The Junior Drivers Who Weren’t

you got a sports car

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. lando norris x reader ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

You aren't his girlfriend. He isn't your boyfriend. But when he texts you late at night and drives to the bar you’re at... you always say yes.

warnings: sexual content, but no explicit sex. you are incharge of your own media consumption.

Monaco is drunk tonight.

The kind of drunk that makes the lights blurrier, and your body float a little above itself. A rooftop party has spilled past its golden hour glamour into something sweatier—DJs recycling the same three beats, girls swapping heels for bare feet, and champagne that’s long gone warm.

You’re half-listening to a conversation you have no intention of remembering when your phone buzzes in your bag.

2:04AM. Lando: you still up?

Your stomach flips—that dangerous, giddy little somersault that always follows him. You already know how this night will end. 

You text him the name of the bar and don't say anymore. You don’t have to. You know he is already on his way.

You wait, finish your drink, smile politely at some hedge fund boy with too much cologne. Then you slip out the back of the bar and into the velvet, musky air.

He’s already waiting at the curb, slouched behind the wheel of his McLaren with one hand resting on the wheel and the other out the window, engine purring and headlights slicing through the coastal fog. He doesn’t get out of the car. Just leans across the console and pops the door open for you, head tilted like he’s amused you made him wait.

He watches you walk over—slowly—like it’s his favorite movie.

The passenger door clicks shut behind you with a solid, expensive thud.

You’re half-tipsy, glitter-stained, and just smug enough to act like you didn’t get ready to leave the party the second your phone lit up.

But Lando sees right through it.

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just let the silence stretch—warm, intimate, hot—until it starts to burn.

His gaze drags over your thighs first, then up. Slowly. Reverently. Analyzing every inch of you.

“Fucking hell.”

Your lips twitch. “What?”

“You know what.”

You shrug, adjusting your dress—it had ridden up dangerously high as you walked from the bar to his car.

“It’s wasn't for you.”

He laughs, low and under his breath. “Sure.”

“I didn’t even know you’d be texting tonight.”

“Yeah, well.” He licks his bottom lip, eyes on your legs. “I didn’t know I’d be looking at that tonight either.”

You smile, wicked and slow. “Don’t look if you can’t handle it.”

His hand reaches over. Barely touches your knee. His fingers skim up, stop just short of the place you know he’s thinking about. His hands settles to rest—warm and strong—on the top of your thigh.

“Babe,” he says softly, “I’ve handled you in every way that matters.”

You turn your head to him and the heat in your stare is almost enough to fog up the windshield.

“Cocky.”

“No,” he says, voice rough, “just remembering what you sound like when I’ve got your legs shaking and your voice all breathy in my ear.”

Your breath catches. He grins.

You lean in a little, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist. Delicate. Teasing. Your hand rests on the inside of his knee in return—soft, barely there, but just enough.

He stills under your touch. Just slightly. Just enough for you to feel the power shift and click into place. You pull at his knee slightly to part his legs a little more.

“You were saying?” you murmur, voice soft and silk-sweet.

He looks down at your fingers, then back up. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek like he’s thinking something filthy, and probably is.

“You’re dangerous,” he says.

You smile, slow and knowing. “You’re the one who drove here. Texted me.”

“Didn’t expect you to climb in acting like you owned the seat.”

You lean in, just a little closer—close enough that your perfume hits him, subtle and expensive and you. Close enough to ghost your lips near his jaw without touching.

“I don’t need to own the seat,” you say. “I own your attention. Same thing. Besides, I’d rather share your seat.”

Lando huffs a low laugh, but it’s strained. Like you’re pushing him right to the edge. And you are.

His hand is still hot on your thigh, barely teasing beneath the hem of your dress. Not possessive. Just curious. Testing you.

You just slide your fingers a little higher on the inside of his knee, press in gently. Then drag them back down, real slow.

“You really trying to start something?” he asks, voice hoarse now, not quite as cocky. His eyes dart around outside the car window, watching the few people who walk past the car on their way out of the bar. “Here?”

You tilt your head. “You’re fun to tease. Maybe I’m just bored.”

His jaw tenses. His hand squeezes your thigh, harder this time.

“You know I hate it when you act like this means nothing.”

You blink. The honesty cuts through the heat, sharp and unguarded.

But you recover fast.

“Then don’t let me act,” you whisper. “Do something about it.”

His hand shoots up, grabs the back of your neck—not rough, but firm—tilts your face toward him until your eyes lock.

“Say the word,” he says, voice low, tight. “And we’re not going back to mine. We’re not making it out of this car.”

Your lips part. 

“You’ve got this sports car for a reason, don’t you?”

But your hand slides further up his thigh, over denim, slow and deliberate—not quite touching where he wants you most, but just enough to make his breath hitch.

That’s what he wants. That’s all he needs. He groans, head falling back against the headrest for a second like he’s grounding himself. He tries to shuffle further forward in his seat to move your hand closer. But your grip stays strong and unmoving on the upper inside portion of his jeans.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

“You love it.”

He chuckles—but it’s dark, breathy. “Yeah. I fucking do.”

You lean in closer, lips brushing his jaw now, whispering into the heat of his skin:

“Then shut up and drive, Norris.”

Hand slamming the car into gear, engine roaring beneath you, one hand on the wheel, the other already back on your thigh—the road is his.

But right now?

You are, too.

The tires bite into the pavement as he pulls back onto the road—fast, urgent, like he needs the motion to ground him. Monaco blurs around you. His hand is inching higher on your thigh with each curve he takes.

One hand on the wheel. One hand on you.

“You’re always trying to boss me around,” he mutters, not looking at you, his thumb grazing the soft skin just below your dress.

He laughs—a low, gravel-drag of a sound. “I think you like driving me insane.”

“I think you like being driven there.”

Your voice is sugar. Your fingers trail along the hem of his shirt, teasing over the line where skin meets waistband. His abs twitch under your touch. You feel it. You file it away.

“I can’t focus with your hand there,” he says, tone tight, the lines of his jaw hard in the passing streetlight.

You lean in, lips at his ear. “Then pull over.”

He exhales sharp—nearly misses the turn.

“I’m not pulling over,” he says. “Not yet.”

You smile against his skin, press a kiss to his neck. “Then I guess you’ll have to focus harder.”

He groans, low in his throat, like it’s physically painful.

You shift slightly in your seat, legs turning toward him, your knee brushing the gearshift. His fingers dig into your thigh in warning—or maybe surrender. 

Every breath in the car feels heavier now.

More heat. Less air.

It’s a game you’ve played before—but this round’s meaner. Slower. Hungrier.

“I should make you wait,” he mutters.

“For what?”

“For everything you’re asking for without saying it.”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not asking for anything. You texted me.”

He swallows hard. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

Then, without a word, he flicks the indicator and veers off the main road and into a stretch of private asphalt that overlooks the glittering sea. No lights. No noise. Just space.

The car slows. Stops.

He kills the engine.

The silence is deafening.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

For a second, it’s just breathing—his heavier than yours. Your heart hammering loud in your chest. His eyes are dark and unreadable.

Then—

“Backseat,” he says, voice rough.

You raise a brow and grin devilishly.

 “Please?”

He scoffs. “Get in the back before I make you beg.”

He goes to reach for the door handle, but before you can you plant your hand on his chest. Holding him in place. 

“I want you right where you are.”

You swing your legs over the console and settle yourself in his lap—straddling his hips. One knee braced on either side of his thighs, the hem of your dress bunching around your hips like an afterthought. Chest to chest. A slow, inevitable burn.

You arch one brow, voice a purr: “Still want me in the backseat?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words.

Just stares. Eyes dark and heavy, jaw tight. His hands go to your thighs, sliding up like he needs to map every inch. Like he’s trying to memorize how you feel under his hands in this exact position. Like he’s been imagining this all night. His hands stop on your waits, but you're feeling so impatient.

You shift slightly, rolling your hips once—just enough to make his breath hitch.

 “You were so eager a second ago,” you murmur, lips barely an inch from his. “What happened, Norris? Cat got your tongue?”

His grip tightens. A low sound rumbles from his throat—somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“And yet,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his, your lips hovering, not quite kissing, “you texted me anyway.”

His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying to anchor himself. His voice is gravel.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You lean in, finally letting your mouth brush the corner of his. “You’d die happy.”

His hands slide under the hem of your dress, palms warm and rough on your skin. He exhales sharply, eyes flicking up to meet yours, hungry and blown wide.

“Right here?” he rasps.

You nod, slow. Confident. Your fingers slide into his hair, tug just enough to make him tilt his head back. Expose his neck. Surrender.

“Right here.”

hello this fic is my apology for my angsty tis the damn season fic <3 and its also the first ever suggestive fic i have written so... please be nice

Milo is Lowkey Jealous & Protects Daddy Like a Boss

Lando Norris x Son!Milo Norris

Lando’s standing there, chatting with a lady reporter about how the race went, answering questions about his performance and strategy with that usual confident, cheeky grin of his. You know, professional stuff. It’s all going smoothly until his youngest son, Milo, spots the interviewer, and his whole little face lights up with confusion.

Milo’s been watching Lando on TV forever, so he knows his dad’s famous and that people talk to him a lot. But this lady? She’s definitely got Milo’s full attention, and not in a good way.

So while Lando's in the middle of a conversation about tire strategies, Milo wanders over, looking way too serious for a five-year-old, and yanks at his dad’s sleeve like, “Hey, I’ve got questions, too.”

Milo: “Daddy… who’s that lady?”

Lando glances down at him with a soft laugh, trying to stay composed for the interview.

Lando: “She’s just asking me questions about the race, buddy. You know, the stuff I do for my job.”

Milo, narrowing his eyes: “Does Mummy know her?”

Lando can’t help but smile, half amused, half surprised by how seriously Milo takes these things.

Lando: “Yep, Mummy knows her. She’s just asking about the race.”

But Milo’s not buying it. He looks at the lady again like she’s an intruder and crosses his little arms, clearly not impressed.

Milo: “Okay… but why is she talking to you? Is she your friend?”

The Interviewer, trying to keep it professional but laughing a little: “Well, I think your dad’s racing is so exciting, I just had to ask him about it!”

Milo gives her a suspicious glance, then glances back at Lando, lips pressed in a firm line. He leans in close, as if he’s cracked some big code about the whole thing.

Milo: “I don’t think she’s your friend. I think she just likes talking to you. Maybe she wants to race with you.”

Lando, trying to stifle a laugh, crouches down so he’s on Milo’s level.

Lando: “Nah, buddy, she’s not here to race with me. She just wants to know about the track and how I’m doing out there.”

Milo, now looking more like he’s trying to solve a mystery, nods slowly, still not sure about this whole “lady asking dad questions” thing. He gives one more intense look at the reporter, then at Lando.

