Jealousy... | Kimi Räikkönen

prancing bulls — CS55

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!verstappen!reader

warnings: fluff, swearing, carlos and max being petty af, not proofread

synopsis: max had always been supportive of yours and carlos’ relationship, except when it comes to who you’re repping in the paddock [2.5k]

MASTERLIST

Since you first showed up in the paddock in one of Carlos' tops, Max had instantly been on your case.

"Y/n you're literally my sister you should wear my merch." You knew that you couldn't deny max had a good point. Ever since day one you were the one there for him, when your dad was ever disappointed in a race result you were always for him and he couldn't have thanked you enough for that.

A part of him even thinks he wouldn't be in the position he was in today without you, that he would've chucked is years before even thinking about getting into f1

You were a notorious defender of max, on Twitter, in person, you defended him without hesitation.

Another thing in the paddock you were notorious for was the famous 33 branding always splayed across your back, fitting in with the MV1 cap you wore on your head. 

That was until Carlos came along, soon swapping out your 33 numbered tops for ones adorning 55 and your RBR caps for ones of iconic red team.

Max was nothing short of perfect when it came to your relationship with Carlos, he knew the Spaniard was a good man and would treat any girl rights, especially the one of one of his closest friends sister.

Although, his only complaint would be the serious lack of blue you now wore to the track.

At first you didn't think it was that serious, just Max and Carlos playing around with taking off whatever cap the other put on to replace it with their own and dropping off the discarded one by each others respected garages but apparently it had gone deeper than that.

Max was feeling like he had lost his life time supporter, that even when he was losing he still had you to show him off as your brother whenever the opportunity arose. Even when you sat in the Red Bull garage during free practice, qualifying and even sometimes the race you still bore the number 55 across your back.

And deep down you knew where your brother was coming from, he hadn't ever had a supporter in life who stuck by his even when he lost, except you.

Although you didn't expect the tension to bubble over as soon as it did, and especially not where it did either.

The teams were out celebrating the first race of the new season, ferrari taking 1-2 on the podium and both max and Checo unfortunately with a  DNF. All the drivers were out together, a cheers to another year together.

Carlos had been complimenting you like always, the way you had done your hair, your makeup the dress everything and when you thought he had finally ran out of things to say he had brought out the last thing he possibly could. "You look so good with my number around your neck." For your birthday that year he had gotten you a simplistic silver chain with a '55' charm hanging lowly on it.

At his words your fingers couldn't help but find the charm, holding it between your fingers. "And with my number on your back at the race." You quickly hushed him, knowing Max was around somewhere and with the not so ideal start to his championship defending season he was definitely looking to let off some steam, which he had a tendency to be a argumentative when doing. "He needs to get over it, corazón."

"He will, he's just feels like he's lost me as a supporter." When you gave Carlos the look he knew not to push further, instead changing the topic to something completely different and you had never been more thankful for meeting him, letting his arm fall around your shoulders, as you talked about whatever, your laughs behind heard throughout the bar.

About two thirds of the grid were already here, keeping to groups of two or three as you and Carlos spoke between yourselves for a couple more minutes, being joined by Charles and Charlotte who were clearly in a celebrating mood too, other drivers with their girlfriends joining shortly after too.

The bar was finally beginning to clear, you on drinks duty this round you decided to go now, getting the orders of everyone at the table and denying Carlos' help before getting to the bar. The wait for the drinks seemed longer as a generic song played in the background, and finally when the bartender came over another hand went out to grab it. "Need a hand?"

Smiling when you heard the familiar voice you nodded, of course you knew he wasn't going to be the happiest of people tonight but still you wouldn't pass up the time to hang out with your brother. "So, i didn't see you in the garage today."

Barely a second in and you already wanted to leave the conversation, your past comment coming back to bite you. "Max." Your voice held a warning, clearly not wanting to talk to him about it again. If you knew anything about max, and you more than knew him, he was a stubborn person, he didn't drop subjects if he thought he could get more on it, and this was another example of that.

"I'm just saying, your spending a lot of time over there, that's all." You could just tell that if he hadn't been holding the drinks in his hands he'd be throwing his hands up, although his expressive eyebrows did just the job.

Carlos could see the tense interaction from across the club, and he knew the others could too if they chose to look over. He debated on wether he should go over and intervene in the conversation or wether he should leave the siblings to be siblings. "He's my boyfriend Max, what did you expect?" You felt your voice getting louder, looking round to see a couple of the bar goers looking at you but had to shake it off.

Max resisted the urge to roll his eyes, a typical brother response and he knew it. "Just expected my sister to come support her brother once in a while."

In retrospect you both had valid points in the argument, which only made it more frustrating.

Just as you felt you were going to scream at him, a short temper was apparently one of the traits the Verstappens shared, you felt a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Hey mate, tough race. You coming to sit with us?" You were thankful for Carlos, the spaniard there to diffuse the tension like he almost did, but the slight glare your brother was giving him was more than enough to let you know it was doing the opposite.

You looked to Carlos, noticing the teasing smile on his lips. He was enjoying this, and you wanted to scold him you really did, in-fact you wanted to scold both of them for being such idiots. "Look Max, i get it, you think you've lost me but you haven't i'm still your number one supporter i just have another car to cheer on now."

"So what you're a 'tifosi' now?" Max knew he was being petty, everyone knew that, but in fairness everyone was. Carlos was being petty buying you '55' necklace and wanting you to wear it in front of max he only did to push his buttons.

You knew this wasn't going to go anywhere, the amount of stubborn in the three people here enough to fill a further six. Sighing, you closed your eyes in frustration. Finally opening them up to find Max's piercing into yours. "It's just a numbe-"

Before you could finish the man beside you interrupted, moving his arm from around your shoulder to move closer to Max. "He has a point, it's just a number. So then why do you care so much?"

You knew Carlos had a pretty face, and in this argument its a shame thats all he was.

It was now your turn to glare at Carlos, ready to slap both of them. Looking back you did look quite dumb, thinking he had come own to try and calm down the situation and yet here he was winding Max up himself. "I'm her brother."

"And she's my girlfriend." Carlos answered without missing a beat, catching Max off guard slightly.

The trio stood in a short silence for a while, the bartender awkwardly giving you the last drink he needed to make, coming back to Carlos and Max looking like they wanted to kill each other with you in the middle of. You gave him an apologetic smile, an angry look on your face as you turned to the two bickering men. "If you two continue like this i'm just wearing mercedes merch."

Taking the tray of drinks as you spoke you walked back to the table, the drivers and girlfriends who couldn't help themselves but look over at the interaction trying to not laugh at their petty behaviour.

Sadly their bickering did not end there, and whoever's stupid idea it was to seat Max opposite Carlos you were ready to kill. Carlos made his actions abundantly clear, letting hin arm fall over your shoulder, playing with the silver 55 around your neck whilst you talk with someone.

And Max was never one to back down from the argument, continuing on with his 'i'm the brother' argument until even he had grown tired of saying it.

Soon enough the night was coming to and end, you caught up quickly with one of the drivers before he had the chance to leave, whispering something in his ear and he turned round to see both Max and Carlos scowling him and he nodded his head, agreeing with her.

You returned back to your trio, taking the drink out of Carlos' hand and finishing it before he could protest, any attempt to get home faster. "What was that about?" Max questioned you, and for the first time that night he and Carlos seemed to be agreeing on something.

"What was what about?" You played dumb, both of them seeing straight through the facade as you fiddled with the bracelets on your wrist.

"What did you talk to Lewis about?" Max probed further, his nosey self always needing to know things

"And why were you that close to him?"

As a Verstappen you liked to believe that you were true to your words.

The petty comments between Carlos and Max still hadn't stopped, not that you thought they would, throughout the week.

And so you were thankful you had called in for plan b, he had dropped off one of his caps, pairing it with his numbered team top and before you knew it you were walking into Friday practice one with the white of the mercedes shirt and number 44 splayed across your back.

Ted, of course, was first to notice. The presenter donned his now iconic headset, equipped with his microphone. He caught you just as you entered the track, the sight of you in certain teams merch not an uncommon one but never this team.

"And here we have the lovely Y/n Verstappen, looking as beautiful as always may i add," Ted greeted you, a smile on his face as the camera got a look of your attire. "Although i can't say we see you in this always."

Jokingly, you posed for the reporter, a laugh escaping your lips when he told you to do a twirl. "I'm trying a new style, do you approve?"

"As much as we do, does your brother approve is the question we should be asking." He leaned in as he asked the question, working over time for the dramatic effect he knew fans would be eating up.

You saw Carlos further back in the paddock, walking with his pr officer and you wanted to catch him just before the first practice. "Think we should just keep this between ourselves, Ted."

"Keep what between ourselves, Miss Verstappen?" He smiled at you, and you appreciated that he followed on with your joke. No matter how many times you'd seen him come for things max had said or done, off camera he was one of the nicest people you had met.

Smiling back at him, you nodded your head. "This is why you're my favourite."

The goodbye between you two was short, Ted wishing both Max and Carlos a good race and you made sure to carry on his message to them.

If there was one thing you appreciated about Ted is that he never made an effort to bring up your relationship with Carlos, of course he knew as did most in the paddock, but he never made you comment or "choose" between Max and him whenever an accident happened like others did.

Lando was the first to spot you from his own garage, jogging to catch up with you, the smile on his face unmistakable as he took in your appearance. "You a Lewis girl for today?"

You slowed down your strides for him to fully catch up with you, nodding your head as you laughed at his questions. "I've always been a Lewis girl," Lando raised his eyebrows at your answer. "Just don't tell Max that...or Carlos."

The young brit nodded, the two of you talking until you reach the familiar red garage, Lando quick to say goodbye knowing how tight he was cutting it to his pre-practice meeting.

You found Carlos' driver room with the help of a few engineers, some unable to hide their confused look at your entire Mercedes attire whilst the others laughed with each other.

Carlos was going over his usual pre-drive rituals, completely in his own world as he didn't hear you coming in, causing him to jump slightly when you placed your hands on his shoulder, forcing him to turn round.

His eyes instantly found the hat sitting proudly on your head, his initial reaction being to let out a chuckle at your new look. "So, what'd you think?" You gave him a twirl, as if you were wearing a floor length skirt, instead only in a pair of flared jeans.

"That you look as good as always, and if this was an attempt to annoy me you failed." He placed a quick kiss on your pouting lips, completely unfazed from the lack of his number, or merch, on you.

"Was more to annoy Max than you," On cue, you felt your phone buzzing in your pocket, Max's name the first thing you saw on your screen as he'd phoned you multiple times already.

Although this time you finally picked up, a small smirk on your lips as he groaned a 'took you long enough'. "You called?"

"Yeah multiple fucking times," You could feel Max's eye roll on the other side of the phone, his annoyance somehow travelling through the device. "I never actually thought that you'd follow through."

He laughed through his words, a disbelieving tone to the words that you could make out. "I told you i would." You smiled as if he could see you through the phone.

"Keep arguing and you'll see me in a #16 top next race."

Call Me When You Breakup

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max is in the wrong relationship, and you both know it. But knowing isn’t choosing, and you’re done waiting.

1.8k words / Inspo / Masterlist

You don't want to be here.

Not in this overpriced, dimly lit restaurant. Not sitting across from your best friend who, for all intents and purposes, should be yours but isn't. Not watching him share a plate of something too delicate, too refined, with someone who doesn’t know him the way you do.

You shouldn't be here, but you are. Because Max asked, and you’ve never been able to say no to him.

His girlfriend, the word itself sticks in your throat like it doesn’t belong there, sits beside him her hand curled possessively around his arm like it’s an accessory.

She's beautiful in that effortless way that makes it impossible to hate her, but easy to envy and you do, not because she's done anything wrong, but because she has him and you don’t. She’s the kind of girl who wears white to brunch and never spills anything. Who smiles with her teeth but never with her eyes. She laughs at all the right moments, smiles like she’s being watched, and you suppose she probably always is.

She tells people he’s different with her, like it’s some accomplishment, like she’s smoothed out all the parts of him that used to be real. And maybe that’s what she wants, a version of Max that’s easier to manage. More polished. Less... passionate.

And maybe he needs that. Maybe it’s easier to be loved when no one sees the cracks.

But you do.

And you love him anyway.

"You're quiet tonight."

Max's voice breaks through the fog of your thoughts, dragging you back into the present. His blue eyes flick to yours, brow furrowed. You know that look. Concern. Like he always gets when you're not yourself. Like he doesn't realise he’s the reason why.

"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Just tired."

His girlfriend, her name, why does her name escape you? Leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispering something you can’t hear. Max laughs, low and affectionate, and it splinters something inside you.

You force your attention back to your plate, pushing the delicate food around with your fork, though you have no appetite for it. Each bite seems tasteless, it’s not the kind of meal you’re used to. You’d much rather be somewhere familiar, somewhere real, where the food is greasy and the air is thick with laughter, the kind of places where Max talks with his hands and lets himself forget who he has to be.

But tonight, he’s wearing someone else’s life. And you’re just the spectator.

Max's laughter, though, it’s still real. It’s just harder to swallow now, harder to accept, because it’s not for you. Not tonight.

Then he leans in closer than necessary, voice dropping again, warm and soothing, bringing you back to the present. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Your heart stutters for a beat. The question, the tone it’s always the same. Always concerned. Always directed at you. But never for you. You’ve learned to ignore the quiet ache that blossoms each time, because it’s pointless.

"I'm fine," you repeat, this time with more conviction. The smile feels less forced but still unnatural. "I promise."

His eyes linger on you like it’s a habit he can’t break, and you can tell he’s not buying it. His gaze flicks briefly to his girlfriend, who is now chatting animatedly with the waiter about some wine pairing, before he leans in, close enough that only you can hear.

"Are you sure? You know you can talk to me right?"

That damn sweetness in his voice. That quiet tenderness he saves just for you, like a secret between the two of you, a secret you’re not sure you can keep much longer. His girlfriend is only a few inches away, but the distance between you and Max has never felt more cavernous.

You swallow, unable to look at him, because if you do, you might say something you can’t take back. Something that would shatter the delicate balance you’ve managed to maintain.

You want to tell him that you're not fine. That you haven’t been for a long time. But you can’t. You just can't.

