Prompt: BDSM + Impact Play

18+ Content - Reader!Insert - Kinktober #2

Monaco always glittered more at night. The streets still smelled faintly of rubber and champagne, the circuit transformed into a playground for the rich and the famous.

The clubs overflowed—thick bass vibrating through marble floors, champagne sprayed across designer dresses, cameras flashing in every direction.

You weren’t used to the attention. Not like this.

Your dress was short enough to be scandalous, sequins catching the light with every movement, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. A hand brushing your lower back at the bar, a stranger leaning too close to murmur something over the music. You’d laughed it off, but you could feel the heat of someone else’s gaze—sharp, unrelenting.

Max.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t drinking. He was watching.

It wasn’t subtle, either. Every man who lingered near you seemed to disappear after a single, well-timed glare from across the club. Still, Max’s jaw was tight, hand flexing around his glass every time someone so much as brushed against you.

By the time you slipped back into the penthouse, you knew you were in trouble.

The door had barely clicked shut before Max had you pressed against it, his chest solid against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

“You think I didn’t see you?” His voice was low, Dutch accent thickened by drink and jealousy. “Laughing, letting them touch you like that.”

“Max—”

“Shut it,” he snapped, spinning you to face him. His eyes were molten, furious and hungry all at once. “You want attention, schat? You’ve got mine now. But you know the rules.”

You swallowed hard.

The rules.

“Three strikes.” His hand came up, stroking your cheek almost gently before his fingers tightened around your jaw. “And tonight? You’ve already earned two.”

Your heart skipped. “Two?”

He smirked, humourless. “The way you smiled at him at the bar. That little dress you wore without warning me.” His thumb dragged over your lip, pressing until you parted your mouth. “That’s two strikes, schat. One more, and you’re done for.”

The air between you was heavy, your pulse pounding in your throat. You should’ve stayed quiet. You should’ve nodded. But instead, you tilted your chin just enough to look defiant, lips curling into a sly smile.

“And what if I want three?” you asked, voice teasing, deliberately bratty.

The muscle in Max’s jaw ticked, his eyes narrowing. For a moment he didn’t move—and then he laughed, low and dangerous, shaking his head.

“Strike three,” he muttered darkly. “Fucking earned.”

His hand left your jaw only to tug the leather belt from around his waist in one smooth pull, the sharp snap of it clearing the air between you. He doubled it over in his fist, testing the weight, before throwing you onto the bed face-first.

“Knees. Hands flat. Now.”

You scrambled into position, heart hammering, heat pooling between your thighs.

The first crack of leather against your ass made you yelp, the sting blooming hot across your skin.

“Count.”

“O-one,” you gasped.

The second strike landed harder, the burn stealing your breath.

“Two.”

The third had you moaning, hips jerking forward, shamefully needy.

“Three,” you whimpered.

Max’s hand smoothed over the reddened skin, deceptively gentle. Then came another, sharper smack, and this time it was the paddle he’d pulled from the drawer of the bedside table—heavy, unforgiving. Carved and engraved with your name.

“And that’s your limit, schat.” His voice was gravel, heavy with lust. “You’re mine. No one else touches you. No one else makes you laugh like that. Understood?”

“Yes, Maxie,” you gasped, face flushed, tears pricking your eyes.

“Good.” He shoved your panties down, exposing you completely. His fingers dragged through your slick folds, groaning when he felt how wet you were. “Knew it. I know how much my little whore likes being punished.”

You whimpered when two fingers pushed inside, curling cruelly against the spot that made your toes curl. His pace was ruthless, thumb rubbing your clit until you were shaking.

“Beg for it,” he ordered, voice dark velvet. “Beg for your release.”

“Please, Max—please, I’ll be good, I’ll be yours forever, I promise—”

“That’s right. My sweet girl. Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed, grinding helplessly against his hand. “Always yours.”

He pulled his fingers out abruptly, lining himself up instead. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you cried out when he thrust in hard, filling you to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, leaning over you, hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back. “So fucking tight. Always so good for me.”

Every thrust was punishing, hips slamming against your sore skin, the sting of earlier strikes flaring with each movement. Tears spilled over your cheeks, but every whimper was chased by his filthy praise.

“That’s it. Take it. My good girl. Taking me so fucking well. You want attention? Here it is. Every inch of me, pounding into this greedy little cunt. Mine.”

You shattered around him, clenching so hard he cursed in Dutch against your ear, but he didn’t stop until he spilled inside you, groaning your name like it was the only one that mattered.

