willowsnook

[willowsnook]

Just The Two Of Us.

summary: a night of dancing and too much alcohol dredges up old (?) feelings and unresolved tension between you and lando, blurring the line between history and heat as a single moment threatens to unravel everything you’ve both been trying not to want

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, alcohol / intoxication, mutual (?) pining, soft angst, sexual tension, drunken vulnerability, thigh riding, drunk confessions, soft horny chaos

word count: 5,5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since that night at the bar. Since you walked away with Charles and Lando just… let you. Since whatever that moment was between you all evaporated into the haze of alcohol, music, and unspoken choices.

Lando never brought it up.

Not once.

He never asked what happened with Charles, never made a comment, never let anything slip—except for the way he looked at you a little differently for a few days after. Like he was trying to piece something together and never quite figured out how to ask the question. Or maybe he just didn’t want the answer.

But after that? Things fell back into place.

Sort of.

The banter returned, light and easy. Familiar. You still teased each other over your tragic snack choices and made sarcastic comments about each other’s Spotify queues. There were late-night kitchen run-ins, the occasional movie half-watched together, and the same dumb inside jokes passed between you like muscle memory.

But everything now had Charlotte’s name quietly folded into it.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom sometimes. Her perfume lingered in the hallway when she left. There were missed calls on his phone from her. Her laughter on speaker when he’d answer mid-conversation with you. She was never intrusive, never rude, always warm and friendly when you crossed paths but she was there.

And so you drifted again.

Still close, but no longer the center of each other’s gravity.

But one Thursday night, he brought it up casually, like it was nothing.

Lando leaned against the counter, half a slice of toast in one hand, his phone glowing on the table beside him.

“Oh—hey,” he said, glancing over. “Remember the DJ I wanted to take you to see?”

You looked up from your laptop, distracted. “The one from the night I violently started vomiting?”

That’s what you said out loud.

What you thought was: The one from the night you met Charlotte.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. He’s back this weekend. Playing that same club. Charlotte’s out of town—family thing—so I thought, you know… maybe you’d want to go?”

You blinked. “With you?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We haven’t properly been out together in a while.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You were ready to. The excuse was half-formed, something about being tired or having plans or just not being in the mood. But then you looked at him.

The way he was smiling, not the flashy kind he used with everyone else. Just quiet. Hopeful. Familiar.

It tugged something loose in your chest. Something softer.

And you realized how long it had been since it was just the two of you. Since the night was only yours, not divided by subtext or someone else’s presence. Just Lando. Just you.

“Okay,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

His whole face lit up. “Yeah? Sick.”

He was already unlocking his phone, tapping away excitedly, like this was something he’d been waiting on for longer than he let on.

And for a second, you let yourself feel it too.

The anticipation. The comfort. The possibility of something that used to be yours.

Even if it wasn’t anymore.

And when Saturday came arround, you didn’t set out to get that drunk.

It started small. Innocent. A night out that felt overdue—just the two of you again, no lingering tension, no third presence hovering over your shoulder. Something that might feel like old times, even if it wasn’t.

The air was stiff at first. Not cold exactly, just... cautious. Like you both were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would laugh first, tease first, act like nothing had changed.

But the moment you really realized Charlotte wasn’t there and wasn’t even mentioned, something in you loosened. You let the tightness in your chest go slack. Just a little.

Lando’s voice was familiar. His jokes were predictable and comforting. His eyes, bright and warm and pointed only at you, felt like home again.

Then came the drinks. Just one each. Then a second. Then shared shots, the kind you never liked but took anyway, because he handed it to you with that grin and you didn’t want to be the reason it faded.

Then the music got louder. The lights got blurrier.

And you started to feel good. Really good.

The kind of good that makes you forget the ache in your chest. The kind that makes it easy to smile without thinking. Easy to dance without worrying where his hands aren’t.

Easy to believe that maybe none of this is as complicated as it’s become.

The place was packed, pulsing with heat and the blurred lines of strangers dancing too close. You moved through it all like someone trying to shake something off. The vodka burned, but it helped. The music was too loud, but it gave your thoughts somewhere to hide. People laughed, flirted, spilled drinks, and it all melted into a blur around the edges.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was him.

Lando looked stupidly good. The kind of good you tried not to notice anymore. His shirt clung in all the right places, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the mix of dancing and liquor. His laugh was even louder than usual, a little reckless. Real.

And you hated how much it got to you.

At one point, he leaned close to say something, and his hand found the small of your back. Familiar, casual. But you felt it everywhere. You didn’t pull away.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

You’d missed that version of him. The one who laughed without checking himself, who let the music move through him like it belonged there. The version of him that reached for your hand without hesitation, eyes bright and mouth already curved into a grin before you even made it to the dance floor.

“You remember this song?” he yelled over the heavy thump of the speakers, his fingers tightening around yours as he pulled you into the mess of bodies.

You stumbled forward, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. The alcohol made everything feel slightly off balance, spinning, sliding, but somehow safer in his orbit. “Of course I remember. You played it on a loop that summer.”

“I did not,” he protested, already grinning like he knew you were right.

“You did,” you insisted, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Three weeks. Same stupid song. I wanted to break your speaker.”

He raised his eyebrows, spinning you once with a dramatic flair. You wobbled, giggling, and crashed into him. His hands caught your hips to steady you, lingering just a second too long. “It’s a classic. Can’t argue with art.”

“You’re so full of it,” you said, still breathless.

“Drunk me is confident,” he corrected, swaying with you as the beat shifted to something heavier, deeper. His body moved closer, hands hovering but not quite touching now, the ghost of muscle memory dancing just beneath the skin.

“I said cocky,” you teased, looking up at him through lashes that felt too heavy.

He shrugged with a crooked smile. “Same thing.”

The air grew thicker with heat and sweat and perfume, the kind of charged closeness that made it hard to breathe but impossible to pull away from. Around you, people danced in a blur of limbs and laughter, but your focus narrowed. Just him. Just this.

You didn’t notice when your body curved back into his, only that it felt right. Familiar. Like falling into a rhythm your body hadn’t forgotten, even if your mind had tried. His chest pressed against your spine, hands still tentative, but closer now. Testing the distance.

His breath brushed your ear. “You’re dangerous like this,” he said, low enough to be private, words already slurred from the alcohol “You dance like you know someone is watching.”

The words sent a ripple down your spine. You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him, nothing but inches between you. You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

“And you talk like you forgot we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, voice even, but your pulse was anything but.

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just stared, expression unreadable except for the subtle flick of his eyes to your mouth. His fingers twitched where they hovered at your waist, like he was trying to decide if he could cross that line again. Just once.

The moment stretched, pulsing in time with the music. His eyes darkened, parted lips like he might speak, or do something else entirely.

And then someone stumbled past, jostling your shoulder. A splash of liquid hit your arm. Someone swore. You stepped back instinctively.

The spell broke. The music kept going, but something between you stopped.

It was already clear Lando had passed the threshold long before you'd left the club. Inside, he’d been leaning on you between songs, mumbling nonsense into your ear, slurring the end of every sentence like it was a secret. His eyes had lost their usual sharpness, replaced with that wide, glassy look that meant he’d stopped keeping track of how much he drank.

And when he threw his head back and yelled across the bar for “just one more round!”, you knew he was gone.

But it wasn’t until the cold air hit your faces that it really sunk in.

It slammed into you both like a wall, sobering and spinning at the same time. The night outside was harsh and too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring after hours of music pounding through your chest.

Lando blinked hard. Wobbled once. Then let out a groan so low and pitiful you almost laughed again. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes big and terrified like he’d just remembered gravity existed. “I don’t like this.”

You swayed slightly, vision swimming, trying to focus on the street signs. “You’re fine. Just keep walking. It’s not that far to the taxis.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered urgently. “Are they still attached?”

“They’re attached. One foot in front of the other.”

“I feel like I’m floating. But in, like, a bad way.”

He sagged heavily against your side, nearly dragging you both off the curb.

“You’re the best,” he muttered, lips brushing your shoulder, “but I still want chips.”

“I know,” you said, pulling him toward the curb. “We’ll find you chips. And maybe an exorcist.”

You were barely holding it together yourself. Your head was full of cotton, your mouth dry, legs wobbly beneath you. But you kept going. Because someone had to. And tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.

The cab ride was a miracle.

It smelled like kebabs and stale beer, the kind of sticky, sour stench that clung to your clothes. Lando collapsed the second he was in, sprawling across the backseat like a drunk prince. His head found your shoulder automatically, and his arm flopped across your lap, heavy and hot.

He sighed, a deep, content sound that tugged at something in your chest.

Then he mumbled something “ketchup”, maybe “curry sauce”. Or maybe your name. You weren’t sure. You didn’t want to be sure.

His eyes stayed shut, but the faintest smile curled at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that only ever showed up when he felt safe. Like this. With you.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared out the window, streetlights blurring past like stars falling sideways. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Quieter. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t think too hard about the weight of his hand on your knee.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop outside the flat, you nudged him gently. “Lando,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He groaned in protest and buried his face in your coat. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, then threw one arm dramatically over his eyes like he was playing dead.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that came from the soles of your feet. Exhausted. Amused. A little exasperated.

“Come on, Lando.”

He slumped deeper into the cab seat. “Nooooo.”

“Get. Up.”

“Carry me,” he said without shame, eyes shut, arms flopping out like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

You half-laughed, half-groaned, already climbing out of the car. “You are literally all limbs. You’re a human octopus.”

But despite his dramatic protest, he tried to stand—sort of. Wobbled to his feet with the grace of a baby deer and immediately swayed into you. You looped an arm around his waist, feeling the full, ridiculous weight of him as he leaned into your side like you were gravity itself.

Getting him across the pavement was a comedy of errors. Every few steps, he muttered something new: a complaint, a question, a half-coherent lyric. “It’s freezing,” he whined. “I’m dying. You know, I think I miss my bed more than I’ve ever missed anything. And do we have crisps? Wait—wait. Do you have crisps?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you hissed, breath fogging in the cold. “Shut up and walk.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected with great effort, slurring it into something closer to shar-ming as he bumped his forehead against yours. “Also… I love your hair.”

You faltered.

“What?”

“Just sayin’,” he said, the words thick and sweet. “It’s soft. Like—like clouds.”

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Finally—miraculously—you got the door open. The apartment greeted you with dim, golden light and that faint scent that was always there.

Lando nearly fell inside, catching himself with one hand on the wall before staggering upright. “I’m good,” he said to absolutely no one, then gestured grandly down the hallway like he was a knight returning from battle. “Bed. Now.”

He took off with a crooked gait, zigzagging like he was dodging invisible obstacles. You followed out of instinct more than anything, watching him collapse face-first onto his bed, limbs sprawled at impossible angles. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Lando,” you mumbled, pulling at your own boots, swaying a little. “Shoes. Off.”

“I can’t,” he whined, rolling onto his back. His voice went high and needy. “You do it. Please? I’m just a little drunk boy.”

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the bed, hands fumbling for his laces with what limited dexterity you had left. The room tilted slightly around you as you tried to focus.

Above you, there was a soft metallic clink. Then the subtle slide of leather on denim.

You paused. “Lando, what are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“You said to get undressed.”

You looked up, then immediately rolled your eyes.

His belt was halfway undone, his jeans unbuttoned, his shirt half-off in the most chaotic, tangled mess you’d ever seen. He looked like someone who’d lost a fight with his own clothing.

“I said take of your shoes, you idiot.”

But he was grinning now. Slow. Lazy. His elbows propped him up enough to look down where you knelt at the edge of the bed, between his legs. Curls messy, eyes half-lidded and locked on you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, soft and low. “What a view.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

Because his voice wasn’t teasing. Not really.

And neither was the way he was looking at you.

Your hands were still tangled in the laces of his second shoe, knuckles brushing against the fabric of his jeans, your body swaying ever so slightly from the haze of alcohol. You were kneeling between his legs—flushed, breathless, hair falling over your face in loose strands. A mess. But not the kind you cared to fix right now.

You giggled, quiet and nervous, trying to shake off the tension wrapping around your spine like a coiled wire. “You’re drunk,” you said, voice unsteady, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Lando groaned in response, collapsing back onto the mattress with all the weight of someone who’d decided that gravity was now in charge. His arms flopped outward, one draped dramatically off the side of the bed, the other dragging lazily down the middle of his chest. The mattress springs gave a long, creaking sigh beneath him.

Then his hand stilled—paused low on his stomach, his crotch to be fair.

You froze.

Your eyes followed the subtle shift of his fingers as they drifted downward, slow, unhurried, until they pressed against the front of his jeans. Just a simple adjustment. Natural. Absentminded. Adjusting the obvious buldge.

He exhaled, low and slow, like the weight of his own touch had ignited something he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers lingered, just for a second too long. And you were still kneeling there. Still watching.

Your breath caught like a tripwire.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “You know…” he began, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in sleep and liquor and something els, something unmistakably want. “I could just… see your lips wrapped around me. Right there.”

He said it like a confession, not a line. Not tossed with bravado or smirked with smug satisfaction.

It landed like a punch in the chest.

Your body went still. The air in the room shifted, sucked out of it and replaced with something dense. Electric.

You stared at him, stunned, not because of what he said, but because of how it made you feel. The way it shot straight through you, molten and reckless.

And without a word, you stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, your knees unfolding, rising to your feet with shaky grace. You stayed between his legs, your body towering over him now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

He didn’t move.

For a terrifying second, you thought maybe he had passed out. That all of it—all of him—was already slipping away again. Just another foggy memory you’d try not to touch later.

But then, his lashes fluttered. His head tilted forward. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, fingers warm and unsteady, gripping you like he didn’t trust the room to stay still. It took effort, but he sat up, blinking through the haze until his eyes locked on yours.

And then he was there.

Right there.

Face level with your chest, his chin resting between your boobs while looking up at you through his lashes. Your shirt had slipped lower than you realized, the neckline gaping just enough for his gaze to catch on bare skin. His lips parted, eyes dark and unblinking, and something in the air cracked under the weight of it.

This wasn’t the look of someone flirting.

This was hunger. Unfiltered. Slow-burning.

He tilted his chin up slightly, mouth open, like he was already breathing you in. And his hands—god, his hands—tightened on your waist, not pulling, just holding, like you were the only stable thing in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and reverent.

Your stomach knotted. Everything pulsed.

The room felt thick, too hot, your heart hammering in your throat. You couldn’t tell if the heat in your cheeks came from the alcohol or the way his eyes were dragging over you like he was memorizing every exposed inch.

“Lando…” you whispered. It wasn’t loud. Barely there. Like even saying his name might snap the fragile thread of tension between you.

But he heard you.

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look confused. He didn’t look careless.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. It was like he’d already decided. Like your voice saying his name only confirmed something that had already started unfolding the second the club door closed behind you.

His fingers—warm, unsteady—brushed up your back, trailing lazily over the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, like he was just touching to remember what you felt like. Then he dragged one hand across your side, curling around your ribs. The contact made you shiver.

“You look so good in this,” he mumbled, voice rough and low—drunk, slurred.

Then his fingers dipped forward, brushing across your chest. Not grabbing. Just a slow sweep through the valley of your breasts, knuckles grazing delicate skin like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.

You exhaled, sharp.

His eyes flicked up again, meeting yours.

You didn’t stop him.

There was a long moment where nothing happened and everything did, your breath shallow, your thighs tightening, your hands flexing uselessly at your sides.

He got impatient, hands sliding down to your hips before tugging you down onto his thigh. The motion was clumsy, uncoordinated, but it lit a spark in your gut all the same. Now straddling him, your legs bracketed his thigh, your body pressed close—closer than it had been in weeks.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and warm, the denim rough against your skin. The pressure made you gasp, a quiet, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out. He heard it anyway. Smirked.

His eyes trailed from the neckline of your shirt up to your face, pupils blown wide and unfocused and then he was touching you again, fingertips brushing your cheek, slipping around to the nape of your neck. You froze, breath hitched, a pulse thudding between your ribs.

He looked at you like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. He just pulled you in, his mouth crashing against yours.

You kissed him back like you were starving.

His groan rumbled low in his throat as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss was messy, all teeth and heat and unspoken feelings bursting to the surface. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue, could feel the weeks of silence and missed moments pouring out of him and into you.

It was overwhelming and perfect and reckless.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first.

It was slow—barely anything at all—but the friction caught instantly, your body shifting against the line of his thigh, your breath stuttering. His hands gripped you tighter, like he felt it too, a low sound slipping from his throat again, half moan, half curse.

You broke the kiss, lips parting as you pulled back just a little, your mouth still open, breathing him in. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark and glazed and fixed entirely on you.

What were you doing?

The thought flashed—brief, sharp—but it was buried under the weight of his hands, the warmth of him underneath you, the alcohol roaring in your bloodstream like a permission slip you didn’t need. All the silence. All the pretending. All of it collapsed into this moment that didn’t feel like a mistake yet.

And then—soft, urgent, not quite a plea—he said it:

“Don’t stop.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed like a strike.

You didn’t.

Your hips tilted again, slow and uncertain, chasing that pressure, feeling the flex of his thigh through his jeans and the heat building in your own body.

His hands slipped lower—slow, possessive—until one settled firmly at your hip, the other sliding down to grab your ass, fingers curling in a way that made you gasp. He pulled you harder against him, guiding your movement with an unspoken rhythm that had your whole body humming.

The friction turned sharper, needier. Your breath caught in your throat.

You leaned in again before you could think better of it.

Mouths crashed. No hesitation now, no teasing—just tongue and teeth and heat, wet and messy and drunk. His hand gripped you tighter, pulling your body flush against his. You rocked down into him, your hips rutting against his thigh, the pressure between your legs maddening.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow.

But it was exactly what it had to be.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the slap of mouths and the low groan in his throat as your nails scraped lightly over the back of his neck, as your lips dragged down to his jaw and he let out your name.

You barely noticed when you both tipped backwards, the mattress catching you in a clumsy sprawl. Lando grunted beneath you, his hands never leaving your body as your knee lifted, leg swinging over to straddle him properly now. You steadied yourself with your palms on his chest, breath ragged, hair slipping into your face.

For a beat, you just sat there, spine arching as your hips rolled down, your thin thong still catching friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands gripped your waist harder.

You sat up slowly, heart hammering and peeled your shirt off, casting it somewhere into the darkened room. His eyes were locked on your body, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast.

Your skirt had already rucked up to your hips, forgotten. There was nothing left but that barely-there thong, stretched tight between your thighs, and the heavy line of him beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with disbelief, hunger, awe. His fingers flexed, holding you like you might vanish.

You leaned forward again, hands braced against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through your palms. Then lower. Fingers dragging down to the buckle he’d half-undone earlier in some drunken, distracted haze.

He twitched beneath you as your knuckles brushed over him, still restrained beneath denim but so obviously hard now. His eyes fluttered, head tilting back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes meeting yours again, all glassy and unguarded.

Your fingers moved slowly at first, slipping beneath the open leather of his belt and trailing down to the place where his warm skin met the rough denim. His breath hitched as you brushed along the line of his hipbone, teasing just above the waistband.

Then he lifted his hips with a drunken urgency, clumsy but determined, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go. The motion made you gasp, half in surprise, half in something deeper. He reached up, pulling at the sides of your thong at the same time, dragging the thin fabric down your legs with a groan, not even trying to be careful.

You helped, just enough. And then his legs kicked out beneath you, tangled clothes gone, skin warm against yours, bare now in a way that made your breath stall in your throat.

As he fell back again, you reached for his shirt—fingers fumbling with the buttons, working them free one by one, trailing your finger tips over the skin you uncovered. He was flushed, warm, and trembling slightly beneath your touch.

Then he stilled.

His hips settled again, and you were sitting fully on top of him now, the heat of your bare skin pressed down against him. His length nestled right between your folds, your lips parting on either side of him and it was obscene how clearly you could feel him.

Every inch. Every ridge. Every slow, pulsing throb.

You weren’t moving yet. Just breathing.

And he wasn’t saying a word. Just staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening either.

You moved again, slow, unsteady, your hips tilting as the friction sparked another moan low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you down until your lips met again, even messier now, full of teeth and breath and need.

Then, in one dizzy motion, he rolled, flipping you beneath him with a half-laugh, half-groan, barely managing to brace himself on one elbow beside your head. The other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you close, keeping you there.

His body hovered over yours, heat pressed to heat. You could feel him, right there, poised, waiting.

Lando looked down at you, eyes glassy and wide, his curls damp against his forehead. He searched your face like he wasn’t even sure this was real.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He pressed forward, slow at first like he didn’t trust himself not to rush it. His hands gripped your hips like a tether, grounding him in the moment even as the rest of him trembled. You felt the stretch, the heat, the deep pull of him inside you, and your breath caught sharply. His mouth parted around a broken sound—barely a gasp, almost reverent.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His eyes were glassy, yes, but there was something almost sober in the way he met your gaze.

You cupped his face, fingers slipping through sweat-damp curls, and he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “You okay?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your cheek as he moved deeper. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You?”

You nodded too. Because you were.

The rhythm was messy, offbeat and drunken but there was something devastatingly earnest in the way he held you, kissed you, clung to you like this was something he’d been starving for. Like your body was the first place he’d felt whole in weeks. His hands moved constantly: down your back, over your ribs, threading into your hair like he couldn’t touch enough, couldn’t get enough. Every time your breath hitched, every time you whispered his name, he answered like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just undone.

Your hips rocked together, not perfectly, but with a building desperation that made it real. Your thighs trembled him, his grip tightening when you whimpered and he kissed you again, sloppy, open-mouthed, too much teeth. You didn’t care. You kissed him like you needed it to stay alive.

He whispered something then, your name, maybe, or a curse, or please. You didn’t catch all of it, just the weight of it, the way it split his voice open.

Your climax hit slowly, like your body was realizing it in pieces, rippling up your spine before washing through your limbs. You buried your face in his shoulder, breath breaking against his skin, clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

He came after, head thrown back, jaw slack, a sound falling from his throat like it had nowhere else to go. One hand held the back of your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, like if he let go you’d both come undone.

But he didn’t let go.

Not even when your bodies stilled. Not even when the heat ebbed into afterglow and your breath began to steady. He stayed with you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand curled at the base of your spine, holding you like something fragile. Sacred.

After it was over, the room settled into a heavy, almost reverent silence. You lay there, the warmth of his body molding against yours, his arm draped protectively around your waist while the other rested gently across your chest and shoulders. The rise and fall of his breath gradually slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

He nuzzled his head softly into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. It was a quiet kind of intimacy—slow, unspoken, raw in a way that made your chest ache.

Not like the other nights.

Not like the hurried kisses and tangled sheets and the silence that always followed, when you'd slip away before the sun touched the windows. When he'd turn his back or mumble something half-asleep and you'd pretend it didn’t hollow you out.

Those nights were physical. Fleeting. Always burning out before morning.

But this—this closeness—was different. He hadn’t let go. Hadn’t pulled away. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist like a tether, his nose brushing against your skin like he needed to feel you to stay grounded.

You didn’t quite know what had just happened. Part of you understood perfectly, yet another part felt suspended, caught between clarity and confusion.

Your hand found his forearm, fingers curling lightly around the soft skin, anchoring you to the moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

Then, barely more than a whisper, you broke it.

“Lan.”

A low groan, almost sleepy, came as a response. “Hm.”

You weren’t sure if he was still awake or already drifting away.

Gathering a quiet courage, you whispered again, “I love you.”