Instead, you nod, your throat tightening, unable to force the words past your lips. He doesn’t need to know. Not now. Not when it could ruin everything.

Later that night when you’re alone in your apartment, you do what you swore you wouldn’t.

You scroll through old photos, ones where it was just you and Max, before… before everything became complicated. Late-night drives through Monaco, your legs propped up on his dashboard. His arm around you after a race, champagne still clinging to his skin. The way he looked at you, like you were his whole world.

And maybe you were.

Maybe, for a time, he was yours too.

You miss him. Not the version of him you get now, careful and distant, but the Max who used to call you at 3 a.m. just to talk. The Max who used to sit on your bathroom counter while you took off your makeup, who would trace patterns into your wrist absentmindedly as you talked about the future.

That version of Max doesn’t exist anymore.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just buried under the weight of a relationship that isn’t meant for him.

She’s the safe choice. The quiet, easy path. She’ll never demand the real version of him, but she’s there and for now that’s enough for him.

Your fingers hover over his name in your phone, heart hammering in your chest. You shouldn’t call.

But you want to.

Call me when you break up.

The words sit on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down.

Instead, you type a message you’ll never send.

We’re so meant for each other, when will you wake up?

You read the words, and the weight of them sinks deep in your chest. But you delete them immediately. They’re too raw. Too desperate. Too honest.

With a shaky breath, you shut off your phone, the screen fading to black.

The thing about being in love with Max Verstappen is that you never really stop waiting.

You wait for him to see you. Wait for him to realise what you've always known. Wait for the moment when he’ll turn to you and say, it was always you.

But waiting is exhausting.

And you're tired of feeling like an afterthought.

So you do what any rational, heartbroken person would. You try to forget.

You let strangers buy you drinks, let them whisper sweet nothings into your ear, let them kiss you in the dark corners of bars where no one knows your name. You chase distractions, hoping that one of them will make you feel something, anything, other than the ache of missing him.

But they never do.

Because none of them are Max.

And maybe that’s why when your phone rings one night, his name flashing across the screen, you still answer without hesitation. Because this isn’t the first time. It’s become a pattern. A quiet, painful ritual. A fight with her. A call to you.

"Hey."

He sounds off. Tired. Worn down in a way you’ve never heard before.

"Can I come over?"

Your pulse spikes. "Max—"

"I just… I don’t want to be alone right now."

The unspoken words hang between you.

I don’t want to be with her right now.

You exhale shakily. "Yeah. Of course."

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings, cutting through the silence that had settled over your apartment like a heavy fog. You stand frozen for a moment, uncertainty crawling up your spine, before you force your legs to move.

He looks wrecked. Like he hasn't slept in days. He doesn't say anything at first, just steps inside, closing the distance between you in a way that makes your breath catch.

"Did something happen?" you ask softly.

Max shakes his head, exhaling sharply. "I just needed to see you."

The space between you closes with a speed that makes your pulse skip. It’s like he’s always known the exact way to find you, to make everything else fade away, to pull you back in like you’re a magnet and he’s the force that won’t let you escape.

His eyes search yours, and it’s in that moment you realise he knows.

He knows he's with the wrong person.

He knows that no matter how much he tries to pretend, it’s always been you.

But knowing something and choosing it are two entirely different things.

And you’re tired. Tired of waiting for him to make the right choice. Tired of standing here, always second. Always the backup when things aren’t perfect in his world.

So you step back, putting space between you that feels like a chasm.

"You can’t do this," you whisper. "You can't just run to me when things go wrong with her. It’s not fair."

His jaw tightens at your words, the muscle in his cheek twitching, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks down, taking a long breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of something unspoken. You can see the frustration, the guilt in the way his shoulders tense, but it doesn’t change anything.

"I—"

"You love me Max." Your throat tightens, interrupting him before he can pull you in, and you hate the way your voice cracks on the last word, but you don’t care. "I know you do."

Silence.

Painful, suffocating silence.

But then—

"I do." His voice is raw, like the words are being torn from him. "I do love you."

Your breath stutters. "Then why are you still with her?"

Max opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his lips. His eyes dart away from yours, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but can’t. He clenches his fists at his sides, and the tension in his body is palpable. "I... I don’t know," he mutters, voice thick. "I don’t know what I’m supposed to do."

"You’re supposed to choose Max!" Your voice cracks, the frustration bubbling over.

He opens his mouth again, but the words won't come. You watch him struggle, like he’s stuck in a loop of his own making. "I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to hurt you," he says, regret creeping in.

"But you have," you say, your voice steady but filled with everything you’ve been holding in. "You have hurt me Max. And you don’t get to keep doing that and expect me to just be here when you feel like it."

Max takes a step toward you, but you shake your head, stepping back. "No," you whisper, shaking your head. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to have me when it’s convenient for you. You either choose me, or you don’t."

Max opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because there’s no excuse. No reason good enough.

Just fear.

Of change. Of consequences. Of finally choosing what’s real over what’s easy.

And you? You’re done waiting for him to be brave.

So you smile, even though it hurts. Even though your heart is shattering.

"Call me when you break up."

Then you shut the door.

little white lie — MV1

pairing: max verstappen x fem!leclerc!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions and usage of alcohol, smut, unprotected sex, oral (m & f receiving), sexual references, translated french and dutch, the 2022 f1 season, not proofread!!

synopsis: charles didn’t have a long list of rules when it came to you and the other 19 drivers on the grid, although dating his championship rival was #1 [6.0k]

a/n: return/celebratory max fic ig?? when is that man not winning races

MASTERLIST

You'd caught him staring at you from across the paddock, never the type to hide his staring, the smuggest look you'd ever seen on his face. The collar his race suit had obviously been messily fastened together, still being able to feel the burn on your fingers from the velcro from when you done it back up only minutes ago.

His cheeks were a shade rosy pink, easily explained to anyone who asked as the warm weather getting to him, as was the messy state of his blonde tipped hair. A stoic look was all you returned his grin with, still you could feel the butterflies in your stomach, the feel of his hands on your skin imprinted in your mind.

If anyone had bothered to pay enough attention to him they would've noticed the blossoming purple bruise forming just above his collar, the slight teeth mark you'd left just under his ear too. Although your lingering marks were soon to be covered by his balaclava.

Charles had given you two simple rules to follow, don't date his teammates, and most importantly don't date his rivals. If he could help it, don't date any of the drivers.

And luckily for Charles, you'd hated everything about him from day one, since you had first met Max at one of your brothers karting competition all the way up till now, the smug smile that seemed permanent on his face, his almost entitled attitude as if he deserved to win simply because he was who he was and he drove for who he drove for.

Everyone in the paddock knew of your rocky relationship with Max, since the first race Charles had invited you, it wasn't long till your obvious dislike of the dutchman came out in full force.

The feelings, of course, being mutual.

Annoyingly for you, it seemed as if people naturally gravitated towards him, like he had this unspoken charm that you were yet to see. Even when you were both as young, it was a similar situation, everyone dying to be able to call him their friend.

His move to F1 almost seemed to intensify that charm you were forbidden from seeing, of course you were aware of the media's rendition of him, similar in a way to how you viewed him and it pained you to admit he was actually nothing like that at all.

For those years though that you'd (thankfully in your opinion) never crossed paths more than a couple times where you'd stayed on later after one of Charles' races to see the podiums and bother Pierre around the garage. Even then you barely acknowledged each others presence more than what was deemed necessary.

Although avoiding him altogether was never really an option for either of you, your friendship groups integrated deeply into each others, only becoming much more apparent to you when Charles made his f1 debut and your once in a blue-moon meeting became an almost weekly occurrence.

Never once though did you attempt make your feelings towards him secret, and Max was being honest he didn't try to hide his either, Charles or Pierre often being the ones to step in when you found the opportunities to wind the other one up.

It became a sort of game in your friendship group to wager when the truth would finally come out. The truth that you both masked any glimpse of feelings towards each others with insults and glares.

Charles, for one, was desperate for you both to get along, knowing that if you'd put the work in and pushed aside the baseless hate you held for each other potentially even a friendship could form.

And so when Charles had graduated to F1 in 2018, he was even more so desperate for you to be somewhat neutral towards the red bull driver. After all you'd be seeing him much more frequently, with Charles moving up and you landing an interviewing job at F1TV, he also knew of the hard times the media were beginning to give him. "They're basically eating him alive, at least try to be nice to him, yeah? You know he isn't that bad." He asked you again, for the amount of times you'd lost count, not becoming discouraged from the silence you gave him in response.

Reluctantly, after a significant amount of convincing, his patience paid off as you had agreed to do so, for your brothers sake.

Now though, years later, you were sure if Charles knew what would come from reintroducing you, he would've kept you at least 12 feet away from the dutchman at all times.

The media had caught on quickly that the red bull driver had gotten himself a mystery lady. Multiple articles about Max doing little to hide the red scratch mark you'd left down his back the night before, also never sparing a thought to hide the hickeys you had ever so carefully attempted to leave where his race suit collar would cover.

Of all people, no one had suspected it to be you though, which was the only reason you actually continued whatever it was you were doing with Max. You told yourself it was just sex, because that's all it really was, at least at the start. He hadn't spent a night over at yours, just as you had never his, just a string of hotel rooms in cities across the globe.

The first time had been a moment of weakness on both your parts, Max had just came of race week with a very rare strategy blunder by his team, ultimately ruining his chances for the win and instead handing it to his teammate and you, you had just found out your boyfriend had cheated on you.

It was one of those cliche movie moments, Max finding you at the hotel bar, you're makeup messy and mascara practically melting away from the tears that still stained your face, drinking the night away on your own and occasionally offering up a conversation with the bartender, although mostly it had just been you wallowing in self pity.

As soon as he'd seen you the thought of turning around and ordering a bottle to his room crossed his mind. He'd already had a shitty day, a shitty race week he'd say if he was feeling dramatic, and he didn't need to deal with you drunk and crying on top of that.

Instead, though, he chose to sit down, his legs moving before he could process a thought of what he was doing. He signalled over to the bartender as he sat down beside you. "Two of whatever she's having, please." He heard you groaning at the sound of his voice, the last thing you needed to end a day like that was not spending your time drinking with him, or even seeing him if you could help it.

You'd already spotted him coming in, you're eyes flickering back to the bar in fear of the dutchman seeing you, silently praying that if he was to stay that he would choose another seat but it seemed faith hadn't been on your side.

You would've put money on this being the first time in years the two of you had been together alone, no mutual friends to fill the awkward silence between you.

It took another taste of your drink to build up the willpower to speak. "Saw your team fucked you over," On the outside your words seemed harsh but they were just the trick to break the inch thick ice. "Maybe they're sick of you winning too." Your tone was lightened with a smile and he laughed at your bluntness, probably one of the only times you had actually heard him laugh at something you said.

Max passed the full glass over to you, moving your empty one out of the way as the bartender gave him the drinks, a nod in acknowledgment before he went back to fixing drinks. "Heard you got cheated on?" He retorted, a lift at the end of his words as if he was asking you without the intention of getting an answer back.

Despite the topic of conversations being definitely untraditional, you found the humour in the situation, being helped by the almost goading nature of what he said.

In response you only smiled at him, the silence falling once again but it was no longer the thick and stuffy, awkward one as before.

Both of you were shamelessly drunk by the next couple drinks, the conversations flowing between the two of you as if you'd been friends forever, somehow not running out of things to say as he offered to walk you to your room and you'd agreed before you could even think about saying no.

You had, not that you would ever admit out loud, gotten to your door quicker than you wished to. Neither wanted to say goodbye, unadmittedly enjoying each others company and with the next couple words that left your mouth, whatever tension was between you changed, sure to be blamed on your drunken brain the next morning. "Do you want to come in?"

He looked back at you blankly, expression unreadable, as if he was going through the scenario in his head, what would happen if he said yes, if he said no, and then he slowly nodded his head.

It'd all happened so quickly, one second you were inviting Max into your hotel room and the next you had him pinned against the wall, the strap of your dress falling down your shoulder. "We shouldn't be doing this." You mumbled against his skin, and yet he made no attempt to stop the sloppy kisses you littered across his neck. "He'll find out." Even multiple drinks deeps you had some sort of rational thinking, not that you could say much from the way he pushed his knee between your legs and how it made your mind foggy.

You gasped at the unexpected feeling of his hand in your hair, pulling your head up to meet his eyes, the close proximity making it feel more intimate than you had wished. You felt his finger delicately tracing over your lips, parting them slightly when he pushed his thumb passed them. "Not if we don't tell him, he won't."

Max let his hand drift from your lips, running his fingertips over your cheek and down your jaw, and you shamelessly revelled in the way it felt having him this close. His touch commanding against your skin, already knowing you were like putty in his hands. Goosebumps rose on your skin, the lustful look in his eyes making them appear a shade darker.

There was nothing loving about the way he touched you, no ounce of romance in his actions, no softness when he squeezed the skin of your thighs motioning for you to jump.

He basked in the feeling of having you, the only girl he was ever truly forbade from seeing, and here you were with your arms wrapped around him. "You have no idea how long i've wanted to do this." His voice was hushed against your ear, the sensation of him so close, the warmth of his body radiating against yours, leaving you wanting more.

Your eyes pleaded with him, silently asking him to give you something, anything.

His teeth nipping at your skin had you throwing your head back, exposing more of your neck for his lips to explore. "You're so beautiful." He spoke between kisses, not wanting to stop himself leaving more bruises. "Verdomd mooi." fucking beautiful

Busying yourself as he moved your hands found his hair, your thighs on either side of his as you subconsciously rocked your hips against him, threading your fingers through the soft strands of his light tipped hair. "Tell me you won't regret this?" Max whispered against your ear as he placed your back against the soft mattress.

You could barely think from the way his mouth felt against your skin, never the submissive type but you swore you would've given into anything he said to you in that moment. "I'm not going to regret this." Your hand found his hair once again as his lips trailed down your stomach, dress long gone and lying on the floor.

~

More than a month had passed since the first night you had spent together, and no amount of the alcohol had done its job to make you forget it. Every night before you slept you replayed the details in your mind, from the way his touch on your body wasn't soft as if you were made of glass and the way his accent grew thicker the more turned on he got, the sounds he made against your body, everything.

