White Horse - Chapter 18: May 2024 - Part 3
White Horse - Chapter 18: May 2024 - Part 3
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, mention of the loss of a parent
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
The apartment smelled like raspberries the moment they opened the door.
Belle blinked. “Do you… smell cake?”
Max grinned. “I wasn’t the only one who remembered.”
“Max,” came a voice from the kitchen. “If you let her cry in an elevator last night and didn’t bring her back to a full-blown party, I will break your nose.”
Emilie.
She stepped into the room holding a knife in one hand and a bouquet in the other, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder like some kind of aggressively nurturing chaos fairy.
“Oh my god,” Belle whispered, stunned.
There were balloons—floating near the windows, tethered in groups of gold and pink and white. A stack of wrapped gifts sat near the sofa, all tagged with labels like “Open when you want to feel dangerous” and “This one is soft because you deserve softness.” A cake—raspberry, of course—sat on the dining table, frosted with piped lettering that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELLE.”
Max just closed the door behind them and kissed the top of Belle’s head as she stared, speechless.
Emilie crossed the room, shoved the flowers into Max’s hands, and pulled Belle into a full-body hug that somehow said I love you, I see you, and I will never let this happen again all at once.
“You’re early,” Belle whispered.
“I’m me,” Emilie said. “Of course I’m early. Of course I brought gifts. And of course I brought lunch, because I knew you two wouldn’t eat anything but adrenaline and each other today.”
Belle laughed—actually laughed—and Emilie pulled back just enough to study her face.
Then her eyes dropped.
“…What is that?” she asked, already grabbing Belle’s hand.
The ring glinted in the light. Emerald. Gold. Hers.
Emilie shrieked.
“You didn’t!”
Belle smiled. “He did.”
Max, very smug and still holding the flowers like a schoolboy in love, nodded. “She said yes.”
Emilie let out an actual squeal, tackled Belle in another hug, and then pointed the cake knife at Max.
“I’m planning the engagement party. You don’t get a vote.”
“Fair,” Max said, amused.
Belle just stood there, blinking back another round of tears. But they were different now.
Not the kind you cried because you were forgotten.
The kind you cried because someone—multiple someones—never stopped remembering.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Emilie squeezed her hand. “Always.”
***
The dishes were still in the sink. Balloons floated lazily near the ceiling. Emilie had slipped out with a wink and a leftover box of cake, promising to return with champagne and chaos “once you’ve finished your romantic post-engagement spiral.”
The apartment was quiet again.
Max and Belle were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, her head resting on his chest. One of the cats was asleep on the windowsill. The other had made a throne of the discarded wrapping paper pile.
Max's fingers moved gently through her hair. “So,” he said, voice soft. “What kind of wedding do you want?”
Belle blinked up at him. “You’re asking now?”
“I’m curious,” he said. “You’ve had a Pinterest board for this since 2013, don’t lie.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers curled into the edge of his sweatshirt.
“I used to want the whole thing,” she said. “The cathedral. The dress with a five-meter train. The champagne tower and a dance floor with my name in lights. I used to picture a wall of flowers and an aisle that took two minutes to walk down.”
Max watched her quietly.
“I think,” Belle said slowly, “I wanted it to feel like something big enough that they’d have to see me. Maybe if the day was big enough, loud enough… my family would finally pay attention.”
He didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need him to.
“But now?” she whispered. “After this week? After all of it?”
She sat up a little, just enough to look at him. Her voice stayed soft.
“I just want you.”
Max’s eyes softened in that way that made her feel like a secret being cherished. “You’ve always had me.”
Belle smiled—small, but certain. “Then I don’t need anyone else in the room. Not unless we want them there. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need anyone to clap for a day they didn’t help me dream about.”
Max nodded, his hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “So… Vegas?”
That made her laugh, for real this time.
“Maybe not Vegas. I don’t think I am the Elvis Chapel kind of girl,” she teased him.
“We can do whatever you want,” he said. “We can elope. We can do something quiet in the mountains. Or a beach. Hell, we can marry at the stable if you want. Just you, me, Fleur, and a priest who doesn’t ask too many questions.”
Belle’s heart tugged in the gentlest way. “I want it to feel like… peace. Like home. Not performance.”
Max leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Then we’ll make it peaceful. We’ll make it ours.”
She exhaled into his shoulder, her ring glinting softly in the low light.
“I spent so many years trying to imagine what it would feel like to be loved loudly,” she said. “But being loved quietly by you is so much better.”
Max didn’t say anything. He just kissed her again, softly—like a promise.
And in that moment, Belle knew: She didn’t need chandeliers or glittering crowds or performances wrapped in lace.
She just needed Max.
“I just want you,” she said, eyes closing. “I want to marry you in the quiet. Somewhere small. Somewhere soft. No cameras. No pressure. Just… us.”
Max’s hand found hers, threading their fingers together gently.
“Good,” he said. “Because that’s all I ever wanted too.”
Belle opened her eyes and looked up at him, searching.
“You’re really okay with that?” she asked. “No big party, no headlines, no Red Bull-themed fireworks?”
Max grinned. “Fireworks are overrated. And I already won the only prize I ever actually wanted.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “That was cheesy.”
“I’m in love. It’s allowed.”
She leaned up and kissed him, slow and sure, and when she pulled back, her voice was lighter. “Let’s elope.”
Max blinked. “Wait—really?”
She nodded. “Let’s find somewhere just for us. Paris. Nice. I don’t care. As long as it’s you.”
He looked at her for a long moment. His whole expression softened, all edges gone.
“Then let’s do it,” Max said.
Belle smiled. Really smiled.
And for the first time in years, the future felt like hers.
***
After dinner—if leftover cake and Max feeding her strawberries from the fridge counted as dinner—Belle curled back into the couch in her softest pajamas and his hoodie, legs tucked under her. Her hair was slightly damp from the bath she hadn’t even realized she needed, and her engagement ring still caught the low light like it had something to say.
Max was in the kitchen, drying two wine glasses that had only been used for juice. She could hear him humming under his breath, some melody half-remembered from a road trip months ago.
Belle opened her phone.
Not for Instagram.
Not for texts.
Just… curious.
She searched: “How to get married in Monaco.” Then refined it: “Civil wedding Monaco how.” Then, after clicking through a very official-sounding government page with questionable font choices: “Monaco City Hall marriage appointment calendar.”
And there it was.
A calendar. A short list of dates and times.
And one of them—the very next morning—was wide open. Unclaimed. Slotted between some dignitary from the Chamber of Commerce and a local couple named Elise and Jean-Luc.
Belle stared at it.
Blinking.
The kind of opening that didn’t just feel like coincidence.
It was like the universe had sighed and said, Here. Have something just for you.
“Max?” she called, still staring at the screen. Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears—half laughter, half disbelief.
He appeared around the corner in an instant, towel slung over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
She turned the phone toward him.
“Monaco City Hall. Tomorrow. 11 AM.”
Max leaned in, reading it, then looked at her with a slow, blooming grin. “Are you serious?”
“I didn’t expect it to be available,” she said. “But… it is. And I live here. You have residency. The paperwork is fast. They’ll process it same-day if we show up with our IDs and two witnesses.”
Max’s grin widened. “We have IDs.”
“And Lando owns a suit,” she added, deadpan.
Max laughed, that warm, throaty sound she loved. “You want to do it tomorrow?”
Belle nodded once, heartbeat flickering behind her ribs like a match just caught flame.
“I think I really do.”
Max dropped the dish towel on the counter and walked straight over, pressing a hand to her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw.
“Then it’s tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get married in the place where it all started.”
Belle smiled—dizzy, delighted, a little breathless. “This is insane.”
“This is us.”
And it was.
No big parties. No cathedral. No guest list with people who only remembered her when it was convenient.
Just a city she loved, a man who never forgot her, and an appointment slot.
Perfect. Just like them.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase
Max: You already back in the UK?
GP: Nope. Flight got rescheduled. Still in Monaco. Why?
Max: Perfect.
GP: …Why is that perfect. Max.
Max: Because I need a witness.
GP: A what now.
Max: Witness. Like for legal purposes. You’re free tomorrow morning, right?
GP: Max.
Max: City Hall. 10:45. Wear something decent. I’m getting married.
GP: I’m sorry. You’re WHAT.
Max: Marrying Belle. Surprise.
GP: Surprise???
Max: We’re keeping it small. Quiet. Just us and a few people who won’t ask stupid questions or ruin it.
GP: Max.
Max: I’m sending you the location. And yes, I already have the paperwork.
GP: Of course you do.
Max: You in?
GP: Like I’d miss the moment you marry the best decision you’ve ever made.
Max: See you at 10:45.
GP: I’m bringing tissues. Don’t judge me.
Max: Never.
***
Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie
Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?
Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???
Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.
Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.
Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.
Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.
Belle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.
Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?
Isabelle: ...Yes.
Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.
Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.
Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.
Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—
Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.
Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.
Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.
Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris
Max: You have a camera, right?
Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?
Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.
Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??
Max: I need you to document something.
Lando: What kind of something?
Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.
Lando: MAX.
Max: Yes?
Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???
Max: Yes.
Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???
Max: It’s 11:43.
Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.
Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.
Lando: Max.
Max: What.
Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.
Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”
Lando: I can be that.
Wait—can I still cry a little?
Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.
Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement
Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.
Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?
Max: The efficient kind.
Lando: Who else is gonna come?
Max: Just us. People we trust.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen
Max: Hey. Don’t freak out.
Victoria: That is exactly how you make someone freak out.
Max: Belle and I are getting married tomorrow. Monaco City Hall. It’s just us. Very small. Wanted you to know.
Victoria: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN
Max: Uh-oh
Victoria: YOU ARE NOT GETTING MARRIED WITHOUT ME THERE I WILL WADDLE DOWN THE AISLE MYSELF SEND. YOUR. BLOODY. JET.
Max: Vic. You are literally weeks off of from giving birth.
Victoria: And I will do it IN THE AISLE of City Hall if I must. Tell Belle I will not miss her wedding. I love her more than most of our blood relatives.
Max: I mean. Same.
Victoria: SEND THE JET. I will sit like a queen with my feet up and my compression socks on.
Max: You sure Tom won’t tie you to the couch?
Victoria: He’s already packing snacks. You think he wants to deal with me if I don’t go?
Max: …That’s fair.
Victoria: Also I already picked out your wedding gift. I knew you two would elope. I felt it.
Max: You're terrifying.
Victoria: I'm hormonal. There's a difference. See you tomorrow. PS: tell Belle I cried. But like, emotionally. Not hormonally. Even though it was a little bit both.
Max: You’re completely insane.
Victoria: You’re the one marrying a Leclerc.
Max: Touché.
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen
Sophie: So. I hear you’re eloping.
Max: …Hi, Mama.
Sophie: Don’t “hi mama” me. Are you really getting married tomorrow?
Max: Yes. City Hall. Small. Just us. And apparently my 34 weeks pregnant sister, because Victoria is very dramatic and refuses to be excluded.
Sophie: So am I. You are not getting married without me there.
Max: You’re not mad?
Sophie: Why would I be mad? You’re marrying the woman you love. If you’d done it with cameras and fireworks, I might’ve been suspicious.
Max: It just felt like the right time. After everything. She needed to feel chosen. Not tolerated. Not remembered late.
Sophie: She is chosen. By you. By all of us who actually pay attention.
Max: She still thinks she’s too much. Or not enough. Depending on the day.
Sophie: Then tomorrow, you remind her that she’s both. Too much for the wrong people. And more than enough for the right one.
Max: I’ll remind her every day.
Sophie: I know you will. Now go to sleep. You’re getting married in a few hours and I expect you to look well-rested in photos.
Max: Love you, Mama.
Sophie: I love you too, Maxie. Now go love your girl.
***
Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING
(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)
Lando: GUYS
Lando: EMERGENCY
Lando: MAX IS GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW
Oscar: I… sorry, what?
Daniel: Did you hit your head again? Like, genuinely. Because this feels concussion-coded.
Lando: I’m serious!!! City Hall. 10:30. Monaco. To Belle. IT’S HAPPENING
Oscar: Wait wait wait. Like married married??
Lando: YES LIKE “I DO” MARRIED
Daniel: Holy shit. I did not have “Max Verstappen casually elopes with Charles Leclerc’s sister” on my 2024 bingo card but here we are.
Oscar: Did they even tell anyone??
Lando: They told ME. And then Max was like “you have a camera, right? wear a suit” like this is just a casual errand.
Daniel: Does Charles know
Lando: ABSOLUTELY NOT HE WILL COMBUST WE’RE TALKING INDEPENDENT-NUCLEAR-REACTION LEVEL MELTDOWN
Oscar: I need you to calm down so I can freak out at a normal pace.
Lando: WHAT DO I EVEN WEAR WHAT IF I CRY I’M NOT READY FOR THIS I WAS EMOTIONALLY UNPREPARED
I’M GOING TO SOB THROUGH THE LENS BELLE IS GOING TO LOOK SO PRETTY MAX IS GOING TO BE SO SOFT I’M GOING TO NEED A DESIGNATED HUG
Oscar: What are we supposed to wear?! Are we coordinating?? Do I bring flowers??
Lando: I DON’T KNOW I’M PANICKING I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I’M A GUEST OR THE PHOTOGRAPHER OR BOTH
Daniel: You’re definitely crying, though. Let’s be honest.
Lando: 100%. I already feel it building
Oscar: Okay but seriously—do we all go? Did he actually invite us?
Lando: He said it’s small. “Just us. People we trust.” Which… I think is us?
Oscar: Do we need to bring gifts?? What’s the etiquette on emergency weddings?
Daniel: I can’t believe we’re invited and Charles isn’t
Oscar: I can. Max said “people we trust.” That tells you everything.
Daniel: God, I love this sport.
Oscar: This isn’t the sport. This is a secret Verstappen wedding at City Hall with zero warning and maximum chaos.
Daniel: Exactly.
Lando: I need to sleep so I don’t have puffy eyes but I’m emotionally compromised
Oscar: Same. See you both in the morning?
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen
Max: You still in Monaco?
Jos: Yes. Leaving tomorrow evening. Why?
Max: City Hall. 10:45.
Jos: …What’s happening at City Hall?
Max: Getting married.
Jos: To Belle?
Max: Obviously to Belle.
Jos: You’re telling me this now?
Max: We decided tonight. There was an opening. She doesn’t want a big wedding. She just wants peace. Me. Us.
Jos: Good. She’s smart. And you’ve taken long enough.
Max: Will you come?
Jos: Wouldn’t miss it.
Max: It’s quiet. No press. No team. Just us. Some friends we trust. Family.
Jos: I said I’ll be there. Don’t make me get sentimental about it.
Max: Too late. You already like her more than you like me.
Jos: She’s never crashed a go-kart out of spite.
Max: That was one time.
Jos: Still counts.
Max: Thanks, Papa.
Jos: You’ve done good, Max. Really good. See you in the morning.
***
Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .
Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married.
It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.
Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.
And today, she deserved everything.
And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.
It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.
The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.
Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle.
Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.
She made five calls.
Then ten.
Then offered double the price.
Then triple.
Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.
Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.
Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.
The cake was next.
Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”
Of course it was.
Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.
She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth.
Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.
So today, Emilie would give her everything.
The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.
“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”
The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”
By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.
Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.
Everything was ready.
Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.
Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.
Today was hers.
And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.
***
The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden light across the kitchen tile. It was quiet, peaceful, and smelled faintly of toast and coffee.
Max stood barefoot at the stove, his curls still messy from sleep, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. Belle was perched on the counter in one of his old shirts, legs swinging gently, a mug of tea cradled in her hands.
“So,” Max said, without looking at her, “do I get to call you Mrs. Verstappen by noon?”
Belle smirked into her cup. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
He turned, brandishing the spatula. “It is. You’re marrying a man who owns three sim rigs and talks to his cats.”
“Bold of you to assume that’s not the exact reason I said yes.”
Max grinned and came closer, slipping between her knees as she set her mug down. His hands landed on her hips. “You nervous?”
“No.” She let her forehead rest against his. “Just… full.”
“Full?”
“Of everything. Gratitude. Peace. Butterflies.”
Max kissed her, gentle and grounding. “Good. Me too.”
The moment was quiet again. Warm and soft.
Until— BANG.
The front door flew open.
“—DO NOT PANIC,” came Emilie’s voice from the hallway, “I have the cake, I have the emergency double-stick tape, I have the snowdrops—do not ask how—and I am here to take the bride.”
Belle groaned and leaned against Max’s shoulder. “She’s already started.”
Max was laughing when Emilie rounded the corner, her arms full of garment bags, shoe boxes, and a box of pastries balanced precariously on top.
She froze at the sight of them. “Okay, this is cute and domestic, but time is ticking and you—” she pointed at Belle with a dramatic flourish, “—need to be in a robe, drinking champagne, and pretending to be relaxed.”
Belle slid off the counter. “We haven’t even had breakfast.”
“I brought croissants. And mimosas. And eye masks. Let’s go.”
Max raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”
“Absolutely,” Emilie said, already dragging Belle toward the hallway.
Belle shot Max a helpless smile over her shoulder as she was swept away into the bedroom.
Max chuckled and turned back to the stove. “She’s been waiting for this since the day we met.”
“YOU PROMISED NEVER TO SPEAK OF THAT,” Emilie shouted back.
The apartment settled for a beat.
And then the doorbell rang.
Max opened it to find Victoria, already glowing despite being eight months pregnant, her husband Tom hauling what appeared to be a bouquet the size of a toddler, and both of their sons clinging to his legs like adorable koalas.
Sophie was right behind them, holding a wrapped box and beaming. “Where’s my daughter-in-law?”
Max stepped back. “Currently being kidnapped by a woman wielding florals and threat-level energy.”
“Ah,” Sophie said brightly, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “So the usual.”
Victoria waddled in and immediately headed for the kitchen. “Where’s the coffee? I need caffeine and at least one chair that won’t collapse under me.”
Tom followed with the flowers. “We brought noise. And crumbs. You’re welcome.”
The boys immediately made for the cats, causing a small riot in the living room.
Max leaned back against the counter, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watched his family pour in. “This is going to be a day.”
“Of course it is,” Sophie said, setting down her gift. “You’re marrying the best girl in Monaco.”
And just then, as if summoned, Emilie poked her head out of the hallway.
“Max,” she said solemnly. “You’re not allowed to see her for at least three hours. Also, she’s glowing. Prepare yourself.”
Then she vanished again.
Max laughed, shaking his head. “I already am.”
***
Max was mid-cleanup from the first round of croissant carnage when the intercom buzzed again.
He pressed the button. “Yeah?”
“Delivery,” came Oscar’s voice, dry and very much not a delivery person.
Max buzzed them in.
Thirty seconds later, Oscar and Lily walked in—Lily looking radiant in a pale floral dress, Oscar in a navy suit that made him look vaguely uncomfortable but also suspiciously good. There was box of macarons in Lily’s arms and Oscar carrying a bottle of champagne with all the solemnity of someone delivering a newborn child.
Lily kissed Max’s cheek. “Where’s Belle?”
“Bedroom,” Max said. “Emilie has barricaded the door. I’m not allowed to breathe near it.”
“Good,” Lily said. “You’ll see her when she’s ready. And not a second before!” she call over her shoulder as she made her way to where all the women had disappeared to.
“Do we look like well-adjusted guests?” Oscar asked, holding out the champagner, just as the doorbell rang again
Tom opened it this time—and immediately stepped back to avoid being hit in the face by a wildly enthusiastic Daniel Ricciardo, who practically burst in with his arms open.
“IT’S WEDDING TIME, BABY!” Daniel yelled, already grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Max raised his coffee cup without looking up. “You’re three hours early.”
“I brought champagne. I’m never early. I’m… emotionally prepared.”
Before anyone could respond, the door buzzed again.
“Please let that be someone calm,” Max muttered, walking to the door just as Lando arrived—In a grey suit, camera strap across his chest, looking like a documentary filmmaker who’d taken a wrong turn into a very glamorous rom-com.
“Okay,” Lando said in lieu of a greeting, “I brought the camera, the backup camera, the battery pack, and three lenses I don’t know how to use, but they make me look professional. Also, Lily said if I forgot to wear a tie, she’d strangle me with it, so here.” He pointed to the pale blue tie knotted (badly) around his neck.
“You’re fine,” Max said. “Unless Emilie sees that knot.”
“I tied it,” Lando said defensively. “I didn’t say I tied it well.”
“You’ve had years to learn how to tie a tie,” Oscar muttered.
Daniel patted Lando’s shoulder. “It’s fine. You look like a best man in a Netflix wedding movie about a surfer who marries his childhood pen pal.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I know what I said,” Daniel replied, stealing a macaron.
Max raised an eyebrow at Lando. “You know how to use that camera, right?”
“Please,” Lando said, lifting it and adjusting the lens. “I’m going to make you look like Vogue Monaco meets soft romance. This is going to go viral.”
Before Max could close the door, a final knock came—this one slower, more composed.
He opened it to GP, impeccable in a dark suit with a navy tie, and Jos, arms crossed, expression somewhere between “approving” and “this is ridiculous.”
“Everyone’s here?” GP asked as he stepped in.
“No explosions yet,” Max said. “Just Daniel.”
“Rude,” Daniel yelled from the kitchen, where he was now petting Jimmy the cat and eating a croissant at the same time.
Jos gave Max a firm nod as he walked in. “You’re dressed?”
“Soon.”
Jos looked around the apartment, at the whirlwind of laughter and movement, at the family Max had built around himself. He gave the smallest huff—soft, for him. “Good turnout.”
“I think Daniel invited himself,” Max said dead pan. .
Jos glanced around again. “Still. Good people.”
Max nodded. “Yeah. The best.”
***
Belle had always imagined getting ready for her wedding surrounded by chaos.
She thought it would feel frantic, like the final fifteen minutes before a birthday dinner she wasn’t sure anyone would show up for—stressful, too loud, a little heartbreaking.
Instead, it felt like calm.
It felt like quiet laughter drifting in from the kitchen, the scent of espresso and lilacs filling the apartment. It felt like warm hands braiding the back of her hair, like silk slipping over her skin, like music humming low from the speaker on the windowsill.
It felt like peace.
She sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, as Victoria carefully clipped the final snowdrop into her hair. Emilie was crouched by the full-length mirror, fussing with the hem of Belle’s dress, hung up. Lily and Sophie were there too, with Lilly the cat having decided that Lily the human was her new favourite person, while Sophie was rooting around Belle’s jewellery box for earrings to wear.
It should’ve hurt.
That it wasn’t Pascale doing her hair. That it wasn’t her mother reminding her not to forget earrings or perfume or to stand up straight when she walked. That there was no Leclerc fussing around her, pretending to know best.
But somehow, it didn’t.
She’d braced herself for the ache—for the empty chair, the hollow weight of what should’ve been. But the ache never came.
Because these women? They were enough.
They were more than enough.
Then Victoria cocked her head, glancing toward the bedroom door. “By the way, are your brothers coming?”
Emilie stiffened subtly from her place near the hem. Lily glanced down at her nails.
Sophie, sipping her tea, looked up in quiet expectation.
Belle hesitated.
And then—because the lie felt too heavy in her throat, and because this was her wedding day, and she was done making excuses for people who couldn’t be bothered—she exhaled and said, simply, “They forgot my birthday.”
The room stilled.
Victoria blinked. “What?”
Belle looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. “It was race day. Monaco. Charles was on pole. Ferrari was chaos. I was in the garage all day and no one said anything. Not Charles. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not even Maman.”
Sophie sat very still. Her expression didn’t shift immediately—like she hadn’t quite processed what she’d just heard.
Victoria, on the other hand, reacted instantly.
“You’re kidding,” she said, straightening up. “They forgot? All of them?”
Belle nodded once. “I didn’t remind them.”
“But you were there,” Victoria said, voice rising. “You were literally standing in the garage wearing red! You’re his sister—how do you forget that?!”
Sophie’s mug landed gently on the vanity table. She didn’t speak, just watched Belle carefully, her eyes full of something Belle couldn’t name yet.
“They looked right through me,” Belle said, not bitter, just… quiet. “Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just…invisible.”
Victoria stood up abruptly. “I swear to God, if I wasn’t about to pop out a baby I would’ve dragged Charles by the ear into a flower shop myself.”
“Vic,” Belle said, soft but firm.
“No,” Victoria said, eyes shining now. “You stood by them. All weekend. All year. You show up for every stupid photo call and PR stunt and family function, and they forgot your birthday?”
Emilie stayed crouched on the floor, head bowed over the dress, silent but trembling with restrained rage.
Lily’s hands were folded tightly in her lap.
Belle reached out and touched Victoria’s hand, grounding her. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“No,” Belle agreed quietly. “But you remembered.”
That made Victoria pause. Her face crumpled for a second before she leaned forward and pulled Belle into the gentlest hug she could manage with her belly between them. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Belle blinked, eyes stinging but dry. “It doesn’t matter today.”
Sophie knelt beside her then, unexpectedly, and took her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“I know,” Belle said. And she did. “You’re here. That’s more than enough.”
Victoria wiped under her eyes. “Do you want us to say something? To tell them?”
Belle shook her head. “No. I want to see how long it takes.”
The silence settled again.
And then Sophie squeezed her hand and said, with quiet certainty, “You’re not invisible anymore, sweetheart. Not here. Not ever again.”
And that was what Belle held onto, as she stood and turned toward the mirror—surrounded not by the family she’d been born into, but by the one she’d found along the way.
The right people had remembered.
And that was enough.
***
The bedroom door clicked gently shut behind Sophie as she stepped into the hallway, needing a breath. Just a moment of stillness. The wedding would begin in a little over two hours, and Belle—darling, radiant Belle—was in her bedroom with snowdrops in her hair and an ache buried so deep behind her smile Sophie could feel it like a bruise under her own ribs.
She leaned lightly against the wall, one hand wrapped around her teacup, the other resting protectively over her heart. She didn’t cry—not easily, not anymore. But her chest felt tight.
Footsteps approached, soft and quick. Emilie, Belle’s best friend, slipped out of the bedroom a moment later, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked like she was holding back a war.
Their eyes met.
“You knew,” Sophie said quietly.
Emilie stilled. Her expression didn’t change. “Max told me,” she said quietly. “Belle didn’t want it to become a thing. She didn’t want pity.”
Sophie’s grip on her teacup tightened.
“She said she wanted to see how long it would take them,” Emilie added, her voice softening. “How many days would pass before someone noticed.”
Sophie looked away, blinking hard at the hallway wall. “Her own mother,” she murmured. “Her own brothers forgot her birthday.”
Emilie’s jaw clenched. “Her brothers. Her mother. Ferrari. Nothing. Not even a text. Carlos was the only one who remembered, and she begged him not to say anything because she didn’t want pity.”
Sophie’s stomach twisted. “And she stood in that garage, all day…”
“In red,” Emilie said, voice flat. “Supporting Charles. Watching them celebrate. She didn’t ask for much, Sophie. She never does.”
“She gave them everything,” Emilie said. Her voice cracked, just slightly. “And they forgot her birthday. They forgot her.”
Sophie nodded, eyes shining but clear. “Not anymore. Not after today.”
There was a long pause, filled with the sound of faint laughter from the living room and the low hum of a wedding morning in motion.
Then Emilie exhaled shakily. “Max said she broke down the second she saw him.”
Sophie closed her eyes for a beat.
It wasn’t just forgetfulness. It wasn’t a mistake. It was neglect wrapped in a red suit and family pride. It was inexcusable.
“She’ll never be alone again,” Sophie said, her voice steel beneath the softness. “Not while I’m breathing. Not while Max is.”
“I know,” Emilie said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t walk into Ferrari and slap someone.”
They stood in silence again, shoulder to shoulder.
Then Sophie reached over and gently squeezed Emilie’s hand.
“You did this for her,” she said. “The flowers. The cake. The restaurant. You gave her the kind of day they never thought to.”
Emilie’s eyes went glassy. “She deserves perfect. I couldn’t give her perfect, but—”
“You gave her love,” Sophie said firmly. “And that’s what matters.”
***
The apartment had quieted.
Everyone had settled into easy, pre-ceremony chaos—little moments scattered across the rooms like confetti before the storm. Daniel was dramatically explaining champagne etiquette to Oscar, who looked halfway between fascinated and alarmed. Lando was on the floor, coaxing Jimmy the cat into an impromptu wedding-themed photoshoot. Tom sat cross-legged on the couch, reading a picture book to Luka and Lio, the boys draped over him like sleepy lion cubs.
Max stood in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, back to the counter, staring out the window toward the glittering stretch of Monaco coastline. The city buzzed quietly beyond the glass. But in here, for now, there was stillness.
The kind of stillness right before the most important lap of your life.
GP stepped up beside him without a word, mirroring his stance with practiced ease. They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t have to.
“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” GP said eventually, voice low.