Milo: “Okay, you can talk to her, but... when we’re done, you need to tell Mummy about her. Mummy knows all the things.”

Lando (laughing): “I promise, Milo. I’ll tell Mummy all about it when we get home.”

Milo, looking more convinced now, steps back, still giving the lady the side-eye.

Milo: “Okay. But if she does anything bad, I’m telling Mummy. She won’t like it.”

The interviewer, clearly charmed, leans down to Milo’s eye level and puts on her best reassuring smile.

The Interviewer: “Don’t worry, Milo. I’m just asking your daddy about racing. Nothing bad at all, I promise.”

Milo looks her up and down one more time, like he’s making sure she’s being truthful, then nods to himself. Job done. He turns and walks off to find Mummy, but not before shooting Lando one last look like, “I’m watching you, Dad.”

Later that night, after dinner, Milo can’t contain his story about the lady who was talking to Daddy.

Milo: “Mummy, guess what? That lady at the race today? She wasn’t Daddy’s friend. I know she wasn’t. She was talking to Daddy, but I think she just likes him, okay? She doesn’t even know you. But don’t worry, I told Daddy to tell you all about her when we got home.”

Mummy trying to hide her smile: “Oh, really? What else did you tell him?”

Milo: “I told him, ‘If she does anything bad, I’m telling you.’ I had to look at her like this,”Milo makes a suspicious face, arms crossed, “because she didn’t even ask about me. I was right there. But Daddy said it’s okay. Mummy knows all the things, right?”

Mummy,smiling and ruffling his hair: “I do know all the things, my little protector. And thank you for keeping an eye out for me.”

Milo's mission: protect Daddy from talking to other women, successfully completed.

Rained Out

Toto Wolff x pregnant!Reader

Summary: a series of unfortunate events pushes Toto’s protective side to the surface

Based on this request

The rain drums steadily against the pavement, creating a shimmering curtain that obscures the bustling Canadian Grand Prix paddock from view. You stand just outside the entrance, one hand resting protectively on your swollen belly, the other clutching your useless paddock pass. The security guard eyes you sympathetically but remains firm.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you in if your pass isn’t scanning,” he says, his voice barely audible over the downpour.

You bite your lip, frustration and discomfort warring within you. “Please, I’m Toto Wolff’s wife. I’m sure this is just a technical glitch. If you could just call him-”

The guard shakes his head. “I’ve already radioed in. Mr. Wolff is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. I’m truly sorry, but rules are rules. You’ll have to wait until we can verify your identity.”

A shiver runs through you as the wind picks up, sending icy droplets cascading down your neck. Your thin jacket, hastily thrown on before leaving the hotel, offers little protection against the elements. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield your unborn child from the chill.

Time crawls by at an agonizing pace. Other team members and officials hurry past, sparing curious glances at the very pregnant woman standing forlornly in the rain. You try Toto’s phone again, willing it to ring.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is likely only thirty minutes, a familiar voice cuts through the monotonous patter of rain.

“Schatz! Oh mein Gott, what are you doing out here?”

Toto appears, his tall frame moving with surprising speed. His eyes are wide with concern as he takes in your bedraggled state.

“The pass ... it wouldn’t scan,” you manage through chattering teeth. “They couldn’t reach you.”

Toto’s face darkens as he turns to the security guard. “How could you leave my pregnant wife standing in this weather? Do you have any idea-”

You place a gentle hand on his arm. “Toto, don’t. He was just doing his job.”

The anger in Toto’s eyes softens as he looks at you, replaced by guilt and worry. He shrugs off his team jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, ushering you quickly through the now-open gate.

“Come, let’s get you inside and dry,” he murmurs, his arm protectively around your waist.

As you enter the relative warmth of the Mercedes garage, the bustle of pre-race preparations momentarily halts. All eyes turn to you and Toto, taking in your drenched appearance.

“Somebody get some towels!” Toto barks, his accent thickening with stress. “And find some dry clothes!”

You lean into him, grateful for his solid presence. “I’m okay, really,” you assure him, though your voice wavers slightly. “Just a bit damp.”

Toto’s eyebrows shoot up. “A bit damp? Liebling, you look like you’ve been swimming in your clothes.”

Despite your discomfort, you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I always did want to try synchronized swimming. Though I imagined a pool, not a parking lot.”

Toto’s lips twitch, a reluctant smile breaking through his worry. “Your sense of humor remains intact, I see.”

A team member approaches with a stack of fluffy towels and what appears to be team-issued sweats. Toto takes them with a nod of thanks.

“Can you manage changing by yourself?” He asks quietly. “Or do you need help?”

You consider for a moment. While you’d normally insist on independence, your sodden clothes are clinging uncomfortably, and your fingers feel numb from the cold.

“I ... might need a hand,” you admit sheepishly.

Toto nods, guiding you towards a more private corner of the garage. He helps you peel off the wet layers, his touch gentle and reverent as it skims over your rounded belly.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs as he helps you into the dry clothes. “I should have made sure your pass was working properly. I should have answered my phone.”

You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Hey, none of that. It was just a silly mix-up. No harm done.”

Toto’s brow furrows. “No harm? You were standing in the freezing rain for God knows how long! You could get sick, or the baby-”

“The baby is fine,” you interrupt, placing his large hand on your stomach. As if on cue, there’s a strong kick against his palm. “See? Still doing somersaults in there.”

Some of the tension leaves Toto’s shoulders, but concern still lingers in his eyes. “Still, I want Dr. Müller to check you over, just to be safe.”

You nod, knowing arguing would be pointless. “Alright, if it will make you feel better. But first ...” You glance meaningfully at the bustling garage around you. “Don’t you have a race to prepare for?”

Toto hesitates, clearly torn between his professional duties and his desire to fuss over you. You give him a gentle push.

“Go on. I promise I’ll sit quietly and drink something warm until the doctor arrives.”

He searches your face for a moment, then nods. “Alright. But you call me immediately if you feel even slightly unwell, verstanden?”

“Verstanden,” you echo with a smile. “Now go be the big, scary team principal everyone expects.”

Toto chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love you, you know that?”

“I had an inkling,” you tease. “Now scoot!”

As Toto reluctantly returns to his duties, you settle into a chair, gratefully accepting a steaming mug of tea from a hovering team member. The garage slowly returns to its normal frenetic pace, though you notice several concerned glances thrown your way.

You’re halfway through your tea when a familiar face appears at your side. Lewis crouches down, his expression a mix of worry and amusement.

“I hear you tried to stage your own wet race out there,” he says with a grin.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “What can I say? I was feeling left out of all the excitement.”

Lewis chuckles, then his face grows more serious. “You alright though? For real?”

You nod, touched by his concern. “I’m fine, truly. Just a bit waterlogged. Though I think Toto might spontaneously combust from worry.”

As if summoned by his name, Toto appears behind Lewis. “Yes, Dr. Müller, thank you for coming on such short notice. She’s right here.”

You shoot Lewis an exasperated look that clearly says ‘see what I mean?’ He responds with a sympathetic pat on your shoulder before rising.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says. “Try not to give the old man a heart attack before the race, yeah?”

Toto scowls playfully at Lewis’ retreating back. “I heard that!”

As Dr. Müller begins her examination, Toto hovers anxiously nearby, his eyes darting between you and the various race preparations happening around the garage.

“Toto,” you call softly. “I can practically hear you thinking from here. What’s wrong?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a telltale sign of stress. “I just ... I can’t stop thinking about you standing out there in the rain. What if something had happened? What if-”

“But nothing did happen,” you interrupt gently. “I’m fine, the baby’s fine. It was just a bit of rain.”

Toto shakes his head. “It’s not just that. I should have been there. I should have made sure you were taken care of. What kind of husband, what kind of father am I going to be if I can’t even-”

“Stop right there,” you say firmly. “You are going to be an amazing father, Toto Wolff. You already are. Do you know how I know?”

He looks at you questioningly.

“Because you care this much,” you explain. “Because even in the middle of one of the biggest race weekends of the year, your first thought is for me and our baby. That’s what matters, not some silly mishap with a security pass.”

Toto’s eyes soften, and he moves to kneel beside you, taking your hand in his. “How did I get so lucky?” He murmurs.

You smile, squeezing his hand. “I ask myself the same thing every day.”

Dr. Müller clears her throat, reminding you both of her presence. “Well, I’m happy to report that both mother and baby are perfectly healthy. No signs of distress or illness from the exposure to the cold.”

The relief on Toto’s face is palpable. “Thank you, Doctor. That’s wonderful news.”

As Dr. Müller packs up her equipment, you turn to Toto with a mischievous glint in your eye. “So, now that we’ve established that I’m not about to melt from a little rain, what do you say we focus on winning this race?”

Toto laughs, the remaining tension finally leaving his body. “Always keeping me on track, aren’t you?”

“Someone has to,” you tease. “Now, go lead your team to victory. Your very pregnant, very proud wife will be cheering you on from right here.”

Toto leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he murmurs. “Both of you.”

As he straightens up, resuming his role as the formidable Mercedes team principal, you can’t help but smile. Come rain or shine, paddock pass or no paddock pass, you know that you and Toto can weather any storm together.

♪ — 𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧'𝗦 𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗗, 𝗕𝗔𝗕𝗬 oscar piastri  x  girlfriend!reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . you attempt to prank your boyfriend oscar by telling him you can't pay your half of the rent this month, he takes it surprisingly well.

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, staring at the coffee table like it insulted your entire lineage.

There’s an envelope—unopened—labeled "RENT DUE" in bright red Sharpie. Dramatic, yes. Authentic? Not even a little. You made it yourself. The ink is still wet.

Oscar should be home any minute now. You even pulled out your phone to record his reaction for posterity (and potential TikTok virality).

You clutch your head in your hands and start muttering nonsense.

"How am I going to afford groceries? How am I supposed to live, laugh, love in these conditions—"

The door clicks open.

You immediately shift into Oscar-winning performance mode. (Pun 100% intended.)

“Babe,” you groan, as he walks in wearing a hoodie and gym shorts, hair slightly damp from a post-workout shower. “We have a problem.”

Oscar doesn’t even blink. He steps inside, drops his gym bag by the door, and eyes you with the same calm expression he reserves for red flags in Turn 1.

“Okay. What’s up?”

You dramatically shove the envelope toward him like it’s radioactive.

“I… can’t pay rent this month.”

Silence.

He blinks. Once.

“Okay,” he says. Like you just told him the sky is blue or that Lando wears bucket hats unironically. “That’s fine.”

You blink back. “Fine?”

Oscar shrugs, walking past you toward the fridge. “Yeah. I got it.”

You stay frozen, confused, suspicious. “Wait—what?”

He pulls out a yogurt like he’s in a chilled dairy ad. “I’ve been paying half anyway. What’s the difference?”

You’re blinking so fast you might take flight. “Well… this would be all of it.”

