OK OMG Can I Request Sub Oscar Literally Having To Take A Break From Fucking Because He’s Gonna Come

So High School

Pairing: Andrea Kimi Antonelli x Chiara Battista (Original Character)

Summary: Chiara prints his worksheets. Kimi pretends to forget formulas just to talk to her.

It was all working—until she stopped helping, and he realized he might’ve already lost her.

Notes: It's Italian Grand Prix Week! I kinda felt like a cradle robber while writing this, because Kimi is a few years younger than me, but YA was and always will be my first love, so I felt like this was very much in my wheel house.

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

The school library was nearly empty that afternoon—just the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the steady scratch of pen against paper. Golden hour filtered through tall windows, softening the sterile white walls into something nearly warm. A lazy beam of light slanted across the long wooden table where Chiara Battista sat curled at the end, headphones in, highlighters fanned out beside her like a painter’s palette.

She was halfway through annotating a dense reading for their ethics seminar, blonde hair pulled back in a pencil-stabbed bun that had begun to lean to the left. She didn’t notice.

What she did notice was the sudden bang of the door slamming open.

She didn’t have to look up.

Only one person in their school had ever treated the library like a pit lane instead of a sacred hall of silence.

Kimi Antonelli.

She heard the sharp rush of his breath first—half-running, half-skipping steps echoing too loudly against the tile floor. He jogged toward her, slightly out of breath, sun-kissed and windblown from whatever race weekend he’d just flown back from. His backpack was hanging half-open over one shoulder, and there was a visible crease in the corner of his collar that said he’d either changed in the car or not at all.

“Hey,” he said, voice hushed but warm as he slid into her orbit like he belonged there. “Did we get that grammar packet? The one Mr. Rossi said he’d email?”

She didn’t even blink. “Printed you a copy,” she said, already reaching into her folder. “Figured you’d forget.”

He blinked, like he genuinely hadn’t expected that. “You’re actually a lifesaver.”

Chiara gave a small smile, sliding the neat stack of papers across the table. She didn’t say, I’ve been keeping a folder labeled “A.K.A.” for the last six months because you never remember anything and I never seem to mind. She just handed him the packet and returned to underlining a particularly obscure sentence about moral relativism.

Kimi didn’t move right away.

He stood there for a beat, fingers grazing the edge of the worksheet like it might slip out of his hands if he didn’t hold it gently. Like maybe he wanted to say something else, but couldn’t quite find the words.

Chiara glanced up from her notes.

“Did you win?” she asked, tone light, like this was all completely normal—like she didn’t secretly refresh live race trackers when she was supposed to be studying, heart pounding every time his name moved up the leaderboard.

“Huh? Oh—no.” He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “P6. But it was a decent drive. I think my engineer aged five years, though.”

Chiara smiled under her breath. “Poor man.”

“Yeah,” Kimi agreed, then added with mock gravity, “Pray for Bono.”

She laughed, and he lit up. Just for a second, like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“Thanks again,” he said after a moment, lifting the paper like a white flag. “You always think of stuff I forget.”

“You forget everything,” she teased, not unkindly.

His grin was all teeth, crooked and warm and just a little shy. “That’s true. But you don’t.”

There was something about the way he said it—soft and offhand but sincere—that made her glance up again. And suddenly they were just looking at each other.

It wasn’t new. But it was dangerous.

Because sometimes he looked at her like she was something steady. Something rare. And it made Chiara’s lungs feel too small for her chest.

She glanced back down, pretending to arrange her pens.

“Okay, I should—go,” he said, not moving. “Before Madame Ferragni starts hunting me down for Math homework I didn’t do.”

“You didn’t do it?”

Kimi immediately looked guilty. “I was a little busy driving a car at 300 kilometers an hour.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You had a week.”

“I was in Jeddah!”

“So was my cousin. She managed to post ten TikToks and finish the assignment.”

He laughed, short and surprised. “Right. Okay. I deserved that.”

She sighed but slid another annotated sheet across the table anyway.

He stared at it like it was a gift. “You even highlighted—”

“Don’t act surprised. You always forget the formulas.”

“I don’t forget. I just... deprioritize.”

“You forgot,” she said flatly.

“I forgot,” he agreed, holding up both hands. “But you didn’t.”

“You should go,” she said, more softly this time. “Library closes in ten.”

“Right.”

But he lingered.

“You coming to class tomorrow?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

“Unlike some people, I don’t fly around the world on weekends.”

He smiled again, that same quiet, unguarded thing he only gave her in empty hallways and between classes. The kind of smile that made her wish she could stop the moment and study it.

Then he nodded, tapping the edge of the worksheet against the table like a nervous tic.

“Thanks again, Chiara,” he said, voice low and sincere. “You’re kind of amazing.”

And before she could find anything to say—before she could ask him why he always came to her, why he always smiled like that but never acted on it—he turned and left.

The door shut softly behind him.

Chiara sat frozen for a moment, staring at her scattered notes, at the place he’d been standing. Then she exhaled slowly and picked up her pen again.

***

The courtyard buzzed with low conversation, the kind that floated lazily through the warm spring air alongside the scent of blooming wisteria and the occasional hum of a passing bee. A group of boys tossed a football across the far lawn. Someone played soft music from a cracked phone speaker. Birds chirped from the trees that arched over the stone pathways, as if even they were tired of studying.

Chiara Battista sat on the low stone wall near the edge of the flowerbeds, legs crossed at the ankles, sunlight warming the tops of her shoulders through her linen blouse. Her physics binder was open in her lap, pages fluttering in the breeze, her green highlighter spinning idly between her fingers like a coin she wasn’t sure whether to flip.

She wasn’t really studying.

Not in the focused, efficient way she usually did. Her eyes were on the formulas, but her mind kept wandering—to Miami, to engines, to a crooked smile and a hoodie that always smelled faintly like jet fuel and cinnamon gum.

Across from her, Giulia sat with her back against the wall, peeling a clementine with the kind of exaggerated slowness that said she wanted attention but was pretending not to.

The citrus smell was sharp in the air.

“So,” Giulia said after a beat, voice lilting and light in that deceptively gentle tone she always used when she was about to say something awful, “how long are you planning on being Kimi Antonelli’s personal secretary?”

Chiara blinked. “What?”

Giulia gave her a long, unreadable look, then popped a slice of clementine into her mouth with flourish. “Come on. You print out his notes. You remind him about tests. You keep spare pens for him like you’re part of his pit crew. It's kind of adorable. If it wasn’t so tragic.”

“I don’t—” Chiara began, heat creeping up her neck.

“You do,” Giulia interrupted, voice light and sing-song. “Which is fine. Really. He’s cute. I get it. He’s got the floppy hair, the whole baby-Mercedes-prodigy thing, the eyes. Honestly, I’d probably let him copy off my notes if he smiled at me the way he smiles at you.”

Chiara looked down at her highlighter, still gripped between her fingers, the green plastic suddenly too bright in the sun.

Giulia took another slow bite of orange and chewed, watching Chiara too carefully.

“But you’re smart,” she continued. “Like actually smart. You’ve got a shot at med school. Or engineering. Or politics, if you ever get over your allergy to speaking in public. And you’re wasting your time babysitting a boy who’s probably never even seen your handwriting on his own.”

Chiara’s fingers stilled. The highlighter slipped and hit her knee with a soft thud before rolling into the folds of her skirt. The green cap glinted in the sunlight.

Giulia leaned her head back, eyes squinting up at the sky like this was all just a mildly interesting observation, nothing personal.

“I’m just saying,” she added, quieter now, “he’s got his group. Enrico, Luca, all of them. You really think he’d still talk to you if you stopped printing out his worksheets?

Chiara’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat felt dry.

It wasn’t that the comment was harsh. Giulia wasn’t sneering or mocking her. That would’ve been easier to dismiss. No—this was worse. This was delivered like a kindness. Like honesty, served cold and sharp and gently poisonous.

The sun glinted off the green cap of the highlighter like it was mocking her. Chiara felt her fingers tense around it, her knuckles pale.

“I’m just saying,” Giulia said with a shrug, “I think he’s using you. Not, like, in a malicious way. Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. But he is.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

They slid in quietly. Like they were meant to stay. Like they belonged somewhere deep inside her chest, where they could unspool later in the quiet hours.

Chiara didn’t say anything. She didn’t argue. There wasn’t a scene. She just shut her binder with a soft snap and reached down to tuck it under her arm.

Her smile came a second later—small, brittle at the edges, and practiced.

She stood.

“Where are you going?” Giulia asked, frowning.

“Inside,” Chiara said, without turning around. “I forgot something.”

She didn’t.

She just couldn’t sit there anymore. Not with the heat of the sun on her shoulders and those words seeping into her skin like ink.

She walked steadily, not fast enough to show she was upset, not slow enough to linger. Her shoes crunched over gravel, and her binder dug into her ribs with every step.

By the time she reached the hallway, her throat felt tight.

Because now all she could think about were the times he smiled like he meant it. The way he lingered at her desk like he wanted to stay. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking back.

And how stupid she must’ve been to think it meant anything at all.

***

It started small.

Kimi Antonelli wasn’t the most observant person when it came to school—he could memorize track layouts and sector splits like his life depended on it (because sometimes it did), but remembering whether ethics class was in Room 2B or 2C? Not his specialty.

But he noticed people.

And he definitely noticed Chiara Battista.

At first, he thought she was just tired. Exams were creeping closer, and she had that furrow between her brows that usually meant she was deep in study mode. But then she stopped handing him things before he even asked. No more worksheets quietly left on his desk. No more “Hey, by the way, Mr. Russo moved the deadline” in the hallway.

Nothing.

She wasn’t cold, exactly. Just… distant. Like she’d taken a step back and pulled some invisible curtain between them.

And he didn’t know why.

Kimi sat in class and stared at the side of her face while she took notes, neat and precise, a different-colored pen for every category. He used to tease her about it. She used to roll her eyes and pretend she wasn’t smiling.

Now she barely looked at him.

She hadn’t sat next to him during ethics the day before. She’d slipped into a seat near the window before he arrived. And when he’d caught up with her after class, breathless from literally jogging across campus to ask about the project, she’d answered his question with the same tone she used when telling the barista her name for a coffee order.

Polite. Blank. Forgettable.

And maybe that’s what scared him the most—that she seemed totally fine.

Kimi fumbled with the strap of his backpack as he walked across the courtyard, barely noticing when Enrico shouted his name from the steps. He waved vaguely in response, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had he said something wrong?

Had she overheard him joking with the others and taken it the wrong way?

He ran through every conversation they’d had in the last two weeks like it was onboard footage. Looking for a mistake. A missed flag. Something he could fix.

But all he found was silence.

His stomach twisted the way it sometimes did before a wet qualifying session—the anticipation, the nerves, the uncertainty. Only this time, there wasn’t a helmet to hide behind or a lap time to chase. Just Chiara, sitting under a tree across the courtyard, her nose buried in a book he didn’t recognize.

And for once, he didn’t know if he was allowed to walk over.

He used to just know. That invisible thread between them used to feel real. Reliable. Like she’d catch his eye from across the room and there’d be a look—a shared joke, a spark, something warm.

Now, she didn’t even glance up.

He pulled out his phone and opened their messages. The last few were short. Blunt. He scrolled higher, to when they used to send stupid memes or homework reminders with four exclamation points. Her little typing bubbles had always come fast and familiar.

Now they didn’t come at all.

Kimi sat down on the edge of a low wall and stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard like it might offer some kind of answer.

Then, impulsively, he typed:

Kimi A.: are you mad at me?

He watched the “Delivered” stamp appear.

Then… nothing.

No typing bubble. No reply.

Just the quiet weight of not knowing what he’d done, and the uncomfortable realization that, for all the times he’d texted her for help, he might have never really said the things that mattered.

The things he meant.

And now it might be too late.

***

Chiara told herself it didn’t matter. She told herself it didn’t hurt.

That it was fine, really. Normal. Temporary. That people grew out of things like school crushes and imagined connections. That Giulia hadn’t said anything cruel—just honest.

Blunt, yes. But not wrong.

Because when she thought about it, stripped down past the little moments she’d been hoarding like secrets, what did she really have? A handful of library smiles. A few text messages. Some inside jokes about French grammar and his inability to remember his own locker code.

It wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t even friendship, not really.

It was habit.

And maybe it was better to know now, before she got in any deeper. Before she built something out of glances and half-grins and the way he said her name when he was tired. Before she mistook kindness for something more.

So she stopped being proactive.

No more reminders. No more extras printed and labeled in neat folders with his name in the corner. No more nudging him in the hallway to say, You missed this, or, He changed the deadline. She didn’t ignore him—Chiara wasn’t cruel—but she was quiet.

Polite. Distant.

Unmistakably different.

And of course, that was when Kimi Antonelli started texting her more than ever.

Kimi A.: hey, did Mr. Russo say what the final project deadline is?

Chiara B.: Next Thursday.

Kimi A.: right. thanksKimi A.: do you know if we’re supposed to use the same groups as before?

Chiara B.: No, new groups. He said so in class.

Kimi A.: oh. I wasn’t there lol

Chiara B.: I know.

The “Read” receipt sat on the screen like a silent accusation. Four minutes passed.

She didn’t move. Just sat at her desk in her bedroom, textbooks spread in front of her, phone in hand, the quiet pressing in too tightly.

She should’ve been used to this by now—the ghosting, the silence, the slow burn of realizing someone was thinking about you less than you were thinking about them. But this was Kimi.

And Kimi was different.

Wasn’t he?

Her phone buzzed again.

Kimi A.: are you mad at me?

Chiara stared at the message until the screen dimmed and locked. Then she pressed the side button and brought it back again, as if the words might have changed in the dark.

Am I mad at him?

She wasn’t even sure.

