A SHARED HISTORY: THE RETURN| S.VETTEL

White Horse - Chapter 13: February 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Me trying to write therapy sessions, Oscar being a lost little duckling, Lando being a feral street cat, Brocedes in the year 2024? Sebastian Vettel making a guest appearance just for myself.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Max: You free tonight?

Oscar: uh I think so? Why?

Max: come to dinner.

Oscar: …okay? Where?

Max: Our place. 7pm. We’re already feeding Lando. And Belle adopted you.

Oscar: I’m honored? I think?

Max: Good. Bring your appetite. And maybe patience.

Max:  Lando’s already being dramatic about it.

Oscar: What’s new?

Max: Exactly. See you at 7.

***

Oscar showed up at Max and Belle’s apartment at 7:02 p.m., clutching a bottle of wine he wasn't sure they'd need and trying not to look like he was afraid.

The door opened before he could even knock properly.

Max stood there, expression dry. "Two minutes late. Tragic."

Oscar grinned sheepishly. "Traffic?"

Max just shook his head, stepping aside to let him in.

The second he entered, Oscar spotted Lando sprawled on the couch, dramatically claiming all the cushions like some sort of feral housecat.

One of the actual cats was glaring at him from the armrest.

Belle appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling when she saw Oscar. "Hey, you made it."

Oscar relaxed immediately. "Wouldn’t miss it."

"You’re brave," Belle teased, nodding toward Lando. "He’s been sulking for half an hour."

"I’m not sulking!" Lando yelped from the couch. "I’m... emotionally preparing!"

"For what?" Oscar asked, genuinely curious.

He looked up and immediately pointed accusingly.

"Traitor!" Lando said dramatically. "You got adopted before me!"

Oscar grinned and dropped into the seat across from him. "Not my fault you’re unadoptable."

Max, passing by with a plate of food, muttered under his breath, "Natural selection."

Belle rolled her eyes fondly and started setting plates on the table.

Oscar stood up to help without even thinking about it — grabbing forks, glasses, anything she pointed at — and Lando immediately protested.

"Hey! No stealing points! That’s cheating!"

Oscar grinned. "Skill issue, mate."

"You are SUCH a teacher's pet," Lando groaned dramatically, as he came to help as well. 

Max dropped down into a chair at the table with a smirk. "You're both insufferable."

Belle just smiled, utterly unbothered, moving around the kitchen like this chaos was completely normal.

Oscar, trailing after her as they finished getting everything ready, cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Hey, uh," he said under his breath. "Quick question."

Belle turned, eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling about twelve years old. "Heard you freelance now? Like, design stuff?"

Belle nodded. "Architecture and interiors. Why?"

Oscar winced. "Hypothetically... if someone's apartment was a complete catastrophe... and that someone’s girlfriend was visiting Monaco in two weeks... could I, uh... hire you? Like, officially?"

Belle blinked, then smiled — warm and kind. "Oscar."

"I’ll pay!" he blurted out. "Or like... buy you coffee. Or cat toys."

Belle laughed, soft and musical.

 "You don’t have to pay me," she said. "I’ll help you."

Oscar sagged in relief. 

Belle just shook her head, grabbing the last plate and nudging Oscar toward the table. "Sit. Eat. We’ll save your apartment later."

Oscar smiled, warm and easy.

This — this ridiculous, chaotic little world — It felt like home already.

***

When Belle showed up at his apartment, Oscar knew he was in trouble.

She stepped inside with a tote bag slung over her shoulder — full of measuring tape, a notebook, a fabric swatch or two — and immediately gave the whole place a slow, assessing once-over.

Oscar stood awkwardly in the middle of the mess, like a defendant waiting for sentencing.

Belle didn’t say anything at first. She just exhaled, long and low, and shook her head fondly.

"We have work to do," she said, setting her bag down with finality.

Oscar smiled, a little helplessly. "I know."

And then she took over — completely.

Belle moved through the apartment like a general, gentle but utterly in control. She measured walls, vetoed half the sad furniture he tried to keep, drew rough sketches of new layouts.

"No," she said calmly when he pointed at a sad, lumpy chair. "That’s not a chair. That’s a health hazard."

"But it’s vintage—" Oscar tried.

"It’s a crime," Belle corrected, utterly unfazed.

Oscar found himself trailing after her, nodding obediently as she rattled off notes: "We’ll need a new rug. A real lamp. You’re getting curtains, Oscar, not just sticking paper over the windows like a college student."

It should have been overwhelming. But Belle made it easy — light, funny, somehow never making him feel stupid for needing the help.

And somewhere in the middle of hauling a sad, broken coffee table toward the door, Oscar realized:

She’s so nice.

Not the fake kind of nice — not the "I’m being polite because I have to" nice. The real kind. The kind you didn’t earn — the kind she just gave, freely and without asking anything back.

It hit him harder than he expected.

And for the life of him, Oscar couldn’t understand — How could her brothers not see it?

Later, while they sat on the floor eating sandwiches she had packed ("I didn’t trust your fridge," Belle had said, deadpan), Oscar glanced over at her.

She was perched against the wall, hair falling into her face, sketching something in the notebook balanced on her knees.

"Can I ask you something?" he said before he could second-guess it.

Belle looked up, curious. "Of course."

"Why are you helping me?" he asked, voice low. "You don’t have to. I’m not your responsibility."

Belle smiled — small and real.

"When I moved to Paris," she said, "for university, I didn’t know anyone. I was eighteen. Scared. Completely overwhelmed."

Oscar stayed quiet, listening.

"I met my best friend Emilie my second week at Sorbonne," Belle continued. "She saw me drop all my books in the metro. Helped me pick them up. And then — without even asking — she took me under her wing." Belle’s voice softened, threading with something warm. "She showed me the little things. How to find the good groceries. Where to get a real coffee. Which bus routes were safe late at night."

She smiled faintly. "She saved me, in a way. Made Paris feel like home."

Oscar felt something ache in his chest.

"And when I asked her why," Belle said, looking back down at her notebook, "Emilie said: 'Because someone should.'"

Oscar swallowed hard.

"And now," Belle added, glancing up at him, "I guess... I just think everyone deserves that. Especially people like you."

Oscar laughed, soft and stunned. "What, hopeless cases?"

Belle’s smile widened. "No. Good ones."

Oscar looked at her — really looked at her — sitting cross-legged on his floor, sleeves pushed up, caramel hair catching the light from the window.

He thought about how easy it would be for her to be selfish. How the world hadn’t exactly been kind to her, but she still chose to be kind anyway.

"Thanks, Belle," he said quietly.

She just smiled, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like giving kindness was as natural as breathing.

And Oscar realized — maybe it was, for people like her.

***

Nico Rosberg liked the quiet of the stables just outside Monaco.

It was one of the few places in Monaco where people didn’t care who he was — just another dad holding juice boxes and brushing mud off boots.

The stables had become something of a second home on weekends in the off-season. 

His daughters loved their riding lessons — loved the ponies, the hay-scented air, the thrill of mastering the trot.

Nico leaned against the fence, arms crossed, sipping a coffee, watching them finish their class.

He smiled when he saw the younger one waving excitedly at someone near the paddock entrance.

There she was.

The woman both his daughters constantly talked about.

"Belle helps me with my pony!"

 "Belle makes the best braids!"

 "Belle said I did the best two-point position today!"

Isabelle Leclerc.

Nico had pieced it together after the second or third lesson — the soft-spoken young woman who occasionally helped at the stables wasn’t just any Monaco local.

She was Charles Leclerc’s sister.

Though you wouldn’t know it from her.

No airs. No attitude.

Just patience, steady encouragement, and a laugh that made the kids beam with pride when she said they did something well.

Today, she knelt beside his youngest daughter, adjusting the stirrup leathers with careful hands, chatting easily as the girl nodded along solemnly.

Nico smiled to himself.

He liked her — genuinely liked her.

There was a calmness to her he rarely saw.

He was about to wave when he caught movement from the corner of his eye — someone slipping through the stable gates with practiced ease.

Max Verstappen.

Not in race gear.

Not in Red Bull blue.

Just jeans and a hoodie, baseball cap covering his messy hair.

Nico blinked.

Max? Here?

He looked... easy. Comfortable.

Especially when Isabelle turned, spotted him, and lit up with a smile that could have powered half of Monaco.

Max’s whole face changed at the sight of her. Softened. Brightened.

He walked straight to her, not hesitating, crouching to say something that made her laugh — that small, quiet laugh Nico had seen his daughters light up over.

Max reached out, brushed a stray piece of hay from her hair like it was instinct.

Nico straightened slowly against the fence, eyebrows raising.

Oh.

Oh.

He watched for a moment longer, unnoticed.

Watched how Max’s hand lingered at the small of Isabelle’s back.

Watched how easily she leaned into him, unthinking.

Not new.

Not casual.

Something steady.

One of Nico’s daughters came running up, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Papa! Belle said I can ride Daisy next week!"

"That’s wonderful,," Nico said, ruffling her hair. "Did you say thank you?"

"Yes!" she beamed. 

He gave her a kiss on the forehead, sent her back toward the stables, and took a slow sip of his coffee, considering.

Later, as Max drifted closer — probably spotting him now that the initial magnet pull toward Isabelle had worn off — Nico met him with a knowing smile.

"Max," Nico said lightly. "Didn’t know you were into ponies."

Max shrugged, the barest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m into her."

Nico chuckled under his breath. "Figured."

Max shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, eyes never leaving Isabelle, who was now kneeling to show a little girl how to buckle a bridle properly.

"My daughters adore her," Nico said after a beat. "Apparently ‘Belle’ is the best teacher they’ve ever had."

Max smiled then — properly, fully — something so rare and genuine that Nico almost did a double take.

"Yeah," Max said, voice low. "They’re not wrong."

They stood there for a moment, two men who had seen the brutal side of fame and pressure, silently agreeing that this — this quiet, real thing — was worth a hell of a lot more.

"Charles know?" Nico asked eventually, curious but gentle.

Max huffed a dry laugh. "No."

Nico winced. "Oof."

Max shrugged, unbothered. "Doesn’t matter. She’s mine."

There was no arrogance in the words.

Just certainty.

Steel wrapped in something terrifyingly soft.

Nico smiled slightly. "Good. Don’t lose that."

"I won’t," Max said simply.

Isabelle looked up then, spotting them across the arena.

She gave a small wave, smiling — easy and bright, like the sun slipping through the clouds.

Later, Nico watched Max head back toward the barn, where Isabelle was helping the younger kids put away their helmets, her hair half-falling out of her braid, her cheeks pink with the cool air.

Max didn’t even look at anyone else.

Max was watching Isabelle the way Nico watched Vivian — with a kind of unconscious gravity, like the rest of the world had blurred out and there was only her left.

And Isabelle — She looked up, caught Max’s eye, and smiled again — soft, sure, like she knew exactly where he’d always end up.

Nico shook his head fondly and muttered under his breath, "The paddock is not ready for this."

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: Hi Oscar:  sorry to bug you again Oscar:  But can i ask for another favor?

Isabelle: Hi Oscar Isabelle: you’re never bugging me Isabelle: what’s up?

Oscar: Do you have any good restaurant recommendations for Valentine’s day? like... somewhere actually nice but not stupidly touristy?

Isabelle: You’re planning a Valentine’s dinner?

Oscar: Yeah.  First one in Monaco… I want it to be good

Isabelle: That’s really sweet. 

Oscar: I’ve got a short list already. I just need your opinion because Lando’s advice was (quoting here) “idk just get pasta or something, she’ll live”

Isabelle: oh my god

Oscar: I know

Isabelle: Send me your list.  I’ll help you pick. 

Oscar: Maison Bleue, Le Petit Bar or maybe that little italian place near the flower market?

Isabelle: All good choices!! Isabelle: I would lean Maison Bleue Isabelle: It’s a little quieter, more romantic

Oscar: Perfect, thank you!! Also already got her a necklace so I’m like 90% prepared, only panicking a little bit. 

Isabelle: You’re more prepared than 99% of people I know (cough my brothers cough)

Oscar: …Do they not plan?

Isabelle: They just expect me to plan everything.  Birthdays, anniversaries,  mother’s day,  sometimes their friends' birthdays too. 

Oscar: ... that’s awful. 

Isabelle: It’s nice that you asked and that you already had ideas. I am not used to that. 

Oscar: Of course? You’re helping me.  It’s the least I can do to be a human about it. 

Isabelle: You’re a very good human, Oscar

Oscar: You’re a very good human, too, Belle. 

****

It started with a text.

Arthur: Isabelle HELP I forgot to book anything for valentine’s day what do i do

Then Lorenzo chimed in.

Lorenzo: Hey, can you find a florist for me? Everything’s sold out.

And then Charles, predictably, a minute later.

Charles:Can you order something for Alex? I don’t know what she likes.

Isabelle stared at the group chat, feeling that familiar, sick tightening in her stomach.

 They just assumed she would fix it — like she always did.

No hello, no how are you, no are you busy.

Just Isabelle, save us.

She set the phone down on the counter carefully, like it might explode.

Max was leaning against the stove, stirring something in a pot. He looked up when he saw her face.

"What's wrong?"

Isabelle opened her mouth. Closed it again.

And then, quietly: "They want me to fix Valentine’s Day for them."

Max didn’t say anything for a second. Just studied her, like he already knew she was about to go to war with herself.

"You don’t have to," he said softly.

"But if I don’t—" she started, and stopped, clenching her hands into fists. "If I don’t, they’ll be upset. Or disappointed. Or say I’m selfish."

Max set the spoon down carefully, wiped his hands on a towel, and crossed the kitchen to her.

He took her face in his hands, gentle but firm.

"Belle," he said, voice steady. "You are not responsible for their girlfriends' happiness."

Tears pricked behind her eyes. She hated how easily they came now, how raw she always felt lately.

But Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush her.

"You deserve to have a Valentine’s Day too," he said. "You deserve to put yourself first."

Isabelle nodded, shaky, terrified — but somehow, deep down, she knew he was right.

She picked up her phone with trembling fingers and, for once, instead of making excuses or softening the blow, she just… said the truth.

Isabelle: I’m sorry, but I’m not available to help this time. Good luck.

She hit send before she could overthink it, before she could drown in the guilt.

There was a long, aching silence.

Then Arthur's message popped up.

Arthur: seriously? wow. okay then.

And another from Charles.

Charles: Nice. Thanks for nothing.

And Lorenzo, icing on the cake.

Lorenzo:Guess we know who we can count on.

The shame hit her hard and fast, brutal in a way only family could manage.

She set the phone down again and braced her hands against the counter, breathing hard, fighting not to crumple.

Max didn’t say I told you so.

He didn’t say they’re assholes, even though she could see it in his eyes.

He just moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his chin lightly on her shoulder.

"You did the right thing," he murmured against her skin. "I’m proud of you."

Isabelle choked on a laugh that was half sob, half relief.

"But they’re mad."

"So let them be mad," Max said. "You’re not their secretary. You’re not responsible for their poor planning."