You tried to steer clear of the dutchman for as long as possible, as much as you could anyway despite being in the paddock at all times with him every race week. It was as if the universe was punishing you for giving into your desire for him, for not resisting his charm.

It seemed as if he was everywhere you were, and you knew from an outside perspective that sounded silly, he was a driver of course he was going to be in the paddock but it didn't help you were the one asking him questions after most races, the good and the bad. Those were the days Max wished it was more than a one night deal, the nights after a bad race where his bed was empty, only a few doors up from your own hotel room with an equally as empty bed.

It was impossible to deny you had wanted to see him again, he'd made you feel like no one else ever and it was almost like torture seeing him around the paddock and having to push back those ever present feelings.

Wether it be him jumping in front of another driver to be interviewed or a simple look from across the paddock. Max made it known to you that he wasn't going to forget and that more importantly he wasn't going to let you forget.

You'd caught him after a particularly bad race, the thing making it worse was that he had been the one to make the mistake, it wasn't a mechanical issue or a strategy blunder, it bad been all him, he'd been the one to lose control of the car and in Max's eyes he was the only one to blame. He was the latest one to arrive at their media duties, no doubt the only reason he had even came at all was due to being dragged by his media officer.

Just by the looking of him you could see how the result of the race had affected him, and to say it was a bad result would be an insult to most other drivers, he'd finished p7, in the points which was more than the 10 other driver could've said, and yet from the look on his face you could've guessed he was dead last.

"So, Max, tell us what happened in that corner with Perez?" You danced around going easy on him or getting straight to the point, ultimately choosing the second option knowing it would make the interview get on quicker, which benefited both of you.

The dutchman shrugged slightly before speaking, a sad smile on his face as he did so. "Yeah you know how it is, we're both that type of driver where if we see a gap we're going to go for it and if one of us don't back out then we're going to have to pay the consequences and i did, so."

You nodded at his answer, a diplomatic one at that and you knew he wanted the interview to be over just as quick as you did. Although something else you knew was that no tabloid would be happy with the reasonable answer he'd gave. "And you believe that's all it was? Just a racing incident between two teammates?"

"Like i said, yeah, we're two driver who want to go for it and it happens."

"Moving on from that, recently you've been labelled a 'dirty driver', how do you feel about that? Do you think it captures your driver style or?" You'd moved passed trying to coddle his feelings, you wanted to push his buttons, bring out that fire in him you knew he had and for some reason put out over a p7 result.

Max cocked his head to the side at your question, the corners of his lips threatening to turn up when he realised your intention. "Do you think i'm a dirty driver?" You shook your head although he camera couldn't catch it and this time he let himself smile. "I think i'm a driver who knows i need to push myself to achieve my best, and some may say that's dirty but i'm here to win not to be p7."

"Right, thank you Max." You nodded your head, max returning the gesture before you finally began packing up your equipment.

The paddock was beginning to filter out, garages looking bare just as they did just mere days before, still the light of one side of the red bull garage stuck out in the clear night. It took everything in you to not turn around there, get in your car and drive back the hotel, instead forcing your legs to walk towards the light.

There was only 4 or 5 mechanics left in the garage, clearing up little bits they'd missed the first time and though they were confused at your presence they still smiled welcomingly at you. Almost as if he could read your mind one of them spoke up. "He's in his drivers room, just down the hall."

Thanking him you continued further into the garage, his, checo's and even Daniel's face splashed onto the walls. You sucked in a breath when you reached his door, knocking on it lightly before you could back out. "I'll be out in 5 minutes." He replied back, almost monotonously.

"Max, can we talk?" There was silence on the other side of the door before you heard shuffling, then the turning of a lock and soon enough you were standing inside his room. Max looked at you expectedly, waiting for you to explain what it was you were doing there. "I'm sorry for calling you a dirty driver,"

"And for bringing up your collision with checo, i knew you weren't the happiest with the result and i pushed you-" In the midst of your ramble you hadn't caught hie close he'd gotten to you, and were taken slightly off guard when you were cut off by press of his lips on yours.

He held your face in his hands, keeping you impossibly closer to him in the stuffy confinement of his drivers room. You let your body move against his, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss when you felt him nip at your bottom lips, a gasp slipping from your mouth.

You stumbled back slightly, breaking apart for a second to catch your breath before your lips were on his again. Max held your hand in his, as his body hit the back of the small couch in his room your legs straddling his lap, thighs on either side and the memories of your first night together came in flashes when you closed your eyes.

"Max..." You whispered against his lips, your breathing heavy, Max's hands travelling across your clothed skin as if it was the first time he'd done so.

"God, you never shut up." His laugh was breathy after he spoke, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before his fingers started expertly undoing the top buttons of your shirt. He undone the buttons just enough to see the bra you wore underneath it, the white lace details attempting to disguise you as innocent.

Max dropped his head bellow your collarbone, pressing kisses to the exposed skin, small whines and whimpers falling from your lips as he did so, occasionally nipping at your sensitive spots and soothing it over. By the time he was finished your neck looked like it had been attacked, blossoming purple and red marks covering your skin and the patterns dipped lower to just between your breasts.

You were practically begging him to do more, whispering pleas against his ear when he slowly rocked your body against his. "Not here, schatje, come back with me?" He phrased it like a question and you feverishly nodded your head, no plan to go back to your hotel alone in the state he'd put you in. 

His room was only a couple doors down from your own and just two by Charles, Max having to shush your giggling slightly as he told a joke in the near empty hallways. Your hands were laced together, from an outside perspective you looked like a young couple in love, coming home from a night out together, only the two of you knowing the extent of your dirty secret.

Your back hit against his hotel room wall, legs being spread by his knee between them pushing your dress further up your thigh. With his arm wrapped around your waist he held you up, pressing his lips to yours knocking the air from your lungs in the process. Max pushed down the front of your dress, exposing the white lace bra you hid underneath.

You gulped at the feeling of his hands across your body, your knees starting to buckle as he trailed down the soft lace material of your bra, taking his time as his finger met the clasp which held the two sides together. The movement was slow and calculated, purposeful in the way he bared your skin to the air, watching, and smiling, as your breath hitched in your throat.

Max took a step back, standing tall in front of you, holding himself steady as he took you all in, your pupils already blown out with lust. His fingertips danced across your waist, moving up your body to slip the straps off your shoulders. Your nipples hardened as the thin material fell to your waist, mouth parted at the vulnerability of the situation, almost naked in front of the man you once felt nothing but hate for.

He captured your mouth in his, as if he had done a thousand times before, his lips warm and supple just how you had remembered them, yet still rough against your own. His fingers brushed your jaw as his tongue slipped inside, the simple act of intimacy conveying his need, his desire for more, and you returned the gesture.

Your stomach tightening as you felt the unbelievable magic of his hands and lips on your body, working in tandem for your pleasure.

Max slipped your bra down further till you were completely rid of it, grip firm on your hips almost certain to leave a bruise, as you reached forward to unbutton his dress shirt. You rasped at the roughness of Max's fingers, in contrast to the feelings of your past boyfriends hands. He grunted at the feeling of you under his touch; the way your skin felt like satin to his senses. A shiver crept along your spine as he licked his lips.

As your fingers moved swiftly to undo the last button on Max's shirt, you stopped for a moment, mesmerised at the way the light highlighted his torso. You ran your hands over his chest, over the now familiar feeling of his abs and the way he tensed underneath your touch. He just barely whispered your name, capturing your hands in his in an attempt to gain control again.

"God, Max, i need you." You moaned against his ear, a new sense of want filling the dutchman as you did so. "Please."

And you were begging now, begging for him, for him to make you feel good and it was only natural that he gave in.

He shushed your pleas as he brought his lips to yours, slightly softer than before but still enough to show you that for tonight, he was the one going to be in charge. Although if he was going to do this, he was going to make sure he got some fun out of it too. "What do you need, schatje?"

Max tilted his head as he spoke, pulling back from you, watching how your breathing returned to normal with the new space between you. It had been less than 10 minutes and you were already sick of his teasing, the only thought in your head was him fucking you and you didn't care how desperate it sounded.

"Max," You whined, trying to press your lips to his again when he pulled his head back, only letting them just barely brush against his and nothing more. "I need you to fuck me, please."

As much as he loved the sound of your begging, he knew it would have to wait, his hand moving down the front of your stomach, slipping underneath the waistband of your already drenched lace panties. You let out a moan when he pressed down on your clit, teasing you when he dragged his fingers through your folds.

"You'll need to wait for that, gonna get you off on my fingers first." His words went straight to your core, clenching around nothing when his thumb circled your clit.

Your mouth fell open when he slipped a finger inside of you, whines and whimpers escaping from the way he stretched you out. His calloused fingers in contact with the sensitivity of your cunt had your hips bucking into his hand. "So impatient." Max was taunting you, running his fingers along your slit without allowing you the feeling of them inside you, spreading your arousal. "You're so wet, all for me, hm?"

You couldn't nod quicker, hoping flattery would get him fucking you quicker. "All for you, Max, tout pour toi." The switch in languages came from when he teased you with the tips of his fingers, never truly fully entering you.

He seemed to have taken pity on you, your thickened accent when you spoke in your native language being the catalyst as you gasped at the stretch of his fingers inside you again.

Max was slow with his movements at first, letting you adjust to the burning feeling before moving. The time between the last time he'd had his fingers in you and now seemed like a life time, your memory of that night not doing justice to the way he made you feel. Your hips moved on their own, in time with the rhythm he had set, grinding against the palm of his hand. "You look so pretty like this, riding my fingers like a good girl."

Moaning at his words, you gripped onto his shoulder. His thumb was pressed against your clit, the pressure on your neglected nerves being enough to bring you to the edge but fully tip you over, your pleasure and body fully in his control. Max picked up pretty quickly on what you wanted him to do, the dutchman somehow knowing your body better than you did after only one time together.

Lazily, he began rubbing circles on your clit with his thumb, his lips pressing against your neck as he sucked a hickey. The added stimulation had you arching your back, your chest bumping against his own. "Fuck, please i'm so close." You gasped out, a string of swear words following your confession as his relentless pace somehow fastened.

You felt your thighs beginning to shake, your cunt clenching around his fingers and with little warning your body was slumping against his, back arching off of the wall behind you. Moaning into his bare shoulder, leave an indent in the wake, his body doing the most to muffle the sound of your whines to anyone outside.

Max helped you ride out your high, the arrogant smile on his face enough to make you want to drop to your knees for him, to have him in your mouth where you were the one to control his pleasure, where you were in control. Only when he cleaned off his fingers of you in his mouth you were actually on your knees for him.

Your heels stood flat against the wall, looking up at him through your eyelashes and his breathing quickened. He was straining against the confinement of his trousers, begging to be released, to be touched by you, yet he would never voice these things to you.

His thumb stroked over your bottom lip as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. "You're so beautiful, schatje, on your knees like this."

Your own thumb ran over his leaking slit, the low groan escaping his lips making you smile at the effect you had on him in such a short amount of tome. Taking him fully into your mouth, you hollowed out your cheeks, his tip hitting against the back of your throat, hand in your hair motivating you to bob your head up and down.

You looked up to see Max's head falling back, cursing under his breath in dutch his exposed neck and parted lips making you want to skip everything and fuck him already, and you knew he wouldn't be one to argue. "Such a good girl." His words had you moaning around him, his accent appearing more intense the closer he came, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat making you gag.

Tears prickled in your eyes at the constant impact of his tip against the back of your throat as he fucked your face, his hips moving to meet your mouth, threatening to ruin the mascara you wore. When Max could feel your jaw growing tired he took over, using the hand in your hair to move your head, forming a makeshift ponytail.

The sounds he was making was enough to make you forget about the ache in your knees and the tiredness of your jaw, watching how his adams apple bobbed in his throat. Low groans, moans and dutch swear words alongside the occasional gasp of your name.

You felt him begin to twitchin your mouth, what would usually be encouragement to keep going was him pulling you off of him, both of you gasping to catch your breath. He ran his finger along your swollen lip, his pre cum and your spit coating them, pressing his thumb in your mouth as you swirled your tongue around it, just as you would if he was in your mouth. "Don't pout, liefje, wanna come inside you."

Quickly you were being pulled back to your feet, being brought in for an almost bruising kiss. His hands ran up and down your hips, squeezing the soft skin, no doubt to leave marks the next day. The impact of him pulling you up back against the wall had you moaning into his mouth.

Max linked your hand in his, moving you both towards the bed to where he sat back with his legs still spread, taking your place in between them on his thighs, the flexing of the muscle jolting you forward into his arms. You felt your core twitch as it made contact with his bare skin, although put it to the side as you only wanted to focus on kissing him.

Max’s hands sat roughly on your hips once again, digging his fingertips into your skin, matching the roughness and intensity of the kiss you were sharing.

As your lips moved against each other, you began to rock your body into his, Max’s hands following your movement, the small whimpers slipping from your mouth at just the simple contact mixing with the sounds of his groans. You could already feel your wetness beginning to dampen his thigh, his muscles flexing underneath you again. Pulling away from him, your lips went to his ear. "Max, i want you to fuck me."

He hadn’t even needed to voice a reply, already having your body turned over and your face pushed into the soft mattress of your bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it under your head for support. He stroked himself a couple times, his cock hardening in his hand before he lined it up with your entrance.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he pushed into you, the pillow doing a pitiful job to shield the moans you let out. "Look at you letting me fuck you like this," He was already back to teasing you, your moans growing louder from his lewd words, only prompting him to thrust into you harder and faster, his grip on your hips tightening, pulling you impossibly closer to him. “What would your brother say, hm? Knowing you were being fucked by his rival?”

His mention of Charles only spurred you on more, feeling every inch of him in you, every vein, as he let out moans of his own. “Max, don’t stop.” His pace never faltered, not even when your thighs shook from the pleasure you were experiencing, or when your back arched higher off of the mattress. Your nails dug into the crisp white sheets you lay on, gripping onto them as you could feel yourself nearing your orgasm once again.

Max could already feel you clenching around him, which was already making him near his own release quicker. He kept thrusting into you a gruelling speed, though his movements became more erratic as he continued, his own thighs shaking slightly.

