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mywritersmind · 21 days ago

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AVOIDANCE - LN4

summary : Lando can’t help but keep his on you. You’re beautiful, talented, sharp as nails… just enough to wreck him. That doesn’t change the fact that he wants you. In fact, it only motivates him more.

listen up : daniel riccardo cadillac teammate!! 21st team. if you didn’t know, i have a driver x lando fic up on wattpad! i kinda wanna re write it bc i miss it so much and think it could be sm better! anyway i hope you like this!!

words : 6850

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Tate Mcrae’s ‘Just Keep Watching’ blasted through the speakers just as the podium trophies were awarded to the top three.

Miami was hot and grueling for all the drivers, but specifically the finishers of P2 and P3.

Carlos and Alex stood below, watching their co workers get awarded, soon joined the newest addition to this season. “So what’s the deal with Lando and-”

He didn’t even need to finish, the two men already knew the name that would ghost his lips. “He’s in love with her, what else?” Alex said, crossing his arms to watch Lando pop his champagne.

The crowd screams made Carlos correct Alex even louder, “He’s got a crush on her!” They watched as Oscar sprayed Lando’s back, Lando trying to retaliate but failing due to the amount of champagne in his eyes.

“Always has!” Alex added, a flash of a silver race suit catches the crowds attention, the suit less important than who’s wearing it- someone that’s becoming more familiar to the top steps these days. “It’s been going on for years…”

Franco frowned, bringing his water bottle to his lips just as she faked Lando out with her bottle of champagne just to drink it, looking him dead in the eye while doing it. “She doesn’t know?”

Carlos and Alex stared at Franco, poor, innocent, fresh blood, Franco… He had no clue how far their story went, no idea what has gone down. Alex and Carlos both sigh, knowing far too much about their twisted little dynamic, “Oh she knows…” Alex mumbled.

“He doesn’t care that she knows and hasn’t done anything?” Franco looked so shocked at this that it almost made Carlos laugh.

“Oh no… I think it turns him on even more.”

⋆༺

I hate fish

I hate gin

I hate paper cuts

I hate losing

I hate Lando Norris.

And yet, the smile that tugs at his lips while he watches me pour the winning liquid down my throat, makes me think- only for a second, how could I ever hate him?

Him and his stupid freckles. Him and his bloody need to make space for himself in my life.

I stopped hating Lando a while ago. It lingers in my thoughts sometimes, but I'm pretty sure it’s a reflection of how I feel about myself.

“Don’t give me that look, sev.” We’re still standing on the podium, the shaken champagne dropping low in Oscars hands. “Come out with us tonight.”

“P3 isn’t a celebration for me.” I say flatly, ignoring the nickname he’s pinned on me since getting one glance at the number 7 in our karting days.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t still party.” The way his lips curve makes my heart race faster, something I'll tell myself is just the adrenaline from the race.

“You’re coming to the party?” Oscar says brightly, shining in bubbly as he wipes his eyes.

I nod, keeping it short and standing on the top step with the boys with me, smiling for the cameras, wondering how different it will be when I actually stand up here alone.

“Oh so you’ll come with Osc but not me?” Lando holds his trophy, waving to the crowd distractingly.

“Of course I will, I like him more than you.” I’m not lying, not really. I don’t miss the way Lando’s jaw tenses, only a split second that could be missed by a blink before he goes back to smiling and slapping Oscar on the back.

⋆༺

I do go with Oscar, sitting in the back of the car while my pregame shot sets in and Oscar rattles away on the phone with Lily.

The club is just what I expected, maybe just what I needed. Alex sees me first, making me genuinely smile while dragging me over to the others. He’s awfully happy for the circumstances of his race.

Daniel is doing shots with Max, probably celebrating his return to F1 for the millionth time. Isack, Pierre, and Ollie pull me into their conversation immediately after congratulating me. The two frenchmen are explaining football rivalries to Ollie, who sips his drink and gives me confused looks once and a while.

It’s just about the time when I'm drowning out the boys and wondering why I'm not drinking yet, when I see him. Lando walks across the floor with Franco by his side, he’s in all black, his curls grown out and a drink in each hand.

Franco leans in to Lando after they both notice me. While Franco talks, Lando’s eyes are on me. On my legs, on my heels, on my scrap of a top. They’re still on me when Franco stops talking. His reaction is a mix of laughter and uncertainty, his eyes darting away from me in the middle of his response. That’s how I know it’s about me.

“Fran, I’d rather you talk about me to my face.” Franco laughs at this, pulling me into a side hug as I mess up his hair.

“Start drinking before he keeps talking, it helps.” Lando hands me one of the drinks in his hands. It’s a martini. I pause before I take it and as if he reads my mind, he says, “Vodka, not gin.”

Everyone around us starts yelling and clapping at the exact same time. Making me pull my eyes from Lando and to Oscar, who smiles shyly at the welcome.

“Our race winner!” Lando holds up his glass, he’s so chill, an easy smile on his lips even though we all know people could have been saying that to him.

I love being with the rest of the grid, even if my intention last year was to have no friends, only enemies. My words clearly hasn’t panned out well because each of them has weaseled their way into my heart, new and old.

The only thing I dislike about being out with them is that women flock to us. I mean, the girls are pretty and usually nice, but it also means that my friends are pulled away by mini skirts and bras.

Don’t get me wrong, guys find me as well. It’s just that the ones that do happen to have a lot of confidence, walking into a crowd of fit F1 men who would likely fight for my honor… they happen to fall in the category that I call: False drunken confidence and eyes for my tits only.

So I stay away from the thirsty guys and stick with the ones who are alone due to the lack of their girlfriend not being here. Lando is always with us even though, to my knowledge, Lando is very single.

I’ve seen him flirt with girls, letting them slip their hands to his hair and kissing his neck cheekily. I’ve seen him wave goodbye with a pretty blonde on his arm, but never, in my two years in formula one, have I ever gone out and had Lando not talk to me.

“That girl is staring you down like you’re edible.” Pierre sips his drink, nodding to the blonde girl who is doing just what he said.

Lando looks at her, not flirty or teasing, just blinks before looking back at Pierre, “She looks about nineteen.”

“She’s twenty one.” Franco says, making us all look at him, “What? I talked to her.” I raise my brow at him just as the others mumble words of disbelief, “Okay- I made out with her.” He rolls his eyes.

“Great. I don’t want your sloppy seconds, sounds paddock bunny like.” Lando shakes his head, leaning back into the couch and slipping his arm around the back of it- around the back of where I'm sitting.

His jacket is over my legs, Lando saw the length of my skirt and my frown when everyone else sat and so easily handed it to me without another word.

Franco starts fidgeting in his seat, “I need to dance, who’s with me?” None of the guys move. He turns to me, smiling ear to ear and holding out a hand, “My queen.”

I almost say no simply because I hate the nickname the grid has dubbed me. I’m the only woman on the grid, something a bit awkward to navigate sometimes, but also something that the other drivers acknowledge but never really talk about.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you dance with Lando instead.” Ollie says suddenly, making my eyes narrow and Lando drag his hand over his face.

“I’d give a hundred bucks to not do that.” I stand, throwing Lando’s jacket beside him and making him peak up at me. I don’t mean to sound so mean, but I don’t really know how else to respond to that.

Not when I know he wants me to say yes, not for money or jokes, either.

“Why will you dance with Franco and not Lando? Either is ending up posted somewhere tomorrow.” Carlos just has to remind me of the existence of phones and social media.

I take Franco’s hand, “Franco likes older women.” He grins at this.

“You are older than him!” Lando laughs, his eyes meeting mine and shining green in the strobe lights.

I can’t help but smirk, shrugging and tugging the younger man away, “C’mon, Fran.”

⋆༺

My free week is spent with training, getting coffee with Alex’s girlfriend, and trying to calm my mind by reading.

I’m back in the air too soon, flying with Max and Daniel who surprise me with a special guest… Lando. Flying with my teammate and basically his husband means that Lando and I are third and fourth wheeling.

I’m curled up in my seat, headphones on and book in hand while the boys play some card game. “Sev!” I hear Lando scream, making me pull of my headphones and hum in response.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Max asks as if they wouldn’t know the second a guy even asked me out.

“No. Why?”

Daniel grins, looking over his seat at me, “I have someone for you.”

My eyes narrow, “If it’s Lando, the answer is no.”

I see the brit frown, mumbling, “Why not?”

“It’s not Lando.” Daniel says, making Lando physically react and sitting up straight to look at his friend, “He’s a driver-”

“Immediately no.”

Max laughs out loud while Daniel rolls his eyes, “It’s rally-”

“Absolutely not.” Lando scoffs, earning a suspicious look from me.

“You have no say in this, buddy.” Max tugs the hood of Lando’s hoodie over his head, Lando shoving him right back.

“I have a girl for you, Lando.” I say, crossing my legs to get more comfortable in the two seats I’m taking up.

“Is it you?” He shoots back quickly.

“No.”

“Then I don’t want her.” He says it teasingly but his eyes are on me, his usual smirk gone.

None of the guys flirt with me except for Lando. Franco has said some joking remarks but apart from some drunken compliments, they’re like my brothers. Not Lando though, never Lando.

I’ve known him since karting as the nerdy little boy who liked all of my instagram pictures and fought me on track. Now he’s the nerdy formula one driver who’s annoyingly hot and wildly confusing, still fighting me on track.

Daniel whistles slowly, my eyes pulling away from Lando and back to my book. His eyes stay on me, I can fucking feel it.

They go back to their game and when we land in Italy, I leave that plane with one plan in mind: beating them.

⋆༺

“Hey sev.” I’m not happy to hear him, or see him. Except the way he looks might help a little bit.

“Fuck off, Norris.” He shouldn’t even be near the Cadillac garage.

My lap got deleted so I'll be starting P15. Lando’s P4 and even he’s upset about it. I’d give anything to switch with him.

He doesn’t roll his eyes, just crosses his arms and leans closer. “Be nice to me, you rejected me on the plane.”

I blink. “I always reject you.”

He nudges my arm, looking away to scan the paddock before sighing, “God forbid a man speak his truth.”

“What do you want, Lan?”

“You?” He grins ear to ear and I hate that it makes me smile. “Hold on!” He opens his phone and puts it up to my face.

“What!?”

He pockets his phone, “Just a reminder that I can still make you smile.”

“Still?” I raise my brow.

“Don’t act like we didn’t cry laugh back in karting.”

“Seven years ago!”

“And I stick with my feelings.”

Someone whistles behind us, “Ay, lover boy!” It’s Daniel, he’s grinning like an idiot next to a sky sports camera man.

I push Lando away but he grabs my hand to pull me back, “You’re gonna start rumors.” I say, very aware of the cameras on us.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “Go out with me and then they won’t be rumors, just facts.”

⋆༺

I don’t date drivers. I did once. Never again will I go back to that. There’s many reasons for him specifically, but a relevant one for anyone on the grid is that social media sees something and runs with it.

Lando isn’t shy when talking about me, he’s never openly said he thinks i’m hot on camera but the way he talks to me, the subtle flirty words that get picked up in cooldown rooms… we have a fucking ship name now.

Sour. Seven with Four; also a hint at how I feel about this little hashtag. Technically it’s pronounced ‘soar’ but I like Sour much more.

It’s gone so far that even the other drivers will address us as Sour, even though there’s never a real need to group us together, they think it’s hilarious.

The race goes okay from my position, ending up P7 and checking in on Kimi who couldn’t finish his home race. The weekend goes back so fast that the next thing I know, i’m on that fucking plane again.

I’m watching the race back when Lando sits across from me, closing my screen without saying anything.

I pull the red vine out of my mouth, “The fuck- Norris!”

“You’re over analyzing.” He puts his feet up on my chair, wearing sweats and bright red socks.

“I’m trying to get better.”

“Seeing every tiny mistake you make isn’t gonna win you races.” He says flatly, “I would know.”

“At least you’ve won a race.”

“Talk to me when you’re six years in and not two in a brand new team.” He reaches over and grabs a red vine before slouching in his seat, his curls pressing against the leather.

I breathe out, “I want to win.”

“Then beat Max. Beat Oscar- Beat me!” He shrugs, biting into the candy. “Just chill on the race stuff when we’re 40,000 feet in the air.”

“What do you propose I do instead?”

“Um… Watch Crazy Rich Asians like a normal person? Talk to me? Drink champagne. Play strip poker-”

“Lando!”

He’s laughing now, “Sorry! I had to! It’s just… every second of every day is about racing for us, which is good, keeping us focused right? But I've seen people burnout…” He glances back at Danny who’s laughing with Max, “It’s not fun.”

I cross my arms, smiling a bit. “You just want me to talk to you.”

The corner of his lip tugs upwards, “I want you to beat me.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a kink of yours.”

He full on laughs now, making my stomach twist. Lando stands, coming over to my side and sitting next to me just to open computer, “I’ll give you my netflix password.”

As soon as we land, Daniel and I have to go to a Cadillac event together. He drives while I do my makeup in the passenger seat, “So… you and Lando talked like- the whole flight.”

“It was short.”

He hums, rocking his shoulders, “Sure but an hour is a long time to talk non-stop.”

“We’re friends.” I rub my lips together, touching up my lip liner.

Daniel lets out a laugh while I pop open my lipgloss, “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear that.”

“Will you shut it? We are.”

I can hear how unconvinced he is in the tone of his voice, “Friends who flirt.”

“Lando flirts with me for fun- he knows people think it’s funny.”

Daniel glances at me, speechless for a second. “You can’t honestly believe he’s saying that shit for laughs… right?”

⋆༺

Being with girls after spending every moment of my day competing with men is like running through a field of daisies. Alexandra and Lily make me feel so refreshed and happy, even during a triple header!

We walk along the Monaco harbor, saying which yacht we would want or what we would name them, before heading out to get lunch.

The place is unbelievably packed, making us all realize that we need to get better at planning and me to get over my fear of making reservations.

I swear, I think i’m imagining his voice at first. But then, a head of dark curls and tanned body comes into view, “Hey pretty!”

Lando already has a table because- of course he does. When Lando greets us, it’s like the waitress gains consciousness and realizes who I am. I’m somehow dragged to a table with Lando and his best friend, Max Fewtrell. The five of us sit at a table for three.

Alex leaves midway through our drinks, having to go earlier than expected which leaves Lily and I, who are only able to laugh at who sits across from us.

The table is less crowded now and surprisingly, we get on pretty well. Although I do think it’s mostly Max and his cheery personality.

He’s genuinely hilarious and any tension that I expected is soon forgotten about after we order. Someone comes up and asks for a picture with Lando and I. We do it but I can’t help but cringe at the thought of #sourhavinglunchtogether going viral.

Not one moment goes by where we’re not talking, every breath overtaken by someone else’s thoughts on whatever topic we bring up. Lily takes a selfie to send to Alex who promptly sends a million laughing emojis.

After the millionth time that Max makes me laugh, Lando speaks up, half joking, half serious. “Why do you like all my friends more than me?”

“Maybe because they don’t hit on me every chance they get.” Now i’m half joking and half serious.

He’s quiet the rest of the lunch, popping in jokes as usual but something’s off and he’s horrible at hiding it.

Alex picks up Lily after our lunch, saying hello quickly before taking his girlfriend away from me. Max is on the phone when Lando awkwardly comes up to me.

“You know, If I make you uncomfortable… I’ll stop.” It comes out of nowhere. For a second, I don’t know what he means, but then I remember my remark about him hitting on me and it clicks.

I cringe, hating this conversation already. Do I want him to stop? Do I really just like it because of the attention? Or because it’s coming from him?

He looks worried- like he’s scared that he’s actually crossed a line. “You don’t make me uncomfortable- I just… don’t get it.”

His brows furrow, his hands in his pockets and his eyes too green for this world. His voice is serious when he says it, “You don’t get why I hit on you?”

I don’t know what to say to that. I always know what to say- especially to him. But now… he’s looking at me as if the last two years have been a joke at his expense.

Max joins us right before I can answer, saying something about his girlfriend and how he needs to head back. I just nod along, still looking over to Lando who won’t face me.

⋆༺

Monaco is cloudy today and I'm suddenly very glad I picked out jeans and a sweater for this morning. I’ve spent the week on runs, doing press, and meeting up with some old friends. It’s been a quiet few days, something surprising since it’s still race week. I tap my pass against the entrance, expecting to hear the usual chime of acceptance, but when I start to walk, I'm stopped by metal.