He stayed there, chest pressed to your back, lips brushing your neck as you shook beneath him.

Prompt: Power Play + ‘Good Girl’

18+ Content — Reader!Insert — Kinktober #1

The McLaren motorhome had dissolved into what could only be described as chaos. That was always the way whenever one of the boys bagged pole—adrenaline humming through the walls, team staff slapping backs and shaking hands, grins splitting faces wider than pitwall strategy sheets could stretch.

The PR team was already in overdrive, phones and cameras flashing from every corner, capturing every drop of the Saturday-afternoon high. Content for socials, press, sponsors—it all blurred into noise, white-hot and constant.

You’d spent the first half of the day tucked away in hospitality with Lily, heads bent over engineering notes and laughing at the tiny details only the two of you seemed to notice.

The two of you had been unlikely friends at first, thrown together by circumstance, different in so many ways. But somewhere along the way, the awkwardness had melted, stitched over by quiet moments, mutual understanding, and the kind of affection only the women tethered to papaya boys could carry.

But you’d been out on the balcony when it happened—when he did it. When Lando snatched pole in Monaco.

The live feed cameras had caught every second: your wide, glassy eyes, your beaming grin, the way you jumped and shouted, “He did it!” before bolting back inside, straight into Cisca’s arms, then Adam’s. Laughing breathlessly like the pole was yours too.

And in a way, it was.

Because Lando on pole always meant one thing.

By the time you slipped into his driver’s room, the motorhome was still vibrating with celebration, but in here the noise was muffled, blurred. Just you and him. Lando, hair damp with sweat, half in his fireproofs, chest flushed pink, eyes burning with a hunger that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance. Your back hit the wall hard enough to make you gasp, his palm wrapping around your throat. Not squeezing—just holding, firm enough to make your pulse hammer under his touch.

“Pole position,” he rasped, voice still rough from shouting on his comms, teeth dragging your earlobe. “Say it.”

“P—pole position,” you stuttered, thighs pressing together as his other hand slid under your skirt.

“Fucking hell,” he laughed low in your ear, pressing his fingers against the wet spot on your panties. “Already? Christ, you’re easy for me, aren’t you? My good girl, dripping just because I’m fast.”

The words seared hotter than his touch, and you whimpered when he rubbed slow, agonising circles, keeping you exactly on edge.

“You know what pole means, don’t you?” His tone was pure command, smug in that cocky Norris way. “It means I’m the best. Fastest. And it means you—” he yanked your panties aside, dragging two fingers straight through your slick folds, “—get to prove how proud of me you are.”

The first finger pushed in without warning, then another, curling wickedly until your knees buckled. Your cry filled the small room, but Lando only smirked, thumb finding your clit.

“That’s it. Fucking squeeze me. God, you’re so tight around my fingers. My perfect girl. My good girl.”

By the time he dropped to his knees, tugging your skirt up to your waist, you were already trembling. His mouth replaced his fingers, tongue flattening against your clit before sliding lower to fuck into you, filthy and desperate. His eyes locked on yours the whole time, as if he’d rather die than look away.

When your thighs clamped around his head, he groaned into your cunt, hands gripping your hips to hold you still. He devoured you like he’d been starved for weeks, growling against your skin, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Fucking taste of victory,” he mumbled into your cunt before swallowing another moan of yours.

You came with a strangled cry, grinding against his mouth, but he didn’t stop—lapping, sucking, tongue relentless until you were shaking, begging, nails raking down the wall behind you.

When he finally stood, his fireproofs were shoved down, cock already hard, flushed and leaking. He dragged you over to the sofa, bent you face-down, and pinned your wrists to the cushions.

“You ready to take me, sweetheart?” His voice was rough velvet, thick with lust. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you whined. “My good girl can take it, can’t she?”

“Yes, Lando—please,” you gasped, trembling.

“Please,” he mocked with a filthy grin, then slammed into you in one brutal thrust. The stretch was obscene, the force enough to make you scream into the cushion.

“Fuck,” he groaned, chest pressed to your back, hips grinding deep. “So fucking tight. Always perfect for me.”

His pace was merciless, hips snapping, skin slapping, every thrust bruising and raw. Praise spilled from him with every exhale, rough and needy.

“Good girl. My good girl. Taking me so fucking well. Greedy little thing, aren’t you? All mine.”

Every drag of his cock had you unraveling, your cries muffled against the cushion until he yanked your hair, forcing your head back.

“Let them cheer for me out there,” he growled, biting hard at your shoulder. “Let the whole fucking world scream my name. But this—” he thrust harder, deeper, until tears pricked your eyes, “—this is the only celebration I want. You. Screaming for me. My good fucking girl.”