Oscar stabs his yogurt with a spoon, finally giving you a look. “My salary tripled this year. I’ll live.”

Damn it.

You pause the recording.

He walks back over and sits beside you, yogurt in one hand, cool as ever. “Was this… a prank?”

You groan, throwing your head back. “It was supposed to be! I saw this girl on TikTok freak her boyfriend out and he panicked and offered to sell his gaming PC. Yours was boring.”

Oscar deadpans, “Sorry I wasn’t financially incompetent enough for TikTok.”

You snort.

Then he adds, casually, “Also, I’m paying rent from now on.”

You sit up. “Wait, no. That’s not—this was a joke. I can—”

Oscar raises a single brow. “You want to pay rent while I make six million a year? Be serious.”

You flop dramatically back onto the couch. “So the prank backfired.”

“Mm-hmm,” he hums. “And now I’m the landlord.”

“Oh my god. I’m dating a landlord.”

He grins. “But like, a hot one.”

You groan again. “I should’ve just prank-called Lando.”

“Please do. He’ll probably Venmo you five grand and forget why.”

HAUNTED.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you.” — Torn apart by break up, bound by work, haunted by each other’s voice.

pairing. Max Verstappen x journalist! fem! reader

warnings. angst (happy ending??), Max being a bit of dick, longer than I expected wtf??

babs’ notes. IN THE HONOR OF MAX’S WIN IN JAPAN! this race was well.. something. Guys ik I promised so close to 2 BUT for some reason i wrote chapter 3 & 4 first so it’s bit complicated.. give me time 😭

music. Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac.

JOURNALISM IN FORMULA 1 WASN’T JUST A CAREER—it was your dream, your passion, the goal you had spent years working towards. The roar of the engines, the adrenaline of race day, the stories waiting to be uncovered in every corner of the paddock—it all fascinated you. So when you finally landed your role, credentials swinging around your neck like a badge of honor, you felt like you had made it. This was where you belonged.

And then, there was him—Max Verstappen. The reigning champion, the so-called “arrogant” and “rude” driver who had built a reputation as much off the track as on it. Everyone talked about Max with a kind of reverence laced with caution, as if he was more of a storm than a man. A force of nature, unpredictable, intense. But the first time you met him, you realized there was so much more to him than the media’s caricature.

It wasn’t arrogance you saw when you interviewed him that day. It was focus, determination, an intensity that burned behind his sharp blue eyes—the kind of intensity only someone who had given their entire life to this sport could possess. His Dutch accent was strong, his words direct and unfiltered, but there was a warmth there too, hidden beneath the layers of his public persona. The kind of warmth that could make you question everything you thought you knew about him.

Max wasn’t just “arrogant” or “rude.” He was confident, unapologetically so, but not without reason. He carried himself like someone who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Yet, in those fleeting moments when he looked at you, when he softened just slightly, you wondered if anyone else had ever seen this side of him—the side that wasn’t a storm at all but something quieter.

You had gotten closer to Max, much closer than you ever thought you would. It wasn’t just the quiet conversations away from the cameras or the way his sharp blue eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. It was the way he made you feel like you mattered—like you were the only person who could understand him in a world filled with noise and expectations. He ensured you loved him, pulling you in slowly, deliberately, until the thought of him consumed your mind entirely.

You’d slept together more than few times, nights filled with fiery passion and moments of unexpected tenderness that made you believe this was different. That he was different. He didn’t just hold you physically; he held your emotions in the palm of his hand, his touch leaving a mark on your heart you couldn’t erase. For a fleeting moment, it felt real. Like the guarded driver had finally let someone in, and that someone was you.

But then, just as you had allowed yourself to believe, he shattered it. Sitting across from you, his voice low and steady, his Dutch accent cutting through the words you weren’t ready to hear. “I’m not ready for a relationship,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. “I don’t do that... I need to focus on myself and my career.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words crashing over you like cold water. He wasn’t apologetic, not really. To him, it wasn’t personal—it was just the way things were. But to you, it felt like a betrayal, like he had pulled the rug out from under your feet just as you began to stand on solid ground. Wow, you thought, your mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. Maybe you should have expected this.

The signs had been there, hadn’t they? The way he avoided deep conversations about the future, the way his life revolved around the sport he lived for, the way he always seemed just out of reach. You had seen it all, but you chose to ignore it because you wanted so badly for this to work—for him to be different.

Sitting in the emptiness of his words, you realized the truth. Max Verstappen wasn’t yours to hold. He belonged to the track, to the roaring engines and the thrill of victory, to the world that demanded every ounce of his focus and energy. And you? You were just a moment, a fleeting connection that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—prioritize.

You still saw the day he said those words to you in your dreams. It played on a loop in your mind, vivid and unrelenting, as if the memory itself refused to fade. You could still hear his voice, the exact tone he used—calm, almost detached, like he hadn’t just ripped the ground out from beneath your feet. It wasn’t the words alone that haunted you; it was the way he’d said them, so measured, so unshaken, as if it had cost him nothing at all.

Some nights, the dream would start with the warmth of his touch, his blue eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you once mistook for sincerity. And then, as if the universe were mocking you, the scene would shift, the same cold words spilling from his lips. “I’m not ready for a relationship.” The sound of it, the finality of it, would jar you awake, your chest heavy with the ghost of heartbreak.

The memory clung to you, reshaped you. It made the F1 paddock—once your dream, your sanctuary—feel suffocating. Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of him. The roar of the engines, the press briefings, the fleeting glances in the paddock… it all felt like too much, like you were trapped in a world where his shadow loomed over everything.

And so, you made a choice. You left. You handed in your credentials, packed up your life, and decided to start over. Football became your refuge—a fresh start, a chance to leave the echoes of Max Verstappen behind. You thought maybe, just maybe, switching to an entirely different world would silence the memories.

But you haunted Max too, probably even more than he haunted you. He wasn’t the type to dwell on emotions—not openly, not consciously—but you had made an impact that he couldn’t shake. Your voice lingered in the corners of his mind, unbidden yet ever-present. He heard it in the hum of the engines, the roar of the crowd, and in the silence of the nights that followed. It didn’t matter where he was—on the track, in a hotel room, or staring at the endless line of questions during an interview—you were there.

When he raced, he was untouchable, focused, pushing every limit. But somehow, even in the middle of the chaos, you would find him. He could almost hear your laugh, the lilt of your tone when you teased him, and the way you called him out in ways no one else dared to. It wasn’t distracting, not exactly, but it was there, a part of him now.

The interviews were worse. Sitting under the blinding lights, fielding questions about his victories, his rivals, his career—it should have been second nature. And yet, all he could think about was you. He’d catch himself scanning the press room, half expecting to see your face, your notebook in hand, your eyes meeting his with that spark that had undone him so many times before. But you weren’t there anymore, and the absence was palpable.

At first, Max explained your absence at the races with small, dismissive assumptions. Maybe you were sick, maybe you’d taken some time off—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing permanent. It was easier for him to believe that than to confront the possibility that your absence had something to do with him. That maybe you’d left because of him.

But as the weeks turned into months, it became impossible to ignore the truth. You weren’t just absent—you were gone. Completely. He found out from someone in passing, a casual mention that you had switched to football journalism. There was no announcement, no explanation, no goodbye. You had just vanished from the world you had dreamed of being part of, the same world where he had selfishly taken you for granted.

It hit him harder than he expected. The irony wasn’t lost on him—not in the slightest. He had done the same to you. He had walked away without giving you closure, without considering how his actions might affect you. And now, you had done the same to him. The emptiness left in your wake mirrored the emptiness he had created in you. It was poetic in the cruelest way.

Max tried not to let it bother him, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. But it did. He realized it every time he glanced at the press room and didn’t see you there, every time he answered a question about his performance and your voice wasn’t the one asking. The races felt different now—not because the roar of the engines had changed, but because your presence wasn’t there to ground him in something outside of the sport.

Your departure haunted him. Not just because you were gone, but because it reminded him of the way he had treated you. He didn’t know what to do with the guilt, the regret, the quiet ache he felt whenever he thought of you. And maybe that was the real irony of it all—the fact that he had pushed you away only to realize he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Six months later, there you were, standing in front of the paddock gate once again. The world around you felt both familiar and foreign, as if you’d been transported back into a life you weren’t sure you belonged to anymore. The hum of activity, the chatter of journalists, the whir of tools in the distance—it all reminded you of a chapter you thought you’d closed for good. But here you were, holding the very thing that had once been your dream and your curse: your paddock pass.

Your fingers brushed over the laminated surface, tracing the outline of your photo and the bold letters that read Media. It felt heavier than it should have, almost symbolic, like it carried more than just access. This wasn’t just a pass; it was a ticket back into a world you’d deliberately left behind. A world that he—Max—still occupied.

You stared at the gate for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest. It wasn’t the roar of the engines that sent a shiver down your spine, nor the thought of the stories waiting to be written. It was the memory of him, the way his voice had echoed in your mind for months after he’d let you go, the way he had unknowingly followed you into every corner of your new life. And now, you were walking straight back into his orbit.

You spotted Lissie near the media setup, her smile lighting up the moment she saw you. She was one of the few familiar faces you felt truly comfortable with, someone who had been your anchor back when the paddock felt like a storm you were constantly navigating. You couldn’t help but grin as you approached her, the weight of the past six months lifting slightly with the comfort of her presence.

“Y/n!” she said brightly, pulling you into a quick hug. “I was starting to think you’d never come back.”

“Missed me that much, huh?” you teased, the warmth in your tone belying the nerves still lingering in your chest.

“Of course,” Lissie said, her eyes sparkling. “Nobody asks the questions you do.” Her voice was laced with nostalgia, and you wondered briefly if your absence had left a gap bigger than you’d realized.

The drivers started to filter in one by one, the hum of the paddock growing louder with each arrival. There was an electric energy in the air, as there always was after a race, the buzz of victory and defeat still lingering. You stood near the media setup, microphone in hand, mentally preparing yourself for the endless stream of questions, answers, and moments that would play out in front of the cameras.

But he wasn’t there. Not yet. Probably still waiting for his turn, somewhere out of sight. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you weren’t scanning the crowd for him or bracing yourself for the inevitable moment when he’d appear. Yet, your gaze seemed to wander anyway, unconsciously seeking out the one face you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

It was almost a relief, then, to be pulled from your thoughts by the warm smiles of familiar faces. People recognized you instantly, their expressions lighting up as they spotted you standing there. Drivers, team members, journalists—they all greeted you with nods, waves, and smiles, as though no time had passed.

For Max, the whole day felt off. It wasn’t something he could pinpoint exactly—just a nagging sensation that something was wrong. Or maybe it wasn’t wrong at all. Maybe it was something else entirely. He had gone through the motions as usual, the race, the debrief, the endless stream of questions from his team. But the feeling lingered, gnawing at the edges of his focus.

