Chapter Text
The pain was the first thing he registered—a dull pulse originating at the base of his spine, spreading through his thighs like a poorly extinguished fire.
Max blinked heavily, feeling his eyelids sticky and his throat bone-dry. As he attempted to turn on the mattress, a sharp spasm of pain forced a ragged gasp from his lips; his body felt battered, as if he had run a marathon without any prior training.
Slowly, he pulled back the white linen sheet. His skin, usually pale, was now a map of violence and desire: finger marks on his hips, purplish bruises on the inside of his thighs, and a chest covered in reddish blotches that betrayed frenzied hickeys.
But the worst was the sensation between his buttocks. A thick, warm, and strangely heavy fluid began to slide outward, staining the sheet and cooling against his skin upon contact with the air.
It was semen.
A lot of it.
Max froze, his heart hammering against his ribs as the reality of his physical state hit him. He didn’t know where he was. The room was luxurious but anonymous, until the sound of the shower stopping put him on high alert.
The bathroom door opened, and steam flooded the room. Lando stepped out, drying his hair with a small towel, another wrapped around his waist. Seeing Max awake and trembling slightly, a lopsided, almost predatory smile spread across his face.
Max swallowed hard, feeling the air leave his lungs.
—Lando? —his voice came out like a broken thread—. What... what happened? I don't remember anything from the party. The last thing I know is I was drinking with Charles and Pierre and then... everything is a blank.—
Lando dropped the towel onto a chair and approached the bed with a deliberate slowness that made Max’s skin crawl. He sat on the edge of the mattress, sinking his body weight close to Max’s bruised legs.
Now that he was close, the Dutchman realized that the Brit’s body was also covered in marks—not as many as his own, of course, but they were there: on his chest, his shoulders, and his stomach.
—Last night things got out of control, Max —Lando replied with absolute calm, pinning his eyes on Max’s.
Max winced instinctively, ignoring the sting of pain in his rear as he moved.
—Out of control how? —he asked, his voice thick with growing fear.
Lando let out a dry laugh, devoid of any regret, and leaned forward until his breath brushed Max’s ear.
—Well... you threw yourself at me and kissed me —Lando whispered, reaching down to brush one of the bruises on Max’s hip—. And then you started grinding against me like a slut, begging me to do everything to you. And I, like a good friend, obliged.—
The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the echo of Lando’s words. Max felt a sudden heat crawl up his neck, setting his cheeks ablaze as fragments of the previous night hit his mind like bursts of static beginning to clear.
An image flashed in his mind: him against the hotel hallway wall. He remembered the bitter taste of alcohol mixed with the sweetness of Lando’s cologne. He remembered large, possessive hands closing with astonishing strength over his hips, digging into the soft, generous flesh of his glutes as Lando lifted him up.
Max remembered his own legs wrapped around Lando’s waist, the desperation of his own lips seeking the Brit’s in a rough, hungry kiss that tasted of primal desire, of something forbidden and wrong—of possession.
He remembered his moans, sharp and constant, imploring for more, begging Lando not to stop while his fingers buried themselves in the other man’s sweat-dampened hair. It had been an absolute surrender, a submission his body seemed to have craved long before his mind accepted it.
Max looked down as he realized it wasn't just Lando; it was he himself who had started that almost animalistic mating dance. He was unable to hold the younger man’s gaze. He was completely mortified, the blush tinting even the tips of his ears a crimson red.
This caused the Brit to let out a soft laugh, filled with genuine delight at seeing Max’s shyness. He loved seeing him like this: disarmed, marked, and aware of his own vulnerability.
—I’m going downstairs to get some food and some pills for that pain you must have —Lando said as he stood up with an agility Max envied at that moment—. Stay in bed if you want, or try to shower... though I doubt your legs will hold you for long.—
With that, Lando dressed calmly, sliding into jeans and a clean t-shirt while Max watched him in silence, feeling tiny under the foreign sheets and feeling even more ashamed seeing the state of the younger man’s back: marked with red lines, nearly raw.
With a final wink, Lando left the room, leaving Max plunged into a deathly silence.
With a heavy sigh, Max reached toward the nightstand, searching for his phone amidst the mess. As he turned on the screen, the brightness blinded him for a second, but what he read next made his heart skip a beat in pure horror: he had several messages from Charles.
Charles [09:15 AM]: So? How did it go last night?
