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Crash Course - Part II

Summary: It’s the first day of the retreat, and it’s already off to a terrible start. You literally cannot seem to escape Max, and even worst, it seems like he’d taking a liking to pushing your buttons.

What to know: Max x reader, forced proximity

Part I

The trip to the retreat started badly.

Which felt fitting.

First, the car service was late. Then Checo bailed on sitting next to me and swapped seats at the last second so I was stuck with Max for the two-hour drive through the Austrian countryside.

“Of course,” I muttered, climbing in next to him and slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

Max didn’t even flinch. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“I’m not.”

He smirked. “You’re a delight, as always.”

I put in one AirPod and turned toward the window. The silence between us wasn’t peaceful. It was charged. Every breath, every shift of movement, it all felt too loud. His knee brushed mine once and I nearly jumped.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

—

The retreat was nestled in a valley, all crisp mountain air and obnoxiously scenic pine trees. The team had rented out a rustic lodge with scattered cabins and a separate activities hall. Everyone was handed a welcome pack at check-in, along with instructions to meet at the main field in twenty minutes.

“This already feels like a punishment,” I muttered to Checo.

He just grinned and adjusted his sunglasses. “Try not to kill Max before the first activity.”

“No promises.”

—

We were herded into pairs by Christian, who was practically glowing with smugness.

“Today’s icebreaker,” he said, clapping his hands, ��is a partner obstacle course. Each team will complete it together - your final time will determine your cabin selection.”

“Great,” I whispered to myself. “Who’s my partner?”

Max stepped beside me like he’d been summoned.

“I picked you,” he said easily, arms crossed. “Like I said I would.”

I blinked. “You’re serious?”

He nodded. “You think I’d pass up an opportunity to win?”

That would’ve been more convincing if he didn’t say it while looking directly at my mouth.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t slow me down.”

“Likewise.”

—

The course was ridiculous. Like something pulled from a military boot camp or a reality TV show. Rope climbs, balance beams, partner carry segments. The kind of thing that required trust and coordination, two things we absolutely did not have.

From the start, it was a disaster.

We couldn’t agree on a pace. He was too fast on the running segments, too impatient to help me over the mud wall. I was too stubborn to let him take the lead on the tire drag, and we nearly tripped over each other yelling about it.

“This would go faster if you didn’t argue every time I told you what to do!” he snapped, breathless, mid-obstacle.

“Maybe if your leadership skills weren’t garbage, I’d consider listening!”

He laughed; a wild, unhinged sound. “You’d fight me even if I told you the sky was blue.”

“Only if you said it like a dick.”

We hit the ground hard coming out of the final crawl tunnel, covered in dirt and panting.

Last.

Dead. Last.

“Congrats,” I said between gasps. “We suck.”

Max dropped onto his back beside me and stared up at the sky. Sarcastically, “I’d rather lose with you than win with anyone else.”

I froze.

His eyes slid over to mine, unreadable. “That was a joke. Relax.”

I shoved dirt at him. “You’re not funny.”

“Still got you to smile,” he said.

I looked away before he could see it.

—

The real punishment came ten minutes later when Christian called everyone to attention.

“Your obstacle course finish determines your cabin,” he said. “Top pairs get the larger setups. Smallest cabin goes to- ”

He didn’t have to finish.

Everyone turned to look at us.

“No, no no no,” I said quickly. “That was never in the rules.”

Christian grinned like the devil. “Surprise twist. Builds character.”

“What does ‘smallest’ mean?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

“Single-room cabin. One bed,” Christian said, delighting in the chaos. “We call it the honeymoon suite.”

Max made a strangled noise that may have been a laugh.

I stared at him. “This is your fault.”

“You’re the one who couldn’t lift a tire.”

“You tripped me!”

“I was trying to help!”

We were still arguing as a staff member handed us our cabin key - cabin eleven. Set farthest from the lodge. Secluded. Of course.

Max held the key between two fingers and gave me a long, smug look.

“Well,” he said. “At least there’s no obstacle course inside.”

I snatched the key. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I plan to,” he said quietly. “It’s what I’m best at.”

And then he smiled.

That damn smile.

The one that told me this retreat was going to be hell.

—

The door creaked open with the reluctant groan of old wood and worse intentions.

It was small. Really small. One room, sloped ceiling, a tiny kitchenette, and the world’s most insulting excuse for a bed shoved against the far wall. Cozy, if you were into punishment.

Max stepped in first. He surveyed the space with a low whistle, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Wow,” he said. “Nothing says luxury like one pillow and existential dread.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, tossing my bag on the floor.

“I feel like we should at least get a bottle of wine and a divorce lawyer included.”

“Shut. Up.”

He chuckled and kicked off his shoes like he owned the place.

I didn’t know what pissed me off more: his total lack of discomfort or the fact that my heart was pounding for absolutely no reason. Just adrenaline. Annoyance. Altitude. Pick one.

I took a deep breath. “I’m taking the floor.”

Max looked at me like I’d announced I planned to sleep on the roof.

“Come again?”

“I’m not sharing that bed with you.”

“Why not?”

I blinked. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a bed.”

“It’s you in it.”

That got a grin. Smug. Slow. “Afraid you’ll cuddle me in your sleep?”

“I’m afraid I’ll strangle you in yours.”

He laughed then - actually laughed - and I hated how warm it sounded in the tiny cabin. Like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

God, I wanted to throw something.

Instead, I grabbed a folded blanket from the bench and dropped it on the floor next to the far wall.

Max watched me with lazy amusement. “You’re really doing this.”

“Yeah. I am.”

“You know I’m not going to do anything.”

“That’s what all men say before they try to do something.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t even like you.”

“Perfect. Then this works out for both of us.”

I dropped down onto the makeshift bed with a satisfying thud, pulled the blanket over myself, and pointedly turned away from him.

There was a pause.

Then, softly: “It’s not comfortable down there.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“You’re impossible.”

I smiled to myself in the dark. “You’re insufferable.”

And that was the last thing we said that night.

—

The silence stretched for hours. Not comfortable, not tense, just sharp around the edges. The kind where every creak of the bed made me flinch. Every breath he took was too loud, too close. I swore I could feel the heat of his body even from across the room, like he was a campfire I hadn’t asked to sit near.

I didn’t sleep much.

And I was pretty sure he didn’t either.

—

By morning, my spine was furious with me, the wooden floor having done its best impression of a torture device. I sat up with a groan, stretching my neck and wincing at the ache in my lower back.

“Looked like a great night,” Max said from the bed, already sitting up, hair tousled and annoyingly attractive. “You and the floor seem like a strong couple.”

I glared at him. “Don’t you have something smug to do?”

“I just did it.”

He threw the blanket off and stood. Shirtless. Again.

Because of course.

I looked away fast, teeth clenched, as he padded toward the kitchenette to make coffee. Bare feet. Low-slung sweatpants. No sense of shame.

“I can see why you’re so cranky all the time,” he said, reaching for the kettle. “If I slept like that, I’d hate the world too.”

“If you slept on the floor,” I said, “the floor would apologize to me.”

He snorted and poured water into the kettle.

I stayed where I was. Wrapped in the blanket. Stubborn. Sore. And seething.

This was going to be a long three days.

—

I made it to breakfast first.

A small win, but I took it. One minute of freedom before Max inevitably showed up and ruined it with his stupid bedhead and too-casual confidence.

The dining lodge was warm and open, all wood beams and mountain charm. Most of the team was already there, loading up on carbs and caffeine for whatever hell Christian had planned next. I spotted Checo sitting near the window, halfway through a croissant and typing something on his phone.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Seat taken?” I asked, sliding into the chair across from him before he could answer.

He glanced up, grinned. “Wow. You look like you murdered someone in your sleep.”

“I thought about it.”

“You didn’t sleep with Max, right?”

“God, no.”

He smirked. “That defensive, huh?”

I tore off a piece of toast and glared at him. “I took the floor.”

He winced. “Oof. Brave.”

“Painful,” I corrected, sipping my coffee. “Stiff neck, bruised pride, and absolutely zero thanks from the other half of the honeymoon suite.”

Checo laughed, chewing thoughtfully. “You two are like magnets. Backwards ones.”

“We repel for a reason.”

“You sure about that?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped when I felt the air shift. A shadow fell across the table. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“Morning,” Max said casually, dropping his tray onto the table beside Checo, directly across from the only open seat left. Mine.

I didn’t move.

I made a point of spreading my napkin in my lap, taking my time with every bite of toast like it was a shield.

He sat without asking.

Of course he did.

“Sleep well?” he asked, looking directly at me.

I gave him a razor-thin smile. “Like a rock. On another rock.”

“Same. Bed was great.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

Checo glanced between us. “Please tell me you’re not going to get us all kicked out before we even start today’s challenge.”

“Depends,” I muttered. “Does murder count as a team-building activity?”

Max leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. His shirt rode up slightly. I did not look. I didn’t.

“Actually,” he said, “Christian mentioned something about trust exercises this morning.”

“Fantastic,” I said flatly. “That’s exactly what I want to do with a man who’d probably let me fall just to prove a point.”

“I wouldn’t let you fall,” Max said, eyes glinting. “I’d catch you. Then drop you. Gently. Just to mess with you.”

“You’re a child.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Checo cut in, holding up his hands. “Okay, enough sexual tension before coffee.”

I choked. Max just grinned.

—

We were all gathered in the main field by nine. Christian stood at the front like a camp counselor on a power trip, clipboard in hand and a sparkle of chaos in his eyes.

“Morning, everyone,” he called. “Hope you’re rested and ready. Today’s focus: communication and cooperation.”

A mixture of groans and laughing echoed around the group. I stood with my arms crossed, sunglasses on, Max far too close beside me.

Christian scanned the group. “Now, we’ve intentionally paired some of you with teammates you might not usually work with. In some cases, with people you don’t particularly get along with.”

My stomach dropped.

No.

Christian’s eyes locked on me. “You and Max will be working together again.”

A few people snickered. Someone muttered, oh god.

I looked at Max. He was already smirking.

“Why?” I asked, exasperated.

“Because,” Christian said with a too-pleasant smile, “you two are the least cohesive pair on this trip. And this team needs to function as a unit.”

“We’re not even on the same actual team,” I argued.

“You’re both part of the performance division,” he countered. “Like it or not, that makes you connected.”

Max stepped forward, looking far too pleased. “Can’t wait to carry her through a minefield.”

“It’s a ropes course,” Christian deadpanned.

“Same thing.”

“Shut up,” I hissed under my breath as we walked toward the starting area.

Max just grinned wider. “You love it.”

“I loathe you.”

“And yet,” he said, holding out a harness strap, “you’re still letting me tie you up.”

My hands fumbled the buckle.

He noticed.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said.

“I don’t have to. You do it for me.”

I swore under my breath and turned away.

The harness snapped into place with a harsh click. Too tight. Too close. We hadn’t even started the course and I was already ready to throw myself into the nearest tree.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max x reader #max verstappen #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula one fanfic #formula 1 fanfic

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ephemeralp1eces · 6 hours ago

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Crash Course

Summary: You’ve been hired by the Red Bull team to work with Checo (yes checo). It’s the experience of a lifetime, and you’re ecstatic, and maybe a little nervous. There’s only one problem. Max Verstappen.

What to know: enemies -> lovers, fluff, max x reader

wc; 2.3k

Part II

I wasn’t nervous.

Not really.

Sure, I was walking into one of the most dominant Formula 1 teams in history. And yeah, maybe the guy I’d technically be working alongside had a reputation for chewing people up and spitting them out like used gum. But you weren’t here for Max Verstappen. And maybe that was my first mistake, going in so cynical, so determined to not get along with Max.

I was here for Checo. For fitness coaching. For performance strategy. For everything the Red Bull higher-ups wanted to squeeze out of their second driver this year. I was good at my job. Damn good.

So when I stepped into the Red Bull motorhome that first Friday morning of the season, credentials around my neck, coffee in hand, and a neutral expression set across my face, I didn’t expect him to be the first person I saw.

Max Verstappen.

Hair damp from the gym. Arms crossed. Brow already furrowed like I was five minutes late and ten IQ points short.

Perfect.

“You’re the new trainer?” he asked, no hello, no handshake. Just a pointed look that said you’re in my garage now.

I sipped my coffee and blinked at him. “Not yours, thankfully.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Pity. I like training with people who know what they’re doing.”