As he waited for his turn to be interviewed, the noise of the paddock buzzed around him, a familiar chaos that usually grounded him. But today, it felt different. And then, he heard it—your voice. At first, he thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing tricks on him again. He had heard your voice in his head so many times over the past six months, haunting him in moments he least expected. But this time, it felt more real. Louder. Closer.

He turned his head, scanning the crowd, his pulse quickening despite himself. And then he saw you. Standing there, microphone in hand, interviewing Charles. You were laughing at something Charles had said, your smile lighting up the space around you in a way that made Max’s chest tighten. He blinked twice, as if trying to assure himself that you were really there, that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of his imagination.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His heart was racing now, a mix of shock and something he couldn’t quite name. Lando, standing beside him, turned his head at the sound of Max’s curse, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?” Lando asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at Max. His friend's demeanor was visibly off—nervous, tense, unlike the usual calm confidence that defined him. Max wasn’t even pretending to act normal, and that alone was enough to catch Lando’s attention.

Max’s voice was low, almost strained, as he pointed toward the media area, toward you. “Y/n’s here,” he said, his words clipped, heavy with the weight of realization.

And then, he came walking towards you. The moment you had been trying so hard not to think about was suddenly unfolding right in front of you. Max Verstappen. Of course, you knew he’d been assigned to you for the interview—how could it have been anyone else? Yet, despite your efforts to stay composed, to treat this as just another name on your clipboard, the reality of seeing him again made your heart race.

You gripped the microphone a little tighter, your pulse quickening as you watched him approach. He moved with the same self-assured confidence he always carried, his strides purposeful, his expression unreadable. You forced yourself to focus on the task at hand. You had done this thousands of times before—countless interviews with drivers, each one conducted with the poise and professionalism you had perfected over the years. This would be no different, you told yourself.

But when his eyes met yours, you felt the air shift. It wasn’t the usual tension of a post-race interview; it was something deeper, heavier. His blue gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, and you saw the flicker of something behind it. Was it surprise? Recognition? Guilt? Whatever it was, it left you unsettled.

“Max,” you began, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you. “Congratulations on the race today. Let’s talk about your strategy—particularly during that late overtake. What was going through your mind at that moment?”

Max adjusted the cap on his head slightly, his expression composed but with a trace of thoughtfulness behind his sharp blue eyes. “That late overtake,” he began, his Dutch accent giving his words a distinct cadence, “was about timing. I knew I couldn’t risk waiting too long—if I hesitated, the gap would close, and I’d lose the opportunity.”

Max stood before you, his expression outwardly composed, but there was something different in the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the detached gaze of a driver facing an interviewer, the routine exchange of words that he had perfected over years of answering media questions. No, the way his eyes lingered on you spoke of something more—something unspoken but undeniably present.

As you asked your questions, his voice carried the sharp precision you expected, but you noticed the subtle tremor behind it. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to pick up, but you knew him well enough to see it. With each response, his tone faltered slightly, like he was fighting to keep control over a conversation that felt far from ordinary.

Your gaze met his several times, almost unintentionally, but each meeting brought a quiet tension that neither of you could ignore. His blue eyes held yours longer than they should, breaking away only to wander back moments later. And even as you tried to focus on the task at hand, your own eyes betrayed you, drawn to him in a way that made the air around you feel heavier.

Max’s answers were calculated, yet distracted, as if he were answering out of habit rather than genuine thought. When he spoke about his late overtake, his words stumbled briefly, his gaze flickering back to you as though seeking something he couldn’t put into words. For a moment, you saw the mask slip—the professional veneer cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath it.

The interview drew to a close, your professionalism intact despite the weight of the moment. You lowered the microphone, offering a polite nod. “Thank you for your time, Max,” you said, your voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil simmering beneath your calm exterior.

Max matched your professionalism with his own, nodding briskly. “No problem,” he replied, his words clipped, almost routine. For a moment, you thought that was it—the end of the interaction, the closure you needed to move forward. But the moment was far from over.

As the cameraman turned off the equipment, signaling the end of the broadcast, the air around you shifted. The noise of the paddock faded slightly, the buzz of activity momentarily muted. And that’s when you heard him. His voice, softer now, no longer performing for the cameras.

“Good to see you back,” Max said, his tone carrying a weight that hadn’t been there during the interview. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded and searching, the barrier he’d constructed between you cracking just enough to let the truth slip through. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic—it was simply him.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his words. For a brief moment, you didn’t know how to respond, your heart betraying your attempt to remain unaffected. But then, just as quickly as the moment came, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of mechanics and drivers like he always did.

You stood there for a moment longer, the echo of his words lingering in the space around you. “Good to see you back.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation. But it was something—a fragment of the truth he couldn’t admit outright. And as the paddock buzzed back to life, you realized that he had left you with more questions than answers.

After hours of catching up with colleagues, swapping stories with managers, and fielding countless “welcome back” smiles from drivers, you felt the weight of the day settle over you. The energy of the paddock was as intoxicating as ever, but now, it left you drained, longing for a quiet moment to yourself. Deciding you’d had enough for the night, you packed up your things and made your way out.

The paddock had changed under the cover of darkness. The once-bustling pathways were now quieter, bathed in the soft, golden glow of overhead lights. The hum of activity had dulled to a faint background noise—mechanics packing up for the night, the occasional sound of an engine being tinkered with, the low murmur of voices carrying on the cool evening breeze. The air smelled faintly of rubber and oil, a scent so distinctly tied to this world that it felt almost nostalgic.

As you walked, the click of your shoes against the concrete echoed softly in the stillness. You let your mind wander, replaying moments from the day—the laughter with Lissie, the surprise on familiar faces, and, of course, the interview. His interview. The memory of his quiet “Good to see you back” lingered in your thoughts, stirring emotions you weren’t ready to unpack.

The paddock gates loomed ahead, signaling the end of your night here, but you didn’t rush. Instead, you took your time, letting the calm of the night paddock wash over you. This was a place that had once felt like home and a battlefield all at once. Now, walking through it in the quiet moments, it felt like both again.

“Y/n!” The voice cut through the quiet of the night paddock, freezing you mid-step. You knew that voice instantly. It was one you hadn’t heard off-camera in over six months, yet it still held the same unmistakable weight. Max.

For a moment, you considered ignoring it, considered walking away without looking back. But something—some stubborn, lingering part of you—made you stop. Your feet faltered as your heart thudded in your chest, a mix of emotions crashing into you all at once. You turned slowly, the strap of your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as you did.

There he was. Max. Jogging towards you, his expression more open than you’d ever seen it. His blue eyes were fixed on you, and even in the dim light of the paddock, you could see the hint of urgency in them. It wasn’t the composed, collected driver that the world saw. This was different.

You stood there, waiting as he closed the distance between you, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know what to expect—an apology, a confrontation, or something else entirely. But as the man who had once been so infuriatingly composed now hurried towards you.

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, your voice calm but edged with a slight exasperation as you crossed your arms. You slightly rolled your eyes, watching as he tried to catch his breath. His hair was a little messier than usual, his cap tilted slightly askew, but he didn’t seem to notice. He looked unsure, almost uncharacteristically so, and for a moment, you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Uh, well,” he began, pausing to rub the back of his neck—a gesture that immediately gave away his uncertainty. He was nervous, that much was clear, and seeing him like that was both disarming and unsettling. “I just... what made you come back?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he was afraid of your answer.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A dozen answers ran through your mind, each one more complicated than the last. The truth—that you had come back, in part, because of unfinished business with him—wasn’t something you were willing to admit. Not to him, and not even to yourself, if you were honest.

So, instead, you shrugged, keeping your tone light and detached. “Money,” you replied simply, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “They offered me a big amount for interviewing you.”

Max stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or if he was trying to figure out the truth behind your words. Either way, the flicker of something—disappointment, maybe?—crossed his face before he masked it with a faint nod.

“Of course,” he said, his voice neutral, but there was an edge to it that you couldn’t quite place. He glanced away for a brief second, as though gathering his thoughts, before looking back at you.

“And I also wanted to know how you’re doing,” you said, your voice softening as the words slipped out. It wasn’t rehearsed, and it wasn’t meant to sound vulnerable, but it did anyway. For a second, you almost regretted saying it, the quiet weight of your own admission catching you off guard.

Max’s gaze shifted, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity you weren’t sure how to interpret. His expression wavered, the practiced coolness giving way to something more genuine—something raw. He didn’t speak right away, as though your question had disarmed him, pulled him out of the routine he lived so comfortably in.

“I…” he started, pausing as his hand instinctively brushed the back of his neck. He hesitated, the confident driver who always knew exactly what to say suddenly at a loss for words. “I’m fine,” he finally said, his tone quieter than before, almost uncertain. “I mean, I’m… okay.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and unyielding. You both stood there, the quiet of the night paddock wrapping around you like a cocoon, amplifying every unspoken word. Maybe you didn’t want to accept it—that he was fine without you. Maybe that’s what made the silence so unbearable.

But then, he broke it.

“Fuck no, I’m not okay,” Max said suddenly, his voice raw and unfiltered, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His words hung in the air, sharp and unexpected, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. He wasn’t looking at you now, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, as if the admission was too much to deliver while meeting your eyes.

“I miss you,” he added, his voice quieter this time, but no less intense. The vulnerability in his tone was something you’d never heard from him before, and it hit you like a wave, crashing over the walls you’d built to protect yourself.

“I still hear your voice,” Max said, his voice raw and unsteady, the vulnerability cutting through the silence like a knife. He exhaled sharply, as though the words had taken more out of him than he’d expected. “In the car, at home… everywhere.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes momentarily dropping to the ground before flicking back to yours. “I think I was going insane for the past six months.”

The confession caught you completely off guard, your chest tightening at the intensity of his words. You weren’t sure what to say—or even if you wanted to say anything at all. There was no trace of the self-assured, composed driver standing in front of you now. This was Max, stripped down to something raw and real, baring the parts of himself he had always hidden so carefully.

He took a step closer, the light from the paddock glinting off his features as his blue eyes searched yours, desperate for some kind of response. “I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought… I thought pushing you away was the right thing. For me, for my career, for everything. But I was wrong.”

What did he expect you to say? This was too much—too much information, too much emotion, all at once. You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing against the walls you’d built around yourself. “What do you want me to say or do, Max? I don’t understand,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with frustration.

He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I thought…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “I thought maybe you would give me a second chance?”

The words hung in the air, heavy with hope and uncertainty. It felt almost laughable, absurd even, that he would ask this of you now, after everything. But as you looked at him—this man who had always seemed so untouchable, now standing before you with an open vulnerability—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Not outright.

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief flashing across your face. “I thought you don’t do relationships,” you said, your tone measured but carrying a pointed edge.