She turned in his arms, burying her face in his chest, breathing him in. Steady. Solid. Hers.

"It hurts," she whispered.

"I know," he said. "But hurting doesn’t mean you did the wrong thing. Sometimes it just means you’re finally doing the right thing."

He rubbed her back in slow circles, patient and sure.

"You’re allowed to choose yourself," Max said. "Every time."

And Isabelle, standing there in their kitchen, wrapped in his arms, knew: This was what real love looked like.

Not demands.

Not expectations.

Not conditional approval.

Just acceptance.

Just safety.

Just Max.

***

Team Redline Stream – Transcript

Stream starts, usual chatter as the guys set up for the race.

Luke: “Alright, so Valentine’s Day is in two days. Anyone got plans?”

Gianni Vecchio: “Uh—”

Chris Lulham: “Define ‘plans.’”

Gianni: “I mean… I’ll figure something out.”

Luke: “That means no one has done anything.”

Max: already annoyed “Useless. All of you.”

Chris: “Oh, and you have plans then?”

Max: “Of course. What kind of question is that? I love my girlfriend.”

Twitch chat:

   •   here we go again

   •   max “i love my girlfriend” verstappen strikes 

   •   the way this man is always 10 steps ahead

   •   someone check on the team redline WAGs

Gianni: groaning “Okay, yeah, we get it, you’re in love.”

Max: “No, because seriously—why do so many guys just assume their girlfriend or wife or mother or sister will handle everything? How is that cute? It’s embarrassing.”

Gianni: laughs “Tell us how you really feel.”

Max: “I will. Because it’s not just Valentine’s Day. It’s all the time. Birthdays, holidays, family events—who does all the planning? Who buys the gifts? Who remembers every single thing? The women. And the men just show up, say ‘Oh nice,’ and then act like they had anything to do with it.”

Chris: “Alright, I feel personally attacked.”

Max: “Good. Do something about it.”

Twitch chat:

   •   he’s SO MAD HELP

   •   he’s right and he should say it

   •   max verstappen, feminist king??

   •   every girlfriend watching this is nodding

Gianni: whistles “This is… a lot of feelings.”

Max: not done yet “No, because I’ve seen it firsthand, and it pisses me off. You know how many times I’ve watched someone handle everything for the people in their life and not even get a thank you? Not even acknowledged? Like it’s just expected? They do it because they care, but no one ever stops to think, ‘Oh, maybe they’d like to feel appreciated too.’” And if they for once don’t do it, the passive aggressiveness is through the roof, because they take it for fucking granted! It’s actually pathetic. Like, you are an adult, but you can’t book a damn dinner reservation? You need your sister to do that for you?!

Gianni: “Oh, this is personal-personal.”

Max: “Of course it’s personal! I see it happen to people I care about all the time. They put in so much effort and get nothing back. Their family forgets things that matter to them, just assumes they’ll be fine with it. Do you know how awful that is? To love people who don’t even notice when you’re hurting?”

Twitch chat:

   •   nah bc this just got too real

   •   someone in max’s life is NOT getting enough love and he’s fighting for their life rn

   •   blinking twice for the mystery girlfriend rn

   •   the way this man is not even being subtle anymore

Chris: nervous laughter “Uh… yeah, that sucks.”

Max: flatly “Yeah. It does.”

Gianni: “I feel like I should be taking notes.”

Max: “You should.”

Luke: “So… are you gonna tell us what you planned?”

Max: “No.”

Gianni: “So you’re out here preaching about effort but won’t give us ideas?”

Max: “Correct.”

Chris: “You’re actually evil.”

Max: smirking “Maybe.”

Race starts. Max wins, because of course he does.

Twitch chat:

   •   he went on a 10-minute rant then destroyed everyone on track. classic

   •   someone tell the mystery gf that max has a RING READY bc there’s no way he doesn’t

   •   max: “i love my gf and i hate men who do nothing”

   •   whoever he’s talking about, i hope they know he would actually burn the world down for them

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: Max Verstappen just went on a full-on TED Talk during the Team Redline stream about how men need to step up and actually plan things for the women in their lives. I have NEVER seen him this passionate about anything that isn’t racing.

@/LandoStan_4: Nah, because the way he said, “It’s not even just about Valentine’s Day or girlfriends or wives, it’s always the women in families doing all the planning and never getting a thank you,” like he had a PERSONAL vendetta.

@/softverstappen: Who hurt you, Max??

@/F1memes_daily: Max Verstappen when he thinks about men who make their wives and girlfriends or mothers or sisters plan every holiday, birthday, anniversary, and social event: [insert exploding volcano meme]

@/GridTea: I swear he was holding back from name-dropping someone specific. The frustration was too real.

@/ChaosLeclerc: The way he said, “You are an adult, but you can’t book a dinner reservation?” sir who are you calling out.

@/TireDeg_33: I’m telling you, his mysterious girlfriend is fighting for her LIFE against the invisible burden of being the only responsible one in her family.

@/AloNorrisFan: The man really said, “Bare minimum behavior is NOT cute,” and you know what? He’s so right.

@/DR3Honeybadger: Max Verstappen being the voice of reason for women everywhere was not on my 2024 bingo card.

@/F1_WAGwatch: We all joke about ‘wife guy’ Max, but this just confirmed it. He’s SO in love and he’s SO annoyed on her behalf.

@/PitLaneDrama: This was NOT a general take. This was deeply personal. Whoever she is, she’s got this man READY TO FIGHT.

@/MaxFanClub: Honestly, this is the kind of energy we need from men. He called out half the grid without even naming names.

@/RedBullBesties: Lmao Max really said, “Bare minimum? Embarrassing. Do better.”

@/UndercutStrategy: His girlfriend better be watching this like [insert smug cat meme] because she’s got the reigning world champion out here advocating for her rights.

@/McLarenChaos: I need to know what triggered this. Did someone in his friend group forget a birthday? Did he overhear some teammate say “my girl will plan it” and see red??

@/F1DetectiveAgency: There’s a bigger mystery here… who IS she, and why does Max Verstappen love her so much that he’s out here calling out society???

@/FormulaLover: Max really said, “Love is about effort,” and I’m gonna need the men on this app to take notes.

@/DR3Always: He was talking to someone SPECIFIC. You can’t tell me this was just a general rant. He had receipts.

@/VerstappenSimp33: Max Verstappen, voice of the people. Advocate for women everywhere. A true feminist icon.

@/F1Detectives: There’s something SO funny about Max Verstappen, of all people, being the one to passionately call out the mental load women carry in relationships.

@/RedBullF1Fan: I’ve never seen a man so aggressively pro-Valentine’s Day.

@/SassyTauri: Max out here unionizing girlfriends.

@/F1WAGWatch: This man is SO IN LOVE. He literally said “She deserves effort” with his whole chest.

@/TireDegGOAT: Imagine being his girlfriend watching this like “Yes, my man, drag them.”

@/Undercut_Stan: Petition for Max to start a relationship advice podcast.

@/RedBullGirlies:Max Verstappen: F1 World Champion, Cat Dad, and now the internet’s unexpected Feminist Icon.

@/PaddockSpy: We don’t know who she is, but she’s got this man out here EDUCATING the masses.

***

Lily wasn’t exactly worried, flying into Monaco to visit Oscar for Valentine’s Day — but she was... curious.

 Very curious.

She loved Oscar — loved his quiet steadiness, his dry humor, the way he texted her good morning no matter what timezone he was in.

But decorating had never exactly been his strong suit.

When he said "I’m settling into the apartment pretty well!" over FaceTime a few weeks ago, she’d had... doubts.

Mild, loving doubts.

 Visions of mattress-on-the-floor bachelor chaos danced in her head.

So when she walked into his place for the first time — duffel bag still slung over her shoulder — she stopped dead just inside the door.

Blinking.

Staring.

The living room actually... looked good.

There was a real couch.

Matching throw pillows.

A soft rug that didn’t look like it came free with a video game console.

Curtains that actually matched the walls.

Fresh flowers on the kitchen island.

It was— it was warm. It looked like a home.

She turned slowly to Oscar, who was hovering nervously behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"You did this," she said slowly. It wasn’t exactly a question. More like an accusation.

Oscar flushed. "Well... sort of."

She narrowed her eyes, stepping further inside. "Oscar. Be honest."

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I had help."

Lily folded her arms. "Yeah, no kidding. This has woman’s touch written all over it."

Oscar winced. "Belle helped."

Lily blinked. “Belle?

"Isabelle Leclerc."Oscar answered, grinning now. "Charles’ sister."

Lily remembered her vaguely — a soft smile, a quiet presence tucked in the corners of the paddock. Kind, but easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

"Do I need to be worried?" Lily joked lightly, bumping his hip.

Oscar laughed so hard he nearly dropped her suitcase.

"Trust me," he said, still grinning, "you don’t. I think she adopted me. Like... another cat."

Lily snorted.

Oscar leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Besides, I don’t have three Drivers’ Championships and a fleet of cats. I’m not her type."

Lily stared at him. Oscar just raised one eyebrow. “Isabelle Leclerc and Max Verstappen?” Lily said, surprise colouring her voice. 

“Absolutely besotted with each other” Oscar said with a laugh. “And he’s good for her.”

"You like her," Lily said after a beat, softer now. "Not like that — but you like her."

Oscar nodded immediately.

 "Yeah. She’s..." He trailed off, searching for the right words. "She’s the kind of person who just helps, you know? Without making you feel like you owe her for it."

Lily smiled, stepping closer to loop her arms around his waist.

"Sounds like you lucked out," she said.

Oscar smiled, pressing a kiss to her hair. "I definitely did."

Lily glanced around the apartment again — at the carefully chosen throw blankets, the tiny succulents on the windowsill, the framed print over the couch that actually matched the room instead of clashing violently. 

She thought of the quiet girl she'd seen once or twice, standing in the background while her brothers soaked up all the attention.

And Lily decided, very quietly, that she liked this Belle already.

A lot.

***

Monaco at night always looked beautiful.

All glitter and shine, like the whole city was pretending to be softer than it really was.

Lewis Hamilton knew better. He wasn’t dazzled by the surface anymore.

He was walking back from a late dinner with some old friends, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, keeping his head down, when the world exploded.

The screech of tires.

 A flash of headlights where they shouldn’t be.

 The sickening crunch of metal hitting metal.

Lewis whipped around just in time to see it happen.

A green Volvo — coming through the intersection on a green light — blindsided by a black SUV that barreled through the red without even slowing down.

The impact spun the green car sideways, sending it skidding up onto the curb, crumpled against a light post. The SUV swerved wildly, tires smoking, before lurching to a stop a few meters away.

Lewis didn’t think. He sprinted.

He reached the green car first, heart pounding hard enough to drown out the sounds of shouting passersby. The front end was mangled, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks, airbags deployed.

He yanked the passenger side door open — the driver’s side was crushed in — and leaned across.

"Hey, hey—" he said urgently. "Stay with me. You okay?"

The girl inside was small, dazed, blood trickling from a cut above her eyebrow.

Blinking slowly, struggling to focus.

It took him a second to recognize her.

Isabelle Leclerc. Charles’s sister.

"Isabelle," he said more gently. "It’s Lewis. You’re okay. I’m right here."

She stared at him, glassy-eyed, her breathing shallow and fast.

Shock. Pure shock.

Lewis cursed under his breath, fumbling for his phone with one hand.

He called emergency services first, rattling off the location, demanding an ambulance. Then he crouched by the open door again, keeping his voice low and steady.

"You’re doing great, Isabelle. Just breathe. Help’s on the way."

Her hands were trembling badly. She tried to unbuckle herself and flinched at the movement.

"Don’t," Lewis said quickly. "Stay put. You could be hurt worse than you know. Just sit still for me, okay?"

She nodded, small and shaky, tears starting to well in her wide, shocked eyes.

Lewis took off his jacket and draped it over her lap to keep her warm, crouching to stay at her eye level.

"I’m gonna call your brother, yeah?" he said gently. "Charles’ll want to know—"

Isabelle’s hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve with surprising force.

"No," she said, her voice raw and cracking. "Don’t call him. Please."

Lewis blinked, caught off guard. "Isabelle—"

"Please," she said again, desperate now. "Don’t call him."

Lewis sat back on his heels, frowning slightly.

He didn’t argue — it was clear she wasn’t in any state to be pushed — but it planted a seed of confusion deep in his gut.

He knew families could be complicated.

 But something about the panic in her voice unsettled him.

Not embarrassment.

 Not stubbornness.

 Something deeper.

 Fear, maybe. Or exhaustion.

He swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Alright. I won’t call him."

Isabelle sagged back into the seat, closing her eyes tightly, breathing ragged.

The ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.

Lewis stayed right there, hand braced lightly on her knee to let her know he wasn’t leaving.

Future teammate, he thought grimly, the words sitting heavy in his chest.

He’d just signed with Ferrari.

Was about to step into the same garage as Charles Leclerc next year.

 He knew Charles — or at least, he thought he did.

But now he wondered.

Because whatever was going on between Isabelle and her brother — whatever had made her so terrified at the idea of him finding out — it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t small.

And Lewis, for the first time since agreeing to the move, felt the first real crack of doubt spider across the surface of everything he thought he knew.

***

Max’s phone rang late—too late for anything normal. Isabelle had been at Emilie’s for the evening, some kind of girls’ night that they always did just before Valentine’s day, involving ice cream and bad Rom-Coms. 

He was already half-asleep, curled up in bed with Sassy stretched across his legs, when the vibration jolted him awake. He frowned, blinking at the screen.

Belle ❤️

Something in his chest tightened.

"Schatje?" he answered, already sitting up. "What’s going on?"

There was a pause. A breath. Then, softly—too softly—Isabelle said, "Max."

He was awake instantly.

"What happened?"

"I'm okay," she said immediately. "I'm at the hospital."

Max was already moving, throwing off the blanket and reaching for his sweatpants. "What? Why?"

"There was an accident," she admitted. "A drunk driver ran a red light and hit my car."

His blood went cold. "Where?"

"Just outside the tunnel," she said. "Max, I'm okay."

"You’re in the hospital, Isabelle," he snapped, shoving his feet into sneakers. "That’s not okay."

"They just wanted to check me over," she reassured him. "No serious injuries, just some bruises. Probably because of the Volvo."

The one he insisted she get, because safety ratings mattered more than aesthetics, because he’d seen too many crashes to trust anything less.

"Which hospital?" he demanded.

"Max—"

"Which one, Isabelle?"

She sighed. "Princess Grace."

"I’m coming."

"You don’t have to—"

"I'm coming," he repeated, already grabbing his keys.

There was another pause, then, quieter: "Okay."

"Stay on the phone with me," he said as he got into the car, putting her on speaker. His hands were tight fists, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Tell me exactly what happened."

She exhaled. "I was driving back from dinner with Emilie. It was late, so the roads weren’t busy. I had a green light. Then, out of nowhere, this car just—slammed into the side of me. Hard."