Max nodded. “I know.”
“You were always good,” GP added. “But you’re not just good now. You’re… grounded. Steady.”
Max exhaled, eyes still on the view. “She gave me somewhere to land.”
GP’s expression shifted just slightly—quiet pride, maybe. “You’ve always fought for every tenth, every inch. But with Belle? You stopped fighting yourself.”
Max glanced at him, something tired and raw in his eyes. “She sees everything. Even the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.”
“She never asked you to change.”
“She didn’t have to,” Max said.
They stood in silence again, until a familiar voice cut in behind them.
“She’s not just your landing place,” Jos said, stepping into the kitchen, arms folded. “She’s your spine.”
Max turned, but didn’t speak.
Jos’s face was set. Not angry, but serious in that sharp, bone-deep way that came from decades of knowing how to read race tape and sons in equal measure.
“I wasn’t easy on you,” Jos said quietly. “I know that. I pushed too hard. Expected too much. Thought it was the only way you’d be great.”
Max swallowed, but didn’t interrupt.
“But Belle…” Jos looked toward the hallway, where a burst of laughter echoed from the bedroom. “She gave you something I couldn’t. Peace. Balance. You didn’t slow down. But you stopped burning out.”
GP gave a soft hum of agreement, but said nothing.
Jos stepped forward, brow furrowed now. “And she shows up for you. For everyone. All the time.”
Max nodded slowly. “She does.”
Jos shook his head, voice tight now. “So why the hell did her family forget her birthday?”
The silence hit like a dropped hammer.
Max looked up, sharp. “You know?”
“I overheard Emilie talking to Sophie in the hallway,” Jos said. His voice was low, but thunderous. “You’re telling me her entire family forgot? Her mother? Her brothers? Even Ferrari?”
Max’s jaw clenched.
GP was still, hands in his pockets, but his voice came out even. “They didn’t just forget. They looked straight through her in the garage. Carlos was the only one who noticed. She told him not to say anything.”
Jos looked furious in the quiet way only a father could—like he was cataloging every hurt, every slight, and filing them away for later retribution.
“She stood there,” he muttered. “All day. On her birthday. Wearing red. And they didn’t see her?”
“She didn’t cry until after,” Max said, his voice low. “But when she did… it broke her.”
Jos looked at him. “She tell them?”
“No,” Max said. “She’s done reminding people she exists.”
Jos’s shoulders shifted, like he was bracing himself against something. “Good. Let them feel that silence.”
Max stared down at his coffee cup for a moment, then set it aside.
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making her feel seen,” he said, steady now. “The way they never did. The way she deserves.”
GP gave a quiet, approving nod. “Then you’re ready.”
Jos didn’t say anything for a long beat.
Then he stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Max’s shoulder, and said, with something rough in his voice, “She’s already ours. But make it official.”
Max blinked hard.
***
The kitchen had been peaceful—a relative term, given there were six men, two toddler, three cats, and a bottle of champagne open by 9 a.m.—but peaceful by Verstappen standards.
Max was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee while Jos surveyed the chaos in thinly veiled amusement, and Tom tried to get jam off his shirt collar thanks to a child-induced pastry incident.
Then the storm arrived.
Emilie swept into the kitchen like a tiny, immaculately-dressed hurricane, her eyes narrowing the instant she caught sight of Lando.
“Why,” Emilie said, appearing in the doorway like a Roman general entering enemy territory, “are half of you not wearing ties?”
“You,” she declared, pointing with a precision that would’ve made a military officer proud.
Lando looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his camera settings. “Me?”
“You call that a tie?” she said, already moving toward him like a missile in heels. “What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help? Is that your idea of a tied tie?”
Lando looked down at the pale blue knot that resembled something between a tangled seatbelt and an existential crisis. “Technically… yes?”
Emilie sighed so dramatically it could have won an award. “Come here.”
Lando, blushing furiously, stood like a man facing execution. “You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.
“I’m not scary,” she said, adjusting his collar. “I’m just French and disappointed.”
Max leaned against the counter, watching with mild amusement as Lando was wrangled into place. Emilie was adjusting the tie like she’d done it a thousand times, completely unfazed by the 5 feet, 6 inches of confused British man blinking at her.
Lando stood frozen, blinking down at the very pretty girl fixing his tie with the terrifying precision of someone who had made wedding planning a full-contact sport.
“Can I breathe yet?” Lando asked, voice faint.
“When I say you can,” Emilie replied sweetly, stepping back and tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain,” Emilie said sweetly, patting his cheek. “Suffer with dignity.”
“I’m… scared of her,” Lando muttered to Max once she turned away.
“You should be,” Max replied, utterly unbothered.
“Okay,” Emilie said, spinning on her heel, “who’s next—”
Her eyes landed on Tom.
Tom, who had attempted to get away with a cravat.
She narrowed her eyes. “What is this? Pride and Prejudice?”
“I was trying to be elegant,” Tom said defensively, one child clinging to each of his legs like barnacles.
“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie replied, already reaching into her tote bag like Mary Poppins from hell. “Lose the cravat.”
Five seconds later, Tom had a new blue tie around his neck.
Jos, leaning near the counter with a coffee, smirked.
“I’d like to see her try that with me,” he muttered.
Emilie pivoted.
Jos raised a brow.
She raised both.
“Unless you’d like to be mistaken for security and asked to stay outside,” she said coolly, “you’ll put one on.”
There was a pause.
Then—without breaking eye contact—Jos slowly reached for the tie GP handed him with what looked suspiciously like amusement.
“I like her,” he said to no one in particular.
Emilie snapped her fingers at Daniel next. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Daniel asked, grinning. “This tie is excellent. It has tiny cartoon race cars on it!”
“And you are a groomsman not a children’s birthday clown,” Emilie replied. “Change. Now.”
“But—”
“I will burn it,” she said calmly. “I have a lighter in my purse.”
Daniel blinked. “Wow. Okay. Yep. Good. I’ll change.”
Only Oscar and GP escaped unscathed—Oscar because Lily had pre-approved his ensemble, and GP because he was actually a functional adult.
Emilie gave them a nod of silent approval. “Finally. Men who understand basic dress codes.”
Max was watching all of it from the corner, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest and a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Emilie spotted him.
“You’re next.”
“I already did mine,” Max said, lifting his chin.
Emilie narrowed her eyes, came closer, and tugged gently at the knot. It was fine. Almost perfect.
“It’s crooked.”
He didn’t even argue. Just tilted his chin and let her fix it. She did so with practiced fingers, then stepped back and gave him a once-over.
“You’ll do.”
Max smirked. “High praise.”
“You’re marrying my best friend. You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Max said, grinning.
Then the apartment stilled.
Because the bedroom door opened.
And Belle stepped out.
Max looked up—and every word left his brain.
She stood there in the soft light of morning, her white dress falling like water around her, the snowdrops tucked into her curls catching the sunlight. Her hands were folded gently in front of her, her eyes finding his across the room.
Max didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The chaos of the morning vanished.
It was just her.
Standing in the archway in a white dress that somehow managed to be simple and devastating at the same time. Her dark hair was curled and loosely pinned, a few snowdrops tucked gently above her ear. She had one hand loosely holding a bouquet, and the other nervously adjusting her sleeve. Her eyes swept the room, soft and uncertain—
Until they found his.
Max forgot how to breathe.
“Hi,” she said, voice quiet, like it was just for him.
Max swallowed. His throat was suddenly too tight.
He took a slow step forward, then another, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment. When he stopped in front of her, his hands hovered for a second before finally settling on her waist.
“You’re—” He couldn’t finish.
Belle tilted her head. “I’m what?”
Max blinked, and his eyes burned. He hadn’t expected that.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re so—”
She smiled, soft and real and a little shy.
“Max,” she said gently, reaching up to brush her fingers against his jaw. “Breathe.”
“I can’t,” he admitted, voice cracking. “You look like a dream I’d never let myself have.”
Belle’s smile faltered—just for a second—then turned into something deeper. Warmer. Her eyes shimmered.
Daniel, somewhere behind them, sniffled. “Okay, I take it back. This is romantic enough to ruin my day.”
“Shut up, Daniel,” Oscar muttered.
But Max didn’t hear any of it.
He only saw her.
The girl who’d stood in a Ferrari garage on her birthday and been forgotten. The woman who’d cried in his arms and still said yes. The one person who saw him fully and never once turned away.
And now she was standing in his kitchen—in their kitchen—in a white dress and snowdrops.
Looking at him like he was home.
“Ready?” she whispered.
Max nodded, his hands tightening gently on her waist.
“More than ever.”
And when he kissed her—just once, careful not to smudge her lipstick—the whole room exhaled with them.
They had a wedding to get to.
But for that moment, they were already everything.
***
Belle had walked into a hundred government buildings before. Cold hallways. Beige walls. Bored clerks behind scratched counters. Monaco’s city hall should have felt the same—official, impersonal, municipal.
But today?
It felt like walking into a cathedral.
This wasn’t the wedding she had imagined as a little girl.
There was no aisle of flowers. No choir. No dramatic gown or fanfare or chandeliers. Her mother wasn’t there. Neither were her brothers. There were no headlines.
And still—it was perfect.
This was hers.
This was theirs.
Small. Quiet. Real.
She squeezed Max’s hands. He squeezed back.
And as the officiant began to speak, Belle felt a slow warmth fill her from the inside out.
You’re not invisible anymore, she told herself. You never were. Not to him.
And in that moment, under the soft light and quiet vows and steady eyes of the only man she’d ever trusted with her whole heart—
Isabelle Leclerc became Belle Verstappen.
And for the first time in her life, she didn’t need the world to notice.
She had everything she needed right in front of her.
She hadn’t written anything down for the vows.
There was a version of Belle that would have. That would’ve planned every word, practiced every pause, agonized over saying it all just right.
But not today.
Because nothing about Max had ever needed performance.
The officiant nodded to her gently. “Belle?”
She took a breath. And then another. Max didn’t rush her. He just waited—hands in hers, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles, grounding her.
“I don’t think I ever believed love could be soft,” she said quietly. “Not the kind that lasts. I thought it had to be earned. Proved. Negotiated into place.”
Her voice wavered. Max didn’t blink.
“I spent so much time being the one who remembered everyone. Who carried everything quietly. And I think I started to believe that was the best I could hope for. That if I was useful enough, maybe I’d be loved in return.”
She looked up, eyes shining.
“And then I met you,” Belle continued. “And you didn’t ask me to perform. You didn’t ask me to be anything but exactly who I already was. You saw me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen. Especially then.”
Her voice shook, just a little. Max’s thumb brushed across her knuckles.
“I’ve spent so much of my life holding other people’s pieces,” she said, “but you—Max—you were the first person who held mine. Quietly. Gently. Steadily. You never tried to fix me. You just stayed.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let it. Didn’t wipe it away.
“So I promise to stay, too. To be soft where the world is hard. To be the quiet when everything gets too loud. To love you in the way you’ve always deserved but never asked for.”
And when she smiled, Max smiled back—like the sun had finally come up.
The officiant nodded to him.
“Max?”
He exhaled, but didn’t look away from her. He lifted her hands to his lips first, kissed them gently, and held them between them like they were the only steady thing in the world.
“I don’t remember the moment I fell in love with you,” he said softly. “It just happened, like a breath you take…quietly and then all at once.”
Belle’s breath caught. He held her gaze, steady and unwavering.
“I never thought I’d be lucky enough to love someone like you,” he said softly. “Someone who sees through everything. Who remembers the smallest things and never asks for credit. Who holds the weight of the world and still has room to make me feel like I’m home.”
His voice cracked then.
“You are not invisible. Not to me. You never were. I see you, Belle. Every version. Every scar. Every soft edge you try to tuck away. And I love you for all of it.”
Belle’s lips trembled.
Max’s thumb brushed along her hand again.
“I promise to hold you, every day. To never let you feel alone in a room full of people again. I promise to be your quiet, your home, your person. Forever.”
There wasn’t a sound in the room. Not a breath. Even the officiant cleared his throat like he needed a second.
Belle didn’t speak.
She just leaned forward—slow and sure—and pressed her forehead to Max’s.
And everything else fell away.
Her hands were still in his. Her forehead was resting against Max’s. Her heart was loud—but steady.
She could feel his breath on her cheek. The way his thumbs brushed hers. How he didn’t look away. How he never did.
The officiant’s voice was calm, warm. “Do you, Max Emilian Verstappen, take Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” Max said instantly. No hesitation. No breath between.
“And do you, Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc, take Max Emilian Verstappen to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do,” she whispered, and it was the easiest truth she’d ever spoken.
The officiant smiled.
“Then by the authority vested in me by the Principality of Monaco, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
A pause.
“You may kiss—”
But Max didn’t wait.
He kissed her the second the words left the officiant’s mouth.
It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was grounding. Fierce. Like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime and could finally exhale.
Belle kissed him back just as hard, hands in his hair, heart pounding.
There were cheers. Scattered applause. Laughter.
And then—
“NOW!” Daniel’s voice rang out from the back like a commander on a battlefield.
Belle broke the kiss just in time to see it:
A blur of chaos. Daniel and Oscar tossing flower petals like overenthusiastic flower girls, flinging them directly at them.
Belle let out a laugh so sudden it startled even her. Max was still holding her hand, laughing softly too, eyes never leaving her.
“Seriously?” he murmured under his breath.
“This was always going to happen,” Belle replied, grinning.
Victoria was crying. Sophie was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief Jos was blinking suspiciously fast.
And Emilie?Emilie was smiling so big Belle’s heart almost burst.
Belle looked back at Max—her husband. Her husband—and felt something settle in her chest.
This was hers.
Messy. Soft. Completely perfect.
And just beginning.
Max leaned down again, kissed her forehead. “Mrs. Verstappen,” he said, voice low and thrilled and a little overwhelmed.
She smiled up at him. “Mr. Verstappen.”
And Belle had never, ever felt so seen.
***
Belle hadn’t stepped into Overture in over a year.
It still looked the same—tucked into a quiet side street just off Port Hercule, all pale stone and soft wood, sunlight spilling through ivy-wrapped windows. There were no banners. No “Congratulations” signs. No garish floral arches.
Just one long table set under a canopy of olive branches in the back courtyard, decorated in quiet whites and soft greens. Candles flickered in the breeze. Snowdrops—snowdrops, in May—were tucked into every napkin ring.
Belle turned to Emilie, who only raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t ask how. I threatened a florist and bribed an importer.”
“You’re terrifying,” Belle whispered, blinking back tears.
“You’re worth it,” Emilie replied.
Laughter echoed as guests filtered into the courtyard. Daniel declared he would be in charge of pouring champagne. Lando was trying to fit three cameras into one discreet corner. Jos already had a drink in hand and was engaged in a deeply serious conversation with Oscar, who looked vaguely terrified. Lily and Sophie had settled into a side table with quiet smiles and quiet tears.
Their table filled slowly—Victoria easing into a seat with a dramatic sigh, her hand protectively on her bump, Tom at her side, two rambunctious boys wrecking havoc. Emilie adjusted every flower and napkin with military precision. Someone had even tied the cats’ names onto little placeholders even though they were obviously not present.
They toasted with champagne and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.
There was no DJ. No cake tower. No press outside.
Just a warm breeze. Clinking glasses. The people who had shown up.
Midway through lunch, Daniel stood abruptly, champagne flute in hand. “To Max and Belle,” he grinned. “May your love be as steady as GP’s voice in Max’s ear, and as dramatic as Oscar trying to parallel park.”
Oscar, mid-bite, choked.
Belle laughed so hard she had to put her fork down.
And then, as the laughter died down, GP stood. Slowly. Unassumingly. Everyone quieted with the kind of instinctive respect only earned by someone who rarely asked for the room.
GP cleared his throat, glancing briefly toward Belle, then Max.
“I’m not one for speeches,” he said, hands loosely folded, gaze sweeping the table. “But I’ve watched Max for a long time. Through wins and losses. Through fire and fury and everything in between. And I’ve never seen him more certain. More grounded. More… at peace, than when he looks at you, Belle.”
She looked down, blinking fast. Max took her hand under the table.
GP’s voice softened. “So thank you. For being that peace. For loving him the way he didn’t even know he needed. You make him better, Belle. But not because you ask him to change. You make him better by seeing him. Fully. And somehow, without ever stepping onto the track, you’ve become the most important part of our team.”
He lifted his glass. “To you both. For reminding us that there’s strength in stillness, and love in the quiet corners.”
Belle blinked fast, lips parted, chest aching in the best way.
Max reached over, tangled their fingers together under the table.
The meal ended with a cake—simple, white, laced with raspberry and white chocolate. Belle stared at it, already emotional, as Emilie leaned over and whispered smugly, “Don’t cry. You’re wearing mascara.”
“I hate you,” Belle whispered.
“You love me.”
Belle reached over and took her hand, eyes shining. “I do. I really, really do. Thank you for all of this. For… everything. You gave me the kind of day I didn’t know I was allowed to want.”
Emilie’s expression softened. “You deserved it. All of it.”
This wasn’t the wedding Belle had once imagined—the ballroom, the crowd, the spectacle.
It was better.
It was quiet, and full of laughter. It smelled like eucalyptus and honey. It tasted like home.
And most importantly: it felt like love.
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)
Lando: 👀
[sends: 5 stunning, sun-drenched wedding photos from Monaco city hall. Max in a dark suit, Belle in a soft white dress, snowdrops in her hair] ❤️💍
Lewis: wait. wait. WHAT?
George: Lando Norris what the hell is this
Carlos: wait wait wait is that— IS THAT BELLE??? AND MAX?!?
Alex: THOSE ARE WEDDING PHOTOS REAL WEDDING PHOTOS WITH FLOWERS AND RINGS AND A WHOLE EMILIE IN THE BACKGROUND??
Mark: Holy shit they did it.
George: WHO TOOK THESE?? THESE ARE VOGUE-LEVEL
Fernando: Monaco’s lighting really is superior.
David: YOU DID NOT JUST POST THAT
Nico H: Lando WHAT
George: I— IS THAT MAX?! IS THAT BELLE?! IS THIS—THE WEDDING???
Daniel: ICONIC UNHINGED NO NOTES
Lewis: That’s the softest chaos I’ve ever seen. Also: beautiful. Congratulations to them both ❤️
Sebastian: That’s what love should look like. Simple. Fierce. True. Charles is going to set something on fire when he finds out.
Mark: He’s going to kill Max. Actually. Kill him.
David Coulthard: What are the odds we have to physically restrain Charles on sight
Nico R: Charles has not seen this yet, has he?
Carlos: …Charles is actually going to try and murder Max.
Nico R.: I give it 48 hours before Charles makes it about himself.
Nico H.: With his bare hands.
Sebastian: I’ll visit Max in prison. Bring snacks.
Lando: do you think if we just… don’t answer his calls… we can delay this
Kimi: Congrats. Cake looks good.
Lando: in conclusion: love won (also please someone hide me)
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/SpottedInMonaco: Saw Oscar Piastri and Lily Zneimer leaving Monaco city hall earlier today. Suit. Dress. Smiling. That wasn’t a casual brunch outfit, I’m just saying.
@/GridGossip: I BEG YOUR PARDON.
@/TifosiTears: oscar piastri getting married and not telling us would be the most oscar piastri move of all time
@/mclarenmoments: DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THIS. I AM FRAGILE.
@/NicolePiastri: OSCAR. OSCAR JACK PIASTRI.
If you got married today and didn’t tell your MOTHER, I swear to GOD—
@/NicolePiastri: Do you think I don’t have Twitter alerts? Do you think I wouldn’t FIND OUT???
@/NicolePiastri: TEXT. ME. RIGHT. NOW.
@/OscarPiastri: Hi Mum. Deep breaths. I did not get married.
@/NicolePiastri: Are you SURE?
@/OscarPiastri: Very sure. I was just a guest. Completely unmarried and ringless.
@/NicolePiastri: Then WHY were you at city hall in MONACO??
@/OscarPiastri: Because people get married and sometimes I get invited!
@/NicolePiastri: Noted. But if you actually do get married without telling me, I will start a podcast called "My Son Got Married Without Me."
@/OscarPiastri: Duly noted.
@/PitLaneParanoia: Okay but if it wasn’t Oscar’s wedding… then whose was it???
@/gridshenanigans: WAIT. Wait wait wait. What if it was Lando’s wedding???
@/McLarenSpy: He has been weirdly quiet since the win in Miami…
@/chaoticpaddock: IMAGINE if Lando Norris just casually got married and let everyone spiral about Oscar instead.
***
Stream Transcript: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell
Lando: (leans back in his chair, stretching) “Okay, chat, before you all start spamming—yes, I saw the Twitter stuff. Yes, I was at Monaco City Hall. No, I didn’t get married. You can all calm down.”
Chat:YOU GOT MARRIED?! WHO WAS IT THENOSCAR OR LANDOOOOOWHAT DO YOU MEAN "NO" STOP LYING TO US NORRIS
Max Fewtrell: (joining the stream, headphones askew) “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. What did I just walk into?”
Lando: (grinning way too hard) “Twitter thinks I got married.”
Max F: “...Did you???”
Lando: (sputtering) “What?! No! No, mate—God—why would I—? No!”
Max Fewtrell: (squints at him through the screen) “You’re acting weird. That’s exactly what someone who secretly got married would say.”
Lando: (waving his hands) “I was just at the city hall, okay? I was a guest. I brought my camera. That’s it.”
Chat:"JUST A GUEST" SUUUREHE’S FREAKING OUT OMGLANDO WHO WAS ITWHY ARE YOU SO SHADY
Max Fewtrell: “Wait… was it Oscar?”
Lando: (visibly sweating) “I—NO—it wasn’t Oscar. He was also a guest! He brought… macarons. Like a very elegant little wedding guest. And he wore a suit!”
Max Fewtrell: (laughs) “So if it wasn’t you or Oscar… who got married?”
Lando: (looks directly at camera, then away, then back again) “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Max Fewtrell: “Oh my God. It was someone! You little cryptid! You’re hiding something!”
Lando (visibly flustered): I WAS A GUEST. I HAD A TIE. THAT’S IT.
Max F: You’ve never worn a tie willingly in your life.
Lando: (panicking, adjusting his headset) “I’m just saying… maybe some people like their privacy, alright? Not everyone wants a big flashy wedding. Some people like… small things. Quiet things. With like… flowers and—”
Max Fewtrell: “Mate, you’re digging a hole. You might as well tell us.”
Lando: (points at camera) “Nope. I’m loyal. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. That’s it. That’s all I’m saying.”
Max Fewtrell: “Sworn to secrecy means it was someone! Confirmed! Chat, we’re getting somewhere.”
Lando: (leans forward, whispers into mic dramatically) “Chat, if I mysteriously disappear after this stream… I was never here.”
Chat: RIP LANDOHE’S GOING TO BE TAKEN OUT BY THE WEDDING MAFIATHIS IS BETTER THAN DRIVE TO SURVIVEFREE HIM
Max Fewtrell: “So to summarize: Oscar did not get married. Lando did not get married. But someone did. And Lando is freaking out.”
Lando: (facepalming) “Why did I open my mouth.”
Max Fewtrell: “Because you love chaos. That’s why.”
More Posts from Biblioteca-da-meia-noite and Others
NEVER GO HUNGRY EVER AGAIN
pairing: Lando Norris x Reader
word count: 1727
hii it's been a while since my last fic and im stll on a high since the abu dabi gp, so heres a cute little lando fic. also just finished my first semester of uni hopefully i can be more active.
The soft glow of the monitors illuminated Lando’s face as he leaned forward, laser-focused on his game. His fingers danced across the controller, jaw set in determination. Voices of his friends buzzed through his headset, a mix of banter, callouts, and the occasional burst of laughter.
“Lando, mate, you’re absolutely throwing right now,” Max’s voice rang out, feigned frustration clear in his tone.
“I’m not throwing! I’m playing the long game,” Lando shot back with a grin, eyes still glued to the screen. “It’s called strategy, ever heard of it?”
“Yeah, the strategy of losing,” Ria quipped, drawing a chorus of laughter from the team.
“Alright, alright, just watch this,” Lando said, leaning even closer to the screen. His tongue poked out in concentration, the telltale sign he was locked in.
Time slipped away unnoticed as he navigated the game’s twists and turns. The familiar rhythm of the stream chat’s messages scrolled rapidly on his second monitor, but he was too deep into the game to glance over. Hours must have passed, but Lando’s mind was too preoccupied to register the growling in his stomach.
Then, a knock.
“One sec,” Lando muttered, sliding one earcup off his head. He glanced toward the door, his brows furrowing in confusion before realization dawned. He leaned back in his chair, eyes softening. “Come in!”
There was a brief sound of shuffling, the slight thud of a hip bumping the door before it slowly creaked open. Y/N stepped in, balancing a plate of food in her hands with the focus of someone carrying a national treasure. The chat’s speed doubled as her side profile came into frame, and messages like "OMG it’s Y/N!" and "Wifey alert 😍" flooded the chat box.
“Brought you dinner,” she said softly, walking toward him with careful steps. The aroma hit him before she even reached his desk, and his heart swelled with warmth.
“Oh, you’re a legend, babe,” Lando said, quickly sitting upright and scooting his chair back to give her space. He took the plate from her, eyes wide with admiration as he gazed at the meal she’d prepared. “This looks amazing.”
“I was worried you’d forget to eat,” she teased, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her smile was soft but knowing—she’d seen him get lost in games like this before.
Lando’s eyes didn’t leave her face for a second. His gaze flickered to the chat, catching sight of the flood of adoring messages. "The way he’s looking at her, I’m sick 🩸" and "That’s the look of a man in love" filled the stream.
“She’s literally the best ever, chat,” Lando said, his voice warm and unwavering. He reached up with his free hand to gently squeeze Y/N’s wrist before letting her go. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world, I swear.”
“I’ll get you a drink,” Y/N said, already turning to leave. “Wait here.”
“I—” Lando started, but she’d already slipped out of the room. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head before glancing at the camera. “Chat, I’m telling you, I’ve won the lottery. She’s just…” He trailed off, unable to find a word that felt big enough to encompass it all. “Yeah. She’s perfect.”
“Bro, you’re down so bad,” Max’s voice cackled through the headset. “Not even hiding it anymore.”
“Why would I?” Lando shot back, eyes sparkling with pride. He lifted a piece of the dinner—some kind of stuffed pasta—and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened as soon as he tasted it. “Okay, wait, hold on.” He covered his mouth as he chewed, glancing at the camera like he’d just uncovered a world-class secret. “This is actually insane. I’m eating like royalty right now.”
“Imagine getting home-cooked meals while streaming. Must be nice,” Ria sighed dramatically.
“Couldn’t be me,” Aaron added with mock bitterness. “I’m over here eating cold leftover pizza like a peasant.”
“Jealousy’s a bad look on you, mate,” Lando grinned, taking another bite. He’d meant to savor it, but he’d already eaten half before he realized it. “Chat, she’s turned into a whole chef since moving in. Two weeks ago she’d barely step into the kitchen, and now look at this. Look at me.” He gestured toward himself with his fork. “I’m living like a king.”
The chat’s pace somehow sped up even more, hearts, fire emojis, and "Y/N for president" messages flooding in.
Y/N returned with a cold drink in hand and set it beside him on the desk. Her eyes darted to the chat for just a moment before glancing at him, eyebrows raised in suspicion. “What did you say?” she asked, hands on her hips.
“Nothing incriminating, I promise,” Lando said, eyes wide with faux innocence. “Only that you’re basically a professional chef now.”
“Mhm. Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes, but the smile on her face gave her away. “Just eat it before it gets cold.”
Lando’s face broke into a grin so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. He glanced once more at the chat. "Lando’s done for, he’s a goner," one person wrote, and he had to admit… they weren’t wrong.
He raised his glass to the camera in a mock toast. “To all of you wishing you had what I’ve got,” he said, eyes flicking back to Y/N as she disappeared through the door again, “I’m sorry, but it’s mine. All mine.”
A couple of months into living together, it had become a routine for Y/N to bring Lando food during his streams. It started as a simple act of kindness but quickly became a beloved ritual for both of them — and for Lando’s ever-watchful chat.
Tonight was no different.
Lando’s camera captured him in his element, leaning forward in his chair, controller in hand, eyes narrowed in sharp focus. His headset covered his curls, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth in classic 'concentration mode.' On his second monitor, the stream chat moved at lightning speed, viewers spamming “LAN-DOOOO”, “HE’S SWEATING”, and various emotes of fire, skulls, and crying faces.
“Lando, you’re one shot, man,” Max’s voice rang in his ear, sharp with urgency.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I got it, I got it,” Lando muttered, hands moving rapidly on the controller. “Just cover me for like... five seconds!”
“Five seconds too many,” Ria chimed in. “I’m not your babysitter, Norris.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Lando quipped, grinning as he slid his character behind cover.