Not exactly.

It wasn’t like he had done anything. He hadn’t broken her heart. He hadn’t stood her up or lied or made a promise he didn’t keep.

But he also hadn’t stayed.

He hadn’t noticed how much she gave. How quietly she rearranged her life around his chaos. How she’d memorized his schedule, his absences, his patterns.

He hadn’t noticed when she stopped.

And maybe that hurt more than anything else.

Not the rejection—but the realization that she was so easy to replace that he didn’t even notice when she disappeared.

Chiara glanced around her desk, at the binders and notebooks and that one stupid green highlighter he’d returned to her months ago after she dropped it in the hallway. It still had a faint smudge of oil on the cap. She still used it.

And every time she did, her heart did that annoying stutter.

She thumbed a reply.

Chiara B.: No. Just busy.

It wasn’t exactly true. But it wasn’t a lie either.

Final exams loomed. Graduation was a red circle on the calendar. Everything was ending—school, schedules, this weird little tether between them. And she had other things to worry about. College. Her future. Finding somewhere she belonged that didn’t hinge on how well she organized someone else’s life.

She had to stop wasting time wondering if every “you always think of stuff I forget” actually meant something.

She set her phone face down and tried to get back to her reading. But the words swam, rearranged themselves, refused to sit still.

The next morning, just after first period, her phone buzzed again.

Kimi A.: can I be in your project group?

Chiara read it. And read it again.

She should’ve said no.

She knew she should’ve said no.

But some part of her still ached to believe in him. Still wanted the version of Kimi who lingered after handing her a worksheet. The one who smiled like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

So she typed slowly.

Chiara B.: If you actually show up this time.

His response came faster this time. Too fast, like he’d been waiting.

Kimi A.: I will. Promise.

She stared at the screen.

Then locked her phone before she could respond.

Because even now, even after everything, even with doubt wrapped tight around her ribs—

Part of her still wanted to believe him.

And that part?

That was the most dangerous of all.

***

​​Kimi Antonelli was supposed to be having lunch.

 Instead, he was having a crisis.

“She’s not mad,” he muttered, arms crossed, pacing back and forth behind the table like he was walking a qualifying line he couldn’t quite stick. “She just… shut down. Like—quiet. Polite. It’s worse than yelling. She doesn’t even send me emojis anymore.”

Ollie Bearman, lounging like the human embodiment of ‘this is not my problem’, was leaned so far back in his chair he was practically horizontal, chewing absently on a pen cap. His Haas polo was wrinkled, and there were granola bar crumbs clinging to his collar, but he looked entirely unbothered by Kimi’s spiraling.

“You mean,” Ollie said, “she’s treating you like a classmate and not a potential boyfriend?”

“Exactly!” Kimi threw his hands up. “She used to send me PDFs with color-coded annotations. Now it’s just… black text. Periods. Not even an exclamation point! She used to remind me about class changes. Now she lets me walk into the wrong room and doesn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, no, that’s horrifying,” Ollie deadpanned. “Have you tried talking to her like a normal person?”

“I am talking to her,” Kimi snapped. “She’s just only replying about school stuff. Like, cold. Precise. Linguistically devastating. I asked if we could work on the physics project together and she just said, ‘if you actually show up this time’. That’s lethal.”

Ollie winced, cringing like he’d been personally struck. “Oof. That’s—yeah. That’s girl-code for ‘you’re on thin ice, bucko.’”

Kimi dropped into the chair next to him, slumped dramatically with his face buried in his hands. “This is hell. Actual hell.”

There was a pause, long enough for Ollie to sip from a sports bottle with exaggerated slowness.

“I still don’t get why you haven’t told her you like her,” he said, not for the first time.

Kimi looked up, hair flopping into his eyes. “Because she’s smarter than me. Because she has beautiful handwriting and  perfect grades and probably thinks I’m just an idiot in fireproof overalls who forgets his own password and uses ‘vibes’ to explain physics.”

“You punched her ex-boyfriend for cheating on her,” Ollie pointed out.

Kimi groaned. “That was your idea!”

“My idea was defend her honor, not uppercut the guy into next week!”

“You said, ‘make it clear he can’t treat her like that.’”

“Yeah! With words, not fists!”

“I panicked!”

“You panicked,” Ollie echoed, nodding like a therapist scribbling on a clipboard. “Because you’re in love with her.”

“Exactly!”

“I said to say something,” Ollie continued, exasperated, “not commit assault outside chemistry class.”

“I didn’t assault him! It was one punch!”

“One punch that required ice and a parental meeting!”

“I panicked!”

“You keep saying that like it’s a defense and not a personality trait!”

Kimi let out a strangled sound. “I don’t know how to do this! I know how to defend in Turn 1. I know how to nail a flying lap. I don’t know how to tell a girl that I remember her favorite pen color and I highlight things in green just because she does and I save her texts even when they’re about grammar exercises.”

There was a beat.

Then a voice cut through the chaos, dry and mildly horrified.

“…I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Both boys froze.

They turned simultaneously.

Toto Wolff stood in the doorway of the Mercedes junior debriefing room, espresso in one hand, jacket draped over his other arm, and the expression of a man who had walked into a live-action soap opera during what was supposed to be a technical meeting.

Kimi immediately sat up straighter, trying to brush his hair out of his face. “Hi, Toto.”

“Hello, Kimi.” A nod. Then: “Bearman.”

“Sir,” Ollie said, suddenly very upright, as if his posture might erase the incriminating conversation still echoing in the air.

Toto took a long sip of his espresso and closed his eyes like it might give him patience.

“Alright,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose with the kind of weariness that only came from mentoring teenage boys with fast cars and faster hearts. “First: no more punching. You are supposed to be a functioning adult, not an F1-themed vigilante.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second…” Toto looked between the two of them, gaze settling on Kimi. “Tell her how you feel.”

Kimi blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“But what if she—”

“If she doesn’t feel the same,” Toto interrupted coolly, “you’ll survive. It will hurt. But you’ll get over it.”

Kimi swallowed. “And if she does?”

Toto raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll stop spending engineering meetings texting her instead of listening to race strategy. Win-win.”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked mildly betrayed by logic.

Toto gave him a long look. “You’re not the first young man to like someone smart and good and feel like you didn’t know how to deserve her. Tell her. Before someone else does.”

He pointed at Ollie without even looking. “And don’t take advice from him.”

Ollie gasped like he’d been personally wounded. “I’ve been offended by a team principal. That’s going in my memoir.”

Toto turned to leave. Then paused in the doorway and added, without turning around:

“And if you must punch someone, do it off school property. Less paperwork.”

Kimi gaped. Ollie choked on laughter.

“I’m joking,” Toto said flatly.

(He was mostly joking.)

As he walked away, they heard him mutter to himself:

“I manage race strategy, investor relations, and now teenage hormones. God help me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Then Kimi looked at Ollie. “…Did Toto Wolff just tell me to ask out Chiara?”

“I think you just got father-figure pep-talked.”

“That was terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Ollie nodded. “He’s weirdly good at it.”

Then, a beat later, Ollie grinned.

“So… are you gonna tell her?”

Kimi stared at the wall, like he might find the courage in the pattern of the plaster. “…I might actually die.”

“You might actually kiss her.”

“…I might throw up.”

“You’ve driven Eau Rouge in the wet.”

“That was less terrifying.”

Ollie grinned and clapped him on the back. “C’mon, lover boy. Time to make Toto proud.”

***

They met at her house.

Neutral ground.

Safe ground.

Her mother answered the door in an apron dusted with flour, squinted at Kimi for all of three seconds, then said, “Is this the racing boy?” with a bright, knowing smile.

Before Kimi could respond—still half in his jacket and caught between alarm and confusion—she turned and disappeared into the kitchen with the ease of someone who had already decided she liked him. “There’s biscotti on the tray. Help yourselves.”

The scent of lemon zest and almonds lingered in the hallway like some kind of warm welcome Kimi wasn’t entirely sure he deserved.

They settled in her room—Chiara cross-legged on the carpet, laptop propped on a cushion, and Kimi sprawled beside her, shoulders brushing the edge of her desk, legs half-folded like he couldn’t quite figure out how to sit in one place for more than five minutes.

They’d been working for over an hour.

On paper, it looked productive. Slides moved. Notes typed. Bullet points organized.

But it wasn’t real.

A few awkward comments about font sizes and slide transitions. Some neutral territory filler like “do we need another diagram?” or “can you move that image left a bit?”

Nothing real. Nothing honest.

And it was unbearable.

Chiara had always been good at pretending—smiling through awkward dinners, nodding during group projects, making herself useful. But this was different. This was him. And the quiet between them wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed. Sharp and heavy, like static before a storm.

So, eventually, she broke.

“You know,” she said, still typing, not daring to look at him, “you don’t have to keep pretending.”

Kimi paused, glancing up from his phone. “Pretending?”

“That this matters to you.” Her voice was steady, but it was too practiced. Too careful. “The project. School. Me. You don’t have to keep texting. Or asking me for things. I’m not going to print your homework anymore.”

She said it like it didn’t cost her something. Like her throat wasn’t tightening and her chest didn’t feel like it was caving in around her words.

He blinked. His whole body went still.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she finished, and even though she tried to sound nonchalant, her fingers curled tighter around her laptop, like she needed something to hold her together.

Kimi’s brow furrowed, confusion washing across his face. “Chiara—”

“I’m serious.” She finally looked at him, and the effort it took not to let her voice shake made her jaw clench. “It’s fine. I get it. I was convenient. You needed someone to keep you afloat while you were flying around the world winning races. I was just… useful.”

The words hung there.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It rang. It roared in her ears.

Kimi sat up slowly, eyes wide, his whole body shifting like she’d hit him in the chest with something he hadn’t seen coming.

“You really think that?” he asked, and his voice was quiet, but not soft. It was stunned. Raw.

Chiara held his gaze even though it hurt. “What else am I supposed to think?”

Kimi leaned forward, disbelief written all over him. “I never used you.”

“You say that now—”

“I never used you,” he repeated, louder this time. The desperation in his voice cracked something inside her. “You are the only part of school I like! The only reason I didn’t drop out three months ago.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Because I printed things for you—”

“Because I like you,” he said. It burst out of him like a snapped chord. Breathless. Raw. Unpolished and real.

“Because I look for you in every hallway. Because I come to class after red-eye flights and brutal back-to-backs just hoping maybe you’d say hi. Because I have no idea how to talk to you without sounding like a complete idiot! So I asked about worksheets. I pretended I don’t understand physics! Because that was the only way I could keep talking to you without blowing it.” 

He kept going, voice lower now. “Because I saved every worksheet you gave me, even the ones I didn’t need. Because I still have the dumb green highlighter you let me borrow that one time. Because I thought maybe if I asked you enough questions, you’d start to like me too.”

Chiara froze.

Then she stared at him. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky laugh, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it. “I thought if I said anything real, you’d look at me and realize I’m just… some guy who memorizes apex speeds better than grammar rules. That you’d stop talking to me completely.”

She stared at him.

Then blinked.

Then said—very softly, very brokenly—

“…Then why didn’t you ever say something?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just small. Frayed at the edges. “Why did you let me believe I didn’t matter?”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it again. Looked so impossibly helpless it nearly broke her.

And then—he didn’t answer.

And Kimi—stunned, frustrated, helpless in the way only a teenage boy in love can be—did the one thing he could think of.

He kissed her.

No warning. No hesitation. Just leaned in and kissed her like she was the finish line and he’d been chasing her all season.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t practiced. It was a little clumsy, a little off-center, his hand curling into the fabric of her sleeve like he was afraid she’d pull away.

Chiara didn’t.

Her heart stuttered, brain blank. And then—melted.

She froze, breath caught—then melted into him.

Her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie before she even realized what she was doing. Her other hand slid to his cheek. 

He kissed her like he was terrified she’d disappear the second he pulled back. Like she was something he’d been waiting to find and never thought he’d get to hold.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested against his. They were both breathing too fast.

Chiara blinked, dazed. Her voice came out smaller than she meant.

“…That was new.”

Kimi gave a short, nervous laugh, cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah. Sorry. I panicked.”

She stared at him for a beat longer.

Then smiled—soft, surprised, and entirely real. “Do it again.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

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Yes! More parts

the time is nigh- c.leclerc

꩜ summary: imola is fast-approaching and a decision needs to be made

꩜ pairing: husband! charles leclerc x fem! pregnant! wife! reader

꩜ a/n: suggestive mentions 18+

part one, part two (this can be read on it's own tho but this just gives more context)

The Imola Gp was fast-approaching. Charles was becoming increasingly nervous, due to the fact that you were a few days past your due date, and he’d have to make a decision, either miss the race and risk the baby not being born yet, or don’t miss the race and risk missing the baby. 

Realistically, he knew he was going to choose you. Either way, whatever that meant, he would choose you. 

“I need an answer,” Fred sighed. “You have to have your full focus on this team Charles, when you’re here, you need to be here.” 

He glanced your way from where he sat- back against the headboard. You were still asleep, looking ridiculously gorgeous as you slept soundly beside him, the early morning light shining in through the gaps in the blinds. Your hair a little messy, your mouth a little open, your brow furrowed. You had trouble getting to sleep these days, especially with Lina (a name you two were trying out) constantly kicking and moving about. He smoothed a hand over your forehead, brushing some hair out of your face, your nose scratched up, and subconsciously leaned further into his touch. His heart squeezed, and his decision was even easier. “I can’t come this weekend Fred, my family has to come first. Fred, you know better than anyone that I have given our team my everything for as long as I’ve been there, and I’ll continue to when I’m on working hours. Other than that, it’s up to me to decide on what I need.”