Max’s grip tightened on his phone.

"The police said he was drunk. Almost twice the legal limit."

"Fuck," Max muttered.

"I didn’t even see him coming," she admitted. "One second everything was fine, the next… airbags, the car spinning, glass everywhere. Then people running over, trying to get the door open."

Max clenched his jaw, swallowing against the sheer terror clawing up his throat.

"Isabelle," he said, voice rough, "are you sure you're okay?"

"I promise, I am."

Max exhaled shakily, throwing the car into park. 

"I'm here," he told her. "Where are you?"

"Emergency department."

Two minutes later, he found her sitting on an exam bed, her coat draped over her lap, her hair slightly disheveled but otherwise—whole.

The moment her eyes met his, relief flooded her face.

Max didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. She was warm. Real. Breathing.

"I hate you driving alone at night," he muttered against her temple.

"I know," she whispered, holding onto him just as tightly.

"You're getting a driver."

"Max—"

"I'm serious."

She huffed a small laugh. "My Volvo might have saved my life tonight."

Max just tightened his grip, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. "Then I'm never letting you drive anything else."

Max didn’t let go for a long time. He just held her, breathing her in, grounding himself in the fact that she was here, in one piece, instead of—

He couldn’t even think about the alternative.

Isabelle eventually pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. “You really didn’t have to come all the way here.”

Max gave her a look. “Don’t say stupid things.”

He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, before pulling back properly to look her over. She looked tired—her makeup smudged from the night, her hair messy, a faint red mark along her collarbone where the seatbelt must have held her back.

Max pulled back only when a nurse cleared her throat nearby.

"We're keeping her overnight," she said, flipping through the chart. "Mild concussion. And her vitals were a little unstable when she came in — classic shock. Nothing serious, but better to monitor."

Max nodded tightly. "Good. That's good."

Isabelle groaned quietly. "Max, it’s not that bad—"

"Not arguing," he said firmly. "You're staying."

The nurse handed Isabelle two small white pills and a cup of water. Painkillers, she explained. Isabelle took them without complaint, sagging back against the pillows.

"She’ll be moved upstairs to a private room soon," the nurse said. "You can stay, if you’d like."

It didn’t take long before the painkillers hit her.

By the time they had put her in a private room, Belle was definitely enjoying the side effects of said pills. 

She turned her head slowly, blinking up at him like he’d just materialized out of thin air.

“Max,” she said dreamily, her voice soft and a little slurred.

He moved closer, crouching so he was at eye level. "I’m here, Schatje. How do you feel?"

She reached out clumsily, grabbing the front of his hoodie and tugging him closer.

“I love you so much,” she mumbled, her face squishing against his chest. “Like…stupid much.”

Max’s heart twisted painfully in his chest.

“I love you too,” he murmured, brushing her hair gently off her forehead. “You’re concussed, sweetheart. You need to rest.”

She didn’t listen.

Instead, she stared up at him with big, glassy eyes and announced, very seriously: “You’re the best boyfriend in the whole world. The best. Like, you should get an award. A giant trophy.”

Max bit back a laugh, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I don’t need a trophy, Belle. You’re enough.”

“No, no,” she insisted, poking his chest with one finger. “You don’t understand. You’re...you’re like, made of magic. You’re so good, Max. You’re…you’re my favorite,” she said solemnly, like it was the most important announcement in the world. "More than croissants. More than horses. More than the cats."

Max smiled, throat tight. "High praise."

She nodded, wide-eyed. "Don't tell Sassy."

"Your secret’s safe with me." He caught her hand gently, threading his fingers through hers. “You’re my favorite too.”

She blinked at him, still fighting to stay awake. “You’re so pretty, too. So pretty it’s rude. Like, how are you so pretty? It’s criminal.”

Max let out a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re beautiful,” she said solemnly.  Isabelle blinked up at him, utterly adoring. “You have such nice eyelashes. They’re so long. You know that? It’s not fair.”

“Schatje—”

“And you smell really good. Like soap and anger.”

Max bit back a laugh. “You’re off your head.”

She poked his chest with a finger. “You’re in love with me.”

He blinked. “That’s true, yes.”

She lit up. “I knew it! Good. Because I’m in love with you too. Like, so much. Stupid in love with you.”

Max melted and tried not to show it.

“I’m gonna marry you,” she added helpfully. “Someday.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Yeah? That the morphine talking?”

“No,” she mumbled. “That’s me talking. But the morphine is making it easier.”

Max took her hand and squeezed it. “Good. Because I’d marry you too. But first, we’re getting you better. No wedding until you can walk in a straight line.”

“I can walk in a straight line,” she said proudly. “It just moves sometimes.”

He laughed, unable to help it.

She just tugged him down until he was practically draped across her, clinging to him like he might vanish.

“Promise you won’t leave,” she whispered.

Max kissed the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here the whole night.”

“You’re my safe place,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and meds. “You always make me feel safe.”

Max closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in.

He would’ve fought the whole world to keep her safe. He would’ve torn Monaco apart brick by brick if it meant putting her back together.

“You’re safe,” he whispered back. “I promise.”

Isabelle finally drifted into a light sleep, her fingers still tangled tightly in his hoodie. Max stayed right there, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, letting her use him as a pillow if that’s what she needed.

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Sebastian Vettel

Lewis: Mate. Lewis: You awake? Lewis: Need to ask you something.

Sebastian: Always awake for you. Sebastian: What's up?

Lewis: Ran into a situation in Monaco tonight. Lewis: A car crash. Drunk driver. Lewis: Girl got hit.

Sebastian: Christ. Sebastian: Is she okay???

Lewis: Yeah. Shaken up. Lewis: Shocky. Lewis: It was Isabelle Leclerc.

Sebastian: ...wait. Sebastian: Charles’s sister Isabelle??

Lewis: Yeah. Lewis: I stayed with her till the ambulance came.

Sebastian: Good man. Sebastian: How bad was it?

Lewis: Bad enough. Lewis: She was freezing. Could barely speak at first. Lewis: Stayed with her until paramedics got there. Lewis: She’ll need a proper checkup, but she was alive, breathing, conscious.

Sebastian: Poor girl. Sebastian: She’s always been... quiet, but good. Solid. Sebastian: Did Charles get there?

Lewis: No. Lewis:  I told her i’d call him. Lewis: She begged me not to. Lewis: full panic. Lewis: like—not just “i don’t want to worry him”— Lewis: like "please don’t tell him"Like panicked.

Sebastian: Shit.

Lewis: Seb. Lewis: What the hell is going on between her and Charles?

Sebastian: It's... complicated.

Lewis: That’s not an answer.

Sebastian: It’s family stuff. Sebastian: Not my story to tell.

Lewis: I’m not asking for gossip. Lewis: I’m about to be in the garage with Charles next year. Lewis: I need to know if I’m walking into a minefield.

Sebastian: It’s not a minefield. Sebastian: It’s a slow bleed that no one ever stopped. Sebastian: The Leclerc family dynamic is... difficult. Sebastian: Charles loves her in his way. Sebastian: But he doesn’t see her. Never really has.

Lewis: How do you mean?

Sebastian: It’s not loud.Sebastian: Not shouting or fighting. Sebastian: It’s worse. Sebastian: It’s forgetting. Ignoring.Sebastian: Charles forgets she’s a person sometimes. Sebastian: Like she’s background noise. Takes her for granted.

Lewis: Jesus.

Sebastian: Look, Charles isn’t cruel on purpose. Sebastian: But he doesn’t see her properly. Sebastian: Hasn’t for a long time. Sebastian: Too caught up in being the golden boy. Sebastian: It’s easy for everyone to overlook someone who doesn’t scream for attention.

Lewis: She shouldn’t have to scream.

Sebastian: No. She shouldn’t. Sebastian: But that’s the Leclerc family for you.

Sebastian: Charles loves his sister. I don’t doubt that. 

Sebastian: I tried telling him once…I don’t think he even understood what I meant, Lewis. 

Sebastian: Charles isn’t cruel. He is a good guy in a lot of ways. He’s not malicious. But he’s blind.

Sebastian: And the people around him? His family? They expect Isabelle to just... carry everything. Be the good girl. Be grateful.

Sebastian: Isabelle grew up in a shadow she didn’t ask for. And no one ever pulled her out of it.

Lewis: That’s fucked up. Lewis: You should have told me sooner.

Sebastian: It wasn’t my story to tell.  But now that you know... be kind to her, if you can. Sometimes being overlooked hurts more than being hated. (And she has some fantastic thoughts on Ecological architecture, if the topic ever comes up!)

Lewis: I will. Thanks, mate.

Sebastian: Anytime. Sebastian: And good luck at Ferrari. You’re going to need it.

***

Lewis didn’t usually make a habit of visiting hospitals.

Not if he could avoid it.

But after the night he’d had — witnessing Isabelle Leclerc’s accident firsthand, seeing her curled up in that crumpled car, bleeding and shocky — he hadn’t been able to shake the image.

He needed to make sure she was really okay.

Especially after she had all but begged him not to call Charles.

So here he was, walking through the polished halls of Princess Grace Hospital, a coffee in one hand and the quiet buzz of early morning filling the air.

The receptionist had waved him up to her room without hesitation.

“She’s in 433,” she said. “They moved her upstairs overnight for observation.”

Lewis headed for the elevator, heart pounding a little too fast.

He wasn’t family.

He wasn’t even a close friend.

But last night… he hadn’t been able to just walk away.

He pushed open the door to room 433, expecting to find Isabelle sleeping alone.

Maybe a nurse checking in.

Maybe Charles finally at her bedside.

Instead, Lewis froze halfway through the doorway.

Because slouched in the chair next to Isabelle’s bed — hoodie rumpled, hair a mess, legs awkwardly stretched out and still somehow managing to look like he belonged there — was Max Verstappen.

Lewis stared.

Max was half-asleep, head tipped back against the wall, Isabelle’s hand still clutched tightly in his.

Not loosely.

Not casually.

Like he couldn’t bear to let go.

And on the bed, Isabelle was curled toward him in her sleep, her fingers twisted into the fabric of his hoodie like she was holding onto a lifeline.

Lewis’s brain short-circuited for a second.

He hadn’t known what to expect — but it definitely hadn’t been this.

Max stirred slightly, blinking awake as Lewis stood there like an idiot in the doorway.

His eyes sharpened immediately, full of instinct and protectiveness.

“Morning,” Max said quietly, his voice rough from sleep.

Lewis cleared his throat. “Morning. I—uh—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Max said simply, glancing down at Isabelle to make sure she was still asleep before looking back at Lewis. His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles without thinking.

Lewis’s mind was racing.

Max Verstappen.

Max “I hate Monaco socializing” Verstappen.

Max “I don’t do drama” Verstappen.

Holding Isabelle Leclerc’s hand like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Lewis stepped further into the room, lowering his voice instinctively. “I didn’t know you two were…”

Max’s mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile. “Yeah. Not a lot of people do. Lando does.”

Lewis nodded slowly, the pieces starting to rearrange themselves in his mind.

The panic in Isabelle’s voice when she said don’t call Charles.

The protectiveness bleeding off Max in waves.

The way Isabelle’s whole body, even unconscious, leaned into him like it was instinct.

It made a kind of sense, now.

A messy, secret kind of sense.

“I was there last night,” Lewis said quietly. “At the crash.”

Max’s eyes sharpened even more, alert now. “You were?”

Lewis nodded. “I saw it happen. I called the ambulance. Stayed with her until they arrived.”

Something flickered across Max’s face — gratitude, raw and immediate.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, like the words cost him something. “For staying with her.”

Lewis shook his head. “You don’t need to thank me. She… she didn’t want me to call Charles.”

Max’s jaw flexed. He looked down at Isabelle again, the tension in his shoulders visible.

“I know,” Max said after a beat. “It’s… complicated.”

Lewis thought about asking. About pushing.

But one look at the way Max’s hand tightened protectively around hers, and he decided against it.

Not his business.

Not today.

Instead, Lewis set the coffee cup he’d brought down on the bedside table, careful not to make too much noise.

“For when she wakes up,” he said simply.

Max nodded once. “She’ll appreciate that.”

Lewis hesitated, then gave Max a small, understanding nod.

And for the first time, he realized —

Max wasn’t just dating Isabelle.

He was in it.

Fully. Completely.

No half-measures.

And maybe — maybe that was exactly what Isabelle needed.

“Take care of her,” Lewis said finally, meaning it.

Max looked up, his expression hard and certain. “Always.”

Lewis nodded once more and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving them to their small, private world.

And for the first time in a long time, Lewis smiled to himself.

Because against all odds —

Isabelle Leclerc had found someone who would never let her stand alone again.

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Sebastian Vettel

Lewis: You’re not going to believe what I just walked into.

Lewis: Went to the hospital this morning to check on Isabelle.

Lewis:  You know, after the crash last night.

Sebastian: Right. How is she?

Lewis: Sleeping. Safe.

Sebastian: Good.

Sebastian:  But that’s not what you’re texting about.

Lewis: No.

Lewis:  Max Verstappen was there.

Sebastian: ...what?

Lewis: Sitting in the chair next to her bed. Lewis:  Holding her hand. Lewis:  Full-on boyfriend mode.

Sebastian: Are you serious???

Lewis: Dead serious. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t new either.

Sebastian: Holy shit.

Lewis: Yeah. Lewis:  Suddenly a lot of things make sense.

Sebastian: Like her panic last night when you mentioned Charles.

Lewis: Exactly. Lewis:  She didn’t want Charles finding out. Lewis:  Probably doesn’t want any of them finding out yet.

Sebastian: Honestly? Sebastian: If anyone’s going to protect her, it’s Max. Sebastian: He doesn’t do anything halfway. Sebastian: And god help anyone who tries to mess with her now.

Lewis: Yeah.

Lewis:  He actually thanked me for staying with her after the accident. Like he sounded actually sincere. 

Sebastian: I think she finally found someone who sees her.

Sebastian:  Not the Leclerc name. Sebastian:  Just... her.

Lewis: Yeah. Lewis: Yeah, that’s what it looked like. Lewis: And honestly? I’m happy for her.

Sebastian: Me too. Sebastian:  God, Charles is going to lose his mind.

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Lando Norris

Lewis: I know. 

Lando: ????????? know what???

Lewis: about Max and Isabelle.

Lando: OH MY GOD Lando:  WHO TOLD YOU????

Lewis: no one. Lewis: I saw it with my own eyes. Lewis: Hospital bedside. Lewis: Hand-holding. Lewis: Sleeping in a chair like a lovesick idiot. Lewis: It’s real.

Lando: holy shiiiiiiiit Lando: WELCOME TO THE NIGHTMARE

Lewis: what nightmare

Lando: hang on Lando: adding you

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr. and Lewis Hamilton)

Lando Norris has added Lewis Hamilton

Lando: guys Lando:  GUYS

Lando: LEWIS KNOWS NOW

Daniel: LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Oscar: It was inevitable tbh.

Carlos: Hola Lewis. Bienvenido al infierno.