I offered a tight smile. “Good thing I didn’t come here to impress you.”

There was a pause. Not long. Barely a breath. But something in his expression shifted, just a flicker. Intrigue, maybe. Or annoyance. I couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

“Checo’s in the sim,” he said, turning like the conversation was over.

“Thanks,” I said coolly, walking past him. “And if you ever want tips on how not to pull your hamstring mid-season, feel free to ask.”

I didn’t look back, but I felt his eyes on me all the way down the hallway.

⸻

The first few days passed in a blur of training sessions, baseline assessments, and low-level chaos. Thankfully, I clicked with Checo instantly - professional, funny, no ego. The engineers liked my precision. Even the team principal gave me a rare compliment.

Only one person seemed unimpressed: Max.

Every time I was near him, he made some offhand remark. Something just cutting enough to annoy me.

“Checo’s training like he’s twenty again. Must be the new guru.”

“We doing yoga in the garage next?”

“How’s it feel to be a part-time coach and a full-time distraction?”

I wasn’t sure why he was gunning for me, whether it was boredom, dominance, or something else. But two could play that game.

⸻

It was Thursday afternoon before the first race when things finally came to a head.

I walked into the gym to find Max alone, pacing between sets of box jumps. Shirtless. Sweaty. Irritated.

I had no plans to engage, I really just needed to grab Checo’s updated data from the tablet on the bench.

But Max clocked my presence immediately.

“You really going to make Checo do those mobility drills again?” he asked, breath heavy. “It’s race weekend, not ballet class.”

I turned slowly, tablet in hand. “Tell me you just compared controlled lateral movement to ballet.”

“I’m saying he doesn’t need to waste his time.”

I tilted my head. “Right. Because overtraining and compensating have worked so well for you in the past.”

His jaw tensed. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

I stepped closer. Not backing down. “I know you throw tantrums when things don’t go your way. I know you push until you break, then blame the people around you for not holding you together. And I know your physiotherapist is probably one stiff muscle away from early retirement.”

His eyes darkened. A beat. Then:

“You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t proved anything.”

I smiled. Sweet. Sharp.

“Get used to it.”

And just like that, I turned and walked away, heart pounding with something that felt suspiciously like adrenaline. Or rage. Or worse, curiosity.

Behind me, Max muttered something under his breath.

I didn’t catch it.

I didn’t want to.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already kind of looking forward to the next time he picked a fight.

—

The week continued, and try as I might, Max was everywhere, unavoidable. I could feel him before I saw him. Not in some cosmic, fate-drenched way. No, Max Verstappen had the subtlety of a freight train. His presence filled a room long before his mouth did. And unfortunately, today, both were unavoidable.

I was standing just outside the Red Bull hospitality suite, scrolling through Checo’s cardio data on my tablet, when the door hissed open behind me.

“Let me guess,” came that low, clipped voice. “Still trying to reinvent the wheel?”

I didn’t turn. “Nope. Just making sure the wheel doesn’t explode mid-race.”

He stepped beside me, close enough that I could see the reflection of my glare in his sunglasses. Aviators, of course. The man wore arrogance like cologne, strong and unapologetic.

“You know,” he said casually, “Checo’s been finishing lower ever since you showed up.”

I turned slowly to face him. “You really going to pin a championship gap on hip mobility drills?”

He smirked, a slow, infuriating curl of his mouth. “I’m just saying, maybe he needs less stretching and more actual speed.”

“And maybe you need less ego and more humility, but here we are.”

That got a reaction. A small exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. The kind that said he liked the fight.

God, he was infuriating.

And, hot.

Which only made it worse.

He leaned in, just slightly. Enough for me to notice the way his collar dipped, sweat still clinging to the base of his neck from training.

“You always this combative?” he asked. “Or is it just me?”

“It’s just you,” I said sweetly. “Everyone else is tolerable.”

His eyes lingered on mine longer than necessary. Long enough for the air to shift, just slightly. I could feel it, like the moment before a storm, when everything holds its breath.

Then he backed away. Shrugged.

“Too bad,” he said, walking off. “I like combative.”

⸻

Later that day, I was in the garage with Checo, checking in on hydration levels and going over his pre-qualifying warm-up, when Max walked in. Again. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His presence changed the energy like flipping a switch. The engineers stiffened. Even Checo shot me a warning glance.

Max flopped down on the bench next to Checo and pointed at the resistance bands I had laid out.

“You giving him kindergarten toys now?” he said.

Checo groaned. “Max, can we not- ”

“I could get you one too,” I said, not looking up. “Though I’d have to find something that suits your developmental level.”

Max didn’t flinch. “Cute. Did you rehearse that?”

I looked up then. “No. You just make it easy.”

Checo stood with a sigh. “I’m going to get my helmet before one of you tries to throw the other into the pit lane.”

When he left, the silence stretched.

Max tapped his knee, eyes on the wall. “Why do you hate me?”

I blinked. Absolutely floored. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He turned to look at me. Really looked. “You treat me like I’m the enemy. Like everything I say is an attack.”

“Maybe because it usually is.”

He tilted his head. “Or maybe you just don’t like being challenged.”

My laugh was sharp. “Trust me, you’re not challenging. You’re exhausting.”

But something in my chest pulled tight anyway. Because underneath all the jabs and jibes, there was something else in his eyes. Not softness. Not exactly.

Curiosity.

Frustration, too. The kind that only comes from not being able to figure someone out.

He leaned back on the bench, hands behind his head, legs stretched like he owned the entire damn garage. He looked amused now, and I hated it. “You’re fun when you’re angry.”

“I’m fun when I’m left alone.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched me.

I blinked hard. Cleared my throat. “You done?”

“For now,” he said. “But you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He stood. Walked out.

And I sat there, heart pounding in my chest like I’d just done a hundred-meter sprint. Furious. Flushed. And entirely unsure if I wanted to slap him, or follow him.

—

The next few days were war.

Not the kind with shouting or fists. Max wasn’t that obvious. He was subtler. Smarter. He knew how to get under skin without leaving a mark.

Every time I walked into the garage, he had something to say.

“What’s the recovery time for useless advice?”

“Has anyone checked if your training works in actual race conditions?”

“Maybe if Checo finishes behind me again, you’ll start stretching your neck from looking up at the leaderboard.”

I gave it back just as hard. Sharper, maybe. But he never cracked. Never gave me the satisfaction of breaking that smug little smirk.

Until Thursday.

We were in the Red Bull briefing room, waiting for a strategy meeting to start. The drivers were early for once. I’d come to drop off some updated data on hydration and heat prep protocols. Strictly professional. No comments. No eye contact. Just drop the file, leave the room.

Of course, Max couldn’t let that happen.

He clocked me immediately. “Still micromanaging Checo’s electrolytes?”

I didn’t look up. “Still pretending you know what hydration is?”

He chuckled low under his breath. “You always this defensive?”

I turned then. “I’m not defensive. I’m just not interested in pretending you’re clever.”

Something flickered across his face. Something that might’ve been irritation, or approval. The worst part was, I couldn’t tell anymore. He always looked like he was five seconds away from either laughing or lunging.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, just for me, “for someone so determined to hate me, you sure do show up a lot.”

“I work here, Max.”

“Convenient excuse.”

I stepped closer. Close enough to lower my voice too.

“I don’t have time to psychoanalyze your weird little power games.”

He didn’t move. Just stared. “Then why are you playing them with me?”

I blinked.

My mouth opened. Then shut again.

Because I didn’t know the answer.

Because I didn’t want to.

I spun on my heel and left before he could see whatever expression had started bleeding through my carefully neutral face.

—

Later that afternoon, I found myself in Christian’s office with Checo, both of us sweaty and sore from a mid-day stretch and conditioning session. Christian was grinning like he was about to ruin our lives.

“Team-building retreat,” he announced, like it was a damn prize. “Next week. No paddock, no press. Just drivers and core personnel in the Austrian countryside.”

Checo groaned. I stared.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

Christian just smiled wider. “It’ll be good for team cohesion.”

“I’m not even a driver.”

“You’re part of the performance team. That makes you fair game.”

I shot a glance at Checo, who raised both eyebrows and offered no help whatsoever.

“Don’t worry,” Christian added, eyes sparkling with too much amusement. “It’s just three days. Some hiking, group exercises, maybe a little friendly competition.”

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Define ‘friendly.’”

Behind me, the door creaked open.

And of course, of fucking course, it was Max.

“Did someone say competition?” he asked lazily.

I turned back toward Christian. “No.”

Christian ignored me. “You’ll love it. Cabins, group challenges, no distractions.”

Max slid into the chair beside me, arms draped casually across the backrest. He leaned in.

“I call her for my team.”

“You’re not calling anything,” I snapped. “And I’m not participating.”

“You don’t get a choice,” Christian said cheerfully. “Flights are booked. Bags packed Friday. You two might finally learn to play nice.”

I felt my jaw tighten. Max was still watching me, all smug angles and unreadable eyes.

Play nice?

I’d rather eat gravel.

—

It was supposed to be a routine cooldown.

Checo had just wrapped his long-run sim session, and I was helping him stretch in the back corner of the garage. The air was thick with oil, sweat, and engine heat. Mechanics moved like clockwork. The engineers murmured over telemetry. I should’ve been focused.

But my skin was prickling.

Which meant he was nearby.

“Don’t look,” Checo muttered, catching the shift in my posture. “He’s been glaring at you for the last ten minutes.”

I didn’t need to ask who he was.

“I’m not looking,” I said through clenched teeth, pushing Checo’s leg deeper into the stretch.

He winced. “You’re channeling your rage into my hamstrings. Please stop.”

I exhaled sharply and let up. “Sorry.”

Checo gave me a knowing look. “You two are going to combust eventually.”

“We already are.”

I didn’t mean to look. I really didn’t. But when I stood to grab his water bottle, my eyes flicked over - just for a second.

Max was leaning against the simulator room doorframe, arms crossed, watching us. Or rather, watching me.

Expression unreadable. Jaw tight. Eyes narrow.

I rolled mine and turned away.

It should’ve ended there. But it didn’t.

—

Twenty minutes later, I was in the small side office where we kept our performance data when the door opened without a knock.

“Have a second?” Max said, already stepping inside.

I stiffened. “Not really.”

He closed the door behind him anyway.

“What do you want?”

He shrugged, like he hadn’t just invaded my space again. “Just a chat.”

I didn’t look up from the tablet in my hands. “Is there a reason you’ve made harassing me a daily task? Or are you just that bored with winning?”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” His tone was light but coiled tight beneath it.

“Harassing me? Yeah. You’ve made a hobby out of it.”

Silence. Then,

“You get under my skin.”

That made me look up.

“What?”

“You. You get under my skin,” he repeated, more evenly this time. “And I think you like it.”

I stared at him. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?”

He took a step closer. I stood up, fast. The desk between us suddenly felt too small.

“Max, whatever weird game you’re playing- ”

“It’s not a game,” he snapped, and for the first time in all the weeks I’d known him, his voice cracked just a little. “You walk around like you’re better than all of this. Like you’re too good to even look at me. I don’t know if you hate me or if you’re trying not to look too interested, but I’m- “

I shoved the tablet onto the desk. “Interested? Are you serious?”

His jaw clenched. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed this thing between us.”

“There’s nothing between us,” I snapped. “You insult me every chance you get.”

“You insult me right back.”

“Because you ask for it.”

“Because you give as good as you get and you’re the only person in this entire building who doesn’t pretend around me!”

The room went silent. I realized I was breathing hard.

He was too.

I hated how close we were. How hot my skin felt. How loud the silence was now that we weren’t talking.

I wanted to slap him.

I wanted to kiss him?

Instead, I said, “This is exactly why I didn’t want to go on that stupid retreat.”

His voice lowered. He was smirking, looked like he’d won, “afraid of what might happen if we’re alone together?”

I swallowed hard. I hated this.

“Afraid I’ll finally figure you out,” he added, eyes locked on mine. “And you’ll hate that more than anything.”

I opened my mouth.

And promptly closed it.

Because I didn’t have a single thing to say that wouldn’t give me away.

So I did the only thing I could.

I shoved past him and walked out, not looking back. Not letting him win.

Not letting him see how right he might be.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula one fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x female oc

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ephemeralp1eces · 23 hours ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XXIII

Summary: All good things must come to an end, at least that’s what they say, right?