No answer. Just the faint sound of his breathing against your neck, steady and slow.

i literally said sorry in advance, pls don´t come for me

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[willowsnook]

they’re in love with their PR girl who won’t give them the time of day

lando norris you once told him to stop winking at the camera during grid walks he started doing it twice as much when you finally scolded him after a press conference, he grinned and said,

“so you do pay attention to me.” would fake an injury if it meant you'd touch his arm would date you tomorrow would also tweet “i love my pr girl” and then delete it in 0.2 seconds “is it a scandal if we’re soulmates though?”

oscar piastri his flirting is subtle — but constant dry comments, lingering glances, always asking for you to review his answers when you tell him to focus on the race, he goes,

“i’d focus better if you weren’t in that outfit.” you freeze. he pretends he didn’t say anything he did and he meant it

charles leclerc this man is WHIPPED. trips over his words during interviews when he sees you watching asks for “private media training” just to spend time with you you say “charles, i’m here to help your image” and he’s like

“yes, please fix it by dating me.” would literally beg in french accidentally calls you mon cœur under his breath and prays you didn’t hear it (you did)

lewis hamilton the smoothest menace alive never flirty in public, but in private?

“how are you always so composed around me?” you: “professionalism.” him: “boring answer. try again.” writes thank-you notes to the team and always adds a personal one just for you the kind that makes your stomach flip would 100% show up outside your hotel room with flowers and a bottle of wine saying “no cameras. no pressure. just you and me.”

carlos sainz thinks he's being subtle spoiler: he's not literally stares at you in meetings asks you to “approve” every interview, even ones he knows went well starts speaking Spanish just to see if you’ll blush one day calls you “mi reina” and swears it slipped watches you leave the room like it physically pains him it does

daniel ricciardo no shame calls you “boss” and “hot stuff” interchangeably sends memes to the media group chat that are clearly directed at you “when ur pr girl tells you to stop flirting but she looked cute af today 😔” says “i’ll behave” with a wink and then absolutely doesn’t you: “daniel please—” him: “daniel please kiss me? wow okay that escalated”

gabriel bortoleto tries to play it cool completely fails stumbles through interviews and always looks to you for reassurance calls you “minha deusa” once when he’s tired and soft you pretend you didn’t hear he hopes you did

franco colapinto nervous. quiet. obsessed. tries to flirt but ends up giving you his coffee and tripping over his words asks you if he’s “handling the press okay” just to get your praise you once touched his wrist to adjust his watch and he thought about it for three days just wants you to smile at him would literally cry if you ever called him “pretty boy”

max verstappen doesn’t flirt. just stares and asks personal questions like

“do you ever get tired of dealing with us?” you answer professionally he doesn’t break eye contact his hand brushes yours when you hand him his briefing notes you don’t talk about it but he feels the tension every time

lance stroll pretends to be chill. is NOT chill. you told him to stop smirking during interviews he started smiling every time you entered the room instead texts you memes. waits for you to like his IG posts. when you told him “this can’t happen,” he just blinked and said,

“so you have thought about it.” sends you flowers signed “from a fan”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[willowsnook]

MYSTERY OF LOVE.

IN WHICH… what romance trope he is.

featuring. Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz & Lewis Hamilton.

warnings. idk ? fluff, slightest angst, mentions of age gap.

LANDO NORRIS: friends to lovers

You and Lando had been around forever—two of the “cool kids” in the paddock. Always joking, always close. People knew you as best friends. But sometimes... it felt like more.

Your friendship lived in the in-between—more than platonic but never defined. He’d hook an arm around your neck just a second too long. You’d roll your eyes when he grinned that knowing grin and called you his “anchor.” You teased each other endlessly, but God help anyone else who tried. Because when someone flirted with you in front of him, his laugh got tighter. When another driver put a hand on your back, Lando’s voice dropped an octave and he’d make some offhand comment that was just this side of territorial.

And you? You weren’t any better. When his name trended with someone else’s, you’d scoff to whoever was listening, “Oh please, she doesn’t even get him.” Like you did. Because you did.

You both stayed quiet. Pretending it was nothing.

But it was never just friendship. Not really.

MAX VERSTAPPEN: opposites attract

Max Verstappen wasn’t the sunshine of the paddock. You knew that going in. Still, you took the job—PR manager to the most closed-off man in motorsport.

You were the opposite. Talked too fast, smiled too easily, allergic to silence. At first, it was hell. He barely spoke, just gave you that look whenever you rambled—like he was counting the seconds until you shut up.

You didn’t.

And eventually… he stopped minding.

Somewhere between media briefings and tense post-race debriefs, he started waiting for you. Letting the corner of his mouth twitch when you made terrible jokes. Even throwing out one or two of his own, quiet and bone-dry, just for you.

You were chaos to his calm. But you were also the only one who could make him laugh. And maybe, just maybe, he liked that more than he let on.

OSCAR PIASTRI: highschool sweethearts

You were the one everyone knew—always smiling, always in the center of the crowd. Oscar stayed quiet. He liked cars and speed, but not people.

You and Oscar had lockers by the teacher’s lounge—close, but not close enough to talk. He always showed up just before the bell, headphones in, eyes down.

One day, your pen rolled off your binder and landed near his shoes. Without saying a word, he picked it up and handed it back. His hand brushed yours. Just for a second. But it was enough to notice the small scar on his knuckle, the way he looked straight at you like he wasn’t afraid of anything.

After that, you started noticing other things—how he tapped his fingers when he was thinking, how he smiled only with one side of his mouth. Then came the group project. And you weren’t just watching anymore. You were talking, laughing, leaning in a little too close.

Turns out, the quiet guy with the fast car might just be the only one who saw the real you.

CHARLES LECLERC: bestfriends’ brother

Arthur had been your best friend since you could walk. The two of you were chaos in matching sneakers—scraped knees, secret codes, and loud laughter that echoed through the house. His house became your second home, especially in the summers.

The Leclercs' place in Monaco was a dream: sea breeze curling around the balcony, cold drinks on the yacht, Mario Kart tournaments that got way too intense for something powered by plastic controllers. And Charles… well, he was always there.

Three years older, already half-legend, half-heartthrob. To you, he was the boy with messy hair and a quiet kind of charm. He’d ruffle your hair like you weren’t suddenly fourteen and acutely aware of how close he stood. He’d lift you like you weighed nothing and toss you into the sea with a laugh, arms steady and warm even in mischief.

You told yourself it was harmless.

It wasn’t.

CARLOS SAINZ: summer fling

You had come for the match, not for anything else. El Clásico under the Spanish sky—Barcelona against Madrid, passion against pride. Every cheer from the stands, every ripple of the anthem, pulsed through your bones. You were loud, unapologetically blaugrana, high on adrenaline and loyalty.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t the score you remembered most.

It was the Madrid fan with the disarming smile and the easy charm. The one who found you after the final whistle, whose presence lingered like sunset heat on your skin. There was something magnetic in the way he carried himself—too confident, too smooth for someone on the losing side. But you didn’t turn away.

That night blurred at the edges. It was loud music and streetlight shadows, bar-hopping through alleyways you couldn’t pronounce. His hand brushed yours somewhere between one drink and the next. You didn’t pull away. When he leaned against the hotel wall, hoodie pulled low and laughter still clinging to his lips, you simply stepped aside and let him in.

What followed wasn’t planned. But it wasn’t regretted, either.

Barcelona had your loyalty.

Carlos had your heart.

LEWIS HAMILTON: forbidden love

It was forbidden. So deeply, obviously forbidden that you didn’t even let yourself say it out loud.

You were Toto’s daughter. Raised in the heartbeat of the paddock, fluent in strategy calls and press diplomacy before you could legally drive. Your last name carried weight—meant eyes followed you, whispers sharpened behind your back. You knew how this world worked. And you knew he could not be part of it.

A decade older. Focused. Dangerous, not in the way of recklessness, but in the way a fire draws you closer even when you know you’ll burn. Lewis was everything your father respected in a driver—calm, consistent, clean under pressure. He was supposed to win championships, not hearts. And definitely not yours.

But you started to notice the pauses—those longer glances when you passed in the hallway. The way your conversations stretched a little too far beyond motorsport. The shift in his voice when he said your name, softer, like it carried extra weight.

You tried to pull back. Tried to bury it beneath professionalism and polite distance. But Lewis made it hard. He was warm in all the right places—steady hands, a subtle smile, the kind of presence that made silence feel full instead of empty.

You told yourself it couldn’t happen. It shouldn’t happen.

But it did. And you were happy.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! Another drabble as I’m working on lando angst… I think every single one from this list has a potential. let me know what would you like to see!! I really like charles! bestfriends’ brother and madrista carlos <33

taglist ! I got scoffed by my queen @haniette that I don’t tag her so here it is. I’m sorry babe please forgive me😔🩷

[willowsnook]

JOE BURROW — this is me trying

summary — life isn’t always easy. it rips and it tears and has no mercy. Joe is there to help her rummage through the pieces and put her back together.

warnings — fem!reader, mentions of anxiety/depression, fluff, angst, language, not proofread

requested by — @megantmerritt-blog

note — everyone experiences depression and anxiety differently. i’m drawing on my own personal experiences and what i know. if anyone is struggling, please know that there are people who love and care for you (including me!) I’m always here for any of you who need it <3

tags — @willowsnook @joecoolburrow @iosivb9 @softburrow @wickedfun9 @starsinthesky5 @joeyburrrow @hannahjessica113 @irishmanwhore @hotburreaux @blairsworld22 @burrowdarling @joeyb1989 @joeyfranchise @ebsmind @sportyphile @kazsbrckkers (comment/send an ask if you wanna be added!)

IT COMES IN WAVES. Some days, the waves are gentle. They let her work and they let her love, other days they pull her into their riptides, spinning her around without mercy. She never dies, but those waves make her wish she didn’t struggle so hard.

Her eyes peeled open, the tap of the rain against the roof gently pulling her from sleep. Her body felt heavy, her heart beating slow, hard beats. She doesn’t look over at her boyfriend, whose arms were wrapped around her waist. He was worried for her, struggling to understand why she was having a bad day all of a sudden.

last night

Distraction. That’s what she needed. Something to do while her chest tightened, something to focus on while her stomach was tied into knots. So, she busied herself with changing the sheets of the bed. Her hands shook, violently, her breaths uneven and shallow.

But she promised Joe she’d do them.

She didn’t know what brought on the panic. She’d had a good day so far; finished a book, baked her favorite cookies, even got her nails done. Something snapped, and through the wall of her antidepressants, something snuck through.

“Babe?” Joe called, padding from his office. He’d been watching film, routes and plays burned into his retinas. He wanted to spend some time with his girl, but when he walked into their bedroom, he didn’t see the relaxed woman he came home to a couple hours ago.

“Baby,” he called again, stopping her hands from trying to fold the fitted sheet, “what’s wrong?”

“I hate fitted sheets,” she spoke, her voice shaky, “why do we need them if they can’t fucking fold?”

Joe knew better. He knew that she wasn’t being dramatic. Her hands shook, they were clammy and cold. Her hands didn’t stay in his for long.

“It makes sleeping more comfortable, love,” he replied gently, letting her have her space. Joe knew better than to constantly barrage her with questions. He could see it written all over her face; she was on the cusp of an anxiety attack.

“But if we can’t fucking fold them then why do we bother washing them?” she replied, her breaths shallow. Joe was a blurry figure in front of her, her mind refusing to compute that Joe was trying to help her.

“Baby, look at me,” he encouraged, and when she didn’t, he felt his chest tighten, “Y/N,”

Her eyes flicked up. He went in and out of focus, her body nearly collapsing in on itself. The unknown of what was causing her panic threw her even further, making her heart beat faster in her chest.

So fast her Apple watch buzzed against her wrist. Her heart rate was too high.

“Talk to me,” Joe urged. He hated seeing her like this, her body caving in on itself. He hated watching her spiral, and he could see it. The gloss over her eyes, the way her hands were clawing at her chest as if it would allow her to breathe.

It scared him.

“Baby,” Joe grabbed her hands, kneeling in front of her, “focus on me,”

“I-I,”

“Just breathe,” he told her, mimicking deep and careful breaths. Inhale for 3 seconds. Exhale for 5. Over and Over again. Joe held her hands, trying to quiet the subtle shake in them. His heart rapidly thudded against his chest, his own anxiety rising.

After a few minutes, her eyes still hazy, she finally snapped out of it. Her breaths were deep and ragged, her eyes barely staying open. Joe wanted to embrace her, he wanted to bring her into his arms and hold her.

But he knew better. She didn’t want to be touched after a panic attack.

“I’m here, okay?” He nodded, his eyes staring holes into her body. He needed her to believe that he was there for her. She nodded, continuing to monitor her own breathing.

present day

Her eyes watched as the rain pattered against the window. The soft hum of the AC accompanied the rain, relaxing her muscles. She was sore, her muscles the same consistency as jello. She slid her arms under her satin pillow, the coolness of its underside making her melt.

She still felt the lingering effects of last night’s panic attack. The silence. The soreness. The deep breaths every other breath. She was exhausted, her bones begging her to stay in bed.

Joe shifted, his arm tightening around her. His face was plastered against her back, his head dipped between her shoulder blades. Even dead asleep, he held onto her. He didn’t want her to disappear on him.

Some days, she did want to disappear. As she laid in his arms, a physical reminder of his never ending love, she couldn’t help but drift. He could have chosen anyone, yet he settled for her. Her friends all hate her because she spends so much time with Joe. Joe hates her because she wants to make it up to her friends. She’s not good at balancing, so maybe things need to end anyways.

The lies she told herself made her eyes water. It made her spiral, but she forced herself to relax. She wasn’t going to have another panic attack. Her body was too tired, too battle ridden.

She pulled from Joe’s grasp, letting his arm fall onto the bed. She tugged herself off of the bed, the heaviness in her bones causing her to shuffle to the bathroom. The door softly shut behind her, and when she saw herself in the mirror, she inhaled deeply.

Messy. Tired. Ugly.

“Fuck,” she whispered, shaking her head and brushing her teeth. She had to do something to keep her mind from further damaging herself. Brushing her teeth was a menial task, but it felt like she was moving mountains doing so.

She spat out the toothpaste, wiping her mouth. She didn’t bother to wash her face or brush her hair. It could wait. She opened the door, expecting to see Joe still asleep.

He wasn’t.

“Shit,” she jumped, his upright position on the bed scaring her, “didn’t think you’d be awake,”

“You left,” he noted, his voice scratchy from sleep, “of course I woke up,”

Joe couldn’t sleep without her. His deepest sleep, snores and all, was when she was right next to him. Away games made for hell. He’s had to get used to it.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, padding back over to her side of the bed. She didn’t slide back in. Not like Joe wanted her to.

“It’s okay,” he shook his head. He crawled over, tugging at her hand. His blue eyes were wide, flicking over her face. He could see the inner turmoil, the struggle still deep within her bones.

“Lay with me,” he urged. She hesitated, even as his fingers tugged at her hand like a toddler trying to get their mom’s attention. She eventually gave in, sitting down in her spot. Her legs crossed under her, the weight of her body making the bed dip.

Joe noticed. He always did. The crease of her forehead. The way her fingers played with a loose thread of her shirt. Her cuticles were raw from how much she’d twirled that thread around her fingers, digging the little knot into her skin. He wanted to know what was going on in her head. He wanted to know what was ailing her.

“Y/N,” he sighed, “sweetheart, please. Talk to me,”

She inhaled deeply, poking her tongue out to moisten her lips. Joe would never judge her. He’d never think she was being over dramatic.

“I’m overthinking again,” she confessed, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Okay,” Joe sat up, crossing his legs under him. He scoot closer to her, but not too close.

“What’s your head telling you?” Joe added, his eyes locking with her side profile. Her jaw clenched. Her nostrils flared. Her eyelashes caught the little light coming through the window.

“It’s stupid,”

“No,” he shook his head, “no, it’s not. There’s a reason you’re thinking these things, and your mind has lied to you,”

He’s right. He always is.

“My friends hate me,” she started, “I’ve tried reaching out to them, asking to hangout, and they’re always busy. I mean, it’s always reasonable stuff like a pilates class or work, but I feel tossed aside,”

Joe listened, his eyes flicking across her face. She believed her words. Joe didn’t, but that’s because he saw what she sometimes couldn’t see.

“But then,” she added, “then I start to wonder if you hate me when I hang out with my friends. That you’re getting tired of me, that-that-”

She could feel her chest tighten, this time the threat of tears boiling in her body. She turned her face away from his, feeling his eyes bore into her. Joe’s heart clenched in his chest, and he reached out to tug on her arm. She fell against him, and he held her in his lap.

“I just feel like a bad person,” she sniffled, “My friends are always annoyed with me, you’re always annoyed with me. I cant put it into words,”

“Baby,” he hummed, kissing the top of her head, “no one is annoyed with you. Your friends are busy, but they want to hang out with you. They want to text you back. And my love, I could never be annoyed with you,”

His words soothed her, a balm to her wounded soul. She melted into his arms, the side of his head pressed against the side of hers.

“I love you,” he hummed, “which means all of you. Your triple texts, your passionate rants about college football, your pickiness when it comes to food. I love all of you, every part that you love and consider a flaw I adore,”

He hugged her tighter, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. She melted, dissolving into the plush of his embrace. He was a cold pillow after a hot day, a refreshing cup of water. He was always there for her in ways she never understood.

“I don’t-”

“Yes you do,” he interrupted, “you deserve the world and all its treasures,”

She couldn’t help but smile. She could be so predictable. He knew her like the back of his own hand, every bump and every smooth line. She was his girl, the love of his life.

“You’re not annoying,” he added, “you’re passionate and lovely. Don’t let anyone convince you of anything else,”

She wouldn’t. In that moment, she let him ease away her anxieties and her despair, his touch a grounding force. She curled into his lap, watching as the rain streamed down the window. Finally, for once, the rain meant new beginnings and fresh life. It didn’t mean despair and depression, it meant reprieve.

[willowsnook]

GREEN WITH ENVY ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you find out that your celebrity crush is coming to the paddock, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or ostentatiously charming.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Mentions of abandonment

a message from the author: I think that the drivers would be so funny in this situation! (Note: I added Daniel Ricciardo, though he technically isn’t a driver anymore. *Sobs loudly*) More “what-if” situations coming soon!

ISACK HADJAR

He doesn’t act insecure. In fact, he acts more confident than usual. Puffing up his chest, pulling you closer to him, definitely using more physical touch and a lot of pet names.

You can see how his demeanor changes as soon as your celebrity crush pays attention to you. He’s not outwardly possessive; he knows that even as your boyfriend, he doesn’t own you, but he still doesn’t like the “greedy way” the celebrity is eyeing you.

He over analyzes everything – from the greeting you give them to how you squeal when they say that they’re a big fan of yours. 

You have to comfort him later that night, running your fingers through his curls in the idle manner he absolutely adores. “Nobody is as amazing or perfect as you. Not even Timothee Chalamet.”

OSCAR PIASTRI

He hates being called icy, but that’s exactly how he acts when he finds out the news. Yeah, so what if your number-one celebrity crush is visiting the paddock? You’re his girlfriend, and no hot shot from Hollywood could ever take you away from him. 

Yet the doubt still worms its way in. Especially when he sees just how flustered you become, cheeks burning and words a quick stammer, and he has the sudden urge to have a passionate make out session with you in front of them. Modesty? Gone.

He makes you wear his jersey – a papaya-colored one with his last name inked on in bright black letters. Just so they’re aware.

LANCE STROLL

He’s not worried at all. Instead, he’s the epitome of a “cool guy”. You’re surprised he’s not behaving weirdly, but you’re too embarrassed to ask. Later, you cave, and he says, “They’re meaningless to me. We’ve been dating for years now; you would have left already if you wanted to.”

Despite this, however, he still leans in close to you, blocking the celebrity off from getting too close. You love it. Lance is not a particularly controlling guy, but those little movements? Chef’s kiss.

Afterwards, Lance orders a big bouquet of flowers and surprises you with a new stack of books that had been on your wishlist. “Do you think that they know you as well as I do? That they love you as much as I do?”

LANDO NORRIS

“I’m going to tattoo ‘Lando Norris’s girlfriend’ on your head while you’re sleeping.” Lando warns you the night before the celebrity is due to arrive. You know he’s joking, but you can barely sleep – from both the threat and the excitement. 

He turns into the most boastful, overly friendly person known to mankind. Loud laughter, rapid-fire jokes, anything to distract the celebrity from you. He even slaps the celebrity on the back, so forcefully they start coughing. (You almost started crying from laughing so hard.)

Adding onto this, he gets super competitive. He starts comparing accomplishments (“Was he in the running for the 2024 Driver’s Championship? I didn’t think so.”) to even the height difference (“I’m like ten centimeters taller than him! Do you want to date a garden gnome?”). It’s hilarious.

CHARLES LECLERC

He becomes quieter, more subdued. Rather than being bolder and more outgoing, he lets you spend time with the celebrity – though he’s fully aware of how long you’ve been crushing over them. 

While you’re chatting it up, you can hear him muttering in French. Not even curse words, just sentences like, “Who does he think he is? He’s like a peacock, trying so obviously to flirt with her. She’s mine.”

You buy matching outfits to wear to quell his nerves, albeit Charles not vocalizing any of his fears – that you might decide he wasn’t good enough for you and run away forever. (A foolish delusion, because no one was better than Charles Leclerc.)

DANIEL RICCIARDO

When he finds out, he immediately throws on a dramatic act. “I’m going to be abandoned! You’ll be disgusted with me as soon as you lay eyes on them, and you’ll leave me forever!” The only way to get him to be quiet was to kiss him, and that turned into something a lot more steamy…(Not that you’re complaining!)

Before the celebrity arrives, he starts drilling you. “So, you like him because of their chiseled abs? Their humor? Their accent? I have to be prepared, baby. I don’t want them whisking you away.” You roll your eyes, but secretly, you’re in heaven. It’s so hard to make Daniel jealous, but this is the perfect way to do it. Or so you thought…

…Because the celebrity becomes quick friends with Daniel. Of course he does; Daniel’s personality is magnetic and full of charm. Later, Daniel kisses you on the forehead right as you’re snuggling into bed, and says, “You have an amazing taste in men, baby. He’s awesome.”