Lewis: ...why does this chat exist

Daniel: because max and isabelle are RIDICULOUS and SECRETIVE and it's KILLING US

Oscar: also because we needed a safe space to scream

Carlos: and gossip.

Lando: and bet how long until Charles finds out and has a meltdown

Oscar: How did you find out?

Lewis:  Last night in Monaco. Lewis:  Isabelle got in a crash. Lewis:  A drunk driver ran a red light. Lewis:  Slammed into her car.

Lando: WHAT?! IS SHE OKAY???

Lewis: She’s alive. Lewis:  Spent the night in hospital. Lewis:  Mild concussion. Bruises. Lewis:  They’re keeping her for observation.

Carlos: Oh my god.

Oscar: Poor Belle :(

Daniel: HOW DID WE NOT KNOW THIS

Lewis: I was there. Lewis:  I saw the crash. Lewis:  Ran over. Lewis:  Stayed with her until the ambulance came.

Daniel: You're a legend, mate.

Lewis: There’s more. Lewis:  When I said I was going to call Charles— Lewis:  She begged me not to. Lewis:  Like, full-on panic.

Daniel: ... That tracks tbh.

Carlos: Yeah. It’s complicated.

Lewis:  This morning I went to check on her. Lewis:  And Max was there. Lewis:  Sleeping next to her. Lewis:  Holding her hand like he was afraid to let go.

Lando:  max literally acts like a disney prince around belle 

Lando:  hand-holding and everything. Lewis:  how long has this been going on??

Lando: ages.

Oscar: Since like March. 

Lewis: does Charles know?

Daniel: ...............no.

Oscar: dear god no

Carlos: If Charles finds out there will be a war.

Lewis: You guys have been covering for them????

Daniel: YES. AND WE’RE DOING AMAZINGLY Daniel: (except for the part where we’re all gonna die when charles finds out)

Lando: new plan: Lando: if charles finds out Lando: we blame max.

Daniel: and also maybe… pretend we just found out too.

Daniel: Max can protect himself anyway Daniel: He’s built like a house and has no survival instincts around belle

Lewis: Honestly after what i saw last night he’s never letting her out of his sight again

Lando: cute but terrifying

Oscar: love that for her tbh

***

lando norris being down bad for his girlfriend: a compilation

summary: lando norris can’t help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Lando Norris could be described as someone who's not scared of saying whatever crossed his mind.

And that's why he never, ever, missed the opportunity to talk about his girlfriend whenever he had the chance.

He mentioned her during interviews, press conferences, social media post and even fan interactions. To the point where fans started making compilation videos with all the moments he publicly obsessed over his girlfriend.

The most popular one gathered millions of views on YouTube, showing multiple occasions Lando couldn't help but be down bad for her.

The video started with a clip from Q&A with fans, someone asked him about his favorite way to relax after a race. Without missing a beat, Lando replied, "Cuddling up with my girlfriend, of course. Nothing beats that."

"You're really whipped man, It's embarrassing," Oscar, his teammate, teased beside him, making the audience laugh.

"It's not, really." Lando shrugged proudly.

The next clip was taken from McLaren's Tiktok account, their content creator tried to do the "Can you watch my ___ for a second" prank on Lando.

"Oh my girlfriend already did this prank to me," Lando said, laughing at the camera, "Baby, If you're watching this, I miss you. Your pranks are way better than McLaren's"

The video moved to show Lando during a post-qualifying interview, his suit hanging by his waist and his fireproofs showing, when asked about his strategy for the race, he cheekily replied, "Well, first I'm going to call my girlfriend for some good luck wishes. Then, I'll focus on getting to the front."

"Zak Brown should hire your girlfriend as your strategist then," the interviewer joked.

"That would be great but I don't think we would be getting any job done. You know what they say about mixing business with pleasure."

The next clip showed Lando with his friend and fellow driver Max Fewtrell, playing a trivia game about how well did they knew each other. Max had to answer what was Lando's worst habit.

"I'm going to say leaving dirty plates around the house," he said, showing his board, "You do mate, admit it."

"My girlfriend would agree on that," he admitted, "She's always complaining about it."

"I don't know how she's still living with you."

"Because she loves me, and I would die if she leaves me."

On the same note, a video of Oscar teasing Lando followed right after.

"Who's most likely to snore?" Lando read the question, and Oscar quickly put ut the cutout with Lando's face, "How are you so sure? You didn't even hesitate."

"Mate, I've heard you, plus your girlfriend literally complained about not being able to sleep properly last night because you kept snoring."

"I did keep her up last night, but it wasn't just because of the snoring," Lando said, a cheeky grin on his face.

"Put the not safe for work disclaimer at the beginning of this video please."

The next segment was from Lando's own Youtube channel, he was doing a little vlog in Miami before the race weekend.

"Hi everyone," he said, filming himself in the mirror with his camera, "Today I'm back with another LandoLog, I'm going to be filming some behind the scenes of this Miami weekend, so without further ado, let's go," he moved the camera around, focusing on his girlfriend who was putting some mascara on her eyelashes, "Here's my beautiful girl, who takes ages to get ready. Say hi baby."

"Hi everyone," his girlfriend waved, laughing, "I'm not taking ages, I'm just making sure I look good."

"You always look good for me," Lando said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before turning the camera back to himself, "See, I told you she's the best."

The next clip showed Lando and Oscar together once again, this time they were giving a tour around the McLaren hub.

"This is my driver's room," Lando said as he opened the door, "It's cleaner than Oscar's, clearly, and looks like I have a bed."

Lando moved to put together the small bed that was behind the door, "This is an upgrade from last year, we didn't have this. I'll be definitely giving it some good use, to nap or with my girlfriend."

"Can we have a video where you're not a horndog please?" Oscar said, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're the horndog, I never said what we were going to use it for, we're just going to cuddle."

The video moved to show one of Lando's post race interviews after winning the Miami GP, he had been asked ho would be the most excited person about this win besides him.

"My girlfriend, definitely. I couldn't have done it without her," Lando said, his voice filled with emotion, "She's been my biggest supporter, my inspiration, and my motivation. This win is as much hers as it is mine."

The video then cut to a scene from Lando's gaming stream with Max Verstappen. The two drivers were deep into a game of Call of Duty, their banter and laughter filling the screen. Lando was focused, his eyes glued to the monitor as he coordinated with Max.

Just then, Lando's phone buzzed on the table beside him. He glanced at the screen and his expression softened, the comment section noticing, "Hey, mate, I need to go. My girl needs me for something," he said, setting down his controller.

"Lando! Are you serious right now?" Max said, his eyes still glued to the screen.

"I am, see ya," he turned to the camera, smiling not so apologetically "Sorry, guys, duty calls. See you next time."

The last scene was a snippet from an interview, Lando had been asked what he saw in his future.

He paused, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Honestly? I see a lot of racing, hopefully some championships," he laughed, "but most importantly, I see her. I can't imagine my life without her."

The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Get you a man who is as down for you as Lando Norris is for his girlfriend.

Hey author,

Loved your work! I have a request for a Max Verstappen fiction. Here's the idea:

Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

The Reader is a badass, known for her fiery press conferences and domination on the court, much like how Max is in racing. Despite being a power couple in front of the world, they are very vulnerable and weak for each other. They know the struggles both have been through—she understands the impact Max's childhood and his father, Jos, have had on him, and he knows the challenges she faces, including attacks and pressures from the media.

They are incredibly supportive of each other. Max attends all her Grand Slam matches, and she visits his races. They are deeply in love and very open with each other, understanding each other's feelings and experiences.

That's the type of story I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

Power Couple

Summary: Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

Song: Slow Down · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: I hardly had any ideas for this one but I tried my best! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

It's messy, chaotic, and punctuated by the sharp thwack of a tennis ball and the roar of a finely tuned engine. It’s the story of you and Max, a whirlwind that started when you were both just fifteen, a story that’s still unfolding in the dazzling glare of the spotlight.

You were fifteen and a force of nature on the tennis court, even back then. Your name was already whispered with respect in junior circuits. You carried a racquet like an extension of your arm, and your focus was so intense it was almost palpable.

That summer, your training brought you to a small, dusty tennis club nestled in the Dutch countryside, a far cry from the manicured lawns of Wimbledon, but the perfect place to hone your craft.

He was there too. Not on the court, but lurking near the chain-link fence, a lanky boy with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a mop of unruly brown hair perpetually falling into his face. You'd noticed him, of course.

How could you not? He was the only teenager there whose attention wasn't glued to the endless practice sessions. Instead, he seemed more interested in the growl of the beat-up scooter he’d arrived on.

One day, during a water break, you were staring down at the worn-out grip on your Wilson when he spoke.

"That's a good shot," he said, his voice still cracking with that awkward teen timbre.

You looked up, surprised, and saw him leaning against the fence, an almost shy smile playing on his lips. "You mean the forehand?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you hadn't quite shaken off.

He shrugged, his eyes dancing with something you couldn't quite place. "I don't know. All of them, I guess? You look like you're trying to kill the ball."

A chuckle escaped you. "It's called intensity."

"Yeah, well, I like it." He pushed off the fence and walked a little closer. "I'm Max."

"You know, I've noticed," you teased, a smirk spreading across your face. "Always lurking by the gate."

His grin widened, making him look younger and somehow much more approachable. "Lurking? I prefer… observing." He paused, then gestured towards your racket. “Do you think you could teach me to hit like that?”

And just like that, a friendship was born, as naturally as the changing of seasons. You didn't actually teach him to play tennis, you decided, though, that he was far more enthralled with the intricate mechanics of his racing kart, and you found yourself drawn to the way his eyes lit up whenever he spoke about the feeling of speed and control.

You spent the rest of your summer evenings not on the court, but tinkering with his kart in his garage, or racing against each other on the empty country roads, the roar of engines a stark contrast to the quiet thud of tennis balls you were used to.

You taught him a little about the precision and discipline you carried from your sport while he showed you how to embrace a more reckless, unbridled kind of passion.

As the weeks passed, those shared moments morphed into something deeper. One warm evening, after a long day at the track, you found yourselves lying on the grass, looking up at the stars.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and charged, until he turned his head, and his hand brushed against yours.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I can't imagine not having you here. You're… unlike anyone I've ever met."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had thought the same thing, again and again. "You're kinda different yourself, Verstappen," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face.

He picked up your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked, his stormy blue eyes searching yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You tilted your head slightly, and that soft, hesitant kiss was the start of something bigger than either of you could have imagined.

The next few years were a blur of teenage milestones, shared victories, and the quiet comfort of understanding each other. You traveled the world, following your dreams. You were winning Grand Slams.

You mastered the art of the backhand and the perfect serve, while he climbed the ranks in the world of Formula 1, learning the intricacies of high-speed racing and the relentless demands of the professional circuit.

You learned to navigate the complexities of a long-distance relationship, the bittersweet ache of goodbyes followed by the heady joy of reunions.

You’d meet in far-flung corners of the world, a stolen weekend in Monaco, a quick coffee in London, sharing late-night calls across different time zones, finding solace in each other’s voices.

You learned to listen, not just with your ears, but with your heart, understanding the unspoken language of ambition and dedication, of relentless pursuit, from someone who truly understood what was involved.

He was there in the stands when you clinched your first Wimbledon title, his applause echoing louder than the roar of the crowd, his pride radiating across the stadium.

You, in turn, were glued to the screen, every race day a nail-biting affair as you chanted his name like a magic spell. You celebrated his wins with unabashed joy, commiserated over his losses with a fierce loyalty that only a childhood best friend, a lover, could offer.

Your life now is a whirlwind of press conferences, sponsor obligations, and the unwavering pressure to stay at the top.

You glide across the court, a graceful yet powerful force, your focus sharp and unflinching, yet when you catch a glimpse of Max in the crowd, you allow yourself a secret smile, a silent reminder of your shared history, of the kid he was all those years ago. He is a reminder of that simpler time.

There are moments, like now, after another grueling day on the court, when you close your eyes and let the roar of the crowd fade away, replaced by the rumble of his scooter and the memory of his first shy smile.

You might be number one in the world of tennis, a name whispered in awe, but you know, the best title you've ever earned is his girlfriend. And that, you think, is the greatest prize of all.

And, as you’re getting ready for the next press conference, you're thinking of the next time you see him. The thought has you smiling again. . . .

The roar of the crowd is a familiar symphony, a constant hum beneath your focused breath. You adjust the headband, the familiar terry cloth a comfort against the glare of the stadium lights. Wimbledon’s Centre Court is your kingdom, the lush green grass your canvas.

You’re leading 5-3 in the third set against Elena Rybakina, a formidable opponent, your every move calculated, precise. A serve, a blur of motion – ace. The roar erupts, a wave of sound that threatens to lift you off your feet.

You know you've got this, the title within your grasp. You’ve worked for this, bled for this, every single grueling practice session, every sacrifice, all culminate in this moment.

You win the game, the match, and the crowd goes wild. The air crackles with energy, the taste of victory sweet on your tongue. You shake hands with Rybakina, a brief, respectful acknowledgment of the battle fought, then raise your arms in a triumphant arc.

Another Wimbledon title under your belt. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the familiar mix of elation and exhaustion. It’s a high like no other, but underneath that surge of victory there's another feeling, a quiet hum of anticipation.

You know who’s waiting for you.

The post-match media scrum is a blur - flashes, questions, microphone in your face. You handle it all with your usual icy grace, your well-honed responses a shield against the endless prodding.

You’re used to it; it comes with the territory of being the best. But you’re itching to escape its glare. You see your agent, Sarah, giving you a quick nod, and you know it's your cue. A few more polite words, another practiced smile, and then you're slipping away, finally free of the spotlight.

You find him in the players' lounge, perched on a sofa, his eyes tracking yours as you walk in. Max. He stands as you approach, a smile playing on his lips that makes your heart do that familiar little flip.

The harsh lines that often harden his face are softened when he looks at you. He gathers you into his arms, his embrace both fierce and gentle.

"You were incredible," he whispers against your hair, his voice roughened with emotion. "An absolute beast out there."

"Thanks, you," you murmur, breathing in his scent, the familiar comfort of it grounding you after the storm of the match. You pull back slightly, your gaze catching his. “Did you watch the whole thing? Even with your schedule?”

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. You were destroying her. Honestly, you're the most dangerous person I know." You laugh at that, a genuine laugh that’s rare these days, a laugh that only he can draw out of you.

Later, back at the house in Monaco, you sit side-by-side on the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering under the moonlight. He holds your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your knuckles.

In this serene space, the world outside fades away. The tension that always seems to cling to you both loosens, the relentless pressure of your careers receding into the background.

"You know," Max begins, his voice quiet, "sometimes I still can't believe it. You, the best there is. Not just in the world, but the best there could ever be.”

You turn to him, your eyes searching his. "And you?" you ask him, “World Champion twice? Sometimes I can't believe you’re not some superhuman entity.”