You felt his lips trailing from the bottom of your back and to the nape of your neck, moving to place more soft kisses beneath and behind your ear. When your orgasm finally washed over you, you could barely hold yourself up. Underneath your arms gave way, moaning into the pillow you felt a collection of tears drop from your eye from the overstimulation.

Within a minute you felt Max release inside of you, the warm liquid being kept deep into you as he stilled, his body falling slightly onto yours, feeling his warm breath on the back of your neck. You both stayed like that for a couple of seconds, trying to catch your breaths and neither wanting to be the first to move.

Max followed his trail down from the back of your neck till he met the bottom of your back before pulling himself out, watching his cum drip out of you. He was quick to grab a dampened cloth from the bathroom, carefully cleaning you up.

You rolled onto your back, looking up to the ceiling of his bedroom, your breath still irregular. Max fell back on the bed just beside you, opening up his arms for you to slot into, wrapping around your waist and pulling you close to him, finally planting a kiss on the top of your forehead. His fingers fidgeted with the ends of your hair, taking a mental image of the sight in front of him, your red blushed cheeks and fucked out expression on your face, knowing he was most likely not going to see it for a long time.

There was a short, comfortable silence, which Max was the first to break. “Let me take you out on a date, a proper one, not just food delivered to one of our hotel rooms.”

From the way he looked at you, his eyes holding no malicious intent, you knew he was being serious and in less than a second your answer changed the relationship between you and him forever. “Okay, you can take me out.”

There was no other thought in your mind when you answered, not Charles, ferrari or red bull not even the media had crossed your mine, in that moment you could think about you and him.

lucky charm

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: lando finds comfort in your presence as doubt starts to creep in before a race (2k)

warnings: minimal swearing

a/n: hi i know i'm still super new here and i'm not even sure if i'm actually going to start writing rpf but i think about this motherfucker 24/7 now and this came to me in a dream <3 let's ignore the actual way he got his ring necklace okay? okay!

“No one saw you come in, right?” 

Lando let the door close behind him gently, a total opposite to the quickest few steps you’d ever seen him take across the small driver’s room, and he leaned over to kiss you, hard. 

You let out a squeak of surprise at the force of it, but had no hesitation in kissing him back as soon as your body caught up with your brain, arms looping around his neck to bring him down and closer to you.

Lando’s knees hit the cushions on either side of you, hands doing the same on the leather backrest, clumsy as all hell but twice as determined not to let his mouth leave yours. 

Your fingers knocked the McLaren cap right off his head as they moved into his hair, clutching at his chocolate curls on instinct like you’d done so many times before. But never here, never before one of Lando’s races, and certainly never at the risk of being caught by anyone in the facility at any given moment. 

It didn’t seem to matter to Lando, though, with the way he was kissing you like he was parched and you were the only thing that could quench his thirst. 

But given the rather frantic series of texts you’d received from him that got you here in the first place, you weren’t at all too surprised. You knew how nervous Lando got before races, and if there was something you could do, you’d never hesitate to be there for him. Especially since you were able to make it to this one. 

“Yeah,” He mumbled between kisses, panting against your lips. Somehow he’d managed to switch positions so he was the one on the sofa now and you were sitting on his lap, straddling his hips as you continued your rather sloppy makeout session. “Yeah, yeah, we’re good. ‘M sneaky like that.” 

“Had a lot of practice at this, have you?” 

“No!” It was almost comical how fast he pulled away from you to blurt out his answer. “No, not at all. I don’t know why I said that, I—” 

“I was just kidding, bub.” You chuckled, smoothing the pad of your thumb across his kiss-swollen bottom lip fondly. Lando grinned sheepishly, giving your waist a playful little pinch. You’d never get over the way he looked at you, like you were the only other person to exist in the world—especially when he was under you like this, and especially with those eyes. His baby cow eyes, you always called them. 

Even so, Lando was extremely tense, you could tell. He tended to get very in his head before races, probably why he asked you to come meet him so close to the green flag, to help him quell his nerves a little. He always said you helped him more than anything else ever could. 

“I have something for you.” You said softly. 

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” He leaned back against the cushion, happily accepting the chaste kiss you pressed to his lips before you bounced off his lap and over to where your bag was sitting. 

You rummaged around in it for a few moments until you found what you were looking for, a triumphant grin on your face as you made your way back over to an intrigued Lando. This time you settled next to him, throwing your legs across his lap. His hand came to rest on your knee immediately. 

“Open it.” You urged, pressing the small black bag into his waiting palm. He undid the drawstring carefully, beaming even before he got a look at what was inside. That smile only grew bigger as he poured the contents of the bag into his hand. 

A thin silver chain, joined together at the ends with two interlocking rings, sleek and silver just like the rest of the necklace. Upon closer inspection, he saw numbers etched into the inside of each one. One of them, Lando recognized instantly as the date of your anniversary. The other looked like a set of coordinates, but he wasn’t too great at geography, so he looked to you for an explanation. 

“The place we first met.” 

“You looked up the coordinates of that tiny little restaurant? Nerd.” He chuckled, artfully dodging the swat you aimed his way at his teasing remark.

“It could be, like, your new lucky charm or something.” You shrugged, watching him turn the rings around carefully between his fingers. 

Lando glanced up, bumping your shoulder with his gently. “I’ve already got one.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It’s you.” 

“Me?” 

“I like knowing you’re watching me. Even though I can’t see you, or even if you’re not here, knowing I’ve got you cheering me on from wherever you are helps. I think it makes me a better driver.” 

“Lan, you’re already a great driver.. You don’t need me for you to know that.” 

“I know. I just—it keeps me focused. To know you’re there.” He said softly, giving your hand a tight squeeze. “And now with this, I can have a piece of you with me whenever. Here, help me put it on.” 

“You can’t wear it under your suit, Lando, even I know that.”

“Alright, well, I’ll figure it out later. C’mon, put it on me.” Lando leaned forward, giving you space to bring the chain up over his head and around his neck. He even managed to sneak in another kiss whilst you followed the silver down to where the rings rested just below his collarbones. Your fingers stroked at the warm skin there, the cold of the metal contrasting.

“It looks good on you.” 

Lando melted like a popsicle on a hot summer day under your touch, smiling so big at you that you could hardly believe this was the same boy who had other drivers trembling in their fireproofs. He hoisted you back into his lap effortlessly, nosing at your pulse point a bit before smacking a kiss to your cheek when you wrapped your arm around his shoulders. “You look good on me.” 

“That was so bad. Like, really bad. I get why they call you Lando Norizz now.” 

“What?! Bad? That was so fucking smooth!” He huffed, going from looking completely smitten to entirely offended. “And I happen to have lots of rizz, thank you very much. I practically ooze rizz, love.” 

“I take it back.” You replied solemnly, patting Lando’s cheek. “That was worse.” 

“You’re so mean to me. I don’t know why I even put up with this harassment!” 

“Always so dramatic, you.” 

“I’ve got to be! How else would I be able to withstand this abuse?” 

You scoffed playfully and moved to climb off him, opting to keep a safe enough distance away so you wouldn’t be tempted to kiss him stupid. Then he’d really be late. “Don’t you have a race to prepare for, driver boy?” 

“I am,” He said earnestly, tucking his hands behind his head. You arched a skeptical brow, hands propped on your hips. 

“By hiding out in here with me?” 

“You know what they say—calm the mind, and the body will follow.” 

“I’ve literally never heard anyone say that.” 

“Well maybe people should start!” 

You huffed out an amused chuckle, crossing your arms. “Are you ready?” 

A sudden silence  blanketed the tiny room, Lando’s non response giving you all you needed to know. 

He reached out for you with a pout that you’d never been quite able to resist, fingers beckoning you back over longingly, like you were too far away for his liking. You gave in almost immediately despite previously wanting to give him space, trudging over with an overexaggerated roll of your eyes and letting yourself be pulled back onto his lap yet again. 

“I’ll be alright.” He answered finally, taking your hand in his. He fiddled with your fingers, tracing along each digit languidly and then circling his thumb over your palm—once, twice, a third time. 

This, something you’d learned quite early on in your relationship with Lando, was one of his many versions of self-soothing. The repetition of his actions proved rather calming to him, and it certainly helped that he got to feel your skin against his. 

His brows drew together in thought, furrowed and tense until you pushed your thumb into the wrinkle between them, smoothing out the scrunch. He wrapped his fingers around your wrist loosely. 

“You’re gonna do great, you know.” You insisted. 

He offered you as good of a smile as he could muster. “Yeah. I know.”  

“You’re gonna do your best, and whatever happens, you’ve got so many people who’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

“I don’t know if it’s enough.” Lando blurted, scratching at a patch on his suit. “I’ve been racing for years, and I still have no wins to show for it. It’s not fair to my team, it’s not fair to the fans. It’s not fair to you. You shouldn’t have to have a boyfriend who can’t fucking drive for shit.” 

“Lando, I’m not with you because of your job.” You said shortly, pressing your lips into a thin, unamused line. “And quite frankly, I feel hurt that you could even think I was.” 

Lando was quick to soothe, shaking his head frantically. He took both your hands in his, squeezing. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, it’s just—I get in my head a lot. And I start to overthink, and shit comes out of my mouth that I don’t mean. I know you’re not like that, I do. I’m sorry.” 

You softened, sighing. “You could never win a race, ever, and I'd still love you all the same.”

He snorted. “Well, I’d like to win one at some point.” 

“What I meant was, I can’t speak for everyone else, but my pride for you has nothing to do with how well you do on the track, my love.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I’m proud of you because you’re you. You’re kind and you work hard, and you try your best at everything you do. Even if the outcome isn’t what you expected, you keep at it. You keep going. That’s one of the reasons why I love you, that’s why I’m so proud of you.” 

“I’m stupid.” He groaned, tipping his head back against the couch cushions. You simply made a noise of agreement. “You’re too good to me. I love you.”

“I love you too. Now, you really need to go back to the garage. I’m sure Oscar’s sent out a search party for you at this point.” You said firmly, giving his chest a sharp poke. Lando groaned again but made to get up, shifting your legs off him so he could climb to his feet. 

“Fine. Just kick me out of my own room, why don’t you?” He huffed dramatically, swiping his hat off the floor and jamming it back over his hair. You aimed a fake kick towards him, stifling a giggle when he caught your foot and pretended to undo your laces. “Kiss?” 

“You need to leave, Lando,” You whined, batting him away gently. “I refuse to be the reason you’re late.” 

“One more. Just one more for good luck and I promise I’ll leave.” He insisted, expression pleading. You grumbled something unintelligible, reaching up begrudgingly to bring him down for one last kiss. 

Lando smiled against your lips, snaking a hand around the back of your neck to keep you in place a few beats longer than you intended. You practically had to unstick yourself from him, giving him a little shove towards the door so he’d actually leave. 

Immediately, he whirled around. “Wait, wait—”

“Lando! Go!” 

“No, no, hold on, it’s important.” He slipped his newfound chain over his head, rubbing his thumb over both rings before holding it out towards you. “Keep this safe for me?” He asked earnestly, pressing the necklace into your hands. “Can’t have my lucky charm getting lost already, can I?” 

“Give ‘em hell, number four.” You smiled, donning the necklace yourself. He beamed, blowing you a kiss as he backpedaled down the hall. "Number four on the track, number one in my heart!"

You could hear his infectious laughter echoing even as he retreated around the corner.

Lando would be fine. And if he wasn’t, he’d bounce back, like he always did. And you’d be there to support him every step of the way, like you always were. 

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Thawed

Kimi Räikkönen x sunshine!Reader

Summary: the many times throughout the years that only the warmth of his wife could thaw the Iceman

“He’s just so … cold,” your aunt comments, wrinkling her nose at Kimi’s back as he heads to the bar. It’s the first time you’ve brought him to a family event.

You bristle, prepared to defend your new boyfriend. “He’s not cold once you get to know him. He’s just a private person.”

Your aunt sniffs. “Still, he barely said two words all night. And that nickname — the Iceman! I don’t like it.”

You straighten your spine. “Well I do. His thoughtfulness and loyalty outweigh any lack of words.”

As you speak, you feel your doubts about mismatched personalities fade. Opposites attract for a reason.

Your aunt looks unconvinced, but you pay her no mind. You’re falling for the quiet Finn with a heart of gold. And you won’t let anyone’s disapproval chill that flame.

When Kimi returns, you lean up and kiss his cheek fondly. He looks pleasantly surprised. Let them judge. You see the real man inside.

***

“Smash it! Smash it!” The rowdy groomsman chants as you and Kimi cut into your wedding cake.

Other guests take up the chant, clamoring for Kimi to shove cake in your face per tradition. But you had quietly asked him not to — you don’t want frosting up your nose and ruining your makeup on your wedding day.

Kimi’s eyes meet yours, a silent question. You give a slight shake of your head. His expression hardens with resolve.

In one smooth motion, he whirls and smashes the slice of cake directly into the rowdy groomsman’s face. Icing splatters everywhere. The room goes silent.

“Here you go, since you seem to want the cake smashed so bad,” Kimi says coldly.

The groomsman splutters in shock. You have to hide your smile behind your hand.

Kimi winks at you as he licks icing off his fingers. “Now, where were we?”

Heart swelling, you lean in to kiss your wonderful, cake-covered husband. No one gets in the way of your wishes on your wedding day.

***

The paddock is bustling with activity as you make your way through the crowds, weaving between mechanics and engineers going about their race day routines. The smells of rubber and gasoline hang thick in the air. You smile and nod at familiar faces, receiving knowing looks in return.

Everyone here knows who you are — the bubbly, outgoing wife of the Iceman himself. The unlikely pairing has been the talk of Formula 1 ever since you started dating a few years ago. You’re warm and chatty. He’s cool and laconic. But somehow, it works.

You find Kimi in the Ferrari motorhome, sipping an energy drink, game face on. His brows are furrowed in concentration, icy grey eyes focused straight ahead. You know not to disturb him right now. This is business time.

Slipping into the seat beside him, you pull out your phone and scroll aimlessly, letting the comfortable silence stretch between you. The hustle and noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Finally, Kimi drains the last drops from his can and crushes it in his hand. He turns to you, the stern expression melting away. His eyes soften and the corners of his mouth tick upward ever so slightly.

