RORY'S RADIO ⋆˚꩜｡ Max Verstappen’s suspiciously green-obsessed girlfriend
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lando takes you clubbing to the raspoutine in paris, and a cheeky shirt switch leads to an even better night for the both of you.
lando norris x f!reader ୨୧ word count : 2.5k ୨୧ warnings : SMUT (f oral, semi-public – club bathroom), clubbing / drinking, munch!lando (yes its a warning) is exactly where he wants to be ୨୧ note : if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
part of the lando's heart series.
lando loved taking you out to clubs – especially ones that were extremely hard to get in to without the right connections. you think he does it to show off, like a male peacock trying to impress the female one by showing off its feathers. that's exactly how you would describe lando.
even after almost four years of knowing and dating him, lando still felt prideful in himself to show off for you. and lando always seemed he thrived off of impressing you – taking you places you haven't been, clubs you've never heard off because of how exclusive they are.
you know... just millionaire boyfriends things. nothing too extreme.
and even after three constant years of traveling all over the world with lando – some things really do still amaze and impress you.
like the raspoutine club he's managed to drag you to. the entire club was bathed in a deep red lighting and immediately when you walked in, lando holding onto your hand tightly, you could feel the bass vibrating through your whole body. every step you took in your heels sent another vibrating shockwave through your bones.
lando was just a step ahead of you, guiding you through the crowd of people, the smell of alcohol, expensive perfumes, and faint scent of smoke filled the air. you seen your boyfriend look over his shoulder you – checking to make sure you were doing okay, his bright smile painting his grin when you make eye contact. he then manages to move to where he's right next to you, his hand resting on your hip. which is warm against your skin, his thumb slowly rubbing up and down on the sliver of skin that is peaking between your blue set you're wearing.
when you two get past the dancefloor and the crowd starts to dwindle a little, lando presses his mouth against your ear so you can hear him over the music. "did i tell you, you look absolutely gorgeous, princess?"
you don't even bite back the smile as you turn to look at him, "yes, about three times at the hotel and two more on the way here." you tease before pressing a kiss his cheek. his hand comes down to grab a handful of your ass before playfully smacking it.
"hey! there he is! lando, how are you!" someone calls out once you both near the back of the club where red velvet booths line the wall. lando steps away from you to quickly greet the icy blonde male before his hand is reaching blindly towards yours. you grab lando's hand and let him guide you back next to him. "you must be y/n! pleasure to meet you, i'm matt!" he says, doing the usual european cheek kiss greeting that you've grown so accustomed to over the last eight years.
when matt turns around, back to you, talking to lando and trying to get you both to sit down – that's when you notice the back of matt's shirt. well... more like what it says.
because in big colorful font reads: EAT PUSSY, IT'S VEGAN.
you can't help but laugh at the text, lando giving you a side glance as he has you sit down next to him on the booth seat. however, you can he noticed the seat too from the faint smirk on his lips. you and lando sit shoulder to shoulder, his arm resting behind you as the assortment of drinks being to appear on the table in front of you all.
between the drinks and shots, you and matt start to strike up a conversation. the two of you talking about fashion and the industry after learning that matt is a model. lando chimes in here and there, the two of you sharing a few drinks, and you can't help but bite back a smile whenever you feel his lips press against your bare shoulder.
"so, matt," you say leaning over the table, a wide grin on your face as your body flushes with warmth from the alcohol starting to run through you. "what is up with that shirt? i just have to know!" you finally ask, making the french model laugh and shake his head.
"just something fun that i threw on. you like it?"
you laugh, nodding your head, "i need to know where you got it! lando needs one for sure!"
you completely miss how your boyfriend almost chokes on his drink when he hears you. but matt catches it and laughs as he watches lando try to recover.
"is lando vegan?" matt asks, a smirk on his lips and the question makes you laugh again, hands clapping together as you lean back into lando.
"hm," you say, looking at your british lover with a fond look. the red lights casting him in a beautiful glow as your hand reaches up to brush his hair back – even though it definitely wasn't needed, but neither of you care. "yeah, something like that."
the icy blonde male shakes his head, grin on his face before he looks at lando. "i'll tell you what– let's trade shirts! you can have it for free since y/n likes it so much."
lando knows he should probably deny the offer, but he's too far into tonight – and you – to deny it. he can deal with repercussions from his pr team at a later date, he thinks. his eyes shift over to you for a moment, taking in how he's totally enamored with you under the lights.
and then he's standing up before you can even fully process what's happening as lando is taking his shirt off in the middle of the club. matt lets out a hollered laugh before he's doing the same. you don't pay any attention to anything but lando, your hand casually reaching out to touch him. he turns his head and looks down at you with a wide, confident grin on his face as he switches shirts with matt – the two grinning and hugging even.
you feel something shift inside you as you watch lando throw on the other shirt. a heat running through you and settling in your stomach, but this is different from the one you've been feeling all night. no, this is one you get before you usually let lando rock your shit. and he is now wearing the rather iconic, in your complete opinion, shirt.
and of course he puts it on backwards, the big bold "eat pussy, it's vegan" written straight across his chest. he looks down at you, wiggling his eyebrows which earns a laugh from you as he smooths the shirt down. when he sits back down, lando doesn't hesitate to pull you into him. your chest flush against his side, looking at you before he's giving you a chaste kiss.