Credits: Dividers — @sisterlucifergraphics

[willowsnook]

you're scared of thunderstorms – f1 grid reactions

lando norris the thunder cracks, and your whole body flinches he looks over from the couch and instantly drops his controller “oh no. baby. c’mere.” pulls you into his hoodie like it’s armor and wraps himself around you

“it’s just sky burps. loud, annoying sky burps. i got you.”

oscar piastri you go completely silent during the storm and curl up small he notices right away sits beside you without a word, hands you a soft blanket and holds your hand

“i’ll stay right here. you don’t have to say anything.” lets you put your head in his lap while he reads quietly to distract you

charles leclerc you jump at a thunderclap while brushing your teeth and he rushes in like

“did you fall? are you okay?” you whisper, “i hate storms.” his whole face softens. tucks you into bed and climbs in with you “i’ll talk until you fall asleep, d’accord? you’re safe.”

lewis hamilton you’re trying to hide it, but he sees right through you sits beside you and gently rubs your arm

“what do you need right now, love? silence? my voice? a song?” puts on your favorite calming playlist kisses your forehead between booms “nothing’s gonna hurt you while i’m here.”

carlos sainz a lightning flash makes you yelp and jump into his side he holds you tightly and half-laughs, but it’s soft

“you’re shaking.” carries you to bed, lights a candle, and wraps you in his arms like a human weighted blanket “storms pass. i don’t.”

daniel ricciardo pretends he’s not taking it seriously until he sees your face then all jokes drop

“hey, no teasing, i promise. you okay?” sits you in his lap, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder tells dumb stories and makes you laugh softly “we’ll ride it out together, alright?”

max verstappen you crawl under the covers and he follows without a word pulls you into his chest, one hand steady on your back

“it’s just noise. i’m not going anywhere.” stays up with you the whole time mutters sleepy little things in your hair “if you need to squeeze me when it hits, do it. i don’t mind.”

gabriel bortoleto you flinch every time the thunder rolls and he notices from across the room immediately goes to you, cups your face

“hey. hey. look at me.” kisses your forehead “you’re with me. okay? nothing can get you here.” holds your hand tight through every flash

franco colapinto you’re pacing in the hallway because of the storm he gently guides you back to the couch, wraps a blanket around your shoulders

“shh, mi amor. sit with me.” tells you about his childhood storms and how he used to imagine the clouds just playing “they’re loud. but they go away. and i’ll stay.”

lance stroll he finds you curled up on the couch, staring out the window, body tense immediately grabs the softest hoodie and wraps it around you

“storms freak you out, huh?” sits beside you and pulls you into his chest, lets your head rest over his heart “that sound? that’s all you need to focus on. just me. right here.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[willowsnook]

Sleeping In

Pairing: Lance Stroll x established gf!reader Summary: It's the first morning of summer break, and Lance wants you to stay in bed. Warnings: fluff, smut, creampie, unprotected sex, p in v, light nipple play, oral (f receiving), face riding. A/N: This was originally supposed to be just fluff based on All Time Low's Sleeping In, but my brain had other ideas. I also don't write fanfic very often, but Lance has me particularly inspired, especially since there is not a lot of fics featuring our favorite Canadian. Barely proofread. WC: 1.9k

These were your favorite kinds of mornings. The sun coming in from behind your curtains, curled up under your duvet, and him. The first morning of the summer break, and Lance curled nearly around you in bed together, his arm across you, holding you to his chest, his legs tangled in yours.

You moved to get up, to at least draw the curtains back a bit and let in more sunlight, trying to slip out from under Lance’s arm but it tightened around you as he started to wake up. 

“No. Stay” he grumbled into your neck, voice gravely with sleep. 

You instead turned over in bed to face your boyfriend, studying his face as he continued to lay there, basking in your presence. 

You rested a hand against his jaw and he turned his face into your palm to kiss it, his eyes still closed. Your heart tightened, a simple kiss, but you loved him for it all the same. You loved these mornings. 

Quiet. Warm. Full. 

Waking up together with Lance in your shared apartment was not as regular as you ever wanted it to be, but it made the mornings you had with him even more special. Sure, he came home between races when the travel made sense, and you spent race weekends with him when your work schedule allowed, but there was nothing like waking up together in the place you both called home.

”Lance, I have to get up,” you whispered, your thumb stroking his jawline, feeling the stubble under your skin, looking at him, recommitting his face to memory. “It’s a Tuesday morning”

Lance’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze finding yours, his grip on your hip tightening and he pouted. You chuckled lightly as he stuck out his lower lip. “Call in sick, reschedule your appointments, order groceries for delivery, whatever you have to do can wait. Stay here with me, we get so few of these mornings” 

You leaned in and kissed him, Lance immediately pressing his tongue to open your lips, and you let him. Slow and sensual, you kissed, savoring in his warmth, his taste. 

“Only if you get me that mini Fernando helmet I’ve been eyeing” you grin as you pull away. Lance fake gasps, grabbing the pillow you had been sleeping on and throwing it at you with no real force behind it as your laughs peals across the bedroom. 

“I see how it is, only using me to get closer to my teammate. I should have spotted it sooner” Lance smirks and pulls you on top of him, his hands on your hips to steady you. A silence falls over you, comfortable and warm, as you run a hand through Lance’s dark hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp, and Lance looks up at you, his dark eyes dancing in the morning light. 

“I love you” he says, almost reverently, “I can’t wait to marry you one day” 

Your heart jumps to your throat, tears come to your eyes as you are so overwhelmed with emotion. You don’t know what it is about this moment, why it feels so poignant and tender, but you lean down and kiss Lance again, moving your lips against each other, slow, deliberately. 

It doesn’t last long, the kiss deepens from both of you, tongues moving against the other, and you roll your hips once. It’s enough for Lance to moan into your mouth and you feel him starting to harden beneath you in his boxers. 

His hands hold your hips still, and he starts to rock his hips up into you, breaking away from the kiss to moan into your neck. Your breath starts to come in short gasps, feeling yourself warm with every press of Lance’s cock against your covered cunt.

You sit up and grab at the hem of the shirt you were wearing: the plain tee Lance had been wearing when he got home last night that you had unceremoniously thrown to the floor as you had practically humped each other like horny teens, falling into bed unceremoniously, desperate for each others touch after several weeks apart. Lance watched your hands as you pulled the hem up, revealing your smooth skin inch by inch, his eyes following your hands up and up. You pull the shirt over your head, revealing your body in full and Lance’s hands leave your hips and immediately grab your breasts. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re so sexy” Lance kneads at your breast, his thumbs running over your nipples and you gasp. 

Lance smirks "Sensitive this morning, eh?” As he does it again. 

You lean back slightly, your arms behind you resting on his thighs “you weren’t exactly gentle with them last nigh—“ you gasp again barely finishing your sentence as Lance pinches and rolls your nipples between his fingers. 

You moan as Lance continues to pull and pinch at your nipples, heat continuing to build in your core as you rock your hips against Lance. Your world narrows to Lance’s hands on your tits, and the feeling of rocking your pussy against Lance.

“That’s it baby, I love hearing you moan just touching you like this. You could come just from this couldn’t you? So fucking sensitive” 

You whimper and nod, your nails digging into his thighs. 

“Come here” Lance grabs your hips suddenly and drags you forward, pulling you towards his face. “Sit” he commands, pulling you down. 

You gasp as Lance pulls your underwear to the side and licks through your folds, not bothering to tease you, both past that already, as he moans into your cunt.

“Lance” you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, grabbing on as your boyfriend teases your clit with his tongue, flicking it back and forth with a steady rhythm. 

“I’ve fucking missed this, missed you, dripping on my face” Lance growls, his fingers coming to tease your cunt, collecting the wetness dripping out of you before pushing two fingers in.

You cry out and close your eyes, your head tipping back as you continue to moan and gasp as Lance laps at your clit.

“Baby, look at me,” he moans, and you look down at Lance, your hand still gripping at his hair, his eyes dark with lust, his nose and lips shiny with your wetness. “Fucking ride my face, I want you to come all over me,” he growls out, his voice deep and wrecked with lust. 

“Oh god,” you whimper out as your grip in his hair tightens, keeping eye contact with Lance as you start rocking your hips down onto his tongue. You struggle to keep your eyes open as pleasure starts to take over. You feel hot and icy at the same time, the pressure in your clit building as your hips start to move faster, more frantic. Lance’s muffled moans come with increasing frequency, never breaking eye contact with him. 

“Lance– I’m gonna– fuck— FUCK” you scream as the pressure comes to a breaking point, your orgasm ripping through you, wetness gushing from you onto Lance’s face as you clench around nothing, your clit pulsing like it has a heartbeat of its own. 

You flop off of Lance, throwing an arm over your face as you pant, trying to catch your breath. Lance grabs your cheek, turning your face to him and catching you in a kiss immediately, tasting yourself on his tongue as you make out. He kissed you like you were going to disappear into thin air, hungry and messy.

“We’re not done”

Lance pulls away just enough to push his own boxers down and off, before grabbing at the underwear you still had on, pulling them down as well and tossing them across the room. “Stupid, I don’t even know why we wear them when we’re home together” Lance mutters and you laugh as he settles in behind you on the bed.

“I like looking cute, babe”

“They’re cute but I like you better full of me” Lance breathes against your neck as he lifts your thigh up and over his hip as you reach behind you to guide him inside. You both gasp as the tip of his cock breaches your entrance.

“Please, more baby, please” you beg as Lance stills, his lips against the back of your neck.

“Fuck, how do you feel even better than last night? I can’t believe how much I missed you,” Lance kisses your neck as he starts to press in more, slow, as if he was afraid to hurt you.

You grab at his arm that he placed beneath your neck, his forearm across your chest as he finally, finally presses all the way in. The moan you let out as he bottoms out in you is deep and gutteral. “Lance, please, I need you, please fuck me” you beg again, the fullness of Lance in you forcing all other thoughts out of your head. 

Lance shifts his hips, pulling out, before pressing back in. It’s slower and softer than last night. “I just need to feel you” he breathes, keeping his pace steady.

He’s everywhere, behind you, one arm wrapped around you grabbing your shoulder, the other making its way to your clit to rub slow and soft circles, matching the tempo of his hips.

“I love you, fuck you feel so good, so full of my cock,” Lance moans into your ear as his hips start to move faster. You felt the molten pressure starting to build again, your thigh trying to close around his hand, still pressing against your clit.

He grabbed your thigh and pulled you back open, the arm wrapped around your front moving so his hand was against your throat, not pressing or squeezing, but there, strong, holding you in place, a gentle pressure

“Come on sweetheart, come for me again, drench this cock, I want to fill you”

You moan at his words and Lance’s hips speed up.

“You like that, huh? Me filling you up, keeping this pussy full of my cum, keep you full the entire break,” he groans as his hips start to stutter

“Yes, Lance– please fill me– I need your cum in me– fucking claim me” you cry out and your thighs try to close again as your orgasm rips through you. “LANCE” you scream as you clench around his cock, and you feel Lance’s groan in his chest against your back, as you feel his cum shoot into your pussy, the hot pulses coating your walls. 

You lay there as you both came down from your climaxes, catching your breath, Lance still inside you as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. He slowly pulled out, and you whimpered softly at the sudden loss of the stretch of him. 

You rolled over before he could get up to get a damp cloth to clean you both, catching his lips in a soft and slow kiss. You rested your forehead against his, eyes closed, just feeling each other's breath, each other’s hearts.. 

“I love you” you exhale. Lance kisses you again, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, before getting up and walking to the restroom. You watch him walk away, admiring the view before rolling onto your back and calling out, “You get to explain to my boss why I’m calling in to work today”

He laughs from the bathroom, his deep chuckle settling in your chest with warmth. “You think he wants a video or a picture of you on your knees from last night?”

“You’re terrible” you cackle from the bed.

“And you love me”

And you do, you do love him.

[willowsnook]

what about like a part 2 for the one where reader accidentally texted spicy. like this time they actually slept with the driver and they think they're texting their friend about how amazing it was but its actually the driver??

f1 text au — accidentally texting them after spending the night together 🌶

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drivers: max, charles, oscar, lewis, carlos, franco, lance, george and lando +18

note: tysm for the request, appreciate it a lot. hope you enjoy this! sorry if it sucks x

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[willowsnook]

just like. making out with marchy 🫣 on his lap🫣and grinding🫣 i fear you’ve turned me into a marchy fan

also can i claim en emoji 👀👀 if so: 🫒

i don't know who you are but we're besties now. and YES the 🫒 is all yours!!

brad marchand x reader, MATURE 18+. swearing, grinding, mentions of drinking, etc. brad’s a little mouthy. #needthat #unedited

you’re caged in the moment the hotel door closes, calloused hands framing your hips and pulling you towards the large, comfy-looking chair that sits near the desk. the suite brad picked is nice, considering you’re only here for a quick fuck, maybe a nap, then the both of you will be out celebrating again. for a second you wonder what he paid for it, but then you’re being pulled down, and it gets hard to think about anything but him underneath you. the way his lips find the pulse point on your throat. the thick, warm press of him against your thigh.

he had sobered up some, a little steadier now as the florida sun rises over the ocean. it’s getting hot, with sweat and champagne clinging to your bodies. “should probably close the curtains,” you pant, breathless in his lap.

“we’re six stories up, doll,” and a shrug is the best answer you get. he’s more focused on kissing you, mouthing at all the little sweet spots on your exposed skin.

“you bring any of those little bikini tops, sweetheart?” brad asks, his lips resting at the shell of your ear. “want you in one t’day, how’s that sound?”

you giggle and place two hands on his cheeks, bringing him around to face you. before replying you take a moment to kiss his nose, between his brows, then his lips. you mumble into the kiss, “yes, baby, i brought some. what, you’re putting me on display now?”

you expect brad to laugh. instead he growls and grabs a handful of your ass, brushing your core against him in the process. “want you to wear it with that jacket they gave me. lord stanley, with the diamonds.”

“crystals, they’re swarovski,” you correct, voice dripping with awe. “you can’t be serious…”

he waves you off “yeah. it’ll look good on’ya. now shut up and lemme kiss you,” he says, voice low.

you don’t have to be told twice.

[willowsnook]

Wanna Be Yours ; B. Barnes

Secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Avengers!F!Reader 

Synopsis: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

Warnings: Fluff, minor angst, minor hurt/comfort, bucky yearns like a mf, brief misunderstandings, insecurities, friends to lovers, ft. the avengers & friends, sam being sam, minor jealousy, pining, SMUT, minor romanogers (not sorry), cursing, Bucky’s sort of shy and awkward (at first), praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, MDNI, pussy pronouns, mutual obsession, kissing, switch energy, soft!dom bucky, begging, gentle possessiveness, religious imagery, oral (f and m rec), riding

A/N: Thank you so much for this request! This was meant to be short…a drabble…but then I started to listen to Hozier and well…yeah. Title inspired by I wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys. 

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like you.

He’s told himself it’s because you’re kind. Because you don’t flinch when he walks into a room, because you laugh at all his dry one-liners, because you bring him coffee without asking and leave notes that say “don’t forget to eat after training” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  

But, the truth is, he likes the way you exist. The way you fill space with warmth without trying. The way you somehow make him feel like he’s part of this new world, that he can exist here too. 

With you. 

He doesn’t know when it started—not exactly. 

There wasn’t a single moment where the light shifted or the heavens parted. No slow-motion entrance, no dramatic realization. 

But somewhere between your half-sleepy smiles over morning coffee and the way you laugh at his dry sarcasm like it’s the best thing you've heard all day—he fell.

Hard.  

Somewhere between the early morning training sessions and the late night chamomile tea, his heart grew, both in size and fonder, and it became an innate feeling—the love—the want. It became embedded into his bones, in his DNA. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

And maybe it was always going to happen. Maybe it was inevitable. Because you’re the only one who never looked at him like a ghost of something broken, like he still had to search far and wide for the man he became. You don’t flinch when his fingers twitch or treat him like a ticking time bomb, or a relic, or worse—an object of pity. 

You treat him like he’s just…Bucky. Someone who deserves kindness, a friend. 

You bring his favourite kind of bagels without asking. You mock his grumpy scowls and tease him into smiling. You sit with him in silence and don’t try to fix the quiet. You seem to enjoy it with him—understand.

You once fell asleep with your head on his shoulder during a movie night, and he thought he might die from how carefully he held his breath, afraid of waking you. 

He wants you—so badly it aches.

But he’s never said anything, never dared. Not when being your friend already feels like more than he deserves. 

He gets to see you every day and that should be enough—it never is.

Tony announces it during a briefing: an Avengers Gala. Hosted at the Tower. Black tie. Heroes and allies from across the globe. Sponsored by Stark Industries and curated, of course, by Pepper. 

Bucky half listens, frowning, until you perk up beside him.

“Oh, fancy,” you murmur, nuding him with your elbow, capturing his attention, though it had always been yours. “You gonna wear a tux, Barnes?” 

He smirks faintly, something easy and familiar and yours. “Only if it comes with a hidden holster.” 

You snort, hiding part of your face when Pepper’s eyes meet yours. “As if you need a hidden holster to hide a gun. Don’t you have three somewhere on you right now?”

Bucky shrugs, lips lifting into something brighter, simply because you’re right. “Guilty.” 

You roll your eyes and blink innocently at Pepper, pretending that your attention isn’t on the man beside you. Bucky’s eyes soften into something stupid and he leans further back in the chair, pressing his arm against yours. 

You giggle and lean in close to whisper something snarky about Tony’s need for dramatics, and he feels your breath against his neck—he swallows hard. 

You turn back to the front, eyes falling on the screen, none the wiser. 

Bucky spends the rest of the meeting barely hearing a thing. 

Later that night, after you bid him goodnight, he lingers by the window of the communal lounge, half-lost in thought as city lights blur beyond the glass. 

Steve finds him like that—arms folded, jaw tense, quiet in the way only Steve knows means he’s thinking about you—something beautiful yet horrid about himself. 

“You should ask her,” Steve says softly. 

Bucky exhales, having heard Steve’s light footsteps and seeing his reflection. “It’s not that simple.” 

Steve shrugs, stepping up beside him. “Sure it is. You like her. She likes you.” 

Bucky exhales louder. “She doesn’t—”

“She does,” Steve interrupts, nuding Bucky with his shoulder. “Trust me.”

Bucky huffs a tired laugh. He would trust Steve with his life—with more, but not with this. Not when his blonde friend couldn’t see Natasha’s feelings for him. “And what? Ruin this? She’s the best thing in my life. If she says no—” 

“She won’t.” Steve gives him a look, one Bucky thinks he wore many, many years ago, back when he would Steve in alleys. “You think she touches everyone like that? Laughs like that?” 

Steve crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think she looks at anyone else the way she looks at you?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer, just shoves Steve back with his shoulder lightly. Part of him wants to believe it, like there’s a world where you like him—love him, the way he loves you. Wants to care for him the way he wants to care for you. 

But, the other part of him, the one that often wins, is scared—scared he’ll ruin everything, that he might see the flicker of pity in your eyes. The last thing Bucky wants is for you to think that his feelings for you, his honest adoration for you comes from anything except his care, his heart. 

He loves you, but you were his friend first. He’ll always be your friend, even if he aches for more.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, something warm and solid. “Even if I’m wrong, I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Buck. A few weeks, and it’ll be past you.” 

Bucky hums like he agrees, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position, or feel like you aren’t safe with him. Because he cares—so much. He’d rather live in silence and the brief touches then make you feel like your friendship isn’t enough for him.

Because, God, it is. It’s everything to him, a root in his heart that’s grown into branches and leaves.

Still, that night, he lies awake for hours, hand resting over his chest, heart thudding too loudly. 

I’ll ask her tomorrow, he thinks. I will. 

He almost does. 

He finds you in the lounge the next evening, curled up with a book and a half-drunk coffee. You’re wearing one of those soft hoodies that always make you look impossibly cozy, socked feet tucked beneath you. 

He steels himself, breathes in deeply—thinks back to the lines he said over and over to himself in his bedroom. 

Then he hears it. 

“I don’t even have a date for this thing,” you’re saying to Sam, voice light and faintly exasperated. There’s something there, something familiar, something he hears in his own voice sometimes when he talks about you but he can’t register it, can’t pinpoint it. 

You shut your book with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly? I’m kinda glad. No one to impress, no pressure.”

Sam snorts and swats your feet away, pretending to shuffle back when you inch your toes closer to him. “I’ll take you.” 

You raise a brow, legs stretched weirdly. “You?” 

Sam grins, lets out a quiet laugh. “No need to look so surprised.” He shrugs, “Come on. Low expectations. No romance. Plus, I look good in a suit.” 

You tilt your head, hum thoughtfully. Sam spreads his arm, putting himself on display. “Deal. You’re my date.” 

You clink mugs, laughing. 

Bucky stops in his tracks, his stomach twists and he can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t hear the teasing edge, he hasn’t been good at noticing these things. He doesn’t see the subtle glance Sam casts toward the hallway, like he knows Bucky’s there. Doesn’t realize this is Sam’s own way of pushing him. 

No—he just hears the words. You’re my date. 

And something in him goes quiet. 

It’s quick, the way everything inside him shuts down and he almost sags against the wall. Like the wind has been knocked out of him. He’s breathing hard—but at least he’s breathing. He shuffles back, quietly, hiding in the shadows. 

He’s fine—he would have been fine if you had said no to him, if you had told him that someone else had asked—but Sam?

Momentarily, very briefly, something akin to anger—jealousy—flickers in his chest, loud and bright and instantly, it's put out, dies quickly until the ashes spread across his chest. He hears you laugh, soft, carefree, and his heart settles. 

He’d do anything for you, for that laugh. 

Bucky swallows the lump in his throat, the jealousy he’d never admit to and the question on his lips and turns, walks down the hall and tosses the single rose into the trash.

He gets you flowers often, whatever he passes by on his runs that he thinks you would like, might brighten your floor, but he’s never gotten you roses. 

It was a line he drew for himself. 

He glances at the folded rose and sighs. 

The line gets thicker. 

The gala is a blur of silk and glass and lights that glitter like champagne bubbles. 

Every year, Bucky swears that Pepper has outdone herself. And every year, she proves that she’ll always have more up her sleeve. 

Bucky wears a classic black tux. His hairs slicked back, neat, and beard trimmed. He looks sharp, clean, polished. But inside, he feels like he’s unraveling. 

Because you walk in and you look—

“Jesus,” he breathes, barely audible. 

You’re radiant, glowing and beautiful—perfect. Your dress, a deep purple, hugs you in all the right places, glittering like stardust with every step. He tries to think back to you mentioning the dress at all, but all he can remember is the way you winked at him. 

Your smile could bring a man to his knees. 

He knows, because he’s halfway there, legs weak. And all he can think is, I was going to ask her. 

I could have had this. 

He looks away, blinks a few times to remind himself of his place. If he’s caught gawking at you—well, he knows what would happen. 

He keeps to the shadows most of the night, nursing a glass of whiskey, tucked into the quiet corners. He mingles briefly, making sure to be polite, to be seen. Tony put a lot of effort into this, made sure that it curated to all of them, the least he could do was make his appreciation shown. 

But you? You’re a firecracker on the floor, bright and loud and so fucking radiant. Laughing, twirling, dancing with Clint, with Nat, with whoever grabs your hand. You’re drinking and smiling—magnetic. 

But your eyes—they’re fleeting, looking for something, someone. 

Bucky can’t look away. 

Until you find him. 

You corner him outside on the balcony, where the air is cool and quieter and he can breathe. 

“There you are,” you say, hand on your hip. “Avoiding me?” 

Bucky’s throat goes dry. He’s leaning on the railing and tilts his head towards you, resisting the urge to turn completely. “No. Just needed some air.” 

He can’t look at you—not your eyes or your dress or your smile. It’s blinding, too much. He just needs one day—one day and he’ll be fine, one day and his heart will settle, make peace with you and Sam. 

You take a step closer, head tilting in that curious way that always makes his heart soften. 

His eyes flick up. There it is—that sharp breath he always seems to take when he sees you.

You smile at him softly, lay your hands on the railing next to his. “You gonna ask me to dance” 

He blinks. Then, slowly, pushes himself off the railing, turns his whole body to face you properly. The muscles in his face smooth out and his shoulders drop, relaxed. 

“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, so softly, delicate. 

Your grin tugs wider. “So ask me, then.” 

He swallows, eyes flickering between yours before he offers his hand. “May I have this dance?” 

You take it. 

The music is warm, old jazz bleeding through the speakers as bucky pulls you onto the floor. His hand is strong at your back, the other gentle at your waist. He moves like he was born to this—measured, smooth, leading you without hesitation. 