I frown and try again, but no luck. I’m about to try for a third time when, it finally chimes. But it’s not my paddock pass that slides against the machine with ease, I can tell just by the large veiny hand that holds it.

I look back to see his face and my stomach does that thing again- he’s so close and for a second, I'm swallowed whole by a mess of curls and beauty marks.

That second is soon over because without so much as looking at me, he nods to the people inside and says, “Go.”

I mumble a quick thanks before moving through the metal and into the paddock. I try not to make a face, aware of the amount of cameras on me, but what the fuck is going on?

Lando’s been avoiding me.

This has never happened before… I haven’t talked to him all week and it’s already Saturday. Well, unless you count that encounter that has me blushing and cringing all at once.

No. Sorry- No. Not blushing. My cheeks are just red from the sun… the sun on a cold and cloudy day.

⋆༺

“Are you okay?” Daniel asks, standing in the doorframe of my drivers room while i’m spread out on my couch.

“I’m great.” I mumble because, I am! P2 in quali. In Monaco! I should be way happier than I am.

“Are you sure…?”

“Do you think Lando’s mad at me?” I don’t look at him when I say it, I can’t. It’s wholly too embarrassing.

I can practically hear the way his eyebrows raise, “I don’t think so. Has he been acting differently?”

I sit up, “Today he apologized for walking past me.” He had his hand on my waist so I wouldn’t fall or panic. He was in a rush, but snatched his hand away the second I looked back at who was moving so fast.

“Basic etiquette?”

I laugh, “Not for Lando.”

“Well, do you want me to ask? Maybe he’s just locked in for tomorrow.”

“No!” I scramble, “No that’s okay! I don’t care. It’s good like this, quiet.”

Daniel just smiles and leaves me alone.

The truth is, I can’t do this anymore. I spent the whole of Saturday looking for him. What the fuck has happened to me?

When I run into him- yes, physically, On sunday morning, I spit it out. “What’s wrong with you?”

He blinks, “Sorry?”

We’re both in our race suits, orange and silver are not a good pair. “You’ve been weird this whole week- can you like act normal? Did something happen?”

He starts to say something but stops before it can come out. “I thought you wanted this.”

I’m the confused one now. “What?”

He looks around but no one’s close enough to hear, “I mean, the whole thing at lunch. You said you don’t like it when I hit on you and it’s really hard not to hit on you-”

“I told you it didn't make me uncomfortable.”

“Max said something about it too and then that post…” He trails off, like he’s scared to make me uncomfortable again.

A post went viral of all the reasons why Lando and I are secretly dating. It’s shit and honestly, a good laugh, but not that serious.

“It’s fine.” I cross my arms instinctively, “I thought you were mad at me.”

Lando rolls his eyes and when he looks back at me, I can feel the shift in the air. “Don’t tell me you’ve missed the flirting.”

“No!” I say a bit louder than necessary, “It’s just- your fans have noticed.”

He’s grinning now, stepping closer. “My fans?”

I need to shut up. I turn sharply and start walking away, “Bye, Norris.”

I can hear the smile in his voice. “Beat me today, Sev!”

I don't beat him. I give him some pressure on the last five laps- but Lando Norris wins Monaco and looks absolutely fucking beautiful while doing it.

It reminds me of Miami- he can’t stop smiling.

Me, Lando, and Oscar walk off the podium still laughing. Lando picks me up suddenly, his arms around my waist and making me scream. He shakes out his hair onto me- not as if it matters considering I'm soaked in just as much champagne as he is.

“Put me d- Awh the back says your guys’ names in cursive! You look like you’re getting married!” I laugh.

“I will keep you in air jail if you keep talking shit about our suits.”

He keeps me trapped against him until we get to the bottom of the stairs. Oscar gives me a look which distracts me so when Lando sets me down, I almost fall.

His hand grabs my waist, my suit unzipped and his skin far too close to touching mine. “I’m not talking shit. The white looks good.”

He grins. “Did you just say I look good?”

I roll my eyes, “I take it back, I want you to avoid me again.” I push him away, his touch leaving me while he smiles.

“You’re a horrible liar.” He nudges my arm, “Come on, admit it. You missed me.”

I scoff, “I did not!”

“Then why did you beg me to talk to you again?”

“I did not beg you-”

“You can admit it, Sev. You’re in love with me. That’s okay! We can date in secret and watch our ship edits in bed with our dog.”

My jaw actually drops. He’s ridiculous. “Our dog?”

He points at me, walking away backwards while his PR manager says something to him. “You being shocked about the animal and not everything else I said tells me all I need to know!”

⋆༺

“You can’t be tired!” Carlos snaps his fingers in front of my face, “You’re supposed to be the young one!”

I can’t believe they’ve managed to drag me out to a club. Sure, I like to party- but not during a triple header! I’m partially discouraged from going because almost every guy brought their girlfriend and Lando won’t be there to keep my single ass company.

The moment I think I want Lando with me is the same moment that I grab Alexandra and Rebecca, dragging them to the dance floor much to the dismay of their boyfriends.

We laugh and sing and swing our hips until they are dragged away by said boyfriends.

“Our queen!” Alex laughs when I pass him and Carlos, who bows.

Franco is all up on some girl which makes me promptly turn around and head to the bar. “Just a water, thanks.” I say to the bartender.

“Nothing stronger?” Someone says next to me. He’s the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

I fake a laugh, trying to be polite at the obvious attempt to start talking to me. “Nope.”

“Can I get you something?” He asks, turning towards me now.

My smile falters, “Waters free.”

He holds up his drink, swirling it around in the glass before holding it under my nose. I almost gag, tapping the counter and wondering where my water is.

“Come on, let loose!” He laughs and I suddenly hate how close he is to me. “Have you ever had a gin and tonic?” I’m immediately forced back to the memory of why my hatred of gin started. Yes, Max Verstappen is to blame.

“She hates gin.” The voice doesn’t make me roll my eyes like usual, in fact, a wave of relief washes over me.

His arm slips around my shoulders, looking up at the man who frowns at the sight of Lando.

The bartender finally hands me my water. “Sorry mate- didn’t know she belonged to you.”

Lando eyes him up and down, disgusted at his words, “Fuck off.”

He leaves with a quick, uncomfortable, smile. Lando turns to me, his arm still around me and pulling us close. “Nice skirt.”

“Nice attitude. You’re good at faking the whole protective thing.”

He smirks, “Faking?”

“I thought you were at the princes dinner, winner.” His nose scrunches at the last word.

“It’s one in the morning, sev. Royalty doesn’t stay up that late- well, except for you.” He winks and my heart speeds up, the bartender sliding him a drink to match mine.

“Couldn’t miss out on the party?”

“Well, I heard you were here and couldn’t resist.” He shrugs, his arm falling from my shoulder to grab his water. “Anyone drunk yet?”

“No but i’m pretty sure Franco is fucking a girl at our table…” This makes him laugh and once again, i’m reminded how lucky I am to even be around him, “Do you want to dance?” I say it fast, like maybe if it’s quick then he won’t hear me.

He does. He looks surprised but not ready to risk me saying no. Taking my hand, Lando downs the rest of his water and pulls me onto the dance floor.

I’m not drunk. I haven’t even had a sip of anything- but I feel like I'm fucking floating with him.

We dance for a while- too long, probably. I end up back with Daniel and Oscar at the table, drinking water and laughing with them.

Carlos joins us after I sit and I don’t think before saying, “Do you where Lando is?” I don’t miss the look that Oscar and Daniel share, I just chose to ignore it.

Carlos just shrugs, “He went home with some girl.”

⋆༺

I always forget how hard triple headers hit me until I’m woken up by Daniel because I fell asleep in my driver room.

Spain is much hotter than Monaco, more crowded too. The fans here are insane and I absolutely love it. I’m scheduled for a press conference with Lando and Esteban, something i’m almost late for because of my impromptu nap.

I sit on the side, Esteban in the middle of Lando and I. I sit through every boring question they ask Esteban and every irrelevant question they ask Lando.

One question is finally directed at me, “Do you think your lack of wins is due to the space being dominated by men?” My heart races immediately. I hate getting asked these questions obviously but in front of a million cameras and the other drivers, it’s even worse. “We’ve seen you get emotional on track- you really believe you’ll be able to beat someone so mentally tough like say, Max or Oscar?”

I’m not embarrassed now, just angry. The moderator tries to cut in, along with Esteban and Lando, but I get there first. “I’m not emotional, I just love my sport. Along with every other driver on the grid who shares everything with me except for the fact that they have something between their legs-”

I swear I hear Lando laugh.

“As for the lack of wins, I'd like you to try and go up against the current top three drivers in the world who have cars and years of experience to back them.” I shift in my seat, sitting up with my mic closer to my lips, “In other words, I have my seat due to the same reason that will win me races someday soon. I wasn’t a diversity hire, I am the best for the job, unlike you who clearly needs to go back and learn how to ask appropriate questions.”

Everyone is silent, the man who said the question is staring at me. I know my cheeks are red and despite my confident rant, I feel like I want to cry.

Lando’s the first to speak, “Can we get him out of here?”

Lando’s waiting for me when I leave the conference room. Leaning against the opposite wall, his water bottle in hand and his ankles crossed. He stands up straight when he sees me, “Hey!” I start walking down the hallway, needing to just get out of there. He follows.

“You handled that really well.” I mumble a thanks in response, staring at my feet as we walk, “He was a dickhead. You ripped him a new one though I'm really impressed- Like really, I’m proud of you!”

I stop walking before we walk out the door, turning to him and wrapping my arms around the man. It takes a second before he’s hugging me back, his hand slipping to my back.

I take a deep breath. Lando smells like mint shampoo and something sweet, pulling me tighter to him. He feels like relief.

“Are you okay?” He backs up a bit, keeping his hands on me.

I nod, “Thank you.”

He scrunches his nose, “For what?”

“You’re a really good friend, Lan.”

He drops his hands after I call him a friend, slipping them into his pockets. God he looks too good for friendship- hat backwards with curls peaking out, his nose scar perfectly across his nose. Why are scars so hot!?

“So are you.” He says hesitantly.

I scramble for something to say- any topic would do, honestly. I just need him to stop looking at me like that. “You know, I was left to dance with Franco the other night.”

He sways on his heels, “Couldn’t have been that bad, you’ve done it before.”

“Hope it was worth it.”

His eyes narrow, “Hope what was worth it?”

“She. The girl you left with.”

He smiles- actually smiles! It’s heartbreaking, too pretty for this world. “Who told you that?” My heart drops. “Are you jealous or something?”

“What! No!” I’m going to kill Carlos.

He laughs, “Horrible liar, sev.”

“I am not jealous.” I scoff, “You’re the jealous one… Fuck off I probably have to go do crisis management for my little spiel.” I flip him off as I walk away.

He shakes his head, walking the opposite way as me, I’m about to turn the corner when he says it, “Sev! For the record, no girl is worth more than you are.”

⋆༺

Oscar Piastri.

Lando Norris.

Me.

Our qualifying lineup for the Spanish grand prix.

Starting behind two mclarens- starting behind Lando! I’m in for a hell of a race. All I can do is pray for a miracle and trust myself.

I do trust myself, I trust myself when I send it at the restart, passing Lando. I trust myself in the last three laps, shaving my proximity to Oscar down.

I trust myself when, during the last lap- I pass him. It’s risky and for a second I'm scared that I could get a penalty… but then, there’s no one in front of me.

The checkered flag is all I see and suddenly my race engineer is yelling in my ear and I think I'm crying.

The second I get out of the car, I'm bombarded with people around me. Everyone’s congratulating me at once, Lewis high-fiving me at the same time Yuki pats my back.

Everything is the perfect about of overwhelming, Oscar hugging me, Carlos screaming while Ollie pulls his phone out to video.

My team embraces me with a million arm pats and tears, Daniel kisses my cheek before hugging me, whispering how well I did.

I don’t see Lando until the cooldown room. We’re the first ones there and he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing.

It’s different than our hug the other day- we’re both grinning ear to ear and when he tells me how proud he is of me, again, I tug him closer.

I pull away first. “You beat me. Is this something I'm gonna have to get used to or…?” I laugh and push him away when Oscar enters.

“Get a room.” He mumbles.

“We’re in one.” Lando rolls his eyes, unzipping his suit.

Oscar frowns, “I’m not keen to join.” I laugh harder.

⋆༺

We go to dinner. Not the club or a bar, a proper nice dinner with everyone I love in my life. My grid.

I sit in between Daniel and Lando, eating Pasta and laughing way too hard for this nice restaurant.

At some point, one of the rookies starts talking dating and we immediately fall into a rabbit hole of everyone’s dating life.

“What about you Lando? Is that playboy reputation real?” Kimi asks, making Lando laugh and shake his head- yeah right.

“I don’t really date…” He shrugs, “but I'm not a slut.”

I can’t hold in my laugh, “Right.”

“Right, what?”

“The whole of Monaco has seen your-”

“I need air.” Is all he says, standing up and walking right out the door.

I look around, the table quiet and tension thick.

“What’d I say?” No one answers, “Lando does date. Right?”

They all either mumble something or shake their head. “Hello…? Am I missing something? Why wouldn’t Lando date?”

It’s Franco who says it. “It’s probably because Lando’s been in love with you for years and you still think it’s some joke.”

I didn’t think it was possible for this table to get even more uncomfortable. Yet here we are.

Pierre hits Franco in the back of the head, they’re all staring at me. Expecting me to do something.

I put my fork down, standing up and leaving the way Lando did. There’s no way… Sure I knew he had a crush but he still hooked up with other girls! Whenever I dated, which wasn’t often, he’d send a glare to the man but left us alone.

Love? Lando Norris is not in love with me.

I rush out the door, seeing Lando standing in the hot night air, “I need to know why you did all of it.”

He turns around, surprised to see me, apparently. “All of what-”

“The flirting! The comments! Everything! Lando- You can’t actually like me.” I can’t breathe.

He makes me wait an agonizing two seconds, his mouth parted as he meets my eyes. “Why else would I do it, Sev?” His voice is soft and it reminds me that he’s never raised it at me.

“But you… you were joking.” The look he gives me right there… like he’s shocked I could ever think that, I’ll never forget it.

He breathes out, shaking his head like it physically hurts him to say, “I’m not stupid, sev… I know you don’t fancy me. Maybe some of the shit I said was in a joking way but I've never taken it back.”

I pause, getting madder by the second. “You are stupid. You teased me and flirted and basically wasted all of your energy on wanting me.” He doesn’t look hurt, just like he’s accepted it. “You can’t just not date because of me! You started a million rumors just by the way you look at me! You told my mom when you were thirteen that you would marry me one day! God- Norris!” I huff, running my hands through my hair like a maniac. I look at him, swallowing. He’s so beautiful, how could he ever not chose someone because of me? “The worst bit is that you let yourself think that the reason you’re stupid is because you didn’t give up.”

He doesn’t even process what I've said, “You’re right. I’m an idiot.”

“No.” It’s almost a laugh. “I am. I’m an idiot for never seeing how much you actually cared. And for pretending like I didn’t feel the same.”

His eyes dart to me. “What?” It’s no more than a whisper.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time- I think I really like you and I have for a while.” We both freeze, the only sound being our breaths and the faint voices from inside.

“Please tell me I'm not dreaming.” He steps closer to me, his hands drifting over my hips as I laugh.

I look up at him, “What would you do if it was a dream?”

He’s shaking his head now, “I’d never wake up.” And then he’s kissing me. Soft, careful… like I might break.

I grab his face and hold him tight. I’m never letting go of him now.

“This is the best day of my life.” I mumble into the kiss, making him laugh, “Beat Lando Norris and kissed him, save the date.”

He pushes a strand of hair out of my face, “Took you long enough.” Lando winks before kissing me again. I can’t believe I never knew what he tasted like, how perfect he feels against me.

He glances back to the door, “Ready?”

“To get ruthlessly teased? Sure.”

He takes my hand in his, “Worth it.”

When we walk back in, all Lando has to say is, “Don’t say a fucking thing.” They’re quiet for a moment, surprising us both, but then the whole table erupts in laughter and cheers. My family.

#formula 1 fanfic #fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando x you

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romerona · 4 months ago

Text

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max.

