Money, Money, Money
money, money, money
normal!max verstappen x billionaire!reader
w.c.: 6.8k
warnings: curse words, allusions to sex, RUDE people, sprinkle of angst (?)
summary: you introduce max to the good and bad sides of having money.
a/n: roughly inspired by crazy rich asians- one of my fav movies!!!
photo credits from pinterest :)
it was no secret to the majority of the world that your bloodline was rich- filthy rich. with your father’s side of the family owning the equivalent of half a small country and your mother’s side of the family the owners of several major corporations, you had no lack of paper bills in your bank accounts.
along with your siblings and your cousins, you grew up pampered, only going to your country’s best schools and wearing only the latest fashion. you were picked up by a chauffeur in a personal sleek black bentley and had a team of maids at your beck and call. hell, you were even granted access to a private jet in case you wanted to fly somewhere exotic just for fun!
as a child without a sense of the value of money, you thought all children lived like this. every birthday, you expected only the very best from your parents. on your sixth birthday, your parents closed down disneyland and let the kids rampage throughout the park. for your cousin’s grade school graduation, your aunt bought an entire cruise liner (company) and held a week-long party on the water to celebrate. when your little brother passed his driver’s license, your father bought him a customized ferrari pista (that he might have crashed three days in) as his first car. when christmas came by, your grandma flew in your entire family to her private island in first class, and surprised all the kids with their very own mini play homes in the backyard that were each the size of a small apartment.
slowly, as you matured, you realized how lucky you were. while eating the caviar and champagne at the expensive gala, the homeless were out in the cold, eating the leftover crusts in oily crumpled pizza boxes that they fished out of the trash. each dollar in your bank accounts could go to sick children whose parents couldn’t pay the hospital bills for, and instead, they were going to mega yachts that sat in the monaco bay most of the year. besides, wouldn’t your parents' money run out some time?
it seemed that many of your cousins and siblings didn’t give a fuck. you watched them exponentially abuse their power, blowing through thousands of grands for luxury cars they drove only once and exclusive rooftop parties where they swam in pools of champagne. one by one, you saw them drop out of school and spend every day as the life of the party. once they rapidly grew out of the excuse of being “young, naive, and not knowing better” their reputation to the general public became “spoiled and out-of-touch” with society.
you of course, weren’t totally exempt from this. you had to admit that you occasionally spent a few k on a nice little bag for yourself, or had an occasional trip to bali for some sun. however, you focused much more on your studies and helping others than partying. instead of spending your draining your mother’s company assets, wouldn’t it be better to have your own? why wield a black card embellished with your father’s name in gold when it could be your own name? with your own money, you could also donate huge amounts to people in need- all under your name.
slowly, you built up your own credible business using the knowledge you gained, and it soon skyrocketed into a world-wide profitable company.
even with such success however, all your siblings and cousins laughed at you. running a company? they had chuckled, in their balenciaga suits and miu miu dresses. why do such tedious work when you can just marry into a rich family?
rich family, you scoff, looking at one of your cousins at the yearly family party that your family threw. though she was dressed to the nines, hair done up and jewelry glistening on her neck, she looked absolutely miserable. her husband, that everyone knew she had just married “for the money” stood on the opposite end of the room, flirting unashamedly with a rather uncomfortable looking waiter. that was really funny, considering that your cousin had been bragging about how much her husband loved her at the last function. she had even shoved a picture of her next to a humongous flower bouquet into your face, teasingly stating how “you never had this experience before, huh?”
your brother wasn’t that much different. although he looked rather successful with a big quarter of your mother’s company stocks, you knew that he was in major debt from burning through his bank accounts gambling at casinos around the world. he paraded around the room with his wife, who hung on his arm so proudly, but only because she didn’t know a thing. if you hinted at your brother’s little “problem,” you knew that she would have the divorce papers ready by afternoon the next day.
as the party went on and the alcohol broke down the painstakingly-built facades of your family’s relationships, you began to stop envying their so-called perfect lives. you realized that all they knew about was money. what did they know about love?
love to you was a kind man with blue eyes that crinkled whenever he smiled at you, light brown hair that was oh-so-soft to run through with your hands, and a soothing voice with a twinge of an accent and slight lisp. love smelled like his soft cologne, and tasted like the spiced sweetbreads he would bake on the weekends.
max was the total opposite from the cocky and money-hungry douchebags from your home country that were more attracted to your wallet and family influence, which was what you liked about him. even the way you met him was different. usually, the men would make it all about themselves, trying to impress you with their “achievements” (owning three ferraris is not a keystone achievement, david) or throwing technical jargon at you to sound smart. if you somehow invited them on a second date, they always showed up late and would tear off their clothes the second they got in the house, expecting to get to third base immediately. however, you met max through a friend of a friend at a small party in monaco. he could barely look you in the eyes and stuttered through his sentences, which you found quite refreshing compared to the arrogant guys that you usually encountered. on your first date, he got you some rather wilty looking tulips, but also brought some homemade bread that you swore was the best you ever ate. on the third date, he yapped about all the flags of all the countries he knew, but you didn’t mind because he let you ramble your own interests after. before long, you moved in with him in his apartment on the edge of monaco, and had the honor of calling him your boyfriend.
so now, lying in his arms on his tiny bed, you felt more at home than ever.
the sunlight streams in through the windows above his bed, casting a glow across his face and filtering through his impossibly long eyelashes. you take a minute to admire the angelic scene, before one his cats leaps off of who-knows-where and jumps on his face.
he yelps, and unwinds his arm from around you to softly push who you assume to be sassy away from his head.
you flash a glare at sassy for ruining such a nice moment, before picking her up and attempt to “throw” her off the bed.
unfortunately, max yanks her out of your hands before you are able to.
“hey!” he says in a chastising tone. “be nice to sassy. i’m sure she didn’t mean to.”
max sits up on the bed and gives sassy a few head scratches before placing a kiss on her soft head. sassy meows at you, which you swear is in a mocking tone. across the room, jimmy sprints over and takes a spot next to max, purring for head scratches too, effectively pushing you off the bed.
you didn’t understand how your boyfriend couldn’t see that his cats were literally devils. you were basically subject to their abuse every day (i.e. random ankle attacks, knocking over all you fragile items, unplugging your devices, cat hair in your food, and the worst one, stealing max away from you). scowling, you surrender your rightful spot on the bed and pad into the kitchen in your slippers to start the coffee.
it’s not until both the coffee and breakfast is ready when max finally enters the kitchen, now freshly dressed. the cats scamper around his feet, curling lovingly around his ankles.
“sorry about that, baby.” he says, pulling out his chair and taking a seat in front of his plate of food. “jimmy and sassy just wanted some love.”
you roll your eyes before settling down into your own seat.
he spears a few sausage links and eggs into his mouth before glancing at the clock. eyes widening, he shoves the rest of the food into his mouth and chugs down the hot coffee.
“so sorry, i have to run!” he sputters out, “i’m going to be late to my engineering meeting!”
he dashes to the bedroom to grab his bag before running back into the kitchen to press a kiss to your cheek in goodbye.
“have fun at work too, baby!” he yells before the front door slams closed.
sighing, you finish your plate before washing the dishes in the sink. he was always late for his engineering job at a small office in downtown monaco. max somehow always got to his office in time though, but probably because he raced his little yellow renault clio rs on the streets like he was some type of formula one driver. meanwhile, you had your “work” at home (which typically meant one phone call to your secretary to make sure everything was running smoothly, a quick scroll through your company accounts, and then netflix on the couch).
from the time you met to the time you started dating, you never got to telling max about your family history or your job. it was actually kind of unbelievable that he didn’t notice actually, even when all your clothes were covertly designer and heels were always red bottoms, or when you seemingly traveled out of the country every other weekend for company meetings. however, he never asked, so you never told.
well, that was until he came home that night.
his footsteps echo on the ground as he walks out from the bathroom, but stops before he gets into the kitchen
“hey baby,” he says, tilting his head. “what’s this?”
you stop stirring the pasta sauce, looking back to see your freshly showered boyfriend questioningly glancing at your open macbook on the couch.
you must have forgotten to close out of your company bank account tab. quickly, you throw the spoon aside, slam the laptop shut, and throw it to the side.
“that’s nothing, baby.” you say, rushing back to the kitchen and stirring the bubbling red mixture again.
“oh-kay…” he says, walking up behind you and reaching over to help strain the pasta noodles.
while straining the water out in the sink, he flashes you a quick glance. “was it like…” he whispers quietly. “adult material or something?? is that why you didn’t want me to see it?”
what?
you look back him, an unimpressed look at your face. “adult material, max???” you repeat back at him. “no. i was not watching adult material on my work laptop.”
“okay, whatever you say, baby.” max says, clearly not believing you. clearing his throat, he continues. “so, um… anyways, my coworker george was talking about how he met his boyfriend alex's parents over the weekend, and i realized that i never met your parents before. do you think we can maybe pay them a visit?"
you freeze, halfway sliding out a plate of garlic bread from the oven.
“i- um, don’t think that’s wise, maxie.” you reply quietly.
your boyfriend wrinkles his brow. he stops the plating of the noodles and walks over to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“is it…is it because they are assholes?” he asks, looking at you seriously. “cause it’s okay if they are- i understand, because my dad…my dad is not very kind either.”
you can’t help to think about your family in your home country. you could never take your maxie there. they would rip him to shreds, degrading him for being rather plain and destitute compared to them. you would never want to put your boyfriend through your parents, either, who would probably criticize him for wanting to marry you just for the money, even if max didn’t know a goddamn thing about how you earned your funds.
you rub your face. “no, it’s not that.” you sigh, “i- mean- it’s just complicated over there in my home country. i don’t want you to feel pressure or uncomfortable-”
max cuts you off with a hug, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “i really don’t mind, baby. i’d really like to meet the people who made such a kind and beautiful person like you.”
you blush a little at his words. even if you have an uneasy feeling to your stomach, you nod lightly. it can’t be that bad, right?
if you were to take max over to your home country, there was no doubt he would be exposed to your massive fame and influence there. to slowly ease him into the more luxurious side of your life, you first introduce the luxuries of a private jet the day you take off from the airport.
“a private JET???” your boyfriend shrieks, looking at his speciality boarding pass.
hurriedly, you shush him to avoid the glares of other travelers within a yelling distance of you both.
“max, please be quiet.” you hiss into his ear. “yes, it says private jet.”
maneuvering your cart with your lv-branded luggage to the side of the terminal, along with max’s one small carry-on and two pet cages with the reincarnations of the devil inside, you pull out your phone to check the location of the driver who would take you to the separate private-jet entrance.
like magic, he materializes behind you, tapping you on the shoulder.
politely, he takes your horde of luggages and max’s items before politely gesturing towards a massive black lincoln that was definitely not parked there before.
“this way miss,” he says curtly, before reaching forward to open the car door for you.
max, snapping out of his confusion, snaps his hand out first and roughly yanks the door open, and nearly hitting both you and the driver.
“i’ll open the door for my own girlfriend, thanks!” he retorts, glaring suspiciously at the driver, who just shrugs and starts loading the luggage into the back of the car.
when max climbs into the spacious back of the lincoln, you can’t help but giggle into your hand.
“max, you need to relax,” you laugh, placing a calming hand on max’s leg. “he’s my driver. it’s his job to open the door, okay?”
your boyfriend sniffs, pouting a little.
“fine.”
after boarding the jet and ascending safely into the air, you settle into your padded chair. meanwhile, max runs around the jet like a little kid, pointing out the “special features,” much to the amusement of the staff.
“omg, baby, look!” he yells, pointing at a wooden-paneled door behind your chair. “the bathroom is huge!”
you nod, and hum in agreement, sparing a quick glance at max, who was opening and closing the door as if it would change what was behind it.
he then charges toward a cabinet near the middle of the plane, which is stuffed to the brim with your favorite snacks. “wow!” he shouts, before sprinting towards a similar cabinet further down, which you know is the alcohol storage area.
there’s a moment of silence before max steps into view with three gin and tonics and one of your favorite drinks in hand. he carefully sets them down in front of you, batting away a disgruntled-looking bartender who held a half-open bottle of gin that you assumed he was in the middle of pouring when max snatched the bottle away.
you apologize profusely to the bartender while max watches on, straight up chugging his drinks.
“this is wild!!” he whispers, pointing to the cups in front of him.
no more than five minutes after sending the bartender away with a little tip, max has already finished two of his three gin and tonics and was already bounding out of his seat to explore the rest of the plane.
once you hear his exclamations of joy from the back of the plane, you know he has discovered the master bedroom.
before you have a chance to take a sip of your own drink, max basically pounces on you and drags you towards the private bedroom. your boyfriend pushes you onto the soft bed, yells out the door.
“give us a little bit of privacy, okay?” he shouts to no one in particular, before slamming the door shut.
he turns back to your figure lying spread-eagle in the bed, and wiggles his eyebrows.
max is the first one to talk after you both lay on the bed, lips swollen and cheeks red.
“so…?” he says, running a hand down your back.
“so… what?” you ask, looking up at him from your position sprawled on top of him. from your point of view, you could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest, his slightly damp hair, and the way his blue, blue eyes study your face.
“so, when were you going to tell me that you were…like…rich?” he replies.
you maneuver yourself to a sitting position on your boyfriend’s lap, looking him nervously.
“well…” you remark, twiddling your thumbs. this wasn’t the way you thought you were going to break the news to max.
“i grew up more- comfortably in my home country, thanks to my family and their connections. i was lucky to not have to worry about money at all. when i became a little older, i separated myself from the rest of my siblings and cousins to form and take care of my own company. then, on a business trip, i met you and then.. yeah, you know what happens next.”
an awkward silence fills the room, with max digesting the information and you toying with a stray thread from the bedcovers.
your boyfriend opens his mouth slowly.
“a company?” he questions, turning to you. “what company?”
you scramble off the bed for your phone, and type something quick in the search bar. when you find what you are looking for, you rotate the phone towards your boyfriend, the glowing screen reflecting on his features.
it only takes one or two seconds for max to scan and decipher the words on the screen.
“YOU’RE THE CEO OF REDBULL??” max shouts.
when the wheels of your private jet hit the bumpy runway, it was midnight. your pilot’s voice crackles on the intercom, politely notifying you that you have arrived, and are free to disembark whenever you’d like. outside, you can see several workers unloading your luggage, along with jimmy and sassy in their pet carriers.
you turn to max, who was intensely staring at his screen, unmoving. you assume he was still in the middle of his fervent wikipedia dive of you and your family’s entire history that he insisted on learning, once he got over the initial shock.
“max,” you say, nudging him slightly.
he doesn’t budge, eyes trained like an eagle on his screen.
you pull on sweatshirt before nudging him again, this time a little harder. “max, come on, we gotta go.”
he snaps up, and pockets his phone before mock saluting you. “yes, of course, miss ceo! whatever you say!”
you roll your eyes. max was a little extra sometimes.
he trails behind you obediently as you climb down the stairs to get off the plane, and into a sleek black limousine.
before long, you find yourself on the familiar streets and freeways that you used to frequent when you were younger. it feels the slightest bit nostalgic, so different from the streets of monaco that you became used to thanks to max.
you look back to find max tilting his head at you.
“where to now, miss ceo?” he asks in a curious tone.
you smile.
”i know just the place.”
even when it was close to three am, the downtown streets were still packed with people. vendors engulfed the street sides, selling delicious soups and snacks beckoned to people, and little shops with bright signs advertised souvenirs, clothing, stationary, and everything in between. the car inches to a stop when you come upon a familiar old building that you remember visiting often as a child. bright glittery letters on the storefront and windows exclaim, “lombardi ice cream shop.” a line of people streams out the door, an ode to the delicious creamy treats that the shop has been selling for years. god, you could basically taste the ice cream on your tongue already.
you practically leap out of the car, dragging max with you towards the front of the shop. the red bottoms of your heels click against the concrete, turning many heads in the crowd along the sidewalk. you hear gasps of shock and a few whispers of your name along the crowd. they automatically parts like moses and the red sea when you get closer. max hesitates, wide eyed, at the edge of the crowd.
”c’mon,” you laugh, taking his hand and leading him through the people.
an old woman, back hunched with age, waddles out of the kitchen and greets you warmly when you arrive at the counter. without realizing, a warm feeling spreads across your chest. she was basically like a second mother to you, considering you spent your entire childhood frequenting this shop with your cousins and siblings. whenever you visited your home country, you would always make sure to pop by her shop (not that she needed your business- her lines always curled around the block, day and night).
“ahh!! welcome back, honey,” she exclaims, wiping her wrinkled hands on her apron. “you’ve gotten so beautiful!” throwing a glance at a shy max hesitantly hidden behind you, she sends you an eyebrow raise. “ah, and i see you brought a boy back huh?”
you reach over to give the weathered old woman a hug, blushing. “hello, momma lella! yes, this is my boyfriend max.”
max waves a polite hello, one hand still nervously holding yours.
the elderly woman smiles kindly at max, not hiding how she looks him up and down. “well, i approve!” she states, giving you a thumbs up and a wink. “polite and handsome!”
without another word, she grabs the largest size cup and fills it to the brim with creamy chocolate ice cream. sprinkling a good amount of sprinkles and shoving two spoons into the cup, she offers it to you.
“on the house!”
you and max sit on the sidewalk with the cup of ice cream, watching people walk by and cars zoom through the traffic. occasionally, max takes his spoon and shovels a large helping of chocolate ice cream into his mouth.