You’re laughing, a bright smile on your lips as your eyes shine. You spin, twirl, your head tilts back as he draws you close. 

“You’re good at this,” you breathe. 

Bucky leans in, lips near your temple. “Used to be the only way to get a girl to notice me.” 

You turn into him, mouth brushing his ear. “Now I know you’re lying. Steve told me you were quite the heartthrob.” 

Bucky laughs, low and deep. Your eyes flutter shut and you hold onto him tighter. He’s so warm, so solid under your hands. Your eyes meet his and you notice that the smile on his lips—while small—is the most genuine one you’ve seen on him tonight. 

“Not anymore,” Bucky says, quietly, his body guiding yours. 

“Debatable,” you answer, giving him an exaggerated glance over. “You clean up nice, Buck.” 

He tilts his head towards you, almost bashful. You breathe out a quiet laugh, soft, but it awakens something in him and he lifts his eyes to meet yours. 

Blue—electric, so deep and filled with so many unspoken things. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells you, earnest and soft. 

People have been complimenting you all night, but you only really cared about one—his. His words settle something in your chest and you smile, gloss shining under the glittering lights. 

“Thank you, Bucky.” 

He swallows, steps in line with you. His eyes glance around the room once and he frowns. 

“Where’s your date?”

You raise an eyebrow and scrunch up your nose in thought. “Date? What Date—Oh. You mean Sam?” 

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he nods, looks away when your eyes search his. You find what you’re looking for and duck your head to hide your smile, biting your bottom lip. 

You lift your head and meet his stormy eyes, a gentle smile on your lips. “He wasn’t really my date. We just came together. He immediately disappeared.” 

You look away, search the crowd until your eyes land on Sam’s familiar figure and the beautiful woman he’s flirting with. You laugh quietly, shake your head at his antics. 

Bucky’s staring at you like you’ve just stabbed him in the back.

You both sway in time, the world shrinking until it’s only the two of you. 

You lean in, pressing close. “I wish you’d asked me to the gala.” 

Your words were nothing more than a whisper, quiet, melting into the music and noise, but they were honest. As soon as Tony had introduced the idea, your heart had been set on going with Bucky. He looked at you once during the debrief—like he was trying to imprint you into memory—it gave you hope, something light and soft igniting in your chest. 

But then hours passed, a day. It was approaching fast and you had slowly made peace with the idea that he wasn’t going to ask, that he didn’t see you the way you saw him—whole, permanent—a part of your DNA. 

So, when Sam asked, you said yes. Simply to have someone there, an arm to hold.

But you had looked for Bucky all night, saved the best dance for him. 

It didn’t stop the want, though—it burned behind your fingertips, deep behind your eyes. So you let it slip, the quiet admission. “I was hoping you would.” 

His heart stops and he tenses—eyes wide. 

Before he can respond, someone whisks you away—Steve, grinning as he twirls you into the next number. 

Bucky stands there, stunned. He knows how he looks—gaping, eyes wide, heart stuttering wildly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter look over, concerned. He waves away the concern and walks off the dance floor, finds a seat he knows is taken, and readjusts his tie. 

Everything inside him feels tight, like his own fist is closing around his organs. Your words ring in his ears and he has half a mind to pour some water in his ear, just to drown out your voice. 

He watches as you dance with Steve, bright smile on both your faces. A drink appears in front of his face and he grabs it, mutters a quick thanks and tips it back, enjoying the burn, if just to get his mind off what he could have had if he had just not been a coward.

Sam finds him a few moments later, sipping something sweet with a mint leaf. He takes the seat next to him, leans back. 

“You looked good out there,” he says, nodding toward the dance floor. 

Bucky glances down at his empty glass before he places it on the table. “Why’d you ask her?” 

Sam shrugs, his smirk softening. “Figured if I make you jealous enough, you’d finally make a move.” 

Bucky tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. Of course, he thinks. It was such a Sam idea, so childish and filmy. Suddenly, Peter’s look makes more sense. He huffs, throws him an annoyed look. 

“I was going to. I had it all planned out. Then, well…” 

Sam slowly nods, smile twisting into understanding.

“She said yes to me.” 

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound so defeated, he just can’t help it. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a big deal. He knows—now—that Sam has no romantic interest in you and you didn’t seem to have any for him. 

But, like most things of the heart often do, it felt like the end of the world. Like his life would have been so much better if he had walked in with you, his arm supporting you—his cologne surrounding you. 

“Why didn’t you ask her sooner, Buck?” Sam’s voice is quiet as he leans in a bit, wanting to hear the answer over the music. 

Bucky almost rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last second. Instead, he twists his fingers together. “We only found out about the gala the day before and it took me hours to build up the nerve.” 

Bucky swallows and Sam tries to hide his amusement. He loves seeing ex-assassin Bucky Barnes being bashful, almost shy. 

“I like her,” Bucky admits, quietly, like it wasn’t written on his heart and on his fucking sleeve. “So much. I didn’t wanna rush and ruin everything.” 

Sam goes quiet, smiling softly. “Is that why I saw a rose in the trash?” 

Normally, Bucky would have made some stupid comment about Sam going through the trash, but all he could do was sigh, pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Sam’s eyes flick up, behind Bucky, and his smile widens into a grin, eyes bright with something akin to pride and amusement. 

“Well, seems like you have a lot going on,” Sam offers, quickly. He pushes himself up, grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and hands them to Bucky. Bucky stares up at him, half confused and half annoyed—a look Sam is quite familiar with. 

“Hi, Y/n.” Sam wiggles his fingers at you and briskly walks away, gets lost in the crowd, leaving Bucky with his spine straight. 

Before Bucky can turn around, or book it across the dance floor, you walk from behind him to Sam’s chair and take a seat. Bucky’s staring at you like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide. A mixture of warmth and love, soft and heavy, fills your body and your lips curl into something secretive. 

You gently take the glass from his hands and stare at him, admiring. You let the silence settle between you both, build into something welcoming before you lightly clink your glasses together. 

While you bring it to your lips, Bucky simply sets it beside him, staring at you like you might disappear any second and he rather just take you in. 

Eyes on him, you place the glass next to his, heart warm and butterflies in your stomach as you slowly stand. Everything inside you almost melts when he instinctively leans closer, hand hovering in case you need him. 

You step forward, lean in close, your breath brushing Bucky’s ear. “Can I have one last dance?” 

He doesn’t even think, just nods. He stands up slowly, lets you lead him back onto the floor. 

This time, the music is slow, intimate. No twirls, just you, in his arms, your cheek against his chest. The hand on his shoulder now rests at his neck and his fingers curl around your waist, his thumb brushing skin. 

He feels your lips near his ear, almost collapsing from the sensation alone. 

“Do you like me, Bucky?” 

Bucky’s throat bobs and his fingers curl into your skin tighter, almost like he could will the answer out of his body. Over your shoulder, Steve and Sam both gave him a thumb’s up before turning. 

Bucky clears his throat and pulls you closer. Your eyes lift to meet his and he slowly nods.

“Yes,” he tells you, quietly. “I do.” 

It wasn’t just like—it was love. He knew it was. He hadn’t felt it before but he knew it, like a stranger you saw often enough to recognize. But he didn’t want to scare you, push you away. 

Bucky was familiar with your smiles, the way you brighten when you’re happy, but it was nothing compared to now—nothing compares to the way you were glowing as he sways you, the way your eyes shine and your smile—oh, your smile, it was so soft and so loving. 

“Me too,” you tell him, just as quiet. “So much.”  

His heart slams and a shiver runs up his spine. He blinks at you slowly, lips parting. You lean back, eyes shining, wanting to take this moment in its entirety. 

Inside, everything is warm and burning. The way he holds you, like you’re something precious has your mind reeling and all you want is to hold him, for him to touch you and smile at you the way you ache for. 

Then—he smiles at you. 

It’s beautiful. Heart-breaking. 

Utterly devastating as it lights up his face, smooths out all the crevices and worries in his face. 

He pulls you flush against him and you giggle, something soft and airy but it lights Bucky up in a way you’ve never seen before. Your fingers brush the hair at his nape, nails scratching his skin. 

You lean forward, press your lips to the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter shut and a deep rumble escapes him. The fire in your belly burns brighter and the need inside you cracks alive and all you see is him. 

“Take me home.” 

You barely recognize your own voice. The want—something you keep hidden, locked away for months or years—you hardly remember—has been pulled to the surface. 

Bucky stares, breathless. He doesn’t even know if the music is still playing because all he can see and hear is you. Everything else fades to the back and his neck is warm but he’s so happy—confused, but all warm inside. 

Your smile turns slightly wicked, the slight alcohol and confidence burns through your veins. 

“You gonna make me beg, Buck?” 

Oh, he’s in for it. 

His voice is low, a rasp, barely hanging on. “Ask nicely.” 

You laugh, bright and beautiful. 

The Bucky you know, quiet, warm, confident, is staring back at you with a small smile, heat and want and love dancing in his eyes. 

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper, teasing. “Take me home.” 

He takes your hand and leads you out, without looking back. 

The elevator doors close with a soft chime. 

The silence settles—electric. 

You’re still holding his hand—the metal one, cool and solid, familiar. 

Bucky stands opposite you—broad, strong, flushed from dancing. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run ten blocks, suit tight across his shoulders. You lean back against the mirrored wall, flushed, breathless, heart still pounding from that last dance. 

Your eyes lift to meet his. 

He’s on you in a second, hands gripping your waist, mouth slanting over yours with desperate, open-mouthed hunger. It’s not gentle, or soft. It’s heat and need and years of unspoken want bursting at the seams. 

He kisses like a man who’s been starving for you, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth with his tongue. You moan into him. His tongue slides against yours, and he groans like he’s tasting something forbidden.

He kisses with desperation. With reverence. With a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat as your hips slot against his.

You break the kiss with a gasp. “Bucky—”

He dips to your throat, tongue licking into the space just below your jaw.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re killin’ me.”

“Good,” you pant, fingers curling into his jacket. “You deserve it. For making me wait this long.”

Your hands fist in the lapels of his tux, pulling him closer, closer, like there still isn’t enough of him touching you. He groans into your mouth when you bite his lips, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs.

“Fuck—” he breathes. “You taste so good.” 

You gasp as his metal hand slides beneath your dress, gripping your thigh and hoisting you up like you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, dress riding high, and thank God for the slit.

“Been wantin’ to do this for so fucking long,” he rasps against your throat, kissing, biting, sucking bruisses into your skin. “Didn’t think I could—didn’t think you’d want me—” 

“I do,” you whisper, dazed, fingers in his hair. “God, Bucky, I want you—” 

“And you’ll have me,” he kisses your neck, the skin below your ear. “You said please,” he pants, “and I listen when you ask.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

He doesn’t put you down.

Your back hits the wall just outside the elevator, on his floor. He pins you there with his body, mouths at your neck like he hasn’t enough, like he’s been starving. 

You drag your fingers through his hair, tugging, pressing your chest flush against his. 

“I wanted you,” you whisper, losing your mind. “All night. I kept looking for you—” 

His voice is hoarse, Brooklyn accent thick and strong. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ look at you. Drove me insane.” 

You arch into him, gasping when his hips grind into yours. You can feel the thick press of him through his slacks, rubbing against the soaked lace between your legs. 

“Fuck,” you moan. “Bucky—please—” 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispers,  kissing your collarbone as he moves through the space blindly, holding you tight against him. “You’re mine tonight and forever. All fuckin’ mine.” 

He lays you down on the couch gently, like you’re something sacred and precious—and you are. 

Then he sinks to his knees in front of you, hands warm and pressing into your thighs as he drags them down your legs, eyes aflame. 

You barely have time to blink before he’s pulling your legs over his shoulders and pushing your dress higher, higher, until your thighs are bare and open and trembling. 

He stares at your panties—dark with wetness, delicate against your skin. His thumb rubs circles into your skin, like he can’t help but touch you, but remind you that you’re safe—loved. 

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the damp lace. You gasp, legs trying to shut. His hands, big and warm, hold you open with little force, like he can command your body by sheer will. “Can I take ‘em off?”

You nod, breathlessly. All your dreams, fantasies you’d had but kept to yourself, were coming true. “Yes, Yes—please—” 

Bucky slides them down your legs, kissing your skin as he goes. His heart is about to jump out of his fucking chest and go barraling down the tower. He can hardly believe he’s on his knees—nose almost pressing into your cunt—can barely remember the gala itself. 

He spreads your thighs wide and groans—low and deep, almost painful. 

Bucky tried to be a gentleman, tried to be the good boy his mama raised, but some nights, when his hand wrapped around his cock, all he could picture was your pussy—how soft and beautiful it must have looked, how he’d make her drip for him.

The real thing didn’t even measure. He can’t believe he thought his imagination could do her any justice. 

“Fuck me,” he breathes, eyes wide and shiny. “You’re so wet. Fuckin’ dripping, baby.” 

“Only for you,” you whisper. 

There’s something warm in your voice that makes him look up, into your hooded eyes. You smile, nothing but love and promise on your face. It’s like you're telling him that you know—know he’s thought about you, that you want him as bad as he wants you, that you want everything he has to offer. 

His eyes are blazing, chest heaving. 

The curve of his smile presses against your skin as he presses soft, open mouthed kisses to your thighs. You barely notice his trailing hand until it lands on your ass and he squeezes hard. You yelp at the feeling and jerk forward, his other hand steadies you easily. There’s laughter in your breath as you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut. 

Bucky licks a harsh stripe of your core, holds you down as you writhe under him. He presses his face closer to your cunt as his tongue licks and suckles, laps up all your juices. The sweetness, the unique taste of you has his eyes rolling back and he knows he’ll never taste anything that would compare.

The sounds of slurping and his lips smacking around your clit make your legs shake as you try to breathe. He tilts his head further, pushes his tongue deeper within you and you moan, broken and obscene. 

He curls the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost scream, tears falling down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chant, words falling from your lips like praise.

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hums at the sight of your pleasure, the way the tears fall prettily down your cheeks. One of his hands slides up your body, just to feel you, but before he could bring it back towards him, you grab it with a tight grip and settle it around your throat. 

He groans into your folds and your legs shake. Needing more, you begin moving your hips feverishly against his face, grinding down on him. Bucky moans into cunt as you smear all your slick over his face, his chin dripping with drool and arousal. 

“Bucky—oh my god—fuck—”

He grunts, and the sound vibrates through you.

“Could do this forever,” he pants.

“You taste so good—so sweet—gonna make you cum on my fuckin’ tongue—”

Your sweet scent and taste overwhelm his mind and he begins losing it, ruts against the edge of the sofa like a schoolboy, his lips latch onto your clit as he pushes himself closer to your dripping cunt, nose rubbing deliciously against your bud as he slides his tongue in and out of you. 

“James,” you cry, eyes barely open as you watch him suck you dry. The hand on your throat slides down to yours and he threads your fingers together and squeezes once, twice, thrice, before your legs pulse erratically and your walls clench around his tongue.

“I’m so close, baby.” 

Bucky’s brain short-circuits at your words, at the term, and he spreads you open wider and licks at you harsher, licking long strips as he teases your clit with his nose. 

“Cum, sweetheart,” he edges, lulling you closer to your orgasm. He needs this as bad as you do. “Cum all over my face, Y/n.” 

His words are enough to break you and your vision blurs as you moan, your stomach coils and recoils as your orgasm washes over you like cold water, soaks him completely. 

Bucky continues to push his tongue into your gushing pussy, lips coaxing all your juices down his throat, making you throw your head back as you arch into him. He licks and sucks harshly, even as you mumble incoherently about it being too much. 

When he pulls away, face covered in your slick, he smiles. Your whole body trembles and you lift your head just in time to watch him coat his fingers in your juices before he plops his fingers into his mouth and sucks. 

He looks so pleased, so completely, irrevocably and ardently in love with you. 

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, pussy fluttering. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

He grins—messy, flushed, lips shiny with your cum.

“You think I wasn’t dreamin’ about this? Every fuckin’ night?”

He lifts you easily, arms secure beneath your thighs and back. You melt into him, still dazed, as he carries you into his bedroom.

Just before he lays you down, you grip his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmur, breath hitching. “Let me.” You unwrap your legs from around him but his hold on you stays tight, keeping you close. 

You push him until he stumbles back, landing on the bed with a grunt. He stares up at you, dazed. 

You climb into his lap, straddling him. Your dress is in bunches, and you remind yourself to apologize to Nat…she probably won’t want it back. 

Bucky tries to touch your hips, tries to breathe, but you grab his wrists and pin them to the bed. You’ve been in this position before, but it was in the training room, briefly, before he flipped you over. Now you know why. 

His breath catches when you press down on him, your wet cunt dragging across his hard bulge. 

“Hands to yourself,” your words are soft, teasing. 

He groans, tips his head back. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart—” 

You push yourself off him and start to stop. The straps of your dress slide off your shoulders slowly. You shimmy it down your body, piece by piece, letting it fall until you’re completely naked in front of him. 

He stares like you’ve knocked the breath from his lungs, like he’d follow you anywhere—take a bite of the apple simply because you looked at him. 

He’s been cast from heaven but he doesn’t mind, because Eden stands in front of him, beautiful and soft and looking at him—like he’s worthy of it. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out, groanign at the sight of you. 

Grinning, you twirl for him. There’s scars on your skin, burns and patchy stitching, but you don’t care. You never really have and with the way Bucky’s looking at you, like you’re his salvation, you can’t help but move closer. 

“You like?” 

It’s a bizarre question, because you can see how much he likes it—how beautiful you are to him. But, still, because he’s always been sweet, he smiles something soft and nods, fingers twitching like he might reach out.

“You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunnin’.” 

You giggle and slide onto his lap again, kiss his throat and then move lower, kissing down his chest as you begin undoing his shirt. Bucky’s hands stay at his side, curling into fists because all he wants to do is touch.

You pull off his tie, undo the buttons slowly—torturously—and push the fabric open to reveal his bare chest. You’ve seen him shirtless a few times but every time, it knocks the wind out of you. 

Broad, defined, and hard. 

You kiss every inch. 

His abs flex as you drag your mouth down to his waistband, slowly getting to your knees. You undo his belt and pants slowly, hand grazing his cock through the fabric. 

He’s so hard—big—straining, leaking. 

You free him and his cock slaps against his stomach, thick and heavy and beautiful. It’s everything you thought it would be and more. 

“My God,” you almost whine. “No wonder you’ve got such an ego.” 

He laughs—then gasps when you kiss his inner thigh—close, so close. 

You kiss and bite his skin, etching your name into his skin so the ghost of your lips can live on. Once you’re satisfied, you lift your eyes and almost gasp at the way his cock was leaking, his tip red and veiny. Mesmerized, you lean forward and shift your eyes to his, finding nothing but darkness staring back at you. His blue eyes, the ones you love so dearly, have been replaced by something predatory, almost possessive. 

Still, you could see the softness threaded into the crinkles of his skin, the way he refuses to move, to touch you, until you make it clear that you want him to. You rest your cheek against his inner thigh and smile up at him. 

“I like you, Bucky.” Your voice is low, a mere brush of air against his skin, but he hears you. You need him to know—that this is more than lust for you, that it’s for life. “You gonna let me show you how much?”

Not trusting his voice, he simply nods. You blink up at him, unmoving. Swallowing the lust that claws in his throat, Bucky tilts his head forward. “Yes,” he breathes out. “Whatever you want.” 

Bucky barely had enough time to cry out your name before you lick a long stripe from his base to his tip, circling your tongue around him once before you repeat the action once more. All his empty words die in his throat as he releases a shaky breath at the feeling of your warm mouth taking him in completely. 

Pressing your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you taste the salty taste of his sweat and precum. It takes over your senses and you shift forward, circling your tongue around his tip. Pooling some spit on your tongue, you let it drip down his length as you wrap your hand around him, pressing soft kisses to his tip. 

Bucky groans, breathing heavier as his legs spasm around you. He moans out your name and you look up to the sight of his eyes screwed shut, head thrown back. His chest rises rapidly and he looks so beautiful, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his forehead, hair brushed back and unruly. 

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, his voice cracking as you push him further down your throat, ignoring the burn because he tastes addictive, sounds sweeter than anything you’ve ever heard. 

You hollow your cheeks, spit dripping down your throat as you work him with your mouth, humming when he hits the back of your throat. 

“Fuck—baby—” His voice breaks, raspy. “That’s it—that’s so fuckin’ good—” His thighs tremble and his abs clench. 

He twitches in your mouth and you push him deeper, practically begging. Before he can cum—

He pulls you off, voice and body wrecked. He pants, cock standing straight and leaking and harder than it’s ever been. 

“Wanna cum inside you,” he whimpers, pulling you off the floor and into his arms. “Wanna feel you, Y/n, baby—please.” 

You’re nodding, still reeling from the emptiness in your mouth. You straddle him again and he surges forward, captures your lips in a hot, messy kiss. It’s all teeth and lips and his hands are everywhere on you. 

As he kisses you senseless, you reach between your legs and guide him to your entrance, hissing into his mouth when his tip drags between your folds. 

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls make you both moan in unison, your body falling limp into his as you sink down completely, the base of his cock hitting your core. The stretch feels amazing, so good, and all you can do is tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob. 

His hands grip your hips, jaw slack. He can’t breathe—can barely think with your pussy wrapped around him, warm and tight and so perfect. 

“Fuck—you feel so fuckin’ good—so tight—” 

He nips at your jaw, tongue dragging across your skin as you roll your hips, bracing your hands on his chest. You feel so full, leaking all over his lap. You press a soft kiss to his neck and his hips jerks upwards, filling you to the brim, his tip reaching parts of you only he could. 

You part your lips to say something, anything, but he interrupts you by crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your gasp greedily. His lips move roughly against yours, so perfect, as one of his hands slide down to your ass, gripping tightly as he moves his hips against yours. 

He kisses down your body, pressing wet, open mouth kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, tongue brushing against your nipples. 

You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pull and scrape his hair and the nape of his neck. 

He twitches inside you, against your sensitive walls and you almost cry out. As if sensing your distraught, one of his hands grip your waist protectively and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head. 

You slowly move, sliding him in and out of your pussy. His hold on your waist helps lift you up and down, guiding you to a delicious pace. His hands slide from your waist to your ass, resting there. 

Bucky throws his head back when you begin jumping on his cock, his balls slapping against your cunt. You grip his shoulders and he can feel his skin break as you dig your nails into his skin, the creak of his bed loud as the room fills with your mixed moans. 

You slow down, press down on his length to catch your breath. Grinding on his laps, his cock brushes against all your sweet spots, stretches your walls with a delicious burn. You wiggle around on his cock and Bucky’s eyes fly open and he stares at you with a heavy gaze. 

He sits up straighter, wraps his arms around you and kisses your throat. “Can’t—fuck.” He thrusts his hips up, almost animally. “Gotta have you—” 

Holding you close, he flips you onto your back and thrusts. 

You gasp as he drives into you, pressing you into the mattress. He grips onto your hips and pulls you towards him, flush against his pelvis as he rocks his hips forward, fucking his cock into you.

Back arched, you moan when his hand travels to your throat and he holds you firmly beneath him, tilting your head backwards as he applies just the right amount of pressure to your jugular veins, making you lightheaded as he slides in and out of you at a bruising pace. 

He smiles when you whimper, teeth grazing the side of your throat as he bites down, pressing your hips flush against his pelvis, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix, making you see stars. 