“I understand. I’ll tell Zhou he’ll be driving this weekend. Thank you for being honest, Charles,” Fred ended the call before Charles could ask what that meant, but regardless, as the decision settled in his mind, it didn’t create a black hole around his heart, as so many of his decisions had before. Decisions that put you on the chopping block. Decisions that he knew would make your life harder.

“Who was on the phone?” you wrapped an arm around his middle, leaning your head against his lower stomach. He wrapped an arm around your back. He missed this. Mornings with nothing to do. Mornings with you. 

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he sighed, pulling you closer. “Just Fred.” 

You stiffened, eyes turning up to meet him. Your hand turned to a fist and retracted from his body. You sat up. “Oh,” you nodded. “When do you leave?” 

He shook his head, a hand reaching out to take yours. “No baby! No, I’m staying here, obviously.”

You stared at him. “You’re staying?” you questioned. He nodded. He couldn’t help but see the way your eyes lit up, the way your shoulders dropped a bit, the way your ears perked up. “That’s great,” you smiled, clearly trying to contain your excitement. 

“I don’t want to miss Lina,” he smiled, rubbing a hand over your swollen belly. “And I want to be there for you.”

You smiled right back at him, eyes bright and shining. You leaned into him again, his warm skin against yours. “Thank you,” you whispered. He just stared as you relaxed beside him, eyes closing again. The soothing circles he was drawing on your stomach, his heat warming you up, that feeling of being cared for, something you hadn’t realised had been so absent from your life. He watched you like you were his favourite channel now, when before he could barely spare you a glance. “We can go to the market today,” you whispered, a sleepy tone of voice. Charles chuckled beside you. 

A ringing doorbell broke you both out of your bed, and he rushed to get up before you even moved. You chuckled as he slid across the hardwood floors, making sure you didn’t have to move a muscle. 

“Maman?” he questioned. “What are you doing here?” 

“We need to have a baby,” she answered as if it were obvious. Her and Arthur pushed into the house, moving Charles to the side. “Doctor’s don’t want to induce yet, so we have our own ideas!” 

If it weren’t for the early hour and the fact that Charles had wanted you to himself for a day before all the crazy baby stuff started and he had to go back to work, he would’ve thought this was super sweet. He frowned as his mother placed a grocery bag on the counter. “Maman, Lina will come when she’s ready-”

“You’ve picked a name?!” she squealed. “Oh, Lina is so beautiful, I love it!”

Charles sighed. “Maman, she will come when she’s ready, we don’t need to-”

“It’s not a terrible idea,” you shrugged, standing in the doorway. One of Charles’s old ferrari hoodies draped over your swollen belly, tiny pyjama shorts, and a curious look in your eyes. “I wouldn’t mind if it happened today.”

He would’ve argued if you didn’t look so beautiful it made him lightheaded. “Smart girl!” his mother quipped, kissing your cheek. “So I looked it up, and it said spicy things help, so I got you some peppers. Dates are also supposed to be good, so there’s a bag of those,” she unpacked the bag as you listened intently, and Charles just watched in awe. “Raspberry leaf tea, pineapple-”

“Lube?” Arthur chuckled, picking up the bottle. “Maman, how do you think they got into this situation-?”

“Turtur,” Pascale slapped his arm as he giggled. “The last thing is sex, apparently it helps,” she shrugged. “Anyway, you guys have fun, call us if little Lina is on her way!” she smiled, leaving the both of you standing shocked in the apartment. 

“Never thought I’d hear your mom talk about sex,” you admitted, placing the lube on the counter. “Kind of shocked.” 

“Agreed,” Charles sighed, cheeks red. “Well, we’ll give them a shot. Dates first?” he looked at you, and you looked down. He could sense there was something behind it, but he didn’t want to pry. This balancing game he’d gotten so used to being able to figure out, got a little bit more complex. He stared. “Or the spicy food?”

You sighed. This shouldn’t be so awkward! You told yourself. Just tell him! “Ummm,” you cleared your throat. “I could… I think I’d like to have sex,” you responded in the most awkward way possible. “Or not. I don’t mind.”

He looked at you with all the affection in the world. “Oh ma chérie,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist (as best he could). “Why do you look so nervous?” 

You shrugged. “It’s been a while,” you didn’t meet his eyes. That was fine. “I didn’t know if you were still… y’know.” 

He stilled. “What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice low. You didn’t answer. “Mon cœur-”

You pulled away, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. This is so humiliating. You thought, wanting to just crawl up in a ball and die. He was your husband, and yes, you noticed the way he pulled away as your body changed. You didn’t think much of it in the beginning, then it became the only reason you could think of. But you’d pushed it away in recent weeks, focusing on the new Charles, the one who cared. “You’ve been so distant for so long, especially since the second trimester. I just… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t think I was sexy to you anymore, or something. We don’t have to do it, it’s stupid anyway-”

“Baby,” he took your hand. You kept your eyes on the ground. “I think you’re the most beautiful,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Most kind,” he pressed a kiss to your neck. “Seixiest,” he pressed a kiss to your collarbone. “Most wonderful,” he pressed a kiss to your bump. “Most irresistible woman on the planet, and I plan on reminding you of that, right now.” 

He smirked from his kneeling position in front of you, and you felt that flicker in your chest, the kind that you felt at the beginning. That fun you’d both missed for so long. 

You woke up at about 4pm, surfacing after a long morning, where Charles showed you exactly what he meant. 

“Mon amour,” Charles whispered, turning over and switching on the light. “Why is the bed wet?” 

Holy shit. Now was the moment.  You were going to be a mom. Charles was going to be a dad.

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You're a Strange One ! LN04

SUMMARY 𝄡 Being Oscar's personal assistant is easy. However, you cannot help but think his coworker is the strangest man you've ever met.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 650.

NOTE 𝄡 This is just a little something I had in mind. This is more of a pairing exploration than a real one-shot. I don't know what to make of it, tbh. Do you think this couple has enough potential for a one-shot? <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

You never imagined that you'd end up working as Oscar Piastri’s personal assistant after getting your degree in communications summa cum laude.

If your parents had nearly had a heart attack upon seeing their daughter “reduced to a servant” after paying for one of the country’s most prestigious universities, you, on the other hand, had learned to bless this twist of fate.

Because it was indeed fate you had to thank for the way your life had turned out. People underestimated its power far too often, but you had come to cherish it and to welcome it back whenever it decided to reappear.

Fate made its grand entrance in your life one night in 2023, after yet another rejection from talent agencies and management firms. Internships, professional experience, glowing references—none of it seemed to matter to the big corporations. What mattered were connections, and you had none.

That night, you'd had two glasses of red wine, perhaps more, your cheeks streaked with mascara and frustration.

Fate, ironically methodical despite its name, had chosen that precise moment to show up in the form of a job listing on a website whose name you no longer remember. What you did remember, however, was how your eyes widened as you read the salary and perks.

One cover letter, three interviews later, and suddenly your life was split between racetracks, England, and Monaco.

Every day, you thanked fate for putting Oscar Piastri in your path.

He was easy to work with: a coffee without sugar in the morning, a calendar of sporadic appointments to manage—mostly concentrated on race weekends—and very few public appearances outside those. In short, a normal guy, refreshingly different from the awful clients you'd heard horror stories about since entering the strange world of celebrity.

The only blemish—though not quite that, more a curiosity you hadn’t anticipated—was that working for Oscar Piastri meant regularly crossing paths with Lando Norris.

And you didn’t quite know what to make of him, except that he was oh so very strange.

The first time he saw you, he tripped.

You hadn’t even had time to shake his hand, and Oscar hadn’t yet introduced you.

Your eyes met, the Brit blushed furiously, then went sprawling to the ground. You stood frozen before exchanging a baffled look with Oscar, who merely sighed and hauled his friend back to his feet.

The following encounters were no better.

By the third one, you concluded that Lando Norris must have some kind of speech impediment—he couldn’t seem to string two words together around you. Not even to answer simple questions like “How are you?” or “Do you know where Oscar is?”.

Instead, he’d stammer something utterly unintelligible, then vanish, leaving you to wander alone through the endless corridors of the McLaren Technology Centre in search of Oscar.

And now… now he stared. All the time. Without saying a word. You had never felt more awkward in your life.

Even now, you couldn’t escape those green eyes, burning hotter than the Bahrain sun. The McLaren garage was buzzing as the race neared, yet Lando remained still in one corner, eyes locked on you.

Too busy fetching cold towels and water bottles to cool Oscar down, you had ignored him at first. But now that the Australian had his towels, his bottle, his headphones, and his phone, there was nothing left to keep you distracted.

You finally looked up. Your gaze met Lando’s just as he took a sip of water.

Startled, he choked, spraying water all over his engineer—who shouted something you couldn’t quite catch. Lando floundered through an apology, cheeks crimson.

Your eyes met again.

He smiled—sheepishly, like it hurt—and turned around.

Before walking straight into a wall.

You frowned, shook your head and turned your attention back to the race schedule.

Yes. Lando Norris was definitely the strangest man you had ever met.

Until Now || LN4

landonorris x fewtrell!reader | friends to lovers

summary: Growing up you were always around your older brother Max, and through this obvious also around Lando. You adored the two older boys with your whole heart. But also made it your rule to definitely never get involved with drivers. Ever. They’re a slippery slope to heartbreak. Who would’ve thought that out of everyone Lando was the one making you questioning your rule.

warnings: none

5.5k words

masterlist

Growing up in the world of motorsport wasn’t exactly something you chose — it just… happened. Being Max’s little sister meant that racetracks, grease-streaked overalls, and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber were just part of your childhood. And with Max came Lando.

Where Max was protective and sometimes overbearing, Lando was your chaos. He brought the laughter, the late-night sneaking around the paddock, and the kind of endless teasing only someone who’s known you since you were five could deliver.

You adored them both. These two were constants. They were family. And you’d made a rule early on, somewhere between watching Max crash at a karting event and Lando sweet-talking his way out of trouble for the fifth time that day: Never fall for a driver.

They lived fast, loved fast, and left too many broken hearts behind them.

But that rule — that precious, unshakeable rule — hadn’t accounted for Lando looking at you the way he did last weekend for the last few months.

It hadn’t accounted for the way your heart reacted when you realized he wasn’t just being goofy anymore. He was watching you — really watching you — like he’d just now seen you for the first time.

You’d always been “Max’s little sister.” That was your title, your label, your shadow. And it never really bothered you — not when Max was your best friend growing up, and not when it meant Lando Norris was practically your second older brother.

You were thirteen when Lando stole your favorite hoodie and wore it to a karting event “for luck.” He was sixteen and already had that spark — the kind that turned heads and made people whisper his name with curiosity. You didn’t mind. You were just proud to know him before the world did.

Now, years later, you stood in the VIP area of the Silverstone paddock, watching the chaos unfold. Lando was a full-blown F1 star. Max had switched over to streaming and helping Lando manage Quadrant. And you… well, you were just trying to blend in, stay out of the way, and uphold your golden rule: Don’t get involved with drivers.

“Oi, you’re zoning out.”

Lando’s voice pulled you back to reality, and when you turned, he was leaning against the railing next to you — sunglasses pushed up into his curls, grin lazy and familiar.

“I wasn’t zoning out,” you lied, ignoring how your pulse jumped just from him being this close.

He tilted his head. “You’re thinking about how cool I looked out there, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but the banter came slower than usual. “I’ve seen you drive since you were in a kart. It’s hard to be impressed anymore.”

Lando laughed, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. And for a second — just a second — the air between you shifted. Like something unspoken had cracked open, just enough to let the possibility sneak in.

You looked away first.

“You’re staying for the after-party, right?” Lando asked, his tone easy but eyes fixed on yours.

“Not sure,” you said, trying to sound casual. “I told Max I might head back to home.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting into a half-smirk. “Shame. I was hoping for a dance.”

You rolled your eyes, heart skipping. But before you could offer another sarcastic retort, you felt it — the soft brush of his fingers against yours on the metal railing. Barely there, almost like an accident… but not quite. He didn’t pull away.

You glanced down. His pinky lingered next to yours, the warmth of the contact a silent pressure point, subtle but completely impossible to ignore. Your breath caught.

Your eyes met his again. And there it was — something unspoken hanging heavy between you. You didn’t move your hand. Neither did he.

“Hey.”

The voice cut through it like a blade.

You both turned — Max.

He was walking up, eyes flicking between the two of you. You couldn’t tell if he noticed the hand thing, but Lando had already stepped back, casually adjusting his watch like nothing had happened at all.

Max gave Lando a look. “We gotta get going if we wanna make it to London in time. Come on, we’re already late.”

Lando clapped his hand on Max’s shoulder, the grin back on his face like a mask. “Alright, alright. Just making sure your sister doesn’t disappear before the party starts.”

Max rolled his eyes and turned to you. “You coming?”

You hesitated. Your fingers were still tingling.

“Don’t leave without that dance.”

You couldn’t even form a response. Not with the way his voice dropped at the end of that sentence. Not with the way it made your rule — your stupid, carefully crafted rule — shake a little at its foundation.

When did the comfortable familiarity of friendship turn into something else?

You hadn’t realized it at first — at least, not consciously. But the moments had added up: the lingering touches, the private jokes that felt more like secrets, the way his eyes seemed to find you in a room full of people.

The shift had started weeks ago, maybe even months. There were the little things, like the night in his apartment.

The rain had started around noon — soft at first, then heavier, smearing the windows of the taxi as you rolled through the wet Monaco streets. Max had called an hour before, his voice scratchy through your phone speaker.

“The meeting got moved, I won’t make it todad. I’m flying out tomorrow.” Max and Lando had planned a quiet weekend, inviting you to Monaco to hang out as a trio again. You would’ve flown in together from London, but Max had a meeting scheduled with Quadrant, hence why he planned to come later.