What to Know: Oscar x reader, Lando x reader, Oscar x Lando, smut

wc: 13k

Yas Marina had never felt this heavy.

Everything was perfect on paper.

Lando led the Drivers’ Championship. Oscar was second, within striking distance. McLaren was set to win the Constructors’ by a landslide.

We should have been celebrating.

Instead, we were bracing for impact.

⸻

The paddock shimmered under the late November sun. Dust clung to every surface. The mood was tightly wound, more from pressure than hope. This was it. The last weekend.

The end of the season.

The end of everything.

Maybe.

⸻

I kept my head down.

There was no way to be invisible, not entirely, not with the way people had watched me ever since Vegas. But I had perfected the art of being present without being seen. At least I was finally allowed to leave my hotel room and get back to my job.

Oscar and Lando still hadn’t touched me in weeks.

Not in public. Not in private. It was taking a heavy toll on our relationship.

We were careful. Silent. Cordial.

The kind of cold that isn’t angry, just resigned. Because we all knew this would come. The season had always had a finish line. We just didn’t expect to reach it like this.

⸻

The Friday practice sessions came and went without drama. Oscar set purple sectors. Lando tested long runs. I watched from the back corner of the garage, clipboard in hand, smile fake, heart racing.

There was a moment, brief, where Lando looked over his shoulder and caught my eye.

Just one second.

But I felt it in my chest like a bruise.

⸻

That night, we didn’t plan to see each other.

And yet, somehow, as it always happened, all three of us ended up on the rooftop of the hotel.

Different elevators. Different exits. But there we were, again. Drawn to each other in the one place we could still pretend we were real.

⸻

No one spoke at first.

Oscar leaned on the railing, arms folded, staring at the skyline. Lando sat on one of the benches, elbows on his knees. I stood between them, unsure where to go.

Finally, Oscar said it.

“Are we really going to end like this?”

Lando looked up. “What choice do we have?”

“You always have a choice,” I said.

He didn’t blink. “Do we?”

I walked over and sat next to him.

Close, but not touching.

“We can’t keep pretending this was going to work forever,” I said, steady.

Lando didn’t move.

Oscar turned around slowly. “So that’s it, then?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Because that was the thing, I wasn’t sure if this ending was something I was choosing…

…or something I was surrendering to.

⸻

Oscar spoke again, quieter this time.

“You know, I didn’t think I’d care this much,” he said, almost to himself. “At the start. I thought, whatever happens, it’ll just be fun. Temporary.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t expect to fall in love with you.”

I felt that sentence all the way down to my ribs.

He didn’t look at me. Just kept talking.

“And now we’re here. Trying not to fall apart. And I don’t even know what I’d do if you picked him.”

I opened my mouth, but he stopped me with a shake of his head.

“It’s okay. I just needed to say it.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, eyes sharp but voice softer than usual.

“I hate that we’re waiting for it to fall apart instead of just… asking for it not to.”

Then, quieter: “I hate pretending I’m not scared I’ll lose both of you.”

⸻

We talked long into the night. Not to fight. Not to fix. Just to say what hadn’t been said.

That we loved each other.

That none of this was fair.

That no one had meant to make it hard, but we had.

Oscar sat on the floor, head against the glass railing. Lando’s voice broke once, then came back stronger. I kept my eyes fixed on the sky, afraid that if I looked at either of them, I’d fall apart.

They didn’t ask me to choose.

But the silence after every sentence said what they wouldn’t.

We need to know.

⸻

When we finally stood to go, none of us said goodnight.

We just walked away.

Three separate elevators.

Three different directions.

And a question none of us could outrun anymore.

⸻

The weekend moved too fast after that.

Qualifying. Media. Team strategy meetings. Debriefs.

I buried myself in work, kept everything surface-level. I moved through the paddock like a ghost. The boys stayed locked into their driver routines, focused, sharp, untouchable.

It was exactly how it should’ve been.

It was unbearable.

⸻

Sunday morning came.

Race day.

It started like every other one. But it didn’t feel the same.

⸻

Oscar found me first - by the espresso machine in the hospitality suite.

He looked tired.

“We’re not asking for promises,” he said quietly. “We just want to know if we’re walking away alone.”

I nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t touch me.

Just turned and walked off. I had to make up my mind.

⸻

Lando was next, an hour before lights out.

He stopped by the garage, pulled me aside behind a stack of tire warmers.

“I’m not going to fight him,” he said. “I never was.”

My chest twisted. “You don’t have to.”

He looked at me, eyes raw and honest. “Just don’t pretend it didn’t mean something.”

I shook my head. “It meant everything.”

He hesitated, then said it, quietly, like it hurt:

“You still feel like mine.”

And then, just as fast: “I know you’re not. I know.”

⸻

The race was electric. Lando and Oscar pushed each other harder than they had all year. Clean, ruthless, brilliant driving. A masterclass.

I watched every lap with my heart in my throat.

And when they crossed the line, one-two, I nearly collapsed.

The team erupted.

McLaren had won the Constructors’.

Lando had taken the Drivers’ Championship.

Oscar sealed second.

The fairytale ending.

Everything they’d worked for.

Everything they deserved.

⸻

I stayed on the edge of the celebration. Smiling. Clapping. Keeping my distance. This moment was theirs. Not mine.

⸻

Lando found me later, champagne-soaked and breathless, hair a mess.

He grabbed my hand, pulled me in, just enough that our foreheads touched.

He didn’t kiss me.

But I felt everything he wanted to say.

Oscar stood nearby, holding his bottle loosely, watching us with something unreadable in his eyes. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just waiting.

⸻

We still had one night left together.

Just one.

And I knew, before any of us said it, that this was the night everything would come to a head.

Not just what we wanted.

But what we could keep.

—

The silence was the first thing I noticed.

No music. No TV. No banter echoing from the hallway like so many nights before. The room felt suspended in time, untouched since earlier that afternoon, but heavy now with something else.

They were already inside.

I had known they would be.

Lando sat cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard, hair still damp from a late shower. His gaze flicked up the second I walked in, but he didn’t smile.

Oscar was at the small table near the balcony, one hand around a half-full glass of water, the other clenched into a slow rhythm against his knee. He didn’t look up right away, but I knew he had felt me come in.

No one spoke.

I shut the door behind me, gently, as if anything louder than a whisper would crack the air between us.

⸻

I didn’t expect tears. Or begging. Or declarations.

We weren’t that kind of story. Not really. But this was still the end.

We’d all felt it in the way we hadn’t touched each other since the Las Vegas. In the way our hands had hovered, reaching, not landing. In the way Lando had looked at me when he stepped down from the podium, when Oscar had only managed half a smile.

There was nothing left to say except the truth.

So I gave it to them.

⸻

“I love you both,” I said. “But I’m not choosing either of you.”

The words didn’t fall. They landed.

Hard.

Lando’s throat worked, jaw tight. He nodded once but said nothing.

Oscar turned, arms folded, leaning against the back of his chair. He wasn’t surprised, just tired.

“Why?”

“Because I still work for McLaren,” I said, voice low. “Because this was always going to crash into something bigger than us. Because I can’t be the thing either of you gives up your career for.”

Oscar’s eyes searched mine. “You think that’s what we’d do?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

Lando stood, walked over slowly, stopping just short of me.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But it still fucking hurts.” His voice cracked, just a little.

I touched his chest lightly, right over the place where his heart still raced. “I know.”

Oscar crossed the room, his voice softer now. “So this is goodbye?”

“Not forever,” I said. “Just… not like this.”

“And tonight?” Lando asked.

I looked between them. “Tonight is our last.”

⸻

The first touch was almost accidental, the backs of Lando’s fingers grazing my arm. Then Oscar’s hand at my hip, guiding me closer. I had almost forgotten what their touch felt like. My body reacted like I had been in withdrawal, and finally gotten a hit of what I had been craving for so long.

There was no rush.

No frantic hunger.

Only reverence. Grief and love braided together in a final thread.

⸻

Lando kissed me first. Slow. Familiar. The kind of kiss that felt like a memory instead of a beginning.

Oscar’s hand ran up my spine, lifting my shirt, kissing the curve of my shoulder as Lando’s tongue dipped between my lips.

They were coordinated in the way only time and longing could make possible, Lando pulling my shirt over my head while Oscar unhooked my bra. Oscar kissing down the middle of my back as Lando knelt in front of me, tugging at the button of my jeans.

I stood between them, hands on both of their shoulders, feeling each breath they took as they undressed me piece by piece, not because they wanted to possess me, but because they wanted to remember me like this.

Oscar pressed a kiss just below my navel. Lando’s hands cupped the backs of my thighs, thumbs dragging slow circles.

And then I was naked, warm under their hands, already flushed, breath catching as they led me toward the bed.

⸻

Lando laid back first, arms open, letting me crawl on top of him. I settled into his lap, my chest against his, forehead to forehead. His hands came up to cup my jaw.

“You don’t have to pretend tonight,” he whispered. “Just let us have you.”

Oscar joined us, kneeling behind me on the mattress, his lips brushing the back of my neck as he spoke.

“All of you,” he said. “Until the very end.”

⸻

Lando’s cock pressed between my thighs, already hard, already twitching with the need he barely kept under control.

I shifted, kissing him, then kissed Oscar over my shoulder as he reached between my legs and guided Lando into me slowly.

He gasped, high and sharp, fingers gripping my waist as I took him fully, seated on top, body tight around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathed, voice breaking. “I’m not going to last- ”

“Yes, you are,” Oscar said breathily, pressing closer behind me. “We’re not rushing this.”

Lando’s head tilted back. “I’m trying, fuck- ”

Oscar kissed the shell of my ear. “Move. Just a little.”

I did.

Hips circling slowly, every inch dragging, every sound he made spurring me on. Oscar’s hand threaded through mine, sometimes moving me, grounding me. I leaned into him while I moved, Lando beneath me, panting, eyes wide, pupils blown with awe.

⸻

When I stopped, Lando whimpered. Actually whimpered.

“You’re not done,” he said, voice tight.

“No,” I whispered, climbing off carefully. “I’m just not finished with you yet.”

He collapsed back, breathless.

Oscar pulled me into his lap, this time facing Lando. He pressed a kiss behind my ear as I guided him into me next, thicker than Lando, deeper immediately.

I arched into it.

And then.

Without prompting, without pause, I leaned forward, taking Lando into my mouth.

He groaned, a full-body, desperate sound, hands scrambling for something to hold onto. One landed in my hair, the other clutching the sheets.

Oscar held me steady from behind, hips slow but firm, fucking into me as I hollowed my cheeks and sucked Lando in deep.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lando gasped. “I can’t- I can’t-”

Oscar leaned over me, his breath hot against Lando’s neck.

And then, for the third time ever, and the last time, he kissed him.

Not playful. Not curious.

Just grateful.

One last thank-you.

Lando whimpered into his mouth as he thrust into mine.

⸻

The rhythm was impossible and perfect.

Oscar deep inside me, angled just right, one hand wrapped around my stomach to keep us pressed together.

Lando in my mouth, panting, sweating, eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing tethering him to earth.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Please, don’t- I’m close- I want us to- fuck-”

Oscar’s pace faltered just enough to tell me he was close too.

I pressed my palm to Lando’s chest, moaning around him as Oscar hit that perfect spot again and again.

And then suddenly, I shuddered, just on the edge - sharp, sudden, body curling inward around Oscar.

Lando swore, once, hard, and then grabbed my shoulders, trying to take control, but I didn’t let him.

“Together,” I said pulling away just enough to speak, lips wet. “Finish with me.”

I didn’t even finish my sentence before I began to come, clenching hard as my body shook. Oscar groaned, hips stuttering.

And then all at once,

Lando spilled into my mouth, warm and shaking.

Oscar came inside me seconds later, holding me tight against him, groaning my name against my neck.

We stayed like that, a tangled, breathless mess.

No movement, no sound, aside from our heavy breathing.

Just three heartbeats, thudding in time.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Then Lando whispered, voice hoarse: “Can we stay here for just a little longer?”

Oscar kissed my shoulder. “We can stay until morning?”

I nodded.

No more words.

⸻

But in the quiet, I felt it:

The truth.

This wasn’t a beginning.

This wasn’t a dream.

This was the last time.

And it was everything I needed it to be.

— Four years later —

Sometimes I wonder if it really happened.

That year.