Then, it happened — the knock on the door.
“Yo, hold on. Hold on. One sec,” Lando said, throwing a quick glance at his door. A slow grin crept onto his face as he realized what time it was. “Chat, you know what’s coming,” he said, sliding his chair back.
“It’s timeeee!” one person spammed in the chat.
“WIFEY ALERT 🚨,” another user wrote, followed by a sea of heart emojis.
The door nudged open slowly, and in came Y/N, balancing a plate with one hand and holding a drink in the other. Her expression was one of mock seriousness, eyes narrowed like she was on a high-stakes mission. The second she stepped into frame, the chat went wild.
“SHE’S HEREEEE” “THE QUEEN HAS ARRIVED” “HOLD ON, SHE’S CARRYING SNACKS??” “I’m so single it’s painful”
“Dinner delivery for one Mr. Lando Norris,” Y/N announced, placing the plate in front of him with a flourish like she was a waiter at a five-star restaurant. “Sir, your steak and garlic butter potatoes. Compliments of the chef.”
“Oh, you’re too good to me, babe,” Lando said, eyes wide with dramatic awe. He glanced at the plate like it was a priceless treasure, then looked at the camera, pointing at Y/N. “Chat, look at this. Are you seeing this? Chef Y/N at it again. Tell me I’m not the luckiest guy in the world.”
“You’re not,” Max’s voice cut in, laughing. “I’m still here eating microwave noodles, mate.”
“Skill issue,” Y/N shot back casually, leaning down to glance at Lando’s second monitor. The chat’s speed had tripled. Her lips twitched into a smile. “They’re calling you a simp, by the way.”
“I am a simp,” Lando declared without hesitation, holding a fork like it was a scepter. “And I have no regrets.” He stabbed a piece of steak and stuffed it into his mouth, eyes closing in exaggerated bliss. “Oh, my days. This is illegal. You’re ruining me.”
“Man’s got his priorities right,” Aaron’s voice chimed in through the headset.
Y/N’s laughter bubbled out, light and melodic, and she shook her head. “Don’t choke on it, simp. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.” She leaned in and tapped a quick kiss to his cheek, which sent the chat into meltdown.
“CLIP IT, CLIP IT RIGHT NOW” “THE KISS. THE KISS. WE’VE WON.” “I’m crying. They’re so in love it’s disgusting.”
Lando’s cheek flushed pink as he glanced back at the camera, his grin stretching wider than it should. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m done for,” he said, rubbing his cheek where her lips had been like he could still feel it. “But you’d be too if you had Y/N bringing you garlic butter potatoes, alright? Don’t be jealous. It’s not a good look.”
“You’re insufferable,” Ria sighed. “But also, I’d like to formally request a plate.”
“Tell Y/N I’ll pay her to ship it to me,” Max added.
“She’s not taking requests,” Lando shot back, grinning like a man with the world’s greatest secret. “This exclusive menu is mine and mine alone.” He held up the plate to the camera, displaying the perfectly cooked steak and crispy golden potatoes. “Look at that. The chat’s in shambles. They’re losing it. I would be too, honestly.”
He glanced toward the door, his grin softening as he caught sight of Y/N’s figure passing by in the hallway. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, eyes trailing her for a moment longer before turning back to the camera. “I’m absolutely done for.”
“Somebody save this man,” Aaron’s voice cackled, but Lando didn’t even hear it.
“Don’t want to be saved, mate,” Lando said, mouth full of potatoes. He raised his glass toward the camera like he’d done a hundred times before. “Cheers to being a simp, yeah? I’ll happily stay down bad forever.”
F1 Masterlist
Charles Leclerc
Gala’s
Reuniting with your lover
Inside motorhomes and relationships
Movie Night
Greed
Childhood sweethearts
Monegasque Sunsets
Breakfast
The Concert
Stupid french boys
My World Champion
The best greeting
Suzuka
Birthday Boy
All night
Friends-to-lovers
Charles with an emo
A writer and formula one driver masterlist
A writer and formula one driver
No peaking
Meeting the family
Meeting the other drivers
Writer’s Block
To Charles, my one true love
Dozing in the Summer Sun
Haircuts and Fans
George Russell
Flirting
Exercise
Healthy Seduction
Mastermind
Of Birthday Boys and Car Launches
Lando Norris
Smile
Wingman Roscoe Part 2
Are you in love with me?
Tickle monster
Baby!
Couples that stream together stay together
Lewis Hamilton
Lazy mornings
Miami
Fighting and making up
Love songs
Premiere
Knight in a black race suit
Mick Schumacher
Jealousy jealousy
First points and good luck charms
I love you. How could I not?
Set up
The Three times Gina nearly catches you. And the time you come clean
Of Red Cheeks and Red Race Suits
Pierre Gasly
Dancing
Monza
Barbecue
Labour
I had a dream
Awkward first encounters Pt2
Drunken confessions
Braid’s
Puppy!
The big question and the big day
Baby Fever
Fighting
Once burned, Twice shy Pt2
Pierre’s Baby Fever
A Conversation on Children
F1 dinner
Baby Masterlist
Deciding to have a baby
The positive pregnancy test
The Ultrasound
Buying the First Thing for Baby
Morning Sickness
First Pregnancy Craving
Going to a race pregnant but no one knows
Hearing the baby heartbeat
Telling your friends You’re Pregnant
Baby Bump
Talking to the baby bump
Feeling the Baby Move
Telling the world
Going to a race pregnant but everybody knows
Scared to Give Birth
Going into labour
Announcing the birth
Newborn
The Breastfeeding Incident
Baby food
Little one’s first grand prix
Small one meet little one
Going to the beach (most recent addition 24/08/20)
Holiday Together
First word
First Birthday
First Steps
Second Child
Telling Uncle Charles
Overwhelmed
max verstappen // mv1 fic recs
———————————— 🏎️🏎️ ————————————
one shots
misunderstood hero with a heart of gold - @harrysfolklore
“max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before”
two sides of the same coin - @monzabee
“the one where you try to convince yourself that you’re not falling for your teammate, but can’t help it when you realise that he is not that different from you after all”
a small request - @postracehair
“even world champions deserve love letters. after missing the mexico gp, you're determined to see max have a good weekend in brazil. maybe all it takes is a handwritten note”
my world (champion) - @italiangirlcoresblog
“the aftermath of the las vegas grand prix with max”
vegas baby - @neferaskingdom
“after winning his fourth world championship, max verstappen stuns the world with a live radio proposal”
work it out - @maxverstappendefender
“mclaren!rival x mv1 (max and reader had a little friends to enemies action, but they are stuck together now. maybe they will work out their issues...)”
the interview - @pucksandpower
“when you are given an assignment to interview someone, you can’t resist asking your boyfriend to be the subject … it’s just a shame that your professor doesn’t believe the interview actually happened”
christ-max - @harrysfolklore
“you invite your boyfriend max to spend christmas with you for the first time, however, your family doesn't quite believe you're dating a formula 1 world champion”
connection - @katsu28
“when a holiday gala that neither you nor max want to be at brings two people from vastly different worlds together, you find out that you might have more in common with the four time world champion than you think you do”
disturbing the peace - @pucksandpower
“an environmental activist disturbs the carefully constructed peace of max’s life and turns his whole world on its head (or in which environmentalism and being a menace both run in the vettel family)”
series
the yapping hour is upon us - @motorsportbarbie13
“in which max decides that maybe doing interviews isn't such a bad thing”
keep on rolling - @vivwritesfics
“lando's best friend having feelings for anyone on the grid? impossible, right? she worked with them, sharing her friendship with the grid with the world via the formulay/n youtube channel”
forbidden - @motorsportbarbie13
“in which you reconnect with an old friend, much to the dismay of your brother”
tamed - @jungwnies
“you're a top pr manager tasked with handling the infamous max verstappen, known for his fiery temper and controversial outbursts”
smau
she’s everything, he’s max - @menagerofmischief
“y/n leclerc starts soft launching a man and soon enough there are paparazzi pictures of the two of them except no one quiet believes that the princess of monaco would settle down with ... max”
we can’t be friends (wait for your love) - @fqlling4it
pt 2
friend of a friend - @norrisainz33
“max meets his dream girl through his friends good friend, pato o’ward”
put it all on red (bull) - @astonmartinii
“her brother won the race? does she know? does she care?”
crying in the club - @pomegranatesarchive
“how should one react when their boyfriend wins the world championship at the same time their brother loses it?”
max & the three musketeers series - @verstarppen
“mercedes’ is just a tiny bit worried about your dates with their archnemesis; once mick, lewis and george caught a whiff of your treason, they had to intervene and stop the villain from stealing their princess”
*these are part of my fic rec masterlist, please note none of these are written by me and the author of each story had been tagged! check out my f1 fic rec masterlist for other drivers!*
White Horse - Chapter 24: June 2024 - Part 5
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, mention of the loss of a parent.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/F1TeaSpiller: GUYS. BELLE LECLERC JUST CHANGED HER INSTAGRAM USERNAME. SHE'S NOW @/belleverstappen. I REPEAT. @/belleverstappen.
🔗 (screenshot)
@/MonacoRoyalty: WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT
@/RedBullTroll33: So you’re telling me… Isabelle. LECLERC. is now VERSTAPPEN?????
I need to lie down.
@/FerrariF1Pain: I THOUGHT I WAS HALLUCINATING WHEN I SAW THE NAME CHANGE. SHE REALLY MARRIED MAX. AND THEY DIDN’T TELL A SOUL. ICONIC BEHAVIOR TBH.
@/F1MemeLord: Charles: forgot Belle’s birthday Belle: changed her last name to Verstappen in front of the entire internet Me: poetic cinema.
@/gridgossip:
EVERYONE WAKE UP
BELLE LECLERC IS NOW BELLE VERSTAPPEN
MAX MARRIED CHARLES' SISTER AND DIDN'T TELL ANYONE
IM SHAKING
@/gridgossip:
This is the softest, coldest, most brutal reveal of all time.
No announcement.
No photo dump.
No grand post.
Just a silent name change.
And now the whole grid is screaming.
@/f1memequeen: MAX VERSTAPPEN SECRETLY MARRIED CHARLES LECLERC’S BABY SISTERAND THEY SOFT LAUNCHED WITH A HORSE AND A USERNAME UPDATE
THIS IS CINEMA.
@/F1ChaosClub: how it started: "whose hand gave max tea on stream??"
how it's going: "max verstappen is married to belle leclerc and nobody knew and now the internet is on fire"
@/TifosiTears: charles leclerc is about to log on and have the worst 24 hours of his life i fear 💀
@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen winning on and off the track as per usual 😌
@/WifeGuyMax: max verstappen, known cat dad and now confirmed wife guy. we love character development 💍🐎🐈
@/GridChaosDaily: the grid when they realize belle verstappen = belle leclerc = max’s wife = charles’s sister = absolute chaos
(photo attached: stock photo of a man having a breakdown)
@/FerrariTears: Charles finding out his sister is now Belle Verstappen because of Instagram is the level of sibling drama we deserve in 2024.
@/TifosiMess: Prediction:
Charles: 🧍♂️😭
Arthur: 🧍♂️😵💫
Lorenzo: 🧍♂️😳
Pascale: 🧍♀️🫠 Meanwhile Belle and Max: 🏇🏡❤️
@/MonacoRoyalty: So let me get this straight:
Belle disappears for weeks
Drops a horse like it’s a handbag
Soft launches her new life
NOW SHE'S A VERSTAPPEN?? I NEED TO LIE DOWN.
@/LandoSimp44: some of you OWE the soft launch detectives an apology. they said it. they were RIGHT.
@/RedBullUpdates MAX. VERSTAPPEN. MARRIED. BELLE. LECLERC. AND THEY HID IT FROM US FOR HOW LONG???
@/FerrariPain: the way the Leclerc brothers are probably finding this out at the SAME TIME AS US 😭😭😭
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)
Lando: HOLY SH*T
Lando: HOLD ON
Lando: SHUT UP EVERYONE
Lando: sends screenshot of @belleverstappen
Oscar: OH MY GOD
Daniel: I AM SCREAMING INTO A PILLOW
Lewis: I’m sorry. Am I hallucinating?? Because that says Verstappen. Not Leclerc.
George: BELLE. VERSTAPPEN. BELLE. FREAKING. VERSTAPPEN.
Carlos: Belle… changed her name…
Zhou: I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WAS NOT READY
George: DID THAT JUST HAPPEN LIVE???
Carlos: I need a drink.
Alex: I AM SCREAMING.
Sebastian: Honestly? About time. Good for her.
Oscar: SHE CHANGED HER USERNAME TO BELLE VERSTAPPEN. THAT'S IT. THAT'S THE ANNOUNCEMENT.
Fernando: Max said "no press release, no statement, just pure chaos."
Daniel: Can we talk about the absolute audacity???
Zhou: Max dropping "I’m married" casually during a press conference and Belle changing her name quietly the night before Spain is PEAK Verstappen behavior.
Lando: I’m gonna cry. She’s not even dramatic about it. Just boop name change.
George: Meanwhile Charles is somewhere punching a wall.
Carlos: somewhere? Try several walls.
Lewis: No but seriously—Belle just silently won the whole internet.
Logan: It’s not even loud drama. It’s silent nuclear bomb energy.
Nico R.: Charles is probably Googling "how to politely kidnap your sister back."
Checo: Max playing 4D chess while Charles plays Candy Crush.
Fernando: And still losing at Candy Crush.
Kimi: Wake me up when someone crashes a press conference about it.
Oscar: Okay but real talk. I’m SO proud of her.
Lando: Same.
Lewis: She chose her happiness over their comfort. Respect.
Esteban: Someone check on Charles.
Fernando: No, no, let him suffer a bit longer. Character development.
Lance: Wait does this mean Max is Charles’ BROTHER-IN-LAW now???
Oscar: i just had a full body shiver
David: I would pay so much money for footage of Fred Vasseur reading this right now.
Mark: I would pay more to see Christian Horner's face.
George: NO ONE TELL PIERRE. Let’s just see what happens.
Logan: What if Belle walks into the paddock tomorrow wearing Verstappen merch. I would pass away.
Lewis: Max really married the one girl Charles forgot to look at properly. Poetic.
Nico R.: This is better than any soap opera I’ve ever seen.
Sebastian: Not Max breaking Ferrari and Leclerc family morale in one move. That’s championship material.
Oscar: Belle really said "forget my birthday? Watch this."
Carlos: Reminder: Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock tomorrow.
George: THEY’RE GOING PUBLIC IN PERSON TOO???
Oscar: CHAOS. COMPLETE CHAOS.
Alex: I have popcorn ready.
Lando: I'm not ready.
Daniel: None of us are.
***
Charles didn’t mean to open Instagram.
It had become a form of self-torture lately—every scroll a reminder of the silence on the other end of his unanswered texts, of the messages left on read, of the birthday that no one in the family had remembered except Belle herself.
But his thumb moved on autopilot during breakfast, and there it was.
Not a post. Not a story.
A name.
@belleverstappen
Charles blinked. Froze. Then blinked again.
No. That couldn’t be right.
He opened her profile.
Same photos. His sister’s profile.
Charles stared at the screen.
Then he read the handle again.
@belleverstappen.
Verstappen.
A cold sweat started to gather at the back of his neck.
“Non… non non non…” Charles muttered, sitting bolt upright in his chair.
Across the hotel room, Alexandra looked up from her hair straightener. “What now?”
“Arthur,” he said, too sharp, holding his phone up like it was infected. “Look at this.”
Arthur, still halfway through a bowl of cereal, leaned over and squinted. He choked immediately.
“No. No, no, no. She didn’t.”
“She did!” Charles said, nearly tripping over his chair. “She changed her name!”
Arthur shoved his cereal away like it had personally betrayed him. “Wait—what does that mean? Did she get married? Wait, is this real?”
“What does it mean?” Charles asked, genuinely baffled. “Why would she—what—Why Verstappen?”
And then, like a bolt of catastrophic lightning:
“Oh my god. Is Jos Verstappen her sugar daddy??”
A sound of pure horror came from behind him.
“CHARLES!” Alexandra snapped. “What the hell?!”
Arthur looked like he had been personally insulted by the sentence. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m just saying—Verstappen! She’s going by Verstappen!”
Charles was already pacing. “She was always weirdly polite to Jos. Maybe he—maybe it’s him.He’s always lurking around the paddock! And she moved out a year ago and never told us. She quit her job. Someone’s clearly supporting her!”
Arthur looked horrified. “Charles. Please. That’s insane.”
Alexandra looked at Charles like he’d grown a second head. “You do realize Jos Verstappen is married, right? Like, currently. Publicly. Has been for years.”
“I saw her smile at Jos in Monaco!” Charles snapped. “And she said he was polite to her at the garage and she’s been so—so secretive and she quit her job and she got a horse—”
“CHARLES,” Alexandra interrupted, hands in the air. “Jos Verstappen is married.”
Charles blinked. “What?”
Arthur groaned and threw a pillow across the room. “Oh my god. This is actually the stupidest conclusion you’ve reached this month, and I was the one that thought Belle was being kept by a sugar daddy with a skincare routine.”
“IT MAKES SENSE AT THE TIME,” Charles insisted.
There was a knock, and Nicholas Todt stepped into the room, holding his tablet with the solemn expression of a man walking into a fire.
“Tell me this is not real,” Nicholas said, holding up a screenshot of Belle’s Instagram page.
“Oh, it’s real,” Arthur said, grimacing.
“Charles, please tell me this is not the first time you’re hearing about this.”
Charles opened and closed his mouth.
Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose and sat down heavily. “This is a PR disaster. If the media connects her to Max—”
“Wait,” Charles said slowly. “Why would the media connect her to Max?”
Everyone turned.
“You’re joking,” Alexandra said.
“What?” Charles asked, defensive.
“She changed her name to Verstappen,” Nicolas deadpanned. “What do you think it is?”
“She can’t be married to Max!” Charles blurted. “Someone would’ve told me!”
Joris, who had been quiet until now, finally looked up from his coffee with the most satisfied look on his face.
Joris shrugged. “Good for her.”
Charles stared. “Good for—what?”
“She’s been invisible to all of you for years,” Joris said bluntly. “And now she’s making herself seen. About damn time.”
Charles looked between them all, suddenly feeling like he was at the center of a soap opera everyone else had watched already.
“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be Max.”
Arthur looked vaguely nauseous. Joris looked like he had several things to say and none of them were polite.
Charles could feel the room closing in. “This is not happening.”
“I actually thought it might be Zhou,” Alexandra said mildly. “Or Lewis. They’re both polite. Hot. Emotionally intelligent.”
“Okay, please stop talking,” Charles groaned.
Arthur sat down beside him. “Do you think she’ll be at the paddock tomorrow?”
“If she shows up wearing Verstappen gear, I’m gonna throw myself in the gravel,” Charles muttered.
Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re going to smile, and wave, and act like a supportive brother who didn’t forget she existed.”
"Max," he repeated dumbly. "Max Verstappen. My biggest rival. The guy who stole my karting trophies when we were twelve."
Arthur shrugged. "Apparently, he didn’t just steal your trophies."
Alexandra smirked behind her hand.
Nicolas rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.
Charles sat down heavily in the nearest chair, completely and utterly defeated.
Belle was married. To Max Verstappen. And the whole world knew.
Everyone except him.
She hadn’t said a word.
She’d just changed her name.
And somehow, that said everything.
****
Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc
Arthur: hey you up?
Lorenzo: I am now. What’s going on?
Arthur: don’t freak out but we need to tell maman something before she finds out from the internet
Lorenzo: Arthur. Tell me now.
Arthur: Isabelle changed her Instagram username. It’s belleverstappen now.
Lorenzo: … what.
Arthur: like not “dating” Verstappen not “soft launch” Verstappen I mean she married him she’s married like legally. emotionally. spiritually. all of it.
Lorenzo: What do you MEAN she’s married to Max Verstappen?! When?! How?! WHY didn’t we KNOW?!
Arthur: because we were all too busy forgetting her birthday and ignoring her for years? just a theory. 🙃
Lorenzo: Jesus Christ. Does Charles know?
Arthur: not until like five minutes ago. he thought she was dating JOS I’m not kidding.
Lorenzo: … of course he did.
Arthur: look can you please talk to maman like right now because the whole paddock is going to know soon and if she sees this online first she’s going to cry and then go full French Catholic guilt spiral and none of us are emotionally prepared for that
Lorenzo: On it.
Arthur: thank you.
Good luck
***
Group Chat: GRID 2024
Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas
Charles: MAX. ANSWER YOUR PHONE.
Charles: TELL ME THIS ISN’T TRUE. TELL ME THIS IS SOME STUPID INTERNET RUMOUR. MAX. DID YOU MARRY MY SISTER?
Max: Yes.
Charles: AND YOU LET ME WALK AROUND THE PADDOCK FOR WEEKS LIKE AN IDIOT.
Max: We got married in Monaco. She wanted to keep it private.
Charles: YOU GOT MARRIED AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME??
Charles: YOU DIDN’T THINK I DESERVED TO KNOW THAT MY BABY SISTER WAS MARRYING MY BIGGEST RIVAL??
Pierre: wait wait wait what do you mean married Isabelle???
Yuki: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHAT IS HAPPENING
Carlos: Charles—
Charles: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN TOGETHER? HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING??
Carlos: Over a year.
Charles: I’M GOING TO SCREAM.
Charles: I’m going to absolutely LOSE MY MIND. You’ve all been lying to me. For MONTHS.
Charles: WHO KNEW?? I WANT A FULL LIST. RIGHT NOW. I SWEAR I WILL GO THROUGH PHONE RECORDS.
Lewis: It wasn’t our secret to tell.
George: They weren’t hiding it to hurt you. They were protecting each other.
Lando: Also, you literally forgot her birthday. You don’t exactly have the moral high ground here.
Charles: SHE’S MY SISTER.
Max: She’s my wife. Stop yelling like you own her.
Charles: SHE’S FAMILY.
Max: This isn’t about you, Charles.
Charles: SHE IS MY SISTER. MY FAMILY. AND NONE OF YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW SHE MARRIED SOMEONE WHO’S BEEN TRYING TO BEAT ME SINCE KARTING.
Oscar: She didn’t forget to tell you. She chose not to.
Charles: SHUT UP, OSCAR.
Carlos: Hey.
Charles: NO. YOU TOO. YOU REMEMBERED HER BIRTHDAY. AND YOU SAID NOTHING.
Carlos: Because she asked me to. Because she knew you’d react exactly like this.
Charles: SO MY SISTER MARRIES MAX VERSTAPPEN AND I’M THE VILLAIN??
Max: You remember that now?
Charles: You think this is funny?
Max: No. I think it’s sad. That it took a ring on her finger and a horse on Instagram for you to realize she was gone.
Charles: You went behind my back. You should have told me.
Max: She didn’t want to. And I respect her choices. Which is more than I can say for you.
Charles: I’M HER BROTHER.
Max: Then maybe act like it. Because right now? You’re just noise.
George: Charles, this isn’t about you anymore.
Alex: It’s about Belle. And how she had to build a new life because her old one didn’t see her.
Oscar: And Max did.
Max:If you're done shouting, maybe try asking yourself why she trusted me with her future and not you.
Charles: …
Yuki: can someone please give me a recap. i feel like i skipped six seasons.
Pierre: I JUST FOUND OUT HE MARRIED HER AND NOW HE’S DRAGGING CHARLES INTO THE VOID I NEED TO LIE DOWN
Daniel: someone get Pierre a fan, he’s hyperventilating.
Charles: EVERYONE SHUT UP. EVERYONE JUST STOP.
Charles: I’M FINDING HER. SHE’S AT THE TRACK, RIGHT? I’M FINDING HER RIGHT NOW.
Lewis: Charles.
Charles: WHAT.
Lewis: Do not ambush her. You don’t get to demand explanations from someone you forgot how to see.
Charles: I DIDN’T—
George: You forgot her birthday, Charles.
Oscar: You didn’t notice when she moved. You didn’t notice when she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she stopped showing up to family events.
Carlos: You didn’t notice her.
Charles: I just want to talk to her.
Max: Then wait until she’s ready. You’ve taken a lot of things from her, Charles. You don’t get to take this, too.
Charles: You don’t get to talk to me about what I’ve taken.
Max: No? Then let me talk to you about what you didn’t give her.
Max: Time. Attention. Respect. Support.
Max: All the things she gave you without question. All the things you never gave back.
Yuki: i’m so uncomfortable but also very invested
Pierre: i feel like we should log off
Charles: ...is anyone going to back me up here?
Esteban: You kind of lost the moral high ground at “is she dating Jos.”
Logan: ngl we all knew but we also knew you’d react like this.
Lewis: This isn’t about us. It’s about her. You need to let her decide if and when she wants to let you back in.
Charles: She’s my sister.
Max: She’s my wife.
Max: And if you ever want a place in her life again, maybe start by realizing you don’t get to gatekeep her happiness.
Carlos: Max. Enough.
Max: I’m done.
The rest is up to her.
Not me.
And sure as hell not you.
***
Pascale Leclerc had always prided herself on knowing her children.
She had lived through the chaos of karting and exam seasons, through Arthur’s scraped knees and Charles’ broken hearts, through Lorenzo’s silent strength and Isabelle’s quiet brilliance.
She had watched them grow up like a garden — each one different, wild in their own way, but hers.
And yet now, as she stood in her kitchen — untouched tea cooling in her hands — she felt like she was staring at a house that had quietly caught fire.
And she hadn’t even smelled the smoke.
Lorenzo stood by the doorway, tense but calm in that way only he could be.
He had always been the family’s voice of reason, the one who didn’t panic, who showed up with logistics when the others brought emotions.
But tonight, there was something sharp beneath his composure. A tightness around the mouth. A shadow in his voice.
“Something happened,” Pascale had said, the moment he arrived.
Lorenzo didn’t answer right away.
He looked at her — really looked at her — like he wasn’t sure how to begin. Like he was about to hand her a truth that couldn’t be unspoken.
“Isabelle got married,” he said quietly.
The words didn’t register at first. Not fully.
They sat in the air, strange and unfamiliar, like hearing a sentence in a language she hadn’t spoken in years.
“What?” Pascale asked, blinking.
“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said again, slowly. “She got married. A few weeks ago. In Monaco.”
Her breath caught.
“To who?”
Lorenzo hesitated. “Max Verstappen.”
The name hit harder than the sentence.
Pascale lowered herself into the nearest chair like her legs no longer trusted her.
“She’s… married,” she said, tasting the word. “To Max. And we didn’t even know?”
Lorenzo sat across from her. “We didn’t even know she was in a relationship, Maman. We didn’t know she moved. That she quit her job. We didn’t know anything.”
Pascale stared at the table, at her own hands folded around a now-cold mug.
It was her fault.
Hers.
Because she had believed silence meant peace. She had assumed that just because Isabelle didn’t complain, she was content.
And in doing so, she had let her daughter disappear. Slowly. Quietly. Without fanfare.
“She didn’t want us to know?” Pascale asked, voice small.
“No,” Lorenzo said gently. “Because we’ve given her every reason to believe we only care when it’s convenient. When it’s public. When it’s about Charles.”
Pascale felt her eyes sting. “I thought… I thought she would come to me, if it was serious.”
“She did,” Lorenzo said, not unkindly. “She just stopped waiting for us to see her.”
Pascale pressed a hand over her mouth.
“I didn’t even know she still believed in love,” she whispered. “After everything we asked her to give up. After everything we never gave back.”
“She did,” Lorenzo said. “And he gives it to her.”
Silence stretched between them — thick with guilt and revelation.
“I missed her wedding,” Pascale said softly.
“We all did,” Lorenzo replied. “But we don’t have to miss everything else.”
Pascale’s hand trembled as she set the tea aside. It sloshed slightly over the rim — unnoticed.
“I missed her wedding,” she repeated, more to herself than to Lorenzo.
He didn’t speak. He knew better than to offer hollow comfort.
“I missed her,” Pascale whispered. “I missed everything.”
The silence sat heavy between them, stretching until it felt like a second skin. Pascale reached for her phone on the table — out of habit, out of desperation — and stared at the screen like it might offer her redemption.
A single name burned in her memory.
Isabelle.
Her thumb hovered, hesitating over old messages, until finally, she opened the thread.
It was all still there. Every breadcrumb of her failure.
Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.
Even reading it now, Pascale felt the shame wash through her like floodwater.
It was a lie. She had forgotten.
Not just the day. Not just the message.
She had forgotten her daughter — in the way that mattered most.
“I lied to her,” Pascale said aloud, her voice cracking.