Charles [09:18 AM]: Did you fuck Lando or did Lando end up fucking you? Who was the bottom? 😈
His blood ran cold. Suddenly, the memory clicked the final piece of the puzzle into place. He remembered the table in the dark corner of the club, the complicit laughter, and the stupid bet he had made with Charles and Pierre after several rounds of shots. They had been debating, amidst heavy jokes, about who would give in first if the drivers ever had something between them.
It was all laughs and jokes until it was Max’s turn, and Charles mentioned that he would definitely be the passive one with Lando if they ended up in bed.
Max remembered slamming the table with pride, swearing he would never lose control. And now, as he felt Lando’s semen drying on his skin and the stinging pain inside him, reality mocked him: he had lost the bet in the most humiliating way possible.
What now?
Panic mixed with humiliation. Max dropped the phone onto the sheets as if it were burning, feeling his stomach churn. With a groan of sheer effort, he tried to stand; his legs shook violently on the first attempt, and his knees nearly gave way under his weight. He had to lean against the wall, shuffling step by step like a penguin toward the bathroom, feeling the warm liquid still making its way down the inside of his thighs, reminding him with every inch that Lando had been there.
When he finally managed to get inside and turn on the light, the impact was immediate.
Max stood paralyzed in front of the full-length mirror. His eyes widened as his breathing became erratic. It wasn't just "a few marks" like he thought when he woke up. His chest was a map of purplish bruises; Lando’s hands had been imprinted on his skin, especially around his waist and belly, where the pressure of the Brit’s fingers had left yellowish and purple marks.
He looked down at his thighs. The inside of his legs was irritated from the friction of Lando’s beard when he was down there, dotted with red spots that went almost down to his knees. Max swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. He turned slowly, leaning a hand on the marble sink to keep from falling, and looked over his shoulder into the mirror.
What he saw took his breath away.
His buttocks were covered in teeth marks. Deep, possessive love bites that marked territory with an aggression Max didn't think Lando possessed. There were suction marks right where his back met his glutes, and the entrance of his hole looked inflamed, a deep pink that throbbed with the dull pain he felt in every nerve.
—My God... —Max whispered, covering his mouth with his hand.
It wasn't just that he had lost the bet with Charles and Pierre. It was the fact that his body screamed the truth he didn't fully remember: he had given himself over completely. He had let Lando destroy him in the "sweetest," most pleasurable, and brutal way possible, and the evidence was there, engraved on his skin like an indelible signature.
He felt marked, claimed by someone who, until a few hours ago, he only considered a close friend and an eternal rival due to the endless fights between Red Bull and McLaren. And now, with Charles’s messages burning on his phone for an answer he didn't want to give, Max felt more vulnerable than ever in his life.
Lando was an animal.
The sound of the front door opening made Max’s heart take a violent leap. Panic shot up his spine, sharper than the physical pain itself. He heard the crinkle of a paper bag and the sharp thud of a tray and keys on the table.
—Maxie! I’m back, I brought coffee and... —Lando’s voice cut off as he noticed the bed was empty, but the bathroom light betrayed Max’s position.
The Dutchman, in a reflex of pure desperation, tried to reach for one of the towels hanging from the chrome rack, but his clumsy, trembling fingers only managed to knock it to the floor. He stood there, naked, exposed, and shaking, trying uselessly to cover himself with his hands as he watched Lando’s silhouette frame itself in the doorway.
Lando didn't say anything at first. He remained leaned against the frame, one hand in his jeans pocket, tracing every inch of Max’s skin with torturous slowness. His clear eyes stopped at the purple marks on the hips, descended down the stained thighs, and finally rose to meet Max’s humiliated gaze.
—Wow... —Lando let out with a lopsided smile, his voice dropping an octave—. You look even better under this light.—
Max pressed his back against the cold sliding glass of the shower, feeling the blush burn his face.
—Lando, please... —he whispered, feeling pathetic—. Leave me alone.—
—Why are you trying to cover up? —Lando asked, stepping into the bathroom, closing the distance—. Last night you couldn't stop asking me to touch you there. Those marks on your buttocks... —Lando nodded toward the bites Max had just discovered in the mirror—... you made those yourself by pushing yourself against me. You liked feeling my teeth, Max. You wouldn't stop moaning that it was the best thing you'd ever felt in your life.—
Lando got close enough for Max to smell the fresh coffee he brought, a strange contrast to the charged atmosphere of the room. He reached out and, with his thumb, traced one of the darkest bruises on Max’s belly with deliberate pressure, making him let out a small gasp of pain.