That impossible, electric, unforgettable year.

It sits in my mind like a dream I’m still not sure was real - vivid in flashes, blurred around the edges.

A memory I don’t revisit often.

But when I do…

It’s always the same.

Lando’s laugh. Oscar’s mouth at my shoulder. The weight of both of them, warm and unguarded, falling asleep too close to care.

Now? Now I work from a smaller desk. New department. Minimal travel. Safe, contained, quiet.

I still see them. Occasionally.

Oscar will stop by after a debrief, casual, unbothered, kind. Lando sometimes nods from across the paddock, eyes bright but unreadable. Our childhood friendship never really recovered after that year.

They never make it weird. Which is almost worse.

Because some part of me wishes they’d look at me the way they used to, like we were still tangled in some shared secret, still drunk on that version of us where nothing outside the three of us mattered.

But that version is gone. And they’re doing just fine.

—

Oscar is cleaner now. Sharper. A little more comfortable in interviews. Still fast.

Still loyal to the silence between us.

Lando is… Lando. Always in motion. Loud when it matters, soft when it doesn’t. He has a new trainer now. A new haircut. A new way of keeping his distance without ever really pulling away.

They’re both in the title fight again.

Not teammates anymore, but still friendly enough on camera to keep the headlines calm.

Sometimes, in press conferences, I catch them laughing together. It always hits me in the chest.

But I never let it show.

⸻

We don’t talk about what happened.

There’s nothing left to say.

It ended when it had to.

Before it could ruin us.

Before love turned to resentment. Before we ever had to become villains in each other’s stories.

⸻

Once, just once, I passed them in a hotel lobby in Tokyo.

Lando smiled first.

Oscar nodded.

I kept walking.

But I felt it. The same thing they felt. Like waking up and remembering a fever dream so vivid, you could still feel the heat of it on your skin.

We’d lived something real. We’d loved each other. And we’d survived it.

That was enough. It had to be.

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ephemeralp1eces · 1 day ago

Text

You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XXII

Summary: Things have shifted beyond repair, and now it’s time to deal with the fallout.

What to know: No notes, only sad

wc: ~9k

Las Vegas hadn’t destroyed us.

But it came close.

Whatever was left of the illusion, that we could keep this quiet, keep it just ours, collapsed somewhere between the balcony photo leak and the tenth denied interview request asking what was going on behind the scenes at McLaren.

We made it through. We survived the race weekend. The headlines got louder, then softer. Questions shifted. Focus returned to the standings. But none of us came out of Vegas the same.

⸻

Now there were only two races left.

Qatar. Abu Dhabi.

And it had been… weeks. Weeks without touching. Weeks without slipping behind hotel doors to steal back something private. Weeks of working, traveling, speaking in clipped, mechanical tones because every look might be interpreted. Every breath might be noticed.

Even in private, we didn’t reach for each other.

Not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. Out of the creeping sense that if we touched now, it would all break apart.

⸻

I still worked alongside the team. Still wore the same black and papaya kit. Still walked through the paddock like nothing had changed. Like I hadn’t been someone both of them used to pull into their hotel rooms and kiss like I was the only steady thing they had. Now I wasn’t anything.

I was neutral. Professional. And it was killing me.

⸻

We weren’t sleeping together anymore. Not physically. Not emotionally.

Not at all.

Oscar had barely looked at me during the final debrief in Vegas. Lando hadn’t said goodnight before flying out. It was like the closer we got to the end, the more we began pretending it had never happened. Because acknowledging it now meant facing what came next.

And no one wanted to be the one to say it.

⸻

But the silence was getting too loud. So we broke it. It was a rare off-night between Vegas and Qatar. Just the three of us in Lando’s flat, quiet, distant. The room too big for how small we all felt inside it. Dinner had been tense. No one finished their plate.

Lando stood by the window now, arms folded. Oscar sat back against the kitchen counter, chewing the inside of his cheek.

I was the one who said it first.

“There are only two races left.”

No one responded.

So I tried again.

“We’re running out of time.”

Lando turned, slow. “Time for what?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know how to say it without sounding cruel.

Time for the fantasy to end.

Time to make a decision.

Time to pick one.. or none.

⸻

Oscar finally pushed off the counter.

“You’ve been pulling away,” he said.

I looked at him. “You both have too.”

He nodded once, slowly. “Because this isn’t working anymore.”

Lando looked between us, eyes sharp. “You think it has to be one or the other.”

“I think,” Oscar said carefully, “that she knows it can’t stay like this.”

I swallowed. “I can’t lose my job.”

“You won’t,” Lando said instantly, forcefully.

But it didn’t sound like confidence. It sounded like hope.

Oscar leaned back on his heels. “Maybe not. But eventually, someone’s going to ask her to choose. And pretending they won’t isn’t helping.”

Lando exhaled, short and bitter. “So what- she picks one of us and we all pretend this never happened?”

“No,” I said. “But I have to think about what happens after Abu Dhabi.”

Neither of them said a word. Because they already knew.

⸻

That night, we shared a bed again, barely. It felt forced, it wasn’t comfortable anymore.

Just laying there. Fully clothed. Cold between us.

Oscar turned away toward the wall.

Lando lay still beside me, eyes open.

And I stared at the ceiling, heart racing, wondering how we’d ended up here. All that heat. All that joy. All that impossible connection.

And now we couldn’t even hold hands.

Because the world had made us choose between being real and being seen. Because of one stupid, blurry picture. That was all it took to sour everything we had built.

And soon, I’d have to choose something else entirely.

—

Qatar felt like a dry, still breath held in the middle of something louder. Vegas had come and gone in a blaze of neon and blurred headlines.

But this was quieter.

Focused.

Unforgiving.

There was no distraction now. Just the race. And us.

⸻

I didn’t share a car from the airport. Didn’t text when I landed. We each arrived separately. Checked into different hotels. Avoided eye contact at the track.

The tension had calcified into routine.

Everything that used to be instinct; brushing a shoulder, reaching for a hand, letting a glance last too long - now required calculation.

So we didn’t risk it.

We performed. We smiled. We pretended like we didn’t know each other better than anyone else in the garage.

And in doing that, we forgot how to act like we knew each other at all.

⸻

I didn’t mean to break first.

It just… happened.

Late Friday night. The team had cleared out of hospitality. The media room was dark, the paddock thinning. I stayed late, pretending to finish reports that had been done hours ago. And then I heard the door creak behind me.

Oscar.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the same unreadable look on his face I’d seen too often lately.

“You avoiding us?” he asked quietly.

“No,” I said.

It wasn’t convincing.

He gave a tired half-smile. “You’re doing a shit job hiding it.”

⸻

I turned back to my screen. “It’s easier this way.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. Now it was just us in the dim light, the tension between us unspoken but heavy.

“We all agreed this couldn’t last,” he said. “But no one ever said how it was supposed to end.”

I looked at him.

“It’s not over,” I said. “Not yet.”

Oscar came closer. “So say that to Lando.”

I swallowed. “He won’t hear it.”

“Maybe not. But you need to say it anyway.”

⸻

The room went quiet again. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t reach for me like he used to. That was what stung most.

I wasn’t his anymore.

Not Lando’s. Not anyone’s.

We were still trying to protect something we were already losing.

⸻

The next morning, I found Lando in the sim room, headphones on, eyes locked on the screen. He didn’t see me at first. Didn’t look up until I said his name.

And even then, the way he looked at me - guarded, tired - it made my chest hurt.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

He pulled the headphones off slowly.

“What’s the point?”

I blinked. “What?”

Lando leaned back, arms resting on the sides of the seat. “We keep talking in circles. We say we want this to work, but we don’t do anything about it. And now you can’t even look at us.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You stopped trying.”

“I didn’t,” I said sharply. “I’ve been trying not to ruin your season. That’s the only thing I’ve been doing.”

He stared at me, jaw tense, breathing unsteady.

“You think we care about the championship more than you?”

“No,” I said. “I think you’ll regret it if you lose both.”

The silence hit hard.

Then softer: “And I don’t want to be the reason for either.”

⸻

That night, we met again, all three of us, not by design, but by circumstance.

The McLaren team lounge after curfew. Everyone else gone. I came to grab my laptop. Oscar was already inside. Lando followed minutes later. We stood there awkwardly, the air sharp with something unsaid.

No one moved to leave.

Lando finally sat.

Oscar sat too.

And after a moment, I did the same. We stared at the table.

And then Oscar said it.

“If one of us has to go, I need it to be clear.”

Lando didn’t flinch, “Say who you’re choosing.”

My breath caught.

I looked at both of them, two men I loved differently but deeply. Two people who had never once made me feel like I had to earn their attention, only return it.

And I said, honestly: “I can’t pick yet.”

It was the worst answer, and the only true one. They both looked defeated. They didn’t walk away. They didn’t argue. Oscar nodded once. Lando avoided eye contact. And we all sat in silence.

⸻

Qatar passed with perfect execution.

Lando took P2. Oscar held steady in fourth.

McLaren still led the Constructors’.

No more photos were leaked. No more questions asked. But we didn’t celebrate. Not together. And when I went to bed that night, I didn’t expect anyone to knock.

No one did.

We were all too tired from pretending we were okay.

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ephemeralp1eces · 1 day ago

Text

You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XXI

Summary: Things are calming down, but you’re still in exile. Forced to hide from the public, to not be seen with Oscar or Lando, and it’s hell. But right now, there are no alternatives.

What to know: n/a

wc; 7.6k

The suite they had moved me to had blackout curtains, thick walls, and a view of the Strip that didn’t feel real. It was too far from the paddock to be convenient and just far enough from everything else to feel like exile.

No badge.

No McLaren gear.

No briefings.

No presence.

I was off the grid, in every sense.

And the worst part?

It was working.

—

Lando’s Friday media round was clipped, but clean.

“I’m focused on the race,” he said. “That’s all.”

Oscar was more polished. “We’re here to win. That’s our only priority.”

The press tried to poke. They always did. Rumors swirled, about the photo, about who I was, about whether McLaren had a policy on “interpersonal entanglements,” as one outlet called it.

But the team didn’t offer statements. Zak was stone-faced. The engineers, to their credit, said nothing, at least where anyone could hear. And somehow, despite the scrutiny, the boys kept driving.

P1 and P2 in FP1.

Clean laps. Strong pace. No mistakes.

You’d never know their lives were imploding behind the scenes.

—

I watched it all from the couch.

FIA stream on the TV. Live timing on my phone. Volume low, heart pounding. I could see it in their posture, the way Lando’s shoulders stayed tight through the cooldown lap. The way Oscar didn’t do his usual casual wave to the fans. They were locked in. But they weren’t okay.

And I wasn’t allowed anywhere near them.

—

It wasn’t until after midnight that I heard the knock. Three times. Quick pause. Once more.

I opened the door and Lando slipped in, hoodie up, head down.

He didn’t say anything right away.

He just walked to the couch and sat down like he needed something solid beneath him.

“I hate this,” he said eventually.

“I know.”

“They’re all watching us. Watching me. Like they’re waiting for me to crack.”

I sat beside him. “You won’t.”

“What if I already am?”

I reached for his hand. He let me.

“I miss you in the garage,” he said quietly. “It’s wrong without you.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder. “I miss you too.”

He turned, kissed my hair, then my temple, then my mouth.

Not greedy, just hungry in a different way.

Like being near me helped him breathe.

—

Oscar didn’t make it. It was too close to curfew, which we were now under in order to try and mitigate any more interaction.

Lando couldn’t stay long, leaving a few minutes before 12am to make it back to his room in time.

—

They were still winning.

That’s what made it worse.

The car was fast. They were sharper than ever. McLaren was pulling away in the Constructors’. Oscar was closing the gap to Lando in the Drivers’ standings.

They should’ve been celebrated.

Instead, everything felt tense.

Each morning, I woke up alone. Each night, I waited to see if they could sneak away.

Sometimes they could.

Sometimes they couldn’t.

When they did, it was never for long. Never for more.

But they always came.

And that mattered more than anything else.

—

Qualifying was hell.

The pressure was visible now, in every glare from a team principal, every camera tilt, every vague question about “performance under distraction.”

I couldn’t be there. Couldn’t watch from the wall. Couldn’t feel the engine vibrate the concrete beneath my feet.

But I saw it on-screen.