Max winced slightly at your words, the reminder of his past declaration hitting him like a sharp jab. “I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I thought I couldn’t. But I… I was wrong.”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen in him before—regret, yes, but also sincerity. And for the first time, you realized that the man who had once pushed you away wasn’t the same man standing in front of you now.

You sighed, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. The words hung on the tip of your tongue, hesitant, uncertain, but impossible to ignore. “Maybe we should try it again,” you said quietly, the admission leaving your lips before you could second-guess it.

Max’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope flashing across his face, quickly tempered by a hint of caution. He straightened slightly, his usual confidence replaced by something softer, more tentative. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, as if he didn’t quite trust what he was hearing.

You glanced away for a moment, your gaze landing on the dimly lit path behind him. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice carrying the weight of everything that had happened between you. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not even sure it’ll work.” Your eyes flicked back to his, meeting his steady, searching gaze. “But... maybe it’s worth a shot.”

Max exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as relief washed over his features. It wasn’t the triumphant grin of a man who always got what he wanted. It was something quieter, more genuine—gratitude, maybe, or the quiet realization of a second chance he never thought he’d get.

“I won’t mess it up this time,” he said, his tone firm but with an edge of vulnerability that made his words feel more like a promise than a declaration. “I swear, Y/n. I’ll do it right.”

You didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between you as you searched his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But there was none. For the first time, you saw a man who wasn’t just saying the right thing—he truly meant it.

New years- L. Norris

Lando Norris x fem! Reader

In which your boyfriend can’t take how good you look during new years celebrations and fucks you in a club bathroom

Warnings?; Smut, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex(plz use protection), public sex, slight exhibitionism, slight candaulism kink, kissing, cursing, sorry for any errors

Day 12 of my ficmas celebration!

Lando’s eyes watched your body intensely, the way your hips moved against the front of your best friend, arms swaying in the air, your hair flying around as you swung your head along to the beat.

He was stood up in the dj booth besides Martin while you and your friends took over the dance floor, you had decided to wear a black silk dress out, the tight material stinking to your now sweating body-leaving even less to the imagination.

“Why don’t you just go down there?” Max laughed from beside him, causing him to come out of his unholy thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“Mate you’ve been eye fucking her since you got up here, everyone can see you undressing her with your eyes.” Max laughed at his dear friend.

“She’s having fun.” Lando mumbled with a small shrug

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

Lando knew max was correct, it didn’t matter what you two were in the middle of or what you were doing, if he wanted you he was pulling you away from whatever it is that’s occupying your attention.

Lando ignored his friends giggles as he turned and made his way out of the dJ booth and onto the dance floor, fighting his way through the crowd of sweaty and drunk bodies until he found you.

“Lando!” You beamed as your boyfriend came into sigh, his tight dress shirt showing off his tanned chest and necklace you’d gotten him for his birthday.

“Hi baby.” He smiled back and pulled you into his arms, his hands landing low on your waist as yours wrapped around his neck.

“Are you having fun?” He questioned, looking down at your sweaty frame.

“Mhm, Martins playing all my favorites tonight.” You smirked knowing your boyfriend may have had something to do with that.

“So that’s why you’ve been down here moving like no one’s watching?” He teased

“M’ just having fun.” You grumbled.

“I know baby.” He laughed.

“Will you walk with me to the bathroom? Don’t wanna go alone.” You asked, the club was usually busy but with the added new year eve celebrations it was even more packed than usual.

“Of course.” He smiled and pulled away but not before sliding his hand into yours and allowing you to lead the way to the woman’s room.

His eyes dropped to your plump ass immediately, watching the way it bounced as you walked-he couldn’t wait to get home and fuck you into next week.

He hadn’t even realized that you two had made it into the bathroom until he felt your warm hand leave his. Looking up he heard your small grumbles about needing to pee as you made your way into one of the stalls.

And Lando hated to admit the way he felt his already aching cock stir at the sound of your pleasurable sigh that came from your mouth once you were able to go.

He wasn’t completely sure if that’s what made him push you back into the stall when you tried to exit, or if that’s what made him pull you into a breathtaking kiss.

His hands were gripping tightly onto your ass as yours tangled into his messy curls, lips moving in sync as his tongue slid into your mouth fought yours for a moment before taking over.

He basked in the small moan you let out when his hands began to slide underneath your dress but a pout is what quickly formed when you pulled your lips from his.

“Baby we can’t do this here, we’re in public.” You spoke, head leaning against the side of the stall while Lando looked down at you.

“We can be quiet.” He smirked, his large hands still making their way in between your legs.

“La-oh” you began but were cut off as one of his thick fingers slid inside your cunt.

“No panties?” He smirked down at you as your mouth fell open from his second finger sliding in.

“D-didn’t want pantie lines.” You whimpered

Lando leaned down nice and close to your ear, fingers speeding up.

“Liar, wore them with it a few weeks ago.” He whispered before swallowing your deep moan with his mouth, lips moving sloppily against yours.

He continued working you with his fingers, speeding up and slowing down to pull wanting moans from your throat.

You could feel yourself right on the edge, the fire in your tummy burning hot as your thighs began to shake, all Lando had to do was-

“No,no why’d you stop.” You cried as he pulled his fingers from you, popping them into his mouth as he sucked them clean of your juices.

“Because I want you to come on my cock, not my fingers.” He smirked, moving his wet fingers down to undo the button of his pants before sliding them down along with his boxers, just enough for his aching cock to slip out.

Your mouth watered at the sight of it, his tip was red and swollen begging for the smallest bit of attention. A bit of precum had ran down to meet the prominent vein that spread along the topside of his cock, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t ready to drop to your knees right then and there.

Lando knew the look in your eye and by the way you unconsciously licked your lips he knew what you wanted, but right now wasn’t the time.

“I’ll let you get a taste once we’re home, but right now all I want is to fuck you.” He spoke lowly as his hands came to the back of your thighs and signaled for you to jump.

You wrapped your legs tight around his waist, dress rolling up your thighs the perfect amount for him to slip right in. Your back was pressed firmly against the side of the stall as he reached down to pump his cock a few times.

And soon you were gasping at the delicious burn that filled your body when he slipped in, filling you to the absolute brim.

He moved his hips slowly, allowing you a moment of adjustment before he was quickly changing pace and fucking into with fast but deep strokes, basking in the way your eyes rolled every time his tip hit the spongy spot inside you.

“Fuck lan, j-just like that.” You cried, hands coming up to grip his already messy curls.

The sounds of your mixed whimpers and skin slapping filled the tiny stall, Lando’s movements never ending even as you heard the door open and a pair of heels against the floor.

Your eyes went wide as you looked at Lando, however you were only met with an evil smirk and a look of pure determination.

The little shit had brought a thumb between your thighs to play with your sensitive bud, earning Lando a look of pure hopelessness as you both knew there was no way of keeping you quiet now.

“Lan-ngh!-shit.” You whimpered as you could feel the denied climax from earlier creeping back up, the burn returning to your lower stomach even more intense this time.

Lando groaned at the way you began to clench him, “fuck baby, so tight.” He growled.

You two were so caught up in each other that you almost missed the gasp that came from a few stalls down, your eyes grew wide remembering the girl that had came into the bathroom.

However Lando still didn’t care and simply brought a finger to his lips, signaling you to stay quiet. However that was quite hard as his hips began moving at an unforgiving pace and you were knocked over the edge.

Your head slammed against the stall as your climax overtook your body, you brain short circuiting at the overwhelming feeling in your body as Lando continued fucking you through your high.

“Shit baby, I’m going to come.” Lando cried as he could feel his own fire growing in his stomach.

“Go on lan, fill me up” you encouraged the boy, hands tangled in his damp curls, brushing back the ones that had begun to stick to his sweat covered forehead.

“Fuh…fuck!” He growled as he stilled inside of you and you felt the familiar twitch of his cock inside you before your walls were painted white with his release.

He pressed his forehead against yours as you both caught your breaths and it was the sound of the bathroom door opening and the chant of “happy new year” from outside that brought you both back to earth.

“Happy new year baby.” Lando giggled as he leaned down and pressed his lips against yours softly.

“Happy new year my love.” You cheesed looking up at him with soft and tired eyes, he smirked at the fucked out expression on your face and realized you two should probably get cleaned up and head home.

Exiting the bathroom after getting cleaned up and fixing yourselves you made your way back to the group up by the dj booth where you were greeted with Max and Pietra who both held smirks on their faces.

“Looks like you two had some fun bringing the new year.” Max spoke with a giggle.

“Yeah, I’d say it was pretty nice.” Lando spoke, breaking into laughter as you elbowed his side.

“Wasn’t nice for the girl a few stalls down” you mumbled slightly embarrassed.

“Ehh she’ll be fine, she got a free show.”

“Lando!” You scolded but he only laughed harder and pulled you into a kiss.

“Love you” he cheesed

“Yeah, yeah, I love you to.” You grumbled but snuggled into his side as his arms held you tight.

-

Happy new years my loves!

Also the last fic of my celebration🥹

Call Me When You Breakup (Role Reversal)

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’re with the wrong person, and Max knows it. So do you. He won’t ask you to leave but he’ll be here, hoping, aching, waiting. Just… call him when you do.

Authors Note: Okay so when I was writing Call Me When You Break Up, I genuinely couldn’t pick whether Max or the reader should be the one in a relationship bc I loved both versions too much. So… I wrote both. Figured I’d share this one too in case you needed a little comfort after the first one! (Spoiler: this one ends happier, promise 💕)

1.6k words / Inspo / Masterlist

Max knows he's in trouble the moment he sees you with him.

It shouldn’t hurt like this. Shouldn’t feel like something inside him is being wrenched apart, piece by piece. But it does. Because that’s not where you’re supposed to be.

You should be with him.

Instead, you’re laughing at something your boyfriend just said, your hand resting lightly on his arm, and Max feels like he’s suffocating in plain sight.

Because he knows that laugh. He knows your real laugh, the one that starts low in your chest and crinkles the corners of your eyes. This one is polite, forced, paper-thin.

You're fading right in front of him, and he doesn’t know how no one else sees it.

"You’re staring."

Lando’s voice pulls him back to reality, but Max doesn’t bother denying it. What’s the point? Everyone knows. They’ve always known.

Lando follows his gaze across the restaurant, shaking his head. "You really gonna keep doing this to yourself?"

Max exhales sharply, gripping his glass tighter. "What choice do I have?"

Lando scoffs. "I don’t know, maybe tell her how you feel instead of sitting here like some lovesick idiot?"

Max wants to. God, he wants to. He’s rehearsed it a thousand times, in the car, in the shower, in those sleepless hours past midnight when he’s certain no one will hear his heart breaking. But it’s never that simple.

Because you’re in a relationship. One that looks fine from the outside. One that checks boxes. One that convinces everyone… except Max, that you're happy.

But Max knows better.