His hand cups your jaw and his mouth claims yours, softer, despite the rough and messy pace of his hips. He kisses you slowly, traces his devotion into your gums. 

“I love you,” he whispers, like he couldn’t help it. “I love you.”

Your heart stutters and you wrap your arms around his neck—tighter. You kiss his nose, the edge of his lips, before his lips.

“I love you too.” 

It was inevitable, you think. You were always going to fall in love with him. There was so much to love. 

He groans like he’s about to lose it, like your words have single-handedly freed him from all of his crimes and sins. 

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. 

“Inside,” you whine, begging. “Cum inside me—please, Buck.” 

His hips stutter and he practically growls. “Fuck—my pretty girl. Gonna cum inside you,” he moans. “Fill you up—want it to stay—wanna make you—”

“Yes, yes,” you pant, his cock filling you to the brim. 

You clench around him, vision going white as you gush around him and he shudders, hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken moan of your name. 

He thrusts through it, panting, pressing kisses to your cheek, your neck, your lips. 

Once he’s sure he’s emptied himself completely inside you, he slows his pace and presses kisses all over your face, slowly halting the movement of his hips. You fall into a slump underneath him and he wraps his arms around you tightly, body pressing against yours, mumbling quietly to you.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered after a moment. 

You hum, eyes too tired and droopy to open. He rubs your stomach soothingly, tries to ground you before he moves. “Are you okay, Y/n? Do you need anything?” 

Slowly, you shake your head and open your eyes. He’s staring back at you with so much love in his eyes, nothing but softness and concern bright in his eyes. He nudges his nose against yours and you smile, cracking his chest open. 

“Just you,” you whisper, finger curling into his dog tags as you pull him in for a kiss. 

He laughs into your mouth but kisses you with the same fervor you kiss him with. Gently, Bucky pulls out of your sopping cunt and you both bite back a hiss. He shifts his weight and maneuvers his body until you’re laying in his arms, your chest pressing against his, legs intertwined. 

He knows he has to clean you up, get you a glass of water and maybe something to eat, but your eyes flutter shut and your hand rests on his heart so he puts it off, knows you need him more. 

He runs his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he’s right here—for good. You snuggle into him, press a kiss to a scar above his heart. 

He strokes your spine with trembling fingers, his heart full and warm and content. 

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, voice rough and soft and questioning. 

You lift your eyes to meet his and kiss his jaw. “Was always yours.” 

He smiles—small, awestruck. 

“You’re still my best friend,” he says, quietly. Like he needs you to know. 

“And you’re mine,” you respond, just as quiet. 

He presses his lips to your forehead, holds you tight against him. 

It’s all he’s ever wanted—to be yours. In every way. 

[willowsnook]

your kid treats them like their dad – f1 grid reactions ── .✦

lando norris ── .✦

he was nervous at first — “what if your kid hates me?” kind of nervous but they warm up to him fast, especially after he teaches them how to use a camera the first time they call him “dad” by accident he FREEZES mid-sentence you’re like 😳 but he just kneels down and goes

“hey, is that okay with you? ‘cause that’s really okay with me.” tears up in the car later. won't admit it.

oscar piastri ── .✦

treats your kid with so much quiet respect not overbearing, never forces anything just shows up. every time. one day, the kid runs up to him at the park like

“dad, look!” he stares, stunned, softest smile ever “…that’s me?” he doesn’t say a word after — just holds their hand tighter walking back to the car

charles leclerc ── .✦

he’s such a natural with them it almost hurts does little voices. fake races in the hallway. bedtime stories in French your kid makes a Father’s Day card and gives it to him — no hesitation he sees “to Charles (my second favorite Ferrari)” on it laughs. then absolutely sobs later that night

“i didn’t think i’d be someone’s papa so soon… but i love this.”

lewis hamilton ── .✦

he’s so soft and gentle with your child it makes everyone cry always down on their level when he talks to them makes them playlists and lets them sit in the front seat during errands the first time they fall asleep on his chest, he’s just… quiet

“they trust me. that means everything.” frames a photo of the three of you for the living room without saying a word

carlos sainz ── .✦

acts super casual but is secretly OBSESSED with being called dad your kid asks him to come to a school event and he says yes instantly draws a picture of “me and daddy carlos” and gives it to him he keeps it in his wallet teaches them Spanish and pretends to be strict but lets them braid his hair and call him “papi” like it’s nothing

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

IMMEDIATELY turns into fun stepdad of the year makes weird songs for brushing teeth teaches them dumb Aussie slang like “budgie smuggler” they call him “dad” during a game of Uno and he pauses

“you mean… ME?” acts like it’s casual but buys matching shirts the next day tells people “these are my people” with the proudest grin ever

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

treats your kid like royalty reads every bedtime story with voices the first time the kid draws a crayon family of three, he almost loses it

“sou eu? tipo... de verdade?” (that's me? like... really?) takes them out for Saturday bakery runs and calls it “our little tradition” you find him asleep on the couch with the kid on his chest every other Sunday

franco colapinto ── .✦

awkward at first but tries so hard the first time they hold his hand on their own, he nearly cries starts drawing cartoons for them, custom little stories they shout “papa look!” during a video call he literally MUTES HIMSELF and has a breakdown of joy

“they called me papa. i didn’t even ask for that. that’s insane.”

max verstappen ── .✦

very lowkey, very protective acts like it’s no big deal until your kid gets hurt at the park and yells

“I want Max!!” max RUNS. drops everything. from then on, it’s over — he’s fully in calls them “kiddo,” teaches them to play video games lets them nap on him during F1 races and whispers “you’re safe. always.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[willowsnook]

hiiiii I absolutely adore your work and you’re so talented 🥺 if you’re still taking requests can you please do 12 and 23 with lando and maybe he’s come home to her asleep on the couch having fallen asleep waiting for him? lots of love 🫶🏽

this was so lovely to write u have no idea!!! this one's for u my dear <3

12. pushing a strand of hair behind their ear + 23. carrying the other one in their arms. lando norris x reader, 1.8k. request something from here :)

Lando is beat. 

He trudges down the corridor towards his flat, suitcase dragging behind him like the heaviest thing in the world weighing him down. 

Triple headers are always fucking brutal, and this one was no exception. Even though he and the team had brought back a good amount of points and more trophies for the cabinets back at MTC, Lando is so tired his bones ache. 

The best thing about being home is being able to pass out in his own bed and hibernate for at least a good 24 hours before doing anything. He’s earned that much. 

The second best thing about being home is you. (Though if you ever ask him, he’ll switch the order around to make you smile.) You weren't able to join him for any of the races this time around, so you haven't seen each other in an agonizingly long three weeks. 

All he wants is to crawl into your arms, but it's late. His flight got in later than expected, so late that you're most likely asleep now.

Lando keeps that thought at the forefront of his mind as he uses what little remaining energy he has to shove his key in the lock clumsily. 

The door slams shut behind him before he can remember to close it quietly and he cringes, hoping it hadn't been loud enough to wake you up. He doesn’t think it did, because you’ve been known to sleep through anything, even the deafening roar of cars on track during peak session. 

Lando kicks off his trainers haphazardly, stumbling towards the light coming from the living room. He assumes you’ve left it on for him for when he arrived home.

But to his surprise when he rounds the sofa, there you are, curled up on the corner cushion with the TV remote dangling precariously from your fingertips. Whatever show or movie you’d been watching has long ended, judging by the idle screen across the room, and you’re asleep. 

He can actually feel everything melting away the longer he looks at you so peaceful and beautiful and so his it makes his heart ache. He wishes he never had to leave you behind in the first place, but coming back to you when he inevitably does makes it all worth it. 

In the moments he takes to admire you, you blink awake just the slightest bit, as if you've somehow sensed his presence in your sleep. Bleary eyes look him up and down as he crouches next to you, easing the remote out of your hands. 

“You’re home,” You say. He knows you’re probably more excited to see him than you let on, but you're half asleep at the moment. He’ll let you off the hook for it this time. 

“You waited up for me,” He replies, pushing the hair that had fallen over your eyes behind your ear tenderly. You nod through a yawn. “Baby, you shouldn’t have. It’s so late!” 

“Wanted to make sure you got in okay,” You mumble, offering him a sleepy smile. “How are you?” 

“Better now that I’m with you.” 

Your eyes crinkle with happiness at the corners, one hand coming out to curl into the front of his jumper. “Such a romantic. Missed you,” You murmur. 

Lando’s touch brushes featherlight over your cheek, your chin, the bridge of your nose, before settling over where yours is right over his heart. “Missed you more, love.” 

“Mm, good. Knew you couldn’t stay away for long.” 

“Oh, definitely. One more week and I would’ve said fuck it and pulled an MI6 level breakout mission to come home.” 

“I’d expect nothing less.” 

“Only for you. Bedtime now? I’ll even carry you, I’ve missed you that much.” 

It seems like you ponder the idea for a few moments, but wind up shaking your head, opting to take the hand he offers to haul yourself to your feet. That turns into you leading him down the corridor, albeit at a snail’s pace. 

The sheer familiarity of the room punches a relieved sigh from his chest. The stack of books on your bedside table you always claim you’ll read but haven’t touched in ages, random pieces from his sim rig in the corner of the room. It smells like you too, like your perfume mixed with laundry detergent, a scent he’ll always call home no matter where he goes or how long he's gone. 

Sure, it’s only been three weeks this time, but it’s felt like a lifetime. 

By the time he’s finished washing up and stumbles back to you, you’ve already tucked yourself into bed, staring at the spot on his side like it’s personally offended you. He suspects it’s because the spot has remained empty for far too long. Now he can fill the spot, and he does, sliding in next to you and immediately wriggling into the space deemed neutral territory in the middle of the bed. Nothing remains neutral when it comes to the two of you. 

“Good to be home?” You chuckle quietly, running your fingers through his hair. You wrap one curl around a finger and stretch it, smiling fondly when it bounces back against his forehead. Lando kicks you gently, but it really doesn’t annoy him at all. He’s missed all your weird quirks when it comes to him. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

You wind up falling asleep within minutes with your fingers tightly intertwined through his, holding onto his hand like you're afraid he’ll disappear in the night. 

For reasons Lando is unaware of, he can't sleep. He thought he’d pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow, but now that you're finally here and real and not just wishful thinking on his end, his mind is wide awake. He settles for just looking at you, which, if you were awake, you’d teasingly call him a creep for. 

But he just can't help it. After ages of only getting to see you through the shit quality camera on video calls, Lando thinks you might’ve gotten prettier since he's been gone. He didn't even know that was possible, but what was that thing people said about distance making the heart grow fonder? 

“You’re staring, you creep,” You mutter, peeking open one eye to look at him. Caught. 

Lando can't help but smile sheepishly. “You’re just too pretty for me not to.” 

That gets you to open both eyes, half awake grin aimed his way. You tuck your arm under the pillow, pushing closer to him until you're nearly nose to nose. 

“Hi,” You say, all the warmth in the world in your voice. “Thought you were tired?” 

“Knackered.” 

“Still can’t sleep?” 

“Unfortunately. Might go make some tea. Or warm some milk, or something, I dunno.” He shrugs. “You go back to sleep, though. I’ll be fine.” 

You shake your head, cheek pressing into your pillow. “Wanna spend all the time I can with you.” 

“There’s always tomorrow, love.” 

“Too long. I’m fully prepared to glue myself to your side for the next week.” 

Lando laughs, climbs out of bed, holds his hand out for you to take. “Well, come on then.” 

Now it’s his turn to tug you down the corridor carefully, making well sure not to lead you directly into a wall on the way to the kitchen. You hop up onto the counter while he gathers what he needs for a cup of tea, blinking slowly, swaying a little bit as you sit. You’re still half awake, he can tell, but it warms his heart to no end that you’ll stay up with him even though you’d much rather be asleep. 

Some might call it clingy, but when two people are away from each other so often, small moments like these are all that more worth their while. 

He’s about halfway through pouring boiling water in the mug when you speak. 

“I couldn’t sleep while you were gone.” 

Lando pauses, hand hovering. He frowns, glances up at you with concern. “You…baby, what? You weren’t sleeping?” 

“Not really,” You confess, looking a little embarrassed. He abandons his tea, padding over to you and nudging himself between your knees, close enough to study your face intently. “No, it’s not like that. I slept. But not a lot, and it wasn’t good sleep.” 

“Why?” 

Your shoulders lift into a half a shrug, hidden by the depths of the jumper you’d stolen off him ages ago. It used to be his favorite one, and now that you’ve laid claim to it, Lando finds that it looks better on you than it ever did on him. Still his favorite, but for other reasons now. 

“I just—I think I missed you too much,” You mumble. Your voice is barely loud enough for him to hear, like you’d rather not bother him with it. Which is nonsense, really, because nothing is a bother when it comes to you. He knows that you know that. 

Lando kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger against your hairline as he wraps you in the tightest of hugs. “I’m sorry, love.” 

“You shouldn’t be,” You sigh, melting into his embrace perfectly. “It’s not like you did anything wrong.” 

“I know. But for future races, I can shrink you down and put you in the pocket of my trousers, if that helps?” 

“Lando.” 

“Alright, no on the pocket. What about my backpack? There’s a lot of stuff in there, but I can move things around so you’ve got space.” 

“You are so ridiculous.” 

“I’m providing options!” He insists, grinning wildly as you roll your eyes at him. He’s missed pestering you like this. You yawn again, this one longer and deeper than the others, and Lando sighs. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed, for real this time,” He says softly, pulling your hood down over your eyes for a split second until you bat his hand away. 

“What about your tea?” 

“Leave it. I’ll drink it in the morning.” 

“Lan, ew. You can’t just pop it in the microwave and expect it to—” 

Lando shoves your face into his chest, patting the back of your head as you giggle. “Shhh, shhh. We’re having a nice moment. Don’t ruin it. Now come on, I’ll carry you.” 

You let yourself be gathered into his arms without protest this time, instantly snuggling closer to him as soon as you’re situated with your arms around his neck, nose nuzzling into the crook of his neck with a little satisfied exhale. Lando can already tell you’re starting to doze off before he carries you even halfway back to your room, which, knowing that you haven’t been sleeping well, is a win for him.

And when you immediately find your way into his arms like the space was made for you the moment he crawls into bed, he’ll consider that a win too, because even though he’s got less than a week to soak in every bit of time he can get with you, it’s the only place he wants to be. 

It’s exactly the place he needs to be. 

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[willowsnook]

lake house gc x reader pt.9 (feat. jack hughes, luke hughes, quinn hughes, trevor zegras, cole caufield)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

summary: texting au where reader is apart of the lake house friend group warnings: cursing, suggestive, weed a/n: im backkk did you miss me? ;) this is her individual texts w the boys bc ive been wanting to do that for a while. lmk what else you guys wanna see from me!! love you all and i hope you like this one <3

[willowsnook]

Get Around

Summary : After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.1k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center. 

After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”

She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”

—

The coffee date was… fine.

Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.

As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.

Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.

Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common? 

She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”

“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”

“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.

“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”

Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”

There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”

“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”

Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”

“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”

He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”

Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”

“I said I don’t know!”

“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”

She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”

“After I just tried to date you?”

“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”

—

The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”

You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him. 

Sarah nodded.

You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”

“That’s… something.”

Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”

You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”

Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”

“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”

You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”

She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”

You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”

“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky. 

You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.

“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.

“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.

Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued. 

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.

Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.

“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.

Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.

“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”

“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.

Conversation flowed easy after that.

You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best. 

To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.

When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.

“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”

Your smile widened.

“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”

“I’ll take that.”

–

By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”

“Oh, this is your moment?”

He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”

He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right. 

–

He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.

“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.

He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”

“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”

You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”

You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”

“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.

“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”

He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.

You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”

You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”

And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night. 

You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”

“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”

“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”

He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly. 

“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”

He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”

“Deal.”

—

The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.

“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”

Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”

You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”

He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”

You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.

“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”

“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.

You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."

“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”

“I will push you into a wall.”

“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”

“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”

“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.

As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”

You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”

His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”

He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”

You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.

—

The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.

He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”

He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.

The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”

And he did. Oh, he really did.

Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you. 

You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.

He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”

“And you always asked?”

He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”

“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”

Oh?

“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new. 

So you kissed him.

Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.

You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that. 

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.

—

A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah. 

Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard. 

Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”

Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”

“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”

“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything. 

Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”

“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”

Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”

You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”

“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”

“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”

“A little?”

“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.” 

You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”

“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”

—

Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.

They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”

Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.

“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”

“Drop it.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.

“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”

Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”

Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.

Kind of.

“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”

Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner. 

—

So he invited you to your apartment when he got back. 

When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”

He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.

You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.

It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.

You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.

“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.

“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.

“Here?”

“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round. 

Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.

Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.

You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.

“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—” 

“What? Did I—?”

You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”

He blinked. “The—?”

You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.

“Oh, shit.”

He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.

He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”

You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned. 

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.

Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.

He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.

You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised. 

“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.

He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”

Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”

You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”

He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”

You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—

Knock knock knock. 

The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.

You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”

Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.

“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.

Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”

You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”

“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”

Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”

“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”

You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”

Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”

“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”

You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”

Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”

You winced. “Sorry.”

Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”

You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”

Sam stared. “That was, like, a month ago.”

Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”

You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

Sam looked at his fries.

“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.

And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter. 

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”

You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”

“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end. 

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[willowsnook]

grumpy - op81

summary: oscar is always grumpy, never smiles and claims not to want any friends. yn is determined to crack his armor no matter how much he tries to push her away word count: 8.4k + social media posts

folkie radio: NEW LONG FIC !! i wrote the first bit of this fic a while ago and i picked it up and this was the result, i really hope you like it. let me know your thoughts

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Oscar didn't want to be at this party. The pulsing music, the crowd of unfamiliar faces, and the overwhelming sensory assault of flashing lights and laughter grated on his nerves. He stood in a corner, nursing a drink he hadn't really wanted, wondering how long he needed to stay before he could politely excuse himself.

Lando had been excited about this joint birthday celebration for weeks. He'd explained to Oscar that he'd reconnected with an old childhood friend who, by some cosmic coincidence, shared his exact birthdate. Oscar had been surprised when Lando told him about it; he'd never heard of this friend before. But then again, there was a lot about Lando's life outside of racing that Oscar didn't know.

Oscar's eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. He spotted Lando in the center of a laughing group, his arm slung casually around a girl Oscar assumed must be the co-host of this ridiculously extravagant party.

He couldn't recall if Lando had ever shown him a picture of this mysterious childhood friend. The invitations Lando had sent out mentioned her name - YN - but Oscar had paid little attention to the details. Racing consumed most of his thoughts, and social events like this were far from his priority list.

The girl standing next to Lando was pretty, Oscar noted absently, with an easy smile that seemed to light up those around her. She laughed at something Lando said, throwing her head back in genuine laughter. Oscar found himself wondering if this was the famed YN, but he couldn't be sure. There were so many people here, and Lando seemed to know them all.

Lost in his observations and internal musings, Oscar didn't notice someone approaching until a voice piped up beside him. "Not much for parties, huh?"

Lost in his observations and internal thoughts, Oscar didn't notice someone approaching until a voice piped up beside him. "Not much for parties, huh?"

He turned to find another girl standing next to him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. She was attractive too, he couldn't help but notice, with flowing hair and a smile that seemed genuine rather than the forced pleasantries he was used to at such events.

Oscar shrugged, not particularly in the mood for small talk. "Not really my scene," he replied, his tone cooler than the drink in his hand.

He glanced back at Lando and the girl he was with, then back to the newcomer. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if this might be YN, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Surely, the birthday girl would be at the center of attention, not chatting up grumpy partygoers in the corner.

The girl, not minding his frosty response, leaned against the wall next to him. "I get that. These big bashes can be overwhelming. But hey, the night's still young, right? Maybe it'll grow on you."

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Doubtful. I'm only here because Lando insisted."

"Oh?" the girl prompted, seeming genuinely interested despite Oscar's clear lack of enthusiasm. "You're friends with Lando then?"

"Teammates," Oscar corrected, taking a sip of his drink. "In Formula 1."

"That must be exciting!" the girl's eyes lit up, "I've always been fascinated by racing. The speed, the strategy, the teamwork… it's like a high-stakes chess game on wheels."

Despite himself, Oscar felt a flicker of interest. It wasn't often he met someone outside the racing world who seemed to genuinely appreciate the sport. But he squashed the feeling, determined to maintain his grumpy demeanor.

"It's just a job," he said flatly. "Not all it's cracked up to be."

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?" the girl laughed, the sound warm and melodious. "Do you know the birthday girl, by the way?"

Oscar's frown deepened at the mention of the birthday girl.

"No, and honestly, I couldn't care less," he said bluntly. "I'm just here for Lando. In fact, I'm seriously considering leaving already. This whole thing is just… too much."

The girl's eyebrows raised slightly, but her smile didn't falter. "Oh? What makes you say that?"

Oscar, emboldened by the anonymity he assumed he had with this stranger, decided to let loose. "Where do I even start? First off, this music is atrocious. It's just noise. Who even picked this playlist?"

"Not a fan of pop, I take it?" the girl chuckled, shaking her head.

"Not when it's blasting at eardrum-shattering levels," Oscar grumbled. He gestured around the room. "And look at all these people. Half of them probably don't even know Lando or this girl. It's just a crowd of random people here for the free drinks and the chance to rub elbows with a Formula 1 driver."

The girl nodded, her eyes twinkling with what Oscar failed to recognize as suppressed laughter. "I see. Anything else bothering you?"

Oscar was on a roll now.

"It's probably all because of this other girl who thought it would be a brilliant idea to have a joint birthday party with a Formula 1 driver. I mean, who does that? It's like she's using Lando for the publicity or something, because I've been Lando's teammate for a year and I've never heard of her util now. This whole thing is over the top. The decorations look like a McLaren gift shop exploded in here. And don't get me started on that ridiculous cake I saw earlier."

Throughout Oscar's rant, the girl beside him simply listened, nodding occasionally and biting her lip as if trying not to laugh. When he finally paused for breath, she said, "Wow, you've really given this a lot of thought. It must be tough, being surrounded by all this… excess."

Oscar sighed, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish about his outburst. "I just… I don't get it, you know? Why make such a big deal out of a birthday?"

The girl's smile softened. "Maybe because birthdays are worth celebrating? Especially when you can share them with friends – old and new."

Before Oscar could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise of the party. "YN! There you are! It's time for the cake!"

Oscar's head snapped up to see Lando weaving through the crowd, heading straight for them. His eyes widened as realization dawned, a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief washing over him.

The girl – YN – turned back to Oscar, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Duty calls," she said with a wink. "It was nice chatting with you, Oscar. Thanks for your honest feedback on my terrible music taste, my excessive decorations, and my 'brilliant' idea to share a birthday party with my childhood friend. Maybe next time you're at a party, try to enjoy it a little? You might be surprised."

As YN walked away to join Lando, leaving Oscar rooted to the spot, he couldn't help but feel a wave of mortification wash over him. He had just spent the better part of an hour criticizing various aspects of the party to one of the hosts herself. And not just any host – Lando's childhood friend, the girl whose birthday they were also celebrating.

Oscar watched as YN and Lando made their way to the center of the room, where the enormous cake he had mocked earlier was being wheeled out.

As YN and Lando took their places in front of the extravagant cake, the crowd began to gather around them to sing Happy Birthday. Oscar, still reeling from his embarrassing revelation, found himself shuffling closer to the center of the room, trying to blend in with the crowd.

As the song concluded, Lando stepped forward, raising a hand to quiet the crowd. He cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice filled with warmth and excitement.

"Thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate with us," Lando started, grinning widely. "YN and I have known each other since we were kids, and it's always been a bit of a joke between us that we share a birthday. Who would've thought we'd end up throwing a joint party like this years later?" He paused as the crowd chuckled. "YN, you've been an amazing friend all these years, and I'm so glad we reconnected. Here's to many more birthdays together!"

The crowd applauded as Lando raised his glass in a toast. Then, to Oscar's mounting dread, Lando handed the microphone to YN.

YN took the mic with a smile, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Oscar. He swallowed hard, wondering if she was about to call him out in front of everyone.

"Thanks, Lando," YN began, her voice warm and filled with amusement. "And thank you all for being here tonight. It means so much to see so many familiar faces… and some new ones too." Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at Oscar again. "You know, planning this party was quite an adventure. We wanted to make sure everyone would enjoy themselves… well, almost everyone."

Oscar felt his face grow hot as a few people near him chuckled, clearly not realizing the jab was directed at him.

"And now, let's cut into this 'ridiculous' cake I picked out. After that, feel free to enjoy more of our apparently ear-shattering music. Who knows? It might just grow on you!"

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, lilymhe and 109,847 others

yourinstagram when you share your birthday with your childhood bestie who happens to be an f1 driver… you go BIG or go home! thank you @/landonorris for the most incredible joint celebration ever! from the "atrocious" music to the "ridiculous" cake, every moment was perfect 😉 and thanks to everyone who came - even those who stayed in the corner judging my party planning skills. here's to another year of chaos!

view all comments

username1 SLAAAAY

username2 omg lando celebrated BIG this year

landonorris Best joint birthday ever! Thank you for being one of my best friends ever

charles_leclerc The music was actually great! Don't listen to the haters

username3 I NEED TO PARTY WITH LANDOOOO

username4 imagine being lando's childhood friend and sharing your birthday with him THE DREAM

iamrebeccad That cake was anything but ridiculous! Still dreaming about it 🎂

username6 why do I feel like there's a story behind those quotation marks…

username7 Still can't believe you pulled this off! Best birthday party ever!

username8 there's an inside joke we're missing

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Oscar was making his way through the paddock when he spotted her. YN was chatting with Lando near the McLaren garage, wearing team merchandise and looking completely at ease in an environment that was supposed to be his territory. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip - a reaction he immediately attributed to embarrassment from their last encounter, nothing more.

He quickly turned around, hoping to avoid another interaction. The last thing he needed before qualifying was to be reminded of how he'd made a complete fool of himself at that party. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

"Oscar!" Lando's voice called out. "Come here, mate!"

Oscar suppressed a groan, plastering what he hoped was a neutral expression on his face as he approached them. YN turned to face him, that same amused smile from the party playing on her lips. He hated how his heart skipped a beat - clearly just residual embarrassment, he assured himself.

"Hey, grumpy," she greeted cheerfully. "Ready for qualifying?"

Oscar's jaw tightened. Something about her easy demeanor, the way she seemed so unfazed by their previous interaction, irritated him. Or maybe what really irritated him was how much he'd thought about that interaction over the past two weeks.

"Just focused on the session," he replied curtly, trying to ignore the way her eyes seemed to see right through his cold exterior.

"YN's going to be hanging around this weekend," Lando explained, either oblivious to or ignoring the tension. "I thought it'd be cool to show her around."

Great, Oscar thought. Just what he needed - another distraction. He'd caught himself checking her Instagram more times than he cared to admit since the party, telling himself he was just curious about what she'd posted about that night. The fact that he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at her other photos was something he refused to analyze.

"How exciting," Oscar deadpanned. "The glamorous world of Formula 1. I'm sure you'll love all the noise and chaos."

YN's smile didn't falter. "Oh, I don't mind noise when it has a purpose. Race car engines are quite different from 'atrocious' party music, wouldn't you agree?"

Oscar felt his cheeks warm at the reference to his party complaints. The memory of that night had been replaying in his head for two weeks - how she'd stood there letting him rant, those knowing eyes twinkling with amusement. How different would things have been if he'd known who she was from the start? Would he have actually tried to enjoy himself? Would he not think about his ex for half of the night?

Because that was his reality, he thought about his ex more than he cared to admit that he did.

"I should go prepare for qualifying," he muttered, turning to leave, trying to escape both her presence and his confusing thoughts.

"Wait," YN called after him. "I actually wanted to apologize."

This made Oscar pause, turning back with a confused frown. "Apologize?" His heart was doing that annoying skipping thing again.

"Yes," she nodded. "I should have introduced myself properly at the party instead of letting you vent. It was a bit mean to let you go on like that without telling you who I was."

Her sincerity caught him off guard. He'd spent two weeks convinced she must think he was a complete jerk, and here she was apologizing to him? It didn't make sense. None of this made sense - including the way his pulse quickened when she smiled at him.

"Right. Well, no harm done. If you'll excuse me…" He needed to get away. Now. Before these unwanted feelings got any more confused.

"I made you a playlist," YN continued, her eyes twinkling. "All non-atrocious songs, I promise. Thought it might help with your pre-race preparation."

She held out her phone, showing a Spotify playlist titled "For Grumpy F1 Drivers Who Hate Fun." The fact that she'd taken the time to make him a playlist, even as a joke, did something strange to his chest.

Lando burst out laughing. "Oh mate, she's got you there!"

Oscar stared at the playlist, his expression hardening. The championship battle was too tight, the pressure too intense for these kinds of distractions. They were so close to securing the constructor's championship. He couldn't afford to let anything break his focus, especially not some girl who seemed determined to get under his skin.

"I don't need a playlist," he said, his voice sharper than before. "What I need is to focus on qualifying. We're fighting for a championship here. This isn't some game."

YN's smile faltered slightly, but she maintained her composure. "Right, of course. The championship."

"Yeah, the championship," Oscar continued, his tone cold and professional. "Something that requires actual focus and dedication, not parties and playlists. So if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Oscar, mate," Lando started, looking uncomfortable, but Oscar cut him off.

"No, Lando. You might be comfortable mixing your personal life with racing, but I'm not. I'm here to win, not to socialize." He turned to YN, his expression neutral but his eyes hard. "Enjoy your weekend at the track."

He turned and walked away, his steps quick and purposeful. Behind him, he could hear Lando apologizing to YN, but he forced himself not to care.

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Oscar sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his phone illuminated with photos he should have deleted months ago. Lily's smile beamed back at him through the screen - holidays in Melbourne, race weekends, quiet moments at home. Four years of memories he couldn't seem to let go of.

"This is pathetic," he muttered, tossing his phone aside. The Vegas skyline glittered beyond his window, a stark contrast to his dark mood. The text from Lando about the drivers' party at some upscale club sat unanswered on his phone.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling the familiar weight of loneliness settle in his chest. Lily had ended things right before the season started, claiming she couldn't handle the distance anymore. The truth was, she'd found someone else - someone who wasn't away racing cars most of the year.

The thought of sitting alone in his hotel room on a Saturday night in Las Vegas, scrolling through old photos of his ex, made him cringe. Even Alex, who usually preferred quiet nights after races, was going to the party.

"Fuck it," he declared to his empty room, standing up abruptly. He'd rather feel uncomfortable at a party than feel sorry for himself.

The club was exactly as he expected - loud, crowded, and dripping with excess. He spotted several drivers immediately: Lewis holding court in a VIP section, Max and Kelly laughing with Charles, Alex and George arguing about something while Franco watched in amusement.

Then he saw her. YN was wearing a silver dress that caught the light, making her look like she belonged among the glittering Vegas lights. She was chatting with Lando and Carlos, her head thrown back in laughter at something Carlos had said.

Oscar ordered a drink and found a quiet corner, trying to ignore the way his eyes kept drifting back to her. Their last interaction in the paddock hadn't been great - he'd been cold, dismissive. Yet here she was, seemingly unbothered, lighting up the room with that easy smile of hers.

"Didn't expect to see you here," her voice suddenly came from beside him. He hadn't noticed her approach.

"I live to surprise," he replied flatly, taking a sip of his drink.

YN leaned against the wall next to him, mirroring their positions from her birthday party. "You look about as thrilled to be here as you did at my party."

"If you've come to mock me again-"

"I haven't," she cut him off, her voice gentle. "I actually came to see if you're okay. You seem… different tonight."

Oscar tensed. Was he that transparent? "I'm fine."

"You know, it's okay not to be okay sometimes," she said softly. "Even Formula 1 drivers are allowed to have bad days."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. There was no trace of mockery in her expression, just genuine concern. It made something in his chest ache.

"I don't need your pity," he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

"Good, because I'm not offering any," YN replied. "I'm offering friendship. Or at least a dance partner who won't judge your moves too harshly."

Despite himself, Oscar felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "My moves are fine."

"Prove it then," she challenged, pushing off the wall and holding out her hand.

Oscar stared at her outstretched hand, feeling the weight of his phone in his pocket - the one still full of photos of Lily. He thought about his empty hotel room, about scrolling through memories of a relationship that was long over.

"I don't dance," he said finally, his tone cooling again. "And I'm not interested in whatever this is."

YN's hand dropped slowly, but her eyes remained kind. "Okay," she said simply. "But if you change your mind about either - the dancing or the friendship - I'll be around."

She turned to leave, pausing only to add, "You deserve to be happy, Oscar. Even if you don't believe it right now."

Oscar watched her disappear into the crowd, his drink suddenly tasting bitter in his mouth. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his photo gallery. After a moment's hesitation, he opened his settings instead.

"Delete all photos?" the prompt asked.

He pressed yes before he could change his mind.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 12,958 others

f1gossip SWIPE to see Lily Zneimer (Oscar Piastri's ex) hard-launching her new relationship! 👀 After 4 years with the McLaren driver, she's officially moved on. Lily shared multiple pics on her Instagram with the caption "Finally found my perfect match ❤️"

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username1 the way she waited until oscar had a good race weekend to post this… calculated af 💀

username2 "perfect match" girl you dated an f1 driver… downgrade much?

username3 anyone else notice she limited her comments? 👀 guilty conscience maybe??

username4 oscar deserves better anyway, he's so focused this season!

username5 well this explains why oscar's been in his villain era all season

username6 her loss tbh oscar's having his best season yet

username7 the way she's trying to make it seem like they just met… girl we all saw you commenting on his posts since last year 🙄

username8 imagine breaking up with oscar piastri… couldn't be me

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Monaco streets were quieter than usual at 6 AM, which was exactly why Oscar had chosen this time for his run. His feet pounded against the pavement in rhythm with the aggressive beats flooding his headphones, trying to drown out the thoughts of Lily's Instagram post that had been haunting him since last night.

Perfect match. The words echoed in his head, mocking him. Four years, and she'd replaced him so easily.

He pushed himself harder, taking the hill towards Casino Square at a punishing pace. The physical exertion wasn't enough to quiet his mind, but at least-

"Oscar!"

He ignored the voice, assuming it was meant for someone else.

"Oscar! Hey!"

The voice was closer now. Persistent. Familiar. He yanked out one earbud, turning around with an irritated scowl that only deepened when he saw who it was. YN was jogging towards him, wearing running gear and looking annoyingly fresh despite the steep incline.

"What the fuck?" he snapped when she caught up. "Are you following me now?"

YN raised an eyebrow, barely winded. "Don't flatter yourself, Piastri. I was already running when I spotted you."

"You don't even live here." His heart was racing, and he told himself it was just from the run.

"Staying with Lando," she shrugged, falling into step beside him despite his obvious displeasure. "He's got a spare room."

Oscar stopped abruptly, turning to face her. The morning sun caught her face in a way that made her eyes look impossibly bright. He pushed that observation away immediately. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Running?"

"This," he gestured between them, frustration evident in his voice. "Being… nice. Showing up everywhere. Trying to talk to me. I don't like you, okay? I don't want to be friends. I don't want whatever this is."

YN studied him for a moment, completely unfazed by his hostility. "You know, for someone who doesn't like me, you spend an awful lot of energy trying to convince me of that fact."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she said, stretching her arms above her head casually, "that if you really didn't like me, you wouldn't care enough to tell me repeatedly. You'd just ignore me."

The logic in her statement irritated him more than her presence. She had a point, but he'd rather run up this hill ten more times than admit it.

"I prefer running alone," he said flatly, trying to ignore how his stomach did a weird flip when she smiled at him.

"Cool. Me too, usually." She grinned. "But sometimes life throws you unexpected running partners. Kind of like unexpected friendships."

"We're not friends."

"Not yet," she agreed cheerfully. "Race you to the casino?"

Before he could protest, she took off up the hill, her ponytail swinging with each stride. Oscar stood there for a moment, torn between irritation and something else he refused to name. The morning light cast long shadows across the street, and he watched her figure getting smaller as she climbed the hill.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, but his feet were already moving, chasing after her up the winding street.

He told himself it was just his competitive nature, that he couldn't let her win. It had nothing to do with how her presence somehow made his chest feel lighter, or how the morning felt less lonely with her there.

They reached Casino Square nearly neck and neck, both breathing hard. The square was empty except for a few early morning workers, the famous casino building looming above them in the soft morning light.

"Not bad, Piastri," YN panted, hands on her knees. "But I totally had you on that last corner."

"You cut me off," he accused, trying to catch his breath.

"Did not! I took the racing line," she grinned, mimicking his Australian accent on the last two words.

Despite himself, a laugh escaped Oscar's lips before he could stop it.

YN's eyes lit up triumphantly. "There! You laughed!" She pointed at him accusingly. "You actually laughed! Quick, someone alert the press - Oscar Piastri has emotions other than grumpy and grumpier!"

Oscar immediately tried to school his features back into their usual scowl, but he could feel the corners of his mouth fighting to turn upward. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

"Make me," she challenged, starting to jog backwards. "Come on, one more lap around Monaco? Unless you're scared I'll beat you again…"

Oscar felt something shift in his chest, a crack in the walls he'd built so carefully. He blamed it on the endorphins from running, on the early morning air, on anything but the way her smile made him want to smile back.

"In your dreams," he called out, already moving to chase after her.

And if he was smiling as they ran through the empty streets of Monaco, well, there was no one else around to see it anyway.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

YN burst through Lando's front door, still riding the runner's high from her morning excursion. She found him in the kitchen, bleary-eyed and hunched over a cup of coffee, his hair sticking up in every direction.

"Morning, sunshine," she chirped, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

"Why are you so… awake?" Lando groaned, squinting at her. "It's inhuman."

"Guess who I ran into?" She hopped onto the kitchen counter, grinning. "Your grumpy teammate. And - wait for it - I actually made him laugh!"

Lando's spoon clattered against his mug. "Oscar? Laughed?"

"I know, right? I mean, it was more like a surprised laugh that he tried to take back immediately, but still. Progress!" She took a long drink of water. "I don't get why he's so… intense all the time. Like, I know F1 drivers are serious, but he takes it to another level."

Lando's expression shifted, something like concern crossing his face. "Ah, right. You don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"About the breakup."

YN stopped mid-sip. "Breakup?"

Lando set his coffee down, suddenly looking more awake. "His girlfriend - well, ex-girlfriend now - Lily. They were together for four years. She ended things right before the season started."

"Oh," YN said quietly, her earlier enthusiasm deflating. "I had no idea."

"Yeah, it was…" Lando ran a hand through his already messy hair. "It was pretty rough. They had this whole life planned out, you know? She moved to Monaco for him when he got the McLaren seat. They were talking about getting married eventually."

"What happened?"

"She met someone else," Lando said grimly. "Some business guy in Sydney or something. Oscar found out when he got back from winter training. She'd already moved her stuff out."

YN felt her stomach sink. "That's horrible."

"Yeah. And the worst part? She posted about her new relationship yesterday. All these loved-up photos, calling the guy her 'perfect match' and everything." Lando shook his head. "Oscar saw it last night. That's probably why he was out running so early."

"Shit," YN whispered, remembering how she'd teased him about being grumpy. "I feel awful now. I've been giving him such a hard time about being antisocial."

"You didn't know," Lando assured her. "And honestly? You getting him to laugh is kind of huge. He's been… different since it happened. Throws himself into racing, barely socializes. The only time I see him smile is on podiums."

YN thought about Oscar's surprised laugh in Casino Square, how quickly he'd tried to hide it. "Four years is a long time."

"Yeah," Lando agreed. "And they were good together, you know? Or we all thought they were. She was at every race, knew everyone in the paddock. When she left…" He trailed off, taking a sip of coffee. "Let's just say there's a reason he keeps people at arm's length now."

YN slid off the counter, her earlier victory feeling hollow now. "I should probably back off then. Give him space."

Lando looked at her thoughtfully. "Actually… maybe don't?"

"What?"

"It's just…" Lando set his mug down, choosing his words carefully. "That was the first time you've mentioned him laughing since January. Maybe what he needs isn't more space. Maybe he needs someone who won't let him push them away."

YN thought about Oscar's determined scowl that morning, how it had softened just slightly when she'd challenged him to another lap. "I don't know, Lando…"

"Just… be yourself," Lando suggested. "You've already cracked the grumpy exterior once. And Oscar… he's a good guy. He just needs to remember there's more to life than proving his ex wrong."

YN nodded slowly, her mind going back to their morning run. She thought about the way Oscar had tried not to smile, how his eyes had lit up during their race to the casino despite his best efforts to remain stoic.

"Okay," she said finally. "But if he murders me for being annoying, I'm haunting you first."

Lando grinned. "Deal. Now please tell me you're making those pancakes you promised yesterday."

"Only if you tell me more about this grumpy teammate of yours."

"Oh, I've got stories," Lando laughed. "Let me tell you about the time he got lost in Singapore…"

As YN moved around Lando's kitchen gathering pancake ingredients, she couldn't help but think about Oscar, wondering if he was still running through the streets of Monaco, trying to outrun memories of a relationship that had shaped the last four years of his life.

She understood his coldness better now, but somehow, that only made her more determined to break through it.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 10,983 others

f1gossip SPOTTED: Oscar Piastri jogging around Monaco with mysterious girl ! Sources say they were laughing and racing each other around 👀

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username1 OHHHH

username2 WHO IS THIS

username3 oscar healing era we love to see it

username4 isn't this lando's friend? the one he shares the same bday with

userame5 THIS IS YNNNN lando's bday twin

username6 OSC BOYFRIEND ERA AGAIN??

username7 cry lily zneimer

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Oscar stared at his phone screen, the message he'd sent to Lily still showing just one gray checkmark. Not delivered. He'd blocked her months ago, but last night, in a moment of weakness (and perhaps too much room service wine), he'd unblocked her number.

"I hope you're happy," he'd texted. Four simple words that made him feel pathetic now in the harsh light of day.

Of course she'd changed her number. Of course she hadn't responded. What had he expected? That she'd suddenly remember all their plans, their shared dreams, their life in Monaco? That she'd realize her Sydney finance dude wasn't her "perfect match" after all?

He tossed his phone onto the hotel bed, disgusted with himself. Four years of his life, and here he was, still orbiting around her like a satellite that didn't know its planet had disappeared. The worst part was, he wasn't even sure if he still loved her or if he was just haunted by the future they'd planned.

The Qatar paddock was already buzzing with activity when he arrived, the air conditioning doing little to combat the oppressive heat. He had an engineering briefing in ten minutes, and he needed to focus on the race weekend, not on unanswered texts to ex-girlfriends.

Then he spotted her. YN was chatting animatedly with Carlos near the Ferrari garage, wearing a McLaren team shirt that he suspected was Lando's. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she was gesturing enthusiastically about something, making Carlos laugh. She looked so at ease, so comfortable in this world that had taken him years to navigate.

Oscar immediately turned around, hoping to duck into the McLaren hospitality without being noticed.

"Oscar!"

No such luck.

He kept walking, pretending he hadn't heard her. The sound of quick footsteps behind him told him his escape attempt had failed.

"Hey, grumpy!" YN fell into step beside him, seemingly unbothered by his obvious attempt to avoid her. "Still maintaining your daily scowl quota, I see."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he asked coldly, not slowing his pace.

"Probably. But bothering you is much more fun." She grinned, matching his stride effortlessly. "You know, most people say good morning when they see someone."

"I'm not most people. We're not anything."

"Still stuck on that 'we're not friends' thing? Even after our romantic morning run in Monaco?"

He tensed, acutely aware of the heads turning in their direction. Since their morning run in Monaco, social media had been buzzing with speculation. F1 fan accounts had somehow gotten hold of a blurry photo of them running through Casino Square, and the paddock rumor mill had been working overtime. The last thing he needed was more fuel for those fires, especially not when his embarrassing text to Lily was still fresh in his mind.

"Stop," he cut her off, pulling them both to a halt in a quieter section of the paddock. "This needs to stop."

"What needs to stop?"

"This. You. Being everywhere." His voice was low, controlled, but inside he was a mess of conflicting emotions. The ghost of his unanswered text message haunted him, making him feel vulnerable and defensive. "People are talking. They saw us in Monaco."

YN's smile faltered slightly, but her eyes remained kind. "And? We went for a run. Last I checked, that wasn't a crime."

"You don't get it," he said, frustration seeping into his tone. "I don't need this right now. I don't need people speculating or making assumptions." I don't need to feel things I'm not ready to feel, he added silently.

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Are you afraid your ex might see?"

The question hit too close to home, especially after his pathetic attempt at reaching out to Lily. His jaw clenched. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're letting someone who left you control your life," YN said quietly, her words cutting through his defenses with surgical precision. "I know you're so afraid of getting hurt again that you'd rather push everyone away."

"Don't," he warned, his voice sharp. "You don't get to analyze me. You don't get to act like you understand anything about my life just because Lando told you some story." The fact that she could read him so easily only made him more defensive.

"I'm not-"

"We're not friends," he continued, his words precise and cutting. "That morning in Monaco was a mistake. I was…" Vulnerable, lonely, weak. "…it doesn't matter. Just stay away from me."

He turned to leave, his phone feeling like a lead weight in his pocket, the unanswered text message a reminder of everything he was trying to forget.

"You know what I think?" YN called after him, her voice carrying across the paddock. "I think you're not actually afraid of what she might see. I think you're afraid of what might happen if you stop letting her ghost rule your life. And you know what the saddest part is? You're so focused on pushing people away, you don't even notice who's trying to stay."

Oscar didn't turn around, but his shoulders tensed. Her words hit home with devastating accuracy, making his chest tight. Without another word, he walked away, leaving YN standing alone in the sweltering Qatar heat.

But as he headed into the briefing, YN's words kept playing in his mind: "You're so focused on pushing people away, you don't even notice who's trying to stay."

The worst part was, he was starting to wonder if she was right.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The private jet hummed quietly as they crossed over Saudi airspace. Oscar kept fidgeting with his phone, refreshing Instagram for the tenth time in as many minutes. Another photo of Lily, another glimpse of her perfect new life without him.

"If you stare at that screen any harder, it might actually burst into flames," YN's voice cut through his thoughts.

Oscar locked his phone quickly, jaw tightening. "Mind your own business."

From across the aisle, Lando pretended to be absorbed in his game, but Oscar could see him watching their interaction from the corner of his eye.

"Want to talk about it?" YN asked softly, closing her book.

"No."

"Want to keep brooding dramatically while pretending you're not stalking your ex's Instagram?"

Oscar's head snapped up. "I'm not-"

"You've refreshed that page twelve times in the last hour. I've been counting."

"Why are you even watching me?"

"Hard not to when you're sighing like a sad protagonist in a period drama."