I saw Lando go purple in S1 and S3. Saw Oscar nearly clip the barrier on his fastest lap and still keep it clean. I saw them lock out the front row, again.

And I saw how they didn’t smile afterward.

Not really.

—

Sunday was the race.

The Strip circuit pulsed with noise and color and heat.

I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t feel it. But I could hear it from the suite. The distant scream of engines, the roar of the crowd, the low hum of Vegas never quite sleeping.

I watched it all with my knees pulled to my chest, heart in my throat.

Lap after lap. Battle after battle.

It came down to the last few turns.

Oscar was catching. Lando was defending. Both of them were flying.

But they didn’t fight dirty.

Didn’t crash.

Didn’t break.

Lando crossed first. Oscar second. McLaren, again, took it all.

—

They didn’t come back right away. Press. Debrief. Media. The usual post-win carousel.

But sometime after midnight, after the fireworks, after the screaming fans, after the confetti had been swept off the grid, when too many people were out celebrating to wonder where the boys had gone, I heard the keycard beep.

Lando came in first.

Oscar followed.

Neither of them spoke until the door clicked shut. Then Lando said, softly:

“We did it.”

I pulled him in.

Oscar closed the gap.

The three of us held on like the weekend hadn’t just tried to split us apart.

—

No one knew what would happen next. Maybe the story would die. Maybe it wouldn’t.

Maybe another photo would surface. Maybe the FIA would get involved. Maybe McLaren would lose sponsors. Maybe everything would fall apart.

But not tonight.

Tonight we’d survived.

And in this room, this quiet, hidden room, we were still whole.

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ephemeralp1eces · 1 day ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XX

Summary: The worst has finally happened. A picture, leaked, with no forewarning. And worst of all, it’s on race weekend.

What to Know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader

wc; 7,500

It dropped at 3:27 a.m. Vegas time.

A single photo.

Low quality. Grainy. Clearly taken from a distance, maybe through a window, maybe with a long lens. A hotel room. Warm light.

You could just make out the outline of three bodies.

Oscar. Lando. Me.

No shirts. No doubt.

We weren’t touching in the photo, not obviously, but it didn’t matter. It was clear. Too clear.

The caption? Just a single emoji.

👀

And that was enough.

—

I woke up to a vibrating phone, dozens of notifications, and a text from McLaren comms that simply read:

“We need to speak. Now.”

Oscar was already pacing the room. Shirtless. Pale.

Lando sat on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed over, staring at nothing.

“What happened?” I asked.

He handed me his phone.

And I saw it.

My stomach dropped.

—

There was no statement.

Not from the team. Not from us.

How could there be?

What would we even say?

It wasn’t like we could explain. There was no context that would make this okay, not to McLaren, not to fans, not to the F1 circus that ran on speculation and scrutiny. They didn’t know it had been careful. Thoughtful. Loving.

They just saw three people. A room. A secret no one had given them permission to know. And suddenly everyone was an expert. A judge. A journalist. The replies were brutal.

“Didn’t know McLaren had started fielding throuples.”

“No wonder they’ve been fast - they’re too busy fucking to feel pressure.”

“Whoever she is, she better be gone by next weekend.”

“Zak Brown let this happen?”

“Oscar and Lando’s bromance was weird but this??”

“This isn’t just unprofessional. It’s disgusting.”

—

By 9 a.m., it was on every major motorsport outlet.

By 10 a.m., Sky Sports had blurred the photo and aired it on their morning segment.

By 11, someone in PR pulled me aside and told me I was being “relocated.”

“Just for the weekend,” they said. “Until it dies down.”

Oscar grabbed my hand before they could pull me away. “This is insane.”

“They want to protect you,” the staffer said, but their voice was hollow. They didn’t believe it either.

Lando didn’t say anything.

He just looked at me, wide-eyed, pale, like the world had collapsed and it was somehow his fault.

—

Las Vegas was already chaos.

Fans pressed against the barriers. Heat bouncing off pavement. LED lights and pop music and media obligations that none of us could skip. I watched from the back of the garage while Lando did interviews, sunglasses on, jaw tight. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Oscar did better. He always did under pressure.

But I could see it in the way he kept looking around, like he expected someone to leap out and accuse him of something. As if the whole paddock was whispering behind gloved hands, and they were.

—

Zak didn’t yell.

Not yet.

He just looked tired.

“This is a distraction,” he said. “And we are in the middle of a championship fight.”

“We know,” Oscar said quietly.

“We didn’t want this,” Lando added.

Zak nodded. “You think I don’t know that?”

He looked at me last. Not unkindly.

“Stay out of sight,” he said. “No more garage appearances. No press. No paddock walks.”

“I work here.”

“You don’t anymore. Not this weekend.”

It hit harder than I expected.

Oscar tried to step forward, but Zak held up a hand.

“This isn’t punishment. It’s survival.”

—

They moved me to a suite two floors above the boys’, separate elevator access, different security clearance.

I wasn’t allowed to post.

Wasn’t allowed to be seen.

And in the hours that followed, I watched the internet twist the story into something monstrous. Something sensational. A punchline, a scandal, a PR disaster. Not one of them knew what it actually felt like. To be with both of them.

To navigate it in private.

Now it belonged to the public. To speculation.

To outrage.

—

That night, the door opened without a knock.

Oscar.

He shut it behind him and stood there for a long moment before crossing the room in two steps and wrapping his arms around me. Somehow he had gotten in.

“I hate this,” he whispered into my hair.

“I know.”

“They’re treating you like you did something wrong.”

“Did I?”

He didn’t kiss me. He just held on.

Like if he let go, we might unravel completely.

—

Lando came later. Later than I expected.

His eyes were red.

I pulled him into bed, under the covers, and we lay there in silence.

“You okay?” I asked softly.

“No.”

He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t ask him to.

We just lay there, all three of us, until the sky started to turn navy.

—

There were two more races after this.

Just two.

And they were both still in contention for the title. They were still leading the Constructors'. This was supposed to be the fairytale. And maybe it still could be.

But Las Vegas?

Las Vegas was going to be hell.

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ephemeralp1eces · 2 days ago

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Thank you everyone for the love on my new posts and all the follows!! I’m so excited to write more for all of you. I’m trying to get a better feel of my followers :3 what kind of writing do you guys prefer??

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #lando fanfic #oscar piastri fanfic #max verstappen fanfic #charles leclerc fanfic #George Russel fanfic #carlos sainz fanfic #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfic

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ephemeralp1eces · 2 days ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XIX

Summary: Everything is falling into place. Max never mentions you to anyone, and no one ever seems to notice. The end of the season is approaching and things are looking up for McLaren. Finally, it seems, nothing can go wrong.

What to Know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader, fluff

wc; 6.9k

Max never said a word.

Not to Yuki. Not to anyone on the grid. Not even in passing.

He greeted us the same as he always had; nods in the paddock, polite smiles after meetings. The occasional joking jab during press conferences, but nothing out of place. He didn’t look at me differently. He didn’t look at the boys differently.

It was like it had never happened.

And just like that, the balance returned.

We settled back in, the three of us. No slip-ups. No close calls. No wandering hands caught on camera. Just quiet, practiced routine. Behind closed doors, everything was the same. Still ours, still private, still perfect.

—

On the track, the car was good. Better than it had ever been. Upgrades kept coming. The team nailed every strategy. Pit stops were down to the millisecond. Tire management, weather calls, late-stage overtakes, every time it mattered, McLaren was flawless. The papaya garage buzzed with something bigger than hope: belief, and the points showed it. McLaren was first in the Constructors' Championship by mid-season. Lando and Oscar were leading the Drivers' standings, just a handful of points apart, trading the top spot back and forth with the quiet ease of a rivalry built on trust.

They never fought about it.

They joked about it, sure. “Let me have this one.” “I led more laps, you get to win the next.” But there was no bitterness. No cold shoulders or missed handshakes.

If anything, they worked harder together, each race another chance to prove they could do this side by side.

And I was there for every minute of it.

—

Weekends blurred.

The Netherlands. Italy. Singapore. Now, Las Vegas.

Each one came with its own memories.

Lando slipping his hand into mine on the pit wall when no one was looking. Oscar dragging me into a side hallway to kiss me breathless before media rounds. Falling asleep tangled between them in motorhome bunks that had no business being that small.

Max kept his distance, but he always gave a small look - something knowing, something unreadable, whenever we crossed paths. Not jealousy. Not regret.

Just quiet recognition.

A shared memory neither of us would speak aloud.

—

The world didn’t suspect a thing.

Not when I laughed with Lando walking to the grid. Not when Oscar slung an arm around me after a podium. Not when we were caught by the Netflix cameras, huddled under an umbrella in the rain in Brazil, me scolding them for forgetting to bring proper jackets.

We were just close. That’s what everyone assumed. Longtime friend. Team media girl. Background character.

And that was fine with me.

Because what we had wasn’t for public consumption. It was for hotel rooms lit by sunrise, and team planes when everyone else had fallen asleep. For long drives, post-qualifying exhaustion, early morning coffee runs with only half the world awake.

It was for us.

—

We had our rhythm.

Practice. Quali. Race. Reset.

Oscar liked to fall asleep earlier, one arm draped over my stomach like a seatbelt. Lando was the late one, always waiting until I stirred to press a slow kiss to my neck before we started the day. They teased each other. Held the door open for me like it was a game. Whispered stupid things in my ear at sponsor dinners. Took turns sitting beside me during strategy meetings, just close enough that our legs brushed under the table.

There were nights it didn’t get sexual at all. Nights we just curled up, one of them reading aloud while the other dozed off with his head on my shoulder. Nights where it was just closeness, the quiet, warm kind.

It was about that flicker in Lando’s eyes when he crossed the line first. About the way Oscar smiled when the data came back clean. About knowing I was lucky enough to love both of them, and they, somehow, loved me back just the same.

—

Last race weekend had changed everything and nothing.

A McLaren 1–2.

Lando took the win. Oscar crossed second. The crowd lost its mind.

So did the team.

The garage was a sea of orange; arms flung around each other, champagne sprayed into the ceiling tiles, music blaring far too loud. I found them both in the corner of the engineers’ lounge, dripping with sweat and grinning like maniacs.

Lando pulled me in first.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of my head like he couldn’t help himself.

The three of us, wrapped together, right in the middle of everything.

And no one noticed.

No one knew.

—

The next morning, they took me to the countryside.

No cameras. No radio interviews. Just the three of us in a borrowed convertible, driving past sheep fields and stone fences, stopping for ice cream and petrol station snacks.

Lando made Oscar pull over on a hill so he could take a picture of me lying in the grass.

Oscar made us detour to a lake so he could swim shirtless and smug, dragging me in fully clothed while Lando laughed himself sick.

We stayed that night in a tiny stone cottage with a fireplace and windows that barely locked. They cooked pasta, badly, and burned the garlic bread, and we ate it all anyway, piled on the floor with a bottle of wine someone had probably left there a year ago.

And when they kissed me, soft, slow, grateful, it didn’t feel like a secret.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

—

The end of the season was already around the corner. I could feel it in the air, charged, crackling.

I didn’t know what was coming.

What might shift.

What might fall.

But if it had ended here and this had been the last chapter, I wouldn’t have regretted a second.

Because I had this.

Them.

Us.

In the quiet between chaos, we’d found something real. And for now? That was enough.

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ephemeralp1eces · 2 days ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XVIII

Summary: Never in your life did you imagine a foursome with Max Verstappen. But there’s a first for everything, right?

What to Know: Oscar x reader, Lando x reader, Max x reader, Oscar x Lando, smut, foursome

wc; 7.3k

Max didn’t rush the silence.

He let it stretch, gaze moving between each of us, calm and deliberate.

“I won’t say a word,” he said. “This doesn’t leave the room.”

We all exhaled, slightly.

Then he added, voice even: “But I want one night.”

Lando blinked, mouth dropping open. “With her?”

“With you. With all of you,” Max said, clearly. “Just once. I’m not asking to join anything. I’m not here to replace anyone. I just want to know what it’s like.”

His tone wasn’t arrogant. No challenge in his voice, no judgment in his eyes.

Just a steady confidence that said he was used to getting the truth.

Oscar glanced at me, then at Lando. “You’re serious.”

Max nodded. “I am.”

Lando gave a tiny laugh of disbelief. “Fuck’s sake.”

Then he looked at me.

I nodded. “Okay.”

He gave a small smile. “Good.”