Because he’s seen the way your boyfriend talks over you when you’re excitedly telling a story. How he interrupts, how he subtly corrects you. How he walks ahead without waiting, and rarely looks back to see if you’re still with him. How he only reaches for your hand when people are watching, when it can be seen, posted, admired.

But still, you stay. And Max doesn’t understand why. Because you were meant for him.

You know it too. He sees it in the way your eyes linger on him a second too long. The way your laughter always falters when he looks at you like this, like he’d burn the world down if you asked him to.

But you never ask.

And Max? He’s stuck waiting.

We’re so meant for each other. When will you wake up.

The words sit heavy in his chest, but he swallows them down. Because as much as he wants to say them, to beg you to choose him, it has to be you.

Call me when you break up.

He thinks it almost every time he sees you. It sits there behind his teeth, aching to be said. A quiet, desperate plea. Because he can’t say it first.

You have to want it. Want him.

Until then, he’ll keep watching from across the room. Holding his breath. And praying that one day, you’ll finally stop pretending.

And come home to him.

It gets worse before it gets better.

Max tries to move on. Tries to shove the feelings down, bury them beneath podium celebrations and mindless distractions. He flirts with women he doesn’t care about, lets them kiss him in the shadows of clubs, lets them wrap themselves around him like temporary bandages, but their lips never feel right.

Because they’re not yours.

You’re the only person who’s ever made him feel like he doesn’t have to win to be worth something.

He tells himself he’s fine. That if he says it enough, he’ll start believing it.

But then he sees you again.

You’re sitting alone in the paddock, scrolling through your phone, and you look exhausted. Not just physically, but in the way that sits deep in your bones. Like you haven’t been happy in a long time.

Max doesn’t think. He just moves.

"Hey."

You glance up, startled, before a slow smile spreads across your face. "Hey, Max."

It’s stupid, how much just hearing his name in your voice makes his chest ache. How his whole world rearranges itself around that one sound.

He sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. "You okay?"

You hesitate just for a second before nodding. "Yeah. Just tired."

You’re lying. He knows it. You know he knows it, but you don’t elaborate, and Max doesn’t push.

Because this isn’t his place.

Not yet.

So he swallows the things he wants to say. Swallows the part of him that wants to take your face in his hands and ask what happened to the girl who used to give him hell just for fun. The one who could make him laugh with a single raised eyebrow, who used to challenge him just to see if he’d rise to it.

He forces himself to play the part. The best friend. The one who listens but never crosses the line. The one who waits in the background, hoping that one day you’ll finally wake up.

But waiting is hell.

Especially when he sees it clearer than ever that you’re not yourself anymore. Not the girl who used to light up every room, not the girl who used to challenge him on everything just to make him laugh. You’ve gotten quieter. Like the wrong love dimmed your light.

And Max? He wants to be the one who brings it back.

He wants to remind you what it feels like to be loved loudly. To be listened to. To be challenged and adored in equal measure. He wants to be the arms you fall into, not because you’re tired, but because it finally feels safe. He wants to fight with you and for you, and he wants to laugh until you can’t breathe, until your face crumples in that way that only happens when you’re so happy you forget to hold it all in.

The call comes finally at 2 a.m.

Max is half-asleep when his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with your name. His heart lurches before he even picks up.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Then—

"Can I come over?"

Your voice is raw, like you’ve been crying, and suddenly Max is wide awake.

"Yeah," he says immediately, already sitting up. "Of course."

You don’t offer an explanation. You don’t need to.

Because he already knows.

You show up at his door twenty minutes later, eyes red-rimmed, wearing the same clothes from earlier.

Max doesn’t ask what happened. He just steps aside, letting you in.

You sink onto his couch without a word, pulling your knees to your chest. Max sits beside you, close but not touching. Waiting.

It takes a minute before you finally speak.

"It’s over."

The words send a jolt through his chest, but he keeps his expression careful. "Are you okay?"

"I don’t know." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I feel like an idiot... I should’ve left a long time ago, but I was scared. Of being alone. Of starting over."

Max swallows hard. "You’re not alone."

Your eyes flick to his, something unreadable swirling in their depths. "I know."

A beat of silence. Then—

“Were you… waiting for this?”

The question slips out of you like a confession, small and uncertain, but it lands like a thunderclap between you.

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t deflect with a joke or pretend he didn’t hear. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unflinching, like he’s bracing for impact.

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I was.”

“Max—” you breathe, voice thick and trembling.

But he cuts you off gently, a hand lifting like he’s physically trying to slow the moment down.

“Don’t,” he says softly, eyes searching yours. “Don’t say anything if you don’t mean it, not because you feel guilty, or because you’re hurting, or because I’ve been stupid enough to love you this long.”

“I think part of me always knew,” you continue, blinking hard. “That I was supposed to end up here. That it was always going to be you. But I kept talking myself out of it. Because you were safe. And I didn’t think I deserved safe.”

“You deserve everything,” Max says hoarsely.

You nod, a few tears finally escaping down your cheeks

Max is still watching you like he doesn’t dare breathe, like if he moves too fast, you’ll disappear again.

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to waste another second pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

His grip tightens instinctively. “What do you feel?”

You swallow hard, but your voice is clear now. Certain. “I’m in love with you.”

Max exhales like he’s been underwater this whole time and finally broke the surface. His hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb catching a tear before it falls.

“Say it again,” he whispers, eyes shining.

You smile through the tears. “I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too,” he says. “I’ve been yours since the beginning”

And then you’re kissing him.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, a little desperate. There’s hesitation in the way your lips press to his, like you’re testing the waters of a dream you never let yourself have. But Max doesn’t hesitate.

His hands find your waist, anchoring you to him, pulling you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if there’s any distance between you. His fingers slide into your hair, and he kisses you like it’s the only language he’s ever been fluent in.

Like he’s been waiting forever.

You gasp softly into his mouth, and he slows down, gentling it, letting you set the pace. Letting you feel safe. Loved. Wanted.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the small space between you. Your eyes stay closed, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Max exhales, brushing your hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten.

“You’re here now,” he says, thumb ghosting across your cheek. “That’s all that matters.”

QUIET LOVE MOMENTS - MAX VERSTAPPEN

.SUMMARY: .Just quiet love moments/gestures with Max (1.6k words)

Max Verstappen x she!reader

part one here

For my crochet girlies.

WARNINGS: just fluff This will be part of a series I've been thinking about a lot! 📝💭 Enjoy! ✨😊

It was the night before Max had to leave for Italy.

The apartment felt a little heavier, quieter, the way it always did before a long trip. His suitcase sat open on the bedroom floor, clothes folded in neat stacks. He checked his list on his phone, mumbling softly to himself as he went over everything twice—because forgetting something meant adding space between them, and Max hated that.

Usually, she was there with him. Always. Teasing him for overpacking, handing him travel-size toiletries, folding his Red Bull hoodies with the sleeves tucked just the way he liked them. But tonight, her hands were occupied with something else entirely—something he knew she had been working on for a few nights in a row.

She was on the couch, yarn in her lap, legs curled beneath her in one of his old T-shirts, completely lost in concentration. Her fingers moved fast, looping and pulling, brows pinched together like the world depended on every stitch. Jimmy was stretched along her side, pawing lazily at a loose thread. Sassy and Nino were curled in the corner of the blanket she’d made last week. And Donatello—Donny, as Max called him when he was being extra cute—was nestled in the basket of colorful yarn, already asleep.

He leaned in the doorway, watching. Smiling.

“You’re not helping me pack,” he said softly.

“Nope.”

“Babe.”

“Don’t peek.”

“You’re definitely making something for me.”

She didn’t look up. “Could be. Could also be a very small sweater for Jimmy.”

Max chuckled, stepping closer, but she blocked his view dramatically with her arms. “Patience, Max Emilian. Go pack your socks.”

He kissed her temple and obeyed. He loved that about her—how passionate she got about her crochet projects, how even their cats had custom little covers and blankets, how their shared home in Monaco was filled with soft plants and coasters and cat hats she swore were “functional and cute,” even when Jimmy looked personally offended.

An hour later, she padded into the bedroom with something behind her back and a hopeful glint in her eyes.

“I have something for you,” she murmured.

She placed them in his hands: five little amigurumi, handmade with yarn and love. Jimmy with his sleek fur. Sassy looking unbothered and elegant. Donatello mid-pounce. Nino looking disproportionately long and incredibly smug. And then Max himself—stitched in racing blue, with a mini cap and even the tiniest serious face.

“They’re keychains,” she said. “For your backpack. So I can sort of come with you.”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared down at them, heart soft and chest tight.

Then he pulled her into his arms and held her like she was the thread keeping everything together.

“I love them,” he whispered. “And I love you. I’m putting them on right now.”

By the time Max was walking through the paddock in Italy, the five keychains were swinging gently from the zipper of his backpack—Jimmy, Sassy, Donny, Nino and a mini Max. He hadn’t stopped touching them since he left Monaco.

He’d just finished morning media duties when one of the Red Bull community managers spotted the colorful shapes bobbing behind him and caught up, phone already in hand.

“Max, wait—what are those?” she asked, grinning, angling the phone to film him casually.

He glanced back. “These?” he said, lifting the backpack strap to give a better view. “They’re my keychains. My girlfriend made them.”

The camera zoomed in slightly as he gently held each one up with proud fingers. “That’s Jimmy. Sassy. Donatello. Nino. And... me,” he added with a small, lopsided smile. “You can tell ‘cause mine has the annoyed face.”

The team member laughed behind the camera. “Wait, she made these?”

“Yeah, she crochets. She made them by hand. She’s honestly kind of obsessed with yarn—our apartment is full of little things she made.”

Then, as if unable to help himself, Max reached for his phone. “Wait, I’ll show you. Look at this.”

He scrolled for a moment, then held the phone out. The camera caught glimpses of the photos: her sitting cross-legged on the couch, hair messy, tongue peeking out as she concentrated. Jimmy curled up in her lap. Donny half-buried in a pile of soft blue yarn. Sassy snoozing peacefully on the exact thread she’d been trying to work with.

“She always tells me she can’t finish anything on time because the cats fall asleep on her projects,” Max said, grinning. “And she won’t move them. She’s got a good heart like that.”

There were more—her holding up a seafoam-colored blanket, a miniature plant cozy in their bathroom, a cat bed in soft green yarn with Donny inside like royalty.

The Red Bull team member laughed again. “Okay, this is the cutest thing we’ve seen all week.” Max blushed but shrugged, clearly proud.

Later that evening, after the national anthem, the champagne, and the photo ops on the podium, Max sat in the post-race press conference with a faint sheen still on his skin, his suit unzipped halfway, cap slightly crooked, hair damp around his temples.

He’d just won the Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix.

Reporters filtered their questions in waves—strategy, pit stop timings, tire degradation. Max answered in calm, controlled tones.

Then a hand went up near the back, and the tone shifted.