He squeezes your hand, his gaze unwavering. "We both push ourselves to the edge, and beyond," he says. "It's what makes us who we are, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," you agree, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But it's also why we need each other." The silence that follows is comfortable, a space filled with shared understanding, a knowing that transcends words.

The days that follow are a brief reprieve, stolen moments away from the relentless cycle of competition. You spend them walking along the coast, laughing, rediscovering the simplicity of just being together.

But the respite is always fleeting, the demands of your respective careers always looming on the horizon. You’re due to fly out for a tournament in Washington D.C. in a week, and Max is scheduled for a race in Hungary two weeks after that.

The night before you leave, the atmosphere is thick with a quiet anticipation. You’re curled up on the sofa, your favourite movie playing softly on the TV, but neither of you is paying much attention.

Max pulls you closer, his hand slipping beneath your t-shirt, tracing the curve of your back. His skin is always warm against yours, a familiar comfort.

"I wish you didn't have to go," he murmurs, his voice husky. "I hate being away from you."

You turn to face him, your fingers cupping his cheek. "I wish I didn't either, but we know how this goes. We’re just two very busy, very overachieving maniacs.”

He smiles, a flash of his boyish charm. "Yeah, but that's why I love you. You’re as insane as I am." He leans in, his lips finding yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist.

The morning you leave, the goodbyes are short, a quick kiss on the lips and a promise to call every day. You watch his car disappear down the driveway, a small ache settling in your chest.

It's the same ache you feel every time you part ways, a reminder of your connection, a reminder of what you have to come back to.

The tournament in D.C. is a brutal battle. You're seeded first, as always, and the pressure is immense. You win the first few rounds with your usual dominance, but then come up against a rising star, a young American player who pushes you to your absolute limit.

The match goes to five sets, each point a war of attrition. You’re exhausted by the end, but you win, the taste of victory bittersweet.

That night, you’re in the hotel room, the city lights twinkling outside your window. You’re on a call with Max, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

He’s telling you about his practice sessions, the improvements he’s made to his car, and you’re listening intently, your mind drifting away from the exhaustion and the pressure.

“You were so close out there,” he says suddenly, “your match was insane, I was so nervous.”

“You always are,” you giggle, picturing his intense face watching your match on the TV. “Just like how I feel every race you’re in.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, the hum of the call a gentle lull. “I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice soft, “you always make me so proud.”

“And I you,” you murmur, a lump forming in your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you feel like you're home again, all the way across the world.

“Love you too, always.”

You fall asleep with his voice still ringing in your ears. The next morning, you wake up to a phone call you weren't expecting. It’s Sarah, your agent, and her voice is strained.

"There's been an accident," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "Max... he was in a crash during practice."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. The room spins, the world blurring at the edges. Your breath catches in your chest, a cold dread gripping your heart.

"How bad?" you manage to ask, your voice shaking.

"We don't know yet," she says, the uncertainty in her voice doing little to assuage the terror that’s now flooding you. "You need to come home, now."

The next few hours are a chaotic blur. You’re on autopilot, racing through airports and boarding planes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You barely register the faces around you, the sounds of the world muted, as if you're underwater.

All you can think of is Max, his face, his smile, his voice. The thought of losing him is unbearable.

You arrive in Monaco in the dead of night. The house feels cold and empty, the silence deafening. You make your way to the hospital, your every step heavy, the weight of your fear pressing down on you.

You find him in a small, sterile room, his body connected to monitors. He’s pale and still, his face almost hidden by the shadows. You feel like you’ve been ripped open, the pain so sharp it steals your breath.

You rush to his side, your fingers reaching for his hand. His skin is cold, but his grip tightens around yours, a small, reassuring squeeze.

His eyes flutter open, and he looks at you, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "You’re here," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Max,” you breathe, a sob catching in your throat. Tears are streaming down your face as you gently cup his face. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He smiles weakly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I knew you would be,” he murmurs, his eyes closing again, “always, even when I’m an idiot driving a race car.”

You don’t say anything, you just sit beside him, holding his hand, and watching him breathe, a silent promise passing between you, a bond forged in childhood, strengthened by shared triumphs and endured through deep pain - a love that would always, always persevere. . . .

The scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel clings to him even before the door shuts. You hear the familiar click of the lock, and then the heavier thud of his boots hitting the tiles of the hallway.

You’re sprawled on the couch, a worn-out copy of “Open” by Andre Agassi resting on your chest. Jimmy, the ginger behemoth, is purring like a motorboat on your left thigh, while Sassy, the sleek black panther, is curled into a perfect ebony question mark at your feet.

They’ve been your constant companions during the lull before your next tournament.

“Hey,” Max’s voice is low, tired, but a ripple of warmth underlies it. You open your eyes, the intense afternoon sun filtering in through the tall living room windows making the world outside a blur of gold and green.

You push Agassi off your chest, feeling the book’s weight leave a slight indent.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, the Red Bull logo on his polo a vibrant dash of color against the muted tones of the room.

He looks drained, the lines around his eyes slightly more pronounced than you remember from the last time he was home. You know those lines; they’re etched by the relentless pressure of Formula 1, the constant travel, the unending pursuit of milliseconds.

He kneels beside the couch, reaching out a hand to scratch behind Jimmy's ears. The cat pushes his head into Max’s palm, a rumbling purr vibrating through his frame.

“They’ve missed you,” you murmur, running a hand down Sassy’s velvety back.

Max glances up at you, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, are a little softer now, a touch vulnerable and definitely possessive. “Not as much as I missed you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on your face.

You feel the familiar warmth spread through your chest. It's crazy how after all these years, the simple act of him looking at you like that can still make your heart do somersaults.

He settles onto the couch, his long legs stretching out and nearly touching your feet. He pulls you into his side, and you nestle in, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting lullaby.

The tension in his body is palpable. “Bad race?” you ask softly, tracing small circles on his arm with your fingertip.

He sighs, a gust of air escaping his lips. “Third,” he replies, the single word carrying a weight that you understand completely. “Just… not good enough, you know?”

You nod, because you do know. You've had your share of crushing defeats, the sting of a missed shot, the frustration of an opponent playing out of their skin. You’ve both built entire empires on a foundation of ambition, a constant striving for perfection, despite the inherent impossibility of it.

You know how those ‘not good enough’ days can feel.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” you say, your head resting against his shoulder. There’s no need for platitudes or empty reassurances. He knows that you know.

A wry smile touches his lips. “Easy for you to say. You’re basically untouchable on the court right now.”

You chuckle, a low, confident sound that ripples through his frame. “Untouchable? Please. I just know how to make my opponents sweat a little.”

You raise your eyebrows, a mischievous glint in your eyes. He is so well aware of the press conferences where you don't mince your words.

He lets out a genuine laugh then, the sound is music to your ears. It’s raw and real. “That's the understatement of the century,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The way you went off on that reporter after your French Open semi-final was legendary."

You roll your eyes dramatically, though you can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. “He asked if I was scared of my opponent. Scared. As if. I’d rather face a thousand of those volleys than go through another interview like that.”

He pulls you closer, his arm tightening around you. "You're fierce," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "On and off the court. It's... it's one of the things I love about you.”

“And you’re terrifying behind the wheel,” you tease, knowing that a lot of his race opponents are afraid of him on the track.

He chuckles again, a low rumble against your ear. “And you love that too,” he says, the teasing note in his voice back.

You don’t bother denying it. He knows you too well. You know him too well. You’ve built something that is so incredibly strong because it was always built together. You’ve seen each other through the highs and lows, the wins and losses, the triumphs and the heartbreaks.

You’ve navigated the pressures of fame, the relentless scrutiny, the isolating nature of being at the top – together. You were just kids when it started, two teenagers with big dreams and even bigger personalities.

You fell in love navigating the ups and downs of life, and you grew up together, which made things that much stronger.

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the unspoken language that only two people who have known each other for so long can share. You can feel the tension slowly leaving him, as if your presence is a balm to his weary soul.

“Tournament soon?” he asks, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Dubai. In a week.” You know the time change between Dubai and Europe will be brutal, but you’ve become accustomed to that aspect of your career.

He lifts his head and looks at you, his gaze intense. “You’ll crush them,” he says with absolute certainty.

You smile, the confidence in his voice a tangible thing. “Just like you’re going to leave them all in the dust next race, huh?”

He grins, that familiar flash of competitive fire returning to his eyes. “You know it.”

You trace the line of his jaw, your fingers lingering on the slight stubble. You could spend hours like this, just the two of you, wrapped up in each other’s presence, the noise of the world fading away.

There’s a vulnerability in him that only you get to see, a softness that he hides from the cameras, the reporters, the rivals. And in return, he gets to see a side of you that very few have been privy to, the quiet tenderness that lies beneath the fiery exterior.

“Want to order some takeaway?” you ask, the thought of cooking suddenly feeling like a monumental task.

“Pizza?” he suggests, his eyes already sparkling with the thought.

“Only if it has pineapple,” you tease, knowing that it is the most controversial thing you could possibly say.

Max groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “You are absolutely going to be the death of me,” he says, but the smile on his face belies his words.

You laugh, the sound light and free. You lean in, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s the taste of home, a place where you are both just Max and you, where the pressures of the world are just whispers in the distance.

You know that outside this space, you are both world-class athletes with unwavering determination, but in each other’s arms, you are just two people who grew up together. Who fell in love.

Who, despite the relentless demands of your careers, will always find their way back to each other. You are, after all, each other’s constant. You are, and will always be, each other’s home.

The roar of the engine was a familiar lullaby, a sound that had been a constant soundtrack to your life since you were kids, perched on the sidelines of karting tracks, watching Max whiz by in a blur of red and orange.

Now, instead of a flimsy kart, you were strapped into a beast of a car, the smell of hot rubber and high-octane fuel filling your nostrils. You glanced at the familiar, focused profile of Max beside you, the set of his jaw a testament to his concentration.

This was supposed to be a fun exercise, a publicity stunt dreamed up by Red Bull’s marketing department – the world’s number one tennis player, and the reigning Formula One Champion, taking a joyride. Except, this wasn’t a joyride.

This was a terror ride, and you were pretty sure your heart was currently trying to stage a coup and escape from your chest.

“Max,” you started, your voice a little too high pitched, a far cry from the confident, booming voice that usually echoed through stadium press boxes. “You know I’m used to your speed, right? On the track, where it's meant to be, not on some random circuit at 300 km/h.”

He didn’t answer, just a subtle twitch of his lips hinting at a suppressed grin. You gripped the grab handle on your side of the car so hard your knuckles turned white.

It was no secret that Max, much like you on the tennis court, thrived on pushing boundaries. He was a master of controlled chaos on the track, and right now, you weren’t so sure about the "controlled" part.

The car accelerated, forcing you back into your seat. You let out a yell, a mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through you.

You were used to controlling your own trajectory, predicting your opponent’s next move, the satisfying thump of a perfectly placed serve. This, this was utterly out of your hands, at the mercy of Max’s foot on the accelerator pedal.

“Max! Verdomme! Slow down!” You bellowed, resorting to Dutch as your carefully constructed composure shattered into a million pieces. You could feel the g-force pressing against you, throwing your head against the headrest as he took a corner at an impossible speed.

You braced yourself, bracing your hands against the dashboard, trying to find something solid to cling to.

You could hear him chuckling, the sound muffled but distinct. You could practically see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even though you were looking straight at the dashboard.

“What, is the little tennis star scared?” He teased, his voice laced with amusement.

He downshifted, the revs of the engine screaming higher, and you swore you felt your stomach try to migrate up into your throat.

“Scared?! I’m not scared!” You shouted back, partially for his benefit, mostly for yours. “I’m just… concerned about the structural integrity of this car. And my very delicate internal organs!” You knew you sounded pathetic, not the self-assured athlete the world knew and feared, but you couldn’t help it.

This was Max Verstappen, after all. He had a unique way of bringing out your most ridiculous, human side.

He laughed again, a full, genuine laugh this time, the kind that made your heart flutter even while your stomach was performing gymnastics.

He glanced over at you, a grin playing on his face. “Relax, schatje. I have it under control.”

And maybe, just maybe, you did believe him, for a split second anyway. Then he slammed on the gas and you screamed again, a string of Dutch curses pouring out of your lips as you gripped the headrest with an iron fist.

Each turn was a rollercoaster, each acceleration a punch to your gut. You found yourself cursing in Dutch, English, and even a little bit of French, a linguistic mashup fuelled by sheer terror.

You caught glimpses of the blur outside, the landscape a streaks of green and brown. You tried to focus on breathing, trying to regain a semblance of control over your runaway emotions, but every time he hit the accelerator, you lost it again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just a few minutes of extreme adrenaline, the car slowed, and pulled into a stop. You were slumped back in your seat, a sweaty, disheveled mess.

“That was… an experience,” you managed, your voice still a bit shaky.

He turned to you, his eyes sparkling as he gave you a wide, triumphant grin. “Fun, right?”

You almost laughed, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “Fun? Max, I think I aged at least five years in that car.” You reached up and felt your pulse, which was still trying to break free.

He tilted his head, the playful gleam still dancing in his eyes. “But you said you're used to my speed."

You threw your hands up. “Yes, but I didn’t know you’d be trying to scare me, you… absolute menace.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in your chest, and then reached over and undid your seatbelt. As he did, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Maybe just a little.”

You felt yourself blush, despite the fact that you were also on the verge of throttling him. As he stepped out of the car, you took a moment to collect yourself, smoothing your clothes and trying to appear somewhat pulled together.

As you reached up, your fingers brushed something small and hard attached to the car’s dashboard. It was a camera, aimed directly at you.

Your eyes widened, and then everything clicked into place. The teasing laughter, the exaggerated acceleration, the playful comments – it had all been an elaborate, incredibly mischievous ploy.

You burst out laughing, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that echoed around the open space. You couldn't help it. It was absurd, ridiculous, and completely, utterly Max.

You covered your face with your hands, still laughing. He watched you, his eyes sparkling, a smile playing on his lips.

“Did you get all of that?” you exclaimed, still chuckling. “The screaming in multiple languages? The death grips on the dashboard?"

He shrugged, pretending to look innocent, but the smirk on his face told another story. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice laced with amusement rather than anger.

“Only for you,” he replied, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

You lowered your hands, a smile now playing on your lips. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? That you would never just do a normal lap with me.”

He took a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “Where’s the fun in normal, liefje?”

You knew he was right. Normal was boring. And as much as the terror of the hot lap had made you want to wring his neck, you also wouldn't trade it for anything.

It was another reminder of the chaotic dance you and Max had always been in, a dance of adrenaline, teasing, and a love that ran as deep as the engine roar that had been the background to your lives.

This was your Max, and despite your near-death experience, you wouldn't have him any other way. You stepped out of the car, ready to face the world, and whatever else he decided to throw your way. The camera might have captured your terrified screams, but it had missed the grin that was now plastered across your face.

You were ready for your next match but you were also ready for whatever chaos Max decided to unleash next.

Life with him was never boring, and you wouldn't have it any other way. . . .