—You’re a mess —Lando continued, his tone oscillating between mockery and a dark possessiveness—. You’re so marked up you’re going to have to wear a turtleneck for a week if you don't want the whole paddock to know exactly who put you in this state.—
Max lowered his head, avoiding Lando’s triumphant gaze. The weight of the bet with Charles, the pain in his body, and the way Lando looked at him—as if he were a trophy he had just claimed—made him feel small, disarmed.
—Did I... did I really ask for this? —Max asked in a thin voice.
Lando leaned in, brushing his lips against Max’s ear before whispering: —You begged me, Max. You begged me to fill you up so much that you wouldn't be able to walk today. And from what I see, I did an excellent job.—
The atmosphere in the bathroom became suffocating, charged with an electricity Max didn't know how to handle. Lando’s confession about his pleas from the night before kept ringing in his ears, making him feel exposed.
Lando took a step back, but not to leave. His eyes glinted with a spark of malice as he watched Max tremble slightly against the transparent door.
—Look at you, Maxie. You can't even stand up without leaning on something —the Brit said, letting out a soft, husky laugh—. Since I’m such a good friend, I’m going to help you bathe. We wouldn't want you to slip and break something, right?—
Max opened his mouth to protest, to say he could do it alone, but the words died in his throat when he saw Lando reach for the hem of his t-shirt. With a fluid motion, Lando pulled it off and tossed it to the floor without taking his eyes off Max’s. Then, his hands moved down to the button of his jeans.
—What are you doing? —Max managed to whisper in disbelief, not believing Lando was actually going to get in the shower with him. His pulse quickened more every second as he watched the younger man strip with terrifying confidence.
—I already told you. I’m going to bathe you —Lando replied, standing completely naked in front of him.
The younger man wasted no time and approached Max, reaching back to open the sliding door. Then, with a soft little nudge, he pushed Max inside, invading Max’s personal space until he had him cornered against one of the tiled walls.
—Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to do anything to you.— Lando whispered, reaching out to turn on the shower tap.
The sound of water hitting the bathroom floor filled the silence, but Max could only concentrate on Lando’s body, so close to his own.
Without warning, Lando wrapped an arm around Max’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest. The skin-to-skin contact made Max let out a muffled moan; Lando’s body was hot, a violent contrast to the shiver running down Max’s spine. The Brit’s hands were not delicate; they closed tightly over his hips, right over the bruises he himself had caused hours earlier.
—Get wet —Lando ordered in a possessive whisper, gently pushing him back toward the stream of warm water.
Under the water, Max’s vision blurred, but Lando’s touch was sharper than ever. Lando took the liquid soap and began spreading it over Max’s shoulders, but his hands quickly moved down toward his chest, circling his already sensitive nipples—causing the little red peaks from last night's activity to react for a second—pinching the tender, sensitive skin. Then he moved down his abdomen until he reached his thighs, which he squeezed cruelly, enjoying the blond’s pained hiss.
It wasn't an innocent cleaning. Lando was enjoying every inch of marked flesh, pressing his fingers into the spots where the bruises were darkest, reminding Max with every touch who owned that pain.
—You’re so soft, Max... —Lando murmured, slowly turning Max around, then pressing his body to the Dutchman’s back while his hands moved lower, seeking the entrance that still held his trace—. And you’re still so open for me.—
Max closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the damp tiles, feeling his resolve crumble under the steam and Lando’s dominant touch. He felt a stray finger caressing his swollen entrance, provoking him.
But Lando being Lando, he pulled that playful hand away and began washing Max’s back. His hands roamed the Dutchman’s marked body with a determination that was anything but therapeutic.
—Does it hurt here, Maxy? —Lando asked in a falsely innocent tone, pressing his thumb into a deep bruise on Max’s hip.
Max let out a whimper, arching his back, which only served to make his backside brush against the erection Lando was already beginning to sport again.
—Last night you wouldn't stop asking me to squeeze harder —Lando continued, moving his hands down toward Max’s thighs. With a sudden movement, he forced Max to spread his legs while the water fell over them—. You kept screaming that you didn't care if I left marks, that you wanted everyone to know you had been mine.—
Max shook his head, denying it with his eyes fixed on the foggy tiles.