“Max, earlier this weekend a video went viral—your Red Bull media team caught you showing off some keychains on your backpack. Handmade, from what we’ve seen. Can you tell us more about them?”

It wasn’t the kind of question that usually made it into a post-race debrief. But Max’s entire face changed.

He blinked—just once—and then the corners of his mouth lifted with something that wasn’t just a smile. It was pride. Warm and real, carved from something much softer than victory.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting a little straighter, the usual guard in his voice dropping slightly. “My girlfriend made those. Crocheted them, actually. She gave them to me before I flew to Italy.”

He paused, glancing down like the memory was physically warm in his hands.

“She said it was so I could carry a piece of home with me,” he continued, voice gentler now. “There’s one of me, and then Jimmy, Sassy, and Donatello—our cats and Nino-our dog.”

The room chuckled, soft and surprised, but Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t hide from it.

“I’m really proud of her,” he added, looking directly at the reporter. “She’s insanely talented. I mean, if I sit still too long, she’ll probably cover me in yarn.” He grinned. “Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t yet.”

Lando, seated beside him, leaned into his mic. “Wait—do you think she could make one for me? They looked seriously cool.”

Oscar smirked, glancing sideways. “Yeah, Max. Hook us up.”

Max let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “For you two?” he teased. “Would cost a fortune. She’s got standards, you know.”

The room broke into laughter. Even the moderator smiled.

But when the chuckles faded.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Because the cameras would catch it anyway. The smile. The way his entire demeanor softened the moment her name hovered between the lines of a question.

Max Verstappen. A world champion. A man in love.

And not even trying to hide it.

Later that night, while tucked under one of her own blankets, cats and a dog asleep at her feet and Max somewhere in Italy basking in another win, she opened Instagram—and nearly dropped her phone.

The video was everywhere. Short clips from the press conference. Edits set to soft indie music. TikToks zooming in on Max’s bashful smile when he said, “I’m really proud of her”

Red Bull had posted the behind-the-scenes reel too—him turning around proudly to show off the keychains, flipping through photos on his phone like a man possessed. The captions were “He’s fast. He’s fearless. And apparently, if you sit too long near him, you might end up in yarn. 🧶"

The comments? Absolutely unhinged.

@.landoismytherapist: Lando trying to commission a crochet keychain and Max telling him it would cost a fortune 😭😭😭 she’s got luxury brand status now @.speedandsoul: me watching this 500 times a day like it's my religion @.lan4do: Lando wants one. We ALL want one. Start the Etsy, girlie. @.maxielover16 Not Max dead serious in a press conference going “she’ll probably cover me in yarn” I’m crying in the club @.sassyjimboy the way max smiled when he said “she made them so I could carry a piece of home with me” ??? jail. all of you. this is too much. @.paddocktea: This man is GONE. Do you see the way he smiles when he talks about her??? @.softlyverstappen: She CROCHETED HIM and THEIR PETS and now he’s out here showing the world like it’s a Grammy

She covered her face with one hand, heart full and cheeks aching from smiling.

Then her phone buzzed.

Max 💙 you're all over the internet, liefje. you’ve officially outshined my win. lando wants a keychain. he’s serious.

She bit back a grin, curled tighter under the blanket, fingers dancing across the screen.

You he can have one. but only if he gives you a tow in quali. and i want onboard footage as proof.

Max 💙 deal. you’re brilliant, you know that?

A pause, then another message followed.

Max 💙 come to Spain. i miss you. and i want to show you off a little.

hmm Max x leclerc!reader who maybe has had a crush on him since the inchident days and they’re rly cute together

Something Like a Crush

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: Twelve years after the infamous 'inchident', you’re still trying (and failing) to pretend you don’t have a crush on Max Verstappen.

2.4k words / Masterlist

You were ten years old when you first saw him roll his eyes on camera.

Max Verstappen, just fourteen at the time, sitting beside your brother in that now-infamous press conference after “the inchident.” He looked small at the table, short legs barely brushing the floor, arms crossed too tightly over his chest, but his expression was all sharp defiance and unfiltered frustration. His hair was messy, his cheeks still a little round with childhood, but his eyes? His eyes were furious.

Charles had been irritated too, he always was when someone dared to challenge him on track, especially during those high-stakes junior karting weekends. But where your brother was learning to smooth the edges, to answer with careful diplomacy, Max hadn’t figured out how to bite his tongue yet.

He spoke with his whole body, fidgeting in his seat, hands moving wildly as he gestured through his explanation if it could be called that. More like a defence. A barely-contained storm. He interrupted. He scoffed. He looked like he wanted to launch himself out of the chair and straight back into the kart just to prove a point.

And you? You were completely, hopelessly captivated.

Not that you understood what it all meant at ten years old, but you watched every race, every replay, every interview that came after, and that press conference had something different. Something that made your skin prickle with attention.

All you knew was that this Dutch boy with the sharp voice and restless hands had the exact same look on his face your brother got when someone touched his kart without asking. That fierce, simmering expression that meant: This is mine. Don’t mess with it.

You liked that. A lot.

You didn’t even know the weight of his name then, not really. Just Max, muttered under Charles’s breath when he was in a bad mood. “Max this” and “Max that” and “bloody Verstappen.”

You were too young to call it a crush, but years later when you did understand what it meant to feel butterflies, when you found yourself staring a little too long across the paddock, you’d trace the feeling back to that grainy video, to the boy with fire in his chest and rage in his hands, defending himself against your brother like he had nothing to lose.

You’d watched that press conference more times than you’d ever admit.

And maybe, in a way that only ten-year-old girls with scraped knees and delusions of future karting glory can, you’d decided then and there that Max Verstappen was yours.

You’d only met him in passing back then. Dragged along to circuits while Charles went off to race. But one moment stuck in your memory, warm and a little fuzzy at the edges, like something pulled out of an old scrapbook.

You’d been in Spain, if you remembered right. One of those endless karting weekends that all blurred together, heat shimmering off the track, the smell of petrol and tire rubber, your mother fussing with your sunhat, Charles already stomping away helmet in hand.

You’d wandered toward the drivers' area, trailing a melting ice cream, and found Max sitting alone on a stack of tires behind one of the garages, elbows on his knees, brows furrowed in concentration as he picked at a busted glove.

You recognised him immediately, though you pretended not to.

He looked up as you approached and you stopped a few feet away, unsure if you were allowed to be there.

“Your brother’s mad at me,” he said, without preamble.

You blinked, surprised he even knew who you were. “He’s always mad at someone.”

Max grinned at that, a quick flash of teeth. “Usually me.”

There was a beat of quiet. You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of the ice cream dripping down your wrist.

“Want some?” you offered, a little shy. “It’s strawberry.”

He eyed it like you’d handed him a ticking bomb. “It’s pink.”

“So?”

“I don’t eat pink things.”

You frowned. “That’s stupid.”

He laughed then, really laughed and took the cone from you anyway, wiping the side with the edge of his sleeve before taking a bite. You watched him swallow like he was trying to decide if this had been a mistake.

“It’s not bad,” he admitted eventually.

“Told you.”

He handed it back without looking at you, but his smile lingered. “You’re cool.”

You’d gone red to your ears. You remembered that part especially well.

It wasn’t a long interaction. A few minutes, maybe. But it had been the first time you saw him not as Max Verstappen, the boy your brother fought with, but as just Max. A kid. A little proud. A little weird. Surprisingly sweet.

And maybe that was the worst part, how vividly it stayed with you. How that one stupid, sticky, sunburnt afternoon lived rent-free in your memory even now.

Sometimes you wondered if he remembered it too. Sometimes you hoped he didn’t, because that would mean he’d seen your flushed cheeks, your clumsy hands, your starry-eyed crush forming in real time.

And you’d never quite shaken it. Not even now. Not even when Max Verstappen stood across the paddock, a four-time world champion in Red Bull colours, watching you with a smirk like he already knew every single thing you were trying not to feel.

Twelve years later, yours had turned into something far more inconvenient. What had started as a childhood fascination, an innocent, fleeting curiosity about the boy with too much fire in his chest had rooted itself somewhere deeper.

You were no longer the little sister trailing behind Charles in the paddock, clutching your pass with sticky fingers and swinging your legs under folding chairs during debriefs. You didn’t just belong in the paddock anymore.

You were paddock royalty in your own right.

F2 Champion. The youngest in years. Newly announced reserve driver for Ferrari. The slightly younger, slightly less temperamental Leclerc sibling, still smiling for the cameras, still fluent in three languages, still polished enough to carry the family name, but fierce enough to make it your own.

People didn’t just ask about your brother anymore. They asked about you.

And yet, somehow despite all of it you were still, hopelessly, a little bit in love with Max Verstappen.

Which was a problem. A very stupid, very complicated, Charles-shaped problem.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Especially not with your brother still lurking in every corner of the paddock, always watching, always listening, still very capable of murder.

He had threatened Max once. Not outright. Not in a way that would ever make it into the press. Just a quiet, offhand comment delivered over a shared drink in the lounge after a chaotic sprint race in Austria.

“Don’t even think about it, I'll break your wrist.” Charles had said, calm as anything, not even looking up from his phone.

Max, to his credit, had just laughed, but you’d been there. You’d heard the edge in Charles’s voice. You’d seen the way Max’s smile twitched, like he knew exactly what was being said and exactly what would happen if he pushed it.

You remembered it very clearly.

Apparently, so did Max, because even now, years later, there was something deliberate about the way he looked at you. The way his gaze slid sideways instead of head-on. The way his jokes stopped just short of flirtation. Like he was holding himself back, not because he didn’t want to say the words, but because he didn’t trust the consequences if he did.

You weren’t sure if it made you want to strangle him or kiss him.

Sometimes both.

And the worst part? You didn’t know if the tension between you was real or just a shared, unspoken game that neither of you had the guts to end.

Because despite all the wins, the interviews, the champagne, you were still the girl who once gave him her half-eaten ice cream behind the garages in Spain. And he was still the boy who made your heart stutter when he smiled like he knew every version of you that had ever existed.

You stood at the edge of the hospitality suite now, your eyes flicking again to the Red Bull garage across the way. Max leaned against the wall like he hadn’t a care in the world, race suit unzipped to his waist, white fireproof clinging to him in a way that made your brain short-circuit.

He laughed at something his race engineer said, and your chest squeezed tight.

Beside you, Carlos didn’t even bother looking up from his phone. “You’re staring.”

You scoffed. “I’m not.”

“You’ve been staring at him since we walked in,” he muttered. “Since... 2011 really.”

You elbowed him, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

Carlos grinned. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to do something about it. Preferably when Charles is in another time zone.”

“I don’t have a thing to do something about.”

“Mmhmm.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, but your eyes still flicked back toward the garage, like they had a mind of their own. And of course that’s when Max looked up. Of course.

His gaze caught yours. Held it.