You had long understood that the world bowed before beauty, that men and women alike were drawn to it as moths to a flame. The great halls of court had taught you this lesson well—whispered it into your ear before you were old enough to truly grasp its weight.

You had seen it in your sister, in the way lords and ladies alike marvelled at her Valyrian splendour, at the silver of her hair and the striking violet of her eyes. They spoke of Rhaenyra in hushed, adoring tones, weaving tales of how she would one day sit upon the throne, not merely as a ruler but as a queen of legend, a vision of Old Valyria made flesh.

And you had seen it in yourself.

At first, there had been nothing of note, nothing remarkable. You had been but a child, young and unformed, another girl in the shadow of a much-adored princess. But as the years passed and maidenhood crept upon you, your reflection began to… shift. The glances that once passed over you without care began to linger.

You had blossomed into something resplendent, something the court could no longer dismiss with fleeting glances and half-hearted courtesies. The whispers that once surrounded Rhaenyra now turned to you, their tones shifting from admiration to reverence, to awe.

They called you lovely, the fairest flower in the gardens of Westeros, the jewel of the realm. The most beautiful maiden the Seven Kingdoms had seen in an age.

Some likened you to your mother—a woman you hardly remember, yet whose beauty had been spoken of as though it were myth, a thing of legend. Others, in hushed reverence, murmured of Queen Alysanne, your grandmother, claiming you bore her grace, her quiet warmth, the effortless charm that had once soothed even the most unruly of lords and bent the hearts of the realm to her will.

The nobles adored you, vying for your favor as though your mere glance could bestow fortune. The smallfolk, too, had not been untouched by your radiance; they sang of you in the streets, wove your name into songs, whispered prayers for just a glimpse of you.

Wherever you walked, eyes followed. Some were filled with admiration, others with longing. They laid their devotion before you like an offering at a sacred altar—on silver platters and bent knees, eager, breathless, desperate to bask in your favour.

And you… well, you embraced it, even if you didn't ask for it because why wouldn’t you?

It was nice to be admired, to be adored and It was a power in its own right. Not in the brute force of a warrior, nor the sharp cunning of a schemer. No, yours was a power far more delicate, It required no steel, no whispered plots in darkened corridors. It was effortless. Natural. Expected.

And in a place like Westeros, where power was everything, you had come to understand, even at a young age, that even this—even beauty, even admiration, even the weight of lingering gazes—was a power worth holding. A power necessary to survive if it was ever to come to it.

So you gave them what they wished to see.

A princess draped in the finest silks, the blush of soft colours kissing the fabric, golden embroidery catching in the light like spun sunlight. Your silver hair fell in perfect waves, untouched by the wind, each curl arranged just so. You spoke with a voice as sweet as honeyed wine, each word measured, each tone effortless. You let your dragon blood come out just at the right moment. You laughed in melodies, a sound as light as birdsong, and you smiled—a smile that held no sharp edges, no shadows, no sorrow.

Lovely.

Good.

Perfect.

You were the ideal princess. The dream. The fantasy. A creature of spun gold and sunshine, a vision too beautiful to be touched, too radiant to be real and they loved you for it.

Well—most of them.

Queen Alicent’s gaze was always careful, always measured. Her smiles never quite reached her eyes, and her words were always polished to civility but never warmth. She did not say she disliked you—no, she was far too shrewd for such carelessness—but you knew. You could feel it in the way she watched you, in the way her hands curled just slightly too tight around the arms of her chair when your father doted on you without doing anyhting but exist.

And then there was him.

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. Ever the quiet spectre at her side, ever the patient strategist. He regarded you not with admiration nor disdain, but calculation, as though you were a chess piece yet to be moved, a weapon yet to be wielded. You could almost see the gears turning behind his gaze, the careful consideration of what you were—what you could be.

But the rest of the court? They worshipped the very ground you walked upon, their devotion woven into every glance, every whispered word, every offering of favour.

And why shouldn’t they?

You were beautiful. You were charming. You were everything they wanted you to be.

No one truly knew you, of course. No one tried to, no one except your sister, Rhaenyra.

With her, the mask slipped—you let yourself breathe. With her, you were not the realm’s jewel, not the golden girl the court placed upon a pedestal. You were just a girl. Just her sister.

In the quiet of her chambers, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the court, you could shed the weight of their expectations. You could lean into her warmth, rest your head against her shoulder, and let the exhaustion settle into your bones without fear of judgment or the need to meet expectations.

Rhaenyra’s chambers were warm, the heavy scent of lavender oil and burning candle wax thick in the air. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering bands of gold and amber across the stone walls. Shadows swayed with each movement of the flame, stretching and shrinking like silent spectres.

Seated before the mirror, you slowly ran a silver comb through your hair, the polished metal catching the firelight, glinting as it passed through each curl. The rhythmic strokes were soothing, an idle task as your thoughts drifted.

"The lists have been finalized," you mused, your eyes flicking to the reflection of your sister as she poured herself a goblet of deep red wine. "I heard Lord Tyrell’s oldest son is to ride this time. Apparently, he fancies himself a true knight."

Rhaenyra snorted, lounging carelessly on the chaise, one arm draped over its cushioned edge, her every movement one of effortless confidence.

"He fancies himself much," she drawled, taking a slow sip of wine before tilting her head in amusement. "But Leanor says he rides like a green boy fresh to the lists—clumsy, over-eager, more bluster than skill."

You giggled, setting down your comb, twisting to face her properly. "Poor boy. The Reach lords are always so desperate to prove themselves at court. What do you think Father will say if Ser Harwin competes?"

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaenyra’s lips, the kind that spoke of secrets unshared.

"He won't say anything because Ser Harwin is the strongest knight in the realm," She leaned back with a sigh, swirling the wine in her goblet, watching the liquid catch the light. "Besides, he has no reason to forbid it. He is my sworn shield."

Her words were casual, but the glint in her eyes was anything but.

You rolled your eyes, amusement dancing behind them, but before you could reply, a soft knock echoed against the chamber door.

"Enter," Rhaenyra called, already setting her goblet aside, her posture shifting ever so slightly—relaxed yet expectant, as though she already knew who had come to seek her.

The door creaked open, candlelight spilling onto the figures standing beyond it. Two maids stepped in, their hands cradling the most precious of burdens.

"Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, my princess," one of them announced, her voice gentle, reverent.

Your heart soared.

Jace, a chubby little thing, toddled inside with an eager grin, his dark curls bouncing as he rushed toward his mother, his small boots tapping hurriedly against the stone floor. Behind him, one of the maids cradled Luke, still but a babe, his plump cheeks kissed with warmth, his tiny features relaxed in that drowsy way of infants just waking. His dark lashes fluttered as he squirmed in the nursemaid’s arms, little fingers flexing, reaching for something unseen.

You did not hesitate.

With a delighted gasp, you all but flew from your seat, reaching Jace before he could reach Rhaenyra, sweeping him up into your embrace. He squealed in laughter, arms wrapping around your neck as you spun him ever so slightly, the movement drawing another burst of giggles from his tiny frame.

"Oh, my sweet prince!" you cooed, pressing a flurry of kisses against his rosy cheeks. "You are growing so big, aren’t you?"

"‘M big!" Jace declared proudly, puffing his chest out as he beamed at you.

"Oh, you are," you agreed solemnly, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you gave him another affectionate squeeze before setting him gently back on his feet.

Then, without pause, your gaze shifted, softening as you turned toward the maid who held Luke.

"Come here, my darling boy," you murmured, your hands already reaching, waiting.

The nursemaid, knowing well this was a ritual repeated many times over, carefully placed the babe into your arms. The moment his small form settled against you, warmth bloomed in your chest, a fierce, unspoken devotion unfurling in your ribcage.

Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his little hand curling instinctively into the fabric of your gown, his fingers gripping tight even in his half-waking state. His tiny head lolled against you, his warmth soaking into your skin.

“Oh, sweet darlings,” you cooed, rocking him gently. “My perfect little dragons.”

Rhaenyra watched you with fond amusement, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You act as though they are your own.”

"They are mine," you said without hesitation, your voice as certain as the rising of the sun. You continued to run a soothing hand over Lucerys’s tiny back, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against you. "At least half mine. My sweet nephews, the only men in this kingdom worth my love."

Jace wiggled happily in your grasp, seemingly pleased with your declaration, his little chest puffing out as if he understood the weight of your words. Against your heart, Luke let out a soft, contented noise, his fingers still curled tightly into the fabric of your gown.

Rhaenyra shook her head, though her smile did not fade. "One day, you will have babes of your own, and then we shall see how much you dote on them."

You scoffed lightly, shifting Jace in your hold with practised ease so that you had one boy in each arm, their warmth pressing into you like a shield against the chill of the stone chamber.

"Perhaps," you allowed, though your tone was airy, unconvinced. "But for now, these two will suffice."

Rhaenyra only hummed, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something knowing. But she said nothing more, merely watching as you held her sons as if they were your own.

Jace wriggled in your arms as you settled onto a cushioned seat, his small hands reaching curiously for the delicate braids woven into your silver hair. He toyed with them absentmindedly, tiny fingers tugging at the strands as if they were ribbons to unravel, but you barely noticed. Your attention remained on Luke, rocking him gently as he nestled further into your embrace, his warm little body moulding against you, utterly at peace.

"You know," you murmured, absently smoothing a hand over Jace’s unruly curls, "I loathe that we must attend this wretched tournament."

Rhaenyra snorted, lifting her goblet to her lips, her expression one of lazy amusement. "It is for our father’s name day. You should at least pretend to enjoy it."

"I enjoy the feast," you corrected, pressing a light kiss to Luke’s downy curls. "The food, the music, the dancing—those are far more tolerable than watching grown men knock each other senseless for the sake of posturing."

Rhaenyra hummed knowingly, swirling the deep red wine in her goblet. "And yet, half the men in the realm will be there, hoping to impress you."

You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion in an exaggerated display of suffering. "Gods spare me."

Rhaenyra only laughed, her eyes gleaming with mischief over the rim of her cup. "You say that," she teased, "but I know you will preen under all the attention."

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart in mock offense, eyes widening as if she had struck you. "You wound me, sister. Am I so vain?"

Rhaenyra said nothing. She merely looked at you, one brow arched, the corners of her lips twitching as though she were barely restraining another laugh.

You huffed, shifting Luke slightly in your arms, adjusting the soft blanket draped over him.

"I simply think," you continued airily, "that if I must be subjected to endless praise, I might as well enjoy it."

"And enjoy it you shall," Rhaenyra mused, her voice laced with amusement. "Almost the entire realm will be in attendance. The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Velaryons, the Hightowers, the Martells, the Arryns... the Starks—"

At that, you let out an exaggerated gagging noise, rolling your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "No. You jest."

"I do not," Rhaenyra said, her smirk widening in clear delight at your suffering. "Lord Rickon has sent word—he and his son are to attend."

You groaned again, this time with true despair, letting your head fall back against the cushions as though the weight of such a revelation had physically weakened you. "Must I suffer him again? Have I not endured enough in this life?"

Rhaenyra laughed outright at that, the rich sound filling the chamber as she stood, moving to take Jace from your arms. "Come now, sister. It has been some time since you last saw him."

"And that has been my greatest blessing," you muttered, shifting Luke carefully in your arms before placing him in his cradle. You took a moment to tuck the soft blanket around him, ensuring he was snug and warm before straightening with a huff.

"Oh, do not be so dramatic."

You turned to Rhaenyra, utterly aghast. "Dramatic? Dramatic? Rhaenyra, do you not remember what he did to me?"

She smirked, the expression infuriatingly amused. "Do you mean when you got lost in the woods after he left you there?"

Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "You know, most sisters would take my side."

"I am merely pointing it out," she said airily, adjusting Jace on her hip, "After all, you did set his hair aflame and burned his eyebrow off."

You scoffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I did not do it—Drakaryon did. But nonetheless, he deserved it." Your voice grew hot with indignation. "Leaving a princess alone in the Wolfswood—he’s lucky Drakaryon didn’t burn more than just his eyebrow."

Rhaenyra chuckled, utterly unbothered. "I suppose you could have called him back before the poor boy lost half his face."

"A mercy he had a face left at all," you muttered darkly, tilting your chin up. "And yet, I am the one forced to endure his presence again. It is an injustice."

"Truly, sister," Rhaenyra teased, her smirk deepening, "your suffering knows no bounds."

You huffed dramatically, flopping into the nearest chair with all the grace of a fallen maiden in some tragic tale.“I care not for Lord Cregan Stark, nor his miserable presence. I shall simply focus on the feast.”

“Ah, yes,” Rhaenyra mused, leaning back into her chaise. “And your new gown?”

That brightened your mood considerably. “Oh! You must see it, Rhaenyra,” you gushed, your distaste for the tournament momentarily forgotten. “It is to be the softest red, with golden embroidery, delicate like the petals of a summer rose.”

Rhaenyra smirked, swirling the last remnants of wine in her goblet. "You shall outshine the Queen herself."

You grinned, tilting your chin with an air of playful vanity. "That would not be difficult."

Rhaenyra shot you a pointed look, one that might have been a scolding if not for the unmistakable glint of amusement in her violet gaze.

Days later, you found yourself—albeit reluctantly—surrounded by lords and ladies, exchanging pleasantries, smiling sweetly, and accepting compliments as though it were your very purpose in life.

And Harrenhal had never felt quite so alive.

The great fortress, with its looming, blackened towers and sprawling grounds, had become a city unto itself, thrumming with the restless energy of nobles gathered from every corner of Westeros. The tournament had drawn them all—lords and ladies, knights and squires, banners billowing in the crisp autumn air, their house colours bold against the dull grey of the ancient stones.

Tents stretched across the fields like a sea of silk, each vying for attention, for prominence. Servants bustled about, tending to their lords' demands, polishing armour, securing horses, and whispering the latest courtly gossip. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and fresh bread, mingling with the sharp tang of steel and the ever-present smoke curling from the distant kitchens.

They had come, of course, to honour your father, to swear their fealty, to witness the grand spectacle of knights clashing in his name.

And yet, for as much as they had come for glory, for sport, for politics—there was another reason they had come, one unspoken but well-understood.

They have come for you too.

As the second, almost of age, unwed daughter of the King, you were a prize yet unclaimed, a jewel unspoken for. The lords of Westeros—young and old, bold and timid, gallant and grasping—had gathered not just for sport, not merely for glory, but for you.

And they were eager to impress, to court favour, to steal a glance, a word, a moment in your presence.

The courtyard was alive with the hum of noble voices, the lilt of music weaving through the air, and laughter bubbling like the fountains that dotted the castle grounds. Beyond the merriment, the distant clang of steel rang out as knights prepared for the coming tourney, the rhythmic pounding of horses' hooves echoing from the lists.

"Princess, you must tell me who crafted your gown," Lady Floris Baratheon gushed, her brown eyes wide with admiration as she took in every detail, from the fine embroidery to the glistening pearls that crowned your head. "I have never seen anything so perfectly suited to a lady."

You smiled warmly, tilting your head just so, allowing the sunlight to catch upon the subtle shimmer of your lilac eyes.

"It is the work of the seamstresses in the Red Keep," you said graciously, "though I am certain they would craft something just as lovely for you, my Lady."

The young Baratheon flushed at your words, her pleasure evident, as though you had placed a crown upon her own head. "You are too kind, Princess."

"Kind and wise beyond measure," Lord Owen Fossoway added from your other side, his green-and-red doublet bright beneath the midday sun. "A Princess of grace, beauty, and wit—gods help the poor man who dares to seek your favour, for he shall find himself utterly undone."

"Oh, nonsense, Lord Fossoway," you said, your voice smooth as honey, warm and effortlessly graceful. With a delicate wave of your hand, you dismissed the flattery with modest ease, though the glint in your eyes betrayed your amusement. "I only hope my presence brings some small joy to such a grand occasion."

While some were more subtle, lingering at the edges of your sight, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to catch your eye, others came with bold declarations—sons of great houses bowing low before you, offering pretty words rehearsed in their fathers’ halls. Even older gentlemen, seasoned lords with silvering hair and knowing smiles, felt compelled to voice their admiration as if their years granted them wisdom or rather an audacity to appreciate beauty more than the young.