“you look like you’re really enjoying the ice cream,” you state, noticing the chocolate smeared over the corners of his mouth.
max just smiles at you in the way he always does, with the dimples and the crinkle in his eyes.
suddenly, your moment is ruined when a flash goes off in your face.
max jerks back, rubbing his eyes, not used to the invasive cameras that made up your childhood.
you whip around towards the flash, seeing a small herd of paparazzi smiling wickedly. a rare spotting of you in back in your home country for the first time in years? that was payday for them. a flash of anger shoots through you, causing you to throw your wooden spoon at their expensive cameras. unfortunately, it just bounces off of the arm of a short looking man carrying a heavy duty camera.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you yell, shooing them away from max. “can you just leave us alone for one second?”
bothersome paparazzi like this was common when you grew up in a family rich with drama and money. you recall them camping in front of your house, shutters clicking once they saw a sign of movement. whatever mistake you made, like tripping over a small rock or fighting with your sister over a doll, was publicized and dramatized into unrecognizable stories on gossip magazines that were popular in your home country. it was a pity that this was max’s first introduction to these pests.
you pull max with you as you shove your way roughly through the paparazzi. they deserved it if you accidentally smashed someone’s lens.
max stumbles behind you.
“wha-?” he says, holding the half-empty chocolate ice cream. “where are we going?”
you huff. “away from those wannabe photographers- i hate them so much.”
you flip open your phone to call your chauffeur, but your app notifies you it would take a total of ten minutes for him to weave through traffic to get to you both. in the distance, the paparazzi raise their cameras again, shutters clicking as they photograph your pissed off expression and a dumbfounded max next to you. you can practically see the headlines tomorrow- ‘bratty billionaire back in country!!’
like a godsend, a futuristic-looking car rumbles to life next to you. that will probably get you home and away from these fuckers fast, right? hurriedly, you march over to the disgruntled middle-aged man in the passengers’ seat.
“five million for your car- right now.” you say, dead serious.
the man’s eyes widen comically large.
“five mi-“
you cut him off quickly, seeing the paparazzi darting closer to max, who was still holding the ice cream and eyeing the cameras wearily.
“yes, five million. i’ll mail you the check.”
without another word, the man tosses you the keys and hefts himself out of the car. you leap into the drivers seat just as he gets out, and jam your finger on the window down button to beckon max into the car immediately.
the moment he sits down on the expensive-looking leather seats, you rev the engine and leave the paparazzi behind in the dust.
it’s not until you are halfway back to your penthouse when max finally speaks.
“this is a super nice car,” he states, running his hand against the interior side panels.
you look around, really noticing the detailings of the car. the sides look like they are made with some carbon fiber material, and it seemed like it didn’t even have a door handle- just straps you pull on the corner of the dashboard.
”yeah, i guess so,” you admit. “i just bought this off of that dude back there in order to get away from the damn paparazzi.”
max wrinkles his brows.
“you bought-?? what??? you know this is an aston martin valkyrie, right?”
the next morning, when the sun shines through the skyline windows lining your penthouse, you keep your promise by instructing one of your staff to send the promised check to the random guy on the street (fernando, he said his name was). your boyfriend scrolls idly on his phone next to you, probably scrolling through your family’s lengthy wikipedia page again. his cats stamp around your white bedsheets as if they owned the place. you think about what you both could do today. perhaps visit the children’s hospital? before moving to monaco, you frequented many small hospitals, bringing gifts for the children. it always felt good seeing the sick kids light up with joy. or, you could go shopping, although you did spend a little bit much on the random car yesterday. or-
before you can complete your thought, a familiar ringtone lights up the screen of your phone. your mother’s name lights up your phone, as if taunting you. before you second-guess yourself, you smash your finger into the green ‘answer’ button and place the phone to your ear.
your mother’s voice flows through the speakers, sending a wave of nostalgia throughout your body.
“darling!” the voice hums, “why didn’t you tell me that you were back in your home country? i had to find out over the silly little paparazzi pictures on the newspapers!”
damn it, you think, cursing silently in your head. it seemed that the paparazzi from yesterday night had probably sold your pictures to some trashy gossip magazine that had caught the attention of your mother. that meant that you had to face your family sooner or later.
“hello, mother,” you reply curtly, trying to avoid the topic. “how may i help you?”
your mother tuts through the speakerphone. “oh, your own mother can’t just call to say hello?”
you groan. “no- i mean yes-“
your mother cuts you off, laughing. “i’m kidding, darling. i just wanted to let you know that i’m hosting a party at our estate tomorrow, to celebrate your arrival! you’ve been in monaco for a god-awful long time. your cousins and siblings will be coming too- i’m sure they’ll all excited to see you after your hiatus in monaco!”
you hesitate before responding. your first instinct was to say no, because everybody knew full well that the only reason your cousins and siblings even bothered to show up at these kind of events is to save face and show off their new ridiculously expensive clothing and cars, not to welcome you. however, this also gave you a chance for max to meet your parents, like he wanted back in monaco. it isn’t a hard choice when you agree to meet the next day.
max revs the engine once again as he pulls the valkyrie to stop in front of the valet at the front of your family’s estate.
through the tinted windows of the car, you see one of your snobby cousins, dressed in an jeweled gown, jump at the loud sound and clutch her husband’s arm tighter however, her husband ignores her to get a good look at your aston martin supercar, which makes you laugh. to your surprise, he is not the only one. a few other family members gather around, admiring the hypercar.
in the passenger’s seat, max’s mischievous grin slowly turns into a frown of nervousness as he spots the crowd of people gathering around you both. you know it must look intimidating, meeting your significant other’s family, especially when they had such high expectations of you. you place a kiss on his cheek.
“you ready, maxie?” you ask, patting his shoulder comfortingly.
he nods, before opening the car door.
like the gentleman he is, max quickly hurries over to the passenger’s side of the car to help you out of the car. you gladly take his hand, and step out of the vehicle daintily. straight away, you can hear the confused mutterings and jealous glares of your family members start up, which follow the both of you into the house.
like expected, your childhood home is decorated a little over the top. people mingle under crystal chandeliers around staircases draped with real flowers. from the second living room, music drifts out that sounds suspiciously like martin garrix. a fancy bar is set up a room that was usually the dining room, with a bottle of every single alcohol you can ever think of. the courtyard, usually empty save a few plants, was turned into outdoor buffet bar, complete with a five story cake and massive chocolate fountain.
once inside, max attempts to introduce himself to the first friendly-looking family member that he sees, which happens to be your aunt on your mother’s side. he sticks out his hand, a smile gracing his face.
“hi, my name is max,” he says, “i’m your niece’s boyfriend.”
your aunt nods politely, shaking his hand.
“hello max,” she says, visibly studying him, “what are you, a ceo? businessman? sports star?”
”auntie!” you say, shocked, cutting max off from his response. that rude bitch. although she looked relatively kind from the outside, all she really cared about anyone was their power and money. which was probably why your cousin married a mega popstar that was away half the time. like the rest of your family, money trumped true love. “you can’t just start a conversation like that!”
max shakes his head, “no, no, it’s alright. i’m an engineer.”
“ah,” your aunt says, knowingly. taking a sip of her champagne, she continues, “head engineer, huh? of what company?”
thinking he might have misheard her, max corrects her, “oh- no, not head engineer, just an engineer, like in an office.”
your great-aunt’s friendly demeanor automatically drops.
“just an engineer?” she responds, coldly.
you notice how max’s face falls the slightest bit, before he plasters a fake polite smile on his face. he shuffles uncomfortably, glancing at you, as if saying, did i say something wrong?
before you can say something rather rude to your aunt, a hand clasps your shoulder. turning around, your brother beams at you.
“sister!” he exclaims. “i haven’t seen you in a hot sec. too busy partying in monaco, huh? or doing your silly little business things for redbull?”
he then eyes max, to which he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “who’s this, huh? your boyfriend?”
”yes,” you snap, still a little pissed from your aunt’s rude reaction.
your brother puts his hands up jokingly, in a surrender position. “damn, okay, no need to be defensive.”
he sticks out his hand to your boyfriend, who takes it gladly.
“what’s up, dude,” your brother says, shaking max’s hand. “i saw you pull up with my sister in that sick aston martin valkyrie! you must have some insane connections- the waitlist for that baby is like years long.”
your aunt answers before your boyfriend can.
“there’s no way he could have bought that car- he’s just an office engineer at some company at who knows where,” she says pointedly.
hearing this, your brother’s impressed look turns into a sneer of disdain. he steps back from max in disgust, as if he had just turned into some horrible monster. he chuckles at you.
”wow, sister, you’ve outdone yourself huh? an office engineer?”
your family, slowly becoming aware of something going on, turns towards the scene. a wide-eyed martin garrix turns off the booming music in the back.
you shove your brother further away from max, causing the glass of champagne to spill onto your brother’s designer suit.
“what’s wrong with you?” you exclaim angrily. “at least he has a job, unlike you!”
ignoring the bubbling liquid staining his suit and your enraged expression, he turns toward max, still eyeing him with disgust. “how pathetic, leeching off of my sister’s money as a ceo? ha, you probably used her card to buy that valkyrie, didn’t you?”
next to you, stunned into silence, max’s blue eyes begin to fill with tears.
behind you, your aunt lets out a cackle of laughter, along with a few members of the crowd.
you just about launch yourself at your brother, wanting more than anything to bash his head in.
as if it couldn’t get worse, your mother pushes through the crowd gathered around you both, and grabs your arm before you can make contact with your brother.
“hey!” she yells, yanking you back. “what is going on here?”
your brother grins, pointing at max. “your precious daughter went and got herself a little gold digger boyfriend- and look, he’s crying!”
you glance over to max, heart sinking. like your brother said, he had a tear running down his face, and he shook a little with embarrassment. it reminded you of a story that max once told you, how his father had often upset him as a child when he was forced to do karting. an anger flared inside of you. max had only wanted to be a good boyfriend and introduce himself to your family, but was in turn ridiculed in front of a crowd by your hypocrite brother.
your mother turns to max, then turns to you.
“is this true, darling?” she asks, tilting her head. “does he exploit you for money?”
does max exploit you for money? you can hardly even comprehend the ridiculous sentence. you roughly yank your arm out of your mother’s grasp and march over to max. you lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a squeeze.
you turn towards your chuckling brother. he won’t be laughing soon.
“you’re really one to talk, brother! you think you’re hot shit, with a large chunk of mother’s company stocks. well, wouldn't it be a shame if everyone knew that you are in debt from your uncontrollable gambling problem, hmm? i wonder what your wife feels about that?”
you take comfort in the way the smug smile drops from your brother’s face, now replaced with a withering glare. the silent crowd gathered around the scene lets out a gasp, in light of this news. their focus now was trained on your brother instead of max.
“and you!” you exclaim, turning to your aunt. “since you think the word gold digger is so funny, auntie, wouldn’t you like to know how your own daughter is one, huh?”
your aunt jerks back, not used to the crowd’s attention trained on her, along with your harsh words.
”yeah,” you continue, “if you would stop judging people based on their worth in money, you might have been able to see that all she does is spend her husband‘s money on inane things in order to ignore his multiple affairs!”
from the back of the room, you hear your cousin burst into tears while her mother, your aunt, standing in front of you, turns as red as a tomato.
gently, you lead max towards the gilded gold front door. your family gives you judgemental looks as you make your way through the crowd. turning back one last time before you step out, you address the crowd. “don’t think any of you guys are any better. all you lot do is leech off of trust fund money!”
max stays silent all the way to your penthouse, as do you. after a hot shower, you bundle him up in your soft fluffy blankets until he looks the puft marshmallow man. you can’t help but feel terrible. he silently shuffles towards you, which you respond by pulling his head against your chest. jimmy and sassy watch wearily from a distance on the carpet.
you are the first to cut through the silence.
“i am so sorry that my family did that to you, maxie.”
he doesn’t answer, but the new tears that soak your expensive silk pajama set does the answering for him.
you run your hand through his damp strands of light brown hair, and rub his back comfortingly.
he pulls back from your embrace to wipe his eyes briefly.
“why do you love me?” he hiccups, cheeks wet with tears. “like- i have no money, two cats that you hate, and- and- a tiny apartment-“
“max!” you say, cutting him off from his ramblings. “listen to me.”
you look into his watery eyes, eyelashes wet with tears.
”i really don’t care if you lived in a literal dirt hole with no job, or if you were a formula one world champion. i would love you no matter what. i love your blue eyes and your pouty lips and your lisp, and your cologne, and the bread that you bake, and your little apartment and even though it may not seem like it, i love your stupid cats too.“
he chuckles wetly at the last part of your sentence.
you kiss the top of his head.
”you don’t know how much i love you, max emillian verstappen.”
a devious grin slips onto his face. he shoots you a sultry look.
“show me.”
and you do.
later, when max lays asleep on the bed, love bites on his neck, face slightly flushed, and back bare, you get up to fetch your phone.
the person you seek is only a few taps away. he picks up on the second ring, politely greeting you even though it was an ungodly hour. you tell him your request, but he hesitates slightly.
”are you sure-“
you cut your financial advisor off as politely as possible.
“yes, that’s right. i would like to buy the entirety of my mother’s companies and my father’s estates.”
the sounds of pencil scratching paper fills your ears before your financial advisor lets out a sound of approval.
“right away, ma’am!”
a/n: APOLOGIES for my week-long hiatus!! take this fic as an apology... your normal spinoff series! scheduling will resume shortly <3
also let me know if you have a better name for this piece- i was STRUGGLING trying to name this one ;-;
More Posts from Tammyfortis and Others
Proceed With Caution // Evan Buckley
IN WHICH: The reader doesn’t expect to become involved in a hostage situation with her fiance’s older sister, the older sister’s best friend and the best friend’s date from hell. With the addition of a SWAT member, how will the taking of dispatch change?
Warnings: Swearing, blood, threats, angst, guns, hostage/kidnapping
Words: 5.9k
A/N: Recently got into the tv show 9-1-1 and completely fell in love with Buck so here I am writing for him as well. This takes place during the season three episode ‘The Taking of Dispatch 9-1-1’. Reader and Buck are already in an established relationship.
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Masterlist
The apartment was quiet as the sound of your keys clattered in the bowl on the countertop. It was pretty early in the morning, so you had no doubts that Buck would be just waking up. On his days off, he would use the first day to catch up on sleep; based on prior times, he would be up in half an hour.
“Buck?” You called out from the kitchen. You heard a groan from the loft where Buck was in the process of waking up, “I forgot to drop off that book Maddie wants to borrow. When I get back, do you want to get breakfast?”
A grumble you somehow translated to approval was what you received in response. You jogged up the stairs to the loft to grab the book from your bookshelf. Buck’s bare leg stretched out from underneath the comforter on your side. The soft sighs Buck made in his sleepy state tugged at your heart; the sighs grew louder when you bent to kiss his head.
Keep reading
It’s because he’s good at his job
Random Halo idea;
Imagine you’re trying to get away from some creeps on the street and run up to one unsuspecting seven foot tall man, latch onto his arm and whisper beg him to pretend to be your boyfriend. He agrees, albeit confused and a bit worried but quickly identifies why you are so scared. His arm drapes around your waist as he walks you back to the compound where a Spartan in white armor approaches the two of you, leaving you confused-… at least, until she speaks.
“Master chief, sir.”
And all the sudden you’re paralyzed with more than just fear of the people that had been chasing you, but at the mortification of you practically begging the Master Chief to pretend to be your boyfriend, his arm around you feeling like fire as your face turns red.
Title: Into You
Number of Episodes: N/A
Themes/Warnings: Slowburn, light smut (Kissing, teasing, sexual tensions) angst, fluff, mentions of death,Daddy kink, Neglections.
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Cover
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Character Descriptions:
Y/N Horner (femHorner! READER)
- 5’2 ,British, 22 years old, fresh graduate from Harvard University under the course of Mechanical engineering.
- Likes to draw and paint, can play a few instruments like electric guitar and piano.
- Forced to take the course of mechanical engineering because of her mother who’s a mechanical engineer at formula one who recently passed due to cancer (lung).
- Smart and hardworking person who thinks that everything is a competition because of the household that she grew up in.
- Younger daughter of Christian Horner the team principal of red bull racing oracle formula one team.
- Has prior knowledge to FORMULA ONE, but doesn’t take that much interest in it.
- Neglected by his father
- Sergio’s Bestfriend
- Has Big problem of having a daddy issues.
Christian Horner (Team Principal of RedBul Racing Oracle Formula One Team)
- 50 years old
- 5’10
- british
- Father of Y/N Horner and Jonathan Horner
- Pressuring his daughter to take her job as the one of the engineers in Redbull.
- Hates Mercedes team so much.
- Ignoring her daughter's talents in arts and not letting her take another course or study under a fine arts program.
Jonathan Horner (Redbull Driver)
- 5’8
- 26 years old
- british
- Son of Christian Horner
- Older brother of Y/N Horner
- One of the Driver for Redbull racing
- Loved by his father
- Protective to his younger sister
- Hates his own father because of neglecting his own daughter (you).
- Supportive to his younger sister, thinks that it’s cool that Y/N can draw and is a mechanic for the red bull
Sergio “Checo” Pérez (Red Bull racing driver)
- Mexican
- 5’8
- 34 years old
- Driving alongside Jonathan Horner.
- Has a crush on Y/N Horner, but doesn’t tell her because he thinks that y/n will not like her.
- Best friend of Y/N
- A shy and introverted person but talks a lot when he’s with Y/N
- Likes it when Y/n is telling him about how she likes art so much, sometimes takes Y/N in art museum whenever it’s race week.
- Y/n’s biggest fan when it comes to art.
- Treats y/n whenever he can, because he thinks that y/n deserves so much more.
- A ray of sunshine to Red bull
Toto Wolff (CEO and The Team Principal of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team)
- 52 years old
- Austrian
- 6’5 (🧎🏻♀️)
- Has a big problem with anger issues.