The crisp December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the familiar rumble of Max's engine fading behind you. You pull your coat tighter, adjusting your beanie, a small smile playing on your lips.

The holidays. A welcome respite from the relentless pressure of the tennis circuit. A chance to breathe, to ground yourself before the Australian Open looms. And, most importantly, time with Max.

He's already by the padel court, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he bounces a ball. Lando and Charles are there too, bickering about something trivial, their usual competitive energy already buzzing.

“Took you long enough, slowpoke,” Max teases, tossing the ball to you.

“Traffic,” you retort, catching it easily. “Besides, someone had to pack the snacks, didn’t they?”

Lando groans dramatically. “Snacks? You brought snacks? This is serious competition, woman!”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your on-court persona flickering through. “Oh, I thought this was just a friendly get-together. Unless you’re scared, Lando?”

He splutters, Charles chuckling beside him. “Scared? Of you? Please. Just wait until I unleash my padel prowess.”

Max wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Don’t listen to him, liefje. We’ll crush them.”

That Dutch endearment always makes you melt, and a genuine smile spreads across your face. He knows exactly how to disarm you.

The game starts, and the air is filled with the thwack of the ball, playful taunts, and the occasional groan of exertion. You and Max move with a practiced synchronicity, years of playing (and bickering) together evident in your easy communication.

Max is surprisingly good at padel, his reflexes honed by years of racing, and you find yourself relying on his power, setting him up for winning shots.

“That’s cheating! You have your wife on your team,” Lando grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow after another point you and Max win.

“Jealous, are we?” you retort, grinning. “Maybe you should find yourself a tennis champion girlfriend.”

Charles snorts. “Good luck with that. Finding someone who can keep up with you is a challenge.”

You playfully shove Charles’ shoulder. “I’m not that intimidating.”

Max squeezes your hand. “Oh, you are. Especially when you give those death stares on court.”

He's right, of course. You can be ruthless. You have to be. The pressure to stay on top is immense, the media constantly scrutinizing every move, every word. The expectation is suffocating sometimes.

Later, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the court, you’re sitting on the bench, catching your breath.

The score is ridiculously lopsided in yours and Max’s favor. Lando and Charles have conceded defeat, blaming everything from the altitude to the snack selection.

Max sits beside you, his arm draped around your shoulders. “You were amazing out there,” he says, his voice soft. “Like always.”

“So were you,” you reply, leaning into him. “You know, for a race car driver.”

He laughs, a warm, comforting sound. “It's all about reflexes, liefje. And a killer instinct.”

He understands that killer instinct in you, the drive to win, the unwavering focus. He sees it because he possesses it too.

It binds you together, this shared understanding of the relentless pursuit of excellence, the sacrifices required, the price you both pay.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. “With everything… the media, the pressure. Are you okay?”

It's a question he asks often, a constant check-in, a reminder that he’s there, always. It's a tenderness he rarely shows the world, a vulnerability reserved only for you.

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s tough. The whispers, the judgment… sometimes it feels like I'm living under a microscope.”

“I know,” he says, his voice laced with empathy. “They’re brutal. They try to tear you down because they’re jealous of what you’ve achieved.”

He knows what it’s like to be under that kind of scrutiny, to have every mistake magnified, every victory questioned. He lived it his entire life, his father's relentless expectations and the constant pressure to perform.

You trace a pattern on his jeans with your finger. “It’s different for you, though. You have the car, the team… you’re surrounded by people who support you, who believe in you.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm. “And you don’t?”

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Of course, I do. But it’s… lonely at the top. Everyone wants something from you. It’s hard to know who to trust.”

He understands that too. The isolation that comes with success, the constant questioning of motives.

“You have me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You always have me. And I know it’s not the same, but Lando and Charles… they care about you too. We all see how hard you work, how much you dedicate yourself to your sport.”

He pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. “Don’t let them break you, liefje. You’re stronger than they think. Stronger than you even give yourself credit for.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, a reminder of your strength, your resilience. He sees you, truly sees you, the fierce competitor and the vulnerable woman beneath.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s just… sometimes it gets overwhelming.”

He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Then let me carry some of the weight. That’s what I’m here for.”

The sun has almost completely disappeared, and the air is getting colder. Lando and Charles are packing up their things, their boisterous energy subdued.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Lando calls out. “We’re heading back. You coming?”

You look at Max, a silent question in your eyes.

He squeezes your hand again. “Go. I’ll stay a little longer. I want to watch the stars.”

You nod, knowing he needs the quiet, the solitude. He finds peace in the vastness of the night sky, a reminder that his problems, his pressures, are small in the grand scheme of things.

You stand up, giving Max one last kiss. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

As you walk away, you glance back at him. He’s sitting on the bench, his head tilted back, gazing at the stars. In that moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable.

The weight of the world, the expectations of millions, seem to melt away, leaving only a man searching for solace in the vastness of the universe.

You know you would do anything for him, fight anyone who dared to hurt him. You are his anchor, just as he is yours.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, still staring at the stars. You join him, slipping under the blanket, pressing close to his side.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your voice soft.

He lets out a long sigh. “Just… everything. The season, the pressure, the expectations.”

You reach out and take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You’re going to be okay, Max. You’re the best. You always have been.”

He turns to you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and tenderness. “And you? Are you going to be okay?”

You smile, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “With you by my side? Always.”

You lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss that speaks of years of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of unwavering love.

In that moment, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, you are just two people, connected by a bond that transcends the pressures of fame and the demands of the world.

You are simply Max and you, a team, a partnership, a love that has endured the test of time and the scrutiny of the world. And that, you realize, is all that truly matters. . .

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄 - 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 - Lando Norris really messed up on the first time meeting one of Hollywood's newest and hottest stars, Y/N L/N. But when his reputation gets too bad, she might be the only one who can save his career from being completely doomed

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Lando Norris x Actress!Reader (Enemies to Lovers & Fake Dating AU)

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 - Ongoing - Last updated on April 29th

𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝐓𝐖𝐎 - 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 & 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 - 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 - 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍* 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 - 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝐒𝐈𝐗 - 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 - 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 - {𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚍}

*contains smut

⤳ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⤳ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

#charlesleclercfic

♡ Is It Casual Now? | CL16

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Summary: Y/n meets Charles at a party, and what starts as a casual fling quickly becomes something more. As their connection deepens and feelings grow, Y/n begins to question— is it really casual? [Inspired by Casual by Chappell Roan]

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

PART 1: Are You Always This Forward?

PART 2: Good Luck Charm

PART 3: My Favourite Person

PART 4: Puppy Love

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

you're mine now

Charles Leclerc x Best Friend!Reader count: 3.1k words summary: Charles invites you over for a movie night, that ends on his kitchen counter, no clothes involved. a/n: explicit smut, so strictly 18+

It isn’t supposed to be anything more than friends hanging out. You know this, and you remind yourself of it as you pat down your dress, ignoring the winter chill your bare legs give you. Maybe sundress wasn’t the best option, but it was the most chill-but-still-sexy option you had in the closet.

You rang the bell and Charles opens the door.

He looks good, to say the least – his hair has grown out a little and the curls are making their way back, alongside the ease in his shoulders that he regains during the off-season months. He pulls you in for a hug, and you suppress the shiver his cologne gives you.

Charles kisses your cheek. “Stunning, as always.”

“You’re outdoing me.”

“You’re putting a dress against sweatpants and a tee? Sure.”

“Sweatpants and a tee on you are a different story,” you argued.

He laughs and leads you through the house, even though you could’ve made your way to the living room in the dark, if you had to. The conversation takes you to the bar where he pulls out a bottle of champagne too expensive for the occasion, and tells you about the week since the last race.

You are listening—you pull yourself out of your thoughts a few times—but all you can think about is how good he looks. It’s like you haven’t seen him in years, not months. His hair’s messy and you know he was taking a nap shortly before you arrived because there’s red marks on his face, and he hasn’t shaved in a few days and great, now you’re looking at his lips—

“Do I have something on my face?”

You down the champagne in your glass. “No.”

“Want a refill?”

“Yes. Please.”

He takes the bottle and begins pouring, and your eyes are glued to his biceps, and the way they’re stretching the shirt—

“There you go.”

“Are you going to judge me if I finish that one, too?”

Charles laughs. Your legs go jelly.

“Only if you let me catch up, first.”

Three glasses of champagne down—each—later, you’re sitting on the couch. It’s a little bit cold and you complain, and the heating’s turned up within moments. He returns to the couch and looks at you; you catch him adjusting his sweatpants as he retakes his seat.

“Your sofa’s not small, you know.”

“What’s the point of sitting further away?” he asks. “I need to be able to annoy you during the movie.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

It’s Charles’s turn to pick a movie. He scrolls through the list, asking you if you’ve seen this one, or that one, and you respond with your mind half there, half on the champagne resting against the side of the couch. You pour yourself another glass and one for him, too.

“We’re going to need another bottle.”

Charles shrugged. “We could start doing shots.”

“Charles!”

“What?” He looks at you so innocently, so full of something, that you feel a shiver. It doesn’t help when he puts a hand on your bare calf, thumb moving just slightly. “Shots are for later, alright. Do you want more champagne or wine?”

You hesitate: champagne would be perfect, because that was absolutely delicious, but you also know how much it costs.

“Wine,” you say.

Yet when he returns with the bottle, it’s not wine he’s holding.

“Charles—”

“We can have more champagne if we want, okay? We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

He smiles as you clink your glasses together; something in your gaze grounds you, making you aware of every millimetre where his skin is touching yours.

“Us,” he says, and drinks to it.

He slots back into the spot at your side as his fingers absentmindedly brush your calves. It’s enough to keep you distracted – the way he’s sitting, or half-lying, you can clearly see the outline of the bulge in his sweatpants. He adjusts himself a few times, when he thinks you’re not looking, but it’s all you can see.

That, and the biceps, and the hair, and the slope of his nose that would feel so damn good against your—

You clear your throat. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Do you want an itinerary? The bathroom.”

“Don’t take too long,” he says. “The movie’s getting good.”

Ah, the movie. The one you’re definitely watching.

In the bathroom, you splash some water over your neck. Your face would’ve been better but you spent an hour doing a no-makeup makeup look and you’re not foolish enough to ruin it.

You think about it. It would be a lie to say you don’t.

You sit on the closed toilet and breathe, your hands on your thighs, itching to slip under your dress.

Behind closed eyes, you picture Charles on the couch, waiting for you. His hands are in his hair, making it messier, and you can just make out the outline of his—

Something cold touches the inside of your thigh. Your hand. You were about to—

It’s tempting. You can feel the pulsing, the need, the way your core responds to Charles’s every movement. If you took care of it here, and now, you’d be able to go through the movie without distractions. It wouldn’t even take long, considering how fired up you already are, and the image of your best friend so clear in your mind.

The outline gave you enough of an idea of what you’d expect. Of how it would feel in your mouth, between your legs, and maybe you could slip a finger in and think of it some more and—

“Y/N, you alright?”

Your hand flies to your mouth, masking the gasp. The other hand comes out from under your dress, the tip of your finger slick with your wetness.

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, just… Just give me a minute.”

“I’m here if you need anything.”

The words made you leave out a long, controlled breath, willing your heart to stop racing. You promise you’d be out in a few seconds and when you hear his footsteps getting quieter, you wash your hands.

In the reflection, the woman looks as if she’s judging you.

“Shut up,” you tell her. “I know it’s bad.”

More water ends up on your neck and you dap it off with a bit of toilet paper. If Charles didn’t knock when he did, you probably would’ve gone more than just put a single finger in, and the thought of doing that while he sat across the wall is…

Exciting.

The whole place feels warmer as you make your way back to the living room. There’s a falter in your step – he’s sitting exactly the way you were picturing him. Even with the bulge still visible, if not as big as you supposed he could get.

If he knew what you were doing in his bathroom…

You slot back into your place, but make it so that no parts of your bodies are touching. If Charles notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He laughs along to the movie, and he’s enjoying it, for the most part, but it’s taking you every bit of self-control to keep your hands to yourself, when he’s so close. It’s not like you haven’t thought about this before—hell, you two even kissed on a dare when you were twelve—but this is different.

His attention is back on you as the movie ends. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. You’re a bit quiet.”

“I was watching the movie.”

“Sure,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe you.

He’s close – so close you feel his breath on your lips. Your gaze flickers to his before you can help it and when you look up, your cheeks burning, he’s smiling.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

His hand’s on your calf—has it always been there?—and you swallow the lump in your throat. You hear the noise from the TV, the high-pitch of the fridge, and your own heart trying to beat its way out of its cage.

“We should, um.” You clear your throat. “Drinks?”

Charles follows you to the island counter, placing the glasses on it. You pour the champagne this time and your hand’s shaky enough you wonder if he’ll comment on it, but he doesn’t.

You look at his hands—his fingers—and remember that less than an hour ago, you were taking care of yourself in his bathroom thinking of these.

“Truth or dare,” you blurt out.

Charles laughs. “What are we, twelve?”

“Truth or dare. No backing out.”

“Fine,” he says. “Truth.”

“Boo. Pussy.” You swirl the champagne around your glass, thinking. “When’s the last time you had good sex?”

“Three weeks ago,” he answers.

“Good,” you repeat. Three weeks ago, he was texting you about a girl he hooked up with, who could barely hold a dick in her mouth without gagging. “Answer honestly.”

He leaned against the counter, blowing air out of his mouth. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. A few months, maybe? What about you?”

You smile. “The question was for you.”

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“That’s not fair! You knew what I was about to ask.” When all you do is shrug, he shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His cheeks are a soft tint of red, and you wonder if they’d feel warm against your touch. “I can’t think of any good dares.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Seriously!”

“You’re boring,” you say. “I can think of one.”

“For yourself?”

You hum in response. “It’s getting hot in here.”

Charles was quiet for a few moments – you left the ball in his court, and it was up to him to accept it. If you weren’t already tipsy, you could’ve sworn his cheeks had gone redder.

On the counter, your hands were touched just the slightest bit, but the sensation ran down your spine.

“Okay,” he says, stepping the tiniest bit closer. “I dare you to take off your dress.”

Aware of your eyes on your body, you grab the hem of your sundress. It’s not often you can see him take you in piece by piece, cheeks reddening, eyes hazing over as if unsavoury thoughts are running across his mind. You slow down, stick your hip out a little, trailing your hands on your thigh higher, higher, higher—

You watch his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallows at the sight of your lacy underwear.

“Y/N—” he tries, but his voice gives out, deep and husky and so, so needy.

You tug the rest of the dress over, throwing it on the floor between you. His eyes are on your chest, with his tongue brushing over his lips. Even without needing to check, you know there’ll be an outline on his trousers – not once has a man looked at you like this without wanting to jump your bones.

You smile. Innocently. “Your turn.”

Charles hesitates, but only for a moment. His eyes dart to your face and whatever he finds there must agree with him, because he grabs the bottom of his shirt and tugs it over in one movement, dropping it on top of your dress.