“Morning,” he says quietly, voice gravelly.

You beam at him. “Good morning, love. Ready to go racing today?”

He nods, the hint of a smile still playing on his lips. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I did, thanks to my very comfy race driver pillow.” You wink.

Kimi snorts, the creases around his eyes deepening. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

Around you, mechanics and team members try and fail to pretend they aren’t glancing your way, still not used to seeing the Iceman so openly affectionate. But Kimi doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“I’ll see you after,” he says, standing up and giving your hand a squeeze. His face settles back into cool concentration as he strides out to prepare for the race.

You settle in to watch qualifying, heart swelling with pride and love for your Finnish fireball.

***

“Kimi, the stewards want to speak with you about the incident with Perez on lap 37.”

Kimi’s jaw clenches, eyes flashing. “Typical,” he mutters.

You touch his arm reassuringly. “Go on, I’ll wait here for you.”

He nods, striding off to the steward’s office, race suit half unzipped and hair disheveled. You know he’ll be lucky to escape without a penalty. Kimi has never been one to mince words or hide his displeasure with other drivers. You can only imagine the icy staredown happening behind those closed doors right now.

Twenty minutes later, he emerges looking ready to smash a table. You jump up and hurry over.

“Well? What did they say?”

Kimi’s scowl deepens, if that’s even possible. “Ten second penalty. Ridiculous.” He spits out something in Finnish you’re glad you don’t understand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You drove brilliantly today.”

He shakes his head and stalks down the hall towards the paddock. You scurry after him, nearly jogging to match his long angry strides.

“Forget it. Not your fault the stewards are blind.”

You slip your hand into his, lacing your fingers together. Immediately you feel some of the tension leave his body. He glances down at you, the hint of a smile breaking through the thunderclouds.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say gently. “I’ll make you your favorite dinner, open a nice bottle of wine ...”

He nods, expression softening. “Okay. Sounds good.”

You smile up at him, giving his hand a squeeze. The stormy Finn may have a heart of ice on the track, but you know better. He just needs a little sunshine sometimes.

***

You pause in the kitchen doorway, heart melting at the scene before you. Kimi sits on the living room floor, your baby niece perched happily in his lap. He bounces her gently on his knee as she squeals with delight, the hint of a smile on his usually stoic face.

“Faster Unca Kimi, faster!” She cries, unruly curls flying.

He chuckles and picks up the pace, eliciting delighted giggles from her. Your sister watches nearby, still looking a bit bemused at seeing the Iceman so good natured and playful.

Finally Kimi stops, feigning exhaustion. “Whew, that’s enough for Uncle Kimi,” he says, lifting her up and pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “You’re too fast!”

She dissolves into giggles and wraps her tiny arms around his neck in a hug. He hugs her back, looking more content than you’ve ever seen him. Your heart feels fit to burst.

“Who wants ice cream?” You announce, carrying in two bowls.

“Me, me!” Your niece starts to squirm in Kimi’s lap, reaching eagerly for her treat.

He stands, swinging her up easily onto his shoulders. “Let’s go have ice cream on the porch, give your mama a break,” he says. She kicks her little legs gleefully.

Your sister shoots you a grateful smile as Kimi carries her outside. You grin and wink. Who would believe it — the Iceman, a big softie for kids. But you know better. Under that cool exterior beats a heart of gold.

***

The crowds pressing around the circuit are suffocating today. Fans shove programs and merch at you for Kimi to sign. One overzealous teenage boy tries to wrap you in an uninvited hug.

Suddenly Kimi is there, gently but firmly detaching the boy’s hands from your arms. His face is thunderous.

“Back. Off.” The boy stumbles away wide-eyed.

Kimi keeps a protective grip on your shoulder as he marches you briskly from the paddock. Once inside the privacy of the motorhome, he cups your face in his hands.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His tone is urgent.

You shake your head, still a bit shaken. “Just got grabby. Thank you for the rescue.”

Kimi exhales, pressing his forehead to yours. “I don’t like you getting swarmed out there.”

You smile wryly. “Hazards of being Mrs. Iceman.”

He brushes his thumb over your cheek. “I just want to keep you safe. Those crowds make me nervous.”

You kiss him softly. “I’ll be okay.”

His eyes bore into yours, icy blue melting into tenderness. “Still. Stay close to me out there from now on. So I can protect what’s most precious.”

Your heart flutters under his intent gaze. You lace your fingers through his, feeling infinitely cherished.

“Always.”

***

“Kimi, your phone is ringing again,” you call from the couch.

He doesn’t respond, gaze fixed intently on the TV as he navigates a difficult turn in his racing video game. The phone buzzes angrily on the coffee table.

With a sigh, you reach for it. The caller ID says “Bane of My Existence.” You frown. That’s the third call from her this week that he’s ignored.

“Kimi ...”

“Hmm?” He pauses the game and glances at you, eyebrows raised.

You hold up the phone. “It’s your PR officer again. Don’t you think you should answer and see what she wants?”

His expression clouds over. “No. Told her not to call me anymore.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” You keep your tone light and curious.

He shrugs. “Kept trying to get me to do stuff. Go to parties and all that.”

You bite back a smile, warmth flooding your chest. Your shy homebody of a husband, sought after on the celebrity circuit but wanting none of it.

“Well, I’m glad she hasn’t lured you away yet,” you tease gently.

The corners of his mouth quirk up as he takes the phone from you and sets it aside before pulling you into his lap.

“Don’t worry,” he rumbles, nudging your nose with his. “You’re the only party I need.”

You kiss him softly, heart overflowing. The glitz and glam means nothing to your Kimi. Home is where his heart is.

***

You awake to whispered voices and the smell of something burning. Bleary-eyed, you shuffle to the kitchen doorway.

Kimi stands at the stove, hair endearingly mussed from sleep. He’s scowling down at a frying pan, clutching a spatula like a weapon. Your brother leans against the counter, trying and failing to stifle laughter.

“What’s going on?” You ask through a yawn.

Kimi’s scowl deepens. “Trying to make you breakfast. Not going well.” He prods the blackened lump in the pan disdainfully.

Your brother snorts. “He nearly set off the fire alarm. I got here just in time.”

“I told you I don’t cook,” Kimi mutters, avoiding your gaze.

You pad over and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “It’s the thought that counts. Thank you, love.”

He relaxes back into your embrace. Your brother mimes gagging behind his back. You stick out your tongue at him.

“Here, I’ll show you,” you say, gently prying the spatula from Kimi’s hand. “Just go slow ...”

Soon, the three of you are gathered around the table, eating the pancakes you made together. Kimi’s are a bit misshapen, but edible.

He looks inordinately pleased as you sample his. “Good?”

You beam at him and squeeze his hand. “The very best.”

His rare unguarded smile warms you more deeply than any breakfast ever could.

***

You awaken to the dipping of the mattress as Kimi slips under the covers. The red glow of his bedside clock reads 3:48 AM.

“Everything okay?” You murmur, rolling over to face him.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close against his chest. You feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” His voice rumbles low near your ear.

You nuzzle into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. “Worrying about the race this weekend?”

He exhales, his breath stirring your hair. “No. Just thinking.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, you lift your head to study his face in the dimness. His eyes shine in the faint light, gazing at you with an intensity that makes your own heart skip.

“What is it?” You whisper.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his callused fingers infinitely tender. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re here. That you’re mine.”

Emotion swells in your chest, words escaping you. You cup his stubbled face and guide his lips down to yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

When you finally draw apart, he pulls you close again, tucking your head under his chin. No more words are needed. You understand each other perfectly in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. Soon his breathing evens out in sleep, and you follow him down, still nestled safe in the circle of his arms.

***

You’re just drizzling the last of the chocolate over the molten lava cakes when you hear Kimi’s keys in the front door. A smile spreads across your face. Perfect timing.

He wanders in a few moments later, hair adorably rumpled, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“Mmm, something smells good,” he says, crossing the kitchen to wrap you in a hug.

You kiss his scratchy cheek. “Made your favorite for dessert. Now go get cleaned up while I finish.”

He squeezes you tighter, stubble tickling your neck as he nuzzles into it. “Can’t I have you for dessert instead?”

You swat his shoulder playfully. “Go on, you. Plenty of time for that later.”

He steals one more kiss before sauntering off, a grin playing about his lips. You shake your head, unable to stop smiling. After all these years, he still makes your heart race as if you’re teenagers again.

When he returns, you’ve set out the seared salmon, roasted vegetables, and the two perfect chocolate lava cakes. His eyes light up.

“Have I told you lately that you’re the best wife ever?” He asks, pulling out your chair.

“Hmm, I think you could stand to mention it more,” you tease.

He takes your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. His eyes pierce yours. “You’re the best wife ever,” he says solemnly.

You lean in and kiss him, happiness bubbling up inside you. However many times he says it, you’ll never get tired of hearing it.

***

“So, what’s it like being married to the grumpiest driver on the grid?” The reporter shoves a microphone in your face, invasive and smug.

You recoil, blindsided. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, he’s not exactly Mr. Personality.” The reporter leans closer. “Does the Iceman thaw out at home or just freeze you out?”

Humiliation burns through you. Before you can respond, Kimi is there, gently moving you aside. His eyes are blazing.

“Don’t you dare talk about my wife like that,” he growls at the reporter. “You know nothing about our life.”

The reporter withers under Kimi’s icy glare. You feel a rush of gratitude for your protective husband.

Kimi turns to you, face softening. “Let’s get out of here.”

Once you’re alone, he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Sorry you had to deal with that. He had no right to badger you about our marriage.”

You lean into him, safe in the circle of his arms. “It’s okay. You came to my rescue like a knight in shining racing gear.”

He snorts. “Hardly a knight. But for you, always.” He kisses you tenderly.

No matter what the media says, your life together is not theirs to define. Your love writes its own quiet story each day.

***

You awake in the dark to a loud crash from downstairs. Heart pounding, you shake Kimi’s shoulder.

“Kimi, wake up! I think someone’s broken in.”

He’s up in an instant, alert and poised to strike. You hear footsteps creeping up the stairs. Kimi pushes you behind him and grabs the baseball bat by the bed.

The footsteps reach the landing and a shadowy figure appears in the doorway. Kimi flicks on the light, bat raised menacingly. You both freeze.

It’s Sebastian Vettel, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Whoa whoa, it’s just me!”

Kimi’s shoulders slump as he lowers the bat. “Seb? What the hell are you doing here?”

Seb runs a hand through his messy hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was in town and my rental car broke down outside. I was hoping I could crash here tonight.”

Kimi sighs, shaking his head. “You couldn’t call first?”

Seb grins sheepishly. “Forgot to charge my phone.”

You step out from behind Kimi, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s fine, love. Let’s get some fresh sheets for the guest room.” You turn to Seb. “We’ll figure out your car in the morning.”

Seb’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thanks, I really owe you guys.”

As you make up the bed, you share an amused look with Kimi. Only Seb could turn up unannounced in the middle of the night and get away with it. But then again, that’s why you love him.

***

You’re waiting at the finish line, heart in your throat as the cars scream past for the final lap. Kimi is battling for a podium finish, but has fallen back after a poorly timed pit stop. He’s gaining ground fast, but is he out of time?

The crowd roars as the frontrunners cross the line. P2 … P3 … waiting for P4. Come on, Kimi.

Then you see it, the red and white Alfa Romeo flashing past the checkered flag, narrowly clinching third. You leap in the air, cheering loudly. Kimi did it!

You rush down towards the pits, arriving just as Kimi climbs from his car. His race suit is drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes are bright. When he spots you, a grin breaks across his face.

You throw your arms around him, heedless of how sweaty he is. “You were amazing! I’m so proud of you.”

He lifts you off your feet in a bear hug, laughing breathlessly in your ear. The sound sends joy bursting through your veins.

As he sets you down, you cradle his stubbled face in your hands. “I love you,” you say fiercely.

His grin softens to something more tender. He tilts his forehead against yours, heedless of the crowds milling nearby.

“Love you too,” he murmurs.

The cameras flash around you, eager to capture this rare unguarded moment. But Kimi only has eyes for you. Third place has never felt so golden.

***

“Ugh, your wife is so annoyingly positive all the time. It’s nauseating,” the other driver’s girlfriend gripes to Kimi at a race afterparty.

You freeze mid-laugh, stung by her disdainful tone. Kimi’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“I would rather have a positive wife than a miserable cow like you,” he says coldly. “Come on, let’s go.”

He takes your arm and steers you firmly away. You blink back tears, embarrassed.

“Hey,” Kimi says softly, tilting your chin up. “Don’t listen to her. I love how positive you are. Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for spreading joy.”

You give a watery chuckle. “Really? You don’t find it annoying?”

“Are you kidding? Your light balances out my darkness perfectly.” He punctuates this with a swift kiss. “You keep me from being a constant grump.”

You laugh and swat his chest. “Impossible. No one can tame the Iceman’s grumpiness.”

He smiles tenderly and pulls you close. “You do. Don’t change for anyone else.”

***

You pace the bathroom floor, heart racing. The little white stick sits innocently on the counter, but its result will change everything. One blue line for negative, two for positive.

Three minutes have never felt so long.

When the timer finally beeps, you take a deep breath and turn it over with a shaky hand. Two blue lines stare back at you.

Positive.

Emotions swell within you — joy, nervousness, excitement. You and Kimi have been trying for a baby, but it still feels so surreal now that it’s actually happening.

You hear the front door open and Kimi call out your name. It’s time. Clutching the test behind your back, you go to him.

He must read something in your face, because his brows furrow in concern. “Everything okay?”

Your face splits into a teary grin. “Everything’s perfect.” You bring the test out from behind you and hold it up wordlessly.

Kimi’s eyes widen. For once, the unflappable Finn seems utterly flapped. “You … we ...” He stares at the two little lines, then back at you. “We’re having a baby?”

You nod, vision blurring with happy tears. With a joyful shout, Kimi sweeps you up in his arms and spins you around. His excitement is boyish and uncontained.

When he sets you down, he cradles your face in both hands. “I’m going to be a father,” he whispers in awe.

You put your hand over his, overjoyed tears spilling down your cheeks. “You’re going to be the best father.”