And that was it.

—

We didn’t act on it immediately. Max left calmly, told Lando to text him if we changed our minds. He didn’t push. Didn’t follow up.

And still, none of us were surprised when we ended up in his suite a few nights later. No obligations. No paddock stress. Just the four of us and too much tension to ignore.

We were quiet at first. Not nervous, just aware.

Lando sat beside me on the bed, knee bouncing.

Oscar leaned against the headboard, arms folded, already half out of his hoodie, eyes sharp.

Max stood near the dresser, watching us, utterly unfazed.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone to give you permission,” he said.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t we?”

Max smiled slowly, like that was the answer he’d expected.

“I’m here for one reason,” he said. “I’m not starting it.”

He looked at me. “You are.”

—

So I did.

I turned to Lando and kissed him, slow and deep, fingers curling into his hair. He made a soft sound, relaxing into it instantly.

Then Oscar. Steadier, more composed, but his grip on my thigh betrayed how ready he already was.

Max stayed back. Observing. Focused.

When I reached for the hem of my shirt, he finally stepped forward.

“No rush,” he said. “Take your time.”

But he didn’t stop me.

He just watched as I undressed piece by piece, shirt, bra, jeans, the boys watching too now, eyes dark and wide. Then Max stripped down in silence. He was calm and efficient, like he did it the same way every time. And when he kissed me, it felt like a shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Controlled.

I leaned into him, already aching.

He pulled back, nodding toward the bed. “Lie down.”

—

Everything happened there - not messy on the floor, not frantic.

Max kept us all centered.

I laid back first, Max behind me, Lando at my side, Oscar brushing soft kisses up the inside of my thigh.

No one rushed.

Max propped me up against him so he could run his hands down my chest, cupping my breasts gently, rolling the my nipples between his fingers as Lando kissed up my stomach. Oscar was patient between my legs, not diving in, just teasing with careful fingers, tracing around and never quite where I wanted.

“What are you waiting for?” I whined, incredibly aroused, and frustrated.

Max’s voice was low in my ear. “We want to watch you fall apart.”

Oscar smirked faintly but didn’t push forward.

Lando kissed the underside of my breast. “We usually don’t get to see you like this.”

“You mean with someone else?” I asked.

Lando glanced up, eyes soft. “No. I mean unrushed.”

Max adjusted slightly, guiding my hips into place on the bed. “She’s not going to finish anytime soon.”

Oscar pulled back, face flushed. “She could if I kept going.”

“But she won’t,” Max said, decisive. “Not yet.”

And just like that, the moment cracked open.

—

Max pulled me over him so I was straddling his lap, my back to his chest, knees planted firmly on the mattress.

He kissed down my shoulder, murmuring so softly that I couldn’t tell whether he was speaking Dutch or English, just breath and heat and nothing I understood, but it made something inside me thrum.

Oscar stroked himself lazily at the foot of the bed, watching us. Lando moved slowly to kneel behind him, hands tentative on Oscar’s waist.

They weren’t subtle anymore.

Oscar glanced back. “You sure?”

Lando nodded. “Yeah.”

And then he leaned in and kissed him. Not rushed. Not for show. Just a real, warm press of lips that made Oscar’s exhale falter.

Max felt the shift too. “You’ve done that before.”

Lando nodded. “Not like this.”

Oscar let Lando touch him, let him guide his hand between his legs, while watching me rock back gently against Max’s cock, not inside yet, just pressed between us and growing slicker by the minute.

Max whispered, “Now.”

And I let him guide me onto him in one slow, stretching slide.

—

He was big. The angle was deep.

He didn’t move, just let me adjust, kissed my neck, one hand sliding between my legs to circle slowly.

“You’re gonna come on me,” he whispered, groaning. “Like this.”

Oscar was moaning softly behind me now, Lando’s hand still on him, stroking him slowly while Oscar leaned back into it.

Watching them watch us, the tension in Lando’s jaw, the flush creeping down Oscar’s chest, it did something to me. I clenched harder around Max, who hissed through his teeth and thrust up once, hard.

“Good girl,” he breathed.

—

I didn’t finish quickly.

They made sure of it.

Lando moved back to me eventually, taking my face in his hands and kissing me fiercely while Max fucked up into me from behind.

Oscar was next to Lando now, fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to keep him grounded.

I reached for Lando as I came, pulled him closer, and moaned into his mouth as I shattered, Max groaning behind me as he felt it.

But he didn’t come yet.

He pulled out slowly and nudged me toward Oscar.

“She should have you next,” Max said, already recovering.

Oscar looked down at me. “Come here.”

—

He laid me down on my side, kissed my neck as he pushed in slowly, one leg hooked over his hip.

Lando slid in behind me, spooning me while Oscar moved inside me, both of them holding me steady between them.

Max had moved to sit back in the armchair near the bed now, stroking himself idly, watching everything unfold.

Oscar didn’t fuck fast at first. He moved like he wanted to memorize it. Lando kissed my shoulder and whispered my name softly. Then Oscar brought me to my knees and slid in behind me, his grip surprisingly tight on my hips and he slammed into me, causing me to moan loudly at the feeling of being stretched around him.

Oscar nodded to Lando, who guided my mouth to his cock, kneeling in front of me. I took him to the base, nose brushing his lower abdomen.

Both let out a chorus of soft moans before I heard Oscar hiss, “fuck,” and felt him release inside of me, hips stuttering.

Then, Lando pulled me off of Oscar and into his lap, cradling me, and pushed in gently, already so close from everything he’d seen. I couldn’t stop from whimpering at the overstimulation of being entered yet again.

“You’re so- fuck, I’m not gonna last,” he whispered.

I held him tighter, kissing along his jaw.

“It’s okay,” I murmured.

He came with something between a whine and a groan, holding me close like I was something fragile.

And then Max stood.

“Now me,” he said.

—

At this point I wasn’t sure how much more I could take, but at the same time I didn’t want to to end. I lay on my back and Max positioned himself above me, this time slower, almost tender.

He slid in again with a groan and leaned down to kiss me. Deep, deliberate, full of meaning even though he’d only be here once.

“I get it now,” he whispered.

I wrapped my legs around him tighter. “What?”

“Why they’re so obsessed with you.”

He fucked me slow and steady, thumb stroking over my clit again while I gasped, over and over. And when I came one last time, wrung out and aching, Max followed with a quiet, breathless groan and buried himself deep inside me.

—

We were quiet for a long time after.

The room buzzed with heat and breath and the soft rustle of movement.

Max was the first to speak.

“I’m not joining anything,” he said, amused. “But… that was worth it.”

Oscar laughed softly, still half-curled beside me. “You’re not wrong.”

Lando stretched with a groan. “Can we do this again?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You want me back?”

Lando flushed. “No- I mean- us. Just us.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Jesus, mate.”

I smiled, still pinned between all three of them.

Max stood and started dressing. “Thanks for letting me in.”

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Oscar asked.

“I said I wouldn’t.” Max zipped up his jeans. “And I keep my word.”

He reached for the door, then looked back once more.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he said. “Not everyone could handle this.”

And then he left.

No drama. No threat.

Just one night.

But unforgettable.

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ephemeralp1eces · 3 days ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XVII

Summary: With things sorted out between the three of you, it’s back to the daily grind. You finally find each other in between schedules to take some time together, but at the worst possible time, you’re discovered.

What to know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader, not smut but reference to it from previous chapters

wc; 7,500

We hadn’t meant to all end up in the same place.

But between the heat outside, the downtime between sessions, and the broken AC in Oscar’s room, we retreated to the only space left that promised privacy: the old briefing room tucked behind the garage. It was barely used anymore, mostly storage now, but it had couches, a working fridge, and the quiet sort of stillness that made it easy to talk.

We sat half-curled on the biggest couch: me in the middle, both boys draped comfortably against me, like we’d done this a thousand times before. It was the kind of closeness that didn’t need permission anymore. Oscar was eating dried mango strips out of a random team snack stash. Lando kept stealing them.

No one was in a rush to leave.

No one mentioned the last two nights.. until Oscar nudged Lando. “You’re so smug this morning man.”

“I’m not smug,” Lando said. “I’m just well-rested.”

“And sore?”

Lando smirked. “Can’t help it if I give 110%.”

Oscar huffed “like I didn’t?”

They both looked at me.

I stretched my legs out, dramatic. “You boys really want the post-match interview?”

Lando grinned. “Always.”

Oscar added, “We’re open to feedback.”

I laughed. “Fine. Lando’s night was a bit… steamier.”

Lando looked victorious.

“Wet hair, fogged glass, a whole vibe,” I added. “Very romantic thriller.”

Oscar feigned insult. “And me?”

“You were surgical. Like I was a problem you were solving.”

He choked on his mango. “That’s not true!”

“No, it is,” I said. “You were focused. Intentional.”

Oscar covered his face with his hands.

“Very quiet,” I added.

“I was concentrating!”

We all laughed, real and unguarded.

And when it faded, it left something soft behind.

Not jealousy. Not tension.

Just appreciation.

Comfort.

“I like this,” I said quietly.

They both looked at me.

“I like us.”

Oscar bumped his shoulder into mine. “Same.”

Lando draped an arm behind me and added, “We should do a team-building retreat.”

“Team-building?” Oscar asked.

“Yeah. Like a trust fall. But dirtier.”

Oscar looked mildly alarmed.

I leaned back, smiling. “You’re both ridiculous.”

And that’s when the door opened.

—

None of us had time to react.

It creaked open, slowly, and a familiar voice said, “They told me this room was free- ”

Then Max Verstappen stepped in.

He froze the second he saw us.

Three people.

One couch.

Legs tangled.

My hoodie, Lando’s socks, Oscar’s McLaren t-shirt barely covering my shorts.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then: “Oh.”

Lando sat up straighter.

Oscar blinked hard.

I didn’t move, mostly because I wasn’t sure I could. Max stared for one full beat longer than was polite.

Then: “I don’t think this room is free.”

“No,” Lando said flatly. “It’s really not.”

Max lingered in the doorway, hand still on the knob.

He looked at me.

Then at Lando.

Then Oscar.

Then back to me.

“Right,” he said, slowly. “So you’re all… I see.”

Oscar muttered, “Shit.”

“No one else knows,” I said quickly. “Max. Please.”

Max raised his eyebrows. “This is… unexpected.”

Lando tried to recover. “It’s… new.”

Oscar added, “Private.”

“And no one’s getting hurt,” I finished.

Max nodded.

Then looked at me, like he was studying me for the first time. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type who could pull both of them.”

Oscar’s mouth dropped open.

Lando looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices.

“I’m not pulling anyone,” I said.

Max hummed. “You are. Just extremely efficiently.”

“You’re not upset?” Oscar asked.

“Why would I be upset?” Max said. “You’re all consenting adults.”

“True,” Lando said slowly. “But…”

“It’s a little complicated,” I added.

Max nodded. “I imagine so. Especially if someone were to… say… mention this to the media.”

That got very quiet.

Too quiet.

I sat up straighter. “Max.”

He sipped his coffee again, infuriatingly casual. “You know how fast these things travel.”

Oscar: “You’re threatening us?”

Max: “No, no. Not threatening.”

Lando: “Feels like threatening.”

Max tilted his head. He stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him.

Then he smiled.

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ephemeralp1eces · 3 days ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XVI

Summary: Th next morning bring about a new discussion, and new agreement, between the three of you. Luckily, nothing is ever too hard when it comes to us.

What to know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader, fluff

wc; 2,100

The next morning we ate breakfast in Oscar’s room. We filed through the door, sunlight leaking through the blinds, some cooking show playing low on the TV that none of us were going to watch.

Last night had been quiet. Good. Just me and Lando.

Oscar knew that. I’d told him over text as soon as I’d woken up this morning. Probably not the best method of delivery but I’d panicked when I’d realized we forgot to tell him the night before.

He wasn’t cold.

But he was definitely… something.

So now we were here.

He reached for a forkful of pasta and glanced at me. “So,” he said, in that very Oscar way. Neutral. Slightly amused. “You and Lando had a night, huh?”

Lando snorted. “Jesus, mate.”

Oscar just shrugged. “What? I’m allowed to mention it.”

I looked at him carefully. “You’re not mad?”

“No. Just…” He paused, fork still mid-air. “You didn’t tell me it was going to happen.”

Lando frowned. “We didn’t really know it was going to happen.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You disappeared after dinner.”