Your heart beats in two places, looking at him like this. The light is dim and you could trace the abs on his stomach, the firmness of his pecks, even the shoulders, memorising it to make a statue of him in his mind.

The thought of him, bare, makes your mouth go dry.

“Sweatpants too,” you say.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m in my underwear.”

“We’re both wearing two pieces of clothing.”

There’s the moment—the opening you’ve been waiting for—and you look at him in the eye, searching, until you see the way his lips are parted, the speed of his chest rising, the outline of his dick screaming to be let out, and you make your decision.

“Why,” you say, “when we could be wearing none?”

Charles’s eyes darken in a way you haven’t seen before. Gone was the gentleman, the strong man with a kind heart, and you think of him looking at you like this with his hands on your throat, pounding into you, and your knees buckle.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“We’ve been dancing around this long enough.” You hook your thumbs in the waistband of your panties. “I can do it, or you can.”

He crosses the distance between you in a moment, his body crashing against yours as he snatches you by the wrists, pulling them around his back. His mouth is against your neck and his breath sends shivers down your spine as he murmurs, “It would be my pleasure.”

He kisses you, then. His lips are soft against your skin they trail towards your collarbone, between your breasts. His hands are on your waist, now, just above the waistband, but travel behind your back as his mouth finds your nipple over the fabric of your bralette, pulling it in, the mixture of sensations making your body relax into his arms. Your hands are in his hair, now, tugging at it the way you’ve pictured yourself doing a million times, and he’s moaning against your breast, and you feel unravelled and you haven’t even done anything yet.

Charles pushes you against the counter and he pulls you up by the waist, and your legs wrap around him as if they were created for this. One hand on your chest tries to push you down but you shake your head, pulling one finger into your mouth, twirling your tongue around it as if it were a lolly.

“No,” you whisper. “I want to watch.”

“Fussy,” he says, dropping to his knees with a smile.

Your hands go back to his hair as he spreads your thighs with his hands, kissing the skin behind your knee, travelling inwards with soft kisses.

“Charles,” you moan. “I need—”

You gasp as his teeth sink into your thigh, followed by a kiss. “We’re doing this my way, princess.”

You’d protest—you’ve thought about this moment too often for it to go wrong—but his hand found your centre over your panties with soft, but confident strokes, with his mouth peppering kisses closer, and closer, and closer—

He kisses you over the fabric. He teases you, tongue flicking at your clit, and you tug his hair to tell him to hurry the fuck up and he parts your legs wider, pulling your panties to the side with his teeth and holding them there with his thumb. You feel his hot breath against your core, bare and exposed like this.

He looks up at you and you feel yourself melting into the sight. Those big green eyes, darkened with desire, his mouth an inch aware of your most private part…

You breathe out his name as if it were a prayer.

He smiles, satisfied, and burrows himself between your legs.

If heaven is real, you sure have died and gone to it, because your best friend is a master of the art of pleasure. He holds you steady against the counter as his tongue does the work even with your writhing and pleading for more, more, more, until he pushes a finger inside you, pumping and curling and it could be a minute or it could be an hour and your thighs are clenching his face and shaking, warms rushing through your body, and you breathe out his name again and again and again as he kisses you through your high, only pulling himself up from between your legs when your breathing steadied.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says, smirking.

You shake your head, with what little energy you had left, but the sight of him like this—the bulge still trying to escape his sweatpants—has you yanking his clothes down until his cock springs free, every bit the thing you’d hoped for and more.

You kiss the head, lightly, teasing, hearing Charles’s moan. His hand moves to the back of your head and you take him into your mouth, bobbing your head on it. He even tastes good.

He moans, again, grabbing a fistful of your hair, urging you to go faster, sloppier, and you do. You let him into the back of your throat, not gagging, and he starts moving into you, shivering as his eyes meet yours.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He lets out a moan, loud, and pulls out. “Get back on the counter.”

You do as told and then he’s between your legs, lining himself up at your entrance. Both of you are too needy, too excited, too drunk to worry about a condom, and he pushes himself in, but you’ve been waiting for this the whole night, and he slides in with little to no resistance.

He moans, again, in the crook of your neck. You arch your back into him and he starts pumping, head buried against you and hands planted on the counter behind you. Your nails dig lines into his back and he bites and sucks on the skin below your chin as he fills you up to the brim, over and over and over again.

“Charles,” you say against his ear, half-whisper, half-moan.

You feel him shiver.

“Yes?”

“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

He looks at you and you give him a nod, and then he’s pumping into you faster, harder. You take his hand and drag it to your neck while lowering your back against the counter, biting onto your hand to suppress a moan as the new angle hits even deeper. Charles’s hand curls around your neck, just like you were imagining not too long ago, and his eyes bore into yours as you whisper his name, feeling yourself close, again.

It’s a few more pumps and a light squeeze on your neck and then your legs are shaking around him again and he moans, loud, guttural, as you feel the warmth of him spread inside you.

Charles does one last thrust and melts against your body, replacing your neck with more kisses, lazy this time, weary. Your hands are in his hair and you pull him up, your lips less than an inch away.

He kisses you. It’s tired, too, and sloppy, but you feel him twitch still inside of you, and his tongue explores your mouth. You can still taste yourself on it, and you remember how it felt, to have him buried between your legs, and you think, how could anyone give this up?

You couldn’t. You won’t.

“Charles,” you breathe out.

“Mhm?”

“You’re mine now.”

bon,since i’ve found your blog i’m going crazy for carlos! (not that i didn’t find him hot before)

anyway i was thinking,imagine like him and the reader who’s much younger than him,maybe she was part of the ferrari academy and he would always praise her work,touching her softly in places that were way too friendly for someone that should’ve been just a mentor, and they start fucking from race to race until she gets his seat at ferrari and he punishes her but at the same time he’s just so proud of his little one,and at the presentation of the cars he just destroys her in the toilets while charles is looking for her cause they have to go on stage😵‍💫

EXCUSE ME!??! YOU CANNOT JUST DROP THIS BOMB IN MY INBOX WHAT

bon's thoughts (18+)

"mi vida, you did amazing out there!" carlos would coo at you, and almost every time you'd do great in a race, he'd place his hand at the small of your back and lean close to whisper praises into your ear.

it probably started off very tame, carlos was testing his waters since you were so young after all, so young and hardworking. but then when he catches note of you blushing, he's doubling down and taking those praises to another level.

"you're such a good girl for me, aren't you?"

"so perfect, and beautiful!"

"aw hermosa, dominating the field like that today, i wonder what other skills you have?"

his touches went from just his hand at the small of your back, to his fingers digging roughly onto your hips, to resting on the curve of your ass and one day when you were changing in your room, he's found himself behind you and is peppering kisses along your shoulder at how good of a race you had, groping your tits and giving your nipples soft tugs as his lips trail down your back.

and then it became a tradition that before every race, the "mentor" who the media loved to call a saint for his relentless compassion for the younger drivers would fuck you silly - under the impression that it'll ease your tension and help you relax. he'll always have you against the wall, hands gripping your legs apart as his cock drives into you, balls slamming against your ass as his tongue shoves deep into your mouth to silence those pretty moans of yours.

hehehe i can only imagine your distress when carlos finds out that you're his replacement - he's not fucking you after your race just yet. no, he's dragging you back to his hotel room and spent the whole night shoving his cock into every hole you had. your pretty lips wrapped around his shaft as he shoves your head down his cock, listening to your gags.

"mierda, cannot believe you didn't tell me," he spits out, "after everything i've done for you? tsk tsk tsk..."

it doesn't help when charles has been getting too friendly with you, and you the naive little girl would be reciprocating the energy so during the live event, right before ferrari gets on stage, he's in the bathroom with you with his hand in your hair, your ass red from all the smacks as he's pushing his thick member into your asshole, forcing you to look at him fucking you through the mirror.

"you see that? you see who owns you, zorra?" he growls, bringing his free hand to rub at your puffy clit, "don't care which team you end up in, but you're mine... i'll let the entire damn team know that they can't get rid of me forever, not with your sweet cunt driving their cars now."

charles only hears word from a few people that something was going on in the bathroom, and when he sees carlos walk out with a glare sent towards him, he doesn't even have to think twice to leave you alone from now on.

MASTERLIST

! LN4

[ LANDO NORRIS ] — lando fingering you

[ BRAND AMBASSADOR ] — Sure, it had been a fun little joke, “Pay me in a LaFerrari or I’m not doing this shoot," but you never expected Lando to actually follow through.

series :

LIONHEART

[ 1 ] — He blinked, his aquamarine eyes wide with disbelief, before breaking into a grin so wide it could’ve lit up the whole room. “I’m going to be a dad?”

[ 2 ] — It had to be some kind of cosmic joke, you thought to yourself, the more you watched your son grow up. Nine months of carrying him, swollen feet, back pain, cravings, and sleepless nights, only for him to come out as an exact replica of his father.

[ 3 ] — “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!” he shouted in his sweetest little voice, his face lighting up with pride as he approached the bed. He climbed up, his movements a bit clumsy as he tried to balance the flowers.

! CS55

[ ARMS ] — you wake up with your boyfriend's arm around your head

[ EAT ] — carlos eats you out

[ TEENAGE DIRTBAG ] — carlos' gf likes his old nose ring a little too much

[ DON'T BE A STRANGER ] — charles' younger sister accidentally stumbles inside the changing room of sainz, ferrari’s masked driver.

[ BUTCHERED TONGUE ] — carlos is going to teach you spanish whether you like it or not

[ WRITTEN IN THE SAND ] — He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

series :

ILLICIT AFFAIRS

[ 1 ] — “Bossy, isn’t he?” The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course—it’s Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.

[ 2 ] — You tap on his profile again, almost like you’re double-checking to make sure this isn’t some kind of glitch. But no. Apparently, it’s real. You thought it was just a one-night stand. Maybe it still is. But who the hell follows their one-night stand’s Instagram?

[ 3 ] — You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have. But it’s too late now. “He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.

[ 4 ] — coming soon…

! MV33

[ honey, you're familiar ] — For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

series :

GRIEF ASIDE

[ 1 ] — You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

[ 2 ] — coming soon…

That’s Not What Friends Do (part 1)

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Warnings: smut, cheating

Request: Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship. He has flings with girls, but nothing serious. On the other hand, the Reader has been in love with Lando for the past one to two years but thinks he doesn't like her that way, which is why she doesn't propose. Lando is very protective of the Reader, and the Reader is equally protective of Lando.... She knows he sleeps around and is protective of him in a way that she advises him to be smart about who he sleeps with and to stay out of the headlines for anything other than racing. The story starts after the Brazil race, where Lando had a tough time and went without sleep for 24-48 hours. When he returns from São Paulo, he finds the Reader already there, ready to comfort him after a bad race. - I changed it up a bit adding Charles into the story, but I hope you still like it!

"Oh, yes, yes, yes-ah.." The girl moans breathlessly into the pillow as Lando animalistically continues pounding her from behind.

"Just like that, Lando, give it to me" She continues talking even though Lando hates hearing it.

He hates the way his name sounds coming from her lips. He also hates that he's giving her what she wants. And most of all, he hates the fact that once again he's fucking someone else, imagining it washer.

Once he closes his eyes and thinks of your innocent face, it sends him over the edge, he twitches pulling out his cock and cumming inside the condom. "Fuck.." He moans throwing his head back as his thighs shake.

"You didn't have to pull out, you know? You have a condom on anyway" The girl smirks turning to look at him and trying to pull him down to her.

Lando doesn't say anything, he raises his eyebrow at her, barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes at her stupid comment.

He's been with so many girls he can't even count them, but even when he's drunk out of his mind, protection is a must have. He's not fucking around when it comes to that, not when he doesn't even know half of those girls' names. Nor is he interested in their names. All he cares about is emptying himself, giving himself a short-term pleasure and maybe just maybe running into someone who is at least slightly similar to her.

"You're not gonna stay?" The girl asks when he gets up from the bed and starts pulling his pants up.

"No, sorry, I gotta go" With curt, almost no explanations, he always leaves minutes after he finishes. Not that he's proud of it, but to be honest, he doesn't care either.

On the other hand, y/n doesn't spend her free nights the way Lando does. She doesn't fuck around with guys to keep her mind off Lando because she knows that's impossible in a way.

Although she spends some of her evenings wishing she had never seen that article a year and a half ago. It was a perfectly normal Monday night, the day after the race, when after a long flight she finally lay down on her couch, snuggled under the blanket and started scrolling through her phone. At one point, her best friend Ruby sent her an article titled "Friends"? and a picture of y/n and Lando that y/n hasn't stopped thinking about ever since.

The picture captured the moment when, after the race, Lando had both arms tightly wrapped around y/n and was kissing her temple with his eyes closed.

At first it seemed like an ordinary picture, I mean it wasn't the first time they shared a close moment like that before. After all they're friends? Friends do that, right? But the longer y/n stared at it, the more it awakened something in her that hadn't been there before.

When she found herself thinking about Lando and herself at night to fall asleep, she realized she was in trouble because she knew she was in love with her best friend. But since she also knew that the night she was staring at their picture, he was fucking some girl because he himself had told her he was meeting her that night, y/n knew she had to suppress her feelings.

That's where y/n had a little help named Charles.

"Where were you?"

Y/n startles almost screaming when she walks into her apartment and turns on the light revealing Lando on her couch.

"Oh my God, Lando!!" She said, barely able to catch her breath as she held her hand over her heart thinking it would jump out at any second. "You scared the shit out of me! How did you get in here?"

"You gave me the key?"

"I did, but to use it in case of emergency only!"

"You not answering my calls is an emergency" He says and you roll your eyes at him as you take off your shoes. "So?"

"So?" You mimic him.

"Where were you?"

"I was" You sigh. "On a date."

"You were on a date?" He asked a little panicked, following you like a puppy into the kitchen where you had gone.

"Mhm" You mumble, avoiding his gaze. "Ready to conquer Brazil?" You ask trying to change the subject.

"Who were you on a date with?" He asks not dropping it.

"Can we please not talk about it?" You sigh. You really had no intention of telling him anytime soon that you were seeing Charles. You knew Lando was never much of a fan of Charles. Although the reason for that was never clear to you, Lando had actually seen the way Charles secretly looked at you on a couple of occasions, and he confirmed his suspicions when Carlos told him that Charles had said he wanted to get to know you better.

"Why not? Since when am I not allowed to know who you're seeing?"

"Oh please, as if you tell me about every girl you see"

"Well..that's n-not the same"

"Oh really? And by the way, the other day Instagram was full of you and some blonde at a club again. I could see how drunk you were through the picture, you know?" You've scolded him for the umpteenth time already. "You really should be more careful who you associate yourself with, it's getting out of hand"

Lando remained silent because he knew you were right and he hated that he knew you were always right.

"Lando, you know I'm only saying that because I don't want them to talk badly about you and play with your head..."

No one really knew Lando the way you did. After all, you've known each other since childhood, inseparable since you were little. Your relationship has always been one of a kind, both of you very protective of each other. For Lando, it was like he wasn't afraid to hurt anyone but you. You were something that cannot be touched.