- Hates Horner and Redbull.
- Thinks that Y/N is too good for redbull
- Has a soft spot for y/n, but hides it because he doesn’t want y/n to think that he’s weak, given that he looks intimidating and tall ( well he is…)
- Divorced, has 1 kid with his Ex-Wife. (Not canon Toto:( )
- Jealous of Sergio, because Sergio's very close with y/n and he isn’t. In fact Y/N doesn’t even know him, she just knew that he’s the team principal of Mercedes, nothing else.
- Likes Y/N
- Brat tamer toto (RAAAAAAHHHHHH)
- Manipulative, He thinks that he can get anything, buy everything because he's toto Wolff, the team principal and the CEO of Mercedes formula one team.
Lewis Hamilton (Driver for Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team)
- British
- 39 years old
- 5’9
- A very close friend of toto
- Helping Y/N to know more about F1
- Thinks that Y/N deserves so much more and not just a mechanic
Supporting Characters:
F1 Grid (Drivers to be mentioned later on the story)
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MASTERLIST
Through The Looking Glass
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lea Willems - Verstappen (OC)
Summary: Max Verstappen and his wife’s relationship as told by Twitter.
Notes: So this came about, because I was on Instagram and looked at pictures from Alexandra Saint Mleux and was like…so what if a driver’s girlfriend looked more like me and less like her?
Then it became a whole thing, and I went down a rabbit’s hole about people online boyshaming athletes’ wives and girlfriends. This is the result. Also, it’s incredible difficult to even find aesthetic pictures to use in a smau that depict women that are even just mid-size, not even plus size. As a in-between girlie, I tried my best.
(Also I finally made a nice Lea 😂 I know somebody who will be very glad about that.)
Warnings: The internet being a horrible place. Nikita Mazepin bashing, but like…he is canonically a horrible person, so is it even bashing? Bodyshaming, fatphobic comments and the media being horrible. If I missed something, please let me know.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
@/gridarchives: The most underrated long game in F1 history is how everyone thought Max Verstappen’s marriage wouldn’t last.
How Max and Lea Verstappen went from “mad max mistake” to “paddock’s power couple”. A thread:
@/gridarchives: Let’s start with the basics: Max Emilian Verstappen, born 30 September 1997 in Hasselt, raised in Maaseik, Belgium. Lea Willems, born 12 April 1997, raised in Maaseik.
@/gridarchives: They met as kids. Both came from racing families — Lea’s older brother ran the local karting rink where Max used to train. They were inseparable. They met at 8. Were dating by 14. Married at 18.
@/gridarchives: 2015 — Max’s F1 debut. Lea’s still in school. Doesn’t follow him to every race. Doesn't start an Instagram. Doesn’t chase a spotlight.
They do long-distance. Quietly.
And when he gets his first victory in 2016, she’s the one waiting in the garage. Not in the VIP suite. Just… there.
@/gridarchives: max is 18. Fresh off a win in Barcelona. Deep in his Mad Max era—aggressive on track, icy in interviews, throwing elbows and collecting penalties like candy.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, He marries his high school girlfriend.
And announced it on Instagram:
@/gridarchives: Red Bull had no idea. Reportedly, Christian Horner found out when the rest of the world did.
Max showed up to the next debrief wearing a ring.
When asked about it, he just shrugged and said, “We got married.” Like it was no big deal.
@/gridarchives: Cue chaos. The media ripped it apart.
“Too young.” “Too fast.” “Is she pregnant?” “He’s ruining his focus.” Lea was called everything from clingy to irrelevant. She never said a word in response.
@/gridarchives: The Internet:
“This won’t last” “teenage hormones” “he’s too immature” “What is he even doing getting married?” “career suicide” “She’s just a karting fling, right?”
@/gridarchives: After the announcement, the backlash wasn’t just about the when. It became about the who.
The internet took one look at Lea Willems — now Lea Verstappen — and collectively lost its mind.
And not in a good way.
@/gridarchives: She didn’t look like what people expected. She wasn’t tall and wafer-thin. Wasn’t a size 0. She didn’t wear designer brands. She wasn’t a model, or a socialite, or someone famous in her own right. Wasn’t doing sponsored beauty campaigns or sitting front row at fashion week. She was a normal teenage girl who had the audacity to exist beside the fastest boy in the world. And that wasn’t enough for some people.
@/gridarchives: They called her fat.
They called her plain.
They called her a phase.
They called her “a distraction.” They said she was “a mistake made by a hormonal teenager.”
@/gridarchives: Some actual headlines from 2017:
“The Wife Verstappen Doesn’t Want You to Know About” Like she was a scandal, not a person.
“Not Exactly A Model Marriage” “Can Verstappen Do Better Off Track?” “Too Much Wife, Not Enough Wow”
because she wasn’t a size 0, because she didn’t wear makeup, because she had hips and curves and didn’t fit the “WAG” mould.
@/gridarchives: It wasn’t just tabloids.
Comment sections. Fan forums. Reddit threads.
People picked apart her weight, her clothes, and her posture. Zoomed in on photos to circle “problem areas.” Compared her side-by-side with other girlfriends in the paddock like it was a contest.
@/gridarchives: And she never defended herself. Not once. She didn’t clap back. Didn’t give an interview. Didn’t even post a Notes app statement. She just stayed by his side. Quiet. Steady. Private. Which, of course, only made them nastier.
@/gridarchives: Comment sections were disgusting. Fashion blogs ripped her apart. Paddock gossip accounts used blurred photos of her in jeans and sneakers with headlines like:
“This is the woman who tamed F1’s hottest young star?” It was sexist. It was fatphobic. It was constant.
@/gridarchives: Two headlines from 2017:
“Not Quite Paddock-Ready: The Woman Behind Verstappen’s Downfall” Another: “The Weight of Love: Can Max Stay Focused With Her Around?”
It was cruel. Dehumanizing. And relentless.
@/gridarchives: She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t care about glam paddock fashion. She wore baggy Red Bull hoodies and old Adidas. She didn’t post bikini pics. She didn’t post at all. She still doesn’t even have an Instagram account. And for some reason, that made people furious.
@/gridarchives: And it all came to a head in Malaysia. 2017. Max won his second career race. It was one of his best weekends. And then… that interview happened.
@/gridarchives: The interviewer, midway through what was supposed to be a fluff piece, decided to get clever.
“Now that you're a more high-profile name, have you ever thought of… upgrading the wife situation a bit?”
“I mean, she’s not exactly the grid’s most glamorous, is she?”
@/gridarchives: Max went completely still. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. The silence lasted a full 5 seconds—uncomfortable, searing.
Then he stood up. Took off the mic. And walked out.
Didn’t say a word.
@/gridarchives: Red Bull PR went into meltdown. The outlet tried to backpedal, claiming it was a joke. But Max? He was done. Hasn’t given that outlet a single interview since. Won’t speak to that journalist. Won’t allow access. Nothing. Complete blackout.
@/gridarchives: When asked about it later, he said only: “I’ve tolerated a lot of things in this sport. Insults. Pressure. Hate. But you don’t get to insult my wife. Ever.”
And that was that.
@/gridarchives: For nearly three years afterwards, Max refused to answer any questions about Lea. No interviews. No comments. If asked, he would shut it down with the same two words:
“No comment.” Sometimes cold. Sometimes biting. Always final.
@/gridarchives: At one point in 2018, a reporter tried to ask about Lea’s “lack of media polish” during a press conference. Max didn’t flinch. Just stared them down and said: “Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.” The room went silent.
@/gridarchives: He wasn’t just protecting her—he was making a point. If the world couldn’t treat her with basic respect, it didn’t get to know her.
@/gridarchives: Max Verstappen might be aggressive on track. But when it comes to her? He’s pure protection. No compromise. No apology.
@/gridarchives: Till this day, Max rarely posts about Lea on his Instagram. And when he does, he shuts the comments off. Not for the attention. Not for the aesthetic. But because the internet has never deserved her.
@/gridarchives: Once a year. Maybe twice. Usually on her birthday. Or their anniversary. Or something small and intimate—like a quiet photo of her walking ahead of him, holding their son’s hand, not even looking at the camera.
@/gridarchives: And the comments? Disabled. Every time.
Not to avoid backlash. But to cut it off before it starts.
@/gridarchives: A fan once asked in a Q&A why he disables comments.
Max said, “Because she didn’t ask for this. And if you’re going to look at her, you’ll do it with respect. Or not at all.”
@/gridarchives: He protects her like he protects his lead on the final lap— With focus. With fire. With zero margin for error.
Because that’s love, in Max Verstappen’s language.
Not public declarations. But boundaries.
@/gridarchives: And then came one of the wildest moments of the 2021 season that never made Drive to Survive:
@/gridarchives: mid-2021. Tensions are sky-high. Max and Lewis are locked in one of the most intense title battles in F1 history. Every race is war. Every point counts. And through all of it, Lea is quietly there. Present. Steady. Visibly keeping her distance from the media.
@/gridarchives: But as the summer break ends, rumours start. Whispers online. Tabloids are posting unflattering shots of Lea in the paddock. Comments like:
“Max’s wife letting herself go?” “Not paddock pretty.” “What happened to her figure?” And then… Nikita Mazepin opens his mouth.
@/gridarchives: Overheard at a hospitality lounge, according to multiple sources: Mazepin, laughing with some junior sponsor rep, said: “No wonder Max is driving angry. Imagine going home to that every night.” Gesturing toward Lea.
Someone told Max.
@/gridarchives: That weekend, Max cornered Mazepin. Not at the press. Not on camera. But behind the motorhomes. Multiple witnesses said you could hear him yelling. But the only quote that’s ever been confirmed?
“Talk about her again, and I’ll end your career before your car does.”
@/gridarchives: Mazepin reportedly tried to laugh it off. Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Just turned and walked away—straight back to Red Bull. Team management never commented.
@/gridarchives: And then came the Instagram post:
@/gridarchives: The internet went feral. F1 media tried to scramble for quotes. But Max didn’t say another word. Not about the incident. Not about the pregnancy. He just showed up at the next race and put the car on pole.
@/gridarchives: And then? Abu Dhabi 2021. The title fight went down to the wire.
@/gridarchives: According to multiple team sources, Lea stood quietly at the back of the garage the entire race. Didn’t pace. Didn’t panic. Just watched. Hands on her baby bump. When asked if she was nervous, she reportedly said:
“Why would I be? He was born for this.”
@/gridarchives: A Red Bull mechanic was overheard saying, “I’ve seen engineers cry. I’ve seen Horner nearly faint. But Lea? Lea stood there like it was a normal Thursday.”
@/gridarchives: When Nicholas Latifi crashed and the safety car came out, most of the paddock erupted into chaos. Lea? Sat down. Ate half a banana. Said, “He’ll take it. You’ll see.” Then leaned back like she knew something the universe didn’t.
@/gridarchives: After the race, everyone was losing their minds. Celebrating. Crying. Lea? Still calm. Still glowing. Walked through the crowd, straight to Max. Hugged him. Kissed him. Whispered something in his ear.
No one knows what she said. But he started crying.
@/gridarchives: Someone once asked Max what got him through that day. He said, Seeing my wife. Knowing she was there. If she was calm, I had no excuse not to be.”
@/gridarchives: Two months later, Max did maybe the funniest thing he has ever done: announcing he became a father during a random team redline stream like it was a tire strategy update.
@/gridarchives: February 2022. pre-season. Max is on a team redline stream. Chat is flying. Comms are chill. He’s driving like a demon. And then someone asks why he missed the previous session.
@/gridarchives: And Max, completely calm, goes: “Yeah, sorry, I was a bit busy. My son was born that day.”
Another driver on comms:
“Wait—WHAT?” “You had the baby?”
max: “Yeah. His name’s Kai.” casually overtakes three cars
@/gridarchives: Someone in the background (probably Jeffrey Rietveld) goes:
“Max, did you just soft-launch your child mid-race??”
Max:
“He’s perfect. Looks just like his mum.”
Icon. Legend. Zero chill. Zero Press. Just vibes.
@/gridarchives: Chat went FERAL. Clips instantly went viral. F1 Twitter lost its mind. Red Bull PR had to play catch-up for days.
@/gridarchives: Barcelona 2022. Two months after Max casually announced the birth of his son mid-sim-racing stream, he walked into the paddock in black sunglasses, a Red Bull hoodie, and a baby carrier.
@/gridarchives: Inside the carrier: a tiny, snoozing Kai Verstappen, 8 weeks old. Wearing noise-cancelling headphones and a Red Bull baby onesie. Strapped to Max’s chest like the calmest accessory in the world.
“My son’s first race,” Max said. “He should get used to the noise early.”
@/gridarchives: Lea was right beside him. Soft jeans, a linen shirt, hair up, a tote bag with what was presumably enough diapers to survive a national emergency. No makeup. No fuss. The quiet core of a very loud world.
They looked like a family on a casual stroll. Not the title favourites in the middle of a high-stakes season.
@/gridarchives: The media tried to swarm. Max didn’t stop walking. Lea didn’t even blink.
@/gridarchives: A Sky reporter asked if he was more nervous racing now that he had a kid. Max said, “No. I’ve always raced to win. Now I just get a hug either way.”
And then he smiled. Like a real one. And the internet broke.
@/gridarchives: He won that race, btw. Then went straight back to the garage to take Kai out of the headphones and kiss his forehead.
“He slept through the whole thing,” he told Sky Sports, grinning.
@/gridarchives: But Max wasn’t done for 2022. When the FIA banned jewellery in 2022, Max Verstappen responded by getting his wedding ring tattooed on.
@/gridarchives: So the FIA updated their rules: no jewellery in the car. No earrings. No chains. No rings. Supposedly for safety. Cue half the grid complaining, Lewis dragging them in interviews, and Max just going radio silent.
For about a week.
@/gridarchives: Then someone spots it. On the Thursday of the next GP. A thin, clean tattoo around Max’s ring finger. Black ink. No embellishments. Just a simple band.
Someone asks about it, and Max goes: “The rule said I had to take the ring off. Didn’t say I couldn’t make it permanent.”
@/gridarchives: Someone else asks if it hurt. “Not as much as leaving it off.”
@/gridarchives: Bonus: Christian Horner was reportedly told after the fact:
“Max walked in, took his gloves off, and I saw the ink. I said, ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He said, ‘FIA can’t ban skin.’”
@/gridarchives: Let’s also talk about how much Max’s family loves Lea:
@/gridarchives: Let’s start with Jos Verstappen. A man who, famously, trusts no one. But when asked once in a Dutch interview about his son’s success, he said:
“Max has two advantages. His talent. And Lea.” “She makes him better. She makes him calm.”
from Jos. That’s practically a sonnet.
@/gridarchives: Sophie Kumpen, Max’s mum, was the first to believe in Max & Lea. Sources say she knew from the start that Lea was “good for him.”
In a rare interview, Sophie said: “She’s grounded. She sees Max for who he really is—not the driver, not the number. The boy. The man. She’s calm. I like calm.” Mothers know. Mothers see.
@/gridarchives: Then there’s Victoria Verstappen, Max’s sister. Fashion, fitness, mama of three—loved by fans. Has repeatedly said that she considers Lea a sister, not an in-law.
“She’s my family. Has been since we were teenagers. We grew up side by side. I trust her with everything.”
@/gridarchives: And they were all fiercely protective of her during the years. According to a Dutch journalist, Jos once called an editor directly and said, “Write another headline about her weight, and I’ll see you in court.” #DadEnergy
@/gridarchives: Victoria has posted maybe a dozen photos with Lea in the past decade—quiet, untagged, casual:
@/gridarchives: And every single time, without fail, the comments are a mess. Bodyshaming. Comparisons. “She’s not hot enough.” “Why does she look tired?” The usual sexist, vile garbage.
@/gridarchives: But Victoria? She’s not having it.
“You don’t get to speak about my family that way.” “If you wouldn’t say it about yourself or your sister, don’t say it here.” “Delete this comment and never come back.”
“Take your body issues elsewhere”
“You must be exhausted being this bitter online”
That’s in the comments. Publicly. Repeatedly.
@/gridarchives: At one point in 2021, she even posted a story about it:
@/gridarchives: I am not done. Lea Verstappen is as much a part of Red Bull Racing as any race engineer or strategist.
Here’s what the people behind the scenes have said about her
@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2017) – early days: “Max keeps his private life very private. We respect that. I’ve only met Lea a few times, but she seems like a lovely, grounded young woman.” (translation: Who is this girl and where did she come from?)
@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2023) – post-Kai, post-3 world driver’s championship titles: “Lea’s been the calm in Max’s storm. She doesn’t need to be in front of the cameras to make an impact. She’s the reason he’s still sharp. Still here.”
@/gridarchives: Gianpiero Lambiase (GP), Max’s race engineer: “Lea is Max’s reset button. I’ve seen him go from zero to rage and back to calm in under a minute because of one text from her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.” Iconic.
@/gridarchives: Helmut Marko (2023): “I thought she’d be a distraction when they got married. I was wrong. She’s the opposite of a distraction. She made him… sharper. More dangerous, in a good way.” (yes. Helmut Marko said that.)
@/gridarchives: Red Bull comms team (2022), anonymously: “Lea has never, not once, asked for press management. No image control. No story spin. Her only request was: Don’t use Kai for content. And she said it so kindly, we printed it and taped it to the media room wall.”
@/gridarchives: Jonathan Wheatley (2022), Former Red Bull Sporting Director: “She’s the one person I’ll never say no to in the garage. She brings us banana bread and keeps Max from threatening to move to endurance racing when he’s moody.”