Despite himself, Oscar felt the corner of his mouth twitch. YN caught it immediately.

"Was that almost a smile? Quick, Lando, document this rare occurrence!"

"Leave me out of this," Lando mumbled, though he was clearly fighting back a grin.

Oscar tried to maintain his scowl, but YN's theatrical gasping was making it difficult. "You're ridiculous."

"And you," she pointed at him, "are coming out with me tomorrow night."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you need to get out of your hotel room, and I know for a fact you don't have any plans besides rewatching her stories and making yourself miserable."

"I don't-"

"You know what?" YN continued, leaning forward in her seat. "We're going to that new rooftop bar at the W. You're going to wear something that isn't team gear, you're going to have at least two drinks, and you're going to remember what it's like to actually enjoy yourself."

"And if I say no?"

"You won't," she said confidently. "Because deep down, you know I'm right. Also, I've already told Lando he's coming too."

"Traitor," Oscar muttered at his teammate.

Lando shrugged. "She's very persuasive. Also, slightly terrifying."

"So?" YN raised an eyebrow at Oscar. "What's it going to be? Another night of Instagram stalking, or actually living your life?"

Oscar looked between her determined face and his phone, still dark in his hand. The thought of another night alone with his thoughts was suddenly exhausting.

"Fine," he said finally. "But I'm not dancing."

"We'll see about that," YN grinned triumphantly. "Now, hand over your phone."

"What? No."

"Yes. Consider it confiscated until we land. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"No, but I am your friend, whether you like it or not. Phone. Now."

Maybe it was the altitude, or the way she said 'friend' so matter-of-factly, or just the sheer exhaustion of maintaining his walls, but Oscar found himself holding out his phone.

"Just until we land," he warned.

"Of course," YN agreed, tucking it into her bag. "Now, want to hear about the time I accidentally locked Lando in his own garage?"

"That was YOU?" Lando's head shot up from his game.

"In my defense, I thought you were already at the track…"

As YN launched into the story, Oscar felt something in his chest loosen slightly. He wasn't ready to admit it yet, but maybe - just maybe - she had a point about living his life again.

"…and that's why Lando now triple-checks every door before closing it," YN finished, making Lando groan.

"I knew it wasn't a 'random malfunction,'" he accused.

Oscar found himself actually laughing, the sound surprising even himself.

"There it is," YN said softly, her eyes meeting his. "That's the guy I'm taking out tomorrow night."

And for once, Oscar didn't argue.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between lando and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Oscar stood in front of his hotel mirror, already regretting the black button-down shirt he'd chosen. His phone buzzed with a message from Lando: "Sorry mate, stomach's not great. Going to skip tonight. You two have fun ;)"

The winky face made Oscar's jaw clench. He immediately typed back: "Not going if you're not."

Lando's reply was instant: "Yes you are. YN will murder me if you bail."

As if on cue, there was a knock at his door. Oscar considered pretending he wasn't in, but-

"I can hear you overthinking from out here, Piastri!" YN's voice carried through the door. "Open up!"

Sighing, he opened the door to find her leaning against the frame, wearing a simple black dress that made him suddenly very aware of his heartbeat.

"Lando's not coming," he said immediately.

"I know, he texted me." She stepped into his room uninvited. "We're still going."

"I don't think-"

"Nope," she cut him off. "You're not bailing. You're dressed, you look nice, and I'm not letting you spend another night hiding in your room."

"I don't hide-"

"Your Instagram search history would disagree." She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the door. "Come on, one drink. If you're still miserable after that, you can come back and brood in peace."

Something about the way she said it - teasing but kind - made it hard to argue. "One drink," he conceded.

The rooftop bar at the W was busy but not crowded, the Abu Dhabi skyline glittering around them. They found a quiet corner with a view of the water.

"See? Not so terrible," YN said, sliding into her seat.

Oscar had to admit the view was spectacular. "It's alright."

"Such high praise! Should I alert the media?"

He tried to maintain his scowl but failed. "You're impossible."

"Yet here you are," she grinned. "Now, what are you drinking?"

Two hours later, they were walking along the waterfront, their earlier drinks having taken the edge off Oscar's usual guardedness. The night air was warm but pleasant, and the city lights reflected off the water like stars.

"No way," Oscar laughed - actually laughed - at YN's story. "You did not steal Lando's car."

"I didn't steal it! I borrowed it. There's a difference."

Oscar shook his head, still chuckling. "You're chaos."

"Better than being predictable," she shrugged, bumping his shoulder playfully. "Speaking of which, you know what I noticed?"

"What?"

"You haven't checked your phone once tonight."

Oscar realized she was right. He hadn't even thought about Lily since they'd left the hotel. "I guess I was… distracted."

"By my sparkling personality and amazing stories?"

"By your criminal tendencies, apparently."

YN stopped walking, turning to face him. "You know what else I noticed?"

"What?"

"You're smiling. Like, actually smiling. Not that fake media smile you do, but a real one."

Oscar felt his defenses start to rise, but YN continued before he could retreat.

"And the world didn't end," she said softly. "You had fun, you laughed, and somehow life went on."

He looked out at the water, processing her words. "It's not… it's not that simple."

"No, it's not," she agreed. "But it's a start." She turned to face the water too, standing close enough that their arms brushed. "You know what your problem is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You're so afraid of getting hurt again that you're missing out on all the good stuff. The random nights like this, the unexpected friendships, the moments that make life worth living."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "I thought I had all that figured out," he finally said. "The whole future planned."

"And now?"

"Now…" he looked at her, really looked at her, illuminated by the city lights. "Now I don't know anything anymore."

"Good," she smiled. "That's where all the best stories start." She pulled out her phone, checking the time. "Come on, one more stop before I return you to your cave of solitude."

"Where?"

"There's a gelato place around the corner that's still open. And before you say no, just remember - I've already seen you smile tonight. Your reputation is already ruined."

Oscar found himself following her without argument, watching as she practically bounced down the sidewalk, chattering about the best gelato flavors. He thought about what she'd said about missing out on the good stuff.

Maybe, just maybe, she had a point.

"Hey YN?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks. For… you know."

She turned back to him, her smile soft. "I know." Then, because she was YN, she added, "But if you try to go back to being grumpy tomorrow, I'm telling everyone about how you sang along to Taylor Swift in the bar."

"I did not-"

"The security cameras would disagree!"

Their laughter echoed off the buildings, mixing with the sounds of the city, and for the first time in months, Oscar felt like maybe, just maybe, there was life after Lily after all.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, lilyhme and 102,648 others

yourinstagram turns out mr grumpy does know how to smile 😌 (he's gonna kill me for posting this last pic but it was worth it)

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username1 AWE THIS???

username2 weird plot twist but i love it

username3 YN AND OSCAR???

landonorris my stomach miraculously feels better seeing this 😇

↳ oscarpiastri I trusted you norris

↳ landonorris you'll thank me later mate

↳ username1 is there an inside joke we’re missing?

alex_albon WHO IS THIS MAN AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OSCAR

↳ oscarpiastri Delete this immediately

↳ yourinstagram no ❤️

↳ username2 WHATS GOING ON

yourinstagram for someone who "hates" this post you sure are commenting a lot @/oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri ...i know where you live

↳ yourinstagram no you don't

↳ oscarpiastri Lando does

↳ landonorris leave me out of this 😂

username4 hear me out… oscar and yn

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The McLaren garage had erupted into absolute chaos the moment Lando and Oscar crossed the finish line, securing the Constructors' Championship for the team. Zak was crying, Andrea was hugging everyone in sight, and Lando had already lost his voice from screaming.

Oscar's head was buzzing pleasantly from the multiple champagne showers and whatever drinks had been pressed into his hands during the celebrations. His race suit was stained and sticky, his hair a mess, but he couldn't stop grinning.

"WORLD CHAMPIONS!" Lando screamed for the hundredth time, jumping on Oscar's back.

Through the crowd of celebrating team members, Oscar spotted YN chatting with some of the engineers. She was wearing a McLaren shirt (definitely stolen from Lando's collection) and had champagne dripping from her hair.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the high of winning, or just the way she'd been beaming at him from the pit wall when he crossed the finish line, but Oscar found himself moving through the crowd toward her.

"YN!"

She turned, her smile growing wider. "Well, if it isn't the man of the hour-"

Before she could finish, Oscar had wrapped her in a tight hug, lifting her slightly off the ground. YN froze for a moment, clearly shocked by this uncharacteristic display of affection from him.

"Oh my god," she laughed, hugging him back. "Are you drunk or just really happy?"

"Both," he admitted into her hair, still not letting go. "We did it."

"You did it," she corrected, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Though I have to say, I'm a little concerned. First you're smiling in public, now you're initiating hugs? Who are you and what have you done with Oscar Piastri?"

"Shut up," he grinned, finally releasing her. "I'm allowed to be happy today."

"Quick, someone record this! The evidence that Oscar Piastri has emotions!"

"I take it back, I hate you again."

"No you don't," she sing-songed, poking his cheek. "You just hugged me in front of the entire paddock. Your reputation is ruined forever."

Oscar's eyes widened slightly as he looked around, suddenly aware of the knowing looks and smirks from nearby team members. Lando was practically vibrating with glee.

"I can still blame the champagne," he muttered.

"Sure you can," YN patted his cheek condescendingly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, champ."

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

"Not a chance. I'm having this moment framed. 'The Day Oscar Piastri Showed Human Emotion: A Historical Event.'"

Despite himself, Oscar laughed. "You're impossible."

"Yet you hugged me anyway," she grinned triumphantly. "Face it, Piastri, you actually like having me around."

Maybe it was the champagne, or the victory high, or just the way her eyes were sparkling with mischief, but Oscar found himself saying, "Yeah, maybe I do."

YN's teasing smile softened into something more genuine. "Careful there, that almost sounded like admitting we're friends."

"Don't push it."

"Too late!" She called out to the garage. "Hey everyone! Oscar just said-"

Oscar quickly covered her mouth with his hand, both of them laughing now. "You're the worst."

She licked his palm, making him snatch his hand back. "And you love it."

Before he could respond, Lando crashed into both of them, wrapping his arms around their shoulders. "GROUP HUG! WORLD CHAMPIONS!"

As more team members joined the huddle, Oscar found himself pressed close to YN again. She caught his eye and mouthed "softie" at him with a smirk.

He rolled his eyes but couldn't stop smiling. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did like having her around.

But he was definitely blaming the champagne for that hug.

(He wasn't.)

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 104,759 others

yourinstagram to the boy who "doesn't smile" and the guy who "never shuts up" - you just made history. beyond proud to watch you two achieve this. thank you for letting me be a small part of the journey (even when one of you claimed to hate me 😌)

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username1 MCLAREN CHAMPIONSSS

username2 AHHH HAPPY OSC

landonorris MY FAVOURITE HUMAN ❤️

↳ oscarpiastri Excuse me?

↳ landonorris …my favourite humans*

↳ username1 THIS TRIO

username3 the grumpy one and the chaotic one

username4 I SHIP OSCAR AND YN

username5 she's lando's coolest friend

oscarpiastri Never hated you btw

↳ yourinstagram i know, you were just a grumpy boyy

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between lily and oscar

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The McLaren Technology Centre had been transformed for the end-of-year celebration. Music thrummed through the usually pristine halls, and fairy lights twinkled everywhere. YN was nursing her second glass of champagne, watching Lando attempt to convince Zak to try some viral TikTok dance.

She found herself on one of the balconies overlooking the lake, enjoying the crisp December air. The door clicked behind her, and she didn't need to turn to know who it was – she'd recognize those footsteps anywhere.

"Escaping your own party, world champion?"

Oscar leaned against the railing beside her. "Needed some air."

"Too many people trying to hug you?" she teased. "I know how you hate showing emotion in public. Though after that champagne shower in Abu Dhabi…"

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Never," she grinned. "It's my favorite memory. The day Oscar Piastri admitted he had feelings."

He was quiet for a moment, fidgeting with his glass. "Speaking of feelings…"

"Ooh, are we having a heart-to-heart? Should I record this rare moment?"

"Lily texted me." He blurted it out almost defensively.

YN's smile faltered for a split second before returning. "Oh! That's… that's great! You must be over the moon. I mean, you've been waiting for her to-"

"I blocked her number."

"You… what?"

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture she'd come to recognize. "She wanted to meet for coffee, talk about getting back together, but I just… I couldn't."

"Why not?" YN asked softly, even as her heart picked up speed.

"Because I think I'm falling for someone else," he said in a rush. "Have been for months, actually. Someone who never gave up on me even when I was being an absolute dick. Someone who somehow got past all my walls and made me laugh again. Someone who steals Lando's hoodies and makes terrible puns and calls me out on my bullshit and-"

She kissed him.

It wasn't a grand, dramatic kiss like in the movies. It was soft, quick, almost shy – but it shut him up immediately.

She pulled back, watching his stunned expression with amusement. "I always liked you, you idiot. You were just too busy being grumpy to notice."

"I… what?"

"The guy I've been telling Lando about for months? The one he keeps teasing me about? That's you, dummy."

"But you're always making fun of me!"

"Because you're cute when you're flustered! And it was the only way to get you to actually interact with me at first."

Oscar stared at her, processing. "So all those times you were 'accidentally' showing up wherever I was…"

"Lando might have helped with that," she admitted. "Though in my defense, you were being very stubborn about the whole 'I don't need friends' thing."

"I was an idiot, wasn't I?"

"The biggest," she agreed cheerfully. "But you're my idiot now. If you want to be, that is."

Instead of answering, Oscar pulled her closer and kissed her properly this time. She could feel him smiling against her lips.

"Finally!" Lando's voice made them jump apart. He was standing in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear. "Do you know how exhausting it's been watching you two dance around each other?"

"How long have you been standing there?" YN asked.

"Long enough to know I was right all along," he beamed. "My best friends are in love!"

Oscar groaned. "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Never ever," Lando confirmed cheerfully. "Now come on, there's a party inside and I want to see everyone's faces when they find out!"

YN turned back to Oscar, who looked like he was contemplating murder. "Well, at least we don't have to worry about how to tell everyone?"

"I'm going to kill him."

"No, you're not," she said, pulling him closer. "You're going to kiss me again, and then we're going to go inside and face the music together."

"Or," he suggested, "we could stay here and kiss some more."

"Look who's being soft now," she teased.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

So he did.

(Inside, Lando was already planning how to work this into his best man speech – not that he'd tell them that just yet.)

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 219,048 others

yourinstagram 2 months of making mr grumpy smile (and yes, there's photographic evidence of the smiles now). who would've thought all it took was stealing his hoodies and annoying him until he fell in love with me 😌 ps: thanks @/landonorris for being the world's most obvious wingman

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username1 THIS IS SO CUUUUTE

username2 i’m crying. they’re the most adorable couple ver

username3 this is what osc deserves!!!

landonorris MY WORK HERE IS DONE

↳ oscarpiastri You're the worst best friend ever

↳ landonorris you're welcome mate 😘

↳ yourinstagram thank you for your service

charles_leclerc The grumpy one's gone soft

↳ yourinstagram he really has 🥰

↳ oscarpiastri I hate both of you

↳ yourinstagram no you don't x

↳ oscarpiastri ...no i don't ❤️

alex_albon aremember when he used to pretend he couldn't stand you

↳ yourinstagram look how that turned out

↳ oscarpiastri In my defense she was very annoying

↳ yourinstagram still am, you just think it's cute now

↳ oscarpiastri ...no comment

username4 BEST COUPLE IN THE PADDOCK

username5 the day oscar piastri used a heart emoji. historic.

oscarpiastri Fine. You win. 2 months of pretending to be annoyed by the most incredible girl who somehow sees past my "resting grumpy face" (your words, not mine). Thanks for not giving up on me even when i was being difficult. ps: that's my favorite hoodie you're wearing in the last photo, i want it back.

↳ yourinstagram no you don't, it looks better on me 😌

↳ oscarpiastri ...yeah it does

↳ landonorris Get a room you two 🙄

↳ yourinstagram says the guy who took half these photos without us knowing

↳ landonorris SOMEONE had to document the enemies to lovers arc

↳ yourinstagram i love you, grumpy ❤️

[willowsnook]

Comfort

request from @itznotsophia

lando norris x sainz!reader

I’d be insane not to love you

—————————————————————-

Happy tears streamed down your face as you watched your brother cross the finish line in Mexico. He needed this. Your whole family had flown out to the race, and you celebrated together in the garage before heading out to watch him on the podium.

This was the first race you had attended this year due to your hectic work schedule. Honestly, ever since you graduated high school you had only been able to make it to one or two races a season due to school or work. Right after graduating college, you took a job in investment banking in London. Your friends claimed you were a workaholic, but you loved being busy. You were living the big city career girl dream that you had always had.

Because of all this, watching Carlos take the win while you were there was even more special. He spun you around after the podium, and you laughed in his arms.

“My good luck charm,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “I’m glad you could come for this weekend.”

“Me too,” you said, smiling widely. You were the baby of the family, being 6 years younger than Carlos and the two of you had always had a special relationship despite the age gap. He really was your best friend.

Everyone headed back to the hotel to change and then head out for dinner. You changed out of your Ferrari jacket into a cuter outfit for dinner and then for what you assumed would happen afterward. Once you had freshened up, you headed down to the lobby, not seeing any of your family.

You looked around but only saw your brother’s friend and fellow driver, Lando, walking towards you. It had been a long time since you had been around him, and he definitely grew into himself over the years. You remembered when Carlos was at McLaren, you found him funny but very immature, so you never really gave him the time of day even though he followed you around like a lost puppy. He was a boy back then, but this was a man.

“Carlos had to head over there early to make the reservation time, so he tasked me with taking you,” he said once he reached you, with an easy-going smile.

“Wow, my Uber driver is professional? Lucky me,” you teased, and he chuckled. He hovered nervously near you, and you could tell he was deciding whether or not to give you a hug, so you made the decision for him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “It’s good to see you Lan.”

“You too, y/n,” he replied, stepping back with a tint of pink on his cheeks. “Shall we?”

You took his arm and followed him out the door and into his car that had been pulled up. You caught up over the car ride to dinner, and he peppered you with questions about your job and living in London.

“You should hit up Max and Pietra to hang out sometime,” he said and you shrugged, looking out the window.

“There your friends Lan,” you said. “Do you think I don’t have any friends?”

“I just know that you’d like them,” he defended. “I’m sure you are friends with everyone you meet.”

You smiled at the compliment and agreed to text Pietra when you were back to grab a coffee or something. You and Lando were the last to arrive, and he beat you to the seat next to Carlos, throwing you a cheeky smile over his shoulder. You rolled your eyes but sat beside him, across from Rebecca. Dinner was full of conversation and laughter, and your heart felt full.

After everyone finished up, the group headed to a nearby club to actually start celebrating. There were tons of paparazzi at the entrance, and you fiddled anxiously with your hands. This is something you did not miss about being around your brother. Lando was sitting next to you in the car and grabbed your hand to make you stop fidgeting.

“Just stick to my side yeah?” He said, and you nodded. Pulling to the front, he got out and handed his keys off before coming to your door. You let him take your hand and move into his side, his arm holding you close as he shielded you from the flashes. You smiled appreciatively at him once you made it to the group.

“Thanks Lan,” you said and he smiled back. Your brother was watching this interaction like a hawk but you missed seeing Rebecca elbow him in the ribs to get him to stop. Grabbing her arm, you dragged her to the bar to get a drink.

“So Lando huh,” she teased and you rolled your eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hummed, refusing to look at her.

“Carlos said that he still looks at you like he did back when you were 19.”

“No he doesn’t,” you argued. “He is my brother’s best friend and that’s all.”

She gave you a small smirk, clearly not believing you, and you groaned before handing her a shot. “No more talking about him.”

An hour later you were very tipsy and jumping around dancing with your family. You were too drunk to notice that Lando had been watching you while sipping on his drink, half listening to Carlos. Carlos however, did notice.

“Are you serious mate?” He asked, and Lando’s attention snapped back to your brother, who was glaring at him. “Eye-fucking my sister in front of me?”

Lando’s face blushed a deep red. “I am not.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Right. And I'm not a Formula 1 driver."

Lando sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm sorry. I know she's your sister. I just... I can't help it. She's amazing, Carlos. She always has been"

Carlos's expression softened slightly. "I know she is. But Lando, be careful. She's not just some girl you can mess around with. She's family."

"I would never hurt her," Lando said earnestly. "You know me better than that."

Just then, you stumbled over to them, giggling. "What are you boys talking about so seriously? It's a party!"

You threw your arms around both of their shoulders, oblivious to the tension. Carlos shot Lando a warning look over your head.

"Nothing important, hermanita," Carlos said, and you turned your attention to Lando.

"Dance with me?" you asked, holding out your hand. Lando hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting to Carlos, who just rolled his eyes and stalked away towards Rebecca.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," he said, but you could see the longing in his eyes.

"Come on, Lan. It's just a dance," you insisted, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the crowd.

As you moved together to the beat, you felt the heat between your bodies intensify. His hands reached your waist, and you turned around, leaning your back into his chest. Feeling his breath hot on your neck, you turned your head up to look at him. His pupils were blown wide with desire,e but you knew he was holding back.

“You are asking for your brother to literally rip my head off,” he complained and you laughed loudly.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” you said, turning your whole body back to face him.

“You know I do,” he said huskily. Moving on your tiptoes, you pressed your lips gently against his, and you smirked against his lips as you heard your name being angrily called out.

“I’d start running now,” you told Lando as his eyes widened seeing Carlos marching towards the two of you. He gave you one last kiss before peeling off.

“Dios mio y/n,” your brother said, putting both his arms on your shoulders to shake you. “Remember what I told you when you were 18? No F1 drivers!"

“I’m not 18 anymore Carlos,” you said in a singsong voice to him. “But don’t worry, we don’t even see each other outside of you.”

“Keep it that way,” he said sternly.

The next morning you woke up hungover and embarrassed. You dug Lando’s number out of your contacts list and shot him a quick text apologizing to which he replied you can kiss me anytime ;)

—————————————————————

Life went back to normal when you got back to London with the exception of talking to Lando more. You had been casually texting, and you started to look forward to the end of your workdays to hear about his day.

After the Brazil race he had been radio silent. You had sent him a text right after, telling him to keep his head up and that he still was amazing but he had only liked the message. Honestly, you didn’t think much about his silence; you had only just reconnected, so you were very used to life without Lando Norris in it.

The following week, you had finally texted Pietra and met up with her for happy hour. It had been a long time since you had seen her, having met her through Lando all those years ago. The two of you spent hours catching up before he came up.

“Have you heard from Lando?” She asked while you were getting out your purse to pay your tab.

“Not since before the Brazil race, why?” You asked, meeting her worried eyes.

“He had mentioned that you guys had been talking more after Mexico, so I hoped he would reach out to you after Brazil.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Pietra said, biting her lip. “He hasn’t really been responding to Max and hasn’t been on any of the games. Max is worried. Could you call him or something?”

“Why me?” You asked, surprised. Pietra didn’t say anything for a minute, clearly battling with something internally.

“He’s different around you,” she finally said. “I think he might actually answer if you call.”

Her words sat with you the rest of the night, and as you were getting ready for bed, you decided to give in. You leaned against your headboard and hit the Facetime button, prepared to be declined. Right at the last ring, Lando’s face filled your screen, and your heart sank. He looked terrible. Dark circles around his eyes and messy hair. He was also lying in bed, but you could tell you hadn’t woken him up.