"I know, but I don't want to talk about that either." He says. "Are you coming with me to Brazil?"

"No, I'm sorry, Lan. I have a project to finish. I have so much to do and so little time."

"So you have time to date but you don't have time to be there when I need you?"

"H-how can you even say that?" You were offended because that was far from the truth. If anyone was always there for Lando, it was you. You just didn't know he was saying this only out of jealousy and because he had a hard time accepting that you had someone in your life besides him.

"Let me guess, he'll be your moral support while you work on your project?"

Oh, if he only knew that the "moral support" he was talking about would be much closer to him than to you that weekend, he would surely lose his mind.

part 2

cherry flavoured | sebastian vettel

sebastian vettel x reporter!reader

based on the video of iker casillas and his gf during the 2010 world cup

she’s a long one <3 this was finished at 2:30 AM so I’m sorry if there’s any mistakes (please do not request for part 2)

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2010

It was the last race of the season and you were nervous, especially for Sebastian. It was down to Fernando, Mark, Sebastian and Lewis, one of them was going to be them champion. It was your job to cover the race and conduct interviews before and after so this gave you a chance to speak with Sebastian and wish him luck. The media didn’t know about your relationship that had just become official a month ago.

Sebastian had asked you out before the Japanese Grand Prix. That day, you decided to make a deal with him. If he won, you would go to dinner with him. After 53 laps, Sebastian secured a win and a date with you.

While you finished up your interview with Lewis, Sebastian stood patiently to the side. He kept his eye on you, staring at how you talked with such confidence and passion. He loved how expressive you were, sometimes talking with your hands. After letting Lewis go so he could prepare for the race, it was Sebastian’s turn. He happily joined you.

“Hello Sebastian, how are you?” You asked, knowing already how he felt, but you had to do your job. The night before, you stayed in Sebastian’s room, that’s when he told you how nervous he was feeling.

“Good, excited, happy.” He replied, smiling at you.

“Well I won’t keep you here for very long—”

“Why not? I enjoy talking to you.” Sebastian interrupted. His smirk was making you weak and all you wanted was to drag him into a room and let him have his way with you, but you couldn’t at least not now.

Several questions later, Sebastian was still giving you that look making it hard for you to concentrate. It was the same look he gave you the night before when you and him were in his hotel room ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Alright, good luck Seb . . astian, sebastian sorry.” You apologized.

All Sebastian did was laugh at your mistake. Since nobody apart from Mark knew about your relationship, you couldn’t call him Seb. He nodded then mumbled an ‘I love you’ and left. You really hoped nobody could read his lips since you were still live.

You understood that Sebastian needed to concentrate before the race so you didn’t bother him. Soon, the race had started, almost instantly on lap 1, a crash happened. After the race restarted, you watched Sebastian keep his p1 position. When it came to the final lap, everyone was silent in the Red Bull garage where you were watching the race from. Sebastian crossed the finish line, but you still had to wait for the other four cars.

Lewis came in second then came Jenson. After confirming, it was clear that Sebastian had become world champion.

You and the team members of Red Bull made it to the podium ceremony. The German national anthem played as Sebastian soaked in the moment. He had made history by becoming the youngest world champion. After the national anthem finished, he tried to look for you in the crowd. When he finally did, he winked at you. Again, he was making you feel all sorts of emotions.

After the podium celebrations and posing for photos, the three drivers had to do threat post race interviews. You were in charge of being the first to interview the new world champion.

In the media pen, Sebastian spotted you getting ready for your interview. When you were done, he walked up to you with the biggest smile on his face.

“Congratulations Sebastian. How was it up there on the podium?” You asked.

“It was a dream, but now it’s reality.” Sebastian replied. “I just wanna thank all the people that supported me and you of course, you’ve been there for me.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. Was Sebastian about to reveal your relationship?

“Well congratulations again, go celebrate this historic win—” Before you could finish your sentence, Sebastian placed both of his hands on your cheeks and brought you closer to him, placing a kiss on your lips. You could taste the champagne that had been poured of him by Jenson and Lewis. From the distance, Jenson cheered, making everyone turn their attention towards you and Sebastian.

Sebastian didn’t care that you were still live. All he wanted was to celebrate with his girlfriend. “I love you.” He mumbled against your lips. When he finally pulled away, he licked his lips. “Cherry, my favorite.” He smirked.

“You’re the worst.” You laughed. “I love you too, champ. Go, I’ll see you soon.” You practically had to push him away from you so you could continue with more interviews.

“I’ll wait for you!” He yelled as he walked away.

Then Jenson made his way to you since you were going to interview him next. “Do I get one as well?” He teased.

Of course you and Sebastian celebrated, how could you not? He had made history. After the famous kiss, you were sure that you were going to get fired, but nothing ever happened. You did get a warning to not do it again, which Sebastian reminded the FIA that it was his idea not yours resulting in him getting a warning too.

Over the years, you were there when Sebastian won, when he lost, when he moved to Ferrari. You comforted him when he realized he would never win a championship with Ferrari.

During the summer break of the 2019 season, you and Sebastian decided to get married. It was an intimate wedding with only close friends and family attending. The night of your wedding, Sebastian promised you that he would take you anywhere for a while so you could spend your honeymoon. Of course being an F1 driver and a reporter, it didn’t go as planned as a global pandemic hit. You assured Sebastian that you weren’t mad, you had traveled almost everywhere with him anyway.

After the 2020 season ended, Sebastian was now with Aston Martin. He had only secured one podium finish with the team, but you were still more than happy for him.

One day after media day had finished for the 2021 French Grand Prix, you and Sebastian were in the Aston Martin motorhome having lunch. You were talking about a new piece of furniture you wanted when your phone vibrated. You checked it and saw a picture of your friend’s baby that she had sent you.

“Look, remember my friend Jane? That’s her baby girl, aw she’s so adorable.” You showed Sebastian a picture of the baby. “I need to tell her to stop sending pictures or I might get baby fever.”

“It wouldn’t be such a bad thing, right?” Sebastian asked. “We’ve been together for eleven years, married for two.“

“I did always dream of being a mother. It would be fun to play dress up with our daughter or play with your toy cars with our son. Can you imagine that? They would call me mom . . holy shit.”

Sebastian thought about it. He was in his mid thirties, he already won four titles, that was enough for him.

“I guess this plays into what I’m about to talk to you next. . . I didn’t renew a contract for 2023 with sky sports.” You said.

“Are you going somewhere else?” He questioned.

“No, I didn’t sign anything with anyone. I just thought that it’s time for me to step back. Give someone younger their moment.” You replied. You made the decision a while ago even before the 2021 season started.

“But you love your job.”

“I can’t stay here forever, Seb.”

All day Sebastian had thought about your words. He couldn’t stay in formula 1 forever either. The younger generation had to have a go too.

At the end of the 2021 season, Sebastian had told you the news that he would be retiring at the end of the next season like you. You were sure him retiring was the result of your conversation, but he assured you that even before that he had considered retirement.

“So when are you going to announce it?” You asked.

“Soon. I want to enjoy winter break with you first.”

You and Sebastian spent the holidays in your home in Switzerland surrounded by family and friends. You weren’t even sure how it happened since you and Sebastian spent most of your time at home, but both of you ended up testing positive for covid. You assumed you contracted the virus when you went out for groceries.

The 2022 season had started and you and your husband were stuck at home quarantining. It wasn’t bad, it was just a normal day except you had medicine and empty tissue boxes scattered around the floor.

“Do you need another blanket, liebe?” Sebastian asked you. He touched your forehead feeling it not as hot as before.

You two were in your bedroom watching the Bahrain Grand Prix. You didn’t expect this to be the start of your last season, but at least you were with Sebastian.

“I’m okay, I’m thirsty though.” You sat up as Sebastian walked to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. Once he returned, he saw how sad you looked as you watch the race.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to miss it, but I’m happy that I get to be home with you.” You smiled weakly at him.

“We can visit whenever we want, liebe, and then one day we can visit with the kids.” Sebastian replied. “Here, drink.” He handed you the glass of water.

Soon enough, you and Sebastian were good to return back to the paddock. You felt refreshed and ready to officially start the season. You did your interviews, greeted your colleagues and then made your way to the Aston Martin garage where you were going to watch the race.

By lap 24, Sebastian was out. It broke your heart to see it, it was his first race back and he didn’t get a chance to finish it. He arrived back to the garage in a Marshall’s scooter making it a funny moment despite his dnf. He looked for you first.

“Are you okay?” You asked, running your hand through his messy hair.

“Good.” Was all that he said.

After doing some post race interviews, Sebastian waited for you in the Aston Martin motorhome. When you arrived, you noticed a plate of fruit and berries on the table. “I figured you didn’t get a break all day so eat. I made sure to get plenty of pineapple and strawberries.” He moved the plate closer to you.

“Thanks, it wasn’t that stressful today. Hopefully the next race is better for us.” You said once you sat down and started to eat the fruit. “No cherries today?”

“You and your cherries. Not today, liebe.” Sebastian grabbed a strawberry from the plate.

Eventually it was time to announce to the world of motorsports and media that Sebastian and you were retiring. You announced it first with a lengthy post on instagram with pictures of when you first started to now, you even posted the famous kiss that Sebastian gave you in 2010.

You received lots of comments and messages from family, friends and colleagues. It was nice to feel loved by them. The next day, it was Sebastian’s turn to announce his retirement. It started with him making an Instagram account then posting a video.

“I hereby announce my retirement from formula one by the end of the 2022 season.”

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2022

You felt a giant wave of deja vu. Here you were back in Abu Dhabi only this time it would be the official last Grand Prix for you and Sebastian. You would still visit like Sebastian mentioned, but it wouldn’t feel the same.

You walked into the paddock with Sebastian holding your hand. You were greeted by photographers, fans that wanted to get pictures with Sebastian and several members of other teams that wanted to congratulate you and your husband on retirement.

First you went to the Aston Martin motorhome again since you were a bit tired. You sat at a table in the corner. For a couple of weeks now, you were keeping a secret from Sebastian. Your friend, Jane, was the only one who knew since she had gone through a similar experience.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sebastian asked as he noticed the tired look on you. “Want something to eat?”

“No I’m okay, I promise. It’s still too early for me to function I guess.” You dismissed it. “I’ll catch up with you later, I’m sure you have lots of people waiting for you.”

“They can wait. If you need me here then I’m staying, end of discussion.” He was about to sit down next to you, but you stopped him.

“Seb, no. I mean it, I am fine. Go.” You demanded.

Before he left, Sebastian placed a kiss on your lips. When he pulled away, he frowned. “Is that coconut? I thought you were going to wear the cherry one.”

“Change of plans.” You smiled. “Go, the team needs you.”

“Be careful, I’ll see you later.” He placed one more kiss on your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You reply as you watch Sebastian walk out. “I can just imagine how protective he’s going to be about you, baby.” You spoke to yourself as you looked down to your stomach.

You found out you were pregnant when Jane was visiting you in Switzerland. You had gone out to eat for brunch at a nice little restaurant. Immediately after arriving, the smell of eggs made you run to the nearest bathroom and vomit in the toilet. Jane had ran after you making sure you were okay.

“Fuck . . It’s the smell.” You confirmed.

“Babe, when was the last time you had your period?”

Jane’s question made you think back to your vacation with Sebastian a couple months ago. You and Sebastian couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

After taking a pregnancy test, it was confirmed that you were pregnant. You called your doctor to schedule an appointment. Sebastian wasn’t home so you didn’t have to worry about him walking in on you holding a pregnancy test. You weren’t sure how you were going to tell him, but you knew that he would be the happiest man on earth.

You were assigned to interview Sebastian immediately after the race while on the track. You were told that it would be a special moment for you two seeing as you were both leaving. Apparently Sebastian didn’t know this so that was another secret kept from him.

Sebastian stood beside you as he got ready. You held his helmet, your name printed on the side in a small font. “Remember when I won back in 2010?”

“No, remind me again?” You joked. “Of course I do. It was the night you kissed me in front of thousands of people on live tv.”

“It would be a shame if we didn’t recreate that.” He teased. “You know . . . for historical reasons.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble on my last day.”

“You’re no fun.” Seb rolled his eyes playfully. “Kiss for good luck?”

You then kissed the top of his helmet and shoved it in his hands. “Good luck.” You were about to leave, but Sebastian grabbed your hand and brought you back to him. “Fine.” You kissed him as if your life depended on it.

“I was hoping you changed your lipgloss to cherry.” Mumbled Sebastian after pulling away from you.

“You’ll live.” You gave him a chaste kiss then waited for him to put his balaclava. “I love you and I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Soon, the race was starting. Sebastian had started from P9. It was an exciting and emotional race for you and Sebastian. You didn’t want it to end, but you knew that Sebastian’s time in f1 was over.

By the end of the 58 laps, Sebastian had scored his last point in formula 1. You were content with the result even if he only scored one point. You were then directed to the track with a camera man and microphone in hand. As Sebastian did donuts on the track, you took your phone out to record his last moments. When he finished, you put away your phone. You didn’t even notice you were crying until a marshal gave you a tissue.

You thanked him and cleaned up as Sebastian made his way out the car to wave at the fans. Eventually Sebastian made his way towards you without his helmet and his racing suit hanging from his waist. You couldn’t start the interview without hugging him first so that’s what you did. Like in 2010, the camera filmed you and Sebastian as you embraced. You could hear the crowd cheering.

“You did so well. You made me cry.” You mumbled as Sebastian kissed your temple.

“You look pretty when you cry.” He let go of you since you needed to start the interview. He fixed your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear.

“Sebastian, wow, first off congratulations on your incredible career.” You began.

“I don’t know what to say. I feel a bit empty to be honest, it’s been a big weekend.” He looked at the crowd who were sad to see him go. He gave a speech that made you cry even more, which you blamed on the hormones. “I can say that you were always with me in the bad times and good times. Thank you for sticking with me.”

“Always.” You said, completely forgetting you were holding the microphone so the whole audience heard you.

Sebastian then thanked the fans for the messages and support he’s been receiving. It only made you want to cry even more so thankfully your interview was coming to an end.

“Congratulations, Seb. You deserve it.” You said and with that you and your husband hugged once more. “You’re coming home.” You sighed.

“You don’t sound too happy.” He teased.

“I am, trust me. That means you can help move some stuff around and redecorate the guest room.” You let go of Sebastian, but you still held his hand.

“Why would we need to redecorate the guest room?” He questioned.

“Because that’s our baby’s room.”

“Our baby? Really? You mean it?” His lips turned into a smile that he couldn’t wipe off. “When did you find out?”

“Weeks ago. I’m letting you know right now that if you ever make eggs around me, I will vomit so let’s not do that.” You laughed as Seb brought you in for a kiss.

Again, Jenson was cheering in the background like he did in 2010.

When Sebastian pulled away, he smirked. You had changed your lipgloss after all. “Cherry, my favorite.”