Lorenzo closed his eyes like he was bracing for a storm. “Maman…”
“When I messaged her,” Pascale said, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “After I forgot her birthday. I didn’t want her to think I forgot. I told her I meant to text her — that I accidentally sent it to Charles instead. But that wasn’t true. I did. I forgot. I forgot the day she was born. And then I lied because I couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing that. I didn’t remember until Charles reminded us. I lied to make it seem like I hadn’t failed her. But I did. I have. Over and over again.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I told myself she was strong. That she didn’t need as much,” Pascale continued, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks. “She didn’t fight for attention. She didn’t make noise. She just… quietly endured. I thought that meant she was fine.”
“She wasn’t,” Lorenzo said softly.
“I know that now,” Pascale whispered. “But it’s too late to be there for the little girl who cried when we sold her horse. Or the young woman who spent her graduation alone because we were all watching a race.”
Pascale looked up, eyes brimming.
“But maybe it’s not too late for the woman she’s become. The one who found someone who sees her. Who loves her enough to ask for her forever, even when she felt invisible.”
Lorenzo nodded slowly. “You’ll have to show her. Not just say it.”
“I don’t even know if she’ll want to hear from me,” Pascale said.
“You’ll try anyway,” he replied. “Because that’s what she deserved all along. Someone who didn’t need a reminder to show up.”
The air shifted slightly — still heavy, still painful, but no longer suffocating.
Pascale exhaled shakily and picked up her phone again.
“I want to fix it,” Pascale said eventually. “I don’t know how, but I want to try. I don’t want her to think we only care now because she married someone famous.”
“Then don’t start with an apology for missing the wedding,” Lorenzo said, voice low but steady. “Start with an apology for everything before it.”
***
Group Chat: HELP ME
(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)
Lando: (sends screenshots)
Lando: okay so we all agree that was… A Lot™?
George: “Then maybe act like it.” Cold. Accurate. Deserved.
Lewis: I was hoping Charles would reflect Not double down on the yelling and gaslighting
Carlos: He kept yelling “SHE’S MY SISTER” like it was a spell It’s not. It’s just a fact. And not one he treated with care.
Zhou: I’m honestly mad at him. Belle deserved better than that meltdown.
Daniel: She’s been waving white flags for YEARS. The fact that she had to marry Max Verstappen for him to finally notice is… tragic.
Logan: He tried to make it all about himself. Again.
Esteban: And he really told Max “you went behind my back” like Belle is property
Sebastian: Disrespectful. Self-centered. Deflecting guilt into rage. I like Charles. But this? This was ugly.
Lance: You could see the second-hand shame through the screen
Valtteri: Honestly, I don’t blame Max for losing patience.
Nico R.: He gave Charles every opportunity to calm down. Charles chose violence.
Oscar: “Which is more than I can say for you.” Yeah. That line still lives in my head.
Fernando: Max protected her. Period. Charles tried to make it about rivalry. One of them is married. The other is playing victim.
Mark: I love when people forget that Max is scary when he loves someone Not just when he races
David: Charles thought the betrayal was the secret The real betrayal is that she stopped counting on him, and he never noticed
George: And now he’s blaming everyone except himself.
Lando: What exactly did he expect? That she’d send a save-the-date and beg for attention?
Lewis: She already did. Every time she showed up and got ignored.
Sebastian: She didn’t disappear. She just stopped asking to be seen.
Alex: And I’m done coddling Charles about that.
Carlos: Same.
Oscar: She chose happiness. He called it betrayal. That says everything.
Zhou: Should we be worried about today?
Daniel: We should be prepared. Max said he’s bringing her to the paddock. And Charles? He’ll implode.
Fernando: Let him. Maybe he’ll finally listen if it’s in public.
Lewis: He doesn’t deserve answers. He deserves the silence he gave her.
George: And if she does say anything to him, it’s her choice.
***
Belle had never liked the paddock.
Not because it wasn’t impressive — it was. Efficient, loud, organized chaos. But because it had never really felt like hers. Not even when Charles had brought her around as a teenager, wide-eyed and silent, watching her brothers shake hands and pose for cameras while she trailed two steps behind.
She knew how invisible you could be in a place like this.
But not today.
Not now.
She stepped through the gates with Max beside her — her fingers laced in his, steady and certain — and the hush that fell over the paddock was immediate.
Belle could feel it.
The weight of eyes. The slow, sharp recognition rippling outward from person to person like a silent explosion. Some turned to look, others tried not to, but they all felt it. The shift. The fact that something had changed.
That she had changed.
Max didn’t break stride. Neither did she.
The sun was warm on her shoulders, but the Red Bull jacket she wore — his, oversized and soft — felt like armor. Familiar. Safe. She’d tugged it from his closet that morning while he was brushing his teeth, said nothing as she slipped it on, and Max had only smiled at her like she was everything in the world worth looking at.
He hadn’t let go of her hand since.
Belle didn’t smile, but she didn’t flinch either.
She looked ahead, chin high, expression calm. If they wanted something loud — a statement, a spectacle — they weren’t going to get it.
They’d get this.
Her wedding band catching the light. Her hand in Max’s. Her name — Belle Verstappen — already echoing through the internet.
Let them talk.
She heard someone near the McLaren garage whisper, “Oh my god, it’s really her.” Heard another murmur, “She’s wearing his jacket.”
Belle didn’t look. She didn’t have to.
She could feel the stares. Could feel the quiet scramble of the media trying to decide whether or not to speak. To ask. To breathe.
She kept walking.
Max leaned in slightly, barely tilting his head toward her, and said under his breath, “Still with me?”
Belle’s lips curved — just slightly. “Always.”
His thumb brushed along the side of her hand in response. The smallest touch. But enough.
They moved through the paddock like a weather system — calm on the surface, but electric underneath. Some drivers straightened up when they passed. Some looked away. One engineer dropped their tablet. Someone near the Ferrari garage gasped.
Belle didn’t look toward it.
She didn’t need to see Charles to know he was watching.
She could feel it — that specific burn of a sibling’s shock, of betrayal, of too-late recognition. And it hurt, somewhere deep in her chest. But it didn’t undo her.
Not this time.
Max gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.
She kept walking.
Every step felt like reclaiming something. Every heartbeat steadier than the last.
Let them stare. Let them wonder.
They hadn’t seen her before. They hadn’t heard her.
Now they would.
Quietly. Unapologetically.
This was her life.
And Belle Verstappen wasn’t hiding anymore.
***
@/GridGossip: 🚨BREAKING: BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST WALKED INTO THE PADDOCK HOLDING MAX’S HAND She’s wearing his jacket An emerald engagement ring And a gold wedding band I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking. 📸 (zoomed photo)
@/F1TeaSpiller: Forget soft launches. Belle Verstappen just HARD LAUNCHED HER ENTIRE MARRIAGE That’s a wedding ring, babes. A wedding ring.
@/RedBullTroll33: Max Verstappen didn’t post a wedding photo. Didn’t do an announcement. Just walked into the paddock with his wife wearing a rock the size of my student debt. Power move.
@/FerrariF1Pain: The Leclerc family watching Belle walk in like: 👁👄👁 With a RING With MAX In his jacket Wearing the smirk of a woman who’s been underrated for too long
@/f1memequeen: That emerald engagement ring is screaming “I don’t need your approval, I already have his last name” And honestly?? Obsessed.
@/WifeGuyMax: Everyone: when will Max post Belle? Max: I’ll bring Belle. Max: To the paddock. Max: With a gold band on her finger. Max: Say hello to my wife.
@/GridChaosDaily: Belle is wearing a gold wedding band and an engagement ring the size of a walnut and hasn’t blinked once Meanwhile Charles looks like he’s on the verge of spontaneously combusting
@/MonacoRoyalty: THE RING THE JACKET THE HAND-HOLDING THE WALK SHE’S THE MAIN CHARACTER
@/MaxIsWinning: Max Verstappen said:
Emerald ring ✔️
Gold band ✔️
My jacket ✔️
My hand ✔️
My wife ✔️ Legend.
@/f1memequeen: Belle: walks in calmly Internet: 💍😱🔥👗👀💀💍👑 The power of SILENCE
@/LandoSimp44: me: I’m over the Verstappen-Leclerc marriage drama also me: zooming in on the ring like it’s the Mona Lisa
@/FerrariTears: Charles is looking at that gold band like it personally betrayed him Arthur’s gone full ghost mode Pascale is probably praying in a dark room Meanwhile Belle’s just casually wearing a 5-figure emerald like it’s nothing
@/F1MemeLord: Belle: marries Max Verstappen in secret Charles: forgets her birthday Belle: walks into the paddock with a ring and a husband The plot arc is insane. The payoff? Cinematic.
@/gridgossip: MAX WALKING IN WITH HIS WIFE AND ZERO APOLOGY IS THE MOST VERSTAPPEN THING TO EVER HAPPEN
@/TifosiTears: Belle really said: you forgot me? let me introduce you to my husband and this giant green rock
***
The moment they stepped inside the Red Bull garage, Belle felt the shift.
It wasn’t like entering a room. It was like crossing a threshold — one she could never go back from.
There were voices, radio chatter, tire warmers humming. Mechanics moved with sharp efficiency. But as Max walked in with her hand still folded in his, everything… slowed.
Heads turned. Not in shock — they all knew by now. But in curiosity.
She was part of it now.
Max dropped his bag with practiced ease, nodded at one of the engineers, and then looked back at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the room.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, just for her.
Belle nodded, though her heart was fluttering too fast. “Yeah. Just—this is a lot.”
“You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” she said quietly. “I want to meet the people who know the version of you I don’t get at home.”
Max smiled like that meant more than she realized — like she’d just handed him something no one else ever had.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Time to meet the chaos.”
Belle only had a second to steel herself before she heard the gruff voice.
“About time you brought her here.”
Jos.
He was already standing near the back wall of the garage, arms folded, mouth tugged up in something that resembled a smile. As he looked at her properly, something softened in his expression. Something almost proud.
“See you survived the vultures,” he said drily, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
She blinked — caught off guard — and then smiled. “I’m told it’s a survival skill.”
Jos chuckled — actually chuckled — and nodded. “Good. You’ll need it.”
“Papa,” Max greeted casually, unbothered by the tension humming in the air. “Thanks for being here. You’ll keep an eye on her while I’m in the car.”
Belle blinked, surprised. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Max smiled slightly. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”
Jos’s lips twitched. Just barely.
“Sit where you want,” he said to her. “It’s quieter at the back. And if anyone annoys you, tell them you married a Verstappen. That’ll scare them off.”
Max gave him a look. Jos ignored him entirely.
Before Belle could respond, a familiar voice called out from just inside the garage.
“Well, well. You’re finally in the right garage.”
She turned — and smiled fully for the first time that day.
Gianpiero Lambiase stood near his station, headset already slung around his neck, amusement lighting his usually serious expression.
“Hi, GP,” Belle said warmly.
He approached, offering a half-hug, half-handshake that was somehow the perfect balance of affection and professionalism. “Max said you’d be here, but I figured he was bluffing.”
“I almost backed out,” Belle admitted. “Then he bribed me with his jacket and pancakes.”
“Classic Verstappen tactics,” GP deadpanned. “Food, flattery, and limited emotional vocabulary.”
Max, passing behind them, muttered, “I can still hear you.”
GP grinned, unfazed. “Welcome, Belle. We’ve all been betting on when you'd show up.”
She arched a brow. “And who won?”
“Helmut,” GP said, disgusted. “Which is horrifying.”
Max returned, tugging lightly on her sleeve. “Come on. Christian wants to meet you.”
Belle exhaled, nerves fluttering again, but she followed Max past rows of screens and engineers until they stopped in front of Christian Horner, who turned to greet them with the ease of a man who’d already been briefed but was pretending he hadn’t.
“Well, you’ve caused quite the storm.”
Christian Horner.
He approached with that signature half-smile of his, hands in his pockets, a subtle look of curiosity behind the polite charm.
“So this is the mysterious Mrs. Verstappen,” he said warmly. “Finally. The woman who managed to tame our reigning champion. Or so the rumors say.”
“I don’t think anyone tames Max,” Belle said dryly.
Christian laughed. “You might be right. But clearly, you’re the exception.”
She extended a hand, and he shook it firmly.
“Christian Horner,” he added, even though she obviously knew.
“Belle Verstappen,” she said quietly — testing the name again. Feeling it settle.
Christian’s gaze flicked to her left hand, where the emerald caught the overhead lights. “Well, it’s official now. Welcome to the madness.”
Belle took a slow breath as they stepped deeper into the garage, Max’s hand briefly grazing her lower back before he peeled off toward his car.
She watched him go, then looked around at the controlled chaos of Red Bull’s world — the data streams, the techs, the noise, the anticipation.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the outside of someone else’s life.
She was here.
She was his.
And the garage was exactly where she was supposed to be.
***
Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected.
Maybe denial. Maybe chaos. Maybe the internet was wrong — maybe Belle hadn’t really married Max Verstappen. Maybe someone had faked the name change. Maybe it was a fever dream.
But then he saw them.
Isabelle. Walking into the paddock like she belonged there. Wearing Max’s jacket. Wearing a wedding band. Holding his hand.
Arthur froze mid-step outside the Ferrari hospitality unit. His coffee trembled in his grip. For a second, he genuinely forgot how to breathe.
Because it wasn’t just that Isabelle was there.
It was the way Max glanced at her every few steps, the way she leaned in slightly when the crowd pressed too close. The way their fingers didn’t untangle, not once. Not even when flashes went off or someone whispered her name like it was blasphemy.
She looked calm. Not smug. Not afraid. Just… calm.
And that was what undid Arthur most.
Because she’d never looked like that before — not at races, not around the family, not anywhere she’d ever been expected to play the silent sibling to Charles’ glory.
She looked like herself. Like someone who had finally been given permission to take up space.
And beside him, Charles looked like he was about to snap.
“Unbelievable,” Charles muttered, voice too low and too bitter. “He couldn’t even tell me. He had to parade her in front of everyone like this?”
Arthur tore his eyes away from Isabelle — reluctantly — and turned toward his older brother.
“Are you serious right now?” he asked.
Charles flinched. “What?”
“She’s walking in with her husband, Charles. Not doing a press tour. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought maybe—” Charles stopped, jaw tight. “Maybe she’d have the decency to talk to me first.”
Arthur stared at him. “Decency? Are you hearing yourself?”
Charles ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “She’s my sister—”
“And you’re acting like she’s your possession.”
Charles turned on him. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are!” Arthur snapped, stepping closer, voice sharp. “You’re acting like she owed you something when all she ever wanted was to be treated like she mattered!”
“Don’t twist this, Arthur,” Charles said, low and warning.
Arthur laughed — harsh, disbelieving. “You forgot her birthday. We forgot her birthday!”
“That was a mistake—”
“We forgot her birthday, and then when she finally chooses herself, finally chooses someone who sees her, you make it about you?”
“She married Max—”
“She married someone who shows up for her,” Arthur interrupted. “Which is more than we’ve done in years.”
Charles’ face tightened.
Arthur kept going. “You don’t get to be the victim here. Not when she’s spent years watching you get cheered while she was ignored. Not when she begged for scraps of attention and we gave her nothing.”
Charles looked like he wanted to argue. He didn’t.
“She stopped trying to be seen by us,” Arthur said quietly. “Because she found someone who already sees her.”
Charles swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the Red Bull garage where Belle had disappeared with Max minutes ago. “I just… I didn’t think she’d leave us like that.”
“She didn’t leave,” Arthur said. “We just never noticed when she stopped waiting.”
Silence.
Thick. Tense. Regretful.
Charles looked down, jaw clenched. He didn’t say sorry. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Arthur sighed and set his coffee down on the table beside him.
“If you want to be part of her life now, Charles,” he said. “You’re going to have to show her that you’re finally willing to see her. Not as your sister. As herself.”
Then he walked away, leaving Charles in the middle of the paddock — alone, surrounded by people, and for the first time, not the main character.
***
Belle had just sat down with a cup of tea in the quiet corner of Red Bull hospitality when she heard it.
A voice. Sharp. French-accented. Not loud, but unmistakably firm.
She looked up instinctively — and wasn’t surprised.
Arthur.
Standing just outside the entrance, shoulders tense, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets like he was trying to shrink into himself. He’d clearly made it through the first layer of staff with that Leclerc charm that used to get him everywhere.
Unfortunately for him, Jos Verstappen was standing by the doorway.
And Jos did not do charm.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” Jos asked, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Arthur hesitated. “I just—I wanted to talk to her.”
“This isn’t Ferrari,” Jos said, voice calm but cutting. “You don’t get to stroll in here after throwing a tantrum across half the paddock and acting like your sister’s marriage is some kind of betrayal.”
Arthur flushed. “I didn’t throw a tantrum—”
“You don’t belong here,” Jos said. “Not after this morning. Not after the way your brother behaved.”
Arthur’s face flushed. “I came her to…”
“To what?” Jos stepped closer. “Apologize on behalf of Charles? Defend him? Make excuses for how you treated her?”
“No!” Arthur said quickly, hands up. “No. I’m not here for Charles. I’m here for her.”
Belle stood before she even realized she’d moved.
“Jos,” she said, voice soft but clear. “It’s fine.”
He turned toward her, frowning. “Belle—”
“I want to talk to him,” she said.
And for the first time in a very long time, she saw someone else hesitate when talking to her.
Jos studied her face for a beat. Whatever he saw must have been enough, because he gave a terse nod and stepped back. Not far. But far enough to say I’m still watching.
Arthur looked like he was bracing for impact as she walked toward him.
Belle stopped a few steps away, arms crossed loosely. She didn’t hug him. Didn’t cry.
He stopped a little too far away, hands in his pockets, guilt etched into every line of his face.
“You weren’t really trying to sneak past Jos Verstappen, were you?” she finally asked dryly.
Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he wouldn’t see me.”
A faint smile tugged at Belle’s mouth. “He used to spot Max sneaking out after curfew with a hoodie pulled over his head. You never had a chance.”
Arthur groaned. “I thought maybe if I moved fast enough, he’d blink.”
“He never blinks,” she said.
He cracked a smile, brief and sheepish. “You look good.”
Her expression softened, barely. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t,” he admitted. “Charles is sulking like it’s a championship sport. Maman’s crying into a croissant. Lorenzo’s trying to schedule a family meeting like it’s a UN crisis summit.”
Belle sighed, gaze drifting past him for a moment. “I figured.”
He hesitated. “I didn’t come to defend anyone. Not Charles. Not Maman. I just… I needed to see you. For myself.”
She studied him in silence. Arthur had always been a little caught in the middle — younger than Charles, louder than Lorenzo, trying to carve space where there was none. He wasn’t blameless. But he hadn’t been cruel. Just… complicit.
But he was trying now.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable — just full. Full of all the things left unsaid for too long. All the messages never sent. All the birthday calls missed, the family dinners where she was present but not seen.
“You used to hide in my bed during thunderstorms,” Belle said quietly. “You’d ask me to read the same chapter of Le Petit Prince three times until you fell asleep.”
Arthur blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” Belle said. “I remember the good things. I always tried to.”
His throat worked around the lump there. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Max. About the wedding. About… any of it?”
Belle looked down at the rings on her finger — the green of the emerald glinting faintly under the hospitality lighting, the simple gold band beneath it warm against her skin.
“Because you weren’t really looking,” she said. “None of you were. And I was tired of asking to be seen.”
Arthur didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue.
“I know,” he said instead, voice low and thick. “I think… I’ve known it for a while. I just didn’t know how to face it. But seeing you with Max — the way he looks at you, the way you look at you — I get it now. And I hate that it took this for me to see it.”
“It’s not about hating yourself,” Belle said, gentler this time. “It’s about doing better now. If you want to.”
Arthur looked at her like she was someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who had stopped waiting for the world to recognize her and built a place where she didn’t need permission.
“Are you happy?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath all morning.
“Good,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
Belle stepped forward then, arms uncrossed, and opened them. The offer was quiet. Soft.
Arthur didn’t hesitate.
He pulled her into a hug like he was afraid she might vanish again. His arms wound around her, shoulders trembling just slightly. Belle hugged him back — firm and steady.
And it felt like something beginning again.
Not perfectly. Not fixed.
But trying.
When they finally stepped apart, Belle offered a quiet, teasing smile. “Next time, use the front entrance. Jos might not be so forgiving twice.”
Arthur groaned. “I’m still recovering. I think he aged me ten years with one sentence.”
She laughed — really laughed, for the first time that day.
Behind them, Jos gave a small grunt from where he stood — arms crossed, unimpressed — but Belle didn’t miss the way one corner of his mouth almost curved.
***
Max didn’t usually seek people out for conversations. Not personal ones, anyway.
He’d spent most of his life guarding things that mattered — like they were fragile, like they’d break if anyone else got too close. But this was different. She was different. And what they had now — what was growing quietly inside her — felt too big to carry on his own.
So he found GP.
It was a lull in the afternoon, the last briefing before the sim work, engineers rotating through data stations like gears in a perfect machine. But GP was by himself, leaning against the telemetry table, one brow raised as Max approached with the kind of expression that said, you better not be about to request a new steering wheel setting.
Max didn’t say anything right away.
GP waited.
“I need to tell you something,” Max said finally. His voice was lower than usual. Not tense — just held close.
GP straightened a little. “What happened?”
“She’s pregnant,” Max said.
The words came out smoother than he expected. Maybe because they’d been sitting on his tongue all day.
GP stared at him. Blinked once. Then again.
And then — grinned.
“Seriously?” he asked, already smiling. “Belle’s pregnant?”
Max nodded once, his throat tight. “Yeah. She told me a few weeks ago.”
GP exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Bloody hell. I should’ve seen that coming.”
Max raised a brow. “You didn’t?”
“I figured it was either that or you bought her a horse farm.”
Max laughed — properly, finally, the weight of the day cracking just a little. “I might still do that.”
GP was still smiling, but there was something else in his face now — something softer. Warmer.
“Kids are great,” he said, voice lower, more personal now. “I mean, chaotic and exhausting, but… they’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”
Max blinked. “You’ve never said that.”
GP shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant when you were nineteen and trying to beat Lewis Hamilton into turn one.”
Max huffed a laugh. “Fair.”
There was a pause. A weight in the air — not heavy, but full.
“She’ll be a brilliant mum,” GP added, quieter now. “She’s got that calm strength to her. The kind you don’t notice until it’s the only thing holding you together.”
Max nodded slowly. “I know.”
“And you,” GP said, tapping a finger to Max’s chest, “are going to be fine. More than fine.”
Max hesitated. “Even with…”
“Even with your past? Your dad?” GP finished for him. “You’re not him. You never were.”
Max looked down for a moment, jaw tight. Then, after a long breath, he met GP’s eyes again. “I just want to give that kid something different. Something better.”
“You already are,” GP said simply. “You chose Belle. That’s your first good decision. Choosing that baby every day — that’s your next.”
“I’m scared,” Max admitted.
“Good,” GP said. “That means you give a damn.”
Max nodded once.
“I’m happy for you, mate,” GP added, reaching out and clasping his shoulder. “Really.”
Max nodded again, grateful in a way he didn’t know how to say.
“And just for the record,” GP added dryly, “I had a bet with my wife that you two would get pregnant before Charles figured out you were married.”
Max burst out laughing. “Did she win?”
“She always wins.”
Max was still grinning when he turned to leave, lighter than he’d been all day.
There was so much left to do — more secrets to tell, more people to face — but for now, it was enough that someone knew.
Someone who didn’t just understand racing.
Someone who understood him.
***
From the hospitality suite above the Red Bull garage, Belle had a near-perfect view of the final laps.
The Spanish heat shimmered off the track, waves of it rising like ghosts in the air, but Belle barely noticed. Her fingers gripped the arm of her seat, headset slightly askew, Max’s voice crackling faintly through the speakers — clipped, calm, focused.
She had never liked watching him race before she knew him.
Now, she knew better.
Now, she could hear it in the way he spoke to GP. The way he adjusted. Reacted. Fought, not like a man trying to prove something — but like someone who knew exactly who he was, and who he had waiting for him at the end.
You’ve got three laps left, mate, GP said calmly in her ear.
Copy. Leave it with me.
Belle swallowed hard. Her hand settled instinctively over the front of her stomach, hidden by the loose navy blouse she wore. She hadn’t told many people yet — just Arthur, Jos, and Emilie, and now GP, thanks to Max.
But this felt like a secret the whole world would eventually know.
The final sector flew past in a blur. Tyres screamed. Crowds surged.
And then, the chequered flag.
“YES! That’s P1, Max. Well done.”
Belle exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hand flew to her mouth, and then, just as quickly, to her chest — right over her heart.
He’d done it.
Again.
The team erupted around her — mechanics cheering, hugging, high-fiving, lifting cans of Red Bull like champagne flutes. Christian was already halfway out the door, and even Jos, who’d been watching beside her with arms crossed, allowed himself a rare smile.
But Belle?
Belle didn’t move.
Not until someone nudged her gently — a team assistant with wide eyes and an even wider grin. “He’s asking for you,” the girl said. “Go. Go!”
Belle blinked. “What?”
“Parc Fermé. He’s already out of the car. Go!”
She didn’t hesitate after that.
The hallways blurred past her — wide corridors filled with team personnel and security and overheated energy. Her flats slapped against the concrete. Her pass flashed in the light. People parted without even realizing it — as if they could feel she belonged to this moment.
She reached the barrier just as Max pulled off his helmet, hair damp with sweat, fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest.
And then he saw her.
His eyes lit up in a way Belle didn’t think he realized he saved for her. He started toward her before the cameras could swarm, before the journalists could shout, before anyone else could get between them.
He crossed to her like he knew she’d be there. Like he’d been driving toward her the whole time.
And Belle didn’t think. Didn’t care about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that Charles was likely still in his car wondering where it all went wrong.
She stepped past the barrier and met him halfway.
And then she kissed him.
There was no hesitation. No coy look at the cameras. No soft-launch subtlety.
Just her hands on his face, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, and the kind of kiss that felt like a homecoming.
The paddock erupted.
Somewhere behind them, a Sky Sports presenter squeaked. David Croft nearly dropped his mic.
Belle pulled back only when Max laughed against her mouth.
“You kissed me in Parc Fermé,” he murmured.
“You won,” she said simply, brushing sweat-mussed hair off his forehead. “You deserve to be kissed.”
Max looked at her for a long moment, then down — briefly, instinctively — at her stomach, where no one else had noticed her hand lingering.
And then he whispered, just for her: “Both of you.”
Belle smiled. “You came home to us safe.”
Max kissed her one more time, softer now, and then turned back toward the swarm of cameras and celebration.
And Belle?
Belle stood at the edge of it all — her lips still tingling, her heart full — knowing the headlines tomorrow would be chaos.
But for now?
She had kissed her husband in front of the entire world.
And she didn’t regret a single second.
***
Meanwhile on Twitter:
@/RedBullTroll33: i thought the name change was chaos BUT THIS??? BELLE JUST WALKED IN AND KISSED HIM LIKE THEY WEREN’T HIDING FOR A YEAR I’M LOSING IT
@/FerrariTears: charles leclerc being forced to watch max verstappen win the race and then watch his baby sister kiss him like it’s a romcom finale is actually greek tragedy level storytelling
@/f1memequeen: Belle: soft-launched a horse and an emerald ring Belle: quietly changed her last name to Verstappen Belle: walks into parc fermé and kisses her world champion husband Me: sobbing okay queen I GET IT
@/WifeGuyMax: MAX VERSTAPPEN KISSED HIS WIFE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE AND LOOKED LIKE HE’D JUST WON SOMETHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN A RACE i’m unwell
@/f1memehub: sky sports: mid-sentence belle: kisses max crofty: glitches karun: gasping social media admin: pressing post like their life depends on it
@/LandoSimp44: the paddock was like “max has a secret wife” max said “here she is. in my arms. deal with it.”
@/MonacoRoyalty: SHE KISSED HIM IN PARC FERMÉ AFTER THE WIN AND HE LOOKED AT HER LIKE SHE PUT THE SUN IN THE SKY i’m crying this is cinema
@/MaxIsWinning: max verstappen doesn’t do drama he does declarations first her name now the kiss next stop: world domination
@/FerrariF1Pain: charles watching belle kiss max in parc fermé after forgetting her birthday is the most older brother consequences i’ve ever seen
@/GridChaosDaily: “Belle kissed Max after the Spanish GP” is now officially my favorite F1 moment no context. just vibes. just love
***
Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen
@/maxverstappen1: Every lifetime, every circuit. Every time. 💍❤️
@/redbullracing: Belle Verstappen supremacy. (also congrats Max 👀)
@/emilie_abadie: this is my new phone background. and lock screen. and wallpaper. and religion. thanks.
@/pierregasly: i need everyone to stop posting this before i start believing in soulmates again
@/landonorris: i was THERE. i SAW IT. i’m never recovering.