You shattered around him, clenching so hard it stole his breath, your sobs swallowed by his lips when he kissed you from behind, still rutting through your high.

He lost it not long after, burying himself to the hilt, groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you.

The room was thick with sweat and sex and the muffled roar of the motorhome outside, the whole F1 world buzzing beyond the door, but here, it was just you and him.

Lando collapsed against your back, panting, pressing kisses down your spine, still inside you.

“Pole position, baby,” he whispered hoarsely, lips brushing your shoulder. “In fucking Monaco.”

You sucked in a ragged breath, smiling even through the haze. “I can’t wait for you to win.”

He laughed breathlessly, nipping your skin, accent thick and filthy. “Oh, trust me, baby. I already fucking have.”

WRITE MY OBITUARY NOW PEACH

18+ Content — Reader!Insert — 2-3x Weekly Posts

mafia!lando norris x innocent!reader, mentions of past abuse, protective!lando, mention of guns.

taking oneshot requests!

She shouldn’t be here.

She knew that. Felt it deep in her stomach.

The old warehouse smelled of oil and metal, dim light pooling across crates stacked too high. Somewhere in the shadows, men moved with purpose she didn’t want to understand. Her delicate nose itched at the chemical sting, her heart pounded, and her hands trembled as she gripped the strap of her pastel pink handbag.

But she’d come.

Because he’d asked.

Lando.

He leaned against a crate, dark eyes sharp, tailored suit sharper. The kind of calm that made her bite down on her bottom lip. So beautiful. Dangerous. Impossible. Like the world bent around him and obeyed without question.

And he was watching her. Smiling. Walking toward her.

“Relax, baby,” he said, voice low and smooth, casual enough to sound teasing but heavy with steel.

“I… I’m fine,” she whispered, though she wasn’t.

He smirked, and her knees went weak. “You don’t sound fine. Your hands are shaking. Don’t lie to me.”

Her fingers tightened around her bag strap. “I… I just—”

“You just what?” he stepped closer, shoes clicking against concrete. “You don’t like it here? That’s fine. But how many times do I have to tell you? You’re safe with me, baby girl. Always.”

Safe. The word rolled through her mind. Safe, in a place like this, with a man like him—it almost felt impossible.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers lingering, warm and possessive. “I don’t like it when you’re scared,” he murmured. “I don’t like it when anyone—anything—scares my girl. You’re mine.”

“Y-yours?” she whispered.

He leaned down, eyes locking with hers. “Mine.”

A shiver ran through her.

She glanced around, blushing, catching a few of his soldiers stealing glances. Oscar, Lando’s right-hand, winked at her.

“I don’t like it here,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said, smirk softening. “I’ll pick you up next time, okay? You’re too pretty to be in places like this anyway.”

She smiled at him.

—

It didn’t get easier the longer she stayed in his world. Meetings, negotiations, quiet corners where deals were sealed in whispers—she felt out of place in every sense.

But Lando kept her calm. Happy. Grounded.

In a rare quiet moment, she leaned against him in his office, tracing the edge of his suit jacket.

“I think I underestimated how big this is,” she whispered.

He tilted his head, his hard eyes softening. “I forget you’re new to this sometimes,” he said, knuckle brushing her cheek. “I should explain things more.”

Her hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I get scared,” she admitted. “That one day you’ll go out at night…and I’ll wake up on my own. And you just… you just don’t ever come home.”

He kissed her temple, cupping her face. “Never. I’ll never leave you, kitten. Not this lifetime. Not the next.”

—

One evening, after a tense dinner with the other wives and girlfriends, she spiraled. Alone. Her mind raced, stomach twisting.

She texted him.

You: Lando, I need you.

The reply was instant.

Lando: OMW, baby.

Within twenty minutes, he was there. Shoes off, jacket dropped, crouched beside her on the couch. One hand tangled in hers, the other resting lightly on her neck, tucking her body against his.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’re okay. You and me. Always.”

She buried her face in his chest, letting herself shake, breathe, and fall apart a little. Because he was here. Always.

When she finally looked up, tears brimming but a small smile on her lips, he kissed her. “My perfect girl,” he murmured.

“Pierre’s wife said my dress was frumpy,” she whispered.

Lando tightened his arms just slightly. “Okay,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll handle it.”

Two days later, he came home with blood on his shoes. She blinked, worried. He kissed her nose and said, “Pierre will speak to his wife.”