"Princess," Lord Lannister purred, stepping forward with effortless confidence, his golden curls gleaming under the afternoon sun. He bowed deeply before you, his crimson-and-gold doublet tailored to perfection, a lion in both bearing and name. "Your beauty shines brighter than the tourney itself."

You smiled sweetly, tilting your chin just so, letting the sunlight dance across your features as if you had been sculpted for admiration. "How kind, my lord."

Beside him, his younger brother, not to be outdone, stepped forward with eagerness, his voice laced with the ambition of youth. ""You need not win a tournament favour—every knight here would gladly fall upon his sword for you, as I would too, Your Highness.

You regarded him with gentle amusement, your expression as measured as it was warm yet inside you were rolling your eyes. “Then let us pray none are so foolish. The tourney would be quite dull if they all perished on my account.”

Laughter rippled around the noble folks around you, the lords and ladies utterly enchanted.

You did enjoy being admired.

You enjoyed the way courtiers flocked to you, their words dipped in honey, their eyes lingering upon you as though you hung the stars. You delighted in the way men stumbled over their words in their attempts to impress you, their practised lines unravelling beneath the weight of your gaze. You had long learned that a well-placed smile, a fleeting touch upon the arm, or a slight tilt of the chin could make even the most stubborn of lords melt like wax before a flame.

And yet—Gods, was it exhausting.

"Princess, your beauty outshines even the sun today," one of the young lords cooed, standing just a little too close for your liking.

You maintained your composure, offering him a smile as practised as it was charming, tilting your head ever so slightly. "How kind of you to say, my lord."

"Tell me, shall I ride in your honour, my princess?" another asked, his grin broad, his chest puffed in obvious arrogance, as though the mere suggestion of it was a gift beyond measure.

You had half a mind to tell him that if he were truly worthy of such an honour, he would not need to ask, but instead, you merely inclined your head with effortless grace.

"I would be honoured," you said sweetly, though in truth, you could not even recall his name.

As time flew by and more lords came and went, each eager to impress, their words blurring into the same predictable flattery, your thoughts began to wander.

Perhaps—just perhaps—you ought to grant your favour to one of them.

Not for love, nor duty, nor any deeper reason. Simply for the fun of it.

Let them fight over you—not for marriage, nor power, nor grand alliances, but for the mere pleasure of calling themselves your champion. Let them brandish their swords and crash upon the lists with reckless abandon, desperate for the honour of a token tied to their lance, for the whisper of your name upon the lips of the court.

The thought amused you greatly.

You had no real enjoyment for tourneys—the dust, the sweat, the men posturing like peacocks in steel—but this? This was entertainment.

To watch them scramble, to see them puff their chests and vie for your fleeting favour, all while knowing it meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.

The great hall of Harrenhal was alive with merriment, the air thick with laughter and music, the scent of roasted meats and Dornish wine curling through the space like a warm embrace. The flickering glow of torchlight caught on the polished silver goblets and golden embroidery, illuminating the lords and ladies who had gathered for the feast.

You had been seated for only a few moments, indulging in light conversation with your sulking younger brother, Aegon. He lounged beside you, slouched in his chair, silver hair tousled in careless waves, his lips twisted in that familiar pout, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, petulant.

"You’ve barely spoken to me all evening," he muttered. "Off flitting about with your admirers, leaving your poor brother to rot in solitude."

You arched a brow, amused but unimpressed. "Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Aegon."

"Dramatic?" he scoffed, placing a hand over his chest as though you had mortally wounded him. "I am your dearest brother, your favourite brother, and yet you abandon me to suffer alone in this dreadful tourney—"

"I spent the whole of yesterday with you."

"Yes," he muttered, eyes flicking to his untouched goblet, "and now it is today."

There was something else beneath his words, something thick and bitter, but you did not care to decipher it. You had long learned that Aegon’s moods were unpredictable, shifting as the wind did. And, you thought with mild exasperation, if he had something to say, he should say it.

Instead, you sighed, turning to him with a look of tired affection. "Go play with Helaena."

"Helaena is weird-- just as the words left his lips, the first lord approached. Aegon exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat. "And so it begins."

"Princess," Lord Merryweather greeted smoothly, dipping into a low bow, his beard streaked with silver, his fine velvets hinting at wealth and experience. "Might I have the honour of a dance?"

You smiled, tilting your head in polite consideration before placing your hand in his. "It would be my pleasure, my lord."

The dance was light, effortless, and filled with easy conversation as he guided you across the floor, his steps practised, his hold gentle but assured. Around you, the great hall bustled with movement—the soft strains of the musicians, the rustle of silk skirts, the occasional murmur of courtiers watching from the edges of the dance floor, waiting for their turn to claim you.

"You must know," Lord Merryweather mused with a knowing smile, "many a man here wishes to claim your favour."

You laughed softly, allowing your lashes to flutter just enough, a practised movement that sent many lords into a flustered mess. "Then I hope they have good fortune in the lists, my lord. I would not wish to grant it to a man bested in the first tilt."

The old lord chuckled, evidently pleased with your answer, but as the song came to a close, another was already waiting to take his place.

Lord Tyrell stepped forward next, then Lord Frey, followed swiftly by Lord Bracken—one after another, young and old alike, each eager for a sliver of your attention, each with a well-practiced compliment upon his lips, wrapped in the polished charm of courtly men who had spent their lives perfecting the art of flattery.

"I daresay His Grace must be beset by betrothal offers, Princess," Lord Bracken remarked as he led you through a smooth turn, his grip firm yet respectful. "A beauty such as yours should not go unwed for long."

You met his gaze with a smile, your voice light, effortless. "It is not my father who drowns, my lord, but I. The offers come as swiftly as the tide, yet still, I stand before you—unclaimed."

His laughter was deep, knowing, the kind of sound that suggested he saw himself above the rest. "A grievous injustice, indeed. Perhaps I shall be the next to put quill to parchment and entreat His Grace for your hand."

Before you could grant him a reply, the song came to an end, sparing you the trouble. With practised grace, you curtsied, allowing him to lead you back toward your table, where the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meats.

You had just reached for your goblet, eager for a moment’s reprieve, when another voice cut through the din of the hall.

"You have tired the poor girl, Lord Bracken," Lord Tully jested from his seat nearby, his round face flushed with wine, his voice rich with mirth. "One might think you seek to keep her for yourself."

Lord Bracken chuckled, shaking his head with feigned regret. "Ah, if only I were a younger man."

"Younger or not," Lord Wylde added with a knowing smirk, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet, "I imagine His Grace will not be so quick to part with her. A rare jewel indeed."

"Quite rare," Lord Tully agreed, his eyes twinkling with desire as he glanced in your direction. "And a jewel should be placed in the hands of one who knows its worth."

The implication was clear and yet, you merely smiled, lifting your goblet gracefully to your lips, sipping your wine as if you had not heard them at all.

Thankfully, before another lord asks for a dance, your father’s voice rang through the hall, calling your name. You schooled your features into a look of effortless grace, excusing yourself with a polite smile before making your way toward him.

And you knew.

You knew exactly who would be standing at his side before you even laid eyes upon them.

The Starks.

Lord Rickon, solemn as ever, his presence a quiet force despite the grandeur of the occasion. And beside him—your greatest annoyance, your oldest grievance, your most persistent thorn—Cregan Stark.

Your pace did not falter, nor did your expression shift as you approached, though deep within, your irritation simmered.

As you came to a stop beside your father, he turned to you with a warm smile, his hand resting gently on your back. "Look who just arrived, my sweetling."

Lord Rickon, ever the picture of Northern honour, dipped his head in a respectful bow before speaking, his voice deep and steady. "Princess, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been some years, and I dare say time has only graced you with more beauty and charm."

It was a compliment, but one wrapped in the blunt honesty of a Northern lord. Unlike the courtiers who lavished you with flowery words, Lord Rickon spoke with simple reverence, neither seeking favor nor flattery—only truth as he saw it.

You smiled at him graciously, dipping your head in return. "You honour me with your words, my lord. The North is fortunate to have such a steadfast Warden."

Lord Rickon let out a quiet hum, something of approval, but before you could say more, another deep timbre of a familiar Northern accent reached your ears.

"Princess."

Cregan Stark bowed, and as he did, you could feel the weight of his gaze. You schooled your expression into something practiced, something sweet, but your fingers twitched at your sides, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a petulant child.

When he straightened, when your lilac eyes locked onto the sharp, storm-grey of his—your stomach twisted.

Cregan Stark had grown.

The boy you had last seen, scowling and covered in soot, was gone.

In his place stood a man.

Taller, broader, his frame lean with the strength of a swordsman, his dark hair longer than you remembered, tied back in a simple leather thong. There was no trace of the sullen youth who had once left you in the Wolfswood, no awkwardness of a boy still finding his place in the world. No—this was a Lord who stood before you now, clad in black and grey, with the dire wolf of House Stark emblazoned upon his chest.

And yet, his eyes—those damnable, piercing Stark eyes—still held that same unwavering intensity, as though he could see straight through you, as though the years had done nothing to soften the way he looked at you.

You hated that he looked good.

You hated how the courtyard was lively, filled with the hum of noble chatter and the laughter of ladies, but none of it seemed to reach him.

Cregan Stark stood before you, rigid and composed, the very image of Northern stoicism. His grey eyes—sharp as steel, cold as winter—were unreadable as they met yours, though you could see the faintest flicker of something beneath them. Something restrained.

You hated that he was so unshakable. You lifted your chin, refusing to yield even an inch.

"Lord Stark," you returned sweetly, your voice smooth as silk, your expression the perfect mask of courtly grace—despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin.

And then you saw it.

The subtle way Lord Rickon nudged his son, a barely perceptible motion, yet it spoke volumes. Even the mighty Cregan Stark was not beyond his father’s quiet commands.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly before he stepped forward.

"May I have the honour of a dance, Your Highness," he asked, voice steady, measured, yet laced with something tight beneath the surface.

You glanced down at the hand he held out between you, large and calloused from years of sword work, and for a moment, the very idea of placing your own within it seemed unthinkable.

But then you smiled.

Not a soft smile, nor a warm one, but something playful, something teasing, something pointed.

"Why, Lord Stark," you murmured, placing your hand in his with deliberate slowness, "I thought you Northerners did not care for such frivolities."

His fingers closed around yours—warm, firm, unyielding.

"We do not," he said simply.

He led you onto the floor, the swell of music rising around you, the murmurs of the court fading into the background. Cregan’s grip was firm as he placed his hands on you, his posture stiff, too rigid—too uncomfortable.

It was amusing.

For all his confidence, all his unshakable Stark stoicism, the art of courtly dance was clearly not within his realm of expertise.

You could have teased him for it.

You should have.

But for once, you took pity, deciding instead to let the matter rest. Still, you could not resist tilting your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes as you let your amusement surface elsewhere.

"I must say, my lord," you mused, your voice as smooth as silk, "I am glad to see your hair has grown back. I was so very worried."

For the first time since he arrived, something flickered across his sharp features—just for a fraction of a second, just the barest hint of annoyance.

His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers flexing just a little where they held you. "I had nearly forgotten about that."

"Oh, had you?" you feigned innocence, fluttering your lashes just so, your smile deceptively sweet. "Strange, considering how livid you were when it happened. The smell of burnt hair is rather unforgettable, wouldn’t you agree?"

Cregan exhaled sharply through his nose, a poor attempt at masking his irritation as he spun you across the floor, his grip a touch tighter now.

"A bold jest, Princess," he finally said, his tone measured, controlled. But you caught it—the way his fingers flexed slightly against yours, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long, as though he was calculating something.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, "I see you are just the same childish princess—"

You nearly stumbled at the sheer audacity.

"How dare you? I am not childish!" you shot back, indignation flaring hot in your chest.

Cregan hummed, his smirk deepening just enough to be infuriating. "

That's right, forgive me, I forgot you are the jewel of the realm," he mused, voice laced with something unreadable. "Tales of your beauty even reach the North, you know."

He looked down at you then, those grey eyes sharp, assessing, amused in a way that made your blood simmer.

"If only they knew," he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips, "there's nothing much to you other than beauty."

The words struck like a blade, hidden beneath the guise of idle conversation, wrapped in the veneer of civility yet carrying the same weight as any insult flung in an open field of battle.

Your breath caught—just for a moment, just long enough for irritation to twist into something dangerous but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten to you.

So instead, with all the grace of a perfect courtly lady, you smiled—sweetly, delicately—and in a movement so subtle it could have been mistaken for a mere misstep, you stepped on his foot.

Firmly.

Cregan’s grip on you tightened, just briefly, as a sharp inhale passed through his nose, his jaw clenching in pain. When his storm-grey gaze flicked down at you, dark and dangerous, it sent something sharp curling in your belly.

"Careful, my lord," you murmured, your voice silken, teasing. "It would be quite tragic if the North’s greatest warrior were felled in the middle of a dance."

"Tragic, indeed," he bit out, though his voice had lost that obnoxious edge of amusement. It was lower now, rougher—strained in a way that sent a thrill up your spine. "But I expected no less from you."

"Why, Lord Stark," you mused, tilting your head just enough to let your breath ghost against the space between you, "it almost sounds as if you missed me."

His glare deepened, but you felt it—the way his fingers flexed against you, the way his breath hitched so subtly that only someone watching for it would have noticed.

"Do not flatter yourself," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "I only miss things worth missing."

"Then it is fortunate," you murmured, allowing your lips to curve into something knowing, something dangerous, "that I am not so easily forgotten."

"You test your limits, Princess," Cregan murmured, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for you.

"And you test your patience, my lord," you countered, a slow, deliberate smile curving your lips as you let the words settle between you like an unsheathed blade.

Just before the song reached its final note, before you could step away and claim victory in whatever battle you and Cregan had been waging, someone came to stand beside you—someone who made you forget all about Cregan Stark.

Prince Qyle Martell.

The golden-skinned Dornish prince had a grin in his eyes before it ever reached his lips, a kind of easy arrogance that was almost charming. You had met him once before, in passing, and you remembered his words as much as the way he had looked at you, like a man appraising something rare, something tempting.

"Princess," he greeted, his voice smooth as fine Dornish wine, dipping into a bow that was just a touch more theatrical than necessary. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I have suffered long enough watching you dance with such stiff company."

Your lips twitched, amused.

Cregan, however, stilled.

It was subtle—the way his fingers flexed slightly on your waist, the way his hold on you lingered before he very deliberately released you, stepping back. His expression was unreadable, his storm-grey eyes carefully blank, but you had spent years picking him apart, years unravelling the smallest cracks in his composure.

You knew the Prince being there bothered him.

"Prince Qyle," you greeted smoothly, offering him your hand. "A pleasure, as always."

"The pleasure is mine, sweet princess," Qyle purred, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, letting his gaze linger on yours, dark and unreadable. "Had I known you would be so generous with your time this evening, I would have claimed my dance much, much sooner."

Cregan scoffed softly, a barely-there sound, but you caught it and apparently so did Prince Qyle.

He turned to Cregan then, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, an arrogant grin curling at his lips. Despite being a head shorter than the Northern lord, he did not seem the least bit intimidated.

"Lord… Stark, is it?" There was something deliberate in the way he said it—drawn out as if he were tasting the name on his tongue and finding it unimpressive.

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a shift in the air, subtle, dangerous. "It is,"

"Ah, of course," Qyle hummed, giving a slow, exaggerated nod. "The Warden of the North in waiting, the Great Wolf of Winterfell. Forgive me, my lord, it is so rare that wolves crawl from their dens— I sometimes forget you exist at all."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and amusement at the sheer boldness of it.

Cregan, to his credit, did not react—not outwardly. But you saw it. The way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides before curling into a loose fist.

"And yet, here I am," he said, voice smooth as untouched ice. "Standing before you, plain as day. Strange, isn’t it, how even those you forget still seem to overshadow you?"

Qyle’s smirk sharpened. "Overshadow? My dear Stark, the sun casts no shadows in Dorne. Only heat." He leaned in just slightly, like a snake coiling before a strike. "Something, I imagine, you Northerners would not know even if it burned you alive."

You had to press your lips together to keep from laughing, the tension between them so thick it was nearly intoxicating.

Cregan's expression was carved from ice, his broad shoulders squared, his hands flexing at his sides as though he were resisting the urge to grip the hilt of a blade that was not there.

You had seen him angry before, felt the weight of his temper simmering beneath his quiet exterior, but this was something else.