You didn’t even have time to protest before he added, “Lando said you can crash at his. He’s already expecting you.”

Of course he was.

By the time you buzzed into Lando’s building, the streets were quiet, washed in silver reflections and the occasional flash of headlights. His door was already open when you got to it.

“Took you long enough,” he said with a grin, hair damp and wild, socked feet padding across polished floors. He wore one of Max’s old hoodies — the one you’d stolen once, only for Lando to steal it from you back.

“Blame Monaco traffic and Max’s shocking lack of planning. Aren’t you the big boss? Why are you not in England right now?” you muttered as you stepped inside, brushing raindrops from your coat.

He smirked, stepping aside to let you in. “Because I’m the big boss, that’s why.” He just laughed and shut the door behind you. “Well, welcome to Casa Norris.”

You’d been to Lando’s place a handful of times before, but never alone. There was something different about it now — quieter, more personal. Your eyes drifted down the hallway, catching the glint of the Miami replica trophy standing proudly on a pedestal by the end wall. Right next to it stood two photos, one of the three of you from when you were kids and one from his Abu Dhabi win last year.

You dropped your bag in the hallway and wandered to the couch.

“You hungry?” he called from the kitchen. “I was gonna order in anyway, so you can decide.”You dropped your bag near the couch and called back, “Pizza.”

A beat. Then his voice floated around the corner, smug: “Knew you were gonna say that.”

He appeared in the doorway with his phone already in hand. “You’ve ordered the same thing since we were twelve — margarita, extra cheese, dark crust.”

“That’s the best thing!”

“It’s basic.”

“It can be basic and the best thing at the same time,” you argued back, dropping on to the couch and snatching the remote to turn on the TV.

“Right,” he said, tapping in the order.

Behind you, you heard the shuffle of socked feet on the hardwood, then the quiet thump of Lando dropping down beside you — close, like always, but tonight it felt… different. His thigh brushed against yours as he leaned back with a sigh.

“You’re the guest, you pick,” he said, stretching an arm lazily across the back of the couch. “But if you make me watch another season of Vampire Diaries, I’m walking out.”

You smirked, scrolling past sitcoms and dramas. “Relax. I’m in the mood for chaos.”

As if on cue, the thumbnail for Drive to Survive popped up.

You both paused.

He gave a low groan. “Oh no.”

You laughed. “C’mon, it’s a classic.”

“It’s a hit piece.”

“It’s entertainment.”

He tilted his head, side-eyeing you. “You really want to watch me get dramatic slow-mo edits and brooding piano music?”

You grinned. “Absolutely.”

He leaned in slightly, voice warm with teasing. “You just like watching me in fireproofs.”

You looked over at him — his expression playful, but there was something else in his eyes, lingering just behind the smirk.

Your stomach did that thing again.

You clicked Play, but before the intro could even start, Lando leaned forward and grabbed the remote from your hand.

“Wait—no. If we’re doing this, we’re watching the Miami episode.”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half suspicious. “You really want to sit here and watch yourself strut around in sunglasses, acting like the paddock prince?”

He smirked. “That’s exactly why we have to watch it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I won that race,” he said with mock offense, thumbing through the episode list until he landed on it. “You can’t just skip the peak of my documentary character arc.”

“You mean the part where you wink at the camera and say something like ‘I’ve got unfinished business here’?”

“Iconic.”

“Nope. We’re watching the final episode. Abu Dhabi.”

He looked at you, halfway through settling back. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” you said, snatching the remote back. “Because I’m in that one.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Oh, that’s why.”

You scrolled past Miami, ignoring his dramatic sighs, and clicked on the finale.

“You just want to see yourself on camera,” he teased.

You smirked. “Of course I do!”

You remembered Abu Dhabi like it was yesterday, the shock in lap one when Oscar got spun out, all the expectations and pressure laying on Lando’s shoulder to secure the World Championship for Mclaren. And of course after the race. He hugged his mum, before pulling you into a tight hug, clinging to trophy like it was his first born and his body sticky with champagne.

He groaned. “God, I was soaked. And sticky.”

“You were also grinning like a lunatic.”

He leaned back, suddenly quiet. “It was a good day.”

You hovered over the play button. “Okay fine, but skip through the first half. I don’t really fancy rewatching Brazil,” Lando muttered. His eyes flicked to yours — there wasn’t any teasing remark in your eyes, just understanding.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Fair enough.”

The episode passed in a blur — fast cars, flashing cameras, champagne, and that moment he hugged you, still clutching the trophy like it was a lifeline. You saw your own face on-screen, a flash of laughter and teary eyes as he pulled you into his chest.

Neither of you said much after it ended. But you did, in fact, get him to watch another few episodes of The Vampire Diaries — because once you curled deeper into the couch and gave him that look, he didn’t stand a chance.

He groaned when the title card popped up. “Again with the vampires?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know everyone’s names now.”

He muttered something about emotional manipulation and teenagers with terrible decision-making skills, but he stayed exactly where he was. Closer than before, shoulder against yours, blanket somehow shared between you without either of you talking about it.

Two episodes in, somewhere between Elena spiraling and Damon being dramatic, Lando shifted slightly, head tipped back against the couch, voice low and unguarded. He was slouched on the other end of the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. The soft flicker of the TV lit up the side of his face, casting warm shadows along the edge of his jaw.

“I forgot how nice it is having you around.”

Something inside you tugged. Tightened.

“You get lonely?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He didn’t answer at first.

Then, without looking at you, he murmured, “Sometimes. But I don’t think I would if you lived here.”

The words sat between you like an open drawer — casual, careless even. But you didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched, like he wished he could take it back. Or maybe like he meant it more than he wanted to admit.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

But that night, when you curled up in his guest room, the rain still whispering outside, the echo of his words kept you awake far longer than they should have.

Or that day of your birthday.

Your birthday was always something you liked to keep simple. No loud clubs, no flashy photoshoots — just dinner with the people who knew you best. Max had taken the lead this year, pulling together a table at one of your favorite little spots in London. It was relaxed, warm, loud with laughter. And even though everyone you expected was there, even though the food was good and the cake better — there’d been something missing.

Until he walked in.

Lando arrived late. Rain clung to the ends of his hair, his jacket damp from the short sprint between car and restaurant. He looked a little windblown, cheeks flushed, a cupcake box in one hand and a gift bag — haphazardly folded and slightly crumpled — swinging from the other.

Your face lit up — you felt it happen. That automatic reaction you couldn’t fake if you tried.

“You’re late,” you said, but it came out soft, not scolding.

“I know, I know,” he said, coming toward you. “Traffic. And I might’ve wrapped your present in the care. Don’t judge.”

You were already laughing by the time he reached you — and then his arms were around you.

“Happy birthday,” he added in a whisper.

It was familiar. Lando always hugged like he meant it. But this one…

This one lingered.

His arms locked around your waist, firm but gentle. One hand settled low on your back, fingers flexing for just a second like he didn’t want to let go. His chin brushed your shoulder, and you felt the breath he let out — quiet, steady, like the world had calmed the moment he found you.

You didn’t know how long it lasted. Just that it was longer than it should’ve been.

And when you finally pulled back, your hands slid from his shoulders — but your eyes didn’t. They caught his, and held. There was something there. A hesitation. A question. Something just slightly too intense to ignore.

It was the kind of look that changed things. Or could’ve.

Until Max cleared his throat — loud, purposeful.

“So,” he said, breaking the moment like a rock through glass, “you gonna open that mess of a gift or what?”

You blinked, stepping back, clearing your throat to match. “Yeah. Right. Let’s see how bad this wrapping job really is.”

You forced a smile, pretending your hands weren’t still buzzing from where his arms had been and tugged at the crumpled tissue paper, peeling it back slowly — more careful than you meant to be. First, a small white box slid into your hand. You opened it, and there it was: a delicate silver bracelet, the chain fine and light, with a tiny sun charm dangling at the center. Simple. Familiar.

You looked up, brows lifted.

He shrugged lightly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the sun, remember? That’s what I- uh- we used to call you when we were kids. You’d boss us around and still somehow be the one making us laugh.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you glanced back down at the charm, fingers brushing over it — warm from your touch already.

And then there was the second part: a small white envelope. Inside, a Polaroid. You recognized it immediately.

“It’s the one from your apartment, how did you get it in a Polaroid?” You called.

It was that photo. The one from Abu Dhabi. You, him, and Max, just after the race. Lando still in his fireproofs, champagne stains down the front, the trophy tucked into his arm like it might vanish. His mum off to the side, grinning. And you, right next to him, beaming up at him like he’d just given you the world.

“Secret,” he smiled, giving your shoulders a squeeze.

“I… love it, thanks!” you said, finally, and you meant it in a way that startled you.

Across the table, Max shifted. Someone else cracked a joke to ease the quiet, and the moment folded back into the night — but not before Lando gave you one last look, softer than it had any right to be.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it — the quick glance between P and one of your other friends across the table. The raised brow. The small, knowing smirk. Max, already pouring another drink, avoiding looking at either of you altogether.

You were sure they’d noticed it.

The pause. The shift. That beat-too-long hug and the way you’d both clung to it, like you weren’t entirely sure where the lines were anymore.

But no one said anything. And neither did you.

Something shifted and it was getting only harder to ignore that. And it was only getting harder to ignore.

You pressed your fingers to your temple, half-smiling at the absurdity of it all. This was Lando — your older brother’s best friend. You’d known him forever, and this was the kind of thing that was supposed to be safe.

Except now, you weren’t so sure.

When exactly had things stopped feeling safe — and started feeling like the kind of danger you couldn’t seem to pull yourself away from, no matter how much you told yourself to? The kind of danger you maybe, just maybe, wanted to run toward?

You didn’t have the answers, and that was the problem. But as you walked back inside, heart still racing, you couldn’t ignore the whisper of a thought: Maybe you didn’t need to have the answers right now.

The rooftop was buzzing — champagne fizzed in flutes, neon lights danced off glass panels, and the beat of some house remix pulsed through the floor. You weren’t sure why you came. Maybe it was Lando’s voice in your ear, or the way his pinky had barely touched yours and left a ghost of warmth behind.

You slipped through the crowd, dress clinging to your skin a little too tightly in the heat of the night, eyes scanning — not for Max. For him.

You found Lando by the bar. He was laughing with someone from McLaren’s PR team, head thrown back in that way you knew meant the joke wasn’t even that funny. But the moment his eyes caught yours, everything about him shifted. His smile softened. He handed off his drink without a word and made his way to you.

“You stayed,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

“You said something about a dance.”

He took one step closer, just inside your space. “Still want it?”

You should have said no. You should’ve thought of Max, of the rule you’d carried like a shield for years. But you nodded.

He didn’t take your hand — not right away. Instead, he backed up slowly, eyes locked on yours, and gave you a small, playful bow. Then he turned and led the way to a quieter corner of the rooftop where a string of fairy lights curved over a smaller platform, just beyond the reach of the DJ’s crowd.

He offered his hand this time. You took it.

The music shifted to something slower, smoother — a beat that begged for movement just a little too close for comfort. The rooftop lights shimmered above, and Lando’s hand slipped around your waist like it had always belonged there. Your hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the other still curled in his.

He spun you once — not expertly, not even that smoothly — and you stumbled into a laugh, nearly bumping into him. His arm caught you, steady at your waist again, and your laughter tangled with his like it had a thousand times before. But this time… it felt different.

He didn’t let go right away.

A few feet back, just out of sight, Max stood near the corner of the rooftop with P, a drink in one hand and narrowed eyes trained on the two of you.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” he muttered, his voice low and clipped.

P smirked behind the rim of her wine glass. “If what you’re seeing is your little sister wrapped around your best mate, then yeah. I’m seeing it too.”

Max didn’t move, his jaw tight, fingers tapping slowly against the side of his glass.

“They’re laughing,” P added. “Lighten up. They’re cute.”

Max’s eyes didn’t leave the scene.

Lando twirled you again — this time slower, smoother. You spun into his arms like you knew exactly how to fit there, and the way you looked up at him… yeah, Max definitely noticed that.

He said nothing.

Just kept watching — trying to convince himself he was imagining it.

The rooftop was winding down. Lights dimmed, music fading into a mellow background thrum. Most people had already filtered out, laughing and stumbling into waiting cars. You’d stepped away to the edge of the terrace, needing air, the night cool against your skin.

You didn’t hear him approach. You never really did.

“Want me to drop you home?”

You turned. Lando stood just behind you, hands in his pockets, curls slightly messy from the humidity, tie loose around his neck. The easy confidence he wore in public had slipped — now he just looked… real.

You hesitated. “I was going to call a cab.”

He shrugged. “So? I didn’t drink and I’m offering.”

You studied him for a moment. His voice was calm, but his eyes searched yours — looking for something you weren’t sure how to give.

“Alright,” you said finally, voice quiet.

He nodded, and the two of you walked in silence down the back stairwell, avoiding the last of the half-sober team members still clustered near the entrance. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It never really was, not with him. But tonight it felt heavy.

His car was parked a little further down the road, tucked under streetlight shadows. He opened the passenger door without saying anything, and you slid in, tugging your coat tighter around you.

The drive home was quiet. Soft music played from his speakers, the window of his Mclaren rolled down. When Lando came to a stop in front of your house, the engine idled, and for a long moment, he just sat there. His fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel, the hum of the car the only sound in the space between you. Then, his head turned toward you, his eyes studying your profile in the dim light spilling from the streetlamps.

“You good?” he asked, his voice soft but searching.

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts, and forced a smile. “Yeah.”

But he wasn’t buying it. Not this time. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving you. “You sure? Because you’ve gone quiet. Quieter than usual.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap, feeling the weight of the silence press down on you. The words were right there, but you couldn’t seem to make them come out. “Max saw us.”

