make her heart thump a little faster.

the moment lando lowered himself into the cockpit, the world outside narrowed to engine noise, brake pressure, and the pulse pounding in his ears. qualifying was about two things – speed and precision under pressure, threading the car through every apex with brutally unforgiving accuracy. one twitch too early, one fraction too late, and the lap was pointless. inside the helmet, his breathing was measured but sharp, like a man running toward something he couldn’t afford to miss. the radio crackled in his ears, his engineer checking it was working before feeding him data – it was muscle memory, and lando wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

from her standing position in the back corner, lily watched the monitors with slightly wide, unmoving eyes, her fingers clenched around the edge of her mclaren pass. to the outside world, qualifying was clinical – data, lap times, sector splits – but in person? it felt like standing at the edge of something volatile. his car slipped out of the garage and drove down toward the pit exit, ready to put on a good show in the papaya monster.

the way he drove was relentless, razor-sharp – no hesitation, no room for error or doubt itself – and yet it wasn’t just the precision that held her attention. it was the weight behind it, the need. she could see it in the way he moved, the way his hands twitched on the wheel in the replay footage, like he was chasing something more than pole position. as if this mattered in a way no one else could understand.

second place on the grid, behind max verstappen.

he seemed happy, smiled for the cameras and was as charismatic as usual.

but he really smiled when he re-entered the garage after all of the media obligations and defriefs from the team – making a beeline for max and lily.

“nice one, mate.” her brother patted his shoulder firmly, nodding his head.

“yeah, congratulations, lan.” lily nodded with a smile, watching the little glint in his eyes return.

“thanks guys,” he smiled. “i have like a thirty minute break before more interviews, what do you want to do?”

“i said i’d catch up with oscar at some point.” max told them. “haven’t seen the bloke in a while.”

“alright, see you in a bit.” lando replied, nodding as the boy headed off toward the other side of the garage. “come on, you.”

“hm, where are we going?”

“there’s quite a few people i’d like you to meet.” the driver explained, before mumbling, more to himself – “my performance coach is upstairs, actually.”

lando gestured to the flight of stairs she’d already been up and down at least four times, and guided her toward them, his hand lingering on her lower back.

“jon!” lando called, and a man with a beard and glasses replied, looking up from a table.

“yes?” jon replied, as lando and lily walked over to him, sat down with a laptop open in front of him. “oh, is this lily?”

“i–yeah. hi.” she blinked, smiling politely.

the older man held out his hand, warm and firm. “i’m jon, lando’s performance coach – basically means i stop him from eating whole tubs of nutella on race weekends.”

“lovely to meet you, jon.”

“i’ve heard a lot about you this week.” he said, sending lando a look.

lando’s cheeks heated up, “right, we’re going there.”

“oh, really?” lily laughed nervously. “all good things, i hope…?”

“actually yeah, lando won’t–”

“–and okay! got to go jon, we’ve got lots of people to see!” the brit interrupted cheerfully, grabbing lily’s hand and whisking her away.

“bye jon!” the girl laughed, earning a wave from the performance coach.

outside, the miami sun was still blazing, and the air was rich with humidity and noise – fans calling from barricades, team members rushing between motorhomes, flashes of cameras capturing every sliver of a movement. lando walked closer to her, head down slightly, but not avoiding attention so much as managing it.

“you alright?” he asked as they passed a crew of sky sports cameramen setting up outside of the red bull hospitality.

“yeah — just lots of people.” lily shrugged softly, glancing upward at him fleetingly.

“well, i wanted to introduce you to max and camila.” he gently nudged her shoulder with his own.

she nodded, “yeah, okay.”

he grinned, and then, just ahead – another figure appeared from the red bull motorhome. unmistakable in posture and calm in presence. max verstappen. he was laughing at something a curly-haired woman had said, her elegant figure walking beside him in a chic, soft blue dress that was effortlessly flawless.

“oi,” lando called casually. “max, cam.”

max turned first, a smile gracing his lips. “lando.”

his eyes flitted to lily, and his brows rose slightly in a lack of recognition. “i don’t think we’ve met, i’m max.”

“i’m lily, nice to meet you.” she replied politely, shaking the hand he held out to her.

“ah, you’re lily.” camila realised, like a lightbulb had flicked on in her brain. “i’m camila.”

“hi camila.” lily replied softly, briefly furrowing her eyebrows at the girl’s revelation.

she didn’t catch it, but the mclaren driver to her left sent the pair a warning glare, which seemed to steer them away from the incoming topic of conversation – something along the lines of lando has told us a lot about you.

the conversation was easy, as if they were old friends catching up. camila had immediately disarmed lily with her lightly musical brazilian accent, she was softer than she’d originally perceived, and the youngest fewtrell sibling immediately liked her. max was different to what she’d expected too – if anything, he was more immature than lando was, giggling at boyish jokes lando would make and quickly responding with similar humour – it felt… real. like something that had always been and never wouldn’t be.

“see you around.” camila had said, giving lily one more kind smile and a wave before they slipped away to the myriad of cameras and microphones – max adding in, “bye guys!”

once the pair were out of earshot, which lily checked quite a few times, she turned to lando. “they’re not what i expected.”

he raised a brow, “you and camila seemed to get along really well, so i assume better than expected?”

“way better, camila’s lovely, max is really funny, actually.”

“she is, terrifyingly perceptive, but yeah – lovely.” lando agreed. “you fit in here, you know?”