And yet, before he could respond—before he could so much as breathe—Qyle squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him as though he had already dismissed Cregan entirely.

"Well then, my princess," Qyle purred, his voice warm, teasing, triumphant. "Shall we leave the Lord of Snow and Shadows to glower in peace?"

You allowed yourself the smallest, most delicate smirk, and let Qyle lead you away, though not before casting a final glance over your shoulder.

Cregan had not moved.

But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting storm-grey eyes—were locked onto you, burning with something neither of you dared to name.

A/N:

Helloooo ya'll I'm sorry it's been a while. I have just been busy, and I still am but I couldn't get this idea off my mind...

I just saw Wicked and loved it so if you see a resemblance between you and Glinda, no you didn't. Also, I can't for the life of me ever get any timeline right, and the timeline of HOD confuses me. So, if you are confused about where this fic aligns with the show, just know I'm just as confused as you but it's obviously before ep 6 obvs, please be patient with me.

Anywyasssssss I hope you enjoyed this one chapter. It is a part I because I just can't leave it like that and FYI I'm researching the shit out of tourneys because I have no clue of how they work in HOD universe and I refuse to read the book for my own well-being, like don't get me wrong I'm 100% sure GMM is an absolute machine of an author (obvs otherwise he wouldn't have TV show after TV show based on his books) but just most of the themes in his books are... not something I would willingly like to read. I'm rambling out of my ass, sorry.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

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itsnesss · 2 months ago

Text

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you return to the f1 paddock with a promise to stay away from the drama surrounding red bull—especially max, your father’s biggest rival. hut things don’t go as planned

warnings | wolff!reader, tension, rivalries, romantic, emotional conflict, complex family dynamics, drama, betrayal

word count | 2.7 k

🖇 more mv1 🖇 f1 masterlist

Your last name weighs more than any Formula 1 trophy.

Wolff.

Five letters that open some doors and lock others shut. You weren’t a driver, not officially, though you’d spent more hours in a simulator than most rookies on the grid. But you were the daughter of Toto Wolff—the man who built the Mercedes empire with Austrian discipline, sharp vision… and a rivalry that became legend: Max Verstappen.

You grew up knowing who he was. Red Bull’s wonder boy, chaos in overalls, the guy who had been your father's nemesis since 2021, when the world split between silver and blue.

There were pictures of you as a kid in the paddock, hidden behind a tablet while your father argued loudly with Christian Horner. Max was in the background, younger, with that cocky smile that never seemed to take anything seriously. But you saw him. You always saw him.

And now… you had to see him again.

“You promised to stay out of it,” your father reminded you on the private jet to Silverstone. “I don’t want the media dragging you into any drama with Red Bull. You represent something bigger.”

“I’m just me, Dad. They don’t have to look at me,” you replied, eyes locked on the window—though you knew it was a sweet little lie.

Because everyone looked at you. Especially him.

The paddock was a jungle dressed in carbon fiber and marketing. You walked through it with your pass around your neck, mechanically greeting engineers, Lewis, George. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to be tempted.

But fate doesn’t play fair. And neither does Max Verstappen.

You saw him outside the Red Bull hospitality, laughing with Checo. He was leaning against a tall table, water bottle in hand, cap backwards. And he looked at you.

No fear. No filter.

“Well, look who’s back,” he said, like you’d given him the right to speak to you.

You stopped. Stupid. You knew you shouldn’t have.

“Lost your compass, or just got bored hiding in Mercedes' garage?”

“I was just looking for a place without overinflated egos,” you replied, coldly.

Max smirked, sly. He studied you from head to toe like you were a complex equation. There was arrogance in his stance, but also genuine curiosity. As if you were the one variable he hadn’t been able to predict in his perfectly calculated life.

“And did you find that place?” he asked.

“Not with you around.”

You were proud your voice didn’t shake. But your heart… your heart was another story.

“Your father hates me,” he said, lowering his voice, leaning in slightly. Too close. You could smell his cologne—that damn scent of adrenaline and rebellion.

“And for good reason,” you replied, though your tone lacked the firmness it needed.

“And you?”

The question hit like a corner without brakes. You didn’t expect him to be that direct. You didn’t expect him to look at you like that—as if you were more than just the enemy’s daughter. As if you were you.

“I... don’t have time to hate you. I’m busy ignoring you,” you said, turning away before it was too late.

But Max didn’t follow. He didn’t need to.

He’d planted a seed. And you, no matter how much you swore otherwise, had watered it with every accelerated heartbeat.

(Silverstone, Free Practice Friday)

You had promised not to look at him again.

But there he was. Again. Just a few meters away. On the edge of the pit lane.

Max Verstappen didn’t have to try to get attention. Everything about him screamed rebellion. His movements were measured, almost feline, as if the world revolved around him… and maybe it did. But what disturbed you the most wasn’t his confidence, or his fame, or even the fact that he was the damn number 1. It was the electric jolt you felt every time your eyes met his.

"Don’t give him the satisfaction," George whispered beside you, following you with a bottle of water. "That guy feeds off drama. Give him attention and he already feels invincible."

"Do you think I care what Max thinks?" you shot back—too quickly.

George just raised an eyebrow.

You knew he was reading you. Too well.

You spent the day locked in the Mercedes hospitality, reviewing telemetry data as an excuse. In theory, you were there to offer technical support—something informal, symbolic. In reality, you were a satellite under surveillance, a watched daughter. And you knew it.

But what nobody knew… was that there was a private party that night at Lando Norris’s house. And you were going.

Not because of him, you told yourself. For me. Because I deserve it.

Sure, right.

(10:41 PM. At the party.)

Lando’s house was a neon-lit paradise, filled with badly mixed reggaeton and drivers without their fireproof suits. It felt like a refuge where all the paddock egos could breathe without press releases or cameras. Oscar, Charles, Alex were there—even some team members from Ferrari and McLaren.

And, of course, him.

Max.

You saw him the moment you walked in, though you pretended not to. He had a cup in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognize, but his eyes… his eyes weren’t on them. They were looking for you. And they found you.

He moved first.

"You? Here? I thought you were more of the 'data analysis and early bedtime' type," he said as he approached, beer in hand and that damn accent that turned ordinary phrases into provocations.

"I thought you only smiled when you won. Must be something new," you replied, not looking at him directly.

"Always this sharp? Or just with me?"

"Only with idiots."

He let out a soft laugh. Almost amused. He stepped closer, just enough for his words to be meant only for you.

"You know what’s curious about you?"

"Enlighten me, Verstappen."

"You want to hate me. You really do. But you can’t. And it’s killing you inside."

Your reaction was to turn, intending to walk away. But his hand—warm, firm—brushed against your wrist.

Not to hold you back. Just to say: I’m here.

And that was enough to bring down the wall you had built.

"You’re wrong," you whispered, without moving.

"Yeah?"

"You’re not killing me inside."

"Then why are you trembling?"

You weren’t. At least not consciously. But his closeness was a real threat to everything you’d stood for. Everything you believed in.

"Nothing’s going to happen between us," you finally said, with more desire than conviction.

"Of course not," he replied, with a crooked smile. "Because that would be crazy, right?"

"A complete madness."

But neither of you moved.

And in that silence, in that exact moment where the music became background noise and time slowed down, you realized something you didn’t want to admit:

You were already lost.

The conversation with Max didn’t last long. After your firm (though hesitant) rejection, he walked away, but his eyes never left you. Every time you felt those blue eyes on you, a shiver ran down your spine, though you tried to keep a facade of indifference.

You wandered through the party, looking for a breath of air, but each step felt like it pulled you closer to disaster. The drivers laughed, some let go under the influence of alcohol, and the music kept pulsing against the house walls. Still, your mind couldn't focus on anything but Max. His words kept echoing in your head like an unstoppable loop.

"You’re dying inside."

"Because it would be madness, right?"

Suddenly, you felt watched, as if someone—or something—was lurking inside your darkest thoughts. You turned, and saw him again. Closer this time, talking to Lando and Carlos, but his gaze was fixed on you. A couple of seconds passed, and Max didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

You took a sip from the glass in your hand, but it felt like you were drinking poison. He was tearing you apart slowly, without even touching you. He didn’t even need to speak to throw you off balance.

Finally, Lando approached, interrupting your spiral.

"Hey, everything okay?" he asked, with a slightly concerned smile.

Lando had always been kind to you, like he had a soft spot for people who could hold a conversation without making things awkward.

"No, just…" you replied, but your answer didn’t convince anyone. At that moment, Max came closer too, wearing a smile that froze you inside.

"Everything good?" Max asked, as if your well-being was his top priority. That thought alone irritated you.

"Yeah, of course," you answered, forcing a smile. But before you could say more, Lando stepped in, sensing the tension.

"I get the feeling someone’s trying to be more of a gentleman than he actually is," Lando joked, though his words only deepened the silence between all of you.

You and Max locked eyes for a moment. There was something in that look that went beyond what you could explain. It was a challenge, it was fire. It was a silent war neither of you dared to admit.

"It’s not that I like to complicate my life but…" Max began, glancing at Lando before turning to you again, "I don’t like complicated things. Or complicated people."

Those words… That wordplay.

You stared back at him, feeling a strange mix of anger and attraction. A feeling as intoxicating as the speed of the cars on track.

"Better keep your distance," you replied, louder than expected.

But in that moment, Lando noticed something neither of you wanted to expose: the tension that had grown between you two. Something had shifted in the air. Something beyond words.

Lando made a move to break the tension, but Max didn’t let him. He stepped closer to you, this time directly, almost dangerously. He was challenging you, without saying another word.

"Do you really want me to?" he asked, and this time it wasn’t a game. His tone was low, controlled, like every word was a threat disguised as interest.

An unexpected heat rushed through your veins, and your breath quickened. He was overwhelming you, and you didn’t know how to react.

"You have no idea what you’re saying," you said, trying to keep your composure. But when you looked at him, something inside shifted. The burn of his eyes against yours scorched more than any word. Max Verstappen had done something you never imagined: he had disarmed you.

(The following week)

The return to normal in the paddock was a tense relief. You knew the eyes of the world were on you, especially with cameras rolling every second. Max and you inevitably crossed paths many times. In each of those encounters, the air thickened, heavier, like walking a tightrope.

The Belgian Grand Prix was just around the corner, and once again, you found yourself under the paddock lights, with Max only a few meters away. He stood in his usual pose, leaning against his car, while his team of engineers worked on some final tweaks to the engine.

But this time, you didn’t look at him. This time, you forced yourself to look the other way, focused on your own thoughts. Still, you knew he had noticed.

"Running from me?" Max asked, his voice low but full of that arrogance you despised.

"Just ignoring you," you replied without looking at him.

"That never works."

And there it was again, that uncomfortable feeling that had started to consume you. How could you ignore him, when every time you looked at him, you knew it wasn’t just a battle on the track that tied you two? There was something deeper, darker… more dangerous.

But you couldn’t.

You mustn’t.

You never should.

(Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Qualifying Saturday)

The rain fell intermittently, a light drizzle that made the asphalt slick beneath the cars' tires. The sound of engines echoed through the air, mingling with the bustle of the Mercedes team preparing for qualifying.

But you couldn't focus. Once again, something in the atmosphere distracted you. Something that, despite your efforts to ignore, kept lingering. Max. And his attitude.

It was impossible not to notice. Every time your eyes met his, there was something else there. It wasn’t just the typical challenge of the track, it wasn’t just competition. There was a grudge in his gaze you couldn’t understand, and that made you uncomfortable. But what bothered you most was that, somehow, you couldn’t avoid it.

You were with a few Mercedes engineers, going over the final adjustments to the car, when you felt a presence behind you. You knew who it was before you even turned around. That smell of fuel, hot engine, that defiant aura. Max.

"Ready for another loss?" he asked, his usual tone slightly mocking.

You looked at him, frowning. You didn’t feel like arguing, not with him, not with anyone.

"Still playing the same game?" you replied, trying to stay calm.

Max smirked, that arrogant smile that always brought out the worst in you.

"You know what bothers me the most?" he continued, stepping closer to you. "That you still think this is just a speed contest."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted.

"Hey! Can we let them do their job?" It was Lando, approaching with a playful smile, probably more aware of the tension between you and Max than he realized.

"I was just talking to—" Max began, but Lando didn’t let him finish.

"What I mean is, we’re probably all trying to focus on qualifying. So, why not save the disputes for later?" he cut in, ironically, looking at Max with amusement.

Max didn’t say another word, but something in his demeanor shifted. There was something in his gaze that now wasn’t clear—was it jealousy or just pure anger? Still, what surprised you most was that Max walked away, not before throwing one last look at Lando. It was brief, but you caught it. Something wasn’t right.

Qualifying went by like just another routine, but your mind kept spinning. All afternoon, every time you crossed paths with Max, the tension was palpable. Sometimes, the glances. Other times, his subtle movements. It was clear something had changed—but you didn’t understand what.

(Sunday, Race Day)

The race began under a cloudy sky, the track slick from the rain. Cars roared past at full speed, the engines drowning out any other sound around you. But as you focused on the monitors, you couldn’t help but notice that Max seemed... different. More focused on what you were doing. More attentive to your position. Every time he passed by, it was intentionally close, like he was trying to prove something.

Mid-race, when everything seemed calm, it happened. During a pit stop, Max exited first, followed by your teammate. But before the pit crew could react, Max suddenly sped up, dangerously. You knew this wasn’t just a miscalculation.

The Mercedes radio exploded with your engineer’s angry voice:

"Watch out! Watch Verstappen!"

You looked over, but didn’t catch it clearly. Still, the feeling in your chest was undeniable: Max had done it on purpose.

The rest of the race played out under higher tensions, with increasingly loaded glances between you and Max. But what really got under your skin was his behavior off the track. After the race, when the drivers gathered for the press conference, Max was more distant than ever—but his eyes never stopped searching for you. And when the questions finally ended and you stood to leave, he approached.

"You think I’m an idiot?" he asked, voice low, controlled, but with a hint of something... jealousy?

You had no idea what he meant.

"What?" you replied, confused.

"Lando," he said, almost through clenched teeth. The word hung in the air like an accusation.

"What about Lando?" you asked, genuinely not understanding.

Max took a step closer, closer than he should have. He looked you straight in the eye.

"Don’t look at me like that. Don’t pretend you don’t know. Lando isn’t your friend. He’s not just one of your ‘colleagues’. So what are you playing at, huh?"

You were speechless. The anger that had consumed you on the track now turned into pure fury. What did he think he was doing? Why had he decided to get involved in something that didn’t even exist?

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max," you finally said, barely holding yourself together, your stomach in knots. "Lando is just a co-worker. I’ve got nothing to hide."

Max frowned, but something in his expression changed. The fury gave way to a much more dangerous look.

"Don’t make me continue this conversation," he said before stepping back and turning away.

Your breathing was still ragged. Why did he care so much?

#🖇️ max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader

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emchante · 10 months ago

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tease and release

masterlist | requesting rules

summary: max is bound by silk scarves and is at your mercy as you tease him. you love the sounds of his desperate pleas so much, that you just can't let him have an easy night.