@/gridarchives: One mechanic from Red Bull’s pit crew (2020): “When the media was tearing her apart in ’17, she brought us coffee in the garage. No cameras. Just said, ‘Thanks for looking after him.’ I’ve worked 200+ races. That’s the only thank you I still remember.”
@/gridarchives: And the thing is? None of these quotes comes from trying to promote her. Lea has never once been part of the brand. She’s not a Red Bull ambassador. Not an image. Just a quiet presence who everyone, from Horner to the interns, has come to respect.
@/gridarchives And it’s not just Red Bull. Ask around the entire grid, and the way people talk about Lea Verstappen is with quiet awe.
@/gridarchives: Lewis Hamilton (2022): “She doesn’t show up for the cameras. She shows up for him. You can tell—there’s real love there. Real quiet. Real strong. I respect that.”
@/gridarchives: Daniel Ricciardo (2023): “Lea’s been around longer than most of the guys on the grid have even had race seats. She’s part of the Verstappen firmware. Comes with the engine. And her banana bread is terrifyingly good. Like… disarm-a-grown-man good.”
@/gridarchives: Charles Leclerc (2021): “She used to sit on the karting fences next to my mum. Always quiet. Always watching. People talk about Max changing over the years, but I think the best parts of him were always there. She just kept them safe.”
@/gridarchives: And then there’s Kai. Lea and Max’s son. Now a paddock regular with noise-cancelling headphones and strong opinions.
@/gridarchives: A little boy who adores his parents… and who calls Daniel Ricciardo “Uncle Danny”. Who calls Oscar Piastri “Car” and hugs his leg when he’s tired. (Oscar panics every time.) Who once tried to drive Lewis’s scooter, and Lewis let him.
@/gridarchives: It’s been almost ten years since Max and Lea Verstappen got married. They’ve weathered the spotlight. The storms. The silence. The wins.The losses The noise. The pressure. And through it all, they’ve never wavered.
@/gridarchives: Lea has never given an interview. Never done a press tour. Never gone on a podcast. There is no tell-all memoir. No YouTube vlog. No WAG content series.
Just: banana bread, Red Bull hoodies, and a quiet kind of grace that broke the mould.
@/gridarchives: Lea Verstappen didn’t come to the paddock to be famous. She didn’t come to be seen. She came to stand beside the boy she loved at 14— Who became a man. A world champion. A father.
And she never once let the world shake her.
@/gridarchives Max Verstappen doesn’t perform love. He protects it. And Lea Verstappen? She’s not just the woman behind the champion. She’s the reason he stayed human in a sport that tries to turn people into machines.
@/gridarchives: People tried to ignore her. Then tried to ridicule her. And when that didn’t work, they tried to erase her.
But she’s still here. Still Lea. Still standing exactly where she always has— Right next to Max.
@gridarchives Power couple doesn’t even cover it. Max & Lea Verstappen? They built something that lasted.
And in Formula 1? That’s rarer than a clean lap around Monaco in the wet.
Love Me To My Bones - Max Verstappen
Request from @myescapefromthislife - footballer Declan Rice and him having to speak up for his gf because she was trolled for not being "a glamour model or popstar", if you would make a story about a driver(you decide who) in a similar situation, with a girlfriend/wife who is not what the 'fans' think he should be with, but he loves her with everything she is
No part 2 requests please
Max never really thought about his girlfriend's body type as a problem, he loves her for more than he appearance. Though he'll tell her unprovoked how beautiful he thinks she is and how much he absolutely adores her.
Something he's never understood is how anyone things they have the right to comment on anyone's body. Especially commenting about a stranger they don't know.
"For you." Max smiles appearing home with a bouquet of tulips making y/n turn and look at him with a smile.
"For me?" Y/n laughs lightly taking them from him while he grins at her.
"Of course, I saw them and thought that they were just as beautiful as you." Max nods then kissing her softly.
"You don't have to do this..." Y/n mumbles as she looks at the flowers making him frown. "Don't pretend either. I know why you got these."
"Because I have a beautiful girlfriend."
Max isn't the most active on social media so it took him a while to find out that y/n had been getting hate. A lot of hate. Specifically hate about her body.
It wasn't till a couple days ago when she decided to archive her account and put on hold. A limbo between active and completely deleted but no one else can view it.
Y/n has been trying her best to keep out those thoughts about how her body looks out her head. But it's been met with little success. She's been trying everything to try and cover her body and Max's heart is breaking seeing her confidence be eaten up by people who don't even know her.
"Do you think the flowers are ugly?" Max asks making her frown almost looking offended.
"No. They're my favourite-"
"That's how I see you and that's how you should see yourself." Max tries making her look at him with a thick swallow. "Not even my opinion matters, y/n. It's just you and how you see yourself that matters."
"I'm just sick of seeing what they have to say, Max." Y/n whispers earning a sigh. "And now because I deleted everything, it's in the headlines and the media won't leave it alone."
Max career comes with a lot of frustrating elements. But he hates nothing more than the media, it's bad enough when they rip into him but at least he can tolerate that for the fact it's his own career so it makes sense that they write about him. Writing about y/n when she's done something that obviously suggests she doesn't want attention is just an insult to her and the epitome of disrespectful.
He has to handle this.
Y/n might not really like the idea of him speaking up in her defence and telling people to just leave her alone.
"Do you know...I love you like I never knew I could love someone." Max states making her sigh and shake her head. "I don't know who I'd be without you and I hate knowing that you're hurting because of what someone else thinks they have a right to say about you."
"I don't deserve you." Y/n whispers bottom lip trembling. "Look at me, Max. I don't deserve you, I don't look the part. Every other driver has a model, or an athlete or-"
"I don't want what they have then! I want you. If you asked me to describe the perfect woman, it's you. And I'm going to make sure they understand that.I can't force other people to have a brain or eyes that work." Max states while moving to finally pull her closer to herself.
"You can't call other people blind just because they see what you don't." Y/n mumbles as he holds her closely closing the space and kissing her to really just try and communicate his love in a way she can't dismiss as only words.
-
As much as he tried, Max couldn't convince y/n to come to the next race. He didn't want to push her too much when she's feeling so down. Instead he just enjoyed her videos and pictures with Jimmy and Sassy along with the promised pictures of her meals.
Max knows he should trust her to eat but with the comments being very much about her weight, he just wanted to make sure. He's been sending her pictures back of each meal he has. And he knows that she sees right through his intention of why he's doing what he's doing with the meals but he'd rather she know and do it than not know and potentially skip meals.
"So what do you want us to say?" The PR team asks after Max makes the request to have a meeting about the issues that his girlfriend is being faced with.
"That if it's not related to me and only me or the sport directly. I don't want anyone else in my life to be commented on. I think I can handle the stuff on my own social media." Max sighs making the team look between themselves. "You can read it over and make sure it's not a damaging message."
Though he wonders why he has to choose his words carefully. If he met even one of the people who have contributed towards y/n feeling as shitty about herself as she does. He'd love to have them lie on the track so he could hit there with his car.
"Does y/n know?" One of the PR girls asks making Max look at her. "Just it might be something you might want to mention...with how things are. There's going to be more attention on her when you make the post."
"She's not online anymore." Max mumbles then sighing. "I'll call her and let her know."
"Ok, good." The girl nods before they all seem to dismiss themselves.
Max sighs staring at his phone for a few moments before he sighs and picks it up tapping to call y/n who picks up after only a couple rings.
"Hey, baby." Y/n greets with a soft smile.
"Hey, sorry for calling without warning. I just wanted to...well I wanted to talk about something." Max explains making her look at him for a moment, waiting for further explanation. "I want to make a statement telling people to stop-and before you say it's a bad idea, baby it can't be any worse than it is."
"Would it make you feel better?" Y/n mumbles not arguing that things are at a bit of a rock bottom.
She hates that he own self-worth is so bad that she doesn't even want to be there for him on a race weekend.
"It's not about me. If you don't want me to do it then I'll stop the team and I won't make a statement." Max states softly earning a sigh. 'It'll get worse but it might make people shut up in thinking they have a right to comment.
"You can do it." Y/n sighs after the longest silence of Max's life.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean...maybe I was being a little harsh on myself. I probably should stop fighting the idea that you're not happy with me...you wouldn't put in the effort that you do if you really didn't want to be with me." Y/n smiles lightly while clearly stroking one of the cats out of the frame, the loud purring still reaching the mic for Max to hear so he can't help but smile.
"So it's ok?"
"Yes. I'm not going to see it anyway."
"I'll send my statement to you for you to ok first...I don't want to say anything that you're not happy with."
"Is the team checking it to?" Y/n teases since she knows a couple of the PR girls as friends so she knows the procedure for any public statements has to go through the team before it makes it to the online world for the public to read.
"I love you."
"I love you too...and I know it'll get better eventually." Y/n smiles earning a small nod. "I wish I was there...I know I kept saying no. But I do sort of regret it."
"We can still get you on a flight, I want you here."
"I don't know."
"Please, I would rather you be here and I can't put the statement out until I've actually written it and everyone is ok with it."
-
Y/n takes a deep breath as she tries to somewhat hide behind Max as they walk into the paddock. She'd flown in last night and Max spend the night with her, just figuring how what he wanted to say and how he needed to say it.
His statement went out this morning before they even arrived and maybe a surprise to no one. Pictures of the couple are being fought for.
"It's alright, baby. I've got you." Max smiles squeezing her hand and kissing the back of it.
He's arranged a little surprise for her, hoping to perk up her mood since she might be very slowly gaining some confidence back. He still feels it's his duty to do everything he can to help to gain back her confidence.
Walking into his driver's room there's 2 dozen bouquets of pink tulips.
"Maxie..." Y/n gasps then smiling as she looks at him. "This is so cute."
"All for you." Max smiles then smiling as he picks her up and kisses her a couple times. "I love you."
"I love you too."
And Max proves it later when he's in the media pen being asked about the statement.
"We don't want to discuss anything to do with y/n. But...we just want to ask if she's ok?"
"She's getting there. I think people really just need to learn that common respect goes a long way. I have some words for the people who make those kinds of comments which aren't so respectful. I will say that people can say what they like but I won't be letting them make any in my life miserable because they're jealous."
The reporter nods looking sympathetic since they've all seen what's been said, and really the comments are disgusting and there's really nothing that they're gaining from it.
"Thank you." Max smiles before moving away, happy that's the last interview for the day and when he sees y/n talking to Daniel who is holding a bag and speaking to her excitedly. "Hey, Daniel. What you doing?"
"I was just giving y/n the latest Enchanté line, all in here." Daniel smiles lifting the bag a little in gesture of it making Max take it since he'll never let y/n carry a bag.
"Thank you, Daniel. It's nice when I get a gift from my boyfriend's boyfriend." Y/n jokes catching their attention and watching them both grin at her. "How was media?"
"Boring. As always. But we can leave. So worth doing. Are you heading out mate?"
"Ah, I got a couple things to do. But let me know how the two of you like the clothes. I'm sure y/n can model and you can both give feed back." Daniel grins then hugging y/n. "He'll say you look beautiful in everything, and I have to agree. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise."
"Thank you." Y/n whispers before he pulls back and moves to give Max a shorter hug.
"Ready to go?"
"Just been to grab your stuff and at least some of the flowers from your room. Are you alright?" Y/n nods then smiling as he kisses her and mumbles a yes. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Are you alright?"
"I'm perfect. Better now you're here."
"Focus, George. Focus"
Sir with that voice?!
Enjoy the Butterflies
Daniel Ricciardo x crazy rich!Reader
Summary: in which Daniel gets dropped by his team and picked up by an heiress with a penchant for taking in strays
The heavy bass of the club still hums in your bones as you step out onto the pavement, the humid Singapore night wrapping around you like a second skin. The neon lights from Zouk, one of the city’s most exclusive nightclubs, pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat, and for a second, you stand still, relishing the quiet that follows hours of dancing, laughter, and too many cocktails.
The sounds of the party still echo behind you, a muffled roar of privilege and extravagance, but out here, it’s just you and the night.
Or so you think.
Your attention is pulled toward a commotion just a few meters away. You blink, trying to make sense of the scene. There’s a man — definitely not local, tall, and a little scruffy compared to the sharp-dressed crowd you’re used to — being unceremoniously escorted out by one of the bouncers. His head hangs low, and his shoulders are slumped in a way that screams defeat.
It’s not the dramatic, messy kind of exit where someone’s too drunk to stand, or too proud to admit they’ve done something wrong. No, this is different. This guy isn’t even trying to fight back.
“Get lost,” the bouncer grunts, shoving the man one last time before turning to head back inside.
You can’t help it — you freeze, your gaze lingering on him. He doesn’t move, just leans against the wall like he’s considering sinking to the ground. His posture is pitiful in a way that tugs at something inside you, that soft part of you that your family says is too soft. The part that’s always drawn to the broken, the hopeless, the ones who don’t quite fit.
He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, his eyes flicking up to the club entrance, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll magically be allowed back in. He’s pathetic. There’s no other word for it. But he’s also kind of endearing, in a weird way.
“Pathetic,” you mutter under your breath, half-amused.
You could leave him there, you know that. This isn’t your problem. He’ll figure something out. Or not. It’s not like you owe him anything, but …
"Are you just going to stand there?” You hear yourself saying, your feet already moving toward him before you can stop them.
His head snaps up, clearly not expecting anyone to address him. His eyes — big, brown, and confused — lock onto yours. He’s a little scruffy, but there’s something boyishly charming about him.
“I — uh,” he stammers, straightening up slightly but still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “No. I mean, yeah, I guess?”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
He shrugs helplessly. “Well, I don’t really have one. Kinda got kicked out of the only place I planned on being tonight.”
You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”
“I, uh …” He scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, honestly. Might’ve been a little too loud, or maybe I was blocking someone important from getting their drinks. These places, man, they don’t like it when you’re … disruptive.”
You cross your arms, glancing at him up and down. He doesn’t look dangerous, just out of place. “You sound like you deserved it.”
He winces. “Probably did.”
There’s a beat of silence, and you’re still standing there, wondering why you’re wasting your time. Then, before you know it, you’re sighing. Your family would shake their heads at you, calling you too kind for your own good.
“Come on,” you say, jerking your head toward the curb. “Let’s go.”
He blinks. “What?”
You nod toward the curb, where your Rolls Royce waits, engine quietly idling. The chauffeur stands by, staring straight ahead like this is the most normal thing in the world, like this isn’t some insane act of kindness you’re pulling out of nowhere.
“I’m not leaving you out here,” you say, already heading toward the car. “Get in.”
“Uh — wait, seriously?” He hurries to catch up, still clearly not processing what’s happening. “You don’t even know me.”
You shrug, throwing a look over your shoulder. “Do I need to?”
“Usually, yeah,” he says, jogging slightly to keep pace with you. “I mean, what if I’m like, a complete psycho or something?”
“If you were, I doubt you’d be sitting against a wall feeling sorry for yourself,” you shoot back, opening the car door. “Now get in before I change my mind.”
There’s a brief moment of hesitation, like he’s weighing his options, but then he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, and slides into the backseat beside you. The leather is cool against your skin, the scent of luxury and privilege permeating the air, and for a second, it’s quiet as the door closes behind you both.
The driver pulls away from the curb smoothly, not asking questions.
“So … you do this often?” The man asks, still clearly bewildered. “Pick up random guys outside clubs?”
You snort, turning to face him. “Definitely not.”
“Then why me?”
You shrug. “You looked pathetic.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and for a second, you think you’ve offended him, but then he laughs — loud, unabashed, and surprising. “Wow. Okay. Well, thanks, I guess?”
You smile despite yourself. “Don’t mention it.”
He leans back in the seat, still grinning. “I’m Daniel, by the way. Ricciardo. Not sure if that means anything to you.”
You narrow your eyes, the name clicking into place. “The F1 driver?”
He looks a little sheepish but nods. “Yeah, that’s me.”
You stare at him for a moment, processing that. It’s not like you keep up with racing, but you’ve definitely heard of him. Seen him in ads, maybe, or on TV. It’s a little weird, thinking about it now. The same guy who’s smiling at you, a little bashfully, is famous in his own right.
“I didn’t recognize you,” you say, somewhat apologetic.
He shrugs again, more relaxed now. “Don’t worry about it. Happens more often than you think. Usually, I’m not getting kicked out of places, though.”
You smirk. “Good to know.”
There’s a comfortable silence after that, the two of you settling into the soft hum of the car as it glides through the streets. You steal a glance at him, watching as he stares out the window, looking slightly more at peace now that he’s not sitting on the pavement outside of a nightclub. He catches you looking, raising an eyebrow.
“So, you’re just gonna take me home, drop me off like a stray cat?” He teases, flashing you that boyish grin again.
You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Depends. Do stray cats usually get rides in Rolls Royces?”
“Only the ones that get kicked out of clubs,” he fires back, and you can’t help but laugh.
This was definitely not how you expected your night to go.
***
You lean back in your seat, letting the smooth hum of the Rolls Royce fill the silence for a moment. Daniel seems more relaxed now, but there’s still something hanging in the air, something that makes you look at him again, curiosity getting the better of you.
"So," you say, turning your head slightly to study him, "where am I dropping you off? What hotel are you staying at?"
Daniel blinks, the question catching him off guard. He looks at you, then at the ceiling of the car like the answer might be written somewhere above his head. “Uh … yeah, about that …”
You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”
He winces, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Not exactly. I mean, I know I checked into a place, obviously, but I can’t remember the name right now.”
“You can’t remember what hotel you’re staying at?” Your tone is somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Daniel shrugs, unbothered. “It’s been a long day. Plus, there’s like, a million hotels in Singapore. They all start to blur together.”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Okay, genius. So how were you planning on getting back?”
“Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he admits, grinning lazily. Then, the grin fades, and something shifts in his expression — something a little sadder, more raw. “Honestly, even if I did know, I don’t really want to go back there.”
You frown. “Why not?”
He hesitates, eyes flicking to the window as if he can avoid answering by watching the city lights whiz by. After a long pause, he sighs and leans back against the seat, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I got dropped,” he mutters, almost too quietly for you to hear.
“Dropped?” You repeat, confused. “From what?”
“From my team,” he clarifies, his voice a little hoarse. “VCARB. They, uh, decided they didn’t want me around anymore.”
You blink, the realization hitting you like a sudden cold wave. “Oh.”
Daniel doesn’t say anything for a moment, the silence growing heavy. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly as he picks at an invisible thread on his jeans.
“I mean,” he finally continues, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I kinda saw it coming. Just didn’t think it’d happen this fast, y’know?”
The lightheartedness from earlier is completely gone now, replaced by something darker, something heavier. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the frustration and sadness barely concealed behind his crooked grin.
“I thought I had more time,” he says softly, his voice raw with vulnerability. “But I guess that’s how it goes. One day you’re on top of the world, and the next … well, you’re getting kicked out of nightclubs.”
You stay quiet, unsure of what to say. You weren’t expecting to find yourself in this situation tonight — sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce with a famous F1 driver who just lost his job. And yet, here you are, listening to him spill his heart out in the middle of the night, somewhere between Zouk and wherever he was supposed to go next.
“I just don’t want to be around them right now,” he continues, voice thick. “The team, the people … they’re all pretending to be nice, like it’s just business, but it’s not. It’s my life. My career.”
He shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “And now it’s over. Just like that.”
You let out a sigh, long and heavy. “So, you don’t want to go back to your hotel?”
“Not really,” Daniel mutters, slumping back in his seat.
You stare at him for a second, weighing your options. Your chauffeur is driving aimlessly through the city, waiting for your instructions, and Daniel is sitting here, lost in his own world of disappointment. He looks tired, drained, and you’re not cruel enough to leave him like this.
“Well,” you say, after a beat of silence, “I guess you’re coming with me then.”
Daniel’s head snaps up, his brows furrowing. “Wait, what?”
You glance at him, your voice firm. “You heard me. You can’t remember your hotel, you don’t want to go back even if you could, and I’m not about to leave you wandering around Singapore. So, you’re coming to my place.”
He stares at you, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “Are you serious?”
You roll your eyes. “Would I say it if I wasn’t?”
For a moment, he looks like he’s about to argue, but then he slumps back in his seat again, exhaling a long, tired breath. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
You nod, already turning to the front of the car. “Take us home,” you tell your chauffeur, who acknowledges the instruction with a curt nod before the car smoothly shifts direction.
Daniel leans his head against the window, eyes heavy. “Thanks,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
You wave it off. “I know.”
A few minutes pass in silence, the soft sound of the tires against the road lulling both of you into a calm quiet. You glance over at Daniel again, noticing how his eyelids are drooping more and more, his head bobbing slightly as he fights to stay awake.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” you comment, amused.
“M’not,” he protests, but his words are already slurred. “Just … resting my eyes.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sure.”
It doesn’t take long before his breathing evens out, and his head tips to the side, fully succumbing to sleep. You shake your head, watching him for a moment. He looks peaceful like this, the weight of whatever he’s been carrying lifted, if only temporarily.
“Of course,” you mutter to yourself, leaning back in your seat, “this is how my night ends.”
The car pulls up in front of your building — a sleek, modern tower in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Your chauffeur steps out first, coming around to open the door for you. You step out gracefully, smoothing your dress, but when you look back into the car, Daniel is still out cold, slumped awkwardly in the seat.
You sigh. “This is not happening.”
Your chauffeur, ever professional, stands at attention, waiting for your next move. You consider your options for a second before glancing at him. “Help me get him inside, will you?”
The chauffeur doesn’t hesitate, nodding curtly. He moves to the other side of the car and carefully opens the door. Together, you manage to maneuver Daniel out of the backseat, his arm draped over the chauffeur’s shoulder as he leans heavily against him. Daniel stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, too deep in sleep to even register what’s happening.
The doorman, recognizing you immediately, rushes over to assist. “Miss Y/L/N,” he says, eyes flicking from you to the unconscious Daniel, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, giving him a tight smile. “Just … had a long night.”
The doorman nods, not pressing further, and helps the chauffeur guide Daniel through the lobby and into the elevator. You follow behind, feeling a little ridiculous but knowing there’s no turning back now.
The elevator ride is quiet, save for Daniel’s soft breathing as he leans against the wall, still fast asleep. You glance at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. What a night.
When you finally reach your penthouse, the door slides open smoothly, and the chauffeur and doorman gently ease Daniel onto your plush couch. He sprawls out, looking even more out of place among the sleek, expensive furniture, but you can’t help but chuckle at the sight.
“Thanks,” you tell the men, who nod before excusing themselves quietly, leaving you alone with your unexpected guest.
You stand there for a moment, looking at Daniel as he sleeps soundly on your couch. His shoes are still on, one arm hanging off the side, and his mouth slightly open in a way that’s almost comical. Shaking your head, you grab a blanket from a nearby chair and drape it over him.
“Well, this is definitely not how I thought my night would go,” you mutter to yourself, standing back and crossing your arms as you look at him one last time.
With a sigh, you turn and head toward your bedroom, already mentally preparing for the chaos tomorrow is likely to bring.
***
You’re in the middle of a dream when you hear it — the unmistakable sound of your mother’s voice. Loud, sharp, and utterly out of place in the peaceful silence of your penthouse. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding in your chest as you try to piece together why in the world she would be here, at this ungodly hour.
And then you hear it. A scream.
“Who is this man?”
Your stomach drops, the reality of last night hitting you like a freight train. Daniel. He’s still here. Passed out on your couch. And now, your very traditional mother is standing in your living room, probably about to have a heart attack.
You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over yourself as you rush toward the living room. You can already hear her ranting, a mix of shock and outrage in her voice, and you don’t even have time to think before you’re standing in front of her, trying to calm the situation down.
“Mum!” You blurt out, trying to sound casual, like this isn’t the absolute disaster it clearly is. “What are you doing here?”
Your mother’s eyes are wide, her perfectly manicured hand pressed dramatically against her chest as she stares down at Daniel, who’s still blissfully unconscious, mouth slightly open, one arm dangling off the edge of the couch.
“I could ask you the same thing!” She snaps, her voice rising with every word. “Why is there a man sleeping in your living room? And why-” she leans in, eyes narrowing, “does he look like he’s been out drinking all night?”
Your mind races, panic bubbling up as you try to figure out what to say, what kind of excuse would possibly explain this. And then, without even thinking, the words tumble out of your mouth.
“He’s … he’s my boyfriend.”
The second the lie leaves your lips, you know it’s a terrible idea. But it’s too late now. Your mother freezes, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she looks between you and Daniel. “Your … boyfriend?” She repeats, her tone incredulous.
You nod, forcing a tight smile, praying that Daniel stays asleep long enough for you to get through this. “Yes. My boyfriend.”
Your mother looks like she’s about to faint. “And you didn’t tell me? You-”
“I was going to!” you interrupt quickly. “But it’s … it’s new. Very new. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
She crosses her arms, still clearly not buying it. “And this is how you introduce him to your mother? Drunk and passed out in your living room?”
“He’s not drunk,” you say quickly, even though that’s obviously a lie. “He’s … uh, just really tired. He’s been going through a lot lately.”
At that moment, you hear a groan from the couch. You glance over, heart sinking as Daniel stirs, slowly blinking awake. His face is pale, and the second he opens his eyes, you can see the hangover written all over him.
“Wh-” Daniel starts, voice groggy as he sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Where …”
Your mother’s eyes widen, and she turns to you, her expression one of absolute horror. “This is him?” She whispers, like you’ve just committed some kind of unspeakable crime.
You give her a weak smile. “Yes. Mum, this is Daniel.”
Daniel’s head snaps up at the sound of his name, his bleary eyes trying to make sense of the situation. He looks at you, confused, and you give him a pointed look, willing him to just go along with it.
"Daniel," you say through gritted teeth, “this is my mother. Remember? I told you she might stop by.”
Daniel blinks at you, his brow furrowed in confusion. It takes a second, but you can practically see the gears turning in his brain as he tries to process what’s happening. Finally, he nods slowly, trying to catch up. “Right. Your mum. Uh, hi.”
Your mother stares at him, unimpressed. “Are you alright?” She asks, her voice cold and judgmental.
Daniel, still clearly half-asleep and in the throes of a wicked hangover, gives her a shaky smile. “Yeah, just … didn’t sleep great,” he mumbles, leaning back into the couch.
You wince internally, but keep up the act. “He’s been working so hard lately,” you say quickly, hoping to smooth things over. “With his job and everything.”
Your mother’s eyes narrow further. “And what does he do, exactly?”
Daniel glances at you, panic flickering in his eyes, clearly not prepared for this interrogation. You jump in before he can make things worse.
“He’s … in sports,” you say vaguely. “He’s an athlete.”
Your mother’s gaze doesn’t soften in the slightest. “What kind of athlete?”
You feel Daniel’s eyes on you, pleading silently for help. “Formula 1,” you say quickly. “He’s a Formula 1 driver.”
Your mother blinks, taken aback by this revelation. “A race car driver?” She repeats, like it’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “That’s … interesting.”
You can tell she’s not impressed, but at least it’s bought you a little time. You just need to get through this without her prying too much further.
“I promise, Mum, Daniel’s a good guy,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “He just … had a rough night. That’s all.”
Your mother’s gaze flicks between you and Daniel, suspicion still heavy in her eyes. “And where did he sleep?”
You freeze. “Uh …”
Daniel, finally catching on to what’s happening, sits up a little straighter. “I slept here,” he says quickly, gesturing to the couch. “On the couch. I didn’t … you know …”
He trails off, looking at your mother awkwardly, but the message is clear.
Your mother’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised by his admission. “You didn’t share a bed?”
You shake your head vigorously. “No, Mum. We didn’t share a bed. We’re not married, remember?”
For the first time since she walked in, your mother seems to relax a little, her rigid posture softening just a bit. “Well,” she says, sounding somewhat mollified, “at least he has some morals.”
You breathe a silent sigh of relief, nodding along. “Exactly. Daniel’s … very respectful.”
Daniel gives a small, awkward smile, clearly still trying to wrap his head around the situation. “Uh, yeah. Very … respectful.”
Your mother studies him for a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “Well, I suppose it could be worse.”
You almost laugh at that but manage to keep a straight face. “Right.”
There’s a brief pause as your mother smooths down her dress, glancing around the penthouse like she’s looking for something to criticize. Then, her eyes land back on you, and she smiles — one of those deceptively sweet smiles that always makes you nervous.
“Well,” she says brightly, “since I’m here, I’d love to get to know Daniel a bit better. Why don’t you two join me for dinner tonight?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Dinner? Tonight?”
Your mother nods, clearly not taking no for an answer. “Yes. I think it’s high time I meet this boyfriend of yours properly.”
You glance at Daniel, who’s looking at you with wide, slightly panicked eyes. You can tell he’s regretting every decision that led him to this moment, but there’s no way out now. You’re both trapped.
“Uh, sure,” you say weakly. “We’d love to.”
Your mother beams, clearly pleased with herself. “Wonderful! I’ll have my assistant call to make the reservation. Seven o’clock sharp. You know where. Don’t be late.”
Before you can respond, she’s already turning on her heel, heading toward the door with a satisfied smile on her face. “I’ll see you both tonight,” she calls over her shoulder as she exits, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.
The door clicks shut, and the room is suddenly, blissfully quiet.
You turn to Daniel, who’s staring at you, still half-dazed from sleep and now fully confused about what just happened.
“Boyfriend?” He croaks, his voice rough from the hangover.
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing your temples. “I panicked.”
He groans, flopping back onto the couch. “Dinner with your mum? Really?”
“Yes. And if you don’t play along, I’m pretty sure she’ll disown me.”
Daniel chuckles weakly, rubbing his temples. “Great. Just great.”
You stare at him for a moment, then flop down next to him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushions. “This is a disaster.”
“Eh,” Daniel mutters, eyes closed. “Could be worse.”
You shoot him a look. “How?”
He cracks one eye open, grinning. “At least I didn’t throw up on her.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “That’s not funny.”
But when you look up, you can’t help but laugh, because as ridiculous as this entire situation is, somehow, in the madness of it all, you know tonight is going to be even worse.
***
Dinner is already awkward. You can feel the tension every time your mother glances at Daniel, her polite smile not quite reaching her eyes. It’s a small, exclusive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters wear gloves, and the courses are tiny but outrageously expensive. The chef is renowned for his traditional yet experimental take on Singaporean cuisine, which is perfect because your mother insists on a display of sophistication when it comes to hosting. Unfortunately, that also means the pressure on Daniel is palpable.
Daniel sits across from you, trying to look comfortable, though his hand is constantly fiddling with his napkin under the table. Your mother, seated beside him, is maintaining her usual air of grace, but you can see she’s sizing him up, scrutinizing every bite, every word. And you … you’re just trying to survive.
“So, Daniel,” your mother begins, swirling her wine like a seasoned critic, “what are your long-term plans? With your career, I mean.”
Daniel freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth, the question clearly catching him off guard. He clears his throat, scrambling to find an answer that sounds impressive. “Well, uh, things are a bit … in flux right now,” he says, offering a weak smile. “But I’m working on it.”
Your mother arches an eyebrow. “In flux? That doesn’t sound very … stable.”
You kick Daniel lightly under the table, silently willing him to come up with something better than “in flux.” He glances at you for help, but you just widen your eyes, urging him to recover.
“Yeah, well,” Daniel says, trying to salvage the conversation, “I’ve been racing for a while, you know? Formula 1. It’s a pretty high-pressure job, so … I’m considering my next move carefully.”
Your mother makes a noncommittal hum, clearly unimpressed. “I see.”
You want to sink into the floor.
“I’m going to excuse myself for a moment,” you say quickly, standing from the table. “I’ll be right back.”
Daniel gives you a look that screams *don’t leave me alone with her*, but there’s no way around it. You shoot him an apologetic smile before making your way toward the restroom, leaving him to fend for himself.
As soon as you’re gone, the silence at the table becomes almost deafening. Daniel shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around the room as if he’s suddenly forgotten how to act normal. He’s about to reach for his water glass when he notices your mother watching him closely.
“So,” she says, her tone unnervingly calm, “Daniel.”
He straightens up, unsure if he should be relieved or terrified that she’s addressing him directly. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I think we should speak candidly, don’t you?” She says, her voice as smooth as silk but with an edge that makes Daniel’s skin crawl. She reaches into her handbag, and Daniel feels his stomach lurch with nerves. What’s she going to pull out? A contract? Some kind of questionnaire?
What she pulls out, however, is much worse.
It’s a small, velvet box. A ring box.
Daniel’s heart stops. His eyes widen as he stares at the box, his mind spinning, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
Your mother places the box delicately in front of him, her expression serene, like she’s offering him a cup of tea rather than a proposal-sized bombshell. “I’ve been waiting for Y/N to bring home a boy for quite some time,” she says, her voice soft but pointed. “And now that she has … well, I can’t let this moment pass.”
Daniel opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out. He’s too stunned to respond, completely blindsided by this sudden turn of events.
Your mother’s eyes gleam, and she leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if she’s sharing a secret. “Of course, I would have preferred if you were Singaporean,” she continues, her tone just a touch sharper, “but I’m not getting any younger, and I want grandchildren. So, we can’t be picky, can we?”
Daniel’s mind goes blank. He tries to form a coherent thought, a response, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, “I … uh …”
Your mother regards him with the same calm, calculating gaze she’s had since the start of dinner, as though this entire interaction is completely normal. “You’ll do,” she says simply, and there’s a finality in her tone that makes it clear this isn’t up for debate.
Daniel stares at the ring box, his brain short-circuiting. Is this really happening? He glances around the restaurant, half-expecting someone to jump out and tell him it’s all some elaborate prank. But no one does. It’s just him, your mother, and the heavy weight of that velvet box sitting between them.
He’s completely out of his depth. He can’t even think of how to respond to your mother’s words, let alone the fact that she’s just essentially handed him an engagement ring.
“I-” he starts again, but his throat is dry, and nothing coherent follows.
“Daniel,” she interrupts smoothly, her gaze sharpening. “You’re a good man, I can tell. And you’re very … respectful.” The word drips with meaning, making Daniel shift in his seat.
Before he can stammer out anything in return, the restroom door swings open, and you reappear, walking back toward the table, blissfully unaware of the bomb that’s just been dropped.
Daniel panics. His mind races as you approach, and without thinking, he snatches the ring box off the table, slipping it into his jacket pocket in one swift movement. His heart is racing, his palms suddenly sweaty, but he tries to keep his expression neutral.
“Everything alright?” You ask, sliding back into your seat, oblivious to the tension radiating from both Daniel and your mother.
Daniel clears his throat, forcing a tight smile. “Yep. All good.”
Your mother smiles pleasantly, folding her hands in her lap. “Oh, we were just having a lovely little chat.”
You look between them suspiciously, but there’s no sign of the chaos that just occurred. Daniel’s poker face is impressive, but you can sense something is off. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he just gives you a strained smile in return.
The rest of dinner is a blur. You try to focus on the conversation, but your mother seems to be on her best behavior, keeping things light and superficial. Daniel is unusually quiet, nodding along and making polite comments when necessary, but there’s something distant about him, like he’s somewhere else entirely.