Lando’s jaw tightened for a split second, his eyes flicking forward, but he didn’t look away for long. “Yeah.” A breath escaped him, low and steady. “I know.”

The silence stretched then, thick and awkward, hanging between you like a question neither of you wanted to ask but both of you knew was there.

You finally broke it, the words coming out in a rush. “I didn’t mean for tonight to… I don’t know. Cross a line.”

Lando’s eyes softened, a quiet shift in his expression. His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, but his voice came out softer, more vulnerable than you expected.

“What if I wanted you to?”

You froze. The words hung in the air like a confession — a truth neither of you had dared speak aloud until now. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t joking. This was serious.

Your heart kicked against your ribs, and the air between you seemed to thicken, as if the whole world had paused to let the moment linger.

He leaned a little closer, but not enough to close the space completely. Just enough that you could feel the weight of his presence beside you, just enough to make your pulse quicken.

His voice was quieter now, more serious. “You know,” he started, eyes meeting yours in the dim light, “we’ve known each other forever. Been through so much crap together. I’ve always been able to mess around with you, tease you, joke like we’re still kids racing karts in the backyard… and it was always just that. We were always just… friends, you know?”

You nodded, but your stomach flipped at the way he was talking. The way his words felt like a confession before the real one had even come.

“But lately,” Lando continued, his voice softening, “something’s changed. And I know you feel it too. It’s not just me.”

His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for confirmation, but even if you hadn’t said anything, you knew he saw it in the way you were holding yourself, in the way your breath had caught when he’d leaned in a little too close earlier.

“You’ve been there. You’ve always been there,” he said, the quiet sincerity in his tone heavier than any of the teasing he’d ever thrown your way. “And I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want to screw this up with you. But I also… I don’t want to ignore what’s happening. What’s changed between us.”

His words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. “It’s like we’ve been walking this line for months now, and I’m scared it’ll wreck everything. But at the same time… I don’t want to keep pretending like it’s not there.”

He let out a small breath, the weight of it settling between you like something both heavy and hopeful.

“I’m not saying I have all the answers,” he continued, his voice quiet but firm. “Hell, I’m scared. But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Because… I don’t think I can go back to just being the guy who’s always hanging around. Not anymore.”

You stayed silent, heart pounding, every part of you wanting to say something, but also unsure if the words you wanted to say would make things real. But Lando’s gaze never wavered, and for the first time, you saw the unguarded part of him. The part that wasn’t teasing. The part that was truly there — not just for the laughs, but for whatever this was that had been quietly building between you both.

You swallowed “I don’t think I can go back either,” you muttered quietly.

He leaned closer, just enough that you could see the softness in his expression — the flicker of nerves beneath the confidence he usually wore like armor.

“So tell me to stop,” he whispered. “And I will.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just leaned forward, meeting him halfway.

The kiss was soft — the kind that lingered in its silence, not rushed or messy, but careful. Like a promise. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, and your breath caught somewhere between the kiss and the moment he pulled back.

He rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes still closed. “That felt like a line I’ve wanted to cross for a while.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

And then his eyes flickered to something behind you — or someone. Your head turned around to find a shape in the dark and your heart dropped when you figured out who the figure on the front step was.

Lando pulled back, eyes flicking toward the house just as Max stepped into the porch light. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Watching.

Lando’s lips parted — caught, but still somehow relaxed — and after a single beat, he lifted one hand casually in greeting.

“Hi, mate.”

Pick You Up

Max Verstappen x reader

Masterlist

Summary: when Max has one too many gin & tonics, you’re the one who picks (him) up, every time he calls. Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: alcohol, intoxication, maybe an unhealthy relationship with alcohol??, mentions of Max’s shitty childhood, incorrect taylor swift lyrics

It’s 1am, and your phone is buzzing on the nightstand. You groan and shove your face into the pillow. You were having such a nice dream. Something about an island and a very attractive man. You let the phone ring until it stops, and then you hold your breath. Maybe it was a butt dial. Maybe it’s not what you think.

The buzzing starts again, and you blindly slam your hand onto the nightstand, grabbing for it. You swipe to answer without even looking at the contact. You already know who it is. Or at the very least, who they’re calling you about. It’s never anyone else.

“Max needs a ride,” a friend of his says.

You’re already rolling out of bed. “Yeah. Where?”

You could complain, you suppose, as you pull on a pair of sweatpants and a jacket. You could ask them to find literally anyone else, or beg them to have a designated driver for once, but instead you just slip your shoes on. You rub the sleep from your eyes and grab a Red Bull on the way out the door. Someone sends you an address from a number you don’t even have saved in your phone. Worry claws at your chest.

The truth is, you’ll never complain about Max calling you in the middle of the night, because if he stopped calling you’d worry about who he was relying on. Max is… popular. He’s got a lot of people trying to ride his coattails. He gets invited to events and people buy him drinks and offer him things and then it’s 1am and he’s too drunk to get home on his own. And then he calls you. Or, more often, someone calls you for him.

You pull up in front of the club, and Max is already outside, stumbling on clumsy feet. He lurches towards your car when he sees it, which is a relief, because you hadn’t exactly wanted to get out of the car. You find yourself resenting whoever he was out with for leaving him all alone, but he opens the door and climbs in and you plaster a smile onto your face.

“Hi, schatje,” he slurs, and you muffle a laugh into your shoulder.

“Hi, Maxie,” you say.

This is the only time he calls you things like that. It’s also the only time you can call him Maxie without earning yourself a warning glare, or worse, an elbow to the rib cage. You’ve known him for years, and yet it’s only when he’s wasted that he doesn’t mind the nickname.

“Seatbelt,” you remind him.

He nods and tugs at the belt. You end up having to help him buckle- that happens about 70% of the time. His fingers fumble with the latch as you do so, and he lets out a little huff when you brush his hand away. Once he’s all set, you pat his shoulder lightly and lean back into your seat.

“I’m drunk,” he warns you.

“I know,” you answer.

“So no crazy driving. I don’t want to be sick in your very nice car.”

You laugh and cock your head at him. “This morning you called this car a shitbox.”

He nods. “It is. But it is your shitbox.”

You laugh again, putting the car into drive. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

He rambles the whole drive to his apartment, about all the people he was out with tonight and what they did and who they did. Drunk Max is a bit of a gossip, and his gossiping to you won’t get him in trouble, so he takes full advantage of it. You listen eagerly the entire time, though you keep your eyes focused on the road. He’s not the most drunk you’ve ever seen him, still too drunk to be in a cab or an Uber by himself but coherent enough that the journey up to his apartment shouldn’t be too difficult. You park your car in his parking lot and climb out.

Max is halfway out of his seat when you come around to meet him. You take his hand and help him the rest of the way up. He stumbles a bit, laughing as you catch him. Then he throws his arm around your shoulder and follows you to the elevator.

His head bumps into yours in the process. You lean into the weight of him, the two of you standing like a badly built lean to. If one of you topples, the other will too. You try not to think about that too much.

You stay the night, the way you always do when this happens. Because the only thing a hungover Max hates more than the sunlight is waking up to an empty apartment. You’ll be there in the morning to take care of him. He’ll promise he won’t do it again.

By this time next week, he’ll be out at a club, and you’ll have the volume on your phone turned up.

…..

The next time someone calls you on Max’s behalf, it’s someone you actually know. It’s 2am this time, and your eyes are closed. You’re drifting in that space between consciousness and dreams. Your ringtone almost becomes a part of a half dream before you realize what it is. You turn the phone over. NoRizzz, it reads. You think Max added the contact for you.

You answer. “Hi, Lando. S’it Max?” You ask.

“I swear to god I lost track of him for one second-“ Lando rushes out.

You pause halfway out of bed, feeling a jolt of worry at the frantic tone in his voice. “Lando?”

“He’s gone, he-“ He sounds panicked. “I turned around and he’s-“

“Did you call him?”

“Of course I called him-“ Lando scoffs. “Look, I wouldn’t be so worried if I hadn’t already been thinking about having you pick him up-“

“Hey, hey, slow down,” you say, though your heart is racing as you head for the door. “Where are you? How long has it been since you lost him?”

“We’re at Jimmyz, it’s been a half hour,” Lando admits. “I didn’t want to bother you, but-“

A half hour is a long time for Max. He could be anywhere in the city right now. He could’ve walked, or taken a cab, or… anything. Sober Max is great at self preservation. Drunk Max is easily persuaded. You’ve used it to your advantage more than you’d like to admit. Not in any bad way, just- Max, sing karaoke with me! Max, come dance with me! Max, we should order pizza!

You head for the front door. “Okay. It’s okay. I’ll come meet you, and then-“

You swing the door open and nearly scream when something heavy tumbles into your apartment. Someone, actually, upon further inspection. It’s Max, lit only by the dim hallway light and a beam from the kitchen light that you always leave on. He’s blinking up at you from the floor, a soft smile on his face. He has his arms wrapped around himself, like he’s cold. His skin is damp with sweat.

“Never mind, I found him,” you say into the phone.

“What? How?” Lando asks, bewildered.

“He was sitting in front of my door,” you answer as you crouch down. You card your fingers through his sweaty hair, and Max smiles. “Must’ve taken a cab or something.”

“I walked,” Max admits.

That explains the sweat. That also tells you that Lando has lied to you- Max has been gone much longer than a half hour if he’s made his way here on foot. You choose not to call the other driver out on it, though. You want them to call you about things like this. If you chew him out, Lando will be less likely to do so.

“So he’s okay?” Lando asks.

“He’s fine,” you assure him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

You hang up and then start working on getting Max all the way into the apartment. He’s not much help. You manage to get his legs inside and then you close the door behind him. You’ll work on getting him out of the hallway next. For now, you sit down on the floor next to him.

“You walked here?” You ask.

He nods. “Missed you.”

You snort out a laugh. “You could’ve called me, I would’ve picked you up.”

He shrugs and shuts his eyes. “Didn’t want to bug you.”

“So you camped out in front of my door,” you say.

“Yes. But then you didn’t have to come pick me up.”

“I’ll always pick you up,” you say, brushing your thumb against his temple. “That’s what friends do.”

When he opens his eyes, they’re glassy. Your breath hitches. Max doesn’t get teary often, doesn’t get emotional often. Something aches in your chest. You rub your thumb over his cheekbone. He blinks once, twice, lashes tangled together.

“You okay?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He sounds so small when he says it. “Just. Thanks.”

There are these small moments, when Max shows a vulnerable side. These are the moments you think of when people spread vitriol towards him on the internet and ask how you could possibly be friends with him. They make you love him even more, and they make you resent the adults who were around him when he was growing up.

You’ve seen pictures of little Max, shown to you with funny anecdotes and teasing smiles. But when you look at them, and when you see him like this, you can’t find any of it funny. All you can think of is the other stories you’ve heard about his childhood. All you can wonder is how someone could’ve done those things to him. And then you wonder how despite it all, he ended up with such a kind soul.

Max is the one who brings you soup when you’re sick. He brings you trinkets from every country he goes to- the magnets fill the door of your fridge. Max sends you pictures of dogs he meets on the street even though he’s a cat person. He flies you out to races when you’ve had a bad week and buys you good pasta and better tequila. Max has a heart the size of a whole continent. People keep trying to chip away at it. You hate them for it.

So you take a moment to brush the tears from his cheeks. You don’t ask him why he’s crying, or tell him it’ll be okay. You just sit there on the floor with him in your hallway and wait for him to be ready.

Eventually, you get him up off the floor and drag him into your bedroom. It’ll be better for everyone involved if he gets a good night’s sleep in a real bed. You try to leave the room, but he grabs onto your wrist.

“Stay?” He asks, eyelids barely open.

You hum and brush the hair from his forehead. “Are you sure?”

“M’sure,” he says. “Don’t wanna be alone.”

You nod in understanding. You don’t even bother pointing out that he’s on your side of the bed. He’s too far gone to get him to roll over. You just climb over him and pull the blankets back and then tuck yourself in. You keep a respectable distance from him.

You know in the morning you’ll wake up to his arm around your middle and his face buried in your neck. You know because it happens every time you share a bed. Max will act like there’s nothing weird about it, will thank you for taking care of him, and be on his way before lunchtime.

You’ll crawl back into bed and curl up on your side, unsure of if you love or hate the fact that the sheets still smell like him.

…..

Charles calls you from Qatar.

You answer. “Charles, I cannot pick him up. I’m in another country.”

“Yes, I’ve told him that about a billion times,” Charles says. “He is very stubborn, you know.”

Something dawns on you as you sit up against your headboard. For some reason, you’ve always assumed that other people are the ones choosing to call you. That even when it’s someone who doesn’t know you, they’re getting your information from the emergency contact info in his phone. But this… Charles seems to be suggesting that Max has asked him to call you.

“Is he okay?” You ask.

Charles laughs. “He’s fine. He is a world champion, again. You know.”

You do know. You called and congratulated him right after the race. You can still hear the shake in his voice, the yelling of his team behind him. It’d made your heart ache, made you sad you weren’t there with him.

“Yeah,” you say. “You both still have to drive tomorrow, you know.”

“I do know, which is why I’m hoping you can help me,” Charles says. “We’re in his hotel room. His phone is dead, I guess? He came to use mine, so I brought him back here. He’s lost his charger.”

“There’s a spare one in his backpack,” you tell Charles. “In the small pocket.”

You hear the zipper and Charles’ amused laugh. “Did you pack his bag for him?”

“I helped,” you admit. “Let me talk to him and I’ll see if I can talk him down?”

Charles makes a noise of agreement. There’s rustling, then a thud. More rustling. You pinch the bridge of your nose.

Then, Max. “Hi.”

“Hi, Max,” you answer. “I thought you were going to take it easy tonight.”

“I am a world champion,” he says, so matter of fact.

In the background, you hear Charles groan.