@/f1: most liked paddock kiss of all time? confirmed.
@tifositimes: I didn’t expect to cry over a Verstappen kiss post today but here we are.
@/chaoticgridgirl: SHE POSTED IT. THE KISS. THE LEGENDARY KISS. I NEED A MINUTE. ACTUALLY I NEED A WEEK.
@/f1softlaunchdetective: this is what soft-launch girlies do when they hit their final form. she dropped ONE photo and burned the paddock to the ground.
@/maxielflamequeen: the ring. the kiss. the caption.
@paddockwhispers: arthur liked it. charles didn’t.
@softverstappen: i will never emotionally recover from this post. ever. she wins. every time.
@maxsvillainera: look at the way he’s holding her look at the way she’s smiling into the kiss no notes. pure poetry.
***
FIA Press Conference — Post-Race | Spanish Grand Prix 2024
Drivers: P1 - Max Verstappen (Red Bull Racing), P2 - Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), P3 - Lando Norris (McLaren)
Moderator: Congratulations, Max. A win today. How are you feeling?
Max: Good. Yeah, car felt great, team executed perfectly. Always nice to win in Barcelona.
Moderator: We’ll open the floor for questions.
Journalist #1: Max, first of all, congratulations. But obviously everyone’s talking about the moment in Parc Fermé. Can you confirm — was that your wife? And are the rumors true that you and Isabelle Leclerc got married in secret?
Max: Yes. That was my wife. And yes — we got married in Monaco a few weeks ago. We’re very happy.
Lando: (muttering into his mic) Understatement of the century.
Lewis: (grinning) Congrats, man.
Journalist #2: Max, there’s been a lot of talk online about Belle’s birthday being forgotten by her family and this being the reason she pulled away from them. Any comment on that?
Max: No.
Journalist #2: Nothing at all?
Max: (calmly) No.
Journalist #3: There’s a narrative online that Belle’s been overlooked for years. Some say this entire paddock entrance and Parc Fermé kiss was a statement. Was that intentional?
Max: (dryly) We walked in holding hands. We kissed. We’re married. If that counts as a statement, I don’t know what to tell you.
Journalist #4: Do you think this will affect your dynamic with Charles Leclerc?
Max: (expression flat) We’ll see. That’s between him and his sister. I’m just here to race cars and go home to my wife.
Lando: (quietly, to Lewis) He’s in his “husband first, world champion second” era.
Lewis: (laughing into his mic) He really is.
Journalist #6: Do you plan on making any public statement about the family fallout?
Max: No. That’s her story to tell, not mine. And frankly, it’s not gossip. It’s real life. So maybe let’s show a little respect.
Journalist #7: What was going through your mind when she kissed you in Parc Fermé?
Max: (finally smiling) That I’m the luckiest guy in the world.
Journalist #8: Will your wife be traveling with you to more races now?
Max (still polite, still done): We‘ll decide what works best for us as a family. That’s between us.
Reporter #9: Was Belle’s presence in the paddock today a signal? Especially given what happened with Charles—
Max: (cuts in, voice calm but firmer) Belle doesn’t need to signal anything. She’s not a statement. She’s a person. And she came today to support her husband. That’s all.
Moderator: Alright, I think we’ll wrap it there before anyone pushes their luck. Congratulations to all three drivers. Max, Lando, Lewis — thank you.
Lando (leaning into mic): Congrats again, mate. On the win and the wife.
***
Fred Vasseur closed the door harder than necessary.
The sound echoed through the otherwise silent room like a gunshot.
Charles looked up from where he was sitting on the small couch, still in his fireproofs, helmet discarded beside him. He was sweaty, tired, irritated — and entirely unprepared.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais, Charles?” Fred said sharply. What are you doing?
Charles blinked. “What—?”
“You want to explain to me,” Fred continued, voice calm in the most dangerous way possible, “how your sister kissing Max Verstappen became the story of our weekend?”
Charles sat up straighter. “That’s not fair—”
“No?” Fred crossed the room, standing over him now. “Because I think it’s very fair. You let your personal drama become a paddock sideshow, and now everyone’s talking about the Leclerc family meltdown while we limp home with a P5 and a ruined PR day.”
“I didn’t ask for that to happen!”
“But you made sure it did,” Fred snapped. “You didn’t know Belle got married. Fine. You didn’t approve of who she married. Fine. You could’ve said nothing. But instead, you threw a tantrum. In the paddock. In group chats. Loud enough that half the drivers are mocking you and the other half are wondering if you even see your sister as a person.”
Charles flushed. “That’s not—”
“You forgot her birthday, Charles.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Fred didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.
“You forgot her birthday. You forgot her job. You forgot she moved. And when she stopped chasing your attention, you acted like she betrayed you.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened with every word. “And now you’re shocked that the only person she trusted to hold her hand through it all was the man who sees her every single day?”
Charles looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to be public.”
Fred laughed — once, bitter and short. “And yet you’re the one who made it public. Max didn’t. Belle didn’t. You did. And now you’ve made us look like amateurs — not because of strategy, but because you couldn’t handle the fact that your sister’s life isn’t orbiting around you anymore.”
Charles opened his mouth. Closed it. No words came.
Fred sighed — not in exasperation, but in disappointment. And that hurt more.
“I expected more from you,” he said quietly. “As a driver, yes. But more than that — as a man. As a brother.”
Charles flinched like he’d been hit.
“You want to fix this?” Fred said, stepping back. “Then stop sulking. Start listening. And for the love of God, don’t let Max Verstappen be the better man in every single room you enter.”
He turned and walked to the door.
“Because right now?” he added, hand on the handle. “He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters.”
And then he left.
Charles stayed seated, eyes burning, the silence pressing heavier than any helmet ever had.
***
Dinner had started out exactly the way Belle expected.
Loud. Warm. Slightly unhinged.
They were tucked into a quiet corner of a restaurant just off the Barcelona marina — the kind of place Max loved because no one there cared about racing unless it blocked traffic. The table was round, the lighting dim and golden, and the laughter had already started before the appetizers arrived.
Lando had barely let Max sit down before declaring, “You’re disgusting. You win a race and then get kissed like it’s a Netflix finale. Get out.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Max had said, completely unbothered.
Oscar, seated beside Lily, just smirked. “It was kind of romantic.”
Lily looked between the two of them with a soft smile. “Kind of? It broke the Internet.”
Daniel had toasted “to hard launches, soft kisses, and Verstappen chaos,” and Belle had nearly snorted water through her nose.
But now dinner had mellowed. Plates cleared. Dessert on the way. The kind of soft lull that usually came right before someone said something life-changing.
Max glanced at Belle. That look — gentle, checking, asking without words.
She nodded once.
He cleared his throat lightly. “We actually… wanted to tell you guys something.”
Four pairs of eyes snapped to attention.
“Tell me you’re moving to the countryside and buying a farm,” Lando said immediately. “Please. I need this arc.”
“Better,” Max said, eyes flicking toward Belle.
Belle rested her hands on the edge of the table. Her heart was fluttering, not with nerves exactly — more like awe. Like the moment was finally catching up to her.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
There was a pause.
A moment of stunned silence.
And then—
“NO YOU’RE NOT,” Daniel half-shouted, nearly knocking over his wine glass.
Lily gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Are you serious?!”
Oscar just stared, mouth slightly open like his brain had hit the brakes.
Lando blinked twice, then pointed between them. “Like… with a baby baby?”
Belle burst into laughter — the tension cracking wide open. Max was already grinning like he’d been waiting for this chaos all night.
“Yes, Lando,” Belle said, wiping at her eyes. “A baby baby.”
Oscar finally found his voice. “How long have you known?”
“A few weeks,” Max said. “We’re keeping it quiet for now. But we wanted you to know first.”
Lily leaned across the table, eyes wide and shining. “You’re going to be parents. Oh my god. That baby is going to have cheekbones and a death stare.”
“And probably a kart by age two,” Daniel added, now fully beaming. “Holy shit. Max Verstappen’s going to be a dad. I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting down,” Oscar said, still blinking like he hadn’t caught up.
“I need to sit down harder,” Daniel muttered.
Lando reached for Belle’s hand across the table, squeezing it. “You’re going to be amazing.”
Belle swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “But… I’m also happy. Really happy.”
Max’s hand found her thigh under the table, grounding and steady. She didn’t have to look to know he was watching her with that same soft, almost reverent expression he’d had ever since she told him.
Oscar was smiling now too, the initial shock melting into something warm. “Congratulations,” he said. “Both of you. Really.”
“And selfishly,” Lily added, “I’m just glad we get to love this baby too.”
Daniel raised his glass. “To the official grid baby.”
“We’re not calling them that,” Belle said immediately.
“To Max spiraling when the baby kicks for the first time,” Oscar added, grinning.
“To all of it,” Lando finished. “To them.”
They clinked glasses — softly, gently.
And as Belle looked around at the people who had chosen her — not because she was someone’s sister, not because she was attached to a name — but because they loved her, her heart felt impossibly full.
The world could stay outside tonight.
This was theirs.
***
Je Spreekt Nederlands?
m. verstappen x fem!reader all rights reserved to @verstappwn
prompt: reader goes to the netherlands to meet her boyfriend’s family for the first time, showing off her dutch language’s skills, catching max really off guard.
warnings: explicit sex, +18, swearing, p in v, doggy style, fem! oral, unprotected, degrading words.
The droplets of water were flowing freely down the car window as the Netherlands’ skies raged above the city. It wasn’t the prettiest of days as you and your boyfriend, Max, traveled down the streets towards his childhood home, the day seemed to almost match your mood as you two stopped by the porch of Max’s old place. A nice house with a big garden and wooden ceilings was the sight you were greeted with as your boyfriend killed the engine and stared at you.
“Did you bring enough coats?”, Max kindly asks, furrowing his brows, causing small worry wrinkles to turn up around his icy blue eyes, “You’re trembling. I told you how het Nederland were around this time of the year and you didn’t-”
You cut him short after he starts rambling and worrying about the apparent reason for your shaking hands. “Max. I’m not cold”, you say in small pauses, reaching out to touch his hand, “I’m nervous”. Max’s brain seems to short-circuit. Your words making his brows furrow even further and his eyes narrow. “Nervous?”, he repeats, testing the words in his tongue, “You’re nervous about… meeting my parents?”. The thought of you being anxious seems unbelievable to him, the woman in front of him is the physical representation of calm and collected, and on top of that, the sweetest, kindest and most perfect woman in this world, that is on his eyes. You can’t be nervous, if you’re nervous then he should be sweating.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you bite back, nervous, fidgeting with your fingers as the rain seems to calm for a bit, making your exit off the car even more eminent. Max tilts his head “Schatje”, he calls softly, reaching for your face and cupping your cheek “You don’t have to be nervous. It’s my mom and my sister’s family, it’s just us”, he tilts your head so you’re looking at him, “And they’re gonna love you, baby. Just like I do”, Max leans forward and plants a gentle kiss to your lips, his fingertips brushing and caressing softly at your cheek, “Okay? I love you,” he repeats, pausing his words as if to convey their intensity.
You let out a deep breath, sighing after the kiss as you open your eyes and are met with your boyfriend’s kind blue eyes. “Okay”, you say softly, caressing his calloused hand, “Love you too”.
He squeezes your hand, stepping out of the car and rushing through the rain to get to the passenger side, suitcase in hand. He opens the door for you and intertwines your fingers with his free hand. “It’s gonna be okay,” Max smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Max knocked on the door, a smile on his face as he waited for it to open, his hand firmly holding yours to calm you down. “Kom eraan!”, (coming!) a female voice called out in Dutch, the door opening to show the face of a kind middle-aged woman with dark hair, “Max! Hoi, mijn liefste”, (hi, my dear) she said with a kind smile, pulling your boyfriend in for a hug, “Hoe gaat het?”, (how are you?), Max smiles at his mom and simply shrugs, placing a small kiss to her cheek as if to call her attention. Max’s mom turns to find your shy face at his side, “Oh! And you must be the girlfriend! I’m Sophie, Max’s mom,” Sophie pulls you in for a small hug, a smile on her face.
“Leuk je te ontmoeten, Sophie”, (nice to meet you, Sophie) you whisper softly, quietly, fidgeting with your fingers as your gaze falls to the porch’s floor.
Max’s jaw drops, his blonde brows furrowing as he stares at you, hearing the words in his language flowing out of your mouth, effortlessly. Sophie opens a warm smile, gasping. “Oh Max! She speaks Dutch!”, she exclaims excitedly, “Oh this is wonderful,”. You smile softly, shifting uncomfortably under her excited gaze, Max’s hand moving to sooth your lower back as he chuckles dry, “Yeah, wonderful”.
Max watches as you chatted with his mom and sister, a bright smile on your face as you let yourself get loose around them; his language flowing off your tongue as if it was just a normal Tuesday for you. Not for him. Max had to go upstairs and take out his skinny jeans to cover what hearing your voice in that sultry Dutch, did to him, and putting on a pair of loose pants.
Victoria’s kids were already put to bed by her husband Tom, as the four of you sat around the kitchen island, sipping some red wine while they got to know you better. You had quickly realized just how alike Max was to his sister and how he inherited his kind manners from his mom, laughing about childhood stories they would tell you about your boyfriend. You giggled at a particularly adorable one about him being mad at the SIM as a kid and turned around to look at him. But he wasn’t laughing. He was staring at you, face pinker than usual and fists clenched, but you simply ignored.
Max stared at you as you talked with the two women, his jaw clenched as he crossed his legs, trying to fix the bulge showing through his pants. He pictured you whispering in Dutch on his ear on that same sultry tone, your hands tracing his torso with your fingertips, pressing wet, languid kisses down his stomach till the waistband of his pants-
“Denk dat we wat moeten rusten,” (Think we should get some rest) Max announced after a while, his voice hoarse and his brows furrowed. You frowned at him, “Maar het is nog vroeg,” (But it’s still early) you whined softly, his sister and mom agreeing. “Schatje. Let’s go,” he said through his teeth, his jaw clenched and tone firm in a way that left no room for discussion.
You stood up from the island stools and scratched the back of your neck, “Goeinacht,” (G’night) you said with a soft smile at Victoria and Sophie who smiled back and waved goodnight to you and Max while you two made your way up the stairs. It was still fairly early, about 9 PM, so you truly didn’t understand why your boyfriend was pulling you up towards the guest room claiming you two needed rest when you spent a long time sleeping at his jet on the way here.
“What’s going on?” you ask with furrowed brows as you step into the bedroom, closing the door you move to stare at your boyfriend’s eyes, palms on his chest and worried eyes. “Nothing, liefde”, he kisses your forehead with a softer smile, though you can see how his pupils are darker, “I’m gonna go take a shower, okay? Why don’t you get ready for bed, huh?”.
Then he turns around on his heels and moves towards the suite’s bathroom, sliding the door shut. You furrow your brows further, not understanding his strange behavior, things had gone well with his family, right? They appeared to have approved of you and you absolutely adored both his sister and mom, so what seemed to be the issue?
You simply shrugged and put on one of Max’s shirts and a pair of shorts, not bothering with actual pajamas as you sat on the small couch on the corner of the room, deciding to read for a bit. Getting immersed in your book, you almost didn’t notice when Max came back to the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and hair messy and wet from the shower, he sat behind you and you froze as his chest pressed against your back. “Jij spreekt Nederlands nu, schatje?”, (You speak Dutch now, love?) he mumbled in your ear, his arms circling around you and taking the book off your hands.
He trailed his fingers up and down your arms, making your breath hitch and you felt something hard against your back, Max started planting small kisses alongside your neck and shoulder. “See what you do to me, schat?”, he mumbled against your pressure point, “Baby, are you trying to drive crazy speaking my language to my mom and sister like that?”, his tongue trailed the path of your ear lobe down to the point where your neck and shoulder met and you let out a gasp, “I had to go to the bathroom fix myself so many times, baby. So many…”
Max started pressing wet kisses on your throat, tilting your head back so it was pressed against his shoulder, giving him access to it. Hickeys started forming on your skin as you panted against him, his mouth working on sucking and kissing you as precisely as he could, knowing your body like the back of his hand. “Ik maakt je gek?”, (I’m making you crazy?) you mumbled, your voice cracked with need as you felt heat pooling down your stomach, closing your thighs.
Max moaned against your skin and you clenched your thighs harder as you felt yourself growing wet for him, “Ah schatje, yeah. Just like that. Keeping talking Dutch to me”, he pulled your shirt up, nothing underneath as he leaned down to suck on your collarbone, “Can't touch you like I want this way”, he groaned under his breath, motioning to the fact you two were still on the couch, “How am I gonna show you just how much I value you speaking my language when I can’t even suck you like the good girl you are?”
He smirked and chuckled as he heard you gasp and whimper, covering your mouth with his palm and squeezing your cheeks. He took you by the waist and stood up, throwing you over his shoulder and moving towards the bed, “Gonna have to keep quiet, you know?”, he said in a dark whisper, hovering over you as he threw you in bed, “Do you want my mama en zus to stop thinking you’re an innocent little thing and know how much of a slut you are for me?”, he laughed as you whimpered, his hand going back to covering your mouth.
He stood back and let the towel fall of his waist, watching you gulp. No matter how many times you saw him bare or had sex with him, it always made you stop and drool over him. Max was simply lovely to say the least. “Max, please—,” you whimpered as he took his time taking your sleep shorts out. Max stopped, clicking his tongue, “Ah ah ah ah”, he smirked, “Don’t you wanna be a good girl for me? You speak my language then,” he ordered, his fingers tracing the waistband of the last article of clothing you were wearing.
“Ah, fuck”, were the words that came out of your mouth as your breathing got more wrecked by the second, his tone ordering you to speak his language way hotter than you could’ve anticipated, “Alsjeblieft”, (Please) you whined, biting your lip, “Max, alsjeblieft”. The Dutchman smiled, leaning in to press a languid kiss to your lips, “Good girl”, he said before tugging your panties and shorts down in a swift movement.
You moaned as he pressed a finger against your folds, squirming as he groaned at your wetness, “Baby. You’re so wet for me”, he smiled, pressing kisses to your inner thighs as he knelt on the floor, pulling you by the waist so your legs were hanging over the edge of the bed, “Cover your mouth, pretty”, he mumbled against the skin of your inner thighs, “I’ll stop if I hear a sound, understand me?”
You nodded desperately, your head moving up and down frantically, “Yes, yes, I under—”, you cut yourself mid sentence as you’re met with Max’s disapproving gaze, him clicking his tongue and narrowing his eyes, you quickly go back to Dutch, “Ja, ik begrijp”, (Yes, I understand) you whimper, holding onto his hair as he presses a long kiss to your lower stomach. “See? Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”, he tilts his head in a smirk, enjoying the look on your face, “Quiet, schatje”.
You almost don’t have the time to cover your mouth with your palm when you feel Max’s tongue stroke slowly across your folds. You moan loud against your hand, throwing you head back against the pillow as he moves his tongue to fuck you, your hips matching his movements as he moves in and out of your cunt. You whimper loud, holding onto his hair with the other hand as he moves out to suck on your clit, smirking as he looks up at the mess you are at his touches.
He feels your legs clench around his shoulders as he circles your clit mercilessly, your sensitive bud aching as you moan and feel yourself getting close, “Max, Max—”, you call, and you’re not even sure why you’re calling. But it feels like so much. So good. “I’m- I’m… ik ben dichtbij”, (I’m close) you moan, your hand clenching around your own cheeks as you try to keep your noises down, the knowledge his sister and mother are just downstairs, probably still chatting on the kitchen making your breathing hitch even more.
Max smirked against your wet pussy, his tongue going back to lapping in and out of your cunt while his nose pressed and rubbed against your clit, you let out a loud moan, whimpering as you felt yourself getting impossibly close, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”. And then he stoped. “No, no, no. Max, max, please”, you whined out loud, holding his hair and grinding against nothing as his face was already far away.
“Oh pretty”, he smirked, moving off the ground and hovering over you, “What did I say would happen if I heard a sound, huh?”, Max runs a tongue all over his glistening lips and chin, looking down at you. You whimper at him, your eyes glossy as you’re kept on the edge, “Is this what you want, baby? For my mama and Vic to hear your desperate little noises for me?”, he clicks his tongue, “Can’t have that happen,”.
“Max, but—,” you try to argue, and he slaps the side of your thigh, almost at your ass cheek, the sound echoing through the room quieter than usually since Max was actually serious about being quiet. You whimper and gasp at it, the pain making you even needier for him as you cover your mouth to prevent a moan from escaping. “Jij spreekt Nederlands tegen mij, hoor je mij?,” (You speak Dutch to me, understand?) he groans against you, his hips grinding and driving you crazy as your eyes roll back to your head. “Ja, ja”, (yes, yes) you mumble without any strength, panting.
“Goed meisje,” (good girl) he says before thrusting into you all at once. You cover your mouth with both of your hands as a scream almost breaks out of your throat, “Oh fuck, you feel so good, schatje”, Max groans, pounding in and out of you with no hesitation, he holds your shoulder with his hand, trying to keep you from hitting your head on the headboard with the strength of his thrusts, “Speak. Say something in Dutch,” he groans, his hand flying to your neck as he moves almost all out and then back in.
Your eyes widen and you cry out his name, covering your mouth as you squeeze your cheeks to keep you from screaming. His cock stretching you out so much it feels like you’re being torn apart in two. “V-vertragen,” (slow down) you whimper shakily underneath him, but his pace doesn’t falter for a second. “Kleur?” (colour?) Max asks, his cock hitting every spot perfectly, including the sweet one that makes you see stars. “Groente,” (green) you let out in a breath.
Max stops and you cry out again. “Turn around,” he says, stroking his cock as he waits for you to get on hands and knees. Shakily, you do as he says, your face against the mattress and ass up and you whine desperately, “Would you look at that. A proper slut and asking me to slow down,” he groans before pounding in again, his pace even harder and faster than before as Max watches in awe his cock disappear inside of your cunt. Your face is on the mattress, drooling down the sheets as Max thrusts in and out, hitting you perfectly in every spot to have you crying in pleasure.
You bite down the white sheets, trying to muffle your sounds as you start panting a getting close again. Max leans down, his chests against your back as he pulls at your hair, making you gasp and he slaps your ass again, a cry leaving your throat, “Quiet,” he groans through his teeth before pulling you towards his chest so that you’re both kneeling on the bed, him pounding from behind as he wraps a hand on your mouth, squeezing and holding you still and quiet.
With Max’s palm against your lips as you pant and moan under his thrusts, he moves on to a deeper pace, his cock barely moving out of you before he’s in again, making your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel his sweaty chest against your back, “Schatje, I’m gonna cum”, he groans quietly against your ear, trying to hold back his noises as his grip on your mouth grows stronger and bite down his palm, receiving a hiss in response, “You’re close too, aren’t you?”, he pants, his lips finding your neck and shoulder as his thrusts become erratic, “I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth, and you’re gonna tell me just how much you want me to let you come in Dutch, understand?”, he asks through his teeth, “Nod, baby”.
You nod desperately before he takes out his hand off your lips, now covered in drool and red from your bites, “Ik ga klaarkomen, Max”, (I’m gonna cum, Max) you whimper, bitting down your lips to keep yourself from making louder noises, “Alsjeblieft. Laat me klaarkomen,” (Please. Please let me cum).
Max smirks at you, his movements growing sloppier by the second, “Oh, look at you, my baby”, he kisses your neck wet, “Biting your lips and trying to keep quiet for me, so good”, he praises, receiving a loud moan from you in response, which is quickly muffled by his hand, “Such a good girl for me, schatje. You can come”.
The sounds of your bodies moving are wet and obscene as Max’s words make your whole body clench and tighten, right on the edge. You pant against his hand, crying out as your body almost convulses in pleasure. Max follows behind, biting down your shoulder as he comes hard, his movements slowing down as you two ride the waves of your orgasm. Max’s hand falls off your mouth as you two pant against one another, both going limp and boneless against the bed, him under you as you come back down to Earth.
“Since when do you speak Dutch?”, Max pants, caressing your hair. You simply chuckle breathlessly, head resting on his chest, “I don’t know. Since before we met, why? You don’t like it?,” you ask in a soft giggle, propping yourself to your elbows to stare at him.
Max let’s out a laugh, caressing your cheek carefully before kissing you softly as his tongue tangles with yours in a deep, loving kiss, pulling back to press your foreheads together and nuzzle your nose on his, “Schatje, do I need to do all this again for you to see what it did to me?”.
Hey author,
I really appreciate your work and have a Lando fiction request for you. Here's the idea:
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 doesn't propose because he thinks she deserves better than him.
Lando is very protective of the Reader, and the Reader is equally protective of Lando. Whenever his mental health is in ruins, she is always there for him.
The Reader knows about all of Lando's flings. Lando gets into these flings to try and get the Reader out of his mind. However, the Reader thinks Lando isn't interested in her romantically and believes he isn't relationship material. She's scared of getting her heart broken and ruining their friendship because she thinks Lando is never serious. 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.
That's the plot I have in mind. I hope you like it!
Best regards,
Anon.
First Choice
Summary: LN4 + 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.
Song: 505 · Arctic Monkeys
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 7.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The scent of burnt toast hangs heavy in the air, a familiar morning aroma in your shared apartment. You sigh, pulling the offending pieces from the toaster.
Lando, ever the picture of chaotic energy even at this early hour, is perched on the kitchen counter, his legs swinging, a half-eaten banana in hand. He grins at you, that lopsided grin that still makes your stomach flip after all these years.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice still raspy with sleep.
"Morning, burnt-toast aficionado," you reply, placing the sad, charred remains in the bin. "Honestly, Lando, you'd think after living together for five years you'd have mastered the art of toasting bread."
He shrugs, taking another bite of the banana. "Where's the fun in that? Plus, you always make the good stuff anyway." He watches you move around the kitchen, preparing your usual breakfast – a bowl of yogurt with berries and granola.
You feel his eyes on you, a familiar warmth settling in your chest. It's a warmth you’ve learned to ignore, to file away in the ‘best friend’ folder in your heart. You glance at him, your eyes meeting for a fleeting moment.
He quickly looks away, pretending to be engrossed in the peeling of his banana.
You’ve known Lando since you were babies, practically grew up in each other's pockets. There wasn't a significant moment in your lives that didn't involve the other. You've seen each other at your absolute best and, often, your absolute worst.
You've held his hand through heartbreaks, celebrated his victories with boisterous cheers, and held him when the weight of the world threatened to crush him.
He's been your constant, your anchor, the most important person in your life.
The problem, the elephant in your cozy, shared kitchen, is that your feelings for him have evolved. In the last year or so, things changed. The comfortable fondness morphed into something deeper, something more intense, and scarily complex.
You are in love with Lando. It's a truth you've kept fiercely guarded, a secret tucked away like a precious, fragile gem. You can't let him know. He deserves someone who’s not… well, who’s not you.
Someone prettier, smarter, someone not-so-hopelessly-in-love with their best friend.
And he, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart, continues to be just Lando. Carefree, charming, and infuriatingly handsome as he sits there, swinging his legs, a messy mop of hair falling across his forehead.
He’s had his share of flings, a string of fleeting affairs that seemed to come and go with the changing seasons. They never lasted, never meant anything, you knew that.
You've always attributed to his inability to settle down on the fact that he isn't ready for commitment, or that he simply doesn't want one. But the truth is, those relationships hurt you.
They always left a bitter taste in your mouth.
“Big day today, right?” Lando says, interrupting your thoughts. He’s referring to a photography exhibition you’ve spent months working on.
His tone is light, but you recognize the undercurrent of concern. He always feels your anxiety, even when you try to hide it.
You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, a little. But I’m excited too.”
“You’re going to be amazing,” he says, his eyes meeting yours again, this time holding a seriousness that makes your heart skip a beat. “You always are.”
Your exhibition is a success. The gallery is crowded with people, murmuring appreciative comments as they wander past your photographs. You see Lando weaving through the crowd, his eyes always finding you, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.
He’s the first to congratulate you, pulling you into a tight hug, his scent of citrus and something uniquely ‘Lando’ engulfing you.
“I told you,” he whispers in your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “You absolutely smashed it.”
Later that evening, after everyone’s gone, and the gallery is silent, you find yourself sitting on a small bench outside, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the stuffy interior.
You’re exhausted but exhilarated, a potent mix of emotions swirling inside you.
Lando sits beside you, silent for a moment, just observing you. You can feel him, the weight of him beside you, a comforting presence in the quiet night. You lean your head on his shoulder, a familiar habit you haven’t thought too much about until now.
As if on cue he puts his arm around you. For a moment, you let yourself indulge in the warmth of his touch.
“You know,” Lando begins, his voice soft, almost hesitant, “I’ve… I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Your heart clenches in your chest. You know what he means. He means as a friend.