—No... I didn't...—
—Oh, yes you did —Lando interrupted him, lowering one of his hands back toward the most sensitive area. With expert, cruel fingers, he began rubbing Max’s hole entrance again, which was still very loose. Max let out a choked gasp, his knees buckling—. You were so desperate, Max. You got on all fours on that very bed and begged me to destroy you. You told me everyone in the paddock always said you were a tough guy, but that you just wanted to be my slut.—
Max felt the blood rush to his face, not just from the heat of the water, but from the humiliation of hearing his supposed words. Lando inserted a finger abruptly, making Max let out a cry that was swallowed by the noise of the water.
—I loved how you cried when I bit your buttocks —the younger man whispered, using his free hand to squeeze one of the teeth marks Max had seen in the mirror, rubbing it with a force that drew tears of mixed pain and pleasure—. You asked me to mark you more, to fill you up so much you wouldn't be able to sit today. And look at you... you can barely stand while I clean my cum out of you.—
Lando withdrew the finger with a wet sound and began rinsing the area with the stream of water, but his hands didn't stop massaging and pressing Max’s battered flesh, reminding him every second of his absolute defeat.
—You’re so submissive when you drink a little, Maxie... —Lando let out a dark chuckle as he felt Max vibrate under his touch—. I wonder what your Red Bull teammates would say if they knew the great Max Verstappen became the personal toy of the enemy side.—
Max closed his eyes tightly, feeling the water run down his face. He was trapped. Trapped between the pain in his body and the treacherous pleasure Lando’s hands provoked.
Lando felt the electric jolt that ran through Max’s body at the mention of his team. That little spark of panic in the Dutchman was the final fuel for his arrogance. The steam was so thick they could barely see each other’s faces, but the physical contact was scorching.
—Are you afraid they’ll find out, Maxie? —Lando slid his hands from Max’s inflamed hole toward his waist, turning him with a force that brooked no protest until Max was back against the shower wall and facing him.
Max tried to look down, but Lando gripped his jaw firmly, forcing him to see his distorted reflection in the shower glass.
—You say you don't remember anything... —The Brit smiled, an expression full of a possessiveness Max had never seen in him at the paddock—. But your body remembers. Look how you tremble when I touch you where I bit you. Look how your mouth opens seeking air just like last night.—
Without warning, Lando lifted one of Max’s legs, hooking it over his own hip. The position left Max completely exposed, his red and battered entrance pulsing under the stream of water.
—I’d better show you —Lando decreed, his voice turning dangerously low—. That way, when you keep trying to remember later what I did to you, you won't have to imagine the answer. You’ll know exactly what it feels like to be used until you can’t take any more.—
Lando didn't wait. He positioned himself and, with a slow but implacable thrust, invaded Max’s body again. The Dutchman let out a cry that ended in a husky gasp against Lando’s shoulder, his hands clawing into the Brit’s back as he felt his already aching muscles being forced to stretch once more.
—This is how you were —Lando whispered in his ear, moving with a rough cadence that made Max’s skin slap against the wet tiles—. Begging for this. Forget the shame of the world finding out about us. Right now you’re just my toy, and you’re going to prove to me that even though you’re sober, you’re still the same slut you were last night.—
Max closed his eyes, defeated. The pain of the bruises and the burning inside him mixed with a wave of pleasure that made him hate himself. He was losing what little dignity he had left, confirming in the flesh that, in the power game between them, Lando had just taken the throne.
—Come on, kitten, why aren't you moaning for me? Do it like you did last night.—
The steam in the shower seemed to have turned solid, suffocating any trace of resistance Max might have left. He felt completely subdued, his back sliding against the tiles while Lando’s thrusts hit him with a rhythmic and devastating force.
—Lan-Lando, pl-please, go slow, it—ah! it hurts.— Max whimpered. —God, Lando, please, please.—
The younger man, instead of stopping or being gentle, pushed forward with slow but hard thrusts, entering with force, trying to reach deeper, further inside.
Max no longer tried to fight because he knew Lando wouldn't listen; instead, his hands clung to Lando’s marked shoulders, and his head fell back, letting out plaintive, high-pitched moans that bounced off the bathroom walls. He felt like a cornered animal finally accepting its fate.
—That’s it, Maxie... —Lando growled, his voice vibrating directly against the Dutchman’s neck—. Be a good boy and take it all. You remember this, don't you? You remember how it feels to have me fill you to the hilt?—
Lando gripped his waist harder, his fingers sinking into the bruises he himself had caused, and pushed with a new angle and a depth that made Max let out a choked cry, his eyes rolling back. "Found it." the younger man thought, hitting that exact spot, over and over.