By the time dessert arrives, you can’t shake the feeling that something happened while you were gone. But Daniel isn’t saying a word, and your mother’s serene expression betrays nothing.
As the waiter clears the last of the plates, your mother dabs at her mouth with her napkin, looking between the two of you with an air of satisfaction. “Well,” she says, standing from the table, “this has been lovely. I’m so glad we could all spend this time together.”
You force a smile, standing as well. “Yes, of course. It was … lovely.”
Daniel stands too, his movements a little stiffer than usual, like he’s trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he says politely, though his voice is a bit strained.
Your mother gives him one last, long look, then smiles warmly. “Oh, Daniel, you’re always welcome. Anytime.”
With that, she gathers her things and heads for the door, leaving you and Daniel standing there in stunned silence. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, turning to Daniel.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” You ask, trying to lighten the mood.
Daniel gives a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah … not too bad.”
You narrow your eyes at him, picking up on the odd tone in his voice. “Are you sure? You’ve been acting weird since I got back to the table.”
He blinks, his hand instinctively brushing the pocket where the ring box is hidden. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Just … full. Really full.”
You raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but decide to let it slide for now. “Alright. If you say so.”
As you both head for the door, Daniel’s mind is still racing, the weight of the ring box burning a hole in his pocket. He has no idea what to do with it, or what your mother expects from him, but one thing is for sure — he’s in way over his head.
And he’s not sure how much longer he can keep pretending.
***
Back at your penthouse, the atmosphere feels … tense. Not the sort of charged tension from earlier, but something more fragile, awkward. The kind that makes everything feel a bit too quiet, like the air is too thick with things unsaid. You and Daniel are sitting on opposite ends of the plush couch in your living room. It’s not that big of a couch, but the distance feels enormous.
Daniel is fidgeting, running a hand through his hair, tapping his fingers on his knee. You’re sitting with your arms crossed, staring at him, waiting. But waiting for what, exactly? Neither of you knows. The silence stretches between you both, and it’s unbearable. Every breath feels louder than it should.
“Uh …” Daniel finally starts, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to find something — anything — to say. But nothing seems right, so he just ends up staring back at you, eyes darting around like he’s looking for a way out.
You, on the other hand, are unusually still, your eyes narrowed at him. It’s like you’re waiting for him to make the first move, but he’s not catching on. Not yet.
Daniel swallows hard, and after a moment of hesitation, his hand moves toward his jacket pocket. Your eyes flick to the motion, and his fingers tremble slightly as they close around the velvet box, pulling it out with an awkward kind of determination, as if it’s weighing him down more than anything. He holds it for a second, staring at it like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve.
Then, with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he opens the box.
The soft click of the hinge seems impossibly loud in the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare. The ring glimmers under the soft lighting, catching the faintest reflection of the overhead chandelier. It’s not just any ring. You recognize it immediately.
And then, as if someone flipped a switch, you start laughing.
Daniel’s eyes snap to you in confusion, his brows furrowing. “What … what’s so funny?”
You’re still giggling, pressing your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t work. The laughter bubbles up uncontrollably, and Daniel looks like he’s caught between being relieved that you’re not mad and completely baffled by your reaction.
“You-” you manage between breaths, “That ring … that’s my grandmother’s. Oh my God, she’s really lost it.”
Daniel blinks, glancing down at the ring again, his confusion only deepening. “Wait, what?”
“My mother,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye, “She must be really desperate to get me married off if she’s giving out my grandmother’s ring to the first guy I bring to dinner. I can’t believe it.”
Daniel stares at you for a second, then back at the ring. “This is your … grandmother’s?” His voice is shaky, like the absurdity of the situation is just now hitting him.
You nod, biting your lip to stifle another laugh. “Yup. She always said it was meant for the man I’d marry one day. Guess she couldn’t wait any longer.”
Daniel’s face goes through a range of emotions — shock, embarrassment, and finally, something like disbelief. “I … I don’t even know what to say.”
You snicker again, leaning back against the couch and crossing your arms. “I think the bigger question here is — why didn’t you say anything to me? Did you just plan on pocketing the ring and hoping I wouldn’t notice?”
Daniel shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing. “I — I didn’t know what to do. Your mom just … handed it to me. I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘No, thank you, ma’am, I’m not ready for an arranged marriage just yet?’”
You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That might’ve been a good start.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, clearly struggling to find a way out of this. Finally, he lets out a defeated sigh and leans back, running both hands through his hair. “This is insane.”
“You think?” You quip, smirking.
Daniel’s gaze drops to the ring again, and there’s a beat of silence before you speak up, this time your tone more playful than mocking. “Well,” you say, drawing out the word, “if you’re gonna propose, you should at least get on one knee. You know, for tradition’s sake.”
Daniel’s head snaps up, eyes wide in disbelief. “What?”
You laugh again, your teasing smile growing. “I mean, come on. If we’re going through with this charade, you might as well go all in. Get down on one knee, Ricciardo.”
He blinks at you, completely at a loss for words. “You’re not serious.”
“Why not?” You shoot back, still grinning. “What’s stopping you? You don’t have a job anymore, so it’s not like you have much else going on. You could always be my trophy husband.”
There’s a flicker of something in Daniel’s eyes — part shock, part amusement, and maybe just a little bit of something else. “Trophy husband?” He echoes, his voice incredulous.
You shrug, leaning forward and resting your chin on your hand, as if the idea were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. I mean, think about it. You wouldn’t have to work, I’d take care of you. You could just … exist. Isn’t that every guy’s dream?”
Daniel laughs — an actual laugh this time, though it’s tinged with disbelief. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
You grin. “Maybe. But I’m also not wrong.”
For a moment, the room is quiet again, but it’s not the awkward silence from before. This is something lighter, filled with the remnants of laughter and the weight of an unspoken understanding. Daniel is still holding the ring box, his thumb absently running over the velvet surface as he processes everything that’s just happened.
And then, because clearly, the universe hasn’t thrown enough chaos at him lately, Daniel does something that surprises both of you.
He nods.
It’s a small, hesitant nod at first, like he’s not even sure he’s agreeing to anything real. But then he meets your gaze, and there’s a flicker of something — maybe exhaustion, maybe delirium, maybe just the sheer absurdity of it all — and he nods again. This time, more certain.
“Alright,” he says quietly, still staring at the ring. “Okay.”
You freeze, blinking at him in surprise. “Wait … what?”
Daniel looks up at you, his expression unreadable but calm. “I said … okay. Let’s do it.”
For the first time tonight, you’re the one who’s caught off guard. “You’re joking.”
He shakes his head slowly, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Nope.”
You sit up straighter, suddenly unsure whether you’re still in the middle of some elaborate joke or if the reality of the past few days has finally broken Daniel’s sense of logic. “You — wait, seriously? You’d marry me?”
Daniel shrugs, though there’s a glimmer of humor in his eyes now. “I mean, like you said … I don’t have a job anymore. And hey, being a trophy husband doesn’t sound half bad.”
You stare at him, searching his face for any sign of a punchline. But the longer you look, the more you realize he’s not kidding. He’s serious. Or as serious as someone in his situation can be.
A beat passes. Then another.
And suddenly, you burst into laughter again.
“God, you’re insane,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief. “This whole thing is insane.”
Daniel grins, leaning back into the couch with a relieved sigh, as if your laughter has lifted the tension from the room entirely. “Welcome to my life.”
You shake your head again, still chuckling, though there’s something warm and strange growing in your chest. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
Daniel glances at the ring one more time before closing the box with a soft click and slipping it back into his pocket. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer now, “if nothing else, at least we’ll give your mother something to talk about at her next dinner party.”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Oh, she’ll have a field day.”
For a moment, the two of you just sit there, side by side on the couch, the absurdity of the night finally settling over you both. It’s ridiculous, completely irrational, and yet somehow, in this moment, it feels … right.
Daniel nudges you with his elbow, breaking the silence. “So … when’s the wedding?”
You groan, but you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Daniel chuckles, leaning back into the cushions, finally starting to relax. “Yeah. One step at a time.”
But even as you say it, you can’t shake the feeling that this strange, accidental engagement is just the beginning of something even more complicated.
And maybe you’re okay with that.
***
You come home the next afternoon, practically skipping into the penthouse, your eyes sparkling with excitement. The energy around you is contagious, and even Daniel, who’s lounging on the couch with a glass of water — probably trying to recover from the whirlwind of the past few days — can’t help but smile at your entrance.
“You look … happy,” Daniel says, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What did I miss?”
You clap your hands together like an excited child, barely containing your glee. “I got you something.”
Daniel’s smile falters for a moment, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Wait, what? You got me something?” He straightens up on the couch, his brows furrowing. “You really didn’t have to do that-”
“Shush.” You wave a hand at him, cutting him off before he can protest further. “I wanted to. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
Daniel chuckles, though there’s a nervous edge to his voice. “Alright, alright. What is it then? A new watch? Shoes?” He pauses, glancing at you skeptically. “Wait, is it another one of your mum’s rings?”
You shake your head, grinning like you’ve just pulled off the best surprise in the world. “Nope. Guess again.”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Okay … well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s great but-”
“I bought Red Bull Racing.”
For a second, it’s like the words don’t register. Daniel blinks at you, his expression blank as his brain tries to process what you just said. There’s a long beat of silence before his mouth finally drops open in disbelief.
“You … you what?”
Your grin widens. “I bought Red Bull Racing. You know, the Formula 1 team? Your old team?” You say it so casually, like you’re talking about picking up a pair of shoes or booking a vacation.
Daniel’s jaw is still hanging open. “You — wait — are you serious?” He’s half laughing now, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke. But the look on your face — pure, unfiltered joy — tells him you’re very, very serious.
“Yup!” You say, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Apparently, if you offer double what a team is worth, the owners tend to sell pretty quickly. Who knew?”
Daniel stares at you, completely slack-jawed, like you’ve just told him you bought a small country. “You … bought Red Bull Racing?” His voice cracks a little as he repeats it, as if saying it out loud will make it more real.
You nod, your smile never faltering. “Yup. Just closed the deal this morning.”
“Jesus Christ.” Daniel runs a hand through his hair, looking like he might faint. “Are you insane?”
“Maybe a little,” you admit with a playful shrug. “But it’s an engagement gift, you know? Gotta keep things exciting.”
Daniel lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I … I don’t even know what to say. That’s — this is crazy.”
“I know,” you say, beaming. “But crazy is kind of our thing, isn’t it?”
He laughs again, though it’s still a little shaky. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
There’s a pause as Daniel tries to wrap his head around the fact that you, his new fiancée, just bought one of the most successful teams in Formula 1. He stares at you for a moment longer, then blinks, rubbing his temples like he’s getting a headache. “I … I don’t even know where to start. What does that even mean? You’re gonna be the new team owner?”
“Pretty much,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “And I’m planning to do a bit of restructuring. You know, make some changes, shake things up.”
Daniel gives you a skeptical look. “Restructuring? What kind of changes?”
“Well …” You tap your chin, pretending to think about it. “First of all, I figured I’d ask if there’s anyone you’d like me to keep around. I mean, it’s your engagement gift, after all. I want you to be happy with the team.”
Daniel snorts, shaking his head. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
You lean closer, your eyes gleaming mischievously. “And I assume you’ll want me to keep your boyfriend, right?”
Daniel freezes, blinking at you in confusion. “My … boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” you say, deadpan. “Max.”
Daniel nearly chokes. “Wait — what?”
You burst out laughing, unable to keep a straight face any longer. “I’m talking about Max Verstappen! Don’t act so surprised.”
Daniel’s face flushes a deep red, and he shakes his head, exasperated. “We’re not — he’s not my — Jesus, you’re impossible.”
You pat his head, still laughing. “Sure, he’s not. Whatever you say.”
Daniel groans, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my God.”
You sit back, grinning at him. “So, do you want me to keep him or not?”
He lowers his hands, shooting you a look that’s half amused, half irritated. “Obviously, you keep him. He’s the best driver on the grid.”
You nod, pretending to jot down notes in the air. “Okay, so keep Max. Got it.”
Daniel leans back against the couch, staring at you like he still can’t believe this is real. “I can’t believe you just bought a Formula 1 team.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner,” you say with a grin.
Daniel laughs, though it’s tinged with disbelief. “And you’re just … going to be the boss now?”
You shrug. “Why not? It’s not like I haven’t run a business before. Plus, how hard can it be to manage a Formula 1 team?”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “You do realize you’ll be dealing with, like, a whole bunch of egos and drama, right? It’s not just about racing. There’s politics, sponsorships, technical regulations …”
You wave a hand dismissively. “Details, details. I’ll figure it out.”
Daniel shakes his head, still grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And that’s why you like me,” you quip, flashing him a playful wink.
Daniel’s smile softens, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. But then he shakes his head again, chuckling. “Yeah, something like that.”
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, and Daniel’s gaze drifts back to the ring box still sitting on the coffee table between you. It feels surreal — like the last few days have been one long, crazy dream that neither of you can wake up from. But somehow, despite all the madness, there’s a strange sense of peace settling over the room.
Finally, Daniel breaks the silence with a quiet laugh. “So … when do you get to meet the team?”
You grin. “Soon enough. I’ll introduce you as my fiancé. It’ll be fun to see the look on everyone’s faces.”
Daniel snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over well.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You’ll love it. Don’t you like being the center of attention?”
He shoots you a playful glare. “I’m starting to regret this engagement.”
You laugh, leaning back into the couch. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”
Daniel chuckles, but there’s a warmth in his eyes as he looks at you. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
***
You and Daniel are curled up together on the plush couch, nestled under a thick blanket, a pint of ice cream balanced between the two of you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room as Crazy Rich Asians plays in the background, the glamorous scenes of Singapore flashing on the screen. You scoop a spoonful of ice cream and pop it into your mouth, your eyes glued to the over-the-top depiction of high society that, to you, feels more like a parody than reality.
“I mean, come on,” you mutter around a mouthful of ice cream, shaking your head. “That’s not how any of this works.”
Daniel glances at you, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “What do you mean? It looks pretty fancy to me.”
You roll your eyes, waving your spoon toward the screen. “Yeah, because all of us crazy rich Asians are just constantly jetting off to private islands in the middle of the week. And, of course, we throw dramatic, lavish parties for every minor inconvenience.”
Daniel grins, leaning back against the couch as he scoops up some ice cream. “I dunno, the whole secret wedding dress thing seemed pretty realistic to me.”
You nudge him playfully with your elbow, laughing. “Please. If anything, that’s understated.”
Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, so maybe Hollywood doesn’t exactly nail the rich lifestyle. But it’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” You snort, raising an eyebrow. “It’s borderline satire. Half the time, I’m watching these movies like, ‘Are you serious? Who even does that?’”
Daniel laughs again, clearly enjoying your commentary more than the actual movie. “Okay, but admit it, the wedding scene was pretty epic.”
You sigh dramatically. “Fine, I’ll give them that one. The water running down the aisle was a nice touch.”
“See? Even you have to admit there’s some good stuff in there,” Daniel says with a grin, licking his spoon.
You lean back against the couch, settling more comfortably into Daniel’s side as the movie continues to play. The ice cream between you starts to melt slightly, but neither of you seem to care, too caught up in the comfort of the moment. Your head rests on Daniel’s shoulder, and his arm is loosely draped around you.
There’s a comfortable silence between you two for a few minutes, the movie providing a soft background noise as you both watch absently. Then, without looking away from the screen, you break the silence with a casual question.
“Hey, so … do you want to drive for Red Bull next year?”
The question seems to catch Daniel off guard. His hand, mid-way to another scoop of ice cream, freezes in the air. He turns his head slightly to look at you, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence stretches out long enough for you to glance up at him, wondering why he’s taking so long to respond.
“Daniel?” You prompt softly.
He pauses the movie, the room suddenly quiet without the chatter of characters and dramatic music. His face is serious now, a stark contrast to the playful mood from moments before. He places the spoon down in the pint and leans back, exhaling a long breath.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
You blink at him, confused. “You don’t know? What do you mean?”
Daniel rubs a hand over his face, looking down at his lap as if the answer is written there somewhere. “I mean, I don’t know if … if I deserve it. That seat.”
There’s a heavy pause as you process his words. The casualness of the evening suddenly feels distant, replaced by something more serious, more vulnerable. You turn slightly, facing him more directly now, your hand reaching out to rest on his knee.
“Why would you say that?” You ask, your voice quiet but firm.
Daniel looks up at you, his expression pained. “I’ve been dropped twice now. McLaren, VCARB … And, honestly, I didn’t do as well as I wanted. As well as they wanted. What if I’m just not cut out for it anymore? Maybe the sport’s moved on, and I haven’t.”
You frown, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not true. You’re still an incredible driver.”
Daniel lets out a bitter laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Incredible? You’ve seen the results. I’m nowhere near where I used to be. And Max? He’s on another level. It’s his team now.”
“Okay, first of all,” you say, your tone shifting into something more assertive, “don’t compare yourself to Max. You’re both amazing in your own ways. And second, this isn’t about what they want, Daniel. It’s about what you want.”
Daniel doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the frozen image on the TV screen, lost in his thoughts. His jaw is tense, and you can tell he’s grappling with something deeper, something that’s been weighing on him for a long time.
You squeeze his knee gently, your voice softening. “You’ve still got it, Daniel. I know you do. And so does everyone else.”
He glances at you, his eyes searching your face like he’s trying to find some kind of reassurance in your words. “But what if … what if I can’t get back to where I was? What if I’m just holding onto something that’s not there anymore?”
“You’re not,” you say firmly, not missing a beat. “You’ve had a rough few seasons, sure. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost it. It just means you’ve had setbacks. And if anyone knows how to bounce back, it’s you.”