Your stomach dropped.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen you watching. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like he was amused and gave you a lazy, knowing half-smile that made your breath catch.

Damn it.

“He’s walking over,” Carlos said, not even pretending to hide his amusement.

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

Carlos stood abruptly, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Should I give you two some privacy? Or just text Charles now and save everyone the trouble?”

“I swear to God—”

But it was too late. You turned and Max was already close, just a few feet away, walking like he had all the time in the world, like he didn’t also look unfairly good under fluorescent lighting.

He smiled at you and Carlos, easy and warm, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long.

“Afternoon, Leclerc” he greeted smoothly, voice low and a little smug. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurted too fast.

Carlos grinned. “Her crush.”

You were going to kill him.

Max raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

You shot Carlos a glare so deadly he actually stood up, clearly deciding to spare himself. “I’ll leave you two,” he said casually. “Good luck with the… crush.”

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Max turned back to you slowly, arms folding across his chest, amusement dancing in his eyes. “So…”

You crossed your arms. “He’s an idiot.”

“Maybe,” Max agreed, then paused. “Is it true?”

You blinked. “Is what true?”

He tilted his head. “That you have a crush.”

“I—” You swallowed. “That depends.”

Max’s eyes twinkled. “On what?”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

He stepped closer, just enough to make your breath catch. “Of course not”

There was a beat of silence. Your heart was doing gymnastics.

“Then maybe,” you said softly, voice barely above the noise of the paddock, eyes locked with his. “Maybe it’s true.”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. Not really. You watched something flicker behind his eyes, surprise, maybe.

He didn’t speak right away just studied your face like he was trying to memorise it. Then, finally.

“You know Charles threatened to kill me once,” he murmured. “Told me not to look at you for more than five seconds at a time.”

You laughed nervously. “I remember.”

“I think I timed myself for a year after that,” he said with a soft smile. “Four seconds, look away. Four seconds, look away.”

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

His smile faded just a little, the teasing slipping from his features until only something soft remained, something honest. His eyes gentled, tone dropping into something more careful. “I’ve liked you since before I knew how to handle it. Since before it was allowed to be anything.”

Your breath caught.

He looked away briefly, then back at you, and there was something achingly sincere in the way he said it. “And then you started racing. Kicking ass. Winning everything. Being smarter than half the grid and not even pretending to downplay it. And you grew up, and I started seeing you for you, and then it was just…” He shook his head with a helpless little shrug. “Game over.”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your voice was quiet, uneven. “Seriously?”

Max nodded, almost shy now. “Inchident days.”

You blinked, dazed. “I was like… ten.”

“And you were already cooler than me,” he said, eyes crinkling a little, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious.

You laughed, sudden and bright, because what else could you do when the ground was shifting under your feet?

But it was short-lived, because your chest was suddenly too tight, your thoughts tripping over themselves, years of doubt trying to catch up to reality.

“I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted, and your voice cracked, just slightly. “I’ve felt like the idiot for so long, like it was just me stuck in some schoolgirl fantasy I never grew out of. You’d look at me and I’d feel it and then you’d blink and it was gone, and I’d spend hours convincing myself I made it all up.”

Max’s expression softened even further, and he stepped closer not enough to touch, not yet, but enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“It wasn’t just you,” he said again, firmer this time. “It was never just you.”

It felt like a mirage. Like something your brain had conjured in the haze of too many years and too many unspoken moments. You half expected it to vanish if you reached for it.

But it didn’t. Because Max was still looking at you like that with the quiet weight of someone who’d been holding this just as tightly, just as secretly, all this time. Your heart couldn’t tell the difference between disbelief and something dangerously close to joy.

He nodded. “Been wanting to ask for years, I think I've finally realised I’d rather risk getting punched in the face than keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel every time I look at you."

Your heart twisted, painfully fond.

“Okay,” you said, heart hammering. “So what now?”

Max shrugged. “Now I ask if maybe, hypothetically, you’d want to grab a drink. Or a walk. Or maybe let me kiss you in a place where your brother definitely can’t see us.”

You smiled, cheeks burning. “All of the above?”

His grin was slow, devastating. “Good choice.”

PRESSED BETWEEN PAGES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever." - Lord Alfred Tennyson

ᝰ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.4K ᝰ GENRE: fluff!!! mention of one (1) fight, yuki is in love ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: turns out me and a have a shared favorite quote! i'm a big lover of the language of flowers so this one is special to me ꨄ︎ requested by @hello-car-fandom !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

Yuki doesn’t say much when you change the flowers.

It happens quietly, usually on a Sunday. The kind of slow morning where the sky hangs low and the light in the apartment turns golden for no reason at all. Sometimes he’s just getting back from a run, shoes damp with dew, shirt clinging to his back. Sometimes he’s on the couch, scrolling through lap data, one leg tucked under him and his hair still damp from the shower.

You move through the room like it’s something sacred—plucking limp stems from glass jars, fingertips stained with water and wilting green. On the kitchen counter. By the window. Once, tucked inside a toothbrush cup by the bathroom sink.

You never make a big deal out of it. Just hum under your breath and hum again when the new bouquet unfurls its petals under the faucet. It’s the only way you really keep track of the seasons, you told him once, hands full of lilacs and eucalyptus. When you don’t have time to notice the air changing or the daylight shifting, you trust the florists to do it for you.

He listens to that in the back of his mind, files it away. Like how tulips mean spring. Daisies mean rain is coming. Marigolds mean you’re starting to sleep with the fan on again.

He never says anything when the old ones go. Just watches as you slide them from their vases, one by one, and lay them gently into the compost bin. The petals fall apart in your fingers sometimes, thin and papery. The stems bend too easily. They’ve softened with time.

But when you leave the room—off to take a call, or switch on the kettle, or pull laundry from the dryer—he moves.

Softly. Like it’s a secret. Like he’s doing something wrong, though it never really is.

He reaches into the bin, fingers threading through damp coffee grounds and orange peels until he finds the stems. Not all of them. Just one. Maybe two. The ones still holding their shape, even if their color has started to fade.

❀˖° THE TULIP - APRIL °˖❀

The front door creaks open with the soft click of a key turning too carefully, like he’s afraid to wake the walls.

Yuki drops his duffel bag quietly just inside, his shoulders stiff from the flight, neck aching from hours spent tilted awkwardly against the seat. Tokyo rain clings to the sleeves of his hoodie, tiny dark circles blooming where it soaked through.

He’s barely taken a step inside when he sees you—curled up on the couch, arms folded tight against your chest, knees drawn in like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. You’re asleep, mouth parted just slightly, hair falling across your cheek. The TV flickers with the low hum of some late-night rerun, casting moving shadows over the blanket tangled around your legs.

He moves quietly, kneeling beside the coffee table. That’s when he sees the bouquet—still wrapped in brown paper, tulip heads peeking shyly from the fold, pale pink and a little bruised around the edges.

The receipt is folded underneath it, timestamped from hours ago. You must have picked them up right after your shift. You must’ve waited.

Yuki swallows around something that tastes too much like guilt and gratitude and everything in between. He should wake you. He doesn’t.

Instead, he touches one of the tulips lightly, presses the soft edge of its petal between his fingers. He smiles, just a little. Then he stands, pads over to the kitchen, and pulls an old mug from the cupboard. Fills it halfway. Snips the stems like you always do.

By the time you stir awake, groggy and blinking through the television static, the tulips are standing tall in the center of the kitchen table, catching the soft, early light of dawn.

You don’t even notice the single tulip missing from the bunch.

But Yuki does. He presses it between the pages of an old notebook that night, the faintest scent of your waiting still clinging to its petals.

❀˖° THE DAISY - JUNE °˖❀

The clouds break with no warning.

One second it’s thick summer air, heavy with sun and the low buzz of heat, and the next it’s thunder cracking over the buildings and rain hitting the pavement like applause.

You don’t even flinch.

Yuki’s still drying his hair from a post-run shower when he hears the balcony door slide open. The curtain lifts with a gust of wind, carrying the scent of wet concrete and ozone.

When he walks into the living room, towel draped over his shoulders, he freezes at the sight of you—barefoot, already soaked, arms outstretched like you’re trying to catch the sky in your hands.

You laugh—head tipped back, eyes closed—spinning once on your heel like a kid. Your white T-shirt clings to your sides, and your hair sticks to your forehead in wet strands, but you don’t seem to care.

“It’s raining,” you say, like he hadn’t noticed.

“I can see that,” he replies, deadpan—but he doesn’t pull you back inside. He leans on the doorframe, watching you twirl barefoot on the slick tiles, lightning stitching its way across the clouds.

There’s a tiny jar by the railing with a single daisy, already sagging under the weight of the water. You must’ve grabbed it from the little garden box, some spontaneous, sunlit moment made permanent in glass.

He’ll take it inside later—after the sky clears, after you’ve come back in, dripping and radiant, tugging him by the wrist to dance with you in puddles.

That night, while you’re brushing your hair out, back turned to him in the mirror, he plucks the daisy from its jar and slips it between the pages of a half-filled journal.

Even months later, it still smells like summer rain.

❀˖° THE MARIGOLD - LATE AUGUST °˖❀

The silence after the argument feels like its own kind of noise.

Yuki sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. You’re in the kitchen, pretending to do dishes, though all he hears is water running and not much else.

Neither of you meant for it to go that far. The fight was stupid—about groceries, or maybe laundry, or maybe the way he sometimes shuts down when things get hard. You’d raised your voice. He’d left the room.

Now it’s sunset, and the apartment glows with that soft, golden hush that only comes once a day, like the light is trying to forgive everything it touches.

When you appear in the doorway, your expression isn’t angry anymore. You’re holding something in your hands—a marigold, still bright, pulled from the vase on the table.

You walk up to him slowly and offer it out, wordlessly.

He looks up, meets your eyes. Then he laughs—quiet and a little embarrassed—and takes the flower from you, twirling it once between his fingers.

“I was an ass,” he says.

“You were tired,” you reply. “So was I.”

He tugs you down beside him, your thigh pressed against his. The marigold rests between you on the bedspread, its orange glow catching the last of the sun.

Later, he pretends to be asleep while you make dinner. He slips the marigold into a folded napkin and places it gently in the spine of his notebook.

It smells like apologies and soft light and the feeling of coming home again.

Each flower is carefully flattened between the pages of an old notebook he keeps zipped up in the lining of his suitcase. He doesn't need to label them. He remembers. Which flower came from which Sunday. Which week you couldn’t sleep. Which day you laughed so hard you spilled water all over the counter.

Sometimes, he tucks one into his pocket before a flight or race weekend. It crumbles a little each time he does, but it’s still enough. Just a whisper of the color, the shape—of you.

You never notice.

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you started tying the stems with twine now, something softer and easier to unwind, like you’re giving permission. Like you’re saying, go on, take this one too.

And he does.

Quietly, always.