WARNINGS: 18+ content, porn without plot, bondage, edging, orgasm denial, power dynamics, slight size kink, use of good boy.

w.c: 1.7k

a/n: been working on a lot of different requests, fics + my kinktober that's coming up, but finally have a piece out for you guys! hope you all enjoy, and don’t forget to tell me your thoughts via comment, reblog or ask; and remember requests are open.

your fingers traced a painstakingly slow path along max’s soft stomach, feeling the way it tenses beneath your touch, leaving max trembling in anticipation for your next movement. not that he’d be able to do much about it however, as your boyfriend’s wrists and ankles were loosely bound above his head by the silk scarves you had bought a few nights ago. there was enough room for him to tug against them– but not enough for him to break free. everytime he tugged at the restraints he’d let out a soft groan, as if he had completely forgot they were there. you also tutted at him each time he done so, causing the groans to shift into soft whines.

the room was filled with max’s ragged breathing, every breath heavy and uneven, punctuated by desperate pants and soft moans. the only other sounds were your teasing words and whispered praises, each one sending a shiver through him, making him writhe and beg for more. his skin was hot beneath your touch, and the way his body reacted to every miniscule touch was intoxicating, each silver and twitch only encouraged you to keep on going. “please,” he whimpered quietly, his hooded eyes lazily watching as your hands had now moved down to his fuzzy thighs, tracing small patterns on the plush skin. you weren’t ready to give into his begs of moving on yet, moving your hands to run up and down the inside of his thighs with featherlight touches, but never reaching where he truly needed you. you smiled at him, leaning over his naked body so you were both face-to-face, your nose bumping against his. “not yet, maxie,” you murmured against his lips, leaning in to leave a chaste peck upon them. max tried to chase your lips, but didn’t get far so another frustrated whine left him. moving back down to your original position, you splayed your hands against his thick thighs, feeling the plush skin beneath your palms. your hands looked almost delicate in comparison, dwarfed by the sheer size of him. the sight of your small hands against his thighs sent a thrill through you, a reminder of just how much bigger he was — how easily he could overpower you if he wasn’t bound. but he wasn’t in control right now; you were, and that thought made you squeeze his thighs a little tighter, your nails digging in just enough to leave marks on his skin. your smile grew when you heard the moan max let out at the feeling of your nails marking his skin. you glanced up at him, catching the desperate, half-lidded look in his eyes, and sent a playful wink his way before leaning down, your breath hot against his thighs. starting with soft, teasing kisses, you brushed your lips so lightly against his thigh; like a whisper of a touch. you moved slowly against his thigh, savoring every twitch and tremble from his sensitive body. you heard his breath begin to get more ragged as you moved further up his thighs, drawing closer to where he needed you most. however instead of giving into him – because what fun would that be? – you lifted your lips from his skin, and moving to his other thigh before repeating your movements. you switched between leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his skin, gently nipping at his skin and soothing licks against his sensitive skin which had him panting, practically salivating for more. max threw his head back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut tightly as the strings of moans continued to leave his mouth; a delight to your ears. “so sensitive,” you muttered against his thighs, nosing against the inside of his right thigh before pulling back. you couldn’t help but admire the pretty sight in front of you– max tied up by his wrists and ankles, his full body on display for you. his cheeks were flushed, and his hair was messy from the feverish movements of his head. his chest had a sheen of sweat layered along it, and was decorated with hickeys, a mix of reds and purples appearing on the skin. his thighs were the same, except the mark’s were fresher, so they weren’t as dark. but last, and certainly not least; his cock; flushed a deep, needy red and painfully hard. it twitched with every whispered word that left your lips, leaking beads of precum that glistened at the tip, making it look even more inviting. the veins prominently stood out along his length, silently begging for you to finally touch it. it was almost overwhelming how gorgeous he looked like this — exposed, straining, and completely at your mercy.

reaching your hand out with deliberate slowness, you moved it over to his aching cock, and wrapped your fingers around it. the heat of him was intoxicating, his silky skin now slick with sweat and precome. you started with a gentle stroke, your thumb moving to his tip as you ran it along the slit. max’s breath hitched immediately, choking on a moan as he instinctively bucked his hips up into your hand, trying to push into your touch. you tutted at the action, digging your nails into his sensitive shaft as he stuttered on his breath. “enough of that,” you warned him, eyes landing on his face. “you’re going to lay there, and you’re not going to move; just like the good boy you are. understood?” max’s eyes widened at your words as he nodded furiously at your words. you raised a brow at him before shaking your head at him. “come on maxie, verbal answers. i need words,” you told him, your grip loosening on him; silently threatening him. “s-sorry! yes, i’ll stay still. promise,” max told you, looking at you with desperate, pleading eyes as he awaited your response. his head fell back when you only muttered “good boy”, before going back to what you were doing. you continued with your slow and languid strokes down max’s shaft, dragging out each movement to tease him to the edge of his sanity. you’d change the pace every now and then, speeding up to make his eyes snap open as he choked on his own breath, whining out at the relentless pace you bestowed upon him, to then slowing down to a torturous crawl; causing max’s nose to scrunch up in frustration, holding back his words as he knew you wouldn’t go easy on him.

max’s breathing slowly evened out over time, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of exhaustion and gratitude.you watched with a satisfied smile, knowing you had pushed him to his limits and given him exactly what he needed.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen oneshot #max verstappen smut #max verstappen fic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fanfiction #formula one fanfiction #formula one x reader #em's filth

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fuckyesbrucewayne · 2 months ago

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I was debating on whether to make this post or not, but then I realized that if I cannot be annoying about Bruce Wayne in my Bruce Wayne Sideblog™ then what's the point. So here are basically my thoughts on why Bruce's characterization on Batman and Robin: Year One doesn't work for me, especially on this last issue.

So without further ado, let's begin!

First things first, I'm going to show the panels that are the whole reason I am making this post first, and then analyze what is happening and why I think it doesn't work for a young Bruce that is just beginning. And yes, I will be using as a basis Golden and Silver age Bruce, because he's the blueprint whether Mark likes it ot not.

(To give some context Robin got himself kidnapped, but he saved himself. Alone, I might add.)

This scene begins... with not much promise. This whole comic makes it a point that Bruce is not only clueless about raising Dick (an idea I'm not entirely against) but also makes it seem like he's kind of forced to take care of the kid? For some reason?? The comic treats it like it's a chore he has to do, and that it falls more on Alfred's shoulders than anything... and Alfred is also not very good at it, but that's another story (I'm not completely against that as a characterization choice on Alfred's side).

My whole problem with this basis is that if Bruce is not only clueless but also kind of not interested in raising Dick... Then why did he even take him in in the first place? Like, what was he thinking, and more importantly, what am I supposed to get from this? Because I'm going to assume that the reason he took him in was because he saw himself in him, right? So... it was just a selfish act?? On a whim?? That's it??? You'll understand why I feel that idea is kind of shallow, at the very least.

But going back to the page at hand, we can see that Alfred is making a point of not interfering and letting Bruce figure himself out, but also letting it be known that he... Kind of doesn't like Dick either (which is surprisingly in character with Dixon's Robin origin story, so I guess there's some basis there).

Robin's first question when they're left alone is that if he's going to get fired, which I find "fascinating" that so many modern retellings focus on, because the idea of firing was not that important in the original stories. Like, the fear of being fired was less important than the fear of being abandoned by Bruce or being replaced, that last one was very common... But firing in and of itself wasn't necessarily that big of a deal, and it never was until that infamous story of Nightwing's second origin (which I think you can guess it's not my favorite, not when the first one was so good already... But also because Max wrote himself into a corner with that one. So you're telling me Bruce fires Dick because he doesn't want a young partner and then immediately accepts 12-year-old Jason. As his partner. What.). Anyways, Bruce's answer to that loaded question is "not yet", which is. A choice. Because what are we doing here, why is Bruce taking in an orphan who has lost every semblance of family he had but is also making his position in his household so... flimsy. There was a time when it was literally only the two of them against the world, and I understand we cannot do that anymore because of Alfred, but even then writers have made it a point to write about how these two were a set, a "do not separate" team. They're the dynamic duo for fuck's sake, why is Mark making a point to write Bruce reaffirming Dick's fears about his position being temporary, what am I supposed to understand here about Bruce's character as a caregiver. And also why is he making Bruce separate himself from Dick by saying that he is rich, that the money is his, not theirs. Why are we giving the 12-year-old or however old he is supposed to be here financial insecurity.

I know you will be surprised to know this, but Bruce has always been kind of a workaholic... but not surprisingly, and contrary to what everyone wants you to believe, in his earlier years it was not so exaggerated. He used to do a lot of fun activities with Dick! If Dick wanted something he would cave like a house of cards because that was his little boy.

They went fishing a lot, they had pillow fights, they went to the lake, to the beach, camping, they had fun a lot of the time, HE USED TO TELL DICK TO TAKE IT EASY!!!! Hell, they didn't even go looking for cases most of the time, they would go to a museum or try to relax and a bomb would fucking explode.

So... why are we making a point to show Bruce IN HIS FIRST YEAR WITH DICK telling him that "yeah actually every day matters and if you are not doing something productive you deserve to suffer or whatever". What is going on here. I'm not saying that Dick's workaholic tendencies don't come partly from Bruce, but we all forget that Dick has been a child star athlete since he was five at the very least.

Hell, this comic literally goes into a tangent in the next page about this.

And here we arrive to my last straw with this comic. I'm going to kill someone I fear. In what universe, in what fucking universe, is Bruce Thomas Wayne telling Richard John "Dick" Grayson that he made a mistake in taking him in. Why are we accepting and even praising this characterization. I'm not even going to say anything I'm just going to leave comic panels here.

But yeah this was the page, the panel, that ended it for me. We're not coming back from this. And if you think next page fixes it because Bruce is known to be very autistic blunt and say the first thing his brain is thinking without realizing it can be misinterpreted... Just look at this.

What is this, what is this supposed to be. What the fuck. In other circumstances the idea of "we're here to help each other" is something I wouldn't be against, but it's just the whole conversation before it that ruins it. So basically, after Bruce threatens to throw him out, reaffirms Dick's fears that his position is temporary and that Bruce has all the power in this dynamic, THEN he's like "we're here to help each other yippieeeee help me child" are we stupid. Are we stupid.

Basically I think I've made my point clear. But if not, my biggest problem is this: if Bruce has been a cold-hearted paranoid jackass since the beginning... then what's the point.

What's the point of Jason's death, of the accidentally good storytelling of Bruce going through traumatic event after traumatic event (Jason's death, Knightfall, No Man's Land, Fugitive, Identity Crisis, etc., ETC.) and coming out of them more cynical, more changed, more broken. If he's always been cold and callous, if there was never any fun, any whimsy, any love... then how did Dick become so devoted to him.

Why do they both miss the good old days if there is nothing to miss.

What am I supposed to be understanding here, about the dynamic duo's relationship. And most important of all... What's the point. If this relationship is based on abuse, if this relationship has nothing good going for it, if Bruce has been always an abusive monster and Dick a poor victim that didn't know any better, then what's the point. What is the point of Batman and Robin, if this is all there has always been. Is this all Bruce is allowed to be using this toxic view of masculinity as his basis. Is he not allowed to be fun, to be loving, to feel anything outside of anger or annoyance.

Why does he barely smile at Dick in this comic, even when they're out of the suit, if he is supposed to be in his first few years? Where's the tragedy then, in knowing he used to make him laugh.

Why does he suddenly not seem to like Dick for who he is? Because that's the thing, it just seems like he doesn't like him, like there's no reason he took him in other than a sudden whim, like they are not the fucking dynamic duo, like they are not the blueprint. They just feel like two people that don't even like each other and are forced to live together. And how is this dynamic more interesting, how is this supposed to be better than what we had. What's the point, man.

What's the point.

#dc #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman and robin: year one

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thatnonameuser · 7 months ago

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After reading about the kidnapping scenarios with darlings and Kalim’s family dynamics a little, brought to mind the what-ifs of a huge component of a relationship: discussion of children.

The single plus side of being Leona’s darling in a female MC setting is his disinterest in children. As a second Prince and not in line for the throne, there’s no external pressure on him to have kids and he has the vibes of a guy who’d get jealous of his own kid for taking his darling’s attention. Unless of course he could see a kid as an extension of love/shackle his darling even closer to him, no way you’d be cruel enough to abandon their own child and thus would struggle to escape…

Besides Leona, Cater, Jamil and Idia probably would be child free too, or have an oops baby. Cater enjoys the traveling lifestyle, refusing to have any kid of his have to pick up and leave constantly and have an unstable childhood like he did. The latter two don’t want to burden their child with their own inherited problems, especially if it would be Your child too. It’s bad enough they’ve brought you into their issues (even though they refuse to let you leave), they don’t want that innocent to be roped in too. But likely having a secret fantasy all the same of a babe with any combination of your features and theirs. Unless there’s a slip up and/or giving into pressure, in which case there so much guilt they feel and turn to you for comfort and assurances.

Everybody else would want at least one.

Kalim? Oh absolutely! He’s always doted on and loved his siblings, he’d be thrilled to have a whole gaggle of kids with you! He doesn’t see why you’d be nervous, full of assurances of how you’re so kind and warm, you’d be a wonderful mother. Whether or not he’d employ the same methods of his dad to protect you and your kids remains unseen…

Probably not until a few years down the road with Vil because he wants to devote himself equally to you and his career, which can only happen once he’s more successful and can balance a work/life balance. His dad made him happy and loved despite his workload, so he’d want to ensure that with you and your child too. At least there would be some breathing room for you, a chance of protection disguised as family planning until he brings up how your child would be the fairest of all for certain. Very wary about letting the public know about any pregnancy or children, he’s well aware how “passionate” a fan base can be, nor does he want any rivals to target you or the little one.

Malleus was planning baby name lists for the future hatchings the two of you will have since the moment you met, no chance he’ll settle for just one after the wedding (whether a honeymoon baby or one to rush the nuptials). Dragons only hatch when surrounded by love, so it’s the truest testament of the relationship you share. He’ll be so happy when the first egg hatches, he’ll forgo the “Mal” tradition if you requested something else.

Expect a big family on the apple farm with Epel, plain and simple.

Fairytale knight that he is, Silver probably fantasizes of the family cottage in Briar Valley, a quiet life with you and two-point five kids enjoying a happily ever after. He has such fond memories of the youth he spent with Lilia here, he’ll measure the children’s height in the same spot his father did, and chop wood with his sword when it doesn’t see traditional use. And Lilia of course has a key and open invitation to come in to dote upon the little ones, a beloved grandfather and feared in law for you, his probing eyes always checking the little hideaways you could be squirreling tools of escape in.

Alright, let’s talk about babies. Obviously, this is after NRC when they’ve taken you for themselves and moved on to have a future with you.

Keep in mind that I write a female MC, so pregnancy will be discussed.

So what happens when you’ve been claimed. You’re all theirs, and they’ll be doing their best to keep you with them forever and ever, even beyond death. But that life won’t be just you and them. What about a family?

What about kids? And building a family to join you in your ‘happy’ life?

Doesn't want kids/ Accident baby

Despite their undying love for you, they have no desire to have a child with you. Yes, it would be very satisfying to see a mixture of you and them running around but they don't want kids. Plain and simple.

Cater Diamond

Cater’s childhood of constant movement and plus his family forcing him to do things he didn't like are his primary reasons for not wanting them. And while it would be so Magicam-able to post pictures of a tiny him and you, he's not going to put a kid through what he did. Besides, the single life allows him to travel the world with you. Which might be better for you being allowed to see the world even in your captivity/relationship.

(Cater might want to freeze your eggs just in case he changes his mind, if he ever gets the baby-buzz later on. But if he doesn't, you'll be free to be child-free, and nothing else.)

If You Get Pregnant - Cater probably will try his best to be a good dad to his kid, trying to be the fun parent that lets his kid pick their own future. But, when it comes to you, he’ll be the kind of partner to document every second of your pregnancy. Wanting to hold onto it forever and ever, to reminisce on the good ole days.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s jealous of things he's predetermined to not have. If you have a kid, then that kid is going to take a lot of your love. And if you had a kid and loved them more than you loved him, then you would have to constantly be watching your child to protect their life. (Fun fact: Lions are very territorial and will kill cubs if they feel their presence threatens the pride)

So for the sake of not cleaning up the mess of an infanticide, he's not having kids. He'll take and make you take potions to make you both infertile if he has to because he's not having any troublesome ankle biters to take your attention away.

If you come to him desiring a baby he might, and just might consider it. While he despises children, he'll make you an offer that you can't refuse if you want to have his children.

If You Get Pregnant - Not happy. And he's not gonna be for your entire pregnancy. The parasite’s already stealing your attention from the moment you're aware of it. Now he loses his time using you as a pillow, because you have to get up at night and now you can’t do anything but focus on it ‘because of the baby’. He doesn't want another, and he can barely tolerate this one. Might reconsider if you wanted the baby because then he can use it as a ball and chain. And he might have more with you if the kid gets too old for him to hold against you.

Jamil Viper

As another person who was forced to accept a predetermined life of second best, Jamil also doesn't want kids. But for a different reason. The very last thing he wants is for a child to go through the life he had. Being forced to hide in the shadows so that someone luckier could shine….. He won't allow a child to live through that injustice, let alone a child you bore out both his and your flesh and blood.

He might want them if and only if he's no longer shackled to the Asim family. Then he'd want one or two, but if he's still stuck with them he's not reproducing.