—

After that, things calmed. She stayed at his house more often than her apartment, curled on the couch as he sat beside her, legs brushing, fingers threaded.

He polished guns at the coffee table. “You’re terrifying,” she said softly.

He laughed low. “No, baby. You’re too perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Yes. You. All of you.”

She pressed her lips to his chest, heart swelling. She glanced at the clock—8 PM. A year ago, the time would have made her stomach drop. But Lando had saved her from that house, from that fear.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He didn’t need to ask why. “Don’t thank me. I make you safe,” he said. “I make you mine—that’s all the reward I’ll ever need.”

And she knew it was true. She didn’t have to understand his world. Didn’t have to walk the dangerous edges. As long as he was there, calm, steady, ridiculously in love with her… she could survive anything.

Even this world. Especially this world.

Because she was his. And he was hers.

max verstappen x gf!reader, gift giving is max’s love language, spoiled!reader, whipped max, suggestive but no smut!

taking oneshot requests!

She should’ve known.

Max Verstappen didn’t do anything halfway. It wasn’t in his DNA.

Everything he did, he did with purpose.

Driving. Training. Taking care of her. Especially taking care of her.

Which was why she was standing in the kitchen of their Monaco penthouse, arms crossed, biting her lip to keep from smiling while he unloaded shopping bags that didn’t belong to a grocery store but to a boutique she’d wandered through last week.

Just wandered. Looked. Picked things up and put them back because, yeah, they were gorgeous. But they were too much.

Max, apparently, had disagreed.

And taken note of every single thing she’d touched. Every item she lingered on. Even the things she thought she’d only glanced at twice.

“You’re crazy,” she said, voice low, because if she didn’t keep it low it would wobble. “Maxie…”

He turned, one brow up, mouth set in that way it did when he’d already decided the matter was closed. “No, schat. I’m not.” He dropped a small bag on the counter, tapped it once. “You want it. You get it. That’s how this works.”

She made a face. Walked over. Let him wrap her up while she peeked at the small jewelry box with a mix of wariness and curiosity.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “I didn’t even look at jewelry that day.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His tone was casual, but his hands tightened on her waist. “It’s a necklace. I saw it and thought that it’d look good on your neck.”

Then he swept her hair off her shoulder and pressed kisses there. Sweet. Lazy. Possessive.

Her body sighed into him. “You need to stop buying me so much stuff.”

“Why?” he rumbled, voice vibrating against the crook of her neck.

She flicked a glance toward the bedroom. “We’ll have to move. My closet’s already full.”

“Then we’ll move. You’ve wanted a tennis court of your own for a while anyway.”

Her head dropped back against his shoulder, a disbelieving laugh pushing free. “Crazy.”

“For you,” he said. No hesitation. No question.

Her laugh softened, muffled into his chest. He smelled like soap and leather and something sharp, something only Max. A scent she couldn’t name, but it was him. And it was home.

“You’re impossible.”

His lips brushed her jaw, his stubble scratching her skin. “No,” he murmured, another kiss under her ear, “I’m Max.”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved. Because he always got her with that.

Always.

“Maxie—”

“Mm?” He didn’t lift his head. Kept her tucked close. Mouth on her. Hands wide at her back like he had no plans of ever letting go.

“You know you don’t have to—”

“I do,” he cut her off, voice low. Steady. Fierce. He leaned back just enough for his eyes to lock with hers. Blue. Intense. Undeniable. “I take care of you, schat. That’s not up for discussion.”

She bit her lip. Then she kissed him.

—

The paddock buzzed like always. Voices, cameras, radios crackling; but she was used to it now. She stayed close to Max, his hand in hers, thumb brushing her knuckles in a steady rhythm that always cut through the noise.

“Love your necklace,” Kika said as she and Pierre passed, eyes warm, a little curious.

She smiled, fingers brushing the delicate chain at her throat. “Thanks. Max got it for me.”

Kika’s brows lifted, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Of course he did.”

She laughed, soft.

Because yeah, of course he did.

It wasn’t exactly a secret that Max’s love language was gift-giving.

Beside her, Max gave nothing away. Not a smirk, not a glance. He just kept walking, his grip on her hand firm, protective, like always. But she felt it. The small squeeze of his fingers, the brush of his knuckles against hers.

He liked it when she showed off the things he bought her.

And when the cameras turned their way, when the crowd’s eyes caught them, she tilted her chin just enough for the necklace to catch the light.

Because it wasn’t just jewelry.

It was a tangible gesture that, from Max, was a symbol of his love for his woman.