“Okay, yeah, but we weren’t, like, plotting it or anything.”

That had to be a lie.

I nudged Lando’s leg gently. “He’s not saying we needed permission. Just… maybe a heads-up?”

Oscar nodded. “Exactly. I don’t care that it happened. We talked about this, remember? It’s not the being alone that’s weird. It’s just…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Woke up and didn’t know where either of you were. And then had to guess.”

There was a long beat of quiet.

Then Lando said, “That’s fair.”

I watched Oscar for a second longer, the way he stayed relaxed but wasn’t meeting either of our eyes.

He wasn’t angry. Not jealous.

Just a little hurt we hadn’t thought to include him in the loop.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel out of it,” I said gently.

“You didn’t,” he said quickly, finally looking over at me. “You didn’t. It’s just… I think if we’re doing this properly, the three of us, we need to be better about that stuff.”

“Agreed,” Lando said immediately.

Oscar smirked. “Wow. That easy?”

“I’m not trying to make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No pun intended,” I muttered.

Lando kicked at my ankle under the table, laughing. “You started it.”

Oscar shook his head, but a small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth now. “Okay, so. New rule?”

“New rule,” I said. “If one of us is going to sleep with someone alone, we give the other one a heads-up. Not to ask. Just to say.”

“Before it happens,” Oscar clarified.

“Obviously before,” Lando said. “Otherwise it’s just a weird morning recap.”

“And maybe no springing it on each other in group chats,” I added. “Like… tell in person, if you can.”

“Or at least a message that doesn’t sound like a performance review,” Oscar said.

Lando looked at him, mock offended. “I was very respectful.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Yeah, we had a good time. She’s very thorough.’”

I burst out laughing.

Lando turned bright red. “Okay, that sounds worse out of context.”

Oscar grinned and leaned back on his hands. “You made me sound like I was evaluating a contractor.”

“Would’ve given me a 10 out of 10 though, right?” I teased.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty out of ten.”

Oscar reached for his coffee. “Yeah, well, we all knew that already.”

I threw a napkin at him.

He caught it one-handed without looking.

—

It was easy after that.

The tension was gone.

We sat there for a while longer. Passing food back and forth, arguing about whether Lando could beat Oscar in a cooking contest (absolutely not), teasing each other for how disheveled we looked when we rolled out of bed.

The sun rose higher outside. A quiet stretch of peace before being thrown back into the chaos of it all.

And something else, too. Something calm, something earned.

We’d figured out another piece of this.

It didn’t have to be perfect. It just had to be honest.

And as long as we stayed that way; communicative, clear, careful. we could keep moving forward.

Together.

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ephemeralp1eces · 3 days ago

Text

You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XV

Summary: After an innocent media day, the evening takes a turn. Tonight Lando wants you, to himself.

What to Know: Lando x reader, smut, shower sex

wc; 7,200

That day after our media shoot, I got a second surprise. It started when I walked into my room and found Lando already inside. He was sitting on the edge of the windowsill, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, legs bouncing like he was thinking through something a little too fast.

“Did you break in?” I asked, amused.

He shrugged. “Your door was propped.”

It hadn’t been. He just knew I wouldn’t send him away.

I dropped my bag, leaned on the doorframe. “Alright. What’s up.”

He looked up. Met my eyes.

Then said, “Can I have you tonight?”

Not a tease, or a demand. Just a question. All I had to do was nod.

—

He didn’t take me to the bed. He took me to the shower.

We stripped slowly, in silence, and when he stepped in behind me and pulled the glass door shut, the first thing I felt was his arms around my waist. His chest pressed to my back. The warm mist swallowing us whole.

He didn’t grope. He held. And in the steam and hush of the water, it felt like time bent.

“I want to touch you,” he said. “But I don’t want to rush.”

“So don’t.”

—

He washed my hair. Gently. Massaged shampoo into my scalp like it was the most sacred thing in the world. Then my shoulders. My back. Every inch of me, his hands slow and reverent, fingertips sliding along slick skin while I leaned into him, limp from the weight of his care.

“I think about you like this more than I should,” he murmured into my neck. “As all mine.”

“You can have me,” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Tonight, I’m yours.”

—

He sank to his knees on the tile. The spray of water hit his back as he looked up at me, wide-eyed, already breathless.

Then he licked up my thigh, open-mouthed and hungry, hands bracing against my hips like he needed me to hold still or he’d lose control.

He was messier than usual. Less calculated. He moaned against me like he couldn’t help it, lips dragging, tongue circling, sucking, teasing. His hands spread me wider and he just went to work; no rhythm, no plan, just Lando, completely immersed in the taste of me.

I braced one hand against the wall and grabbed his hair with the other.

We could have been there like that for hours, or minutes, like that - Lando knelt before me, giving me his all. I couldn’t tell. And when I came, sharp and sudden; my moans, his groans of approval, echoing off the tiled walls, he didn’t stop.

Not until I begged.

—

He stood quickly after. Breath ragged. Eyes dark.

“Turn around.”

I did.

“Hands up.”

I planted them against the fogged glass.

He stepped close behind me and slid two fingers in. Still slick, still warm, curling them just right. His cock pressed against my ass, hard and throbbing, and he let out a soft, broken sound when I pushed back into him.

“I need to be inside you,” he gasped.

“Then do it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He slid in slowly, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath all week.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead against the back of my neck. “You feel- God.”

He held my hips and started to move. Long strokes, hips snapping just right, the slap of skin echoing off the tile. He was even louder this time. Filthy. Whispering things he usually didn’t say when someone else was watching.

“You feel so good… fuck, this is mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I choked out.

“You make the prettiest sounds when it’s just me.”

“You’re the one pulling them out of me.”

His hand slid up my spine. My neck. My jaw. Tilting my face to the side so he could kiss me when he fucked in hard.

“I want you to come on my cock,” he growled.

And I did.

A breathless, full-body rush that had me shaking, mouth open in a silent cry as he drove through it- relentless.

He didn’t last much longer.

He pulled out fast, stroking himself twice before he came across the small of my back with a deep, desperate moan, one hand flat against the glass, the other clinging to my hip like he needed something to anchor him.

His forehead dropped to my shoulder, panting.

We stayed there in the steam, trembling.

—

Later, after we dried off and collapsed into the bed, still naked and warm from the shower, he rolled toward me and touched my face like he hadn’t quite convinced himself it was real.

“I think I just needed to know.”

“Know what?”

“That I still have this with you,” he said, softer now. “That it’s not just about what we all share. That there’s… a version of this that’s just ours.”

I traced a finger along his jaw. “You’ll always have me, Lando. Just like Oscar does.”

“Not exclusively,” he said.

“No. But that’s not what you want.”

He looked at me. Honest. Raw.

“No. It’s not.”

I couldn’t tell if he was lying. I kissed him.

“You wanted to feel close.”

He nodded. “I wanted to feel enough.”

“You are.”

He paused.

Then smiled. “Okay.”

—

He curled into my side and rested his head on my shoulder. We didn’t talk about rules. Or boundaries. Or what came next. We didn’t need to. Because the deal was always simple.

Three people.

One shared thing.

But tonight?

Tonight was his.

And I let it be.

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ephemeralp1eces · 3 days ago

Text

You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XIV

Summary: You’re usually behind the scenes, amused, and relieved you aren’t in front of the camera during media filming days. Karma must be out to get you though, because this week the boys have to film a video with one of the crew members, and, against all odds - that crew member is you.

What to know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader, light fluffy fun (lol), a filler episode if you will

wc; 6,500

It started with Charlotte, our social media manager, which meant it was going to be trouble.

“Hey,” she said, appearing out of nowhere like she always did when we were just relaxing. “I need you for a media shoot.”

I looked up from my laptop, skeptical. “Me?”

“Yeah. It’s random draw this weekend. Zak wanted to highlight some behind-the-scenes staff for the fan content rotation.”

Lando, lounging nearby with a packet of crisps, grinned. “You’ve been summoned.”

Oscar, not looking up from his phone, added, “It’s about time someone else gets dragged into these things.”

Charlotte waved a card. “It’s a ‘Who Knows Them Better?’ challenge. You’ll be the ‘mystery crew member.’ The fans’ll love it, seeing how well the drivers really know the people around them.”

Lando nudged Oscar. “You’re going down.”

Oscar deadpanned, “You still think I don’t know your coffee order.”

Charlotte continued. “You two are competing. She asks the questions. You write your guesses. Winner gets a prize. Loser gets a forfeit.”

“What’s the forfeit?” Lando asked.

Charlotte grinned too wide.

“…It’s going to be bad, isn’t it,” I muttered.

—

They set us up on the lawn behind the McLaren hospitality tent.

Three chairs. Two whiteboards. One crew member (me), now regretting her entire morning.

The rules were simple: I’d ask ten personal questions (basic stuff) and Lando and Oscar would each write their guesses. Most correct answers wins. The loser drinks a concoction the interns called “The Surprise Smoothie,” which smelled vaguely of mango, brine, and regret.

“What if I lose?” I asked.

Charlotte shrugged. “Then you get your dignity shredded on social media.”

“Excellent.”

Lando clapped once. “Let’s go.”

—

ROUND 1: What’s my go-to paddock breakfast?

Lando: Those weird overnight oats in the black container.

Oscar: Scrambled eggs and coffee.

Me: “Oscar’s right.”

Lando: “You literally had oats this morning!”

Me: “Because you made me try them.”

Oscar: “One-nil.”

—

ROUND 3: What’s my job title?

Lando: Trackside operations support

Oscar: Logistics manager?

Me: “Technically, Lando’s closer. Media strategy and team scheduling.”

Oscar: “It’s literally on your badge.”

Lando: “You’ve seen her badge?”

Oscar: “She gave me a lanyard once.”

Me: “Let’s stay focused.”

—

ROUND 5: Favorite driver growing up?

Oscar: Mark Webber

Lando: Alonso

Me: “Trick question. It was Jenson Button.”

Oscar: “British bias.”

Lando: “I should have known.”

—

ROUND 7: What’s the dumbest thing you’ve seen me do in the garage?

Oscar: Trip over a tyre and pretend it didn’t happen.

Lando: Walk into the halo bar. Twice.

Me: “They’re both true.”

Charlotte, off-camera: “That was the same day.”

Oscar: “Double points?”

—

ROUND 10: If I wasn’t working in F1, what would I be doing?

Oscar: Running something. Probably bossing someone around.

Lando: Project manager for some mysterious, intense operation. Possibly MI6.

Me: “Honestly? Equal points. Both scarily accurate.”

—

The final tally was 6-6. A draw.

Which meant both drivers had to drink The Smoothie.

Oscar sniffed his and grimaced. “Is that… celery?”

Lando took one sip, gagged, and doubled over laughing. “That’s cruel.”

“You bet your media points for this,” I reminded him.

“I have regrets,” he choked.

—

After the shoot, the three of us hung back on the grass, the camera team packing up around us.

“That was actually fun,” Oscar admitted, tossing his whiteboard into a pile.

“I’ll remember this when you’re forced to do a TikTok dance next time,” I said.

Lando flopped onto his back, hands behind his head. “You’re weirdly hard to read, you know.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You have all these routines, but then you’ll randomly organize a team dinner, or sneak snacks into the sim bay, or give out headache meds like you’re running a black-market pharmacy.”

Oscar added, “You’re basically the glue.”

“That’s not my job description,” I said, smiling.

“It’s your unofficial title,” Lando said, eyes closed, sunglasses slipping off his nose. “Head of keeping us functioning.”

Oscar nudged him. “That smoothie didn’t help your brain cells, did it?”

Lando sighed dramatically. “It hurts me.”

—

It was moments like today that made me realize how lucky I was. How fun it could be, just the three of us, hanging out and doing the most random things. Even if it was for a forced social media shoot, I still enjoyed it.

It gave me such a good feeling, warm, content. And yet fear lingered somewhere underneath. Fear that something might change.

All I could do was pray it never did.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #lando norris #lando x reader #lando fanfic #lando imagine #lando x you #lando fluff #lando x y/n #oscar piastri x lando norris #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic

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ephemeralp1eces · 4 days ago

Text

You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XIII

Summary: As the race week progresses, Oscar decides to be the first to test your new agreement. He wants you all to himself, and Lando can’t say no.