“Yes, a world champion who still has to do a race tomorrow,” you remind him.

“I know. Can’t believe I got it in the sprint. A sprint I didn’t even win,” he says, laughing lightly. “Let the rookie win the race tomorrow. I’m the champion.”

“I’m going to throttle him,” Charles says, loud enough or close enough for you to hear. “I think in turn one I will run him into the wall.”

“Tell Charles if he hurts one hair on your head I’ll fly to Qatar and throttle him myself,” you tell Max.

Max relays the message. Charles is quiet after that.

“Doesn’t matter how you won it, yeah?” You remind Max. “You still worked just as hard to get there.”

“Yeah,” Max agrees. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” You say with a laugh. “Charles has plugged your phone in. Make sure you turn it on and then go to sleep.”

You call his hotel and have electrolyte drinks and breakfast sent up the next morning, along with a bottle of painkillers. He texts you a photo of all of it along with a thank you message. When he wins the race, even hungover, you’re not the least bit surprised.

…..

When Max calls you at 11:00 pm, your first thought is huh. That’s early. You answer on the third ring, already looking for your keys. You wonder who it’ll be this time. A friend you know, or an unknown voice of someone he’s only met tonight.

“Schatje?” Max asks through the speaker.

You nearly drop the phone. “Max?”

“What, you don’t have my number saved?” He asks.

“No, of course I do, s’just- not usually you who ends up calling me, even from your phone.”

You think you hear him sniffle. Something twists in your chest. Before you can scramble to apologize, he’s speaking.

“Yeah. Um.” He sighs. “Huh.”

You can hear it in his voice, in the way the words seem to stick in his throat. Something’s wrong. You climb off the couch, headed for the door. “Tell me where you are, Max.”

He sniffs. “No, it’s uh- I don’t know why I called-“

“Max,” you repeat as you shut the front door behind you. “Where are you?”

He gives in and tells you he’s at some hotel bar. You recognize it and head down the stairs. You keep him on the line even as you start the car, as you pull out onto the road. He’s mumbling something about how he’ll be fine, about how you don’t have to come get him. Both of you know you’re already on the way.

You have to go in this time. For a moment you think about asking who else he’s with, and hanging up and calling them. But you don’t want to lose contact, so you park the car and head inside. You’re in a hoodie and sweatpants, a pair of slippers on your feet. Nobody bats an eye.

You find him in a back hallway, squeezed into a corner. Your heart crumples at the sight of him. You’re sure your face does too. He’s teary and curled in on himself. He looks so small. You love him, you worry for him, you hate this version of him. Not that you could ever really hate him. It’s just that he looks so vulnerable, so unlike himself.

As much as you want to get him out of there, as much as it would probably be the right move, you sit down next to him instead. You wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him into your side until his head is against yours. You don’t ask him what’s wrong. He’ll tell you eventually. It might take a while- sometimes a few days. You always give him time. For now, you just sit in the hallway with him. You meet him where he’s at.

He tells you later that he suddenly found himself alone in the bar. After days straight of only being alone when he went to sleep, person after person wanting to celebrate his championship, he’d been alone. He hadn’t realized how much he’d felt like he was suffocating until that moment.

“I was one of the people celebrating,” you remind him as he clings to you.

“But you aren’t suffocating me,” he says. “You’re like… clean air.”

He sleeps in your bed that night. You sleep next to him, not even bothering to argue about it. You fall asleep to the sound of his steady breaths and the weight of his hand on your back.

When you wake up in the morning, he pretends he’s fine. You let him.

…..

Drunk Max is an overly honest Max. He’ll tell you anything and everything. So when you’re walking him home one night, his arm over your shoulder, gin on his breath, you’re expecting to learn some things. What you weren’t expecting, however, is for him to lean close, his lips against your ear, and tell you he loves you.

The odd thing is the way he says it. He leans close and tells you he loves you like he’s talking to someone else. He says “hey, you know-“ then he says your name- and then he says, “you know I love her?”

You shove at his side. “Yeah, I love you too, you dummy.”

He shakes his head, bumping his forehead against your temple. “No, I love her.”

Your heart stops at the way he says it. At the meaning he’s insinuating. Your feet fumble under you, but you manage to keep both of you upright.

“Max,” you say in a warning tone. “You’re drunk.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Drunk in love. Love drunk? Like that song she likes- got love drunk-“

He doesn’t realize he’s talking to you. He likely won’t remember this. You cut him off before he breaks into slightly incorrect Taylor Swift lyrics on the sidewalk. “That’s nice, Max. Why don’t you tell her?”

He shrugs. “Can’t.”

He doesn’t elaborate further, and you miss your chance to prod him about it when he trips over a bump in the sidewalk and nearly sends you both flying. After that, you keep your focus on getting him up to his apartment safely. You shove him into the bathroom in his apartment and tell him to brush his teeth. Then you stand in the hallway and press your hands over your face.

Can’t. Why not? Does he mean it? Did he say the wrong name? He won’t remember it tomorrow, you know that. Do you bring it up? Maybe you should just forget about it. He obviously doesn’t want you to know. And even if it is true, and he does have feelings for you, it would never work.

He stumbles out of the bathroom and presses a messy, toothpaste-y kiss to your forehead. That leaves your brain spinning even worse than it was before. You follow him to the bedroom and tuck him in. The cats glare at you as you disturb the blankets.

“You’ll stay, right?” He asks, tugging on your arm. He seems to know who you are now. “Please?”

You sigh and agree, climbing into bed next to him. He sighs happily and rolls towards you. He slings an arm around your waist, and you hold your breath when he presses his cheek to your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” he says, already half asleep.

“Goodnight,” you echo.

You lay awake and stare at the ceiling for at least an hour, trying not to listen to the sound of his soft breaths. Trying not to think about him admitting that he loves you. Trying not to think about him calling himself love drunk. Trying not to think about him at all, which is difficult with him right there.

You wonder if he really meant it. You want him to mean it, you realize. You tilt your head to look at him- you can only see the top of his head and the slow rise and fall of his chest. God, you want him to mean it. There’s no way he does, but you want it so badly your whole body aches with it.

Sassy walks up to the head of the bed and curls up right next to you. You run your fingers over her fur. Finally, then, you’re able to fall asleep.

…..

It’s not often that Max is the one to pick you up from a bar. It’s every once in a blue moon. You’re much more responsible, you plan ahead. You have a ride home, or you don’t get so drunk that you can’t walk, or you plan to stay with a friend who lives closer to wherever you’re going.

It’s not often, but it does happen. Which is how you find yourself in the bar bathroom, phone pressed to your ear, praying he picks up. There’s a good chance he won’t. He’s definitely not sitting around, waiting for you to call like you always are when he goes out. If he doesn’t pick up you’ll have to call someone else, but you won’t even know where to begin.

It’s only when you hear his voice that you realize you’re not sure he’s even in Monaco.

“Hello?” He says. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, just- what country are you in?”

“What?” He asks. You can hear rustling in the background. “Is this some sort of code? Is someone-“

“No, Maxie, I’m fine,” you say. “Where are you?”

“Monaco,” he answers, still sounding unsure. “At home. Where are you?”

“Monaco. A bar bathroom,” you answer. “Any chance you’d come pick me up? My designated driver met a guy.”

“Not a very good designated driver,” he says with a scoff.

“Says the guy who never has one,” you retort.

Max laughs and doesn’t argue. “Send me your location. I’ll come get you.”

Max gets there far too quickly to have been driving at a reasonable speed. He insists that you wait inside rather than meeting him out on the sidewalk, and says he’ll call you when he gets there. The phone rings, so you step outside. You’re thankful once again for his collection of cars and his tinted windows- nobody seems to have realized it’s him. He leans over and opens the door for you, and you climb inside. He already has the heated seat on for you, and he hands you a bottle of water after you sit down.

“Drink,” he says as he pulls away from the curb.

You roll your eyes but do as he says anyways. The city is a blur of lights outside your window, though you know Max isn’t speeding. He always drives carefully with you in the car, no matter how many times you beg him to go fast. You sink lower in the leather seat.

His eyes flicker over to you. “Did you have a good time?”

You shrug. “Yeah, till all my friends ditched me,” you say. “They found guys to hook up with.”

You see Max frown out of the corner of your eye. “And you didn’t? The men in this club must be blind.”

You pick at the hem of your dress. “Maybe I didn’t want to hook up with anyone. Maybe that’s not what I’m looking for.”

“And what are you looking for?” He asks.

He keeps his eyes trained on the road. You turn your head to look at him. You’re at a stoplight, and it paints his face red. You study the slope of his nose, the jut of his jaw. You, you want to say. I’m looking for you. You think of him the last time you picked him up, how he said he loved you. Called himself love drunk. And then you think of when you asked him why he hadn’t told you. Can’t.

So instead, you shrug. Max turns and looks at you, then shrugs in response. You pout, knowing he’s mocking you. His eyes trace over your face, then over the rest of you. You wonder if he’s relying on how drunk you are to make you forget this- hoping you won’t realize or remember him checking you out. He reaches into the backseat and comes back with a large dark hoodie.

“Here,” he says. “You must be cold.”

The light turns green when the sweatshirt is half over your head- you only know because you feel the vehicle lurch into motion. You squeak, and Max laughs and lays a hand on your leg to steady you. His palm is warm against your bare skin.

When you pop your head back out and shove your arms through the sleeves, you expect him to let go. He doesn’t. His hand stays there, a steady presence, the whole ride to his place.

He hasn’t even asked if you want to stay at his apartment- he doesn’t need to, he already knows what your answer would be. Plus, you’re a bit too drunk to really be left on your own. He leads you up to his door, keeping his hand on your lower back to steady your wobbling steps. You’d tried to kick your heels off in the lobby, but Max had insisted you keep them on. You take them off as soon as you walk in his front door, though, sighing in relief. You stumble over to the couch as he sheds his shoes and jacket. By the time he walks into the living room, you’re curled up in the corner, already under a blanket, face pressed against one of his throw pillows. Max clicks his tongue.

“Come on. Up,” he says, tugging at your shoulder. “You should change your clothes and eat something.”

You groan and reach out to wrap your arm around his neck. “I’m comfy. Come cuddle. Comfy.”

He sighs. “We can cuddle. If you change your clothes and eat something.”

The offer leaves you a bit dumbfounded, because Max isn’t much of a cuddler. It’s pretty likely that he’s lying just to appease you, to get you to follow his instructions. So you continue to lay there, trying to pull him in. When you don’t budge, Max huffs, plants his hands on the couch behind you, and straightens up. He does it before you can loosen your grip, so you go with him almost accidentally. He pulls you off the couch and grabs your hips, helping you to stand up.

“There,” he says, as you sigh and lean heavily on him. “Step one. Clothes.”

He leads you to his room, where you eagerly take the opportunity to sit down on his bed. He turns and begins digging through his drawers. You flop back onto the bed. One of the cats paws at your ankles- you don’t bother looking to see which one. Max throws clothing onto your stomach.

“I’ll go make you food,” he says.

It takes you far too long to find the motivation to shed the hoodie and dress and trade them out for whatever clothes Max has left for you. Eventually, though, you do it. He’s given you one of his shirts and a pair of shorts that are definitely yours, likely left behind whenever you stayed over last. You pull the hoodie back over your head and leave the dress on the floor. It’s only when you remember that Max is awful at cooking that you scramble towards the kitchen.

He’s putting perfectly cooked ramen into bowls. Frankly, it’s hard to mess up ramen, but you’re relieved either way. He smiles at the sight of you, and you think about telling him all over again. The last time you were drunk, you said you loved me. I love you too. We should talk about that. Can’t. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“Thanks,” you say, sitting down at the counter.

You never do get the cuddle he promised. You fall asleep there, forehead pressed to the granite, and Max carries you to the guest room and tucks you in. You swear you feel his lips against your forehead as you fall asleep. But that’s probably just a dream.

…..

By the time you’re in Vegas for the Grand Prix, you haven’t been drunk with Max in months. It’s been one or the other, not both. But since you’re there, Max drags you along to every event he gets invited to. You’re two drinks deep by the time Max makes it to the afterparty. He catches up quickly.

You sneak a sip of his gin and tonic and recoil at the taste. He gives you a blank stare in return.

“You’ve never liked it,” he says. “I don’t know why you keep trying.”

You shrug. “Exposure therapy. And my drink’s empty.”

He gives you a look that’s a mixture of what you think is exasperation and fondness. It’s his signature look when he’s dealing with you on nights out.

“We can fix that,” he says, as he reaches for your hand.

He leads you up to the bar, fingers knit with yours. He doesn’t let go like he normally would. It’s not uncommon for him to hold onto you in a crowd, especially when you’re drunk, but this is different. He leans over the bar and gives your order to the bartender, who nods and moves to make the drink. Max keeps his hand in yours. He finally lets go when you get your drinks, and you take a sip while you look up at him.

His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, blue eyes wide, and you’re trying desperately to read his mind. You want him to let you in so badly.

You end up at a table with him and his driver friends, squished in the booth between Max and Charles. You sip your drink and listen to them talk about race strategy and tires and Vegas in general. Max downs his drink, and someone brings him another. You do the same, and he gets them to bring you one too. And the cycle continues.

This means that by the time he turns to you and says, “we should leave now,” you’re pleasantly drunk, and you’d probably do anything he asked, really.

He slips out of the booth and pulls you along with him, ignoring the people who call his name. He has both of your jackets in his arm as he weaves through the crowds, holding onto your hand. It’s nice, to be here with him, to be a part of it instead of sitting and waiting for a phone call to come pick him up.

As the two of you stumble out onto the sidewalk, you tug on the back of his shirt. “Hey. Who are we going to call to come take care of us? We’re both drunk.”