—Look at me, Max. Tell me if you feel it... tell me if you feel me hitting your stomach from the inside —Lando whispered to him with a wicked smile, enjoying the way Max’s abdomen tensed with every stroke—. You’re so soft, so used by me... I love how you bend under my weight.—
Max could only emit incoherent sounds, sobs of pure pleasure and exhaustion. His body was at its limit. When Lando reached his climax, he did so with a possessive growl, clinging to Max while he filled him again, feeling the heat of his seed accumulate in the other’s already saturated interior.
Max, for his part, tried to follow him, but his body had nothing more to give. From his member, barely a miserable, nearly transparent trickle emerged; he was dry, his system had been squeezed to the last drop during the hours of early-morning frenzy he couldn't remember.
—Poor thing... —Lando mocked, panting against his ear as he felt Max’s weak spasm—. I left you empty last night, didn't I? You have nothing left except what I decide to give you.—
Lando pulled away slowly, letting Max slide down the wall until he was sitting on the shower floor, the water running over his marked body and the Brit’s semen diluting between his legs.
He watched, in a silence broken only by his own gasps, as Lando rinsed himself with insulting parsimony, ran his hands through his wet hair, and, with one last sidelong glance full of superiority, stepped out of the stall, leaving him lying there.
—Clean yourself up a bit —Lando said, regaining that playful calm as he exited. —I’ll wait for you outside. Don’t be long.—
And it was in that silence, while the water washed the fresh trace of Lando from his thighs, that the memories began to filter in like poison.
He remembered the club table. He remembered the vodka burning his throat and his own arrogant laughter as he pointed a finger at Lando. He had called him a "little flower." He had mocked his "good boy" face in front of Charles and Pierre, swearing Lando would be the one to end up begging for mercy, calling him "little princess" between bouts of laughter. The echo of his own mockery hurt more now than the bites on his buttocks.
—Who’s the little princess now, Max? —he asked himself in a bitter whisper, closing his eyes tightly.
His body—marked, used, and trembling—gave him the answer. He felt exactly like what he had mocked: a rag doll in the hands of someone who turned out to be much darker and more dominant than his appearance suggested.
As best he could, he forced himself up. His legs felt like jelly, and the brush of air against his inflamed hole reminded him of his defeat at every step. He finished washing his body and when he finally stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel that barely covered him, he searched desperately for his clothes on the floor.
But there was nothing.
—Lando? —he called out, his voice sounding small—. My clothes... where are my clothes?—
Lando, who was sitting on the bed, already dressed, checking his own phone with absolute tranquility, didn't even look up.
—Oh, those? They were a mess, Max. Yours and mine. I sent them to laundry, though I doubt your underwear can be saved. You left them in tatters when you tried to escape from me last night before I caught you against the headboard.—
Max felt a shiver. He looked toward the chair where Lando had left a pile of clean fabric. He had no choice but to approach. With a humiliation that made his skin burn, he had to put on a pair of Lando’s boxers. They were slightly tight on the hips, but the fabric felt like a brand of ownership over his wounded skin.
Lando tossed him a thick cotton sweater and some athletic shorts.
—Put those on. I don't want you leaving here looking like you just fought a jaguar, though technically you did —Lando said, finally looking at him with a mocking smile—. The sweater will cover your neck. You’ve got a mark there people would recognize from miles away.—
Max pulled on the sweater, which smelled intensely of Lando, feeling the garment swallow him up. He felt ridiculous, small, and completely dominated, wearing the clothes of the man who had reduced him to nothing just minutes before.
Just as he finished pulling up the shorts, his phone, still on the bed, vibrated with a new notification.
Charles [10:45 AM]: Max, you’re not answering. That only means one thing... What does defeat taste like? Or should I say, what does Lando taste like? 🫦
Max looked at the phone and then at Lando, who was now getting up from the bed with an expression of malicious curiosity at seeing the Dutchman’s face of panic and defeat.
Max, trying to protect what little dignity he had left, lunged for the phone with a spasm of energy born of pure terror, but his legs failed him. The pain inside and the weakness of his muscles made him stumble, and that second of hesitation was all Lando needed. With the agility of a predator, Lando reached out his long arm and caught the device before Max could even graze it.