“Hi Lan,” you said softly.

“What’s up?” He asked, tiredness evident in his voice.

“Just calling to check in with you,” you said.

“I’m fine.” He replied shortly.

“Try again," you countered. He didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes and you waited out the silence.

“Okay, I’m not fine,” he said sighing. “I haven’t been able to sleep or eat much really.”

“Did you have dinner?” You questioned and he shook his head.

“I don’t have an appetite. I don’t want to talk about Brazil. Can you just talk to me about your week?”

You nodded and started to fill him in on everything that happened the past week and getting to catch up with Pietra. While you were talking, you put in an UberEats order to his place after getting his address from Max. He listened intently to you, making more comments as time went on, and you were happy to be a distraction.

“Are you coming to Vegas?” He asked and you shook your head.

“No, I’ll be at Qatar though.”

“Okay,” he said pouting. You could hear his doorbell ring in the background and he excused himself for a minute. When he came back, there was an unrecognizable look on his face as he picked the phone back up. “Did you order me food?”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, scrolling through social media on your phone. “You need to eat.”

“What’s next, going to stick Carlos on me to drag me out of my place?” He asked and you looked over at him.

“That’s not a bad idea,” you said and he groaned.

“I wish you were here,” he said quietly and you gave him a sad smile.

“Me too.”

——————————————————-

Qatar was very exciting for Ferrari, but your own celebrating was dulled because of what happened during Lando’s race. You followed Rebecca to your brother’s driver's room when he got back, and he was in mostly good spirits, but Carlos was usually positive about everything.

When the three of you were finally heading out, you ran into Oscar who was looking for Carlos. The two men talked quietly, and you were only able to pick up bits and pieces.

“…he won’t talk to anyone…could you try?”

“yeah…what hotel room is he in?”

Oscar said goodbye and you looked quizzically at Carlos.

“What’s wrong?”

“Lando is just being hard on himself as usual,” he replied casually but you could tell that it was worse than normal. The car ride to the hotel was silent, as your brother was worried about his friend. Once you go there, you started to head to your own room, but Carlos stopped you.

“Why don’t you just come with me?” He asked and you nodded, following him to the elevator.

Carlos knocked on Lando’s door, and you stood out of the way while trying to assess the situation.

“Hey man, I just wanted to check on you,” Carlos said.

“You didn’t need to, I’m fine,” Lando replied but the tremble in his voice told you otherwise. Carlos stepped to the side, and the second Lando saw you, his face crumpled.

“Oh Lan,” you murmured, closing the gap between you and wrapping your arms around him. He buried his head into your neck, letting out small sobs and you felt your heart breaking.

“It’s all my fault,” he cried and you rubbed his back soothingly.

“It’s not your fault Lan,” you whispered. “It was just unlucky. The season isn’t over.”

“It feels like it is,” he said, holding on to you tightly. Carlos mouthed that he was going to go and you nodded a goodbye before gently guiding Lando back into his hotel room, closing the door behind you. He reluctantly let go of you, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. You took in his disheveled appearance - he was still in his race suit, hair messy, and eyes red-rimmed from crying.

"Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" you said softly. Lando nodded, letting you lead him to the bathroom. You turned on the shower and helped him out of his race suit. Under normal circumstances, this level of intimacy might have felt awkward, but right now your only concern was taking care of him.

"I'll be right outside if you need anything," you told him. He gave you a small, grateful smile before stepping into the shower.

While Lando showered, you busied yourself tidying up the room and ordering room service. You knew he probably hadn't eaten anything, he clearly has gone straight from the debrief to here.

His phone rang, and you peeked to see that Max was calling. You answered, feeling like Lando wouldn��t mind.

“Hey Max, it’s y/n,” you greeted.

“Hey, how is he?” Max asked, concern lacing his voice.

“Not great but getting better,” you told him. “I just ordered room service and he’s getting cleaned up.”

“Good, try and get him to join me on Tarkov when he’s done, I think it might help,” he said.

“I can do that,” you replied.

“Thanks for being there y/n, you mean a lot to him,” Max said softly.

“Of course, I’ll talk to you later.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get Lando to join the stream, though he kept his camera off, which you appreciated. You sat on his bed behind him, reading a book you had gone to get from your own room. Every once in a while,e he would turn to look at you, a small smile gracing his face.

When it hit midnight you were dead tired and started to gather your things to leave.

“Can you stay?” Lando asked quietly.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart racing at his request. "Are you sure?" you asked softly.

Lando nodded, his eyes pleading. "Please. I just... I don't want to be alone right now."

You set your bag back down and gave him a small smile. "Okay, I'll stay."

Relief washed over his face as he turned back to his game. You settled back onto the bed, trying to get comfortable. After a while, Lando finally logged off and joined you on the bed, lying down next to you but keeping a respectful distance.

"Thank you," he murmured into the darkness. "For everything today."

You rolled onto your side to face him. "That's what friends are for, Lan."

He was quiet for a moment before speaking again. "Is that what we are? Just friends?"

Your breath caught in your throat at the question and his eyes bored into yours.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “Are we?”

“I’d be insane to not want more with you,” he admitted.

Your heart raced at Lando's admission. You reached out tentatively, gently cupping his cheek with your hand. "Lando, I..."

He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. When he opened them again, they were filled with hope and vulnerability, making your chest tighten.

"I want more too," you whispered. "But I'm scared. This could complicate so many things - your friendship with Carlos, my relationship with my brother, your career..."

Lando nodded, understanding in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of that. But y/n, being with you... it would be worth it. You're worth it."

He inched closer to you on the bed, your faces now just inches apart. "We could take it slow," he suggested. "Figure things out together. I need you by my side.”

Instead of answering with words, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was soft and tender at first, but soon grew more passionate as the two of you gave in to your feelings for each other.

“You have to tell Carlos though,” you said as you pulled back and Lando rested his forehead against yours groaning.

“You’re lucky I’ve been waiting for this,” he said pouting, pulling you into his chest. You enjoyed the peacefulness of the rest of the night before the inevitable chaos would occur the next day.

[willowsnook]

In Vino Veritus | LN4

Lando Norris X best friend! Reader (requested)

Summary: Two lifelong friends. One drunken night. A truth that changes everything.

Warning(s): Mild Language, mild-to-severe emotional whiplash, unsolicited chest nuzzling, Lando is nostalgic, she's just trying to keep up with the changing topics, dangerously sincere birthday confessions, white picket fence propaganda, drunk Lando is brave Lando. Feelings realisation. The author was missing chocolate while writing this, so top-tier yearning expressed by Lando. This is fluff, like tooth-rotting fluff.

"Let me hold you in my arms tonight...Till the morning light"

Y/N had left the club two hours ago. Quietly. Without a word. The party was too loud, the music too heavy, the laughter too fake.

Everyone there knew of Lando, but they didn’t know him. Not really.

Not like she did.

Not like the boy who’d shared her juice boxes in kindergarten. Not like the boy who’d cried when he scraped his knee and let her hold his hand even though it “wasn’t manly.” Not like the man who always found her eyes in a crowded room.

So she slipped away.

No scene, no drama. Just her phone on silent, her heels in one hand, and the night swallowing her whole as she made her way back to his apartment—the one with the guest room that felt more like her room now. Her toothbrush was already in the drawer. Her book, half-read, was still on the nightstand.

She tried to sleep, but the silence was worse than the music. Restless, she turned on the lamp and sat with her knees tucked to her chest, a paperback in her lap.

But she wasn’t really reading. Her eyes kept drifting to the door. She told herself she wasn’t waiting for him.

But she was.

The apartment door opened.

Footsteps. Heavy. Uneven. Keys hit the floor, followed by what sounded suspiciously like his shoes.

“Y/N?” he called out, voice thick, slurred, but unmistakably Lando.

He appeared in her doorway a second later, shirt half-unbuttoned, curls tousled, a flushed and drunken mess. And then, without warning, he collapsed onto the bed.

More specifically—onto her.

“Jesus, Lando—!” she gasped as he practically draped himself over her, face buried in her chest, one leg over hers, full dead weight pinning her to the mattress.

“Mmm,” he hummed, snuggling into her like a cat who'd just found the warmest sunbeam. “There you are.”

“You smell like every bad decision ever made in a nightclub,” she said, but her hand was already threading through his curls on instinct.

“You smell like...heaven,” he sighed dramatically. “Warm. Like cocoa. Or...biscuits. Or the future. I dunno. I’m poetic now. Drunk Lando talks in sonnets.”

She snorted. “You’re wrecked.”

"I came in like a wrecking ball," he sang off-tune and so horribly that she couldn't help the laughter, she could feel his body moving on top her as he joined her.

As the laughter died down, he held her a bit tighter and rubbed his cheek right over where her right breast was under the thin material of her night clothes.

Her breath hitched.

“You ever think about... time?” he asked suddenly, quietly.

She frowned, confused by the change in tone. “What kind of time?”

“Like... how it runs out,” he said. “How I’m twenty-six now. My mum had me around this age, I think. My dad became a millionaire. My teammates have girl friends and some of the drivers have kids. Kids. I have gaming, a sim and an espresso machine I don’t know how to clean.”

“You also have a championship point lead, ten something million fans, and a very warm chest pillow right now.”

He exhaled a laugh as he kissed her chest, but it came out strained.

“I don’t have you though, do I?”

The words landed heavy, and it took her a second to respond. “You do have me, Lando.”

He shook his head against her. “Not the way I want to.”

She blinked. "Lando—I—what?"

He ignored her. Or maybe he didn’t hear. His hands were already moving—one sloppily sliding under the hem of her sleep shirt, palm spreading across her bare hip possessively, like he needed to make sure she was real.

“So soft,” he murmured against her chest. Then added, in a whimper, “But I’m not supposed to touch.”

Her heart stopped.

“What are you saying, Lan?”

“I know the rules,” he mumbled, nose nuzzling the swell of her breast. “No touching the best friend. No loving the best friend. No telling her she’s everything and then kissing her stupid in the rain. Tragic tale of unrequited love.”

“Lando,” she said slowly, brows drawn together, “what is going on with you?”

He tilted his head up to look at her, eyes unfocused and glassy, but devastatingly open. “It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” she said softly, trying to keep up with the rapid change of topics. "We just celebrated your party, you came here from it, and I left early"

“Everyone wanted a piece of me tonight, fucking tossers, ” he muttered, eyes closed. “But you’re the only one who just… left.”

“I didn’t want to share you with a hundred half-drunk strangers,” she said honestly. “I knew I’d get the real you eventually.”

He smiled into her chest. “Lucky you. You get drunk Lando, half-naked and emotional.”

“Drunk Lando is a menace.”

She stayed silent as he didn't reply, her mind trying to run over the things he had said, but she still came up with nothing, it was like her mind had lost the ability of comprehension.

"D’you remember that one summer?” he asked out of nowhere again, voice blurred.

Drunk lando was very nostalgic, it seems.

“The year we were, like, sixteen? I stayed at your place after Silverstone, and I slept like a baby the whole week.”

Her lips twitched. “You mean the week you ate all the cereal and snored like a bear?”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. That one.”

She waited, heart now hammering.

“You always made me feel safe, Y/N,” he said. “Still do.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he shifted again, one arm worming under her, the other hand tightening on her hip.

“I think you’re confusing safety with me letting you cuddle me like a body pillow.”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t ruin this.”

She shook her head in disbelief, but let him stay there. Let herself hold him.

"Everyone in my life has a plan, sometimes I feel like I'll be left behind, you know?"

Y/N frowned, shifting to look at him. “Lando. You don’t need to have your life mapped out perfectly. That’s not how it works.”

He buried his face deeper into her, voice muffled. “Easy for you to say. You’ve always had your shit together. Even when we were seven, you used to organize your crayons by the rainbow.”

She snorted. “And you used to eat glue.”

“Allegedly,” he muttered.

"You'll fine someone Lando, I'm sure of it."

Though, by the way he talked tonight. It seemed like 'someone' was her. But it couldn't be, they were just best friends...right?

No she would just put all this in a box and lock it in her mind. Lando was obviously too drunk.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, almost too softly to hear:

“Don’t want someone.”

Her chest tightened.

“What do you mean?”

He looked up at her, eyes hazy but too honest.

“Want you.”

She stared. Air stalled in her lungs. The box opened and crashed into the floor.

“Just you,” he said again, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Want you in my bed. My house. My whole stupid life. Want your hand with my ring on it.”

Then squeezed the other hand on her hip possessively. “And I wanna put my babies in here.”

Her. Babies. In here.

“Jesus, Lando,” she whispered, dazed. “Lando, maybe we should talk about this when you’re—”

“Sober? No. Because sober me chickens out. Sober me pretends it’s just jokes and banter. But I meant it, Y/N. I want it all. The house. The ring. The stupid white fence that gets dirty after one storm. I want your toothbrush next to mine forever.”

He clumsily reached for her left hand, fumbled with her fingers.

“I will put a ring on this one. Someday. Not today. But someday. I mean it when I say that Y/N”

"I've meant it since we were seven," he looked straight into her eyes as he said it, and it was the quietest of whispers but she heard it, she also heard the sound of her own heart beating rapidly in her chest.

She could feel the heat of him, the weight of every word, the ache behind it all. His head dropped back to her chest like a child exhausted by his own tantrum, and slowly, his breathing evened out.

He was asleep. Fully, helplessly asleep. Still half on top of her, arms curled around her waist like she was the only lifeboat left in the storm.

__________________________

Y/N didn’t even try to move. She just blinked up at the ceiling in the dusky blue light of early morning, her arms tucked around his back, her fingers still threaded absently through the soft waves at the nape of his neck.

She should’ve shoved him off, probably. Or at least shifted him so she could breathe better. But she didn’t. She just lay there.

Because the weight of him was comforting.

Because her heart was doing something completely inappropriate and ridiculous.

Because he’d said—

Nope.

She blinked hard, scrubbing the memory of those slurred, whispered words from her brain like that’d actually help.

As if she could forget the way he’d cupped her hip like it meant something. Like she meant something. As if the feel of his lips against her collarbone hadn’t lit a fire in her that was now smoldering low and constant in her chest.

She wasn’t going to survive this.

Not the memory of Lando stumbling into the room, drunk and stupid and heartbreakingly honest. Not the way he’d collapsed on top of her like she was home. Not the way he kept whispering just you, like it was obvious, like it was inevitable.

Like it had always been her.

Y/N breathed in slowly through her nose, grounding herself in the scent of his shampoo, the scrape of stubble against her skin, the rhythmic weight of his breathing. Her mind was sprinting laps but her body? Her body had never been calmer.

It was Lando.

It had always been Lando.

And maybe she’d spent too long pretending it was normal, the way they gravitated toward each other like magnets. The way he always looked at her first when he laughed. The way he said her name like it was some kind of prayer and a joke all at once. She'd gotten so good at pretending he was just her best friend that she'd forgotten how deeply she felt it.

Or maybe she’d just been scared.

I'm in love with my best friend, I'm in love with Lando.

A soft grunt rumbled against her chest and then—there he was. Waking up.

She felt it first: a twitch in his fingers on her waist, the slow unfurling stretch of someone trying to piece themselves back together. Then the drag of his face along her skin as he shifted, his nose brushing lazily between the swell of her breasts.

And then—he froze.

She didn’t say anything. Just kept stroking her fingers through his hair like she had every right to, like he wasn’t currently sprawled half-naked on top of her with one arm still tucked beneath her and his leg wedged between her thighs.

“…Y/N?” His voice was sleep-rough, dry, and unmistakably terrified.

She bit her lip. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Oh fuck.” He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a second. “Oh fuck. Am I—am I on top of you?”

“Technically? Yes.” She smiled into his curls. “Though you’re not exactly crushing me, so points for that.”

He groaned. “I am so sorry. I don’t even—how the fuck did I get in here?”

“You came home from your birthday party. Very, very drunk. Apparently your motor functions still knew how to find my room.”

“I didn’t—” He finally lifted his head, squinting at her through bleary eyes, a slow bloom of horror spreading across his face as the reality of their positioning fully registered. “Oh my god. Was I—was I being weird? I didn’t, like… try anything, right?”

She let the question hang. Not because she didn’t have an answer, but because his answer would matter more later.

And she couldn’t—wouldn’t—make that call for him while his breath still reeked of club gin and regret.

Instead, she arched a brow, tone dry as toast. “Well, your head was between my tits for a good six hours, so if that counts, then yes, Lando. Deeply inappropriate.”

He vaulted off her like he’d been shocked, flinging himself sideways across the bed with all the grace of a baby giraffe. “Fuck me. I’m going to die.”

“I mean, that’s dramatic.” She sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall around her waist. “You didn’t bite me. Or drool on me. Much.”

He buried his face in both hands. “Please tell me I didn’t puke on you.”

She laughed. “No, thank god. I'd be traumatized.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, muffled through his hands: “I feel like I might be.”

She watched him quietly for a moment, taking in the wild curls flattened against one side of his head, the smudge of glitter still clinging to his cheek from the club, the pillow clutched to his lap like a lifeline.

She could’ve told him.

Could’ve laughed it off or teased it out of him or demanded answers.

But instead, she just stood, grabbing her robe from the end of the bed and tugging it around herself.

“Go splash some water on your face,” she said softly, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “I’ll start breakfast.”

She didn’t look back as she padded to the door, but she felt him watching her go.

And the echo of his words from the night before followed her all the way into the kitchen.

“Want you in my bed… my ring on your finger…”

“…put my babies in here…”

Y/N closed her eyes and exhaled.

_________________________

Y/N had already set the table when Lando finally staggered in, his movements sluggish and slow. He looked like he'd been run over by a freight train, and the unholy groan that escaped his lips made her smile.

"I made breakfast," she said, gesturing to the plates she'd prepared, stacked with toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. A light, comforting meal to help with his hangover. "You look like you need it."

Lando dropped into the seat across from her, his head hanging low, eyes half-lidded, and he muttered a grumbled thanks. His fingers fidgeted with the fork, eyes still unfocused, occasionally flicking up to her.

He didn’t know what it was—maybe it was how serene she looked as she took her first bite, or how the morning light made her skin glow just right—but he found himself staring at her.

Her lips. The way she chewed slowly, savoring the food, but with such grace. There was something almost hypnotic about the way her lips moved, and Lando was doing everything he could to not watch.

Y/N noticed his gaze, but she didn’t comment, pretending to be absorbed in her breakfast. It was strange. How had she never realized how much Lando always looked at her? Not just looked at her, but really looked. He'd always done it. She’d filed it away as his usual teasing, nothing more. But now?

She almost felt stupid for having never seen it before.

They ate in a comfortable silence, though it wasn’t as easy as usual. She could sense his discomfort, the way he squirmed in his seat, clearly trying to find a way to process whatever had happened last night. And that’s when Y/N decided it was time to end his misery.

She placed her fork down and met his eyes with a level, calm gaze.

"You know," she said, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips, "I always like being first in things, you know? So I’m honestly very disappointed in myself right now."

Lando blinked, looking up at her, a little confused. "Why?"

"Because," she continued, leaning back casually in her chair, "you realized you were in love with me before I did. And honestly, between the two of us, I’m more emotionally mature, so I feel like it should’ve been me, you know?"

Lando froze mid-chew, staring at her wide-eyed, his fork halfway to his mouth. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He was completely caught off guard, and Y/N couldn't help but find amusement in his expression. The way his face morphed between confusion and disbelief made her heart skip.

"Wait, what?" he finally stammered, his voice hoarse. "You—what?”

"Yeah," she said nonchalantly, trying to contain the smirk tugging at her lips. "Last night was a bit of a revelation. It's always been there, but it was the first time I really realized that, yes... I'm in love with my best friend."

She took a sip of her orange juice, watching his face closely. "How could I have not noticed? Honestly, I feel a little dumb."

He was silent for a long moment. His gaze didn’t leave her face, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his head, trying to process everything she’d just dropped on him. The awkwardness between them hung thick in the air, but it felt charged, somehow… almost relieved.

"You… you’re not messing with me, are you?" he finally whispered, still not fully trusting his ears.

Y/N shook her head, feeling a rush of warmth spread through her chest.

“No. Not messing with you. Just being honest.”

Then she decided it was time to add the cherry on top. "Oh, and by the way? Last night? You said something about—" she paused for effect, seeing his eyes widen in alarm, "—wanting to put a ring on my finger, a house with a white picket fence, and maybe some babies. With your hand on my bare hip."

The color drained from his face, and he groaned so loudly that it echoed through the room.

“I—oh bloody hell,” he moaned, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I—fucking hell”

Y/N couldn't help it—she laughed. The sound bubbled up from deep inside her, and she couldn’t stop. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, trying to soothe him, but she was shaking with amusement.

"You were so drunk last night," she teased, a grin still tugging at her lips. "It was kind of adorable, actually."

He groaned again, the shame on his face so complete, she nearly felt it. She reached over, resting her palm on his cheek, her thumb brushing over the roughness of his stubble.

“Look, Lando, it’s fine. I’m not mad. I’m actually kind of glad you said something." She smiled softly, “Because now we both know.”

His expression softened, the weight of the moment finally sinking in.

Y/N could feel her heart hammering in her chest, and the air between them thickened, as though the next moment was hanging in the balance. And then, without any more words, without hesitation, Lando stood up, his movements swift and determined.

He rounded the table, the chair scraping behind him, and before she could even register what was happening, he was in front of her. He cupped her face gently, his thumb tracing her lower lip before he lowered his head, and—

The kiss.

It was like nothing she'd ever felt before. He kissed her like he was starving, like he had been waiting his whole life to feel the taste of her lips. His mouth was soft but insistent, his hands gentle on her face but his body pressing into hers, eager and desperate.

She parted her lips in surprise, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against hers in a way that had her entire body lighting up in flames.

It was slow, deliberate, as though he was savoring every single moment. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the feeling of his lips pressing against hers with a tenderness that shattered all the things they’d ever been to each other.

When they finally pulled away, both of them were breathless, eyes wide with the realization of what had just happened. Lando rested his forehead against hers, panting softly.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice rough.

“I love you too,” Y/N breathed out, her heart racing.

And before she could say anything else, his lips were trailing down her neck, soft kisses sending shivers down her spine. She moaned softly, unable to stop herself as her body arched towards him, the feeling of his lips against her skin intoxicating.

His grin stretched against her throat, a satisfied, devil-may-care grin that made her pulse quicken all over again.

"God, you're perfect," he murmured, lips still pressed against her, sending little electric jolts through her.

And then, without warning, his arms were under her, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Wait, what—" she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"Just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable," he smirked, his voice teasing as he swung her up into his arms, cradling her like a bride.

"Land—oh my god, what—"

"Don’t worry, I know we can’t have babies yet," he chuckled, his lips close to her ear, "but we sure can practice, don’t you think?”

Y/N squealed in surprise, laughter bubbling up as he carried her toward the bedroom, her heart pounding in her chest.

“I love you!” she giggled, her arms winding around his neck as he dropped her onto the bed, his body following immediately, pinning her beneath him.

"I love you," he whispered against her lips, kissing her again, this time with more urgency, more heat.

And there, tangled in the sheets and in each other, they both found everything they'd been looking for, over and over again.

________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

This was the last request that I had already started writing for, so I completed it as soon as I could, anon who requested this, I hope you find it, this was so much fun to write for, thank you so much for requesting!

Letting everyone know that all my inbox has been erased, so if anyone requested anything, I'm so sorry I couldn't save it. You can request it again when I open the requests. Thank you so much and I'm so sorry.

Jules♡

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