Max turns and laughs, and then he’s quick to steady you when you stumble on the pavement. “We will take care of each other.”

You nod clumsily, leaning into the feeling of his hands on your hips. “Okay. Yeah. Nice.”

Max tugs you close, tucking you under his arm as he starts to walk down the street. “Lovely.”

“Simply lovely,” you say teasingly. “Where are we going?”

“The hotel,” he says. “I am sick of people.”

You deflate a bit at that. You’re not ready to say goodnight, to say goodbye, to be alone. You want to spend more time with him- it’s why you’re here in Vegas. Max seems to sense your change in mood and squeezes your shoulder, craning his head to look down at you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Do you want to stay out? We can find another club, I just thought maybe we could order room service, or pizza, and play a game or…”

He trails off as your eyes go wide, the hurt in your chest melting away. He cocks his head.

“I thought you were sick of me, too,” you say, and you bite your lower lip.

Max frowns deeply. The lights behind his head are blurry in your vision. You wonder if you’re just drunk, or if you’re tearing up. The way he swipes his thumb under your eye tells you it’s the latter.

“No,” he says, gently. “Never.”

Your lip wobbles. You shrug. Max seems to understand, and he just squeezes your shoulder again and keeps walking. You try to get your emotions in check. You have to, really, need to be normal about this. He’s just your friend. That’s all he wants to be.

“We could go do karaoke,” he suggests, pointing at a sign down the road.

He’s trying to distract you. It’s working.

You laugh and elbow him. “You’re an awful singer,” you tease.

“Am not!” He says, his tone full of mock offense. “Here, I’ll-“

You’re expecting him to break out into Viva Las Vegas, like he had at the end of the race over the radio. You’re bracing yourself for it, ready to grimace and cover your ears even though he isn’t really that bad of a singer. What he starts singing surprises you, makes you stumble a bit over your own feet.

“Welcome to New York!” He sings, and you stare at him, wide eyed. “They’ve been waiting for me- welcome-“

“Stop, stop,” you laugh, elbowing him as he attracts stares from people passing by. “We’re in Vegas, not New York! And you always get the lyrics wrong-“

“I am very good with lyrics,” he says, shaking his head.

“No, you’re not, you sang the other one wrong, too,” you tease. “You said got love drunk, it’s supposed to be got love struck. Remember, in Monaco?”

He stops in his tracks, his arm still around you, and stares. You stare right back. You frown and tilt your head at him, mirroring his earlier reaction.

“You remember that?” He asks, quietly.

“I was sober, Max,” you answer. “You remember that?”

He nods, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes are wide, cheeks pink. “I wasn’t sure if it was real, or if I dreamed it. And you never said anything about what I told you, so…”

That’s when you remember the other part of that conversation, all those nights ago. I love her. Why don’t you tell her? Can’t. You swallow tightly, hands hanging at your sides.

“You didn’t seem to know you were talking to me,” you explain. “So I figured it wasn’t something you really wanted me to know.”

Max blinks, then nods. “I didn’t. Because you don’t feel the same.”

Your stomach twists violently, and your chest follows suit. “I never said that.”

His stare is so intense you feel like you’re seconds away from bursting into flame. “But if you did, you would’ve said something after that night.”

You shake your head. “I asked why you didn’t just tell me and you just said, can’t. You wouldn’t explain any further. I don’t know, Max, I just. I figured you had a reason. Like, maybe…”

“Maybe what?” He asks, still staring at you.

“I’m just me, Max,” you say, pressing your hands over your face. “I’m just your friend. People get crushes all the time but it doesn’t mean you want to be with me, you’re a fucking world champion and I-“

He reaches up with both hands and grabs your wrists gently. He pulls your hands from your face. There’s a smile on his lips that leaves you teetering between relief and apprehension.

“But I didn’t say I had a crush on you,” he says, brows raised. “I said I love you.”

You sigh heavily and try to pull your hands back to your face. He doesn’t let you. You’re looking anywhere other than his eyes. Anywhere other than him, really. He lets go of your wrists and then cups your face in his hands before you can move.

“Hey,” he says. “I said can’t because I thought there was no way you’d feel the same.”

You stare at him, wide eyed, as his thumbs sweep soft circles over your cheeks. Suddenly, everything comes into focus, bright and blinding and stark. The Las Vegas strip is glowing all around you, but none of the lights are as bright as him.

“I do,” you murmur, and he lights up even brighter, somehow, when he smiles. “Fuck, Max-“

He kisses you right there, where anyone could see, in the middle of one of the busiest sidewalks you’ve ever been on. Nobody seems to notice or care, nobody seems to understand that your whole world is shifting. His lips are warm against yours, he tastes like gin, and he holds onto you like he’s trying to be so, so careful. You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck and thread fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

He only pulls away when someone whistles at the two of you. He’s grinning wide, hands still cradling your face, and you have to fight not to pull his lips back to yours.

“Come on,” he says, slightly out of breath.

You don’t ask where you’re going. You just let him lead you away. You’re so in love with him, you think you’d probably follow him anywhere. It’s terrifying and relieving all at the same time.

…..

A week later, in Abu Dhabi, you ask him if he wants to go out after the race. There’s a billion parties he could choose from.

“No,” he says, wrinkling his nose up at the idea. “I’m good.”

You elbow him lightly, raising your brows. “All those parties you called me to pick you up from, and now I’m here and you don’t even want to go out? You don’t want to celebrate your season?”

He smirks as he tugs on the hem of your shirt, pulling you along with him through the paddock. “I want to celebrate, but we don’t need to go out to do that. I have better ideas.”

His hand slips lower from your hip and squeezes at your ass. You yelp and look around frantically, hoping nobody noticed. He’s grinning with pride.

“Party animal Max Verstappen wants to stay in,” you tease. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

He shrugs, leans his head close to yours, and then admits, finally, “it was never about the parties. It was more about who was picking me up from them.”

You smile against his shoulder and try not to let it go to your head. He smiles against your forehead and tells you that he loves you for what must be the millionth time in the past week. You say it right back, drunk on the feeling of it.

a/n: thank you for readinnnnngggg!!

taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully

Insomniac

Toto Wolff x wife!Reader

Summary: you’re tired of falling asleep in an empty bed due to your workaholic husband’s sleepless nights

Based on this request

You rub your eyes and blink a few times, adjusting to the soft glow of the lamp on the end table as you lift your head from the couch cushion.

2:17 AM.

Again.

This makes the fifth night in a row that you’ve fallen asleep alone on the living room sofa, having given up on the hope of Toto joining you in your shared bed upstairs. The cashmere blanket wrapped around your legs does little to ward off the chill of the night, and you suppress a shiver as you sit up.

With a sigh, you slide out from under the afghan, the plush carpet soft under your bare feet as you quietly make your way out of the living room and down the hall. The sliver of light peeking out from underneath the closed door of the study confirms your suspicions — Toto is still awake, still working at this ungodly hour.

Ever since the news broke that Lewis would be leaving Mercedes for Ferrari at the end of the season, Toto has been unable to relax. He barely sleeps, poring over stats and projections deep into the night as he tries in vain to figure out how to move forward.

You know he feels responsible — for building the team into what it is, for leading it to seven constructors’ titles, for creating an environment where Lewis could thrive. Letting him go feels like a monumental failure in Toto’s eyes, even though rationally there was nothing else to be done. Lewis’ mind was made up.

But knowing how reasonable a decision it was does nothing to quiet the ceaseless chatter of Toto’s anxious thoughts. He second guesses himself constantly, running through hypotheticals and what-ifs over and over.

What if he had offered more money? More freedom? What if he had anticipated Lewis’ wandering eyes and somehow convinced him to stay? But you know better than anyone that his hands were tied — Mercedes’ board of directors simply would not cooperate with his suggestions.

You understand Toto’s anguish, but his sleepless agonizing is starting to take a toll. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, and the weight of his responsibilities hangs heavily from his slumped shoulders. His embraces are no longer as warm, his kisses no longer as tender. He retreats into his own head, consumed by doubts and regrets, and you feel him slipping away day by day.

Enough is enough, you decide. If Toto won’t take care of himself, then you will have to take matters into your own hands.

You tiptoe to the kitchen and quietly replace Toto’s usual late-night dark roast with decaf. It won’t stop him from working, but at least it won’t add fuel to the fire of his racing thoughts.

After preparing for bed yourself, you head down the hall, suppressing a shiver as your bare feet meet the cool wood floors. Pausing outside the study door, you turn the thermostat down just a couple degrees. It’s a subtle change, but you know Toto will notice, and it just might make him long for the warmth of your shared bed.

Taking a breath, you gently rap your knuckles against the door and let yourself in. Toto is exactly where you expected, hunched over his desk with his brows furrowed, staring fixedly at his laptop screen.

“Hey,” you say softly so as not to startle him. “It’s getting pretty late, I’m going to head to bed.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs absently, barely glancing up.

You stifle a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. “Are you coming?” You ask hopefully.

“In a bit,” Toto mumbles. “I just need to finish this analysis.”

You sigh, walking over to him and sliding your arms around his shoulders. “Toto, please,” you plead, nuzzling into his neck. “Come to bed. You need to rest.”

He reaches up to give your hand a quick, distracted pat. “Soon, liebling. I promise.”

Accepting that you won’t sway him now, you kiss his stubbly cheek and head for the door. “Don’t stay up too much longer,” you implore, then make your way back down the hall.

Once in your bedroom, you go through your regular bedtime routine, brushing your teeth and washing your face. But instead of climbing into your big empty bed, you find yourself wandering further down the hall to the nursery.

Pushing open the door, you pause to gaze at your sleeping infant daughter in her crib, her little chest rising and falling with soft even breaths. The corner of the room holds a cozy cushioned rocking chair, and you sink down into it with a yawn, the lateness of the hour finally catching up to you. Your eyes drift closed as you let the gentle motion lull you towards sleep.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when you feel strong arms sliding under your knees and behind your back, lifting you from the chair. You let out a soft murmur, still more asleep than awake, as Toto carries you from the nursery. Resting your head against his chest, you breathe in his familiar scent as he brings you down the hall to your bedroom.

Gently, he lays you down on your bed, brushing a wisp of hair back from your face as he pulls the covers up around you. Through bleary eyes, you see him cross to the dresser and begin shedding his clothes, swapping his button-down and slacks for a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Finally, he climbs in beside you with a weary sigh, and you immediately nestle against him, seeking his warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead as his arms encircle you.

You lift your head to meet his tired blue eyes. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I know this has been hard for you.”

He shakes his head slightly. “That’s no excuse. You shouldn’t have to deal with my restlessness.”

You reach up to cup his cheek. “We’re in this together, remember?” You remind him gently. “For better or worse.”

The corners of his mouth twitch in a hint of a smile. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Hmm, I don’t know if it’s come up,” you tease.

He gives you a playful little squeeze. “Well I do. So much.” His voice grows more serious then. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m thankful for you every day.”

You grin and snuggle impossibly closer. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Wolff.”

His low chuckle rumbles pleasantly against your cheek. “I mean it though. You’re my rock. My safe place. With everything going on ...” He trails off with a heavy exhale.

Reaching for his hand, you lace your fingers through his and give a supportive squeeze. “I know. But it’s going to be okay. Mercedes will find their way again, with you leading the charge. You’re the heart and soul of this team, Toto. You brought them this far, and you’ll bring them even further.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” he admits softly. “I just hope I can live up to it.”

“You will,” you say without hesitation. “You’re the most driven, passionate person I know. Your commitment is unmatched. If anyone can navigate these changes, it’s you.”

Toto is quiet for a moment, his thumb gently caressing your knuckles. “Thank you,” he says finally. “Just … thank you. For believing in me. For supporting me. For loving me, even when I’m being a stubborn arschloch.”

You grin. “Well, you’re my stubborn arschloch. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He laughs then, the sound warm and rich, and you feel some of the tension leave his body.

“No more working until sunrise though, okay?” You implore, threading your fingers through his hair. “You need to take care of yourself too.”

He nods, eyes shining with affection. “Okay. I promise.”

Satisfied, you nestle against his chest once more, comforted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His lips find the top of your head in a tender kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “So very much.”

You smile softly, already drifting towards sleep in the safety of his arms.

“I love you too,” you whisper. And with a contented sigh, you surrender to the pull of peaceful slumber, the two of you wrapped up in each other as you should be.

No more empty beds or sleepless nights. Just the comforting nearness of the man you love.

Your partner.

Your home.

One New Voicemail

your relationship with lando through voicemails.

(no warnings, just pure fluff. i'm kind of obsessed with writing these. would anyone want to see different drivers??? 1.2k words.)

First Date  “Hey you. I know I just dropped you off and you’re probably not back up to your apartment yet but I just wanted to tell you that I had the best time tonight…”  Lando winces at how lame that sounds, dragging in a breath before letting it loose.  “I’ve never been axe throwing on a first date before but uh…I’m glad you still have all ten fingers.” He laughs softly, shaking his head.

“Anyway. I know I said it already, like…5 times but I had a really fun night. Like, best first date ever. So, I was hoping that maybe we could do it again. Soon? Yeah…soon.”  He pauses, the butterflies in his stomach taking flight at the thought of seeing you again. “I’m in town for another week before the next race. Maybe tomorrow? Too soon? I don’t know, I just can’t get you off my mind and I’ve just dropped you off.”  Shit. He was down bad, wasn’t he?  “Text me?”  Another pause.  “Okay. Bye.”  Click. 

First Kiss “Hi. Um. So, that just happened, didn’t it?”

His voice is breathless, like he just ran up several flights of stairs before hitting your contact in his phone.

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I saw you in that bookstore. I nearly chickened out that day, almost walked right past the shop window but…” 

Lando shakes his head, smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Fuck, I am so glad I didn’t. Because that was the best first kiss I’ve ever had. And then you gave me the best second kiss. And third…” 

The words hang in the air, silence stretching out as he grins stupidly out at the London traffic in front of him. 