—Lando, give it to me! —Max cried, his voice jumping an octave in desperation.
Lando ignored him. He unlocked the screen (Max had never bothered to change the code Lando already knew) and his eyes scanned Charles’s messages. The silence that followed was deathly, broken only by the sound of Max’s ragged breathing as he stood there, trembling in Lando’s oversized sweater, his shoulders hunched.
Lando slowly lowered the phone but didn't give it back. He stared at Max with a new intensity, a mix of surprise and a spark of something much darker and more calculating.
—Seriously? —Lando let out, his voice dangerously soft—. A bet, Maxie? What was the bet about? I’d love to know what part of what we did last night was for the sake of winning a stupid game.—
Max felt the floor disappear from under his feet. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he began nervously fiddling with the hem of Lando’s sweater, avoiding those eyes that were scanning him mercilessly at all costs.
—Bet? —he stammered, trying to sound confused, though his voice was clearly shaking—. What bet? I don't know what you're talking about, Lando... Charles always says stupid things when he’s hungover...—
Lando took a step toward him, forcing Max to back up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, making him fall. The Dutchman hissed in pain after the sudden impact.
—Don’t lie to me —Lando decreed, showing him the screen where Charles’s message glowed cruelly—. Charles is asking here about "the defeat of the bet." He’s asking if "you know what Lando tastes like yet."—
Lando dropped the phone onto the mattress and cornered Max, placing a hand on either side of his own hips, trapping Max between his body and the bed. He leaned in until their noses nearly brushed, letting Max feel that absolute dominance once again.
—You’d better talk, Max. Because look at you... —Lando looked down at Max’s trembling legs. —You can't even walk straight, you’ve got my marks everywhere, and you’re even wearing my underwear. You have nowhere to run. Tell me right now what you bet with Charles.—
Max swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his humiliation. He was trapped between loyalty to his friends and fear of what Lando might do if he discovered that his total surrender had been the centerpiece of a joke in the hotel lounge.
Max clenched his fists, hiding his hands inside the excessively long sleeves of Lando’s sweater. His eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking a logical way out that didn't involve admitting his dignity had been the price for a night of drinks with the Ferrari and Alpine boys.
—It was... it was about the race, Lando —Max blurted out, though his voice lacked any of the confidence he usually had on the track—. Charles and I bet... who would get to the breakfast buffet first. Yeah, that. The loser had to... had to let the other pick his clothes today. That’s why he was asking about the defeat.—
Lando froze for a second, processing the clumsiest, most poorly executed lie he had ever heard in his life. Then, a vibrant, genuine laugh escaped his throat—a roar of laughter that made him straighten up while Max shrunk even further.
—The breakfast buffet? —Lando repeated, wiping an imaginary tear as he approached again, amused by Max’s audacity—. Maxie, you’re the worst liar in the paddock. Do you really think Charles would ask "what Lando tastes like" referring to scrambled eggs and bacon?—
Lando grabbed him by the sweater collar, gently pulling him upward so Max had to stand with difficulty, ending up inches from his playful face.
—Let’s use logic —Lando continued, his tone becoming more mischievous—. You’re marked from head to toe, you’ve still got my cum leaking out of your hole, and you can barely utter a word without blushing like a schoolgirl. It seems to me the bet wasn't about food, but about how fast you could end up under me begging for more.—
Max opened his mouth to protest, but Lando placed a finger over his lips, silencing him.
—You amuse me so much when you try to be the tough guy —Lando whispered with a mischievous smile—. But let’s do something. If you don't want to tell me the truth, I’m going to have to "punish" you for lying to me. And I think we both know your body loves it when I’m rough with you.—
Lando let go of the sweater and, with a quick movement, grabbed Max’s phone again.
—How about I answer Charles for you? I could tell him the bet was settled in a... very satisfactory way for me. And a very painful one for your little hole.—
—No! —Max yelled, trying to snatch the phone back again without success due to his obvious clumsiness and pain—. Lando, please, don't tell him anything...—
Lando just watched him, enjoying his victory.
—Then confess, Maxie. Who was supposed to be the "bottom" according to you guys? Because I’m dying to know if Charles bet against his great friend.—
Max sank a little further into his spot, opting to sit back down on the bed slowly and calmly. His eyes grew moist with frustration and shame.