***

You fidget impatiently on the exam table, Kimi’s hand clutched in yours. After months of waiting, today is your first ultrasound. If all looks well, you’ll get to see your baby for the very first time.

“What’s taking so long?” You huff. Kimi smiles and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Relax, they’ll be here soon.” His calm steadies you, as it always does.

Finally the technician arrives and asks you to lift up your shirt. She squeezes cool gel over your swelling belly and begins moving the ultrasound wand through it.

The screen comes to life, showing grainy black and white images you can’t decipher. The technician frowns, adjusting some dials. Your heart leaps into your throat.

Sensing your distress, Kimi gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Just be patient,” he murmurs.

After a few tense moments, the technician’s face clears. She turns the screen towards you with a smile. “There we are. There’s your baby.”

You gaze in wonder at the little shape filling the screen, tiny arms and legs visibly squirming. Your vision blurs with tears. That’s your child, your little miracle.

Beside you Kimi is utterly transfixed, eyes shining. “That’s our baby,” he whispers reverently.

He lifts your intertwined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. “Thank you,” he says, voice husky with emotion. “For this gift.”

You have no words. You simply lean into him, his solid warmth anchoring you as joy washes over you both.

***

You stare glumly at your reflection in the mirror. At eight months pregnant, you feel like a beluga whale. Your ankles are swollen, your back aches constantly, and none of your clothes fit over your enormous bump anymore.

Voices sound from downstairs as Kimi arrives home. You feel tears prick your eyes. You don’t want him to see you like this, a beached whale in sweatpants.

Sniffling, you ease onto the bed and bury your face in a pillow. Kimi finds you there a few minutes later. The mattress dips as he sits down and rubs your back.

“What’s wrong, love?”

You shake your head, embarrassed. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Gently he turns you over, brushing the hair from your damp cheeks. “Talk to me,” he says softly.

A sob escapes you. “I’m hideous like this! I’ve gotten so huge. You must be disgusted looking at me.”

Kimi’s brow furrows. He takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his earnest gaze. “Is that what you think? That I find you disgusting?”

Ashamed, you drop your eyes, fresh tears spilling over.

“Look at me,” he says gently. You do. His ice blue eyes pierce yours. “You’ve never been more beautiful to me than you are right now, carrying our child.”

He places a reverent hand on your belly. “You are giving us the most precious gift in the world. How could I not find you beautiful?”

His words pierce your heart. You cover his hand with yours. “I love you,” you whisper.

He gathers you close, dropping feather-light kisses over your face. “And I love you. Always.”

You cling to him, feeling foolish and so very loved.

***

A contraction rips through you, more intense than any before. You cry out, squeezing Kimi’s hand desperately.

“Breathe, love, breathe,” he coaches, face taut.

You gasp air into your lungs as the vice grip on your insides finally releases. Kimi dabs the sweat from your brow with a cool cloth.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs. “Our little one will be here soon.”

Even through the haze of pain, his voice anchors you. Your Kimi, always steady as a rock.

Too soon, another contraction wrings a ragged shout from you. Kimi never leaves your side, letting you nearly crush his hand as you ride out the agony.

“I can’t … I can’t do this ...” you sob.

Kimi presses his lips to your temple. “You can. You’re the strongest person I know. I’m right here with you.”

His faith buoys you, even as your body is wracked with wave after wave of excruciating spasms. Your world narrows to the circle of his arms.

Then finally, miraculously, comes the thin, piercing cry of your child. Your exhausted tears mingle with joyful laughter.

Kimi cuts the cord with shaky hands, eyes shining brighter than you’ve ever seen. When they lay the squalling, pink bundle on your chest, the universe crystallizes to this one perfect point.

Your family, whole at last.

***

You awake in the small hours before dawn, reaching across the cool sheets only to find Kimi’s side of the bed empty. Padding down the hallway on silent feet, you peer into the nursery.

Your breath catches in your throat. Kimi stands over the crib, your tiny daughter cradled against his chest. One large hand gently supports her downy head.

He’s speaking softly to her in Finnish, too low for you to understand. But the love shining through his voice brings tears to your eyes. Your tough, taciturn Finn transformed into a doting father.

As he lays her tenderly back in the crib, you hear him murmur in a whisper, “Don’t worry little one, your isä will always protect you. I promise you that.”

He tucks the blanket snugly around her and brushes a feather-light kiss over her forehead. The tenderness of it makes your heart ache.

You slip silently back to bed before he notices you, not wanting to intrude on this private moment between father and daughter. But the image stays seared in your mind.

When Kimi joins you a few minutes later, you turn and press your face into his chest so he won’t see your tears of joy. His arms come around you reflexively.

“You okay?” He rumbles.

You nod, a lump in your throat. Your family is so very blessed.

***

The paddock is bustling with activity as you push your daughter’s stroller through the chaotic maze of the paddock. She’s only six months old, wide-eyed at all the commotion.

Mechanics pause to coo over her, their grease-smudged fingers surprisingly gentle. PR people stop to fuss and take photos. Word has spread — the Iceman’s baby girl is here.

Kimi strides over, stooping to drop a kiss on your head and tickle his daughter’s tummy. His race suit is on, grey eyes intense and focused.

“Sure you don’t want me to take her while you concentrate?” You ask.

He shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirked up. “I need to see my two favorite girls before I drive.”

Your heart melts. Kimi scoops her up, and she clutches at his nose and gurgles. Nearby, you hear shutters clicking madly. The Iceman undone by a baby — it’ll be all over the press tonight.

But Kimi only has eyes for his daughter, face soft in a way it never is before a race. With a deep breath, he cuddles her close and murmurs something in Finnish before handing her back to you.

You kiss his cheek. “Go show them how it’s done, Daddy.”

He winks and strides off towards the pit lane, determination in his stride. Your daughter waves a chubby fist as he disappears from view.

No matter how many races he wins, now his best trophy waits for him at the finish line. His family.

***

“Must be lonely married to a man called the Iceman,” the reporter says slyly. “He’s not known for being warm and affectionate.”

Anger flashes through you. How dare this stranger imply your marriage is lacking.

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” you reply sharply. “Kimi is very attentive and loving in private.”

The reporter raises her eyebrows. “But his public image ...”

You cut her off. “That’s all it is — an image. Kimi deserves more respect than tired old stereotypes.”

Your voice softens as you glance to where Kimi is chatting with fans, his body angled protectively towards you.

“There is no one kinder or more loyal than my husband. He cherishes our family greatly, he just doesn’t flaunt it to the world.”

The reporter looks taken aback by your fervent defense. You almost feel sorry for her. She’ll never truly know the man behind the Iceman legend. But you do and you won’t tolerate anyone maligning him.

ur writing is soo gorg! can i request friends to lovers isack hadjar with the prompt about comparing hand sizes to hold hands? :)

pairing: isack hadjar x best friend!reader

warnings: swearing and also kinda suggestive? reader is horrendously down bad and isack is oblivious (or is he?) + reader discovers she has a hand thing

You’re staring. You’ve been staring for a while already—in fact, you’re surprised Isack hasn’t called you out on it already.

You don’t know why exactly you only noticed it now. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the first time in a while that you’re going to the gym with Isack. Ever since he started prepping for his Formula 1 season, he’s been held to a rigorous schedule his trainer has been meticulously enforcing. But today—today Isack asked you to join him since his trainer called in sick. Not as a replacement, obviously, but to have someone keeping him company while he works out.

A part of you regrets accepting his invitation. Because, had you said no, you wouldn’t be trying to workout while having Isack next to you. Isack, who has sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. Isack, who apparently grunts a lot more than you remember when he’s doing bench presses. Isack, whose hands keep drawing your eyes whenever he adjusts his grip around the weights.

This is the sixth time you’ve caught your eyes drifting down to Isack’s hands—which, in turn, makes you a shit spotter.

Isack lifts the weights back onto the rack, the sudden metallic clang snapping you back to reality. Isack sits back up on the bench, pulling out one of his earbuds as he peers up at you. “Are you okay?”

“H-Huh?” Your body feels hot. Too hot. You really hope he doesn’t catch on. “Sorry?”

“You look… distracted,” Isack notes, tilting his head slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m—I’m okay. I’m great. All good.” Things would be easier if the earth split in half and swallowed you whole.

Isack gives you a hint of that lopsided smile of his, brows a bit furrowed in confusion. “…Are you sure?”

You’ve been friends with Isack for a long time—longer than any of your other lasting friendships. It’s why you can’t exactly tell him that hearing him groaning while he weightlifts is making all sort of feelings stir in your gut—feelings you shouldn’t have for someone who’s just a friend. Or how watching the way his hands tighten around the different weights has planted a seed in your head as to where else Isack’s wrapped hands would look good—

He is still looking up at you expectantly, and your mind goes blank. “You know you could bench press me,” you hear yourself say. A spark of electricity buzzes beneath your skin. “I-I mean, ‘cause of the amount weight you’ve been lifting. Um.” Your throat closes and your palms feel sweaty. Fuck, you feel like you’re back in high school again. Sudden death doesn’t seem so terrible anymore.

But Isack’s lips simply curl up into an amused smile. “Oh?” His accent feels thicker when he asks, “Do you want me to?”

Your throat feels dry. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights. “Do I want you to what?”

“Bench press you,” Isack says, as if it’s the most normal response in the world. If you didn’t know any better, and this wasn’t Isack you were talking to, you’d almost think he was flirting with you.

You balk, and before you can find your voice to answer, a laugh bubbles out of Isack. “Seriously, you are too tense today. We can finish earlier, if you want.”

Your face feels warm. “No—no, I’m fine. Promise.”

Isack shrugs his shoulders, though you can still see a hint of a smile on his lips. “If you say so.”

This might’ve been the longest gym session you’ve ever had, even despite the fact that Isack eventually pretended to tire out sooner than usual—probably for your own benefit.

You walk out of the gym, both his and your bag slung over Isack’s shoulder. He insisted, as per usual, claiming that broad shoulders should be used for something useful.

The two of you are walking back to your apartment when Isack says: “You were looking at my hands. Earlier, I mean.”

Your stomach twists into knots. Your brain feels like it’s overheating from how quick you try to come up with an excuse that isn’t I realized I think your hands are kinda hot.

“Oh! Um, yeah, I was just thinking that…” you lick your lips, an action that draws Isack’s eyes for just a fraction of a second—not that you seem to notice. “I mean. I realized while you were doing bench presses that your hands are bigger than mine. Um. Yeah.”

Isack quirks a brow. He flexes his fingers. “Are they?”

You hum in response, hoping you manage to keep your anxious tone out of your voice.

Isack murmurs something you don’t manage to catch, before he gently reaches for your hand. He presses the heel of his palm against your own, his fingers not only longer, but significantly thicker than yours. You blink.

“Oh. You’re right,” Isack hums, turning his head as the light for the sidewalk turns green. He drops his hand as the two of you cross the street, though his fingers still remain intertwined with yours.

Neither of you comment on the fact that you stay that way for the rest of your walk home.

a/n: still a firm believer that isack is the one that would get more easily flustered BUT this was purely self indulgent cause those pictures of him playing football left me feeling unwell.

comments and reblogs are always appreciated

Hi, I was wondering if you could write something for this ask please. You’re the social media manager and with Red Bull recently promoting yuki you’re trying to make Yuki comfortable and get h to film content. So yuki is attached to your hip basically and then other members of the grid have taken a liking to you. One day will filming content on the grid max was passing and saw how close you and yuki were and got jealous. At the same time Carlos came up and was trying to ask you out. You can write something about how jealous max confronts you.

Thank you 😊

"Problem?" "Not yet"

Summary: As Red Bull’s social media manager, you’ve become Yuki’s safe space—and now everyone on the grid wants your attention, including one very possessive Max Verstappen.

Max Verstappen x pr!reader

Navigation

You weren’t expecting to become Yuki’s emotional support human, but ever since Red Bull promoted him, that’s exactly what happened.

“I don’t want to film this alone,” Yuki said for the third time that day, arms crossed like a stubborn child as the videographer set up behind the hospitality tent.

You smiled, tugging your headset down around your neck. “You won’t be. I’ll stand just off-camera, alright?”

“Too far,” he grumbled.

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his. “Then I’ll stand barely off-camera. Deal?”

Yuki looked up at you with those impossibly wide eyes. “Fine. But if I mess up, it’s your fault.”

You didn’t mind. In fact, over the last few races, Yuki had become like a little brother—always hovering near your desk, asking what kind of TikToks were trending, or stealing your snacks during media days. You chalked it up to the stress of the promotion. New team. New pressure. New expectations.

And maybe… the comfort of someone who never saw him as just a driver.

What you didn’t expect was how many of the other drivers suddenly noticed you.

You blamed the behind-the-scenes video that went viral last week—where Yuki refused to let go of your arm during an interview setup, and fans lost it over the way you patiently helped him adjust his mic.

Now your DMs were a minefield, and every other person in the paddock wanted to “film content” with you.

Including Carlos Sainz.

It was a sunny afternoon in Melbourne, just before qualifying. You were walking with Yuki through the paddock, prepping for a “Rate That Grid Fit” video. Yuki, as usual, was glued to your side, tossing sarcastic commentary your way while you adjusted your camera settings.

Then Carlos appeared.

“Hola, Y/N,” he said, flashing that annoyingly charming smile.

You blinked. “Hey, Carlos. Nice fit today—”

“Gracias,” he said smoothly, then turned to Yuki. “Mind if I steal her for a second?”

Yuki narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

You snorted. “Yuki—”

“I don’t trust the William drivers,” he mumbled.

Carlos rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to sabotage her.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Yuki muttered, arms crossed.

Carlos ignored him and looked at you again, this time more serious. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner later tonight. After quali.”

You froze.

Yuki blinked up at you. “Dinner?”

You stared at Carlos. “Are you serious?”

He smiled again. “Completely.”

Before you could answer, a third voice cut in—low, flat, and laced with irritation.

“You’re pretty popular today, huh?”

You turned, heart jumping slightly.

Max Verstappen stood a few feet away, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face.

Oh boy.

You hadn’t interacted much outside of race weekends and Red Bull content. Max was always professional, quiet, intense. But lately… something had shifted.