“Okay. Anyway. I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I can’t wait to kiss you again. Bye.” 

Click.

When You Make It Official  “Hi baby. I uh…just needed to say goodnight to my girlfriend one more time.” 

Lando giggles. 

Giggles. 

“So…you’re my girlfriend now, huh?” You can almost hear the smile slide across his face in the way he sounds. “Jesus, I was so nervous. Felt like I was 15 years old again. I’m so glad you said yes. Never a doubt in my mind…” 

He snorts, rolling his eyes. 

You both know that’s a lie. 

“I wish I didn’t have to go to Spain so early tomorrow. Fucking media duties. Do you think maybe you could get Friday off? I want you by my side this weekend. I’m going to buy you a ticket as soon as I get back to my flat, okay? Okay. Bye.” 

Click. 

When He Wins “Fuck. I didn’t even check to see what time it was back home. I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t wake you.” A pause. “Probably not because you didn’t answer. That’s good.” 

Lando sounds flustered. Like he can’t quite gather his thoughts into a coherent string. 

“I won!” 

Laughter. 

“I won and the first thing I thought when I saw that checkered flag was ’God, I wish she was here to see this.’ I hate being on opposite sides of the world from you. I haven’t heard your voice all fucking day. Is that pathetic? How much I love hearing your voice? You know what? I don’t care. Hearing you say my name is my favorite sound. Sue me.” 

Someone shouts Lando’s name off in the distance, just loud enough for you to hear. They tell him it’s time to celebrate and take a team photo. His response is muffled and then louder, directed back at your voicemail. 

“I wish you were here. I need you here for my next win, okay? Promise me? Okay, call me when you get up, I don’t care what time it is.” 

A pause. Almost like there’s something else he wants to say. Something heavier. 

“Okay. G’night.” 

Click. 

When He Misses You “Hi, baby.” He coos, voice tired. Sheets rustle in the background and he’s silent for a few moments. “I’m sorry I missed your call earlier. You’re probably out with the girls now, yeah? I hope you’re having a good time.” 

Silverware clinks in the background. The hiss of a can opening. 

“It’s been…fourteen days, six hours, and twenty-nine minutes since I kissed you and it’s really fucking annoying. I miss you so much. Triple headers suck. Can you come to Brazil next week? I’ll fly you out here. Please?” 

A sigh that borders on a groan. 

“I really fucking miss you.”

Deep breath. 

“Okay. I hope you’re having fun. Call me when you get in, no matter what time it is, okay?” 

Click. 

When He Realizes He Loves You “Hi.” 

It’s a breathless whisper. 

“I uhhhh…” 

Lando scrubs his hand over his face as he walks down the sidewalk. 

“I know it hasn’t been very long and fuck, I hope this doesn’t scare you off. I probably shouldn’t be doing this on voicemail. I was going to say it when I kissed you goodnight but I lost my nerve.” 

His feet whisper over the pavement, filling the silence. 

“IThinkImFallingInLoveWithYou.” 

The words are quick. Jumbled. And then he’s muttering something under his breath. 

“No. Wait. Fuck. Not think. Baby, I know I’m in love with you.” 

Silence. 

“I’m so head over heels in love with you I can’t even think straight.” 

His footfalls get louder, as if he’s running. 

“And I’m a fucking idiot for not saying it to your face. I’ll be at your door in thirty seconds…” 

Click. 

When He Gets Down On One Knee “I can’t believe you actually said yes.” 

Lando huffs a laugh. 

“I thought I blew it, when you didn’t say anything after I asked. I genuinely thought you were about to turn me down. Scariest ten seconds of my life. And then you were crying and yelling and hugging me…The poor cat was terrified.” 

The Ferrari’s engine purrs to life in the background. 

“I just ran out to get some champagne for us but I wanted to hear your voice. I can’t believe I get to marry you. Holy fuck, you’re going to be my wife.”

A beat.

“I’m going to be your husband.”  

He sounds overwhelmed. Like he can’t quite wrap his mind around the sentence. 

“I’m so glad I went into that bookstore that day…I love you so much. I can’t wait to call you Mrs. Norris.” 

Click.  

The Night Before You Marry Him “I don’t know how you’re asleep right now. I feel like I’m going to vibrate right out of my skin.” 

The sheets rustle softly in the background. 

“You looked so pretty tonight in that dress. Every time I looked at you, I thought my heart was going to explode. I can’t ever get enough of seeing you with my ring on your finger. The wedding band I put on you tomorrow is going to look so fucking good next to it.” 

Lando draws in a deep breath, settling deeper in the sheets. 

“It’s weird sleeping without you. These traditions are stupid.” 

You can almost hear the pout on his face. 

“What am I going to do without your ice cold feet to jolt me awake at 3 in the morning?” 

A laugh. 

“I still can’t believe I got you to agree to marry me. I’m the luckiest guy on this planet, you know that? I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” 

A pause. 

“Can we have babies soon?” 

Another pause. Longer now. 

“I can’t wait for you to have my babies. Lets get to work on that tomorrow night.” 

He says it like it’s final. Like he’s been waiting to say that to you for as long as he’s known you. 

“Okay. Love you, soon-to-be wife. Bye.” 

Click. 

jealousy... | kimi räikkönen

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi räikkönen x reader, fernando alonso ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested or not) : when fernando alonso gets a little too friendly, kimi räikkönen doesn’t react—at least, not obviously. but beneath the icy composure, jealousy simmers just enough to make his point clear.

୨ৎ : genre : subtle jealousy, romance, light angst, humor ୨ৎ : tws : mild jealousy, subtle possessiveness, light tension, suggestive undertones. nothing heavy or intense ୨ৎ : word count : 452

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : keeping the raikkonen girlies fed !!!

kimi didn’t waste energy on unnecessary emotions, didn’t care for drama, and certainly didn’t get jealous.

at least, that’s what everyone assumed.

but you knew better.

which is why, when fernando leaned just a bit too close, flashing his signature smirk as he said something in spanish that you barely understood, you didn’t miss the way kimi’s entire posture shifted from across the room.

to the untrained eye, he looked completely unbothered—arms crossed, face unreadable, sipping from his drink like he wasn’t paying attention.

but you felt it.

the way his eyes hadn’t left you in the last five minutes.

the way his fingers tapped against his glass—the only telltale sign that he was not as relaxed as he looked.

fernando, oblivious (or maybe very much aware), chuckled. “you know, if you ever get tired of finns, you could always give a spaniard a chance.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “and what, get caught in the middle of a grand prix rivalry?”

fernando grinned. “come on, i’m much more fun than kimi.”

before you could answer, a sudden presence appeared beside you—solid, warm, and radiating silent authority.

kimi.

he didn’t say anything at first.

didn’t glare, didn’t throw an arm around you like some possessive claim.

no, all he did was take a very deliberate sip of his drink, his icy blue eyes locking onto fernando’s with a look that was calm, composed… but sharp enough to cut.

fernando, for all his confidence, immediately grinned like he had just been caught stealing cookies from the jar.

“ah,” he chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “look who finally decided to join us.”

kimi didn’t blink. “mm.”

you bit your lip, barely containing your amusement. typical kimi.

fernando smirked, nudging kimi’s arm lightly. “relax, i was just keeping your partner entertained.”

kimi’s gaze did not waver. “don’t need your help.”

you swore you saw fernando shiver.

“right,” he laughed, clearly reading the room. “well, i’ll leave you two to it.”

as soon as he walked away, kimi finally turned to you.

“fun conversation?”

you smiled, tilting your head. “maybe.”

kimi hummed, setting his drink down and suddenly closing the space between you. his hand found your hip, fingers pressing just firmly enough to make your breath hitch.

“you like attention too much,” he muttered.

you smirked, placing a hand on his chest. “oh? and you don’t like when i get it?”

kimi’s jaw tensed, his eyes flickering to your lips for a split second too long.

then, with the same quiet intensity that made him terrifying on track, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured,

“just remember who you’re going home with.”

your heart stuttered.

well.

point made.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

max verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation

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

folkie radio: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXIEEE, it's been a minute since the last time i did a compilation blurb and this felt like the perfect occasion to bring them back, i hope you like this!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the best driver of his generation is known for his incredible driving skills and relentless pursuit of victory on the track.

However, behind the wheel, Max has another passion that rivals his love for racing: his girlfriend.

In every interview, press conference, and social media post, Max can't help but gush about her, seamlessly sharing stories of their life together into conversations about lap times and race strategies.

Fans quickly began doing compilation videos about all the times he mentioned his girlfriend publicly, and those gathered millions of views across social media platforms.

The most popular one was called "Max Verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation," and it began with a video of Max arriving to the paddock for media day, Red Bull's social media team filming him while he answered some rapid fire questions.

"Waffles or Pancakes? You know I used to love pancakes but I think I've had too many because my girlfriend is obsessed with making them," he said as he signed some stuff, "So I would go for Waffles at the moment, but if my girlfriend is watching this I'd say I take her pancakes every day."

The next clip was from a post qualifying interview, and of course, Max earned the pole position, the interviewer had asked him what was expecting for the race the following day.

"To win of course, that's what I'm here for," he said with so hesitation, "But I'm also looking forward to it because my girlfriend will be here, it's the first race she attends this season and I can't wait to see her in the crowd while I take on the podium."

The video moved to show Max with his teammate Sergio Perez, they were playing a game of Green Flag or Red Flag, they were asked about people who film themselves at the gym and Max immediately waved the red flag.

"I actually don't go to the gym anymore," Max added, "I get annoyed by everyone else so I just exercise at home."

"So no topless selfies, not even at home," the interviewer said.

"I don't need to impress anyone, I've got my girlfriend, so," Max shrugged.

The next clip was taken from Max's own Youtube channel, he was showing some of his preparation routine for a race, that included some neck training, checking statistics, quick meetings with his team and engineers among other things.

And of course, his girlfriend made an appearance, standing in a corner watching everything unfold. He approached her, race suit on and helmet in hand, kissed her lips gently as she caressed his arm.

"Be safe out there okay?" her voice could be faintly heard.

"Always schatje, I love you."

In the next segment, Max had just earned his second world championship and was doing a casual interview for a sports channel.

"Do you have your girlfriend now call you 'Two time world champion Max Verstappen' or just Max,"

"Definitely not the first one," Max laughed, "She'd never do that, she says she likes to keep me humble."

"Your girlfriend has a pet name for you?" the guy asked again.

"We call each other a bit different but I prefer not to say that on camera," Max laughed again, "I don't want the internet to make fun of me for being cheesy."

The next clip was from Max's streamings, he was too immersed in a game that he didn't hear his girlfriend come into the room, noticing her presence when she leaned into him.

Out of habit of keeping their privacy, he covered the camera but forgot to turn his mic off.

"Schatje I'm streaming," he said, unaware that everyone could hear him.

"Oh I'm sorry, I was going to ask if you could feed the cats but I'll do it myself," his girlfriend spoke.

"No I'll do it, just let me get off the stream,"

"Baby, there's no need," she insisted.

"I was missing you anyways, just give me a minute."

His audience couldn't see anything but they clearly heard how Max kissed his girlfriend's lips, turning his attention back to the screen, he realized that he was broadcasting their conversation to everyone.

His viewers went wild in the chat, spamming heart emojis and comments about how sweet the couple was. Max ended the stream with a laugh, addressing his fans. "Alright, you heard the boss. I gotta go feed the cats. See you all next time."

On the same note, another clip from a video for RedBull with Checo was included, they had been asked to show the most recent picture in their phones.

"Oh it's from this morning, my girlfriend with the kids," Max said, showing the picture to the camera.

"The kids?" Checo asked with a laugh.

"The cats are our kids," Max shrugged, "Jimmy and Sassy Verstappen."

A particularly touching moment was from a press conference after a difficult race. Max had finished fifth, a rare position for him given his usual dominance. When asked how he dealt with setbacks, he gave a candid response.

"It can be tough, but my girlfriend always knows how to lift my spirits. She's my biggest supporter and always finds the right words to say. Just being with her makes everything better, no matter how bad the race went."

During a clip of Max giving a tour of the Red Bull factory, he stopped at a wall covered in race-winning memorabilia. Among the trophies and champagne bottles, there was a small, framed photograph.

"This is special to me," Max pointed it out, "It's from my first win with Red Bull. But look closer..."

The camera zoomed in to show a young woman in the background of the photo, cheering in the pit lane.

"That's my girlfriend," Max said softly. "She was there for my first win, and she's been there for every one since - even if she can't always be at the track. The team knew how much that meant to me, so they made sure she was in this photo when they framed it."

In the next segment, Max was asked about his favorite off-track activity.

"I love cooking," Max grinned, "Well, more like watching my girlfriend cook. She's amazing in the kitchen, and I'm just there to taste-test everything."

The compilation included a moment during a press conference, Max addressed a question about his girlfriend facing criticism online. The question arose after she received negative comments following a public appearance with him.

"Look, it's tough sometimes," Max began, his expression turning serious. "She didn't choose this life, but she supports me through everything. It's not fair for her to get hate just because of who she's dating. If you have a problem with me that's fine but don't go after my family or my girlfriend because that is just unacceptable."

The final clip that wrapped the video us was from the FIA Prize Giving ceremony, Max received his trophy for winning the 2023 championship.

In his acceptance speech, he thanked his team, his family, and, of course, his girlfriend.

"Winning races and championships is amazing, but having someone by your side who believes in you and supports you unconditionally is truly special. To my girlfriend, thank you for being my rock and my biggest cheerleader. I love you."

The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the perfect boyfriend.

White Horse - Masterlist:

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.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Interlude: Daylight

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33