—Lando, enough, please... —Max pleaded, his voice breaking—. It doesn't matter. Charles is just teasing, you know how dramatic he is. You don't need to know every stupid joke we make when we're drunk. Give me back my phone and let’s just forget this, okay? Please...—
But Lando didn't budge. He stayed there, standing in front of Max, holding the phone aloft like a trophy with that playful smile that was beginning to transform into something much more dominant. He enjoyed seeing Max Verstappen, the relentless four-time champion, reduced to a bundle of nerves begging him with teary eyes.
—I don't like things being hidden from me, Maxie —Lando said, approaching the Dutchman until he knelt in front of him, resting a hand on Max’s knee, squeezing right where a bruise was blossoming—. Especially not when my name is at stake. If you don't tell me, I’m hitting "call" right now and letting Charles explain it to me in full detail.—
Lando hovered his finger over the green icon on the screen. Max let out a gasp of pure terror. The idea of Lando and Charles talking about this—of Charles confirming that Max had lost the bet in the most humiliating way possible—was too much.
—Fine! Fine, I’ll tell you! —Max exclaimed, covering his face with his hands, hiding the violent red of his cheeks—. Just... don't call. Put the damn phone down.—
Lando lowered his arm but didn't move away. He waited in expectant silence. Max took a deep breath, feeling the scent of Lando’s sweater fill his lungs, giving him a strange sense of total defeat.
—We were... we were talking about who would be the bottom if the drivers dated each other —Max whispered through his fingers—. And your name and mine came up... About what would happen if... if we ever ended up together. Charles and Pierre started with their stupid jokes about which of the two of us would boss the other in bed. They made a bet... on who would be the bottom.—
Max slowly lowered his hands, looking at Lando with a mix of hatred and a submission he couldn't hide. —I said it would never be me. I bet that you were too "soft," that you’d end up giving in —Max confessed, his voice becoming barely a murmur—. And Charles... he bet that you would destroy me. That I would end up being your slut.—
Lando went silent for a second, processing the confession. Then, a slow, dark smile spread across his face. It wasn't the playful laugh from before; it was something much more triumphant.
—Wow... so Charles has a better eye than I thought —Lando murmured, catching Max’s chin to force him to look at him—. You bet against me, Maxie. And look at you now... marked, aching, full of me, and wearing my underwear because I shredded yours while you were begging me not to stop.—
Lando stroked Max’s lower lip with his thumb. —I think you lost the bet in the most resounding way possible. How do you think I should inform Charles that he was absolutely right?—
Max felt a knot of anguish tightening in his stomach. The idea of the whole paddock, and especially Charles, knowing what had happened in that room made him feel small—almost tiny under Lando’s gaze.
—No... Lando, please —Max begged, instinctively grabbing the edge of Lando’s t-shirt, his eyes fixed on Lando’s—. Don’t humiliate me like this. Don’t tell Charles anything. I’m begging you. I’ll do whatever you want, whatever you ask... but let this stay here.—
Lando arched an eyebrow, enjoying Max’s pleading tone. He stood up, leaving the phone on the bed, and let out a small laugh that chilled the Dutchman’s blood.
—Whatever I want? That sounds very tempting, Maxie —Lando said, scanning Max’s body again, which could barely stand—. But be realistic. What do you think Charles will think when he sees you limping through the hospitality like that? I think your walk will give him the answer without me having to open my mouth. You can't hide that someone gave you the beating of your life last night.—
Max lowered his head, clenching his teeth. He felt the burn at his entrance and the weakness in his knees—a physical reminder that Lando was right.
—I’ll figure something out... —Max whispered, desperate—. I’ll say I fell, or I got a cramp in training... I’ll make something up. But please, Lando, don't do it. Don't confirm it to him.—
The Brit fell silent for a moment, letting the silence heighten the tension in the room. Finally, he leaned forward and gave Max’s cheek a small, playful pat before gripping his chin firmly.
—Fine... I’ll be "good" to you for now, my Maxie —Lando whispered with a malicious smile that promised anything but kindness—. I won't send Charles any messages today. But let it be clear: you owe me a big one. I’ll think of how you’re going to buy my silence, and I assure you it won't be cheap.—
Lando winked at him and walked toward the door, leaving Max sitting on the bed, trembling with relief but also with fear. He knew that even though he had escaped Charles for the moment, he was now completely at Lando’s mercy.
—Now, try to get up —Lando ordered from the door—. We have to go down, and I want to see if you can really pretend you're not my little princess in front of everyone else.—