You pull away slightly, forcing a casual tone. “We’ve known each other since diapers, Lando. That’s hardly a surprise.”
He’s quiet again, the silence stretched taut between you. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, even in the dim light.
“No,” he says finally, his voice low. “That’s not… that’s not what I mean.”
Your breath catches in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the vulnerability in his eyes, a vulnerability you’ve only ever seen when his inner demons are creeping to the surface.
He’s looking at you like he’s about to reveal a secret, a terrifying, life-altering truth.
“I’m… I’m a mess, you know?” he continues, his fingers playing with the loose thread on his jacket. “I’m chaotic, I’m impulsive, I’m… I’m not good enough for anyone, especially not…” he stops, his gaze dropping to his hands.
The statement stings, you know exactly what he’s implying. You are not just anyone.
“Lando,” you say, placing a hand on his arm, “Stop it. Don't say that about yourself. You’re amazing. You’re brilliant, and funny, and kind.”
He looks up, his eyes locking with yours. “But you… You’re everything good. You’re sunshine, you’re calm, you’re everything I’m not. You deserve someone… someone better than me.”
The truth hits you like a punch to the gut. That’s why. That’s why he hasn’t let himself fall in love, not truly, not completely. He’s always been convinced you deserve someone ‘better’, and he’s deemed himself unworthy.
The irony of it all isn't lost on you. Here you are, convinced he doesn't love you, and he's doing the very same thing.
"You idiot," you whisper, a tear escaping from your eye.
He looks at you, surprised by your immediate reaction. His protective instincts are triggered. “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”
You shake your head, your heart aching. “You’re so, so wrong, Lando. So incredibly, completely wrong.”
He flinches at your tone as if you've slapped him, the confusion on his face mirroring what you feel inside.
“I… I’m in love with you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I have been for a long time. And I don’t care if you’re a mess, or chaotic, or impulsive. I love all of it, all of you.”
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s a silence filled with shock, disbelief, and a tentative hope. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say something, anything.
Lando reaches up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. A gentle, hesitant touch. “You… you’re in love with me?”
You nod, unable to speak, your eyes filled with tears.
He closes his eyes for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. When he opens them again, his eyes hold a vulnerability that you’ve never seen before.
“I… I think I’m in love with you too. Have been… for years,” he confesses. “I just thought… I thought you deserved someone better.”
You laugh, a choked, tearful laugh. You reach out and cup his face in your hands. "Lando, you are the only person I've ever wanted. You are the best, for me, and for me only."
He leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”
“More than anything,” you whisper, closing the gap between you.
His lips meet yours, a soft, tentative kiss that quickly deepens into something more. It’s a kiss that speaks of years of unspoken feelings, of shared history, of a love that’s finally found its voice.
And as you hold each other under the cool night sky, you know that you're not just best friends any more. You're a love story finally being written, and you can't wait to see where it leads.
Unfortunately it leads to you waking up in your bed with no one laying beside you and the feeling of embarrassment stuck in your mind as you screamed into your pillow. . . .
The scent of old books and rain hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort to Lando. He sat nestled in the corner of the worn armchair, fingers tracing the spine of a well-loved copy of The Little Prince.
Outside, the storm raged, mirroring the tempest brewing within him. He’d spent the better part of the day wrestling with the same old question, the one that always seemed to circle back to her: you.
He knew it was pathetic, really. He was a grown man, a Formula One driver, someone who faced death-defying speeds with a cool head, yet the thought of you sent his heart into a ridiculous, flustered flutter.
He’d been in love with you for… well, for a very long time, really. Since he was probably sixteen, when you’d morphed from the goofy, pigtail-wearing kid he’d built Lego castles with, into… you.
He'd never quite understood how you did it. How you could make his chest ache with a tenderness so profound it felt like a physical weight. It was a constant, low hum in his life, always there, a melody only he could hear.
He remembered the first time he felt it, a silly school dance, the scent of your strawberry hair spray and the way your hand had lingered on his arm, and that was it. He was a goner.
The girls he had flings with now, they were distractions, bright and shiny things that filled a void, but they never held the depth of feeling he had for you. They were beautiful, interesting even, but they were never you.
He'd tried, he really had, to foster something real, to move past this ridiculous, teenage crush. It never worked. The comparisons were automatic, the longing, a sharp pang that never went away.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane. Dark circles under his eyes, a weary set to his jaw. He was tired of the charade, tired of pretending that something, anything, else could ever come close.
He knew, deep down, that he was probably the biggest idiot on the planet. Here he was, pining after the girl who had been the constant in his life since he could barely walk, all because he thought he wasn't good enough for you.
He ran a hand through his hair, the memory of your laughter echoing in his mind. It was the most beautiful sound, that infectious, uninhibited joy that could light up a room.
He’d always loved making your laugh. He could face a hoard of angry fans, a high-speed curve, anything really, but that radiant smile was his true weakness.
He knew you were there for him, always. When the pressure of the season crushed him, when the disappointment of a bad race left him feeling hollowed out, you’d always appeared, like a calming balm to his battered soul.
A cup of tea brewed just the way he liked, a quiet presence, an empathetic ear. You knew him, understood him in a way no one else ever had, and it terrified him.
He’d seen the way you looked at him sometimes, a vulnerability that mirrored his own, and it sent a jolt of hope, a tiny flicker of something that resembled courage.
The rain outside intensified, and the room seemed to grow darker.
Just then, a soft knock echoed through the door. "Lando?" your voice was gentle, laced with concern, and it sent a shiver through him, not of fear, but of anticipation.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.
"Yeah, come in."
The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. You were wrapped in a thick, fuzzy robe, your hair slightly damp from the rain.
You looked… beautiful. You always did.
"You okay? I saw the lights on; thought I’d check."
"Yeah, just… thinking," he mumbled, his cheeks heating up despite his best efforts. He knew you could see right through him.
You walked towards the armchair, your steps light and graceful. You perched on the edge of the sofa across from him, your eyes fixed on his face. "Thinking about what?"
The simple question sent a wave of panic through him. He couldn't tell you, not now. Not after all this time. “Just… the race. And the… season is stressful.”
You nodded, your gaze softened. “It is. But you always handle it so well. You’re incredibly resilient, Lando, you know that, right?”
He looked down at the book, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering. “Sometimes… it doesn't feel like it."
You reached out, your hand covering his on the book. Your touch sent a jolt through him, a spark of something he couldn’t quite define. He finally looked up at you, into those warm eyes.
“Lando,” you began, your voice barely a whisper, “you’re… you're the bravest person I know.”
He wanted to tell you, right then, how you made him feel. How, just your presence was enough to calm the storm inside him. How, he wanted nothing more than to spend his life with you, to wake up every morning next to your smile.
But, the fear, the old fear that had nestled deep inside him, stopped him. Could he really risk this friendship? Could he really trust himself to make you happy?
“I… appreciate that,” he managed to say, his voice rough.
“Lando…” you hesitated, your eyes searching his. He felt like you could see right into his soul, and the thought alone was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“I know you don’t always… talk about things, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything. Anything at all.”
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. The irony was almost comical. You were practically begging him to open up, and here he was, silent, consumed by his own self-doubt.
"I have always felt… very safe with you Y/N. You have a way of making things better." he said, not really looking at you.
You smiled tentatively, a small, shy smile that made his heart clench. “So you’re not… you’re not just saying the race is bothering you?”
He hesitated again. He wanted to tell you. Really, truly wanted to. But the words seemed to get caught in his throat.
Instead, he shook his head, the lie thick on his tongue. “No, it’s the race. Just thinking too much.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed your face, but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure. You took your hand from his, and stood up. He hated that distance.
“Okay,” you said, your voice flat. “Well, you know where to find me if you need anything.”
He watched as you turned and walked towards the door, his chest aching with the words he couldn't say. “Wait,” he blurted, the word escaping his lips before he could stop it.
You turned back, your eyes questioning.
He looked up at you, really looked at you, and saw the same hesitant vulnerability he’d seen before. The same love that he knew was there, but that they both refused to acknowledge.
"Will you… will you stay? Here, a little longer?” He didn’t know why he said it, but he felt a pull, an urge, like a man lost at sea finally seeing land.
You hesitated, a small smile playing on your lips. "Okay, Lando."
The next few moments passed in comfortable silence. You sat back down, this time a little closer. He wanted to take your hand, to lean closer, to kiss you, but he didn't.
He was scared that if he did, you would back away, that he would finally lose the only constant in his life. As you two sat, the rain continued to drum against the windows, a soft melody that seemed to mirror the quiet hope that was slowly blooming in his heart.
Maybe, just maybe, one day he would be brave enough. Maybe, one day, he would finally tell you. . . .
The hum of the city, once a soundtrack to your life, now felt like a constant, irritating buzz. It was a far cry from the roar of the engines, the electric atmosphere of the paddock, and the shared thrill of a race weekend.
It had been three months since you last stepped foot on a racetrack. Three months since you’d last seen Lando in person, his smile brighter than any spotlight, his laughter a melody you’d carried in your heart since childhood.
You’d told him, of course, that work was piling up, that deadlines loomed like hungry wolves. A convenient lie. The truth was a knot of jealousy and longing coiled tight in your chest.
Seeing him with a different woman each weekend, a new face plastered on his Instagram, was a slow, agonizing torture. You'd tried.
You really had tried to convince yourself it was just how he was, how he’d always been. Casual. Light. A whirlwind of fleeting affections.
“You okay?” your friend, Maya, asked, her voice pulling you back to your chaotic apartment.
Papers littered the coffee table, a half-eaten sandwich lay forgotten on a plate, and a half-drunk mug of tea sat growing cold. You’d been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to organize your life.
“Just… work, you know?” you mumbled, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You knew Maya saw through you. She had for years.
She’d been the one to hold your hand when you’d burst into tears after seeing Lando with that model at the Monaco Grand Prix party, the one with the impossibly high cheekbones and even more impossibly long legs.
“It’s Lando, isn’t it?” she probed gently, picking up your tea and heading to the kitchen to reheat it.
You sighed, the air escaping your lungs like a deflated balloon. “He… he has a new girlfriend,” you admitted, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “She’s a… a dancer, I think? From Milan.”
Maya came back, handing you the steaming mug. “And that bothers you,” she stated, not questioning.
“Of course it bothers me,” you snapped, immediately regretting your tone. “It… it always does. It’s so stupid, I know. We’re just friends. He’s just… Lando.”
“But you’re not just friends, are you?” Maya’s voice was soft, kind. “You’re Lando and you. You two are… a constellation.”
You closed your eyes, the image of Lando’s laughing face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the familiar way he’d nudge your shoulder when he thought you were being too serious, flashing across your mind. You felt a familiar pang of longing.
"He'd never... look at me like that," you whispered, the truth finally, painfully, out in the open. "He’s never serious. He jumps from girl to girl. I tell him he needs to be careful, but he never listens. He thinks life is this big party, and... I can’t keep getting hurt by it."
"And you think your heart is safer here, far away from him?" Maya asked.
"Yes," you said firmly. "It has to be."
The phone on the table buzzed, Lando's name flashing across the screen. Your heart skipped a beat, a familiar mix of dread and longing washing over you. You picked it up, a rehearsed calmness masking the turmoil within.
“Hey, Lando,” you said, your voice surprisingly even.
“Hey, you,” his voice, usually bright and cheerful, was laced with weariness. “How’s work?”
“Overwhelming,” you replied, keeping your tone light. “How was the race?”
“Frustrating, honestly,” he sighed. “The car was… not cooperating. And I… I’ve just been feeling… off.”
And there it was. The vulnerability you knew so well. The undercurrent of despair that only you, it seemed, could sense beneath the surface. The Lando behind the smiles and the social media posts.
Your Lando.
“Are you okay?” you asked, the work-related excuses falling away.
“Not really,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been missing you at the track. It’s… different without you there.”
Your heart squeezed. You wanted nothing more than to be by his side, to offer the quiet solace he seemed to need. But the fear, the jealousy, held you back.
“I miss being there too,” you admitted, the lie slipping out effortlessly. “But this work is relentless.”
“Yeah,” he said, deflated. “I get it. Look, I just… wanted to hear your voice. You always know how to make me feel better.”
“Anytime,” you replied softly. “Just… try to get some rest tonight, okay? And be careful, Lando.”
“I will,” he promised. “You too.”
The call ended, leaving you staring at the phone, your heart a tangled mess of longing and regret. You knew your absence was making things harder for him.
Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to return to the races, to witness the casual intimacy he shared with other women, to have your heart broken all over again.
You tried dating. It was a disaster. Every conversation with a potential suitor felt flat, every joke fell short. They weren't Lando, and that was a truth you couldn't escape.
You went on awkward dates, tried to force connections, but your mind always, always, circled back to the same person.
You missed his quick wit, his infectious laugh, his unwavering faith in you. You missed him. . . .
The hum of the television fills your Monaco apartment, the familiar roar of Formula One engines a stark contrast to the quiet elegance that surrounds you. You’re curled up on the plush sofa, a half-eaten bowl of pasta forgotten on the coffee table.
Today is the Brazilian Grand Prix, and even though you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t, you’re glued to the screen, your eyes fixed on the familiar orange and papaya of Lando’s McLaren.
On the screen, you watch as he chats with Oscar, a polite smile plastered on his face. It’s the kind of smile he wears for the cameras, the fans, the world, but you know the truth behind it.
You’ve seen it too many times, that little tightening around his eyes, the subtle dip of his lip. It's a mask he uses to navigate the demanding world of Formula One, a shield he utilizes to protect a heart that you’ve seen be both incredibly kind and extraordinarily fragile.
The race starts, and your heart pounds along with the pulsing rhythm of the engines. You watch, your knuckles white as you clutch the throw pillow, as Lando battles his way through the pack. He’s aggressive, pushing the limits, but it’s not enough.
The chequered flag falls, and the screen flashes tenth place. A wave of disappointment washes over you, not just for Lando, but for yourself too.
You crave to be there, to pull him into a comforting embrace, to murmur words of encouragement that will soothe away the frustration that you know is eating him up inside.
Instead, you watch silently as he gives a series of interviews, the forced smile never faltering. Your chest aches, and you can almost feel the weight of his disappointment. You glance at the clock.
It was still early in the day, but you were feeling the pull of sleep. The television screen morphs into a blurry kaleidoscope of colours and sounds.
You switch off the TV and head to bed, an unwanted weight firmly placed within your chest.
The fluorescent lights of the Sao Paulo hotel room hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the turmoil brewing within Lando. The race had been a disaster, a slow, agonizing descent from the potential of the starting grid to a disappointing tenth place.
But the race itself wasn't the real problem. The undercurrent of fatigue, the gnawing anxiety that had kept him awake for the past two days, was the true enemy.
He hadn't slept properly since the qualifying session, his mind a relentless hamster wheel of "what ifs" and self-criticisms. All he wanted was a clear head, a moment of peace, and the one person who could always provide both.
All he wanted was the comforting weight of a blanket, a soothing voice, the familiar scent of her. He wanted her, you, more than he wanted a win, more than anything.
He knew, of course, that you weren’t coming to races anymore. “Work,” you’d said, a little too quickly, a little too vaguely.
He’d tried to understand, had told himself it was for the best, that you deserved a career as vibrant as yours, but a part of him, the anxious, insecure part, couldn’t help but feel abandoned.
Especially now, on nights like these.
He glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over your name. The urge to call was a physical ache. He wanted to hear your voice, to see your face, to feel the comforting weight of your presence. But he stopped himself.
You were probably working, buried in whatever project you were passionate about this week. It was your standard excuse for not travelling to races anymore, a vague reference to your ‘work’ that he never pressed
He missed those eyes, even when they were filled with that unspoken emotion.
He tossed the phone onto the nightstand, the plastic clattering against the wood. He pushed himself up, the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Maybe a shower would help.
He dragged himself to the bathroom, the hot water a temporary balm against his frayed nerves. As the steam swirled around him, his thoughts circled back to you, to your quiet strength, to the way you always seemed to know how to navigate the labyrinth of his mind.
He knew you would have known how to fix this awful feeling, much better than any team strategies or a strong cup of coffee.
He finished his shower, a towel pulled loosely around his waist. He stood before the mirror, his reflection staring back at him – eyes red, skin pale, a hollow echo of his usual self.
He hated looking at himself in this state. He rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm.
He needed sleep, desperately, but the thought of entering that restless abyss again was far more daunting than facing a race.
He hadn't wanted to add to your plate, but he couldn't shake the sense that there was more to it.
Had he done something wrong? Had his focus on racing somehow pushed you away? These thoughts circled his mind like vultures.
A deep ache settled in his chest. He desperately wanted to see you, to hug you, to bury his face in your hair and forget the disappointments of the day. The need to feel your warmth, your presence, was a physical thing.
He reached for his phone, his finger hovering over your contact. He could call, he could text, he could just hear voice.
But no. You were probably working, busy, most likely. He dropped the phone back down onto the bedside table. He couldn't, wouldn't, interrupt you. He had that part to respect.
Sighing, he turned away from the mirror and clambered back into bed, hoping against hope that sleep would finally claim him.
The next few days were a blur of travel, media obligations, and frustrating debriefs. Lando went through the motions, his head filled with the echoes of the disastrous race and your absence.
He found himself constantly glancing at his phone, willing a message from you to appear, but the screen remained stubbornly dark.
Finally, the team returned to McLaren's headquarters in Woking. Lando, still reeling from the Brazil defeat, was looking forward to a familiar place.
He'd hoped that getting back to the usual routine would somehow steady him. As he walked into the familiar corridors of the tech centre, he knew that he needed a distraction.
“Hey, Lando, you okay?” Daniel’s voice broke through his thoughts. Daniel was his teammate, and a good one at that. He always knew when things were a bit off.
Lando forced a smile, “Yeah mate, just tired.”
Daniel didn’t look convinced. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week. Want to grab a coffee?”
“Sure, why not?” Lando agreed, wanting to get his mind off of everything.
They made their way to the cafeteria, Lando’s mind wandering back to the one person he wished he was with. He couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing, if you were even thinking of him.
He couldn't seem to shake this restless feeling, a void where your presence so obviously used to be.
After a rather silent coffee at the usual corner of the cafeteria, Daniel, clearly not in the mood to let this go, turned to Lando, his voice serious. “Lando, what’s really going on? You’re not yourself.”
Lando hesitated, his gaze fixed on the swirling foam in his cup. “It’s nothing, really.” He could feel his throat clench. He knew he couldn’t keep putting this off.
Daniel raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge in his eyes. “Nothing? You look like you’re about to implode, mate. Come on, spill it.”
Lando sighed, knowing he couldn't keep up the façade any longer. “It’s just… I miss her, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice barely above a whisper.
Understanding flickered across Daniel’s face. “Ah, that’s it, is it? And you haven’t spoken to her?”
Lando shook his head. “She’s been busy with work, I guess. I don’t want to bother her.”
“Bother her? Lando, you literally look like a kicked puppy. You should try talking to her, sometimes you need to let people know you need them.” Daniel’s voice was gentle, understanding.
Lando knew Daniel was right, but the fear of being rejected, of confirming that you were pulling away, held him back. “Maybe,” he conceded, though his heart was already pounding at the thought of reaching out.
He would wait until he gets back to Monaco tomorrow to say anything.
The plane landed, and Lando dragged himself off, the familiar sun of Monaco a stark contrast to the overcast skies of Brazil. He made his way through the airport, his thoughts a tangled mess.
He needed to sleep, desperately. He needed to clear his head. He needed to... he didn’t know. He just felt utterly lost.
He reached his apartment, fumbling with the key in the lock. He pushed the door open, the sound echoing in the silence of his home – a silence that was immediately shattered.
“What… what are you doing here?” he stammered, his voice thick with surprise. His bag slipped from his numb fingers, landing with a dull thud on the floor.
You were standing in the middle of his living room, holding a duster, a small smile curving your lips. The sight of you, here, in his space, was so unexpected, so achingly welcome, that he felt his breath hitch in his chest.
“Um, I wanted to see you, so I waited here and cleaned the place,” you said, your voice nervous. You looked as if you expected him to be angry, as if your presence was an intrusion. “I… I hope you don’t mind.”
Lando couldn’t speak. He just stared at you, the exhaustion, the weight of the past 24 hours, the sheer loneliness he had been battling, all suddenly dissolving.
He’d been so caught up in his own turmoil, that he had forgotten the sheer comfort, the utter peace, your presence brought him.
You walked towards him, a worried frown creasing your forehead. Your hands cupped his face, your touch sending a jolt of warmth through him. “I saw you, Lando. I saw how much you were hurting, even with those forced smiles. I know you, you idiot.”
You pulled him into a hug, and he finally allowed himself to be held, to feel your warmth, your comfort, and your unwavering support.
It was like coming home after a long and arduous journey. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your familiar scent.
“I thought you were working,” he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. He finally released the emotions that he'd bottled up. The race, the stress, the loneliness, all of it poured out.
“I am,” you said, pulling away slightly to look at him with genuine concern in your eyes. “But your mental health is my priority, you know that. And I had a few days off,” you added with a gentle smile.
He finally looked at you properly. It wasn't just the physical space that had grown from the time spent apart. It was the emotional distance he’d created, the wall he’d put up that felt so fragile now, now that you were here with him.
“Do you… do you hate the fact that I’m like this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, the vulnerability raw and exposed.
He had never wanted to be a burden to you, and the thought of being a disappointment was a knife to his chest.
You cupped his face again, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. Your gaze was unwavering, filled with an intense love that made his chest ache. “Never. You hear me? Never. This is who you are, the good and the not-so-good. And if you have a bad day, I am going to be here for you. Always.”
He felt tears prickling his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had you now, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t deserve your unwavering support, your unconditional love, and yet, here you were.
He grabbed your face with both hands, his fingers threading into your hair. He finally did the one thing he had wanted to do from the moment he saw you. He kissed you.
It wasn’t a frantic, desperate kiss. Instead, it was a kiss filled with gratitude, with relief, and with a love so profound that it was a grounding force against the turbulence of his life. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that even in the chaos, he was loved, and he was not alone.
His kiss, so full of emotion, shocked you. Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. You kissed him back, the soft pressure of your lips a balm to his weary soul.
You knew that he had been hurting, that he had been doubting himself, and you just wanted to show him that you were there, always.
That you loved him, with all his faults, and all his glories.
"Can I have one more hug?" Lando muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours for any sign of disapproval.
"Aw, babe you don't have to ask, c'mere..." you said, your voice as soft as a feather. You opened your arms, and he moved towards you, his body almost trembling.
He buried his face in your neck, breathing in your familiar scent that grounded him again. He was already barely holding it together as he's getting his face held but then he feels that reassuring rub on his back and he just couldn’t.
The tears he had been fighting finally broke through, hot and heavy against your skin.
"I'm sorry," he muttered against your neck, his voice thick with emotion, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.
“It’s okay, baby, just let it all out. I’ve got you, I promise.” you said, your hand gently rubbing circles on his back in a comforting manner.
He hesitantly placed his hands on your waist and when he didn't get a complaint, he wrapped his whole hand around you, his grip tightening as he sought the warmth of your body against his.
He stood there for what felt like a lifetime, his tears soaking into your shirt, but you didn't move, didn't complain.
Instead, your arms tightened around him, holding him close, letting him know that you would always be there for him.
When he had finally cried himself out, the torrent of emotion slowly ebbing, he pulled back slightly, his eyes red and puffy, but a glimmer of peace had returned to them. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away the last of the tears.
"Better?" you asked softly, your voice full of concern. He nodded, a small smile gracing his lips.
“Thank you” he said, his voice raspy, "For being here, for… for everything.”
"Of course, Lando, I'll always be here," you responded, your voice filled with love. "You don't have to thank me for loving you, it’s like breathing for me."
He looked at you, a love so profound filled his eyes, “I know. I just… I don’t know what I did to deserve you”.
You smiled, pulling him close again, “You just have to be you, that’s all I’ll ever need.” You kissed him again, a soft, tender kiss that spoke of love and promise, “Do you want to go to sleep?” you asked when you broke apart.
He nodded, his eyes closing briefly as he inhaled the faint scent of your perfume. “Can I… can I hold your hand?” he asked hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper, like a child seeking reassurance after a nightmare.
You smiled at him, your heart aching with a tenderness that always surprised you. "Of course."
You grabbed his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, feeling the immediate comfort of his hand enveloping yours. It was a perfect fit, two halves finally finding their place.
He shifted again, discarding his hoodie with a tired sigh, revealing the soft, slightly sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. It was a move so familiar, so intimately Lando.
Your fingers itched to touch it, to feel the silky strands between your fingers. He snuggled into you, his head resting on your chest, and you obliged, your fingers gently threading through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing circles.
You felt the tension begin to ease, his body becoming less rigid, and his breathing softening.
The silence that settled over the room was comfortable, a shared space where words weren’t necessary. You continued to run your fingers through his hair, the motion a silent lullaby. You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face relaxed in slumber, and your heart ached with a love so profound it threatened to spill over.
You noticed the faint tremble in his fingers now that they were no longer intertwined with yours and gently covered them with your hand.
Then, almost so quiet you thought you might have imagined it, he spoke. “You know, all those flings… they were all to distract me from the fact I couldn’t have you,” he admitted silently, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart fluttered, a thousand butterflies suddenly taking flight within your chest. You paused, your fingers still tangled in his hair, your hand still cradling his. You looked down at him, his eyes still closed, his face relaxed.
Did he mean that? You wondered, your mind racing.
You found that you couldn't contain yourself. You looked down at his face, so peaceful in his sleep, and you whispered, "Lando?"
“Mmmh?” He murmured, barely opening his eyes.
"Did you mean that?"
He opened his eyes fully and looked up at you, "Mean what?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.
Your heart was thumping in your chest so hard you thought he might hear it, "What you... what you said about the flings," you stammered, trying to keep your voice steady.
He stared at you for a moment, a slow realization creeping into his eyes. He looked almost embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a pale pink.
He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing gently, before speaking. "Yeah," he said quietly, his gaze returning to your face. "I did. They… they never meant anything. They were just… distractions."
He closed his eyes again, his breath catching slightly. "I was a mess," he continued, his voice softer now. "I knew how I felt about you, always. But I didn’t think… I didn't think you would ever want me back. I thought I had ruined it, ruined us."
You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “You never ruined us, Lando,” you reassured him, your voice gentle, your heart overflowing with love and relief. “You could never ruin us.”
Years. Years of pining and longing, of a love that was so powerful it had been a constant ache within you. To hear him finally admit it, to know he felt the same way, it was almost too much to bear.
You had always loved him, ever since you were kids. You had always been there for him.
He opened his eyes again, and in their depths was a vulnerability that took your breath away. “Really?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Even now? Even after everything?”
You nodded, your heart swelling with love. “Always, Lando. Always,” you whispered, leaning down and placing another soft kiss on his forehead.
You continued running your fingers through his hair, and he snuggled deeper into your chest, his hand finding yours again, his fingers wrapping tightly around yours.
The storm outside had finally passed, and the first slivers of dawn were beginning to paint the sky a pale, delicate pink. You sat there in the quiet room, surrounded by the soft glow of the city lights, and took in the moment, savouring the silence, the comfort, the quiet understanding that existed between you. It was you, and it was him, finally together. Finally home.
You continued to massage his scalp, the gentle, repetitive motions lulling him deeper into sleep. You watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, feeling a sense of peace that you had not felt in a long time.
You knew that there would be challenges ahead, you knew there would be more storms to weather, but for now, all that mattered was that you were here, together, under the soft city lights, your hands entwined, your hearts finally at peace.
You closed your eyes, a soft smile gracing your lips. This is all I could ever want. To be his first choice. you thought, falling asleep by his side. . . .
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 nation 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 you 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.”
#Oscarpiastrifanfic
Wildflower (OP81 x fem!reader x LN4)
Chapter 3
CHAPTER SUMMARY: You’ve reached your breaking point with Oscar, but an unfortunate grand prix changes everything you thought you wanted.
WORD COUNT: 10.3k
WARNINGS: Conversations about sex and but no actual smut, degradation, angst. Mentions of cheating. Oscar is literally horrible. Mention of unhealthy family dynamics. Lots of cursing. Pain, so much pain. Mention of injury. I’m so sorry for all the emotional suffering this chapter will cause.
TAGLIST: @at-a-rax-ia @henna006 @linnygirl09 @cassielikereading @judelina @supertrashbread @fastandcurious16 @widow-cevans @czennieszn @irisesinthegarden @wierdflowerpower @sweetwh0re @reginalaufeyson-holmes @honethatty12 @suns3treading @obxstiles @mimiastroos @mrs-reeves-17 @milkysoop @amalialeclerc @starksztony @llando4norris @ginsengi @angxlzinthesky
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
Accept message request from Lando_Norris?