If You Get Pregnant - He'll be upset about the fact that he’ll be making your child live a life like his, but he'll still love them. He might end up changing his mind on kids, and have another one if the circumstances are right. As for you, he won’t let you lift a finger while pregnant. No matter how tired he is, he’ll take care of you and wait on you hand and foot to make sure the birth of his and your child is a pleasant experience.

Idia Shroud

Another person with a predetermined future, who doesn't want his future children to suffer like he did. Plus, his trauma makes him scared of having kids. What if he causes another accident like what happened to Ortho? What if your child is dragged to the underworld to be with all the phantoms and dead souls? He can’t even live with himself after what happened to Ortho, what if it's his, more specifically your, child next?!

Because of that, you'll be an empty nester for life. He's just looking out for whatever kids you have anyway. He could probably kill them or something by accident.

If You Get Pregnant- He’ll faint. Dead faint. But he'll love the child to pieces. Uncle Ortho will too! But STYX will be getting a new security detailing to prevent a tech savvy kid from going the way Ortho did. But the sight of you pregnant has his hair burning pink. You might as well be the goddess of motherhood and because you’re the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

Wants kids, but a reasonable amount (1-4 max)

For various reasons (all centered around their love for you), they want to build a family with you. They would love to hear little footfalls around the house and be greeted by a smiling face that looks to be a perfect mix of the two of you. Whether it’s one child or more, they want to build a family with you. But, not too many. They wouldn’t want to stress your body out, whether it's during pregnancy or in parenting.

Ace Trappola

As a normal family haver, Ace doesn’t see the downside of starting a family with you. In fact the very idea of it makes him smug. As the first person you met, the one that holds you forever, to watch you carry his child is something that makes him incredibly arrogant. And because of that, he wants to witness it over and over again.

When You Get Pregnant - He’s the kind of partner that shows off his pregnant wife with gusto. He’s so possessive over you that the sight of you full with his child is just the epitome of satisfying.

How many kids - About 3, average middle-class family number. Maybe two boys and a girl as pretty as you. He’ll be satisfied with any, but that’s just his preference.

Deuce Spade

A little worried about passing his old delinquent ways onto his child. So he’ll do his best to prove to himself that he’ll be a good father before trying to build a family with you. With you being the potential mother to his child, he’ll ensure that you know, after him kidnapping you, claiming you against your will; that your child/ren is safe with him.

When You Get Pregnant - You’re like glass to him, so precious yet so fragile. As soon as he learns that you’re pregnant, you’re not carrying anything that weighs more than a cushion. No cooking, he’ll do it. No cleaning, he’ll do it. He’ll be a stellar husband to make sure you’re in comfort.

How many kids - 2 maybe. I imagine his first child will be a girl named after his mother.

Riddle Rosehearts

Ever the traditionalist, Riddle believes that building a family is an important step in your life together. After he manages to deal with the issues of his childhood, he'll do his best not to repeat it to your children. So you won’t have to fear them ending up like him. Plus, kids are another way he can control you. Just like his mother did with his father, it’s one of the few lessons he’ll copy. He’ll follow every factual and proven book for conception to the letter up until you’re pregnant.

When You Get Pregnant - Has his nose buried in a parenting book the moment the pregnancy test says positive. He’s more strict than he’s ever been. You’re precious to him. Your baby is precious to him. He needs to ensure that your pregnancy is the smoothest one to ever be recorded. So, you’ll be on a diet plan, exercise regime, constant weekly doctor visits. Don’t worry, you’ll be allowed plenty of good food and relaxation, he’s not a monster like his mother.

How many kids - 2 or 3. They’ll be the kind of children the neighborhood parents compare their kids to.

Ruggie Bucchi

Before Ruggie even considers having a kid, he’ll try to work on his financial situation enough to house a pregnant you and a baby comfortably. After that, he’s ready to go and create a child with you. It’s the ultimate mark of possession to him, watching you mother his cub.

When You Get Pregnant - He’ll be working hard constantly, both at home and outside of it to care for you, and between caring for you, he’ll be smothering you with love. Don’t think you’ll be able to run away when he’s busy. Besides, it is very dangerous to run so far in a hot savannah while pregnant.

How many kids - Just one. I think it’ll be a girl named Dandelion. Hyenas have a reputation for having nasty births. Sure, your human body allows pregnancies to be much easier, but having a lot of mouths to feed is costly. Plus, he doesn’t want to have any starving cubs. Might have a second if the finances check out.

Azul Ashengrotto

You’re contract bound to carry his child. Plain and simple. As a possessive yandere, watching you do this, regardless of your contract and the ring on your finger, is the biggest proof of you being bound to him.

When You Get Pregnant - Arrogant. Cocky. Insecure, but the baby’s helping him heal. The fact his child is growing in your womb is helping his childhood insecurities recover. After all, you're his, and no one else's. So he’s very touchy. You won’t worry for anything, his business practices will make sure you want for nothing.

How many kids - 1 or 2 (Why is the first thing that comes up for baby octopus is a recipe, also no joke a baby octopus is a fry) fry. Morgana for a girl, Divinus for a boy.

Jade Leech

Jade is a manipulative and sadistic bastard. He wants you to bear his children, but he wants you to want them more than he does. So he’ll slowly break you down and condition you into desiring them first. And then he’ll eagerly reap the rewards of his painstaking efforts.

When You Get Pregnant - He won’t be as cruel to you when you’re carrying his child or children. Instead, he’ll make sure that you are comfortable for your entire pregnancy. It won’t last past the safety window past birth.

How many kids - 3 or 4, fun fact, twins have a higher chance of having twin children, so expect a higher chance of having multiples.

Vil Schoenheit

With the hectic, and sometimes dangerous, aspects of his career, Vil is going to be a little wary of starting a family with you. But if his father could be an amazing actor and a wonderful father, so can he. Vil will wait for the perfect time to step away from his career to build a family with you. And when he does, after announcing his hiatus and going (sort of) off grid so that you can conceive and give birth in the utmost privacy. He doesn’t want to have too many kids (he wants probably two) because while pregnancy can be a beautiful thing, he’s also aware of the ugliness of it and doesn’t want to put you through the difficulty of pregnancy and births.

When You Get Pregnant - You’re going to have the most aesthetically pleasing pregnancy ever conceived (heh pun). Designer and bespoke maternity wear, spa treatments to keep you feeling refreshed and comfortable, and all the skin, hair and baby-safe, and delicious food to feed your cravings. You’ll be like an influencer trad wife without all the work involved with it. Vil will ensure that you have every comfort needed, and all the security needed, to ensure that your pregnancy is as easy and as perfectly beautiful as the both of you are.

How many kids - 2 or 3. Doesn't want to risk too many pregnancies changing your body. The last thing you need is postpartum. Your children will be as beautiful as he is.

Silver

Prince Charming remembers a fond childhood with Lilia, and that wants to be as good a father to your children as Lilia was to him. So when you have your happily ever after together, he wants to build a family as loving as the one he had in childhood. But only, if you want to. If you don’t want to carry the children to term, he’s willing to adopt.

When You Get Pregnant - So gentle, and hardworking. Every last second he spends will be to make your pregnant life more comfortable. He’ll be a model partner. Just ask and he’ll do it. Expect Peepaw Lilia to be in that cottage everyday until a good year after you give birth. Not just to help Silver be a first time father, or help you both out in the difficult first year of baby care, but to keep an eye on you to make sure you’re not taking advantage of Silver’s kindness.

How many kids - Two, maybe three. Your first child together is a narcoleptic like him, but all will have his aurora borealis eyes. Lilia’s giving his blessing to all of them the second they’re born. And they’ll be beautiful silver-hairs like their prince of a father. All that’s missing is a family pet.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek is a strict traditionalist, (sure loving a human is breaking that kinda but he loves his darling truly so that outweighs the other) and tradition states that he has a family. Don’t worry about his grandfather’s human…ism? He loves Sebek and he’ll love his great grandchildren too.

When You Get Pregnant - Still following tradition, he’ll be taking care of you. Try to do anything, that breaks that, you’ll be nesting for the duration of your pregnancy and the first four months post birth if he has anything to do with it.

How many kids - 4, he just barely meets the cut off for what is below. He has plenty of siblings and he wants to mimic that with you. Like tradition states.

Wants kids, enough to make a spell drive team. (Over 4 to way over 4)

They want a lot of kids. They adore seeing you pregnant, seeing you surrounded by all of your children, the adorable looks on all of your faces. They love you as much as they love their children, and the sight of you going through the throes of motherhood is one of the most perfect sights they'll ever see.

Trey Clover

As the Eldest of a big loving family (one that fits the desired normal for most yandere families) Trey wants to emulate that with his future family. That means a house full of kids. Enough kids to fill a good few bunk beds.

When You Get Pregnant - So many baked goods, ones that you can be sure that they aren’t laced with anything because it’s dangerous for the baby. You’ll be very well fed and comfortable.

How many kids - Max 5

Jack Howl

While Jack is fighting a lot of his instinct when it comes to you, he is still a wolf in nature. And wolves are pack animals, so you can see where this is going.

When You Get Pregnant - You’re confined to your nest. No debates on this. You’re going to be covered in his scent and safe in a nest till your pups are weaned of milk.

How many kids - Having just one kid isn't in his animalistic nature, plus, that child would be lonely without any siblings and constantly full of energy without siblings to wear them down. Also wolves are traditionally born in litters, so the likelihood of having one baby, pup more specifically, is low. Expect multiples, twins maybe. And you won't be pregnant once. Maybe 5 to 6 kids.

Floyd Leech

Floyd’s great with kids. So despite how feral he is, he’s definitely fine with iddy biddy Shrimpey’s swimming around. And that means he needs to have a lot.

When You Get Pregnant - Some things don’t change. He’s mad that he can’t squeeze you as much. But after the eggs are out, you might end up pregnant again before the eggs even hatch.

How many kids - Same fun fact, twins have a higher chance of having twin children, so expect a higher chance of having multiples. Also, you might have Irish twins alongside the regular ones. Floyd’s having 6 with you max.

Kalim Al-Asim

(While he doesn’t know about the dark part of him having so many siblings) Kalim wants to have a family as big as his own. And while he knows you can't realistically have as many kids as he had siblings, he wants to at least try. Besides you’ll be an amazing mother, after all you’re already perfect to him. If you’re scared about it, he’ll get experts to make it easier or hire surrogates to carry them so you can still have kids without the fear of pregnancy. And if you’re worried about your kids being harmed or kidnapped because of his family’s wealth then don’t worry, he’ll figure out a way to keep them safe! You won’t have to worry about a thing. (BTW if Kalim adopts the same idea of his father, you’ll never know about it. Wouldn’t want you to worry!)

When You Get Pregnant - So, SO many expensive gifts. Way too many fucking gifts. He’s so touchy too, wanting to cover you in his love every possible second.

How many kids - Too many. 7 to 10.

Rook Hunt

Rook is a man who I think would believe in the glow of pregnancy despite how miserable it already is (I hc the man has a breeding kink) and as a result of that he wants to see you glowing in radiance as you carry his child as many times as he can. Which means multiple pregnancies and multiple babies.

When You Get Pregnant - Like a worshiper for a goddess, he’ll wait on you in between his hunting trips and bring you gifts to make the nine months of hell easier. (also pregnancy sex. Lots of it.)

How many kids - 5 to 8, maybe more if you have multiples. They’ll all be hunters just like their father. And might probably be as obsessed with you as he is. Maybe one or two are darlings like you.

Epel Felmier

Epel's family has a farm that requires many hands to work on it everyday. And his family won't be around forever to help him maintain it. (I imagine he doesn't want you to raise a finger to help him because of his masculinity issues) So the two of you will need to provide plenty of farmlands to run it.

When You Get Pregnant - Farm life is tough man. You might be pregnant with a child and might have to work hard to help out. The Tradwife life is not what’s happening. What is, is tending to farm animals, looking after the newborn youngins, picking apples. Epel will try his hardest to take on the hardest of the grueling labor, and save you from what you’ll be doing in the worst months of pregnancy. (Though Epel would love you in a comfy sundress lounging in the sun for him to hug and kiss after a long day of work, still full with his child)

How many kids - Epel sees him being the father of your children as the biggest proof that you belong to him and no one else will ever take you away from him, so you’ll be pregnant a good few times so he can be truly satisfied that you are his. Max 7.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is the sole heir to the throne of the Briar Valley, so obviously he needs an heir. But honestly that doesn't even matter because he’s been planning their names since he fell for you.

(Sidebar, do you know how terrifying it is to give birth to an egg?! One that's the length and width of Lilia’s torso no less. Imagine having to carry that to term for who knows how long and have a hard egg pressing up on your organs. Plus the egg has to be hard to not be damaged by Maleanor’s lightning or fire, and infant skin is soft by comparison, so imagine how that feels.)

When You Get Pregnant - Like the prize jewel in a dragon’s hoard you’re not going anywhere. And since you’re a queen you’re getting waited on hand and foot. But Malleus is never leaving you alone.

How many kids - Since he's very familiar with how lonely being an only child is, Malleus won't be having just one. In fact he wants to have as many as possible. (Unless there’s some medical issue that prevents you from safely delivering the egg, he'll forgo having any future children if it means you're safe.) Max 6.

#yandere #yandere twisted wonderland #yandereverse au #yandere twst x reader #tw pregnancy

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jd-loves-fiction · 4 months ago

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Sorry, two requests in one go but I NEED TO GET THIS OFF MY SYSTEM OR I FORGET

Same platonic dynamic with Boothill, Welt, Jing Yuan and Blade with reader who turned into a small child all of a sudden (around 2-3 years old, so toddler)

🌑 RAAHHH FEED ME (I couldnt resist the angst sowy :)) Also am I crazy or do they all give girl dad... they all feel like girl dad's to me, expect maybe Jing Yuan 😅

✦ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 ✦

Possibly the most experienced in this field actually???

Not to remind y'all of the absolute angst of his backstory, but he adopted a little kid in the past so... he's actually pretty knowledgeable when it comes to kids

Doesnt make this smooth sailing tho

Firstly, he's super confused on how this happened and how to undo it - spends so much time stressing about it that he almost forgets he has to take care of you now until you start screaming

Now that he's looking at you, oh you're so cute it should be illegal

Cuteness aggression to the max with the most self-restraint a man could possibly have (knowing he could easily seriously hurt you)

Once he accepts that his only option is waiting it out, he's focusing on making sure you're comfy

Surprisingly very in tune with your wants and needs

Overall, you'll be well taken care of with him, though the moment you're soundly asleep, memories of the past come back to haunt him, reminding him of all he lost

Though he reasons with himself that the past has passed and all he can do is keep going without letting it drag him down

And you're helping him do just that ❤️

✦ 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐭 ✦

Utterly confounded

Mostly just curious

How did this happen? Do you still have your memories? Did your brain also revert back?

But he also cant deny how freaking cute you are🥺

Very gentle, holding you close, whispering softly even if you're screaming - makes you sleepy immediately

If you start screaming incoherently he's gonna have a hard time figuring out what you need but will try his best and remain calm the whole time

Does anything you want him to, literally

Want to play dolls? He's making a cute voice and everything. Want him to read to you? Putting on the softest tone known to man and putting you to sleep before you're through the first page

This also applies to food - whatever you want to eat, he's letting you, since he knows this situation must be pretty stressful and he doesnt want you start screaming at him :(

Once it's over he probably wont mention it again to you in case you think it's embarrassing, but will keep the sweet memory close to his heart - it makes him feel fuzzy to think he could take care of you when you're so vulnerable

Also you're just so damn cute, he cant get over it 😭

✦ 𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐮𝐚𝐧 ✦

Give him a second he's gonna have to laugh about this for a while

Decent experience with teens and older children because of Yanqing and other students he's trained, but toddlers?