Daniel still looks unsure, and you can tell there’s a part of him that’s scared — scared of failing again, scared of not living up to the expectations that have been placed on him, both by himself and by others.
You lean in closer, your voice gentle but insistent. “Daniel, you’re one of the best drivers in the world. You’ve proved that time and time again. Red Bull wouldn’t have taken you back if they didn’t believe in you. And I wouldn’t have bought the damn team if I didn’t believe in you either.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Daniel’s lips at that, though it’s fleeting. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to go back. I don’t know if I can handle it if things go wrong again.”
You nod slowly, understanding the fear behind his words. It’s not just about driving. It’s about the pressure, the weight of expectation, the fear of failure.
“I get that,” you say softly. “But you can’t let fear stop you from doing what you love. You’ve been through a lot, I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. You have so much more left to give. And I’ll be there with you, every step of the way.”
Daniel meets your gaze, his eyes softening at your words. For a moment, the vulnerability in his expression is raw, unguarded. Then he reaches out, taking your hand in his, giving it a small squeeze.
“You really think I can do it?” He asks quietly.
You smile, squeezing his hand back. “I know you can.”
Daniel lets out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as some of the tension seems to drain from him. He looks at you for a long moment, then nods, as if finally coming to terms with something inside himself.
“Alright,” he says, his voice a little steadier now. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” you say with a soft smile.
He leans back into the couch, and you both settle into a comfortable silence again, the tension from earlier slowly fading away. You reach for the remote and unpause the movie, but neither of you are really paying attention to it anymore. Instead, you both sit there, sharing the ice cream, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air but somehow lighter now.
***
The evening is quiet, the city’s hum muted behind the large windows of your penthouse. The movie’s credits are rolling, but neither you nor Daniel has made a move to turn off the TV. Instead, you both sit there, wrapped up in the soft blanket, the nearly empty pint of ice cream abandoned on the coffee table. There’s a sense of calm in the air, but underneath it, you can feel something unspoken, simmering just below the surface.
You glance at Daniel, who’s leaning back into the couch, his gaze distant. He’s still processing, you can tell — about Red Bull, about everything that’s been thrown at him lately. The weight of it all seems heavier in the silence.
After a long moment, you shift slightly, turning your body to face him more directly. “Daniel,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet.
He blinks, coming back to the present, and looks at you with a small, tired smile. “Yeah?”
“You’ve said something a lot that I keep thinking about,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “The whole ‘enjoy the butterflies’ thing. I’ve heard you say it in interviews, but I don’t think I ever really understood what you meant by it.”
Daniel’s smile falters a bit, and he looks away, his expression growing thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything at first, and you can see he’s retreating into his thoughts again, the way he does when he’s trying to figure out how to articulate something that matters to him.
You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm, coaxing him back to the conversation. “What does it really mean to you? Enjoy the butterflies?”
Daniel takes a deep breath, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “It’s … it’s kinda hard to explain,” he says slowly, his accent thicker when he’s being reflective. “It’s not just about racing, you know? It’s more about the feeling — the nerves, the excitement, the anticipation. All those little moments that make your stomach flip.”
He pauses, glancing at you as if gauging whether you’re following. You nod, encouraging him to continue.
“I think,” he says, his voice quieter now, “for the longest time, I used to hate that feeling. The butterflies. It always made me feel … unsure. Like, am I good enough? Am I ready? Every time I’d get in the car, no matter how many times I’d done it before, I’d still feel that little twinge of anxiety. And for a while, I thought it was a bad thing.”
You listen intently, your eyes never leaving his face as he speaks. There’s something raw and real in his words, a vulnerability that you don’t often see in him.
“But then, I don’t know,” he continues, “at some point, I started to see it differently. Like, maybe those butterflies aren’t a sign of weakness. Maybe they’re a sign that you’re doing something that matters. That you’re alive. That you care.”
You nod slowly, your hand still resting on his arm. “That makes sense.”
Daniel meets your gaze again, his eyes softening. “Yeah. So now, when I feel the butterflies, I try to embrace it, you know? Instead of fighting it. Because if you’re not nervous, if you don’t feel anything, then what’s the point?”
You lean back slightly, absorbing his words. There’s a quiet wisdom in what he’s saying, a reminder that life’s most meaningful moments are often the ones that scare us the most. You think about how that applies to you — not just in your relationship with Daniel, but in everything. The choices you’ve made, the risks you’ve taken, the moments when you’ve doubted yourself. Maybe those butterflies are a part of the journey, too.
“I get that,” you say softly, nodding. “But … do you still feel them? After all this time?”
Daniel smiles, but it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “Every single time.”
You look at him for a long moment, the weight of his honesty settling between you. There’s something comforting in knowing that even someone like Daniel — someone who’s faced so many high-pressure moments, who’s been at the top of his game — still feels that same uncertainty, that same flutter of nerves.
“But now,” he adds, his voice softening even more, “I think the butterflies aren’t just about fear. They’re about excitement, too. Like, yeah, maybe I’m nervous, but I’m also excited because it means I still care. I still love what I do, even when it’s hard.”
You smile gently, your hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “That’s beautiful, Daniel. Really.”
He chuckles lightly, looking almost embarrassed by the compliment. “I don’t know about beautiful, but it helps me get through the tough days.”
There’s a pause, and you can feel the conversation shifting into something deeper, something more personal. You take a breath, feeling the moment settling between you like a quiet pulse.
“Do you ever get tired of it, though?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “The butterflies, the pressure, the weight of it all?”
Daniel tilts his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is tinged with a kind of quiet resignation. “Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like too much, like it’s all building up and I just … don’t know how to keep going.”
His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. You’ve seen Daniel at his best, but you’ve also seen him at his lowest. The moments when he’s struggled, when he’s doubted himself. And yet, through it all, he’s always managed to push through. To keep going.
“But,” he continues after a beat, his voice soft but steady, “those moments don’t last forever. And when they pass, when I’m back in the car, or when I’ve crossed the finish line, it’s like … I remember why I do it. Why I love it.”
You watch him closely, your heart swelling with both admiration and empathy. “You’re stronger than you think, Daniel.”
He glances at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just stubborn.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think it’s a little bit of both.”
Daniel grins at that, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He shifts on the couch, turning more toward you, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. There’s a softness in his touch, a quiet intimacy that makes your heart skip a beat.
“You know,” he says quietly, “you’ve got your own butterflies too. I’ve seen them.”
You raise an eyebrow, slightly surprised. “Oh, really?”
Daniel nods, his eyes locking onto yours. “Yeah. Whenever you’re about to make a big decision or when something’s stressing you out. You get this look in your eyes, like you’re bracing yourself for something.”
You blink, taken aback by his observation. “I didn’t realize you noticed.”
He smiles gently. “I notice a lot about you.”
The room falls into a comfortable silence again, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air like a shared secret. You can feel your heart beating a little faster, the warmth of Daniel’s words wrapping around you like a blanket.
“Do you ever wish the butterflies would go away?” You ask after a moment, your voice soft.
Daniel shakes his head slowly. “No. I don’t think I do. Because if they did, that would mean I’ve stopped caring. And I don’t ever want to stop caring.”
You nod, understanding now in a way you didn’t before. The butterflies aren’t something to fear — they’re a reminder that you’re alive, that you’re still passionate, that you’re still fighting for what matters.
You smile softly, leaning in closer to him. “I think I’ll try to enjoy the butterflies a little more.”
Daniel smiles back, his hand gently resting on your cheek. “Good. You should.”
And for the first time in a long time, you feel a sense of peace settle over you — a quiet understanding that, no matter what happens next, you’ll face it with open hearts and, yes, even a few butterflies.
***
The Red Bull Racing factory is a hive of quiet activity. The entire team, from mechanics to engineers, marketing staff to the senior management, stands gathered in a large meeting room just off the factory floor. Whispers ripple through the crowd, conversations hushed and speculative. It’s unusual to have the entire team assembled like this — especially during the off-season.
But today is different. They’ve been told that the team’s new owner will be making her first official appearance, and no one knows what to expect.
The announcement of Red Bull Racing’s sale had come out of nowhere, a shock to everyone. No one knew who the buyer was, only that it was someone with enough money to pull off the purchase in record time. The rumors had flown, the speculation mounting over the past few weeks, but nothing concrete had leaked. All they knew was that something big was coming. Something — someone — new.
The murmur of voices grows louder as the minutes tick by. Eyes dart toward the doors at the far end of the room, the anticipation palpable. Then, the doors swing open.
You walk in, a vision of confidence, head held high. The noise in the room instantly dies down, replaced by the stunned silence of dozens of pairs of eyes turning in your direction. Beside you, Daniel walks in, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, a familiar but unusual sight for the Red Bull team.
The shock is immediate, rippling through the room like a wave. Everyone stares, first at you, then at Daniel, as if trying to piece together how any of this makes sense. The whispers start up again, but you don’t let it faze you. Instead, you step forward with a wide, almost mischievous smile on your face.
“Good morning, everyone!” You greet them brightly, clapping your hands once, the sound echoing in the room. “I’m sure most of you have heard by now, but allow me to introduce myself formally. I’m your new boss.”
You pause, letting the statement sink in as the team stares at you in stunned silence. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I’m thrilled to be taking over as the owner of Red Bull Racing.”
There’s a beat of silence, the team processing the bombshell, before a smattering of hesitant applause starts. You nod, acknowledging the claps, but there’s still a palpable tension in the room. You know they’re still confused, still reeling from the surprise. You’re not done yet.
“And I have one more introduction to make,” you say, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You glance over at Daniel, who’s standing beside you, a little less sure of himself than usual but still flashing that signature Ricciardo smile. “This is my fiancé, Daniel Ricciardo.”
The room gasps. The shock is real this time, murmurs breaking out instantly among the team. Fiancé? Some people turn to each other, others crane their necks to get a better look at Daniel. The whispers intensify, but you continue as if none of it fazes you.
“And I have some exciting news for all of you today,” you say, your voice cutting through the growing chatter. You step forward again, your gaze sweeping across the room. “With the team being restructured, and with Sergio Perez deciding to take some time away from the sport to be with his family …” You pause, letting that hang for a moment, watching the confusion bloom on their faces. “I’m thrilled to announce that Daniel will be returning to Red Bull Racing as a driver next season.”
The room falls completely silent again, a collective intake of breath. For a long moment, no one says a word. Then, as if on cue, someone begins clapping. It’s slow at first, hesitant, but then others join in, and soon the room is filled with applause. The realization starts to settle in.
Daniel Ricciardo — back at Red Bull.
You glance at Daniel, and his eyes meet yours. For a second, you see the flicker of uncertainty in them, the weight of everything hanging in the air. But then, as the applause grows, you see the shift — the spark of confidence returning to him, the slow curve of a genuine smile spreading across his face.
Daniel steps forward, raising a hand to quiet the crowd, but they don’t stop clapping for several more seconds. Finally, the noise dies down enough for him to speak.
“Wow, uh … thanks for that,” Daniel begins, clearly taken aback by the reaction. He rubs the back of his neck, his grin widening as he takes in the faces of the people who, not so long ago, had been his team. “I’ve gotta admit, it feels pretty good to be standing here again.”
A few people in the crowd chuckle, a ripple of warmth spreading through the room.
“I know it’s been a strange few years,” Daniel continues, his voice more serious now. “There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get back to this place. But when Y/N came into my life, well, let’s just say she’s good at making the impossible happen.” He glances at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and affection, and you feel your heart flutter in response.
The room watches this exchange, enraptured. There’s something surreal about seeing Daniel Ricciardo, a former Red Bull driver, now standing next to the team’s new owner — his fiancée, no less. It’s a lot for them to process.
Daniel turns back to the team, his expression softening as he addresses them. “This place has always been special to me,” he says quietly. “I’ve had some of my best moments in my career here, and I’m so grateful for the chance to come back and create more memories with you all. I know it’s not going to be easy, and I’ve got a lot to prove. But I’m ready. I’m ready to give everything I’ve got.”
The room bursts into applause again, louder this time, more genuine. The team members seem to be warming up to the idea now, their initial shock replaced by excitement. A few of the senior engineers, who had been with the team during Daniel’s previous stint, exchange nods of approval. There’s a growing sense of anticipation, the mood in the room shifting.
You watch Daniel as he steps back, the energy of the moment clearly lifting him. He catches your eye again, and for a brief moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you in the room. His smile is softer now, more private, meant just for you. You feel a surge of warmth, the bond between you solidifying even more in this shared experience.
Then, clearing your throat, you step forward again, reclaiming the attention of the room. “Now, I know this is a lot to take in,” you say, your tone playful. “But don’t worry. Daniel and I aren’t here to shake things up too much … unless we need to.” A few chuckles ripple through the room at that. “We’re committed to making sure this team remains at the top of the sport. And we’re going to do whatever it takes to get there.”
The applause comes again, more enthusiastic this time. You can feel the room shifting from shock to acceptance, and even a little excitement. The Red Bull team is known for its resilience, for thriving in the face of challenges, and this is no different.
As the clapping fades, one of the senior team members — a man with graying hair and a knowing smile — steps forward. He glances between you and Daniel, then says, “Well, if Daniel’s back, I guess we better start preparing for some shoeys.”
The room bursts into laughter, and even Daniel can’t help but laugh along with them, shaking his head. “You better believe it,” he says with a grin.
Slowly, the group begins to disperse, people heading back to their workstations, some still murmuring excitedly about the news. You catch snippets of conversation — mentions of Daniel’s return, your surprising entrance, and speculation about what’s next for the team.
As the room clears, Daniel turns to you, his expression soft. “You’re really something, you know that?”
You smile at him, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. “It’s just the beginning,” you say, your voice filled with determination. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
Daniel grins, reaching for your hand. “Yeah, but I think we’re gonna be just fine.”
You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with excitement and love. Together, you’ve just taken the first step into a new chapter — one filled with challenges, risks, and plenty of butterflies. But you know, with Daniel by your side, there’s nothing you can’t handle.
And as you leave the factory hand in hand, the future stretches out before you — unknown, thrilling, and entirely yours to shape.
***
The roars from the Melbourne crowd reverberate through the air as the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix begins. The cameras lock onto Daniel’s Red Bull, the #3 flashing as it leads the pack by several seconds. The circuit is electric, and the commentators can barely contain themselves.
“Here we are on the final lap,” David Croft’s voice crackles through the Sky Sports broadcast, almost trembling with excitement. “Daniel Ricciardo, the hometown hero, is this close to claiming his ninth career win — and his first ever win here in Australia. You can hear the crowd, the energy in the air — it’s absolutely incredible!”
Beside him, Martin Brundle jumps in, his tone equal parts admiration and disbelief. “This is what the fans have been waiting for, for years. After everything Daniel’s been through — leaving Red Bull, bouncing between teams, and now back with Red Bull and at the front of the grid — this will be a monumental moment, not just for Daniel, but for every Australian who’s dreamed of seeing him on the top step here.”
The camera flickers briefly to the Red Bull garage. You’re standing at the front, practically on your toes as you watch the live feed with bated breath, every nerve in your body tense with anticipation. You’re surrounded by engineers, mechanics, and team members, but it’s clear that all eyes in the garage are on you. The new team owner, the mastermind behind Daniel’s return to the team. And now, you’re witnessing the culmination of it all.
“Look at that,” Brundle says as the camera focuses on you. “There’s Daniel’s fiancée and the new team owner, Y/N Y/L/N. You’ve got to imagine what this moment means for her too, after buying the team and making the bold decision to bring Daniel back. She’s been nothing short of instrumental in this comeback.”
Crofty’s voice grows louder as Daniel approaches the final few corners. “And here he comes now, through Turn 13, a perfect line through there — keeping it clean. The crowd is going wild, and you can see why! He’s a few corners away from victory, from making history on home soil.”
As the camera switches back to the track, Daniel’s race engineer comes over the radio, his voice steady but filled with excitement.
“Alright, mate. Just bring it home now. One more corner. You’ve got this.”
There’s a brief pause before Daniel’s reply crackles over the airwaves, his voice barely containing his elation. “I’ve got it, mate! I’ve bloody got it!”
The Red Bull flies around the final corner, the engine roaring, and Daniel rockets down the straight toward the checkered flag. The crowd’s roar is deafening as he crosses the line.
“And there it is! Daniel Ricciardo wins the Australian Grand Prix!” Crofty yells, his voice barely audible over the roaring fans. “His ninth career win — and what a win it is! His first win here in Australia, and you can just feel how much this means to him and the crowd!”
The camera immediately cuts back to you, your face a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy. You’re laughing, hands clasped over your mouth as the enormity of the moment sinks in. The entire Red Bull garage erupts into cheers, people hugging and high-fiving all around you, but you’re frozen for a moment, just soaking in the euphoria of the victory.
“Look at her reaction!” Brundle says with a chuckle. “You can tell just how much this moment means to the team owner. It’s not just a win for Daniel — it’s a win for them. What a partnership!”
The scene cuts to Daniel inside the cockpit, raising his fists in victory as he slows the car on the cool-down lap. His voice comes over the radio again, almost breathless.
“YEEEEES! Let’s go! Oh my god, we did it! We actually did it!” Daniel shouts, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Mate, you’re a race winner in Australia!” His race engineer’s voice is filled with pride. “Take it in, soak it all in. This is your moment.”
“I’ve waited so long for this …” Daniel’s voice is quieter now, more introspective. “Thank you, everyone. This is unbelievable.”
As he makes his way around the track on the cool-down lap, the camera follows him, showing the thousands of fans on their feet, waving Australian flags and cheering for their hero. It’s an emotional scene, the kind that will go down in F1 history. The commentators fall silent for a moment, letting the raw emotion of the moment speak for itself.