Your fingers hovered over the “accept” button, nervous but curious. What would Lando ever want to talk to you about?
He had avoided you like the plague since that night in Italy, and you hardly blamed him. But as far as you knew, no one except you and Nicole knew that Lily was no longer in the picture; still, what would have changed to cause Lando Norris, of all people, to be messaging you at night?
“Who are you texting?”
You jumped, not having noticed that Oscar had turned over to face you, seemingly unable to sleep.
“No one,” you said. “Just scrolling.”
Oscar confirmed your suspicions. “I can’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” you said, short and annoyed.
Oscar didn’t respond, instead just moving on top of you, holding your chin in his hands to force you to look at him.
“You can’t even sleep until I fuck you like the little whore you are, huh?” He leaned down to kiss your neck, lips grazing over where only hours before he had left dark marks in the supple skin.
“Get off me, Oscar,” you said, and he immediately pulled back.
“You okay?” he asked.
You weren’t okay. In fact, you were furious. “You realize that you never even asked me if I was okay with you talking to me like that?”
The look in his eyes said only two words: Oh shit.
“YN, I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think of it like that. Shit, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you to treat me with respect.”
“I thought you liked it?” he said, running his fingers through his hair out of nervousness.
You sat up, the anger burning within you. You hadn’t planned to confront Oscar so soon after what you had overheard, but now that you’d gotten started, there was no stopping you.
“That’s not the point. Maybe I’m tired of feeling like your personal sex toy, Oscar. Oh, but I forgot. My feelings aren’t your problem.”
Oscar exhaled angrily. “Is that really what this is about?”
You just looked at him, bewildered. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked.
He began, “Look, I don’t know what you think you heard—”
“I heard you talking shit about me on the phone to your own mother.”
“It wasn’t like that, YN.”
“Then what was it like? What’s your excuse now?”
Oscar tried to begin, his mouth opening with no words coming out. He truly didn’t know what to say. “It’s been a hard time.”
“I know. I’m well aware, Oscar. Because I made your feelings my problem for years.”
“I know, and I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore.”
“I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to explain it to you.”
“Of course, you want to talk now that I won’t give you sex anymore,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“Oh my God,” Oscar huffed, and it took every ounce of your strength not to curse him out then and there. “You act like I’m some fucking villian. You can’t get mad at me for fucking you when you wanted this too.”
“But how do you know that, Oscar? How do you know what I want? Have you ever asked me what I want?” Tears began prickling at the edge of your eyes. “You haven’t, because you don’t care.”
Oscar looked at the wall, his jaw tense. “I’m not doing this right now.”
“Am I not even deserving of an honest conversation?” you said, the tears now flowing down your cheeks. It had been years since he’d seen you cry, but Oscar wouldn’t even look at you.
You got up from the bed and started changing from your pajamas to your regular clothes. “If you don’t want to talk, fine. I can’t make you. But I’m going home.”
“YN—”
“Leave me alone,” you said, grabbing your purse and exiting the bedroom. You heard him call for you again, but you ignored his pleas, walking ahead out of the apartment and to your car.
When you slid into the driver’s seat, you finally broke down, resting your head against the steering wheel. No thoughts went through your head. You weren’t much of a crier, so when you finally gave in, it was more of an act of your body giving up.
So you took a few minutes to compose yourself before driving the short distance home through the streets of Monaco, a place you’d grown to love. But his presence was everywhere. The car. The streets. Your apartment. Oscar was inescapable.
And when you felt your phone buzz as you sat with a cup of tea on the balcony an hour or so later, this reality was confirmed. He was calling.
You didn’t answer the first call, or the second. But by the third you knew that your only options were to turn your phone off, block him, or answer.
Well, what did you have to lose?
“What do you want?” you asked upon picking up the call.
“I’m sorry, YN. Can we talk?”
“Say whatever you’re going to say.”
He paused. “In person? I’m in the hallway.”
“I don’t know…”
“Please?” he asked. You sighed. Why could you never say no to this man?
“Fine. Give me a sec.” You hung up the call, took another deep breath, and opened the front door before immediately turning around to go back to your balcony. You couldn’t bear to look at him, and you welcomed the sound of the soft waves lapping at the harbor as a buffer.
He sat down beside you, and even before any words were said, you felt the tears returning. Something about this felt…final. And your intuition had hardly ever been wrong before.
“YN, I’m so sorry. When I get frustrated I say things I don’t mean. I was really out of line earlier.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, unable to truly accept his apology.
He continued, “And you’re right. I shouldn’t have just assumed that all the rough stuff was okay. And I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
You waited a moment for him to continue speaking, but he didn’t. “Is that all you have to say?”
“I just…don’t know what else you want me to say.” You looked over to him. His head was hung low, like a child in trouble at school. Not like a man who was taking accountability for his actions.
“You really don’t get it, do you?”
“What?” he asked.
You just stared at him for a moment, gathering the courage to ask your question.
“Did you talk to Lily like that?”
“Huh?” he echoed.
“Did you call her all those names? Degrade her?”
“Don’t ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s…personal. I don’t think Lily would appreciate me talking about it.”
“She didn’t appreciate me being in your life, either. But look how that turned out,” you said, the malice lingering on every word.
Your statement cut a little too deep for comfort. But Oscar finally relented, answering, “...I would, sometimes. She didn’t care for it. But I just…get frustrated a lot. It helps me get all that pent up energy out. Half the time I don’t even think about what I’m saying.”
You hummed. The implication of his words hung in the air; you were a relief for his frustration, a thoughtless passtime.
When you didn’t respond, he got nervous. “Did I…hurt you?”
“Not physically, no,” you answered, your eyes never moving from the sight of the harbor in the distance. “But I don’t think you really care.”
“Of course I care.”
“No, you don’t.” Your lip quivered. You tried to swallow the tears that came up, but you couldn’t.
“No, don’t cry,” Oscar said, reaching out to embrace you, but you avoided him, getting up to lean on the railing. He followed you, this time not offering any comforting touch.
“What the fuck are we doing, Oscar?” you said, barely able to get the words out. He grasped for words but wasn’t able to find them before the flood of emotions spilled from you.
You began, “I used to think that the fabric of our lives was…like, sewn together. Like we were destined to always be in each other's lives. But ever since the breakup I’m so afraid that everyone who ever warned me about you was right. I feel like all these years you’ve just been using me, stringing me along so you could have someone there when things don’t work out. Like I’m just your backup plan. Like I’m not even good enough for you to treat me like a human being.”
“You really feel like I’m using you?” Oscar asked, his surprise horrifically genuine. “Was I just using you when I went out of my way to call you every week for 4 years when I was away in school, even during exams and races? When I got you this place because I wanted to live close to my best friend?” His tone went from gentle to frenzied—not angry, but desperate, like he couldn’t even fathom it. “I mean, YN, what, did you want me to cheat on my girlfriend with you?”
You looked up at him, and he realized again that he had messed up again.
“No, that’s not what I wanted. I’d never do that to Lily because you know it’s been done to me.”
“I know, and was I not there for you when you needed me?” In a way, Oscar was right. When you had broken things off with your unfaithful ex, Oscar was the first to your rescue, staying with you for days while you could barely even function. “YN, what else do you want from me?”
“I want you to be honest about what’s going on between us.”
“We’re…. hooking up, I don’t know.”
“Is that all I am to you, a hookup? A friend with benefits?” Your soft tears became full on sobs now. “Oscar, I am in love with you! You are the love of my life. And you can’t tell me that you haven’t known exactly how I felt, for years now.”
“Of course I knew,” he whispered.
“Then why would you do this to me? Why would you take advantage of me like this?”
Oscar had started crying now, too.
“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“This isn’t fair, Oscar.”
“I’m sorry.”
A thick silence fell over the balcony. You knew that the conversation should be over now. There was nothing else you needed to say. But you couldn’t stop yourself from continuing the pointless hurt.
“Do you even love me?”
“Don’t—”
“Can you even look me in the fucking eyes and tell me that you don’t love me?”
“YN—”
You didn’t even let him complete his sentence, instead walking back into your apartment and slamming our now cold mug into the sink. “Just go,” you said, your voice stern.
“YN, please—” Oscar said, following you inside the apartment.
“Go!”
“You want the truth?” Oscar said, raising his voice to you for the first time since you’d ever known him. His eyes now flooded with tears, staining his cheeks. His hair was tousled, his under eye bags puffy and pronounced. He looked like a mess.
“All I’ve ever wanted is the truth.”
“The truth,” he began, swallowing, his voice cracking as he spoke. “The truth is that I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”
“No—”
“Yes, YN,” he said, his voice raising again.
“No, fuck you, Oscar, that’s not true!” You were both sobbing messes now.
“Yes it is,” he begged, his voice ragged.
“Then why would you do this?”
“Because…” he paused, taking a deep breath and sniffling, trying to regain his composure. “Because we were best friends, and you lived with us, and I was so scared of fucking things up.”
“So you went and just found a girlfriend instead?”
“No, it…” he looked away from you and took a sharp exhale. “It wasn’t as simple as that. You…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “It was just…complicated. You were the girl who lived with us, like another sister, I mean, I couldn’t have feelings for you of all people. So I was so scared.”
He looked at the wall, scarating his neck, and continued. “And when I met Lily, it was all just…simple. Everyone liked her, she was nice, she’s smart. When I brought her home she fit right in, the fans loved her. She was everything I needed her to be, y’know?” He exhaled.
His gaze fell to the floor and lingered as he continued. “I didn’t love her at first. I mean, I liked her, she was great, but it was more about just…filling a need, I guess. But I did fall in love with her later. I tried to love her with my whole heart, I really did. I thought that what I felt for you would just go away but obviously it didn’t. And then she fucking left me. As she should, honestly.”
Oscar nervously looked around the room until he could no longer avoid your piercing gaze, face frozen in disbelief.
“You’re horrible, Oscar.”
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“You used me. You used Lily. And all of this from the very beginning was about… my family? I’m sorry you all had to take me in because no one else would. I’m sorry I didn’t go to a fancy boarding school in London. I’m sorry that my parents are two pieces of shit that didn't want to take care of me when I was a literal child.”
“It’s not that—”
“But it is. That’s what you said.”
“It’s not you, YN. I mean, it was, but we’re not kids anymore. I love you. It was just… awful circumstances.”
“And now? What’s your excuse? I cut off my parents. And Lily fucking left you. So why are you just using me now?”
“It’s just too much right now. The breakup, the championship…I know if I try, I’ll just fuck it up. I lost Lily, I can’t lose you too.”
“Why? Because then you’ll have no one to warm your bed when you’re sad?”
“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone that you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with!”
“You’re right, I don’t. Because the person I want to spend the rest of my life with is you, Oscar. But you don’t want me. You never have. I’m your backup plan until something better comes along. That’s all I’ve ever been. I’m not good enough for you, you don’t love me. I don’t even know who you are any more.”
“You said I was the love of your life,” Oscar said, his voice lowered now.
“You are. But I’m not yours. I don’t care what you say you feel. If you really love someone, you don’t treat them like that.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s all I can say.”
You let out a shaky breath, exhausted of all energy from the fighting. You didn’t even have it in you to be angry anymore.
“We shouldn’t do this. We should just go our separate ways and be done with it.”
“No, YN—”
“You have a championship to focus on, don’t you?” you said.
“You’re my best friend,” he said through his tears. “I need you.”
“I’ll finish out my employment contract through the end of the season. You can sell the apartment. I’ll pay back Mum for anything she had to spend on me when we were younger.”
“YN, please,” he begged.
“Don’t, Oscar,” you said, your voice soft now. “Just let me go.”
“Can I kiss you?”
The correct answer should be no. You should have told him to get the fuck out of your apartment and never come back. But it was Oscar.
You didn’t answer him, instead just walking up to him and embracing him, letting him hold you in his strong arms as his lips met yours one last time. His lips were salty with tears, but for once his touch was soft and gentle.
When you pulled away, he stayed close to you, pressing his forehead down to yours. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Go home. You’ve got a flight to catch in the morning.”
You could call in sick to the United States Grand Prix in Miami; Oscar could not.
Well, theoretically, he could. God knows the reserve drivers would be happy to take his place and show off in front of the teams that were always scouring for new blood. But he couldn’t back down now. Not with a trophy looming so ominously over his head.
And especially not in Miami. Everyone hated Miami. Everyone except Lando, that is.
And as Oscar mindlessly paced the paddock back and forth, praying to God that no journalists would pester him for an interview, he couldn’t escape the reminder of his teammate’s victory.
“Well, things seem to be heating up here in Miami! The race continues between McLaren teammates Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris in this early battle for the World Driver’s Championship. Piastri is putting in a valiant effort, but who can forget Lando Norris’ first victory here last year? It’s incredible to see how far he has come in such a short amount of time—”
He really needed to stop walking past the commentator’s box.
This is usually when Oscar would try to find you in the paddock, or send you a text from halfway across the world. But he couldn’t do that anymore; you hadn’t quite barred him from communication, but what could he say?
He just needed to focus. Perform. Drown himself in the work. That’s what he told himself as he made his way back to the McLaren garage, away from the prying eyes of the media and the haunting words of the commentators. That’s what he told himself as he slipped on a set of headphones and nodded along as his race engineer spoke, acting as if he was paying attention.
That’s what he told himself as he climbed into the car, took a deep breath, and pressed his foot to the gas.
Thousands of miles away, in Monaco, you were supposed to be having dinner. Actually, you were supposed to be in Miami, taking photos of Oscar in all his glory.
But you couldn’t face him. You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t even sleep.
In the corner of your living room sat a box with Oscar’s old stuff in it. You stared at it as if it had the eyes to stare back. Your hand mindlessly swirled your fork around your remaining food, now cold and mostly uneaten.
Why did this feel like a breakup?
You wanted to scream, but you’d already gotten noise complaints from the fight days prior. So instead, your apartment was deadly quiet.
You sighed, moving to your bedroom and collapsing in the soft covers, having decided to give up and indulge yourself with a night of bed rotting. But even your bed felt empty. The sheets held a faint trace of Oscar’s scent. It would come out with a simple wash, but laundry was the furthest thing from your mind right now.
You needed a distraction. You grabbed your phone and immediately went to social media to mindlessly scroll.
But in your notifications was one you had nearly forgotten about: that message request from Lando.
You opened it without even thinking, unfortunately sending the read receipt even though you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now.
Hey, not to be weird but do you know if anything’s going on with Oscar? He’s been acting odd recently.
You groaned in frustration. You couldn’t escape your best friend.
The message was sent a while ago—when the pair were in Bahrain, actually. You should have just deleted it and acted as if you never saw it. But you felt horribly awkward leaving Lando on read.
Yeah, he and Lily broke up :(
Was the frown really necessary? Should you say more? You didn’t have the energy to think, sending the message without much fanfare. You locked your phone and put it back on your nightstand.
But only a few moments later, it buzzed. Another message from Lando.
But…Lando was in Miami? At the circuit? He should be driving, not texting you. You opened your phone and clicked on the notification.
Damn, that’s rough. I thought they were endgame. You in the paddock?
You raised an eyebrow. Why would Lando Norris, of all people, want to know where you are?
No, I’m back in Monaco.
Another nearly instant reply. Ah, I was hoping to make a cameo on Oscar’s Instagram haha. You’ll be at Imola though?
This whole interaction felt…weird.
I will! I’ll be sure to get some good team shots lol
You tried to match his energy with your reply, but you couldn’t shake the odd feeling that this wasn’t right. But as you finally did put your phone down and retire for the night, your mind kept racing, coming to wildly different conclusions.
Maybe Lando did want to be friends. Maybe, now that Lily was out of the picture, he felt more comfortable around you. Maybe he was just trying to smooth things over with Oscar in the championship battle. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Or maybe you were so used to Oscar’s lying and manipulation that you couldn’t imagine someone talking to you just for the sake of friendship.
You huffed to yourself as the thought crossed your mind. You pulled your blanket up and buried yourself in it, as if the thoughts were something physical you could hide from. You fell into a tense sleep.
Oscar couldn’t sleep, though. He could barely sleep back when he had you at his beck and call, let alone when you all weren’t speaking to each other.
How had he fucked up so badly? He brought his hands to his face and roughly exhaled. Like you, he had resigned himself to spend his night scrolling, until he too noticed an unanswered message.
Except it wasn’t from Lando. It was from Lily. As if things couldn’t get any worse.
She was brief and to the point.
I just wanted to let you know I’ll be at Imola for a company event. I doubt we’ll run into each other. Hope you and YN are well.
Her words stung. The professionalism where there once was warmth and love. The perfectly petty dig at him and you, assuming that he had already moved on (though, she wasn’t exactly wrong).
He wanted to throw his phone off his hotel room balcony. From the slight crack in the blinds, he could see palm trees, and the ocean far off in the distance. And he knew that back in Monaco, you’d be staring at the same moon, hearing the water in the distance as it lulled you to sleep. The miles between you during race weekends had always been numerous, but the distance wasn't—not until now, at least.
He slammed his phone on the nightstand and took yet another sleeping pill.
It was going to be a horrible week.
And, unfortunately, the morning wasn’t much better. Another oh so friendly interaction with his teammate.
“Hey, Oscar, wait up,” the Brit called, jogging to catch Oscar as they both entered the paddock. Oscar slowed his pace but didn’t stop, hopeful that this would be a clear sign that he wasn’t here for conversation.
When he did catch up, Oscar just gave Lando a small nod as a greeting.
“Hey, I, uh, heard about you and Lily. I’m so sorry, mate.”
Oscar turned, making a confused and irritated face. “Who told you?”
“YN. Well, I asked her if you were okay.”
The Aussie made a small grumbling noise.
“I was just worried, you know. You just seemed like you were going through some stuff. You know I’m always here if you need me, right?”
“I need to beat you,” Oscar said, but his words had no bite to them. There was no snappy anger anymore, just exhaustion.
“Of course,” Lando said, smiling, as if he thought his teammate’s championship ambitions were nothing more than comic relief. “But for real, man, I’m sorry and I’m here for you.”
“Thanks,” Oscar said, though he didn’t really mean it. He just wanted to be alone.
In Monaco, you were breaking your first cardinal rule of a breakup (even a friendship breakup) and turning on your TV to watch Oscar drive.
You had managed to go without watching the free practices and even quali, but you couldn’t bring yourself to not watch the Grand Prix.
And it was good that you tuned in, because he won.
You nearly threw your phone across the room when he finally passed the checkered flag. You had been practically holding your breath since he secured the lead in a masterfully timed pit stop mid race, beating out Max Verstappen to bring home his second win of the season.
So, maybe he wouldn’t hate Miami as much anymore.
Your phone—secured now on your nightstand to prevent any race-related breakage—loomed in the distance as you debated sending him a congrats text. It wasn’t like you all had gone through a true breakup; you weren’t even together. But you knew you couldn’t let yourself end up in his bed again. You knew that he was a broken man, and you couldn’t fix him.
So your friendship had come to occupy this odd liminal space in which neither of you knew exactly where you stood. At some point, this would have to be discussed, but clearly neither of you had learned your lesson on healthy communication.
You wanted to tell your best friend that you were proud of him. Was that such a bad thing?
It wouldn’t be, if you could ignore that voice now echoing in your mind.
Since when are her feelings my problem?
You nearly gagged at the thought. Yeah, you weren’t texting him.
And back in Miami, Oscar anxiously awaited a text that would never come.
“Oscar, mate, quit staring at your phone and let’s celebrate!” Lando teased, patting his teammate on the back.
Oscar just sighed, opening his phone again to find no messages from you.
“She’s not coming back,” Lando said. “So either you get drunk enough to call her, or you get drunk enough to find someone to replace her. Either way, you’re getting drunk tonight.”
“Really, Lando?”
“She destroyed a five year relationship over some stupid shit, and you just won another grand prix. So yes, I think you should get fucked up with me tonight!”
“Don’t talk about Lily like that, mate. And besides, I’m not even waiting on her.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “Then who are you waiting on?”
Oscar’s defenses were wearing down, even while sober. “You know who.”
“And you still want me to believe that you two aren’t hooking up?”
“It’s…complicated.”
“Spill.”
Under normal circumstances, Oscar was never the type to discuss his personal life at work, much less with his rival for the championship. But as the plan of going out was abandoned in favor of a nice bottle of Cuban rum ordered to the room, Oscar found himself spilling his secrets like a teenage girl at a sleepover.
“And then I just…” he hiccuped, “I told her everything. And she didn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her, but it fucking hurt, you know? And we were just screaming at each other, she said we should go our separate ways. What am I supposed to say to that? And I still haven’t heard from her, but her and Lily are gonna be at Imola. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”
“Mate,” Lando said, slurring his words, “You fucked this up worse than I fucked up the championship last year.”
The two drivers laughed—otherwise, they’d have to cry at the peril poor Oscar had put himself in.
But the time flew by, and soon enough Oscar found himself on a flight to Italy, which he secretly prayed would crash so that he could avoid this entire charade.
Of course, on all your respective flights, the feeling was mutual; neither you, Oscar, nor Lily really wanted to be there. But duty called, and you were nothing if not professional.
It was an odd place to be; on one hand, you loved this job. It was fun getting to explore the world with your best friend and get paid to take pictures and make silly videos. The electric atmosphere of the paddock was one that had always felt like home, like you belonged there.
On the other hand, every time you thought about seeing Oscar again, you wanted to puke.
Thankfully, when you did inevitably see him again, your lunch did not resurface. You operated like a robot; no banter, no friendliness, just stark professionalism.
And Oscar didn’t know what was worse; not having you there, or seeing you act like a stranger.
The one silver lining, at least, was that Lily was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t handle those emotions too.
So, again and again throughout the weekend, he repeated that manta to himself: Just focus on work. Just focus on work.
He said it to himself one last time before he hopped in the car for qualifying. Just focus.
But he just couldn't. From the seat of his car, the chaos of the pit lane and the gaggles of photographers were just blurs, unidentifiable blobs. I had always comforted him to think that one of those was you, watching him. Now it was haunting.
And somewhere, buried away in the paddock, Lily was there. Oscar could imagine it; her polished and professional demeanor, almost perfect, as she schmoozed up to that one executive from the company that he swore always had a thing for her.
He wanted to scream. Instead, he had to pull the car into the garage as the session was stopped due to an accident. It was raining heavily. Extra caution was advised, his engineer explained, but Oscar couldn’t focus. Not because of his thoughts—although, those certainly didn’t help—but rather because of what he saw across the garage.
You were chatting with Lando.
“Hey, YN!” Lando greeted as he hopped out of his car, seeing you in the back of the garage taking photos. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too,” you said, though it wasn’t particularly true.
“Looks like we’re going to be a while,” he said looking over his shoulder at the storm brewing in the distance, “want to walk the paddock with me and get some candids?”
“Sure,” you agreed, though the request confused you.
The two of you left the garage and Oscar felt like punching the wall.
At first you walked in silence, your only emitted sound being the soft click of your camera. It was kind of pointless, though, since you were supposed to be getting shots of Oscar. You knew this. Lando knew this too.
“Can I ask you something, Lando?”
“Yeah?”
“Is there any reason that you’ve been pretty…friendly lately?” you asked, controlling your tone so it came off as genuinely curious rather than suspicious.
“Honestly,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck with nervousness, “I felt really bad about everything that happened on the trip. I was afraid I might’ve scared you off.”
Well, that didn’t make much sense. Lando was the one who had been avoiding you since the trip. But, after dealing with Oscar, you had simply accepted that men in general made no sense.
“You didn’t,” you said. “And, I mean, the only reason we ended up like that is because Lily was trying to get rid of me. But, you see how that worked out.”
“Really? She didn’t have the balls to tell you to leave her man alone?”
“Not until after you left,” you said, exhaling in exhaustion.
“Damn,” he said, looking away from you. You snapped a few photos of his candid side profile, admiring how the light hit his curls just right. “You know, the only reason I ran off in the club that night like that was because I didn’t want to get involved in all that? I mean, I wasn’t about to steal Oscar’s side chick.” He laughed. “But from what I hear, things have changed?”
You laughed. “Oscar’s side chick?”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t sleeping together?”
“Why do you want to know?” you laughed. Was Lando…flirting with you? No. He couldn’t be. He was Lando Norris, the most notorious playboy of the 2025 grid.
“Aw, c’mon. I want to know the drama!” he teased, flashing his boyish smile.
“Well, what if I want to know your drama?” you teased back, taking the opportunity to snap a few photos of him as you continued walking.
“Psh, I’ve got no drama. Just keeping to myself, trying to win.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“You’re avoiding the question, YN,” he said, smirking. Holy shit, he was flirting with you. But did you really mind? It felt nice to have that playful banter, to see a man who wanted that back and forth more than he just wanted your body. What was wrong with having a little fun?
You sighed and told him the most technical version of the truth. “Oscar never cheated. But you really thought I was sleeping with Oscar and you didn’t say anything to Lily?”
“Wasn’t my business. Besides, I thought it was pretty obvious.” His comment left a bit of a sour taste in your mouth, especially knowing the fears that Lily had confessed to you so long ago.
“No, I wouldn’t do that to Lily,” you said, and it was true. After all, you were both women.
“And what about Oscar?”
You rolled your eyes. Having a nice conversation with Lando helped you remember how not nice your time with Oscar had been recently. “Oh, fuck him,” you said weakly.
“Well, did you?”
You paused, unsure of whether or not to confess. “I already told you that he didn’t cheat. Is what, or who, I do in my spare time really any of your business?” you playfully teased.
His lips curled upwards. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
The double entendre wasn't missed on you. You glanced over your shoulder, scanning the crowds to ensure that no one was paying too close attention. “You don’t have to worry about me and Oscar. But you know I run his social media, right? So I see all the gossip pages, all the shit you get yourself into. It’s a bold claim to say you’ve got no drama.”
“Oh, darling, they don’t even know the half of it,” he smirked. You all had turned around by now, walking back in the direction of the paddock. The crows were thinner now.
He continued, “But what about you, huh? You’re all bored with Oscar and now you want some real fun?” He let out a small laugh. “No, you’re not like that. Too much of a good girl.”
“You think I’m too good? I’m here flirting with my best friend’s rival for the championship.”
“Are we flirting, is that was this is?” he asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. “I thought we were just having a pleasant conversation, catching up on the gossip.” Unbeknownst to you, Lando had gotten all the gossip from Oscar after their drunken celebration in Miami. But he wanted to see exactly how much you’d reveal to him.
“Well, sure then. I’m sure you get tired of race talk all day, anyway.”
“You say that like you think race talk is boring. But I’ve seen you at enough races to know better. Don’t play coy, you love it, don’t you? You know more about racing than most of the drivers’ girlfriends.”
It kind of unnerved you, the way Lando knew exactly how to push your buttons. The subtle you’re not like the other girls implication; both you knew it wasn’t a compliment, but rather a statement meant to rile you up and see how you’d react. And it worked.
Your voice lowered, steady yet quieter. “It’s a bit sexist to assume that women don’t know anything about racing. And knowing more about racing doesn’t make me any better than anyone else.”
“I never said that, love.”
“Hmm, but you thought it.”
“Are you in my head now?” You playfully rolled your eyes. “So tell me about all the race talk between you and Oscar.”
“Is that a euphemism for something?” you chuckled.
“D’you want it to be?” he smirked. “No, no, really. Tell me what groundbreaking F1 opinions are inside that pretty little head of yours.” Yeah, he was definitely flirting with you.
“I’ve got nothing groundbreaking,” you said as your smile loosened, contemplating how you wanted to arrange your words. “I think Oscar has a good shot at winning the WDC this year, if he can get out of his own head.”
“And what about me?”
“I think you’ll give him a run for his money. But you care too much about what random people on the internet think,” you said, ending the statement with that on the nose jest.
“You’re probably right,” he smiled. “God, you sounded like my PR manager for a sec there.”
“Not exactly dirty talk, is it?” you joked.
You arrived back at the McLaren garage. Lando walked in first, seeing that Oscar’s back was to you, and positioned himself so that when Oscar looked around, he’d see him instead of you. You were none the wiser.
He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “You still haven’t answered my question. How was he?” Lando’s face was plastered with a mischievous grin.
You playfully hit his shoulder. “Don’t ask me that!” you cooed, though you didn’t mind his closeness, the warmth of his breath on your ear.
Oscar didn’t like it, though. And when he turned around and saw your back to him, Lando leaned down next to you, and smirking, he wanted to run him over with his car.
Lando looked up for only a split second, but his eyes met Oscar’s, as if to acknowledge what he was doing. Or, as if to say, yes, I’m doing this, and you can’t stop me.
Oscar couldn’t handle the audacity of watching Lando flirt with you in front of his own eyes. Thankfully, you were tapped on the shoulder by none other than the new guy, who had broken his extremely expensive camera, and you were called away to help him figure it out.