What to Know: Oscar x reader, smut

wc; 6,800

It was Oscar who asked.

No pressure, no drama, just a quiet invitation on a quiet night, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Come to my room?”

I blinked, coffee halfway to my lips. We were still in Austin, still on team time, still pretending, mostly. Lando was due back any second from a meeting, and the moment already felt heavy, even though it wasn’t meant to.

Oscar held my gaze. “Just you.”

I looked at him for a beat too long. Then nodded.

—

Lando didn’t flinch when I told him.

He came back, flopped on the hotel bed, and asked if we wanted to order room service later. He made a joke about not being invited, like it was nothing.

“Enjoy him,” he said, grinning.

And then, softer, “Just come back.”

I smiled. “Always.”

—

Oscar’s room was neater than I expected.

Bed made. Bottles lined in a perfect row on the counter. His hoodie draped over the chair, folded more than dropped. The curtains were drawn halfway, warm streetlight leaking in.

He didn’t try anything right away.

Just pulled me to the bed, let me lie against his chest while the TV played quietly in the background. We didn’t speak for a while. I felt the slow rhythm of his breathing under my ear, the solid weight of his arm around my shoulders.

It felt good. Simple. Quiet. I liked it.

Then he said, “It’s nice. Like this.”

I turned my head. “Just us?”

He nodded. “Not because I don’t want him around. But because I want you like this. Closer.”

“You already get me close.”

“Yeah, but this- ” he tilted my chin toward him “this feels different.”

It did.

—

The first kiss that night wasn’t frenzied. It wasn’t needy. It was slow, like he wanted to memorize it.

He kissed me over and over, like each time meant something separate.

When he touched me, it was unhurried; fingers at the hem of my shirt, ghosting over skin, patient.

When he undressed me, he didn’t just peel layers away. He watched. Like he hadn’t had me before. Like he wanted to rediscover it.

—

We didn’t rush the first time.

Oscar laid me back on the bed, his body between mine, mouth against my collarbone, then lower. He took his time. Tasting. Teasing. Fingertips grazing my hips while he kissed down my stomach.

His mouth found me slowly, like he was relearning what I liked, how I sounded when he got it just right. I tangled my hands in his hair and arched into his mouth, and he moaned against me like he was the one overwhelmed.

“You’re so responsive tonight,” he murmured, voice low. “Like you’re giving me everything.”

“I am,” I whispered.

When he slid inside, he paused there. Deep, still - and kissed me like he couldn’t help it.

I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, and he moved slowly at first, then faster, the room full of soft gasps and murmurs and the subtle slap of skin against skin.

When I came, he whispered my name into my neck, like it undid him too.

He didn’t finish right away.

He pulled out, breathless, and pulled me into his lap instead, lifting me so I could sink down onto him with a soft cry.

He held my waist, his forehead resting against mine, and watched me.

That was how he came; buried deep, holding eye contact, a soft groan against my lips.

It was different. Tender. Focused. Maybe a little selfish in the best way. Like he wanted this version of me to himself, even if it was just once.

—

He held me after, not talking much. And he didn’t ask for more. Not that I would have minded if he did. His hand stayed on my back while I drifted to sleep on his chest.

In the morning, he woke me up with a slow kiss, breakfast already ordered, and one soft sentence:

“You don’t have to say anything. But, thanks.”

I smiled. “For what?”

“For letting it be just us.”

—

I made it back to my room before anyone could see. About an hour later I received a text from Lando.

Lando - 10:42am

Was it good?

I bit my lip before replying.

You really want to know?

Lando - 10:46am

But also yeah

Kinda

I couldn’t help but smile a bit.

Yeah.

It was.

Lando - 10:51am

Sick

I kind of missed you

Me - 10:53am

That’s allowed

Lando - 10:54am

Still want to do this tho

Me - 10:58am

But?

Lando - 11:00am

I’m not mad

Just

human?

Me - 11:04am

I figured

Me - 11:06am

Just remember

It’ll always be the three of us

Even when it’s not

He didn’t text back after that, probably busy, hopefully satisfied, and I didn’t have enough time to worry about it, at least for now.

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ephemeralp1eces · 4 days ago

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Ok, so the results from my poll came in!! Love that it was Max tbh wasn’t expecting that. I just gotta draft out the storyline and then once the landoscar story is done I’ll focus on that 😋

Please please sends recs if you have any good ideas!

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max x reader #max verstappen #max vertsappen fic

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ephemeralp1eces · 4 days ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part XII

Summary: Life goes on, and trying to keep things under wrap gets harder. The topic of what is okay and not okay is brought up, and a new rule is set in place - one that lets you get each driver to yourself, whenever you want.

What to Know: Lando x reader, Oscar x reader, fluff

wc; 12.5k

The first thing I noticed when we got back was how loud everything was.

Team radios. Paddock chatter. PR calls. The grind of it all resumed like it hadn’t paused, like we hadn’t paused, and I had to keep blinking to remind myself that just two days ago, I had been coming undone beneath both of them in a sun-drenched villa, no one around for miles.

Now I was in a garage.

Now I was in a McLaren polo again.

Now I was pretending none of that had happened.

—

It wasn’t hard at first.

Lando was good at pretending. He cracked jokes with Zak like usual, jumped up on a wall to yell across the paddock at George for no reason, acted.. odd.. for a tiktok. Chaotic, like everyone expected him to be.

Oscar played it cool, as he always did. Quiet confident, sunglasses on, nodding through press questions with just enough eye contact to seem engaged. No more. No less.

And I?

I smiled. Took notes. Walked between them without walking with them.

It wasn’t hard.

Until it was.

—

The first test came when I reached for a bottle of water from a table in the garage and Lando’s hand reached for the same one.

Fingers touched.

His thumb brushed mine.

We froze.

Only for half a second.

But enough.

“Sorry,” I murmured, stepping back.

He looked at me like he wasn’t sure what to do for a second. Then grinned. “Ladies first.”

Oscar was watching from across the garage.

He tilted his head slightly, subtle, then looked away.

But I caught it.

A warning.

Careful.

—

During media rounds, we split up. Lando to Sky. Oscar to F1TV. Me lingering just outside frame, trying not to make eye contact when the interviewer asked Oscar, “What’d you get up to over the break?”

Oscar smiled. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Rest. Family. Nothing wild.”

Lando, fifteen minutes later, answered the same question with, “Couple beach days. Bit of golf. Some… very relaxing company.”

I didn’t react, but Oscar saw it when Lando rejoined us.

He arched one brow. “Relaxing?”

Lando shrugged. “Can’t a man be vague?”

“You’re never vague.”

Lando grinned. “Exactly.”

I stepped between them. “You two are so bad at subtle.”

Oscar looked at me over his sunglasses. “And you’re good?”

Lando choked on his water.

I had nothing to say.

—

Later that day, in the hospitality suite, it got worse.

I was seated on the couch typing when Oscar dropped into the chair beside me. He was too close, his knee brushing mine, and he reached for a pen that happened to be right next to my hand. Lando walked in ten seconds later, tossed his cap at Oscar, and said, “Too close.”

Oscar blinked, expression unreadable. “We’re seated.”

“Exactly.”

I stood before anyone else could add to the tension.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked, looking at both of them.

Oscar stood. “Now?”

“Yes. Outside.”

They followed without protest.

—

We walked behind the motorhomes, out of view, into the thin corridor between McLaren and Williams. I turned to face them. “This isn’t going to work if we make it obvious.”

“We’re not,” Lando said.

“You’re trying not to,” I corrected. “That’s not the same.”

Oscar rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. “It’s not easy.”

“I know.”

He looked at me. “Do you?”

I exhaled. “Yes. Because it’s not easy for me either. But we agreed. No one can know.”

Lando leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You worried about PR or just… all of it?”

“All of it,” I admitted. “I don’t want to be a headline. I don’t want to choose and then have to explain why I didn’t.”

Oscar nodded. “We get that.”

“I just need us to try harder.”

Lando smiled. “You know what the problem is?”

I gave him a look. “Besides you?”

“You like us too much.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Says the man who literally almost kissed her in the sim bay last week.”

“That wasn’t a kiss.”

Oscar looked at me. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

I stepped between them again. “Both of you need to focus.”

“We are focused,” Lando said. “We just also want to touch you. Constantly.”

“That’s not my fault,” I said.

Oscar’s gaze dropped to my lips. “No. It’s ours.”

—

We made it through the rest of the day mostly intact.

No wandering hands. No loaded glances. No risky jokes.

But every time I caught one of them looking at me; from across the paddock, behind the wheel, over the top of a headset, it still hit somewhere low and warm and addictive.

We were good at hiding, but we were getting bad at staying away, and none of us seemed ready to stop.

—

It was hot and windy in Austin. The kind of heat that made you slow, lazy, touch-starved even when you were sweating.

The paddock buzzed in that quiet way it always did before lights-out; cables underfoot, media scrambling for last-minute shots, teams tightening bolts and strategies with precision-honed nerves.

I stood outside the McLaren garage with my headset off, watching Lando finish his interview with F1TV. He looked good. He always did in the race suit, with the collar slightly open and his hair messy. His eyes caught mine for just a second as the interview wrapped, and something flickered in his smile - something too private, too knowing.

Oscar saw it too.

He passed behind me, low voice near my ear: “Careful. You’re not hiding it anymore.”

I turned, startled.

But Oscar didn’t wait. He kept walking, ducking into the garage without looking back.

—

The comment wasn’t angry. It wasn’t jealous, either. But it landed anyway.

—

Later that night, long after the debriefs ended, Lando and Oscar were in the simulator room, talking tyre degradation. I hovered nearby, mostly just existing, waiting for them to finish. McLaren’s junior comms guy passed behind me, friendly, a little too chatty, and nodded toward the drivers.

“Must be fun, working with both of them so closely,” he said casually.

I gave him a polite smile. “It is.”

He chuckled, already walking away. “They’re always with you. Like a little team of three.”

Nothing in his tone was suspicious. Just teasing, but my skin still prickled. Because people noticed patterns, and we were one.

—

I brought it up that night at the hotel.

We weren’t sharing a room, not officially. But Lando had wandered into mine around 10PM with snacks, and Oscar had followed. I sat on the edge of the bed, towel drying my hair from a quick shower, while they kicked off their shoes like this was just how things worked now.

“I think someone noticed,” I said.

Lando paused mid-bite of his crisps. “Who?”

“Comms intern. Said we’re always together.”

Oscar raised a brow. “He didn’t sound serious, though.”

“No. But it’s still a reminder.”

Lando flopped back on the bed dramatically. “We’ve been good. Haven’t kissed you in public. Haven’t touched you that much.”

“You glared at Pierre when he handed me a water bottle,” I said.

“He was being weird,” Lando insisted.

“He said it’s hot out and asked if I was hydrating.”

“He was being too nice.”

Oscar smirked. “You do get jealous.”

“Only when people flirt with our girl.”

Oscar looked at me. “Is that what you are?”

I opened my mouth to say something clever, then closed it.

That was when Oscar sat down beside me, a little more serious now. “Can I ask something?”

I nodded.

He looked between us. “What happens if it’s not always the three of us?”

Lando perked up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: what if one of us wants time alone with her?”

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess we haven’t really talked about that.”

“No,” I said quietly. “We haven’t.”

Oscar kept his voice level. “It’s not about wanting more than the other. It’s about different. Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting my turn.”

Lando exhaled. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“I didn’t either. Until today.”

“I don’t want to make this into something heavy,” I said. “But if this is going to keep going, casual or not, we probably need to figure that out.”

Lando nodded slowly. “So what? We just… set rules?”

Oscar offered, “Or just be honest in the moment. If one of us wants more, say so.”

“And if I want time with just one of you?” I asked.

Lando’s eyes met mine. “Then you ask.”

“And you won’t be upset?”

“I might be,” he said, shrugging. “But I’ll get over it.”

Oscar added, “We’re grown. We can handle it. If we talk.”

I looked between them; two people I trusted, two people I wanted, maybe in different ways, maybe in similar ones, but cared for nonetheless.

“Okay,” I said, with an exhale.

Just that. I knew we wouldn’t be forever, but for now, we still wanted this.

All of it.

Even if it wasn’t always all three of us at once.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #lando norris #lando x reader #lando fanfic #lando imagine #lando x you #lando fluff #lando x y/n #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando smut #landoscar #oscar piastri x lando norris #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri

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