“i’m trying.” she laughed softly.

“no, seriously – it’s like you belong here, you’re doing great.”

and for the first time all day, lily let herself believe that might actually be true.

• • • •

SUNDAY ARRIVED with it’s usual electricity – race day tension always had a way of clinging to the paddock like static in the humid florida air. the grandstands were packed, swaying with papaya flags, camera lenses, and practically vibrating with chants. lily stood just outside the mclaren hospitality suite, leaning against the railing with a bottle of water pressed against her wrist, watching the world surge around her in precisely controlled chaos.

max had told her they were going to head to the grid once the cars were there, to support lando and maybe have a chat with martin brundle. pietra had texted her early in the morning, with a picture of pancakes in portugal, followed by a stream of emojis which could have meant literally anything, from i miss you or tell max to cut his hair.

lando had stopped by the suite briefly that morning, still in his hoodie, curls damp and a little unruly from a cold shower. “you’ll hear me before you see me,” he’d joked, gesturing toward the radio pack on the table.

she’d laughed, telling him to be safe and wishing him good luck.

even from her tucked-away position inside the garage, lily could feel the intensity of the race as it unfolded – heart-hammering overtakes, radios full of clipped instructions and foreign terminology, a barely-there gap between lando and oscar that had stretched and shrunk like an elastic band all afternoon. when the british driver crossed the line in second place, the garage exploded in celebration – another successful weekend, another mclaren one-two. but, she’d caught it immediately, the subtle dip in his expression as he watched zak and andrea hug oscar, the shadow just behind his smile as they simply shook his hand.

the podium ceremony was miami glitter: palm tree confetti, flamingo-coloured banners, champagne mist caught in the sunlight. lando stood one step down from oscar, eyes squinting against the brightness. he clapped when it was expected of him, posed for photos, even sprayed oscar with the fizzy liquid, laughed when oscar tried to do the same to him – but it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

“hell of a result, huh?”

the voice came from her left as she looked up at the podium. zak brown.

she straightened, giving him a polite smile. “definitely.”

zak didn’t seem to notice her unease. he was already turned fully to the podium, arms folded proudly over his chest. “oscar’s on another level this season, no errors, the mark of a future world champion right there.”

lily nodded, lips tight. “mhm, he’s been impressive.”

“a real asset, we’re lucky to have him.” zak chuckled, oblivious.

something about the use of lucky rubbed her the wrong way. her eyes flicked up to the stage, where the three were making their way off of the podium.

lily turned slightly, voice soft but firm – “lando drive an impressive race too, those last ten laps – i don’t think anyone could have handled that pressure like he did.”

the man blinked, almost caught off-guard by her tone.

“he’s been consistent all weekend,” she added. “and honestly, the way he fought through that middle stint was so impressive.”

“yeah, true. lando did great too.”

before he could even think about pivoting back to oscar, lily offered him a small smile, turning to leave already – “i should go find my brother, have a nice rest of your day.”

she didn’t wait for a reply.

• • • •

POST-RACE NOISE had dulled down, the shadows of the paddock had stretched long across the asphalt, and lily found herself wondering back to the mclaren unit with max. the energy was quieter now – crew members coiling cables, engineers packing away laptops, sponsors sipping drinks in the upstairs lounge.

they didn’t expect to find lando there. she’d figured he’d be busy in debriefs, or somewhere private, but when they stepped through the glass door, he was sitting at one of the small corner tables, with jon, near the back. he’d changed into a black mclaren polo, curls damp once again from either podium champagne or a shower. a can of monster sat untouched beside him.

he looked up at the two encroaching people, internally assuming they were fans or something and ready to put on a polite smile – but when he saw the two, a real smile tugged at the corners of his mouth – not the media-trained one, not the clipped and tired post-race version. just something soft, and real.

“there you are,” he said, making jon turn his head toward the pair.

“ah, hey lily,” jon smiled. “hi max.”

“hey,” lily responded, feeling like she was interrupting something, max responding in tandem.

“okay, we’re done anyway, lando. you’re free to go when you want.” jon stood up, shutting his laptop. “i’m sure i’ll see you two soon, have a nice week.”

“thanks jon, see you tomorrow.” the driver waved, frowning as max took jon’s seat as he walked away. “dude, you have no manners, let her sit down.”

“get your own chair.” max poked his tongue out childishly, making lily laugh.

“knob.” lily laughed, grabbing a different chair and sitting down in between the two boys.

it wasn’t until later, when max was flat-out in the back seats of the rental car lando had for the weekend, that he brought it up.

“jon told me what you said to zak,” lando spoke quietly, glancing over at the woman in the passenger seat. “he was stood in front of you.”

“oh,” lily pursed her lips. “yeah, sorry about that.”

“nothing to be sorry for, i was going to thank you.” he explained. “he doesn’t do it on purpose, you know? he does it oscar sometimes when i win.”

“but?” lily said for him, sensing there was more he wanted to say.

“i should be happy with second, you know? it’s points, it’s progress, but–”

“–it feels like it doesn’t belong to you.”

“exactly.”

the silence hung, gentle and soft, comfortable and much needed. lily couldn’t understand how he was feeling – she hated it when people told her they understood how she felt – but she knew what he meant by what he was saying, and how he hesitated in telling her, like he wasn’t allowed to vocalise his feelings.

he smiled, genuine and thankful – and for the first time in a while, something shifted in lando’s very soul, something deep and meaningful.

he just hadn’t realised it yet.

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