Oscar crossed the garage to face Lando, never breaking his line of sight.
“Oh hey, mate, what’s up?” Lando asked, innocently.
“Why are you talking to YN?”
“Oh, she wanted to take some photos—”
“Don’t talk to YN,” Oscar said, his voice plain but stern.
“Mate, we were just having a chat. It wasn’t like that. Don’t be so paranoid.”
“I’m serious,” Oscar reiterated. “Don’t cross that line, Lando.”
“Okay, my bad,” Lando said, nervously laughing and carelessly throwing his hands in the air. Oscar still wouldn’t shift his gaze, even as both drivers were called to get back in their cars to resume the qualifying session.
There was something up about Lando, he could tell. But it’d have to wait. Now, he had a pole to get.
Well, he tried, but only managed to come in fourth. Lando got pole. Of fucking course.
Another sleepless night passed with no messages from you.
And the next morning, there you were as usual, staring at him only through the eye of your camera lens.
But then, across the garage, you had no problem chatting it up with Lando. He threw you a glimpse of his award winning smirk and Oscar felt violent. He didn’t like this. Not one bit.
You were doing it to spite him, that was obvious. You’d never be interested in a guy like Lando; too much of a playboy. And honestly, Oscar knew deep down that he deserved this. But it still made him sick to his stomach.
The feeling only dissipated when it was replaced by that primitive need within him to win. The lights before him went out and reason gave way to instinct.
Lando bottled the pole, losing the lead to Max after the first corner. Oscar fell back one place, narrowly avoiding a collision between Charles and Lewis, before overtaking them as they struggled to reorient their cars.
So it was just him, Max, and Lando. He could do this.
His body moved automatically. He could hear the roar of the engines, the chattering of the radio, and the screaming of the fans in the distance, but in his mind all was quiet. Laps blurred as he sped along the track, pushing inch by inch closer to overtaking Max.
Eventually he did, getting DRS and flying past the Redbull driver, pushing hard to get a good lead over him.
All that was left now was his own teammate.
“Okay Oscar, you’ve got enough space between you and Verstappen,” his race engineer said.
“I want to overtake.”
“A 1-2 is our goal right now—”
“Then he can be 2nd. I want to win.”
Silence befell the radio channel for a moment.
His engineer returned. “Okay. Papaya rules.”
Papaya rules. The phrase that haunted his dreams.
There was really no need to use the coded language anymore. The world knew what it meant—race, but keep it clean. Put the team above yourself. Don’t do anything reckless.
But Oscar was sick of being the good teammate, the one who always let Lando win for the sake of the team. He was tired of being gifted wins. Team orders were bullshit. This wasn’t about McLaren anymore. This was about his pride. This was everything.
So he pushed harder than he should have. He was wearing his tires out, he knew, but Lando just coasted along, as if nothing was amiss. As if his teammate wasn’t out for blood and gaining on him with every lap.
Lando glanced in his mirrors and saw Oscar behind him.
“Oscar’s getting close,” he said to his engineer.
“We told him papaya rules. Remember, our goal here is a 1-2.”
“He’s gonna wear out his tires.”
“Let’s just focus on keeping P1.”
But Lando knew it wasn’t that simple. This was no longer impersonal racing, just the best of the best competing against each other because it was in their nature to do so.
No, this was personal now.
Lando rounded the corner, feeling Oscar hot on his heels, but managed to defend his position. He knew that with DRS enabled at the next stretch, he wouldn’t be able to hold him off.
But in front of him, he was already close to lapping the backmarkers of the grid.
Oscar could see them in the distance; the familiar teal of Lance Stroll’s Aston Martin, and an even more familiar fumble as he drove erratically due to some mechanical issue with the car.
Lando slowed down, but Oscar couldn’t react. He swerved, hitting the barrier.
Back in the garage, the breath left your lungs.
You couldn’t resist the temptation of watching. You’d slid the headset on after Oscar had driven off, and you’d planned to leave before he got back to the garage and discovered that you’d ever been there. No harm, no foul. The allure of the purring engines and adrenaline-fueled racing was just too much to resist.
But now, hearing the violent scrape of carbon fiber against metal as Oscar’s car screeched along the barriers, your heart sunk into your chest.
“Are you alright, Oscar?” you heard his race engineer ask, his voice filling your ears.
But the silence afterwards was deafening.
“Oscar, can you hear us? Are you alright?”
All that came through was a metallic gargle of noise, a sign that the radio had been damaged in the impact. There was no way to know if Oscar was hurt or not.
A hush fell on the track as the safety car was brought out. Lando had effectively secured his win, with so few laps remaining.
Your eyes were glued to the screen, praying to whatever God would listen that Oscar would be okay. You watched as the marshalls rushed to the site of the car, huddling around the lump of broken parts that stood still on the sidelines.
Because of the force of the crash, the medical car had been deployed as well. You were frozen in place.
You had never been much of a believer in God, but all you could do now was beg.
Please, God. Please let him be okay. If he’s okay I can forgive everything he’s ever done. If he’s okay I will never let him out of my life ever again. Please, God, please let him be safe.
You chanted the prayer over and over again to yourself as the seconds ticked by like hours.
Finally, after an agonizingly long wait, you saw the marshalls carrying along an orange-clad form into the medical car.
You didn’t even think. You just reacted, taking off your headset and booking it towards the medical tent.
You weren’t the only one there, though. The tent was already swarmed with media, all craning their necks to see Oscar. You pushed your way through to the front, only to be stopped by security, since you had your media pass instead of your usual VIP pass as one of Oscar’s friends.
You panicked—to the eyes of security, you were just another reporter who was rudely trying to cut through the crowd to get to the injured driver.
“Please let me by,” you pleaded. “I know Oscar—”
“You can wait at the media tent.”
“C’mon—”
“Ma’am, we need you to leave.” You groaned, and you were about to leave before you heard the voice of your savior from out of nowhere.
“Hey!” he called. You turned your head to see who it was—the familiar, friendly face of Zak Brown.
He was on the other side of the barrier, but Oscar was still nowhere to be found.
“Oh, YN, am I glad to see you!” He turned to the security officer. “Let her in.”
“Sir, media personnel are not authorized—”
“She’s VIP, not media.”
“Sir—”
“Do you know who I am?” he said, an unusual sternness in his tone. The security officer glanced down at his pass and silently let you through.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Zak said, his boyish grin returning as he patted you on the back and led you along to the private area where they’d be bringing Oscar any second now.
You sighed as he pulled the medical curtain closed.
“Boy, was that a nasty crash,” he said.
“Is he okay?”
“Well, he’s alive. That’s as far as I know.”
Your heart sank again. But as if on cue, you heard the rumble of camera shutters and reporters chattering outside the tent as the marshals escorted Oscar into the tent. When he came up, the room was flooded with medical personnel, pushing you and Zak back to the edge of the curtained-off room.
A nurse rushed in. “Who’s his emergency contact?” she asked Zak.
“Her,” he said, gesturing to you. You were confused. Since when had Oscar made you his emergency contact?
“Stay here,” the nurse instructed, but even if you wanted to, you couldn’t move an inch. You resumed your prayers as Zak blabbered on and on, mainly to himself. One thing that you’d learned very quickly about Zak Brown once Oscar had gotten to McLaren is that he really liked to yap.
As the doctors and nurses filtered in and out of the room, you caught a brief glimpse of Oscar in the hospital bed, his eyes rolled back into his head, slumped over into his shoulder.
You wanted to wail.
But it was only a few minutes before everyone began to filter out of the room, creating enough space for you to finally see your friend. And when you did lay eyes on him, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you feared.
His eyes were closed; an attempt to rest, rather than a state of unconsciousness.
A nurse at his bedside turned to you. “Don’t worry. He’s going to be fine. We’re going to sedate him and transport him to a hospital, but he’s not gravely injured. He just needs some tests done that we can’t do here.”
You nodded along, not once taking your eyes off Oscar.
“And, yes, you are his emergency contact, so we’ll need you to come with us. He’s authorized you to make decisions in the event that he's unable to. But that is unlikely, of course.”
“Is he…?” you asked, gesturing towards him.
“He’s still a little shaken up. The best thing right now is to get him into a calmer environment.”
You nodded. “I’ll make sure that new guy doesn’t lose all your stuff,” Zak quipped, and you threw a smile out towards him. “I’ll meet you all there when we’ve wrapped up here.”
Ah yes, the grand prix was likely still going on outside, and Lando would have to climb the podium and take his P1 trophy home.
But as you sat in a hospital room in Italy next to your best friend, the podium was the last thing on your mind.
Oscar was still completely out of it. The doctors had come and gone, confirming that all of his tests had come back normal. No broken bones, no concussion, nothing major. Just a shit ton of bruises and a shock to the system that left him too exhausted to stay awake for more than 15 minutes at a time.
Outside, the sun was setting, but you couldn’t sit still. You held Oscar’s limp hand in your own, tracing patterns into the cold skin. You hadn’t held his hand since you were kids—no, Oscar had held your hands above your head as he pinned you to the wall only weeks ago.
You flung the memory away. Now wasn’t the time. Besides, you promise you’d forgive all that.
Either way, you couldn’t focus on that now. Oscar’s eyelashes were fluttering open, his eyes squinting at the fluorescent light above him.
“Osc!” you said, truthfully too energetic for the occasion. You dropped his hand, got up, and turned off the overhead light, leaving only the swiftly fading daylight from outside the window to illuminate the room.
He groaned as you sat back down, but still mumbled a small thanks.
“Where am I?” he asked, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes.
“A hospital in Imola.”
“Shit,” he sighed.
“Yeah. You had a pretty bad crash.”
“I remember that,” he said, his throat dry and cracked. He took a sip of water. “Lando brake checked me.”
“Is that what happened? I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Yeah. Fucker,” he cursed, his voice dripping with contempt. You didn’t know what to say.
“How are you feeling?” you finally said, tired of the lingering tension.
“Awful. Everything hurts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, reaching for his call button to request painkillers. “I’ve missed you.”
It was bold, doing this when he knew you couldn’t exactly be cruel to him. So, instead, you were honest.
“I’ve missed you too. I’m just glad you’re okay,” you said, reaching forward to smooth his hair away from his sweat-stained forehead. Your touch felt better than any painkiller. “We were really scared.”
“Nah, you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon,” he joked as the nurse arrived and wordlessly administered his meds. He let out a sigh as he felt the painkillers enter his system. “I run on pure spite. A little wall isn’t gonna take me out.”
You gave him a small smile. “You didn’t say anything after the crash,” you said, your voice just a quivering whisper, giving away the true depths of your fear.
“I had the wind knocked out of me. And then, everything just went black, I was fading in and out.”
“I was praying you’d be okay. It was so scary.”
“Hey, I’m okay. A little busted up, but I wasn't exactly a looker anyway, huh?” he joked, a feeble attempt to make you laugh. You sniffled and smiled.
He continued, “Can I use my near-death experience as an excuse for us to make up?”
Your smile dropped and you bit your lip. “Osc…”
“I just want my friend back,” he said, cutting you off. “Look, I can’t be the boyfriend you deserve. Not right now, at least. And I think, after all the shit I did, you wouldn’t want me to anyway. But I miss my friend.”
“I miss my friend, too.”
Your heart to heart was interrupted by a knock at the door. The same nurse from before poked her head in. “Excuse me?” she asked in an Italian accent, and you looked up. “There is a visitor asking to be let in. She said her name is Lily?”
You couldn’t help the face you made. What on God’s green Earth was Lily doing in Imola?
“Um, yeah, let her in,” Oscar said. He didn’t react, though you scooted away and sat at the edge of your seat, ready to leave at any second. “Stay,” he whispered to you, and you did.
A few moments later, you saw her walk in, and the atmosphere was thick.
“Hi Oscar,” she exhaled, grateful to see him okay. He greeted her back, but she didn’t even look at you. You got up to give them a moment, but Oscar reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Don’t go,” he said, and the look in his eyes was impossible to refuse. You tentatively sat back down.
“How are you feeling?” Lily asked, and the two exchanged pleasant conversation back and forth. You wanted nothing more than to jump out of the window that now showed the sunset over the trees. Normal visiting hours would be ending soon.
“Well, I just wanted to make sure that you were okay,” she said, getting up to leave. “I’m glad you’re doing well. You too, YN,” she added on the end, but you didn’t believe it. You gave her a flat but polite smile.
“Actually, YN, could we have a word?” she asked, cocking her head in the direction of the hallway.
The look on Oscar’s face told you that this was a horrible idea. But one of you was confined to a hospital bed, and the other wasn’t. You ignored him and followed Lily into the deserted hallway.
She turned to you, voice full of venom. “How long have you been sleeping with Oscar?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” she said, plain as day.
“I’ve told you before, Oscar never cheated on you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You turned your head in confusion. “What are you getting at?”
Lily angrily sighed. “You think that you can just waltz around the paddock talking shit about me with Lando, and that I’m not going to hear about it?”
Had Lily been at the paddock? Or even worse: had she somehow heard you?
“Well, if you actually heard my conversation with Lando, you’ll know that I stood up for you.”
“I thought you were a girl’s girl,” she said, deflecting from your defense.
“I am.”
“Then why were you in bed with my boyfriend 4 days after we broke up?”
“Your ex boyfriend,” you said, meeting her level of venom. “You left him.”
“I just thought, after all that talk, you’d have the decency not to prove me right.”
“Lily, I was honest with you. If you’re mad at Oscar, don’t take it out on me. He’s the one who suggested it. I told him it was a bad idea.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“And I felt horrible about it. So I stopped.” Your voice was sharp. “Who told you any of this?”
“It doesn't matter. I hope you’re happy.”
“I hope you are, too. Genuinely.” You lacked the words to say what you really wanted to. He treats both of us like shit. He used us. I am not your enemy. She wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. She wordlessly walked away, scoffing and mumbling to herself.
You didn’t say anything either as you walked back into the hospital room and slumped in the chair.
“I’m guessing that didn’t go well?” Oscar said.
“Nope.”
“Well, we were in the middle of something…”
Oh, right. The conversation where Oscar was trying to get back in your pants.
“I’m not going to fuck you, Oscar.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“We can let anything lead to that. Not again.”
“I understand,” he said. “I just want my friend back in my life. Like all of that never happened.”
“Could we even do that?” you asked. It felt like a line had been crossed, moving your friendship in a way that couldn’t be undone.
“I promise. And I know my word doesn’t mean much, but really, I promise. Never again.”
Haven't you promised that you’d forgive him?
“Okay,” you said, “Okay.”
Oscar smiled at you, showing off his bunny teeth. You still loved him. You couldn’t help it. But true to form, you could never stay away.
“Oh, and by the way, congrats on Miami.”
You fell asleep in the chair, having refused to leave Oscar’s side. He’d be discharged in the morning to make his flight back to Monaco, though it was questionable whether or not he’d be able to race in the iconic Grand Prix.
True to his word, though, Oscar got one final set of visitors in the dead of night.
The first was Zak Brown.
“Oscar!” Zak yelled, before Oscar shushed and pointed to your sleeping form. You stirred but didn’t fully wake, and Zak placed his hand over his mouth and raised his eyebrows as Oscar let out a quiet laugh.
“Hey Zak,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Glad to see you’re doing better.”
“Yeah, I made it,” he mused. “Hey, what did the FIA say?” Oscar’s phone had died since you had fallen asleep, and his charger had been left at the track.
Thankfully, Zak had brought his (and your) belongings, and he placed the bag at the foot of the hospital bed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the penalty, from the crash?”
“No one got a penalty.”
“But, Lando brake checked me.”
“Lando barely avoided a crash with Stroll.”
“I know, but he didn’t swerve, he slowed down. He had room to swerve, I didn’t. How did no one get a penalty?”
“That's just racing.”
“He intentionally slowed down to stop me!”
“Oscar, I highly doubt that that’s what happened. It was a crowded track, and you all had to react in a split second. These things happen, you know this.”
Oscar wasn’t at all pleased with this answer, and it was worsened by the appearance of his second visitor: Lando himself.
“Ah, there’s our grand prix winner!” Zak said, giving him a hearty pat on the back.
Lando smiled, and Oscar wanted to throw up.
“Had to bring it home for the team,” he said, smiling at Zak. “You doing alright, mate?” he asked.
Oscar was already tired of people asking him how he was feeling. “I’m fine,” he said.
“Lando gave Stroll an earful after the race.”
“Oh yeah, probably getting fined for that one…”
“Why? I didn’t crash because of Stroll. You brake checked me.” The pain was making Oscar more irritable. He’d need another dose of meds soon.
“No, Stroll was driving like an idiot out there, I had to slow down.”
“No, you had to move. You’re not stupid. You just didn’t want me to overtake, didn’t you?”
“Okay, boys, let’s save this for the track,” Zak interjected. Oscar just grumbled. “I’ll meet you outside, yeah?” he said to Lando, who nodded but stayed behind.
The Brit glanced at you, still fast asleep in the chair by Oscar’s bedside. “D’you tire out your babysitter?” he smiled.
But Oscar was relentless. “Don’t talk about her.”
“I thought you all weren’t on speaking terms?”
“Lando, mind your business.”
“I don’t know what your problem is, mate.”
“You think I don’t know what you’re up to.”
“I’m not up to anything. I’m just trying to be a good teammate. Jesus, Osc, they should check that you didn’t hit your head too hard, you’re so paranoid.”
Truthfully, Oscar was bluffing. He had a horrible feeling about his teammate, but no evidence to back it up. But his intuition was hardly ever wrong.
“I ran into Lily after you left,” Lando said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told her you were here.” His tone of voice was so gentle that Oscar began to wonder if maybe he was being too paranoid.
“Yeah, she came by earlier.”
Lando’s eyes glanced back to your sleeping form, and Oscar felt his anger rise again. He didn’t even want Lando to look in your direction, let alone be speaking to you.
“Your heart rate is up,” Lando said, gesturing to the monitor that now showed the physical effects of Oscar’s anger.
“Look, Lando,” Oscar said, shifting to sit up in bed. “Stop acting like we’re friends. Stop talking to YN, stop trying to play this buddy-buddy game. We’re here to beat each other.”
“I was just trying to be kind, but I guess if you really don’t want to be friends, I can’t make you.”
“I’m serious. Leave YN alone. Don’t even go there.”
“She’s an adult.”
“And she’s mine.”
Lando laughed. “Seriously? That’s not exactly what she told me.”
The monitor beeped again as Oscar’s heart rate continued to rise. “I don’t care what she told you.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Try it. See what happens.”
A nurse gently knocked on the door, and Oscar was grateful for the distraction and relief of pain meds.
“Well,” Lando said, leaning on the door, “I guess I’ll see you all in Monaco.”
betrayal and rescue (pt.2) | cl16
Summary: your ex betrays you, but luckily your teammate has your back.
Warnings: ferrari driver!reader, single mom reader, misogynistic comments, fluff and Charles being such a sweetheart.
Part 1
The last month living with Charles have been a real dream come true for you and Mia, he has been a very important support for both of you during this time, he's a very caring and gentle person, his soft touch and kind nature is what you and Mia needed to really start healing. It was a rare, lazy Sunday with no commitments pulling you two away from bed, Charles lay propped against pillows, dozing lightly with Mia curled on his chest. You smiled at their peaceful forms, carding gentle fingers through Charles' tousled and soft chocolate curls.
Mia stirred, yawning widely before spotting you. “Mama! Morning!” she crawled over to snuggle into your side, little hand gripping Charles' shirt.
“Good morning my pretty girl!” you say softly at her, kissing her cheek. “Good morning Charlie!” you giggled.
Chuckling softly, Charles' arms wound around both of you as his eyes fluttered open, he smiled sleepily. “Bonjour, mes amours.” he murmured, pressing kisses to your heads. (good morning, my loves)
You sighed contentedly, resting your cheek against his warm and comfy chest. In that moment, all the cares and worries of the world felt so far away, here in your very own cocoon of blankets, surrounded by the love of your makeshift family, nothing could touch the three of you.
Your mind wandered back over the torturous last months you've spent trapped in your ex's grip... the constant walking on eggshells, never knowing what might set off his volatile temper, never having that feeling of safety or protection, even in your own home with Mia...
Now, Charles' strong arms encircled you both, radiating an unshakable calm, warmth and safety you'd never known before. His affection for you and Mia was unconditional, showering you daily with kind words, gifts, and adventures that filled your hearts to bursting.
Tears welled in your eyes as you peered up at Charles' handsome, adoring face. “I never thought I could feel this happy and content.” you whispered. “You gave me and Mia the life, the family, we always wanted.”
Charles' gaze softened, brushing away your tears with his thumb. “I'm the lucky one, princess.” he insisted gently. “You both brought me more joy than I ever believed possible.”
Leaning down to capture your lips in a slow and tender kiss, he poured every ounce of love into it that you still had trouble believing was truly yours after so long in the darkness. But in Charles' light, you and Mia were starting to heal, to believe, and to understand that happy endings do exist for those who keep hoping.
Mia let out a squeal of happiness. “Dada, Mama! Kisses!” she said giggling.
Charles smiled at her. “We have multiple kisses for you too, petite étoile.” (little star)
He said and then he started to fill Mia's face with kisses, who giggled more and was so happy, you smiled when you saw them, it was your beautiful family.
***
The Miami race weekend brought new challenges as you and Charles tried to keep your blossoming relationship private amid the media frenzy in the paddock and social media.
You two arrived separately to avoid suspicion, only allowing your hands to brush as you passed beside each other in the paddock Charles' eyes lingered with a smile, filling you with warmth.
During the practice sessions your radios remained businesslike, but his frequent checks that if you were hydrated or had enough fuel said everything. Small glances across the garage were your only connection, yet more intimate than any public display could be.
Qualifying came, neither of you hold back—though whether from passion for racing or each other, even if you weren't sure. You were pushing your cars to their limits as if nothing else existed.
After that, you stopped by Charles' driver room under the guise of strategy debrief. But as the door closed, his lips captured yours feverishly. Your restraint finally snapped under the tension of the day, the kiss is very slow and soft, as you two break away from the kiss, you place your forehead against his.
You gazed up at him worriedly. “Do you think people will start speculating about us?” you whispered softly.
Charles brushed his lips softly over your forehead. “Let them speculate baby, I don't care who knows how much you and Mia mean to me.”
His words filled you with joy and longing for the day you could shout your love from the rooftops, but for now, this stolen moment between you two, where the world fell away, was enough.
The press conference after the qualifying session were in full swing, you fielded questions professionally about setup choices and tire strategies that put both of the Ferrari cars on the front row for sunday's race.
But one of the journalists had an accusatory tone. “Some think it's no coincidence you and Leclerc are performing so well together... Care to elaborate on rumors of an forbidden relationship distracting you both?”
You started to reply calmly when another cut in. “Yeah, she's probably just sleeping her way to the top! Honestly, what else is a pretty face good for in a man's sport?”
Venomous laughter rose from some journalists in the room, your chest tightened in panic and rage —this was your nightmare scenario. Being a woman and also being in motorsports, you have often encountered derogatory and unpleasant comments about you and about women in general, it's like most men are bothered by the fact that a girl is faster than them on the track or that women deserve a place everywhere as them, that includes sports too. Before you could respond, Charles suddenly grabbed his microphone.
“That is completely unacceptable.” he said in a low, dangerous tone that chilled the room. His green eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “She is one of the most talented and dedicated professionals in this paddock, regardless of gender. The disrespect shown here today is a disgrace to the sport.” Charles leaned over the mic, jaw clenched. “I suggest selecting your next questions more wisely and showing my teammate the respect she deserves not only as a driver, but as a human being... If not, this conference is over.”
An uneasy silence fell as Charles grasped your trembling hand supportively under the table, you took a calming breath, regaining composure.
You swallowed dryly. ”Our performances speak for themselves, which I think is good for the team.” you stated clearly. “Charles and I simply push each other to excellence through our competition and partnership, that's all.”
Max Verstappen also wanted to give his opinion on the journalist's misogynistic comment towards you.
“Forgive me for being so bold, but I think that kind of comment is very out of place. I mean, considering that y/n is a mother and an exceptional driver and she deserves the same respect as all of us, right?” Max said, staring at the journalist, who was completely pale. “I think you should ask her about her race and strategy, and not about her private life, I don't know, that's just my opinion.” he said and dropped the microphone leaving everyone in the room speechless.
The rest of the questions thankfully remained respectful, but later, outside of the press conference room, Charles embraced you tenderly.
“No one gets to tear you down like that. You are so much stronger than their smallmindedness, okay?” he whispered in your ear.
You smiled up at him through happy tears, gripping his race suit. In that moment, you knew that with Charles by your side, you could overcome any obstacle that came your way.
Despite of those awful comments, the Miami Grand Prix was a huge success for both of you, with Charles taking victory and you claiming second place on the podium, the third 1-2 finish in the season for Ferrari, you're in total bliss. You two opted to skip the official afterparties and all the glamour, eager for some low-key family time.
Back at the hotel, Charles ordered a feast from room service while you and Mia showered away the sweat of the day. Emerging refreshed in pajamas, your heart overflowed seeing Charles play with Mia on the floor, her giggles echoing.
“Mama, dada won! Yay!” Mia squealed proudly as you bent to pepper her face with kisses, Charles beamed up at you, eyes sparkling.
“You were so incredible out there today babe!” he praised, helping you plate your overflowing meal spread across the suite's floors and furniture.
The three of you dined under the moonlight spilling through enormous windows, talking and laughing for hours as Mia dozed in your lap. Finally content and full bellies, the evening wound down with Mia yawning off to bed, Charles gathered you into his lap on the couch, kissing you so deeply and yet gently as if you were made of flickering glass.
“Thank you for giving me the family I never knew I wanted... For filling these months with a happiness I ever believed possible.” he whispered softly against your lips.
You cradled his handsome face, memorizing every beautiful line and facet. “I should be the one thanking you, you know? For trying to heal the wounds of my past and giving Mia and I the love and safety we always deserved.”
He shakes his head. “It has been such a pleasure, being with you and taking care of both of you it's been a journey, a beautiful one.” he whispered and you giggled softly.
Your relationship was far from traditional, that's for sure! But on nights like this, in the blissful quiet of each other's arms, it felt more right than anything you'd ever known.
***
You definitely enjoy the little breaks in-between races, it's were you can take a moment to ground yourself outside racing and just enjoy the calm and warm of your little family and that can be just a rewarding like a race win or a podium.
“Mama!” Mia screams a little. “A scary ghost is following me!” she says while running and giggling around the living room.
Almost a second later, Charles appeared hiding in a white blanket trying to catch Mia in his arms, but she runs away... He almost collide with the coffee table.
You laughed at their funny antics. “Oh no Mia! It's a really clumsy ghost.” you say while giggling.
“Boo! There's a sneaky little girl around here, I'm going to grab her in my arms and turn her into a little ghost!” Charles' said imitating the voice of a ghost.
Mia giggled again. “No, no! Bad ghost, really bad!” she covered her mouth. “Catch mama!” she said pointing at you.
You opened your mouth, shocked. “Me? But I'm just trying to make some tea!” you say. “It's not fair baby!”
You and Mia started run around the living room, making Charles crash almost with every single chair and the rug, you two laughed at him.
You feel and arm behind you. “Haha, gotcha!” he said in a mocking tone, making you and Mia collide to the rug, he took off the blanket, revealing is disheveled hair and a flustered cheeks.
“Dada, again, again!” she said giggling.
Charles giggled too. “Oh baby, maybe tomorrow, does that sounds good?” he asked her and she nodded.
You just smiled at him, you never saw him looking so radiant and joyful, it's like he's reliving things from his own childhood and it's so nice to see him like this with Mia.
You smiled. “You are a rather scary ghost and a little silly.” you giggled.
He chuckled softly. “Well, thank you, love! It's been years of practice.” he kissed your cheek.
“You know? You're amazing Charlie!” you say softly.
He looks at you. “Really? Well, um... Thanks darling, the truth is I only do what I can.” he blushed. “It's just me.”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “And that's why you're so amazing! You're you, as silly as it might sound, you're so passionate and so gentle at the same time!”
Mia smiled and kissed Charles' cheek. “Mwah! Dada kisses!” she said softly and he giggled.
“Do you want kisses, petite princesse?” he said to Mia and she nodded. “Okay, here we go!” (little princess)
Then he proceeded to cover Mia's face with kisses all over and she let out loud giggles, you smiled at the beautiful scene, and you realized something very important... You were in front of the love of your life and your little ray of sunshine, maybe everything would have been very different if you had tried from the beginning with Charles, or maybe not, but you are very sure of one thing... You are at home, in your safe place, with your two favorite people, the ones who keep you on your toes most of the time, but you wouldn't change it for anything in the world, Not even all the podiums or victories the world has to offer you, nothing compares to this.
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.
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