No clue, he's so lost

Genuinely tries to apply lion cub logic

It's the closest experience he's had to raising a kid ok?! He's trying 🥺

Probably ends up getting yelled at by Yanqing because no, human children do not work in any way similarly to lion cubs >:(

After that he's trying a little harder

He's surrounded by people who know more than him on this so he's putting you on his hip and carrying you around while he asks them what to do

Comes back to his office after and puts you down, not realizing that you're crawling over to Mimi

Nearly has a heart attack once he does realize but it's all good, Mimi's a good boy and just naps while you play with his mane

He was honestly ready to use you as an excuse to not do this work and seeing you napping with Mimi just solidifies it for him

The next time Yanqing comes by to make sure you're ok, he finds you all cuddled up on Mimi, so he leaves with a fond sigh

Jing yuan was totally awake btw

✦ 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 ✦

Oh sweet god he is not equipped for this AT ALL

Immediatly running to Kafka or Firefly for help (Silver Wolf is suddenly not so mysteriously absent) and they are somehow even less helpful than he is

Grumbling the whole time but does try his best to care for you

Does NOT know why you're screaming pls stop 😭

Has a surprising among of patience - he knows what children are like, so he's not blaming you for anything you do or losing it on you

He's good at keeping himself calm when the situation doesnt require him to lose his shit

Excels at... napping :)

Honest to god cant think of much else to do with you besides putting a sword in your hand, which both Kafka and Firefly scold for even thinking about

Cant really blame him, that's what his parents did and he turned out just fine :) (Note the sarcasm)

Something in his cold (literally) dead heart warms at the sight of you fumbling about and smiling sweetly at him

He never thought himself particularly inviting but he sure doesnt mind that you think so

The whole situation has him pondering his past but most of all, his humanity - what he lost of it and what he still has

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deansbeer · 5 months ago

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i've never introduced fuckboy!jensen to yall, but i am now 👹

⎯⎯ adult content | mdni eighteen plus. + disclaimer! if this does not sit right w u pls click tf away <3

fuckboy!jensen is the kind of guy your mama warned you about. unhinged, cocky, and reckless in all the ways that should make you run—but instead, he's the one you keep opening the door to. he's bad news wrapped in a perfect smile, with hands that know their way around a car engine, a joint, and your body.

tonight's no different.

you're sprawled across your bed, your room cloaked in the soft haze of weed smoke that still lingers in the air. the window's cracked, but it does little to clear the space, the scent of the joint you shared sinking into everything: the sheets, your clothes, and his skin.

fuckboy!jensen's in your chair, leaned back like he owns the place, his long legs stretched out in front of him. his charcoal 501s jeans are baggy but sit low on his hips, his black t-shirt hanging loose enough to tease the muscles underneath. the silver buckle of his web belt catches the light every time he shifts, and his white nike air max 90s tap lazily against the floor.

he's been watching you for the past ten minutes, his green eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something you've learned to recognize. you're lying on your stomach, your mini denim skirt riding high as you scroll through your phone, texting some friends you are planning meet up with tomorrow.

you know the way you look right now—legs bare, the curve of your ass peeking out from under the hem of your skirt, your tank top tight and low-cut. you know he's watching, and you're pretending not to notice.

but fuckboy!jensen's never been the type to play along.

the air shifts before you even hear him move. one second, he's lounging in the chair, the next, the mattress dips under his weight, and he's behind you.

"you always ignore me like this, or just when you're tryin' to piss me off?" his voice is a low drawl, rough around the edges from the joint, and it slides down your spine like warm honey.

"you weren't saying anything worth listening to," you reply, not bothering to look up from your phone.

his laugh is soft, dangerous.

"that so?"

you don't respond, scrolling through your messages like his presence doesn't make your skin hum.

but then his hands are on the bed, bracketing you, boxing you in. you can feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his chest pressing closer, his breath brushing the back of your neck.

"you're real mouthy when you're high," he murmurs, his voice low, teasing. "you know that?"

"and you're real annoying," you shoot back, but your voice falters when his hands slide closer, his fingers grazing your bare thighs.

"yeah? think you can keep that attitude when i've got you begging for me?"

your breath catches, your hands tightening on your phone, but you don't answer.

you don't have to.

his hands are on you before you can think to stop him, sliding up your thighs, rough palms dragging over soft skin.

"this fuckin' skirt," he mutters, almost to himself, his fingers curling around the hem. "you know what it does to me?"

you shiver, your body betraying you as he pushes the denim higher, exposing more of you.

"jensen—"

"what?" he cuts you off, his voice a low growl. "don't touch you? don't fuckin' ruin you? or don't stop?"

you bite your lip, your face heating as his hands slide higher, gripping your hips, pulling you back against him.

you feel him—hard, thick, pressing against you through the rough denim of his jeans.

"fuck," he mutters, his fingers digging into your hips. "you feel that, baby? feel what you do to me?"

you let out a shaky breath, your phone slipping from your fingers as his hands slip under your skirt, dragging it up until it's bunched around your waist.

"you gonna tell me to stop?" he asks, his voice softer now, almost mocking. "or you just gonna lay there and let me take what i want?"

you know you should say something, tell him to stop, tell him this is a bad idea. but the words don't come.

instead, you let him pull your hips higher, angling you just the way he wants.

"that's what i thought," he says, his voice dripping with arrogance.

fuckboy!jensen doesn't waste any time, his hands sliding under the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. the cool air hits your skin, and you hear him suck in a sharp breath behind you.

"fuck," he mutters again, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you open just enough to make you squirm.

you bury your face in the mattress, your cheeks burning, but you don't stop him.

"you're so fuckin' wet," he says, his voice rough, wrecked. "you like this, don't you? like me touching you like this."

you nod, barely, and he chuckles, low and dark.

"say it," he demands, his hand coming down hard on your ass, the sting making you gasp.

"i like it," you admit, your voice muffled against the sheets.

"yeah, you fuckin' do."

you feel the mattress shift as he leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

"you're mine tonight, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with need. "gonna make you feel so fuckin' good."

his hand slides between your thighs, his fingers finding you slick and ready. fuckboy!jensen groans, low and deep, as he pushes two fingers inside, curling them just right, making you cry out.

"that's it," he says, his voice a mix of praise and possession. "take it, baby. take everything i give you."

you're shaking, your body arching into his touch, and he's relentless, his fingers fucking you slow and deep, his thumb circling your clit in a way that makes your head spin.

"you're so fuckin' tight," he says, his voice rough, almost reverent. "can't wait to feel you around my cock."

you whimper, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, and he laughs softly, the sound dripping with satisfaction.

"you ready for me, baby?" he asks, his fingers pulling out, leaving you empty, aching.

you nod, breathless, and fuckboy!jensen wastes no time, undoing his belt with one hand, the sound of metal and denim making your pulse race.

you feel him behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, and then he's pushing in, stretching you, filling you in a way that makes you see stars.

"fucking shit," he growls, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll bruise. "you feel so fuckin' good."

you can't speak, can barely breathe, your body trembling as he sets a rhythm, slow at first, then harder, faster, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.

"that's it, baby," he says, his voice rough, wrecked. "take it. take all of it."

your moans fill the room, mixing with his groans, the sound of skin on skin, the bed creaking beneath you.

when you finally come, your body clenching around him, he follows close behind, his grip on you tightening as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan.

you collapse onto the bed, your body spent, your mind hazy, and he falls beside you, his arm slung over your waist, his lips brushing the back of your neck.

"you're fuckin' perfect," he murmurs, his voice soft now, almost tender.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe him.

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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FABLE OF THE DOG : Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: The sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks, and you’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended.

And then there is Joel Miller, too.

-OR-

the cowboy/heiress AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Fluff and Angst; Alcohol & Drug Use, DD/lg Dynamics; Dom/sub Undertones; Discussions of Grief; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Daddy Issues to the Max; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Explicit Sexual Content; Size Difference; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Possessive Behavior; Boss’s Daughter; Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

Read on AO3

The Two Headed Calf

Sugar, Not so Sweet

Little Freak

Figs

💋 Updates Blog

#fable of the dog fic #vic fic #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #the last of us AU

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daniifanz · 17 days ago

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Finally finished season 3 and I have many many thoughts but for now…so did they just allude to possible OCD Max with that light switch compulsion??? Cause like it would be very plausible for her character in my opinion idk. The MANG group dynamic shift and seeing Max get isolated is interesting to watch play out and I have a lot to say there too but like did no one else catch that?

Edit cause I started rewatching and literally episode 1 Max has a similar compulsion with her lamp before Silver comes over!

#ginny and georgia #ginny and georgia season 3 #maxine baker

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vainvenus · 3 months ago

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mind games. | ln4. | pt.4

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Everything is unfolding right in front of you. You knew you weren't going crazy these past few weeks, you knew it. But how were you going to prove that to everybody else? Who would believe you.

Includings: Dark!Lando Norris, reader in obvious distress, panic attack, not being able to breathe, unwanted touching, almost passing out, gaslighting, manipulative behavior, power dynamics, Max to the rescue!

An: I lied this was my fave chapter to write

@slutforvoldy

The walls were closing in.

The music, once a distant thrum in your ears, now pounded against your skull—too loud, too sharp, each bassline rattling through your ribs. The air was thick, pressing down on your chest, laced with something sickly sweet that turned your stomach. Too many voices. Too many lights. Too much.

You needed to move. You needed to get out.

Lando hadn’t let go. His grip on your waist was looser now, but it was still there—a lingering weight, heavier than it should have been. Like an anchor. Like a trap.

“Hey, I got our drinks—”

Max’s voice barely cut through the haze as he reappeared, two glasses in hand, brow furrowing the second he took in your face.

You barely saw him.

All you could see was it. The glint of silver on Lando’s finger, the ring that shouldn’t be his, the one you had torn your place apart looking for. The one you had convinced yourself was just gone.

But it wasn’t gone. It was here. With him.

Your lungs stuttered, the weight in your chest pressing harder, constricting. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your dress, grasping at nothing, trying to hold yourself steady as the edges of the room blurred.

Lando made a small noise behind you, something thoughtful, something knowing. His fingers brushed against your waist again, subtle, deliberate.

“I’ll take her to the bathroom,” He said smoothly, already shifting as if to guide you away.

No.

Your body moved before your mind caught up, a jolt of energy snapping through your limbs as you shoved him off. Harder than necessary. Harder than anyone was expecting.

Lando barely stumbled, but he let go. His expression didn’t even flicker—no surprise, no irritation. Just smiling like this was some kind of joke.

Max, on the other hand, looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing. “Hey, what—”

But you didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Your feet carried you away before your mind could process where you were going, weaving through the crowd, past the flashing lights, past the heat of too many bodies. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, hands trembling as you pushed forward, forward, out.

You didn’t know where you were going—just that you had to go.

Your chest felt too tight. Your skin too hot. The air too thick.

Just breathe. Breathe.

Your hands found the first door that wasn’t locked, and you shoved through it blindly, stumbling into the dimly lit hallway that led to the restrooms. The music dulled slightly, muffled behind the thick walls, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink the second you made it inside, nails digging into the cool porcelain as you tried to steady yourself. The mirror swam in front of you, your reflection distorted, unfamiliar.

The ring. His ring. Your ring.

Your pulse was hammering too fast, a frantic, erratic rhythm that made your vision blur. Your own body was betraying you, lungs constricting, breath coming in short, useless gasps.

This isn’t happening.

But it was. And it was getting worse.

The door creaked open behind you.

You jerked up, stomach lurching, but the panic only doubled when you met his gaze in the mirror.

Lando.

He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world, that same easy smirk playing on his lips, like he wasn’t watching you fall apart in real time. Like he wasn’t the reason why.

“Guess I really touched a nerve back there, huh?" He mused, tilting his head.

Your nails bit into your palms. “Get out.”

Lando didn’t move. If anything, his smirk deepened.

“Funny,” He murmured, stepping inside, closing the door behind him with a casual flick of his wrist. “You’re acting like I did something wrong.”

Your stomach twisted, breath catching as the walls pressed in tighter, your mind spiraling too fast—the ring, the touches, the way he always seemed one step ahead.

“You—” Your voice came out thin, strangled, barely audible over the ringing in your ears.

Lando hummed, taking another slow, measured step forward. “I what?”

Your throat closed up.

His gaze dipped, taking in your trembling hands, your uneven breathing, the way you were losing control right in front of him.

And then he smiled.

Soft. Amused. Almost… fond.

“Relax,” He murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The room tilted.

And your knees buckled.

The cold tile rushed up to meet you, and for a moment, all you could do was focus on the burn in your lungs, the sharp sting of panic clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But you couldn’t.

Your hands were shaking too hard to brace yourself properly, your vision blurred at the edges. The walls of the bathroom felt like they were closing in, pressing down, suffocating you.

And then—warm hands on your shoulders.

Lando.

You flinched the second he touched you, every nerve screaming at you to move, to fight, to do something. But your body wouldn’t listen. You were trapped in your own head, spiraling deeper, deeper

"Shh." His voice was low, almost gentle, but it sent a sharp shiver down your spine. "You’re okay."

But you weren't.

You couldn’t even fool yourself, not for a second, not long enough to catch a breath. Being near him was like drowning in air.

You tried to push him away, but your limbs were unsteady, disconnected from your own mind. Lando didn’t budge. His grip tightened, fingers pressing into your skin—not rough, not forceful, but there.

Grounding.

Trapping.

"Look at you, you’re shaking," He murmured, voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "Didn’t know I had this kind of effect on you."

Your stomach twisted. A fresh wave of nausea curled in your throat.

"Stop," You rasped.

Lando only exhaled a quiet chuckle, his thumb ghosting over the fabric of your dress, tracing an idle pattern against your waist.

"You always run," He continued, tilting his head like he was studying you, like you were some kind of puzzle he already knew the solution to. "Where do you think you’re going this time? You practically trapped yourself."

Your stomach twisted.

Something about the way he said it—calm, knowing, almost bored—sent a new kind of panic crashing over you.

You forced your arms to move, shoving at his chest, desperate for space. He let go easily, as if he had been waiting for you to do it, as if the whole thing was amusing.

"You don’t have to do that," He said smoothly, standing up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t just watched you collapse in front of him.

"Fuck you," You rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Lando exhaled a quiet chuckle, taking a step back, but not too far. "That’s not very nice. I'm trying to help you, yknow. You need to breathe,” He murmured, his voice lower now, softer—like he actually cared.

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head.

“No?” Lando echoed, his tone almost amused. “You’d rather sit here and fall apart, then?”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t want this. Didn’t want him to be the one seeing you like this, touching you like this, acting like he was the only thing keeping you from slipping through the cracks.

So you yanked your wrist back. Or—you tried to.

Lando barely reacted. His fingers flexed around you, keeping you still.

“Careful,” He murmured. “You might hurt yourself.”

A choked sob left your lips, panic pressing in from all sides, and you felt sick—like you were stuck inside your own body, unable to do anything but sit there, trapped between your own mind and him.

Then—a knock.

"Lando?"

Max.

Lando sighed, slow and measured, before he cracked the door open. Just enough to block you from view.

"Is she-"

"She’s not feeling great," Lando said before Max could ask. "Think I’ll take her home."

But Max didn’t just accept it. There was just something he didn't like about the McLaren drivers whole demeanor right now it was so...off. He frowned. "Let me see her."

Lando didn’t move.

That was enough for Max’s expression to harden.

"Lando." He said again, more forcefully this time.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak before Lando could find another excuse. "Max-"

The second your voice wavered, Max was pushing past him. His eyes found yours immediately, his frown deepening when he saw how glossy they were.

"You don’t look okay," He said, ignoring the way Lando exhaled sharply behind him.

"I just—" You hesitated, throat tight. "I want to go home."

Max glanced at Lando, then back at you. His lips pressed together before he reached out a hand.

“Come on. I’ll take you.”

Lando chuckled, low and knowing. “You sure?” He crossed his arms. “Youve been drinking. Is that really a safe choice?”

Max’s jaw tightened. His brows furrowed. “I'll call us an Uber."

Lando just smiled, unbothered. “Alright. Take care of her, yeah? So many weirdos out tonight."

Max didn’t respond, only studied Lando with scrutiny. The stare held, but Lando didn’t break it—he didn’t even flinch. No hesitation, no nerves, just that same quiet confidence he carried in debriefs.

Max turned back to you. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t hesitate. The moment you took Max’s hand, Lando’s fingers finally slipped from your wrist.

Max tugged you toward the door, his grip firm, protective.

"You alright?" he asked under his breath as you stepped into the hall.

You nodded, forcing out a quiet, "Yeah."

But as you glanced back, you caught it—Lando’s expression.

Not upset. Not angry. Not annoyed.

He looked casually entertained, small smile and his brows raised. Like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he expected.

You watched as his mouth moved, no words coming out but he said it slow enough so that you could comprehend it.

'See you at home.'

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