Finally, Crofty breaks the silence. “Daniel Ricciardo has just made history. He’s become the first Australian driver to win here in Melbourne in front of his home crowd, and you can just see how much this means — not just to him, but to every fan in the stands.”
Daniel pulls into parc fermé, his car screeching to a halt under the massive “P1” sign. The mechanics are already leaning over the barriers, waiting for him, their arms raised in celebration. Daniel clambers out of the car, pulls off his helmet, and lets out a roar, his signature grin plastered on his face. The crowd erupts once more, their hero standing victorious before them.
The Red Bull team surrounds him, cheering and patting him on the back. But Daniel's eyes are searching, scanning the pit lane for you. Finally, they find you in the crowd, and without hesitation, he breaks away from the chaos and runs straight to you.
“Hey, boss,” he says, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice barely above the roar of the fans. “Did I do alright?”
You laugh, pushing him back playfully. “I’d say you did more than alright.”
Daniel grins, his smile wide and genuine, and then he’s swept back into the celebrations, the team lifting him onto their shoulders as the cameras capture every second.
The podium celebrations come next, the lights glittering, the trophy standing proud. Daniel, Max Verstappen, and Charles Leclerc climb onto the podium, their faces reflecting the joy and exhaustion of a hard-fought race. The national anthems play, first for Australia, then for Austria, and the crowd sings along, their pride and passion tangible.
When the champagne is finally handed out, Daniel holds his bottle aloft, savoring the moment. He walks to the edge of the podium, holding his finger up to signal the crowd. The fans know what’s coming. The mechanics in the garage know what’s coming. You, standing just below the podium, know what’s coming.
Daniel unlaces his boot and fills it with champagne, holding it high as he looks out over the sea of fans. The crowd roars with approval.
“Oh no …” Brundle says with a laugh, watching from the Sky Sports commentary booth. “Here we go. It wouldn’t be a Daniel Ricciardo victory without a shoey!”
Daniel grins and, with the flair only he can pull off, drinks the champagne from his shoe. The crowd cheers louder than ever, reveling in the chaotic joy of the moment. Even Max, standing beside him, cracks a smile as Daniel offers him the boot, but Max declines with a laugh, shaking his head.
As Daniel finishes the shoey, he looks down at you with a cheeky grin. He points the boot in your direction, his eyes twinkling.
“Wanna join in?” He shouts down, loud enough for the camera to catch.
You cross your arms, shaking your head with a smirk. “Absolutely not.”
Daniel laughs, tossing the boot aside and grabbing the champagne again, spraying the crowd as the podium celebration continues. The cameras capture everything, the joy, the fun, the relief of a long journey finally reaching its pinnacle.
Back in the commentary booth, Crofty speaks again, his voice soft but filled with admiration. “Daniel Ricciardo, a winner in Australia, celebrating in true Ricciardo style. This win means more than just points on the board — it’s the result of hard work, perseverance, and a love for racing.”
Brundle nods, his tone warm. “You’ve got to hand it to Daniel, and to Y/N Y/L/N as well. She brought him back to Red Bull, believed in him when others didn’t, and now they’re celebrating together on the biggest stage. It’s a fairytale moment.”
As the champagne rains down on the podium, Daniel glances over at you again, his face still lit up with that signature Ricciardo grin. And even though you’re not up there with him, he knows that none of this would’ve been possible without you by his side.
This is your team, your driver, and your moment.
Bucky angst fic idea!
Bucky always flirting with Sarah to make Y/n jealous, but what he doesn't realise is all these are just making her more insecure and hurting her (blame my past relationships for that).
And it's quite apparent that she's hurt. By the time he realises, Y/n is deep into the spiral. But obviously, a happy and fluffy ending (maybe smut), cause otherwise I will die from broken heart 😩😩
I hope you enjoy this! and I'm sorry you've had bad experiences with relationships. It's their loss.
summary - bucky flirts with sarah to make you jealous, forgetting that you aren't as secure as you come off.
warning - angst, fluff.
the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips
‘Did I do something wrong?’ You think as you watch Bucky laugh at something Sarah said. ‘Maybe I’m not pretty enough for him anymore?’ His eyes flicker over to you, shooting you a smirk before he looks back at her, touching her arm softly with his metal one. ‘What could he be saying for her to laugh like that?’ You don’t know why you're doing this to yourself, but you continue to watch. Every laugh, every touch, every word sends pain through your chest.
You don’t notice Sam looking over at you, and you don’t see how he shoots daggers at Bucky and his sister. The only time you are brought out of your haze is when you hear shouting, blinking away the tears in your eyes. Your gaze focuses on Sam pushing and punching Bucky, screaming at him. You watch as he turns and begins shouting at his sister.
You get up and decide to leave because watching Bucky fight back and defend another woman and his actions feels more painful than watching them flirt. After walking for a while, you come across a secluded area with a beautiful ocean view, feeling so lost in your head that you don’t get to enjoy the sounds of nature around you. Your mind was too busy racing with thoughts of not being good enough for anyone anymore that maybe you should’ve never fallen for the blue-eyed soldier's smile or sweet words.
Because you left, you don’t notice Bucky’s gaze focusing on the empty spot or that he no longer hears Sam screaming in his ear. You don’t see the utter panic appearing on Bucky’s face or that he begins to spin, frantically searching for you. You are so lost in your head that you don’t hear him screaming your name, you don’t hear him finding you, you don’t hear the utter relief in his voice when he whispers your name.
Because why would you? This man you thought was supposed to love you and only you, who wasn’t supposed to hurt you, did. Knowing how insecure you are, pulling you deeper into your mind that, of course, you wouldn’t notice him looking for you or finding you. Because you didn’t think Bucky cared enough to come looking for you, you thought that he’d be too lost in Sarah’s eyes to notice you missing.
“Baby?” Bucky walks forward, “Doll?” His brows furrow as he doesn’t receive a response, walking so that he’s in front of you. His heart jumps in his throat when he sees how far he’s pushed you. Bucky quickly crouches down, taking your tear-soaked cheeks in his hands. “Babydoll, I’m so sorry! Fuck, I’m such an idiot. Baby, baby!” He strokes your cheeks with his thumb, desperately trying to bring you out of this. His arms wrap around your body, picking you up and carrying you to the house, dismissing Sam and Sarah when they try to step forward.
He carries you to the guest room, cradling your face into his neck as he whispers sweet nothings against your hair. Bucky lies down, bringing you with him, holding you tightly against his body. “I’m so so sorry, babydoll. You are the only one I have eyes for, believe me! You are the reason I wake up in the morning, the only thing I look forward to.” His blue eyes flicker down to your face, noticing that yours are focused on his face, finally brought out of your state but staying quiet.
Bucky strokes your bottom lip, staring at you lovingly. “I love you so much, and I will forever be sorry for what I’ve done. I should have realised that trying to make you jealous wasn’t right and was pathetic. I have such a beautiful dame on my arm, yet I felt the need to be a jerk.” His eyes fill with tears, and a sigh of relief leaves him when you roll over and cuddle into him.
“I love you too, Bucky. But please don’t do it again.” You look up at him, pleading with your eyes as you don’t know if you’ll survive being hurt like that again.
“Of course, doll. I’ll never do it again. You’re my doll forever and as long as you have me. I’ll continue making it up to you.” He places a soft kiss against your head, holding you tight against him as you both slowly drift off to sleep.
thank you for reading!
feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.
The Rookie Wins
Haas team, general f1 x reader
Summary: y/n is a rookie to F1 signing with Haas but under FIA rules, they weren’t allowed to state a woman was driving in F1, for fear of public reaction to them allowing a woman race, but what happens when Gunther doesn’t care.
warnings: none. (Maybe a swear word?), sexism.
Word count: 2231 words
Authors note: The only note here will be that my toxic trait is thinking I’d be able to win an F1 grand prix while never ever having driven an F1 car before and being scared of driving too fast.
______________________________________________________________
2 days before your first Grand Prix
“Okay, so here are the rules Princess, no one can find out that you’re a woman, the FIA is willing to make the announcement at a later date maybe, depending on your performance” Gunther, your team principle explained to you, a few days before your first ever Grand Prix weekend.
“Gunther, there are no words to express how many times you have explained this to me” you pointedly said, staring at Gunther.
“I just need you to know that it’s not because I don’t believe in you, if I didn’t, you wouldn’t be part of my team. I think the rule is just as unfair and sexist as anyone, but we play by their rules and then prove why you deserve to be here yes?” Gunther replied softly, stopping everything he was doing to look at you, to make sure you knew exactly how serious he was.
“Yes boss, trust me, I’m going to do you proud” you smiled at the team principle.
Qualifiers
Having to hide in your drivers room, kitted out in full racing gear was getting tiresome and hot, how long were you going to have to do this? As you paced up and down your drivers room, getting more and more frustrated at this stupid rule imposed on you, forcing you to hide from other teams, media and drivers, your trainer knocked on your door to let you know it was time to begin qualifiers.
You all but ran to your car, eager to finally show what you were capable of doing. Your team, the small few who knew you were a woman, laughing at your jittery energy, excited to see the woman that they’ve grown to adore, finally be able to show what she can do on the track.
Your excitement was short lived though when as you were pulling out of the garage, testing your radio, your race engineer informed you that the FIA had placed a new rule on you.
“Princess, we got some bad news on our side” Dom, your race engineer said with disappointment laced in his voice.
“Jesus, am I retiring the car already?” you laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
“FIA said that no matter how good the car is and no matter how good the driving is, you aren’t allowed to quali in the top 10, don’t want to make the other drivers look bad in the first race” Dom blankly stated, trying to not let himself get too angry at this clearly unfair rule.
“I think I’m more flattered than angry that they think I even would qualify in the top 10 in my debut quali session” you sarcastically said, trying to mask your anger at the clearly sexist treatment.
“Your time will come princess, I promise, we just got to play by the rules for now” you heard Gunther speak up over the radio.
“Gunther, saying I’d even be capable, would the FIA allow me to finish in points in the race” you suddenly ask as you were heating up your cars tyres on your first lap
The silence was too long for your liking.
“I’m sorry princess, it’s just until we prove that you deserve to be here” Gunther sadly states, “Good luck in Quali, at least try get to Q2” and with that, Dom’s voice filtered through your radio again.
Race Day
You sat in your car on the grid, waiting for the red lights to go out and you could begin racing. In those few minutes sitting on the grid though, you couldn’t help but get into your head about the entire ordeal.
How could they not allow you to finish in points? Haas was finally in a position where they could put up a solid fight, the team has been working on the car for months, finally producing something that could challenge the ‘big dogs’ of F1, and all because you were a woman, your entire team would have to suffer. Who cares what a few fans thought, surely as a woman you would bring in a whole new group of fans? Or maybe you wouldn’t be liked by the fans at all, and the FIA was right about everything? Maybe you shouldn’t be in F1 at all.
“Princess” Gunther’s voice suddenly pulled you out your own thoughts, “so, I’ve been thinking about it and, quite frankly, fuck the FIA. Race your goddamn little heart out, you’re in a Haas, and a rookie, no offence, but realistically, what’s the best you can actually do? Get p10? If that’s it, then get the P10, I’ll fight the FIA for you, your team, no, your new family will protect you, but whatever you do today, I want you to fight and I want you to race as hard as you can, the princess deserves to be on the podium, you got it?” Gunther speaks quickly, hoping to get the message across to you before the lights go out.
A smug smile graces your face, and your fingers tighten around your steering wheel, “yes boss”.
______
“It’s halfway through this race and we are seeing some amazing things from the new Haas driver. This is their rookie year and their debut race, and we are seeing this driver fight for their life on this track. Having started P14, they have already made their way up to P6 and seemed determined as ever to continue climbing in positions” Croftys voice beamed out, thoroughly surprised, and impressed by the new driver.
“We are still not sure who the new driver is, Haas keeping them very hush hush. Rumours being that their seat isn’t secured, and they simply want to test them out, and if that is the case, they are clearly proving their worth to the team, having doing better than the team has experienced in years before.”
“This new driver clearly fits the new Haas car, pushing the car to extremes that we have yet to see from the team, they truly worked magic on their car since the last season as it is finally looking like it may be a competitor for the constructors if this performance is anything to go by”
“I am amazed at this new driver, jumping up another two positions to P4 in the debut race?? This is unheard of.”
“We are on the final two laps of this race and it looks like our little Haas driver is going to make an attempt to over take the Mercedes of George Russell, can he adequately defend his P3 position from this feisty new driver?”
“This is unheard of! The Haas attempting to overtake all three top positions in one go and THEY DO IT!!!! THEY PERFOM AN OVERTAKE MANOUVER THAT WOULD BRING A TEAR TO DANIEL RICCIARDO’S EYE!!! THIS IS UNBELIAVABLE!!!! THE CROWD IS LITERALLY ON THEIR FEET WATCHING THESE DRIVERS FIGHT FOR THE PODIUM”
“IT’S THE FINAL STRAIGHT BEFORE THE FLAG, CAN THE HAAS KEEP VERSTAPPEN AT BAY OR ARE THE GOING TO TAKE P2! NO, THEY TAKE P1 ON THEIR DEBUT RACE! THIS HAS TO BE A RECORD!”
“I am shocked, how did a rookie driver manage to take p1 on their debut race, this has been the opening race of a lifetime. I am truly in awe, who is this miracle driver that Haas has been hiding from the world?”
___________
“Dom, did I really just get P1?” You ask after crossing the line, beginning to do your cool down lap.
“Y/n, in the nicest way possible, how the fuck did you manage that?” Dom’s equally as shocked voice comes over the radio, leaving both of you silent.
You park your car in the P1 position, the Haas decals showing on the screen in lieu of the driver images. You slowly remove the steering wheel and climb out of the car that carried you to P1, still not quite believing what just happened. You briefly noticed your team shouting praises from behind the barrier, you having secured the first ever win for your team.
You can’t quite manage to move over to them though, still shaking from the adrenaline of the win. You instead sat down just in front of your car, head between your knees, trying to get your breathing under control and attempting, and failing, at keeping the tears at bay.
‘Oh God. You are going to be in so much trouble. The FIA are going to ban you from F1 aren’t they?’
‘What do you do now?’
‘Do you take your helmet off?’
‘Do you politely excuse yourself from media? Would they fine you if you’re meant to be hiding?’
‘Do you collect your trophy on the podium, or do you just leave it?’
‘Do you take your helmet off for the podium?’
‘That first-place cap is going to look really weird sitting on your helmet.’
You could feel the anxiety of the entire situation taking over, the full weight of what just happened finally hitting you like a ton of bricks.
Your life was about to change completely, for better AND for worse. - maybe the anonymity wasn’t all that bad after all.
Suddenly you see two feet in front of you, you lift your head as Gunther crouches down, lifting your visor to see your puffy read eyes filled with tears, he gives you a small sympathetic smile, almost as though he can hear the chaos going on inside your head.
“You did it Princess, you proved to everyone why you deserve to be here, and I couldn’t be prouder of you. Now, when you’re ready, I’m going to need you to take that helmet off and go and hurl yourself at your team so they can properly congratulate you and we can all celebrate” Gunther softly said to you, firmly, so you know how serious he is, but gently because he could see the great distress you were under.
“What if they all hate me?” You quietly whisper, unsure if Gunther was able to hear you at all.
“Honestly Princess, there will be some who do, you’re about to change the sport forever, and they’ll be even angrier because they know that you deserve to be here, but the truth is, you will always be the bad guy in someone’s story, so let them hate you, because even more will love you, and even out of those, your team, no, your family, will love you the most, and that’s what matters, now, go be with your team” Gunther says softly, a tear rolling down his own cheek.
You throw yourself at Gunther hugging him, nearly knocking him off his feet as you wrap your arms around his neck, him hugging you back just as tightly. This moment between the team principle and rookie driver causing the crowd to go wild. Next minute Gunther was pulling you up so you were standing next to him, you gave him a brief look and he just nodded, silently letting you know that no matter what he would be standing by your side, protecting you and fighting for your right to be in F1.
You slowly begin taking off your helmet and balaclava and the tension is palpable as the entire F1 world waited to see who the rookie Haas driver was.
The second your face and hair was in view, the crowd was suddenly screaming and going wild with excitement, you couldn’t help the tears streaming down your face at their reception of you into F1, so firmly believing that no one would accept you, yet here the fans all were, shouting your praises for winning your first race regardless. Gunther, with his own tears adoring his cheeks, grabbed your hand and lifted in above your head, prompting another cheer from the crowd, causing you to throw your head back laughing from happiness, feeling the goodness bubbling out of you without any way to stop it.
Next thing you know, you’re throwing yourself into the sea that is your team, and they are all hugging you, letting you know how proud they are of you, Dom screaming his congratulations at you, all the goodness and words all to overwhelming for you to comprehend.
You turn back to look at the other two podium winners, Charles and Max, both watching you with their own smiles, nodding their respect towards you, causing another wave of tears to fall.
You eventually made your way over to them, suddenly nerves kicking in again, hoping the drivers would take you seriously and respect you as a driver instead of immediately dismissing you.
“Well Princess, you do know that we aren’t going to be taking it easy on you right?” Max says first
“Jesus mate, can you not start with a congratulations first? Secondly, Princess? Really?” Charles immediately admonishes his friend.
“She’s the new princess of the paddock”, Max shrugs, “or are you upset someone is going to be taking that title away from you, with your way too done skin care routine?”
“You know we have to take care of our skin if we’re sweating this much in the helmets mate!” Charles begins to defend himself
You do nothing but giggle, thinking that there was no other place you belong as you listened to the two old friend’s bicker.
The princess of the Paddock, this was a title you could get used to having.
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