You’d caught him watching you a few times when you were with Yuki. Lingering glances. Sharp stares. Silent brooding from across the garage when you laughed too hard at one of Daniel’s jokes.

You raised an eyebrow. “We’re filming content, Max. Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he said coolly, though his eyes flicked to where Carlos still stood—too close for Max’s liking.

Carlos lifted a brow. “Problem?”

“Not yet,” Max said flatly.

You exhaled, annoyed. “Okay. Testosterone break over. Carlos, I’ll get back to you. Max—Yuki and I have a shoot to finish.”

But Max didn’t move.

He just stared you down with those piercing blue eyes until the others slowly drifted off—Carlos with a wink and Yuki muttering something about “drama queens.”

Now it was just you and Max behind the media pen, the noise of the paddock muffled by the tent walls.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded.

His jaw flexed. “You tell me. You’re the one letting half the grid line up to flirt with you.”

“Letting?” you echoed, stepping closer. “I’m working, Max.”

“With Yuki hanging off your shoulder like a puppy?”

“He’s adjusting to a new team. I’m helping him feel comfortable. That’s my job.”

Max scoffed. “You do that with Carlos too? Over dinner?”

You stared at him, stunned. “You’re actually jealous.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t have to.

You saw it all over his face.

The clenched fists. The tightened jaw. The way his eyes dropped to your mouth when you spoke—hungry and frustrated, like he wanted to bite the words off your tongue.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you said quietly. “Not when you’ve never once made your feelings clear.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” he growled.

Your pulse spiked. “Well, you do. Because I’m not a mind-reader, Max. And if you’re going to stand there acting like I’ve wronged you somehow, you better say what you really mean.”

He stepped forward, crowding you until your back hit the tent post.

“I don’t like seeing other drivers touching you,” he said lowly.

“Then do something about it.”

There was a long pause.

Then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

One hand cupped your jaw, the other gripping your waist as he kissed you like he’d been holding back for months. You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling into his shirt, and he groaned into the kiss like he was finally breathing again.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“I should’ve done that the first time I saw you,” he muttered.

You were breathless. “You’re lucky I don’t slap you for being an ass.”

“I’d deserve it,” he said with a smirk. “But then I’d kiss you again.”

You laughed, head spinning.

Max Verstappen. Jealous. Possessive. Hungry.

And apparently, very done with watching from a distance.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane

there’s orange juice in the kitchen | f1 grid

summary : you ask the drivers to peel an orange for you (or the orange peel theroy)

disclaimers : second pov (you/your), gn!reader, use of pet names

included : alex albon, charles leclerc, isack hadjar, kimi antonelli, liam lawson, oliver bearman, oscar piastri, yuki tsunoda

a/n : first full-grid blurb, lmk what you think and if you’d like to see more! pt. 2 will contain f2, reserve, and indycar drivers. I can also add drivers so if you want to see someone not listed lmk! <3

alex albon

“Hey Alex,” you shouted from your shared kitchen, whilst setting your phone up against the far counter. You made sure it was recording, then grabbed an orange and waited. A few moments later your boyfriend came into the kitchen, eyes glued to his phone.

“Yeah?” he asked, shutting his phone off and setting it on the counter as he shifted his attention to you. A smirk spread across his lips once he saw the round fruit in your hand, and before you could even ask he was saying, “let me guess, you want me to peel the orange for you?”

You paused, eyes squinted as you slowly nodded your head, holding the orange out. He took it and began to peel it, glancing up at you every few seconds and quietly chuckling. “You’ve seen this trend haven’t you?” you asked after a moment, a playful sigh leaving your lips as he nodded.

“You’re so chronically online it’s scary.”

charles leclerc

You had seen a trend circling around tiktok of people asking their partners to peel an orange for them; the orange peel theory. After seeing a few of your close friends posting their own videos, most of which were ridiculously funny, you decided to also hop on the bandwagon.

You discretely set your phone up in yours and Charles shared living space, then quickly grabbed an orange from the kitchen. When you re-entered the living area, you saw Charles sitting on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. You sat down next to him and held the orange out to him.

“Could you peel this for me?” you asked, a smile threatening to break out. He set his phone down and reached for the orange, a pleasant smile on his lips.

“Of course, cherie,” he said as he began to pull the peel back. You sat there, a little taken back, as he peeled away in silence. You had expected some playful bickering, maybe confusion, as you’d seen in so many other videos, but you got none of that. Instead, Charles happily peeled the orange for you, even taking the time to pull off the little white strings. After he was finished he handed the now peeled orange back to you, a triumphant look on his face.

“Thanks,” you said, squinting your eyes skeptically. “Have you seen the trend?” you asked as you popped one of the slices in your mouth. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he shook his head. You then proceeded to explain the trend to him, showing him a few videos of your shared friends doing the trend as well.

“So did I pass?” he asked after a moment, to which you laughed at.

“Yes, you passed.”

isack hadjar

The orange peel theory had been going viral on social media, and the VCARB marketing team wanted to hop on the trend. So, while at preseason testing, they sent you and an orange Isacks way, filming the interaction from a distance.

Isack was sat outside the teams hospitality with a few of his engineers, going over data from his morning session. You felt a little bad interrupting them, but at least you could blame the marketing team. Isack offered you a sweet smile once he saw you approaching, pulling the chair out next to him, for you to take a seat.

Before you could ask, or even try to hand him the small orange, he had plucked it from your hands and began to peel it. You sat there, stunned, as he continued talking with his engineers, mindlessly peeling away. A few of his engineers gave him confused looks, looking between the two of you, but Isack paid them no mind.

He had the orange peeled in no time, then turned back to you with the sweetest look on his face as he handed it back. You chuckled as you took the orange, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Safe to say the clip went viral.

kimi antonelli

Your boyfriend was known to be a bit oblivious at times, so when you found the orange peel trend, you thought it would be funny to try it on Kimi. You set your phone up, then grabbed an orange from your kitchen and called for him.

“Kimi,” you said with a smile as he rounded the corner, “can you peel this for me?” you asked, holding out the orange. He furrowed his eyebrows, looking from you to the orange, and then back.

“What?” he asked, clearly confused. “Why can’t you peel it?” he asked, making no attempt at grabbing the fruit from your hand.

You chuckled, still holding out the orange. “Kimi it’s just an orange, can you please peel it?” you continued, watching his face become even more confused.

“Why? Have you done something to it?” He then asked, taking a step back as he inspected the orange. You began laughing much louder than before, watching as he began to look around your kitchen. He then spotted your phone set up against a vase. “Hey, why are you recording? What's wrong with the orange?”

At this point you were lost in a fit of laughter, Kimi laughing along with you nervously, still not fully convinced there wasn’t something wrong with the orange. You took a moment to compose yourself, explaining the trend to him, which he still didn’t fully understand, so you had to explain it yet again.

“Oh,” he said after you had finished explaining it for the second time. He paused, looking at you in silence, before his face suddenly light up in understanding. “Oh,” he said again, now seemingly understanding the trend.

“Wait, so can I still peel it?”

liam lawson

Redbull was known for their interesting social media videos, and you asking Liam to peel you an orange was just another idea put forth by the media team. You made your way to Liam, orange in hand, with the social media manager following behind you, recording.

“Hey babe,” you said as you approached him, handing him the orange, “can you peel this for me?”

He looked between you, the orange, and the camera off to the side. “You want me to peel this for you?” he asked to clarify. You nodded your head, trying to keep a straight face as his eyebrows furrowed. “Why?” he asked with a confused laugh.

“Because I asked you to?” you retorted, catching the disapproving look he gave you.

“It’s just an orange, you can peel an orange,” Liam said, trying to hand the orange back, but you simply pushed his hand back.

“Exactly, it’s just an orange,” you said with a smile, “so peel it.” He gave you a suspicious look, but began to peel the orange with an exaggerated sigh. Every few seconds he would give both you and the media manager a side eye, waiting for either of you to tell him they got the video and that was enough. But neither of you ever did, you just waited for an entire minute as he struggled to peel the orange.

He finally got the last bit of peel off, and began pulling the slices apart. He looked up to you, a triumphant smile on his lips, before popping a slice of the orange in his mouth, and then another.

Your jaw dropped, a laugh of disbelief leaving your throat. “Liam Lawson, that orange was for me,” you scolded, but the smile on your face gave away any real anger. Liam smirked, shaking his head as he put another slice in his mouth.

“Then you should have peeled it.”

oliver bearman

You finished setting up your phone in the kitchen, hiding it behind a small vase of flowers Ollie had gotten you the other day. You then grabbed an orange from the bowl on the counter, and called Ollie into the room.

“Hey Ollie, can you peel this for me?” you asked, handing him the orange.

“Yeah,” Ollie responded, taking the orange from your hand to begin peeling it. At first you thought it was going to be a cute video of Ollie peeling the orange for you, no questions asked, but you were wrong. You watched as he struggled for about thirty seconds to even start the peel, and then every time he went to pull back the peel it just broke off.

He pulled the orange closer to his face, trying to work out how to efficiently peel it. You thought for sure by the huffs of frustration he would have given up, but you guys were nearly three minutes into what should have been a minute long video at most, and the orange was still only half peeled.

“Your adorable, but let me do it,” you said after a moment, grabbing the fruit from his hands and effortlessly peeling the rest of it.

“Hey, I almost had it,” he said with a slightly embarrassed laugh, causing you to laugh as well.

“Yeah, I should have been able to eat it by tomorrow.”

oscar piastri

It was the second day of testing, and Lando had sent you a tiktok of someone asking their partner to peel an orange for them, begging you to ask Oscar and let him record it. So, as the lunch break came around, you located an orange and made your way to the McLaren hospitality.

Lando caught your eyes before Oscar had, and you held up the orange slightly to show him. An excited smile spread across his face as he whipped out his phone, trying to record his teammate sat across from him without being too obvious.

“Mind if I join you?” You asked as you approached, placing a hand on Oscars shoulder as you moved behind him to take a seat besides him.

“Never,” Oscar said with a small smile, watching as you sat down. You sat there for a moment, fidgeting with the orange before turning to Oscar again.

“Could you peel this for me?” You asked, and not a second later Oscar had taken the orange from your hands and began to silently peeled. You and Lando looked between each other, sharing a confused look. You were both positive Oscar would have said no, not wanting to get his hands sticky with orange juice before having to get in the car.

“I’ve seen the trend,” Oscar said after a moment, taking his time to peel the skin back, then also pull off all the little strings. “But I would peel an orange for you even if I hadn’t,” he added, pausing a moment to meet your eyes.

“Oh, and you’re not as discrete as you think you are Lando,” he added, shaking his head at his teammate who was rather obviously filming the interaction. “I know you’re recording.”

yuki tsunoda

A trend circling tiktok had been popping up on your page for the past few days, and you decided it would be a funny video to try with your boyfriend, Yuki. So, you grabbed an orange and set up your phone in the living area, waiting for him to come and join you.

Shortly he made his way into the room, sitting down next to you. You didn’t give him a chance to even say hello before you were shoving the orange in his hands, a playful smile on your face.

“Peel this for me?” You asked, watching as he took the orange, but gave you a skeptical look.

“What? You can’t peel it yourself?” He asked, but began peeling the orange anyways. “Are you that incapable? It’s just an orange,” he continued, an amused smile on his face as he peeled away.

You lightly shoved his shoulder, jaw dropped in mock disbelief at the insults. “Yuki, I just asked you to peel an orange,” you said with a playful laugh.

“I mean, I knew you were dependent on me,” he continued on, a smirk plastered across his lips, “but this is a whole new level.” He finished peeling the orange, stealing a slice for himself, before handing it back to you.

“I’m never asking you to do something for me again,” you said with a laugh.

masterlist | requests are open | pt. 2 incoming

look me in the eye | pt.2

pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader

summary: the rb21 is unfixable but that's definitely not the only reason max verstappen wants you around.

a/n: "who cares what they think" bf and overthinker gf are my roman empire

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Max doesn't give you much of a choice.

One minute, you're wrapping up post-race debriefs with your teammates, pretending that you're not reeling from his reaction to your possible departure. They're very polite and do not pry into the conversation they all obviously heard. The next, he's standing by the garage exit, jacket in hand, waiting.

"Dinner," he says. It’s not a request.

You hesitate, glancing around. "I mean, I don't think-"

"I need to talk to you." His words are softer but still determined. "Properly. Not in the garage. Not with twenty people listening."

Your stomach twists. You should say no. You should.

Instead, you find yourself sitting across from him in a dimly lit restaurant, the scent of freshly baked bread and seared steak filling the air. It's nothing fancy. Fancy means attention. It's quiet, tucked away, the kind of place he probably picked because he assumed no one would bother him here.

But Max Verstappen is not someone who goes unnoticed.

Right now he's focused, barely glancing at the menu. It feels more like a business arrangement than a catch-up. That's how it's meant to be. Max is, in the hierarchy pyramid, somewhere a few diagonal triangles above you.

"Tell me what you need," he says as his fingers tap restlessly against the table. "More support? More control over the car setup? I'll talk to Christian."

You sigh, setting your menu down. "Max, it's not just about that. It's-"

A hushed voice at a nearby table. A phone camera clicks and, judging by the kerfuffle that follows, the person who pressed the button didn't expect it to be so loud.

Your stomach drops. Max's gaze flickers over your shoulder, jaw tightening as realization dawns.

"Shit," he mutters.

You don't turn around. You don't need to. The whispers are getting louder, the occasional giggle or gasp confirming what you already know-someone recognized him. And worse? They recognized you.

Your chest tightens. This is exactly what you didn't want. Attention. Speculation. The internet dissecting every detail of why Red Bull's star driver is having dinner with one of the team's engineers. Especially after that interview. Two things that should not be happening in quick succession.

Max leans forward and his voice is low. "Hey."

You shake your head, gripping your napkin like it's a lifeline. "I need to go."

"If you leave now, it’ll be worse."

You know he's right. Storming out will just make it look more suspicious. But that doesn’t stop the anxiety creeping up your spine.

Max studies you for a moment before making a decision. He leans back, body language shifting, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips. Then, loud enough for the nearby table to hear-

"You're overthinking. Just enjoy your food."

It's so casual, so normal, that for a split second, it throws you off. And judging by the way the whispers fade just a little, it throws everyone else off too.

Max is playing it cool. Acting like this is nothing, just a casual dinner, nothing worth speculating over.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to match his energy. You pick up your menu again, even though you're too tense to focus on the words. "Fine," you sigh. "But if this ends up all over Twitter, I'm blaming you."

His grin deepens. "I'll take full responsibility."

Under the table, where no one can see, his fingers graze against yours. It's only for a second. It's probably an accident, you tell yourself.

You look into his eyes and you know it means so much more than just that.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You wake up to chaos.

Your phone won't stop buzzing. The messages, missed calls, and notifications stacking up faster than you can process. At first, you think it's just another race week frenzy. Then you open Twitter.

Max Verstappen on a dinner date with Red Bull engineer. Garage romance?

Attached is the photo. A little grainy, taken from the next table over, but unmistakably you and Max. He's leaning in, smirking, looking far too comfortable across from you. You're gripping your menu like you were ready to bolt.

There are too comments to keep track of.

user1 she's been in the garage w him all season user2 Bro is dating his own engineer to fix the car 💀💀💀 user3 i fear they look GOOD together user4 is she the one he slipped up about in the interview??

You barely register the rest before Christian Horner is calling you. You pick up immediately instead of letting him go to voicemail. This is bad.

"Do you know what's happening online?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "I just saw it."

He breathes loudly-you can hear it over the phone. "Look, we don't comment on personal lives, but if anyone asks, we stick to the story. It was a casual team dinner, nothing more. Max's team is probably already handling it."

Max.

As if on cue, another message flashes across your screen.

Unknown It's Max

Unknown Don't look at twitter

Too late.

By the time you get to the paddock, the damage is done. Journalists are already circling, cameras flashing whenever you so much as breathe near Max's side of the garage. You stick next to Liam's car. You don't know what you're doing there, but he kind of does and pretends to talk with you about something he doesn't understand either. Good lad.

You keep your head down, pretending not to notice the murmurs. When you step into the engineering office, Max is already waiting.

He's scrolling through his phone. You can't see anything behind those startling blue-green eyes of his. You still can't when he looks up. "They're making a big deal out of nothing."

You exhale. "I'm trending on Twitter."

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "And?"

You blink. "And? Do you know what people are saying? That I'm-” You lower your voice. “That I'm sleeping with you for my job. That you’re-”

"Using you to fix the car?" His lips press together. Now his eyes darken, the sky before the storm. "Bullshit. Do they not know how engineers work? They fix the car anyway."

You shake your head. "It doesn't matter if it's bullshit. It's out there."

Max crosses his arms. "So?"

"So?" you echo, incredulous. "I don't want this. I don't want my name attached to you like I'm some stupid tabloid headline!"

He seems to read you. "Do you think I wanted it either? I just wanted dinner. I wanted to talk to you, convince you not to leave. Not...this."

Your anger deflates. You can't be mad at him. People are people.

Max pushes off the desk and steps closer. "Tell you what. If you want, I'll shut it down. Tell them all it's nothing, that it was just a stupid meal. That you mean nothing to me."

The words sting even though you know he doesn’t mean them.

You swallow hard. "Would you?"

His jaw tightens. "If that’s what you want."

You should say yes. You should. But he's the one waiting for you to make a choice-the choice-and you're frozen.

"I don't know," you whisper.

Is that relief you see on his face?

"Then we don't say anything."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The orange army has risen, and it's not McLaren's. The checkered flag waves, and above the screaming engines and the crackling of team radios, one thing is clear: Max Verstappen has won again.

Against the odds, against the struggles, against a car that has fought him all season, he has done what Max Verstappen does best.

He has won.

The Red Bull garage erupts. Engineers shout, mechanics throw their arms around each other, and the pit wall slams their hands down in victory. You barely register the chaos because your eyes are glued to the screens, watching as Max slows down on his cool-down lap, his voice breaking through the radio.

"YES, LET'S GO!" His laugh is breathless. "That was so, so good. Thank you, guys. Thank you."

You exhale. He did it. You don't even recognize the warm feeling going through you because suddenly, he's there.

Before you can even process it, Max is sprinting toward the garage, helmet ripped off, his fireproofs half-unzipped and clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. There's no hesitation, no second-guessing-shouldn't he be out there?-as he skids next to you.

Your heart lurches.

You don't even have time to move before he reaches you, before his hands find your waist and he pulls you in.

"Max-" Your protest dies in your throat because holy shit he's so close. His breath is warm against your skin, adrenaline pouring off him in waves.

"You," he pants, eyes wild and utterly alive. "You made that happen."

You shake your head, flustered beyond belief. "Max, you-"

But he cuts you off, hands tightening like he's afraid you'll slip away. "No. You fought for this car. You never stopped." He swallows, chest rising and falling. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

You feel every nerve in your body short-circuiting.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just static.

Max searches your face. He looks at you as he does his father, after a race is over. Like this win doesn't mean as much if you aren't part of it. There is one person in the world he cares about making happy...might there be a second?

You’re completely, utterly speechless.

"Lost for words?" he teases.

You shove at his chest, but your laughter betrays you. "Shut up, Verstappen."

You untangle yourself from his grasp and motion for him to greet some other of the team members. The media must be having a field day. And after the entire PR talk, too.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The celebrations are still in full swing when Max is pulled into an interview. The champagne drips from his hair as a permanent grin is stretched across his face. He's still breathless, still buzzing, still high off the win.

The reporter from Sky Sports barely has to ask the first question before Max is already talking.

"Max, that was an incredible drive. How does it feel to take this victory after the struggles you’ve had with the car?"

Max laughs easily. "Yeah, it wasn't easy. The car still isn't perfect, but today, it worked. And that's not just me, that's the team, that's the people who keep pushing-"

His words cut off for a second, his mind catching up to his own excitement. His tongue is loose, his filter nonexistent.

And then-

"-that's her."

The interviewer blinks. "Who?"

Max doesn't hesitate. "My engineer."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Your stomach drops as you watch from the back of the garage, eyes wide as the cameras zoom in on him. He's still grinning, still glowing, and either he doesn't realize what he just said or he does not care.

"She-" he stops himself, shaking his head like he can't find the right words. "She works harder than anyone. Every problem with this car, she's been on it. I mean, I was nowhere at the start of the season, and now, we're here. If anyone deserves credit, it's her."

The reporter raises an eyebrow. "That's very high praise. Would you say she's been a crucial part of your season?"

Max tips his head back in his laughter, and it's so obvious now, the way he's still running on instinct, how he's still in the moment.

"She's been-" He stops, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. And then, softer-too soft for someone who's just talking about an engineer-he finishes:

"She's everything."

The interviewer's eyes widen slightly, and there’s a second-just a second-where you see the exact moment he realizes what he just let slip. Max's lips press together, like maybe if he stops talking now, the words will somehow erase themselves. But the damage is already done.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

Max turns his head like he can see you in the garage. He's searching, looking for you.

You panic. You run.

But the world has already heard him. You're not just another engineer.

You're Max Verstappen's everything.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The second you step back into the Red Bull garage, cheeks flushed from your bathroom pacing and breakdown, you know you're screwed.

The looks. The whispers. The way people pretend not to be staring but are absolutely staring. Because, of course, everyone saw the interview.

The moment Max Verstappen, three-time world champion, winner of the race, decided to open his mouth and say-

"She's everything."

You could kill him.

Scratch that. You will kill him.

Your heart is still hammering from the moment you heard it, from the way he looked for you afterward, like he wasn't even the slightest bit embarrassed about saying something that made it sound like-like-you don't even know what it sounded like, but it was definitely not normal driver-engineer talk.

And now, here you are, trying to avoid eye contact with every single person in the garage while searching for the idiot responsible.

It doesn't take long.

Max, being Max, doesn't bother hiding. He's standing by the monitors, still in his fireproofs, arms crossed over his chest, looking completely unbothered. He should be celebrating. Why is he not out celebrating?

He's still waiting for you.

The moment he sees you, his expression shifts. Something smug, something amused, something that makes you want to strangle him.

You grab his arm and yank him into the nearest private space you can find.

"Max," you hiss, barely able to contain yourself. "What the hell was that?"

His brows furrow. "What?"

"What?" you repeat. "You-on live television-you called me everything."

Max blinks, looking so utterly relaxed that you want to shake him. "Yeah."

You stare at him, waiting for him to realize the problem, to acknowledge that he just threw you to the media wolves with zero warning.

Nothing. Just calm, slightly confused Max Verstappen.

"You do realize what that sounded like, right?" You press, feeling your face heat up. "Everyone's losing their minds. Twitter is exploding. Horner gave me a look. Do you know how scary it is when Christian Horner gives you a look?"

Max’s lips twitch. He's fighting a smirk and he's not winning. "I mean… was I wrong?"

"What?"

He tilts his head, like he's considering his words. "You are everything. To this team. To the car. To-" He stops himself, but it’s already too late.

He knows exactly what he said.

"Max-"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

You can't, because he isn't. Maybe you've known it all along. Maybe this is why you can't leave the stupid team, even though it's causing hair loss and severe lack of sleep.

So you don't. Instead, you grab him by the collar and pull him down. Max lets out the softest, most relieved exhale before he crashes into you.

It's not a soft kiss. It's not careful, or hesitant, or anything close to restrained. It's desperate. It's months of tension snapping all at once.

You make a soft noise-half surprise, half something else entirely-and that's all it takes.

Max groans, deep and low, like he's wanted this for as long as you have, and suddenly it's worse, because now he's tilting his head, deepening the kiss, pressing you back until you hit the nearest surface.

You don't even know where you are anymore. A storage closet? A backroom? It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is him. The way he tastes like champagne and adrenaline, the way he kisses like he races. All-consuming and with only one thing on his mind.

You should stop. You know you should stop. The entire garage is just outside. Someone will notice. Someone will hear.

You thread your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly, and Max shudders.

"Fuck," he mutters against your lips, utterly wrecked. His eyelids flutter, long lashes too. Max runs a finger down to your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You're overthinking again."

He's completely right. But you don't stop then. You relax and just let Max Verstappen take over every single thought in your mind.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: i just need a man who's bad at emotions but also so good at them

Notifications and Nervous Glances (L.N)

Lando Norris can't help but smile when fans tease him for continuously checking his phone for a certain someone to message.

The midday sun hung lazily over Monaco, casting golden stripes of light through the open balcony doors of Lando’s apartment. The sea beyond glittered like a jewel, but Lando was inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffed in every direction from running his hands through it too many times. He was mid-Twitch stream, headset on, fingers flying over his controller.

“Alright, alright, I swear this is the last race,” he laughed, eyes flicking toward the live chat as messages scrolled faster than he could read. “If I win this, you all have to stop saying I'm washed, deal?”

“Yeah right, mate!” came Max Fewtrell’s voice through the headset. “If anything, you’re gonna rage quit before we even hit the third lap.”

Lando grinned. “Not this time.”

But just as the race loaded, a soft chime rang out—his phone, buzzing on the desk to his right. His hand twitched toward it instinctively before pulling back.

He kept his eyes on the screen. Focus. Except now he wasn’t focused at all.

The chat noticed.

"👀 not you checking your phone AGAIN" "who you waiting for, loverboy?" "she texted yet???" "just CALL HER YOU COWARD" "lando’s in his 'will she text me' era"

He blinked, trying not to smile. Tried and failed.

“You guys are so annoying,” he muttered, adjusting his mic. “Can’t a guy check the time?”

“Time?” Max said dryly. “Mate, your phone’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree and you haven’t stopped sneaking glances since we started.”

Lando flushed. “It’s not—okay, shut up.”

The chat went wild again.

"GUILTY!" "he's so whipped and it's not even official" "bet it’s that girl from the paddock 👀"

And okay, maybe they weren’t wrong.

You’d met during the chaos of the last race weekend—some mutual friends, a few too many drinks, and the kind of conversation that left him grinning long after it ended. You weren’t a celebrity. Weren’t chasing fame. Just... smart, grounded, and funny in a way that disarmed him.

You’d left the next day for a work trip, but you’d been texting every day since. Nothing flirty, not exactly. But something was there. At least, he hoped so.

The last message had come a few hours ago—“Landing soon. Might be off the grid for a bit, but I’ll message you when I can! :)”—and he’d been low-key checking his phone ever since.

Just in case.

As the race ended (he came second, to Max’s eternal smugness), Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending not to care as he casually picked up his phone.

Nothing.

He dropped it again, face slightly warm.

“You know,” Max said, his tone teasing but not unkind, “you could just text her first. Say hi. Ask if she landed okay. You’re allowed to show interest, mate. It's not a crime.”

“I know,” Lando mumbled.

But still, he didn’t.

The chat rallied again, this time with emojis and messages of encouragement and chaos in equal measure.

"we believe in you 🫶" "text her or we riot" "lando, you’re literally a Formula 1 driver and you're scared to double text???"

“Alright, that’s it,” Lando said, throwing his hands up. “This stream is bullying now.”

He was laughing though, eyes crinkled in that way his fans loved, cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll text her,” he added under his breath, like it was a secret he couldn’t help but share.

And he did. Right there, in front of thousands of people.

“Hey, just checking in—hope your flight went okay :)”

He hit send, then instantly tossed his phone onto the sofa like it had burned him.

“I’m done for today,” he declared, stretching with a groan. “That’s enough emotional damage.”

“Emotional damage?” Max repeated. “You texted a girl ‘hi.’ Are you twelve?”

“I hate you.”

The stream ended not long after, fans flooding Twitter and Tumblr with screencaps and memes: Lando’s face mid-phone-check, the exact moment he blushed, the chat going absolutely feral.

But Lando barely noticed.

Because twenty minutes later, while he was lazily scrolling through delivery apps and wondering if gelato for dinner was socially acceptable, his phone buzzed again.

“Just saw your message—landed safely :) stuck in traffic now but excited to finally be home. Also, I missed talking to you. ❤️”

Lando stared at the screen, lips parting in a slow, dumb smile.

Then, with a quiet laugh, he typed back:

“Welcome home. Wanna come over later?”

And this time, he didn’t throw the phone away. He held onto it, just in case the reply came quickly.

It did.