"you like my new shirt, baby?" he asks, your hands gliding across his shoulders before you're leaning close to kiss him again.
"yeah... i think it really suits you," you tell him, his hand coming up to grip your thigh in a way that sends another wave of heat over you. literally, taking your breath away, letting out a stuttered gasp as he kisses you. not caring who is around or that the two of you could end up all over twitter by daylight. "lan~" you giggle out, cupping his face as you both look at each other.
"don't you think this shirt gives good advice?" he asks, his hand trailing up your thigh and playing with the hem of your skirt.
"i do," you tell him with a smile, leaning over to the table to grab another drink. but instead of drinking it yourself, you hold it to his lips and lando happily lets you pour the drink into his mouth – the liquid burning down his throat. "don't you think..." you start to saying, earning his fully attention – as if you didn't have it already, "take the advice? you know... since you're good at following rules and regs and stuff."
"and stuff?" he repeats with a smile, his hand squeezing the flesh of your thigh. his lips press against your neck and the feeling sends a rush of adrenaline to between your legs. "are you gonna punish me if i break the rules?"
"well, i mean– when have you ever been denied the opportunity to eat pussy, lan?"
he chuckles, shaking his head, "you've got a point, princess." he's then standing up, taking a hold of your hand to help you stand up. "we'll be back!" he calls out to matt and the few others at the table and without looking back he guides you away.
you let lando guide you through the crowd of people, completely trusting him even if you have no idea where he's taking you. the two of you head in the direction of restrooms before lando is leading you down a hallway – everything still bathed in that red light. you learn rather quickly that raspoutine is a labyrinth, but lando seems to know exactly where he's going. only because seconds later he's pulling you into one of the single-occupancy restrooms hidden away near the very back of the club.
your british lover slams the door, locking it with a sharp click before he's pressing you against it. inside the bathroom, you can only focus on lando who is pressing his body flush against yours – his hands gripping your hips tightly before he's kissing you. you immediately kiss back, a low moan escaping your throat as his lips move passionately against yours in a deep, bruising kiss. his tongue slipping inside your mouth easily, and tasting the premium, expensive vodka on your own tongue.
you felt lando's hand move to grab your thigh, bringing it up to rest around his waist – his cock hard and throbbing in his pants, rubs against your clothed core. soft, desperate moans sound against his mouth as your hands come up to tightly grab the back of his shirt to anchor him close to you.
"f-fuck, lan~" you moan out when lando suddenly hoists you up, your legs around his waist as he moves the short distance from the door to the marble counter. the counter is cold against your otherwise heated skin and the contrast as you try to anchor yourself closer to him.
lando looked down at you, chest heaving as he ran a hand through his messy curls. his hazel eyes scanning over your body, the sequin and hanging jewels on your two-piece set gleaming under the pinkish hue lights that starkly contrast against the deep, lustful red of the rest of the club.
"so..." he trails off, hands sneaking underneath your short skirt to grab at the hem of your lacy panties. he doesn't pull them down yet, but you wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally ripped them from how tightly he's gripping them. "you gonna let this vegan have his dinner?"
you can't help but let out a small lighthearted laugh, "i guess i can feed this poor vegan~"
lando kisses you again, pulling your panties down past your knees and over your heels. he pulls away to dangle them in between the both of you – a wicked smirk on his face before you're watching him pocket them.
"that's my princess," he says, spreading your legs wider, skirt bunching up to reveal your center to rather humid air of the bathroom. lando sinks down to his knees, not seeming to care that he's getting his pants dirty as he's level with your dripping pussy. "as the french say, bon appétit."
he then leans forward and buries his face directly between your thighs.
lando's tongue does a broad wet stroke from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. one of your hands immediately grabs onto his hair as you throw your head back as a loud, unfiltered moan rips from your throat. your other hand holds onto the edge of the counter like a lifeline – like you're trying to keep yourself anchored to reality.
his large palms come up to cup your ass, lifting you slightly off the counter to get a better angle as you feel his tongue slip inside before he's licking up again to suck on your clit. you were dripping onto his lips as lando switched between flattening his tongue, swirling it tightly around clit, and flicking inside so it could gather your juices up. he could feel you running down his chin, but lando could care less about the mess he was making – drinking you up like a man dying of thirst.
or a hungry vegan.
you felt your hips twitch against his mouth, trying to buck up but lando's hands grip you tightly and stop you from doing so. the pleasure was overwhelming – the small restroom filled with the sounds of your moans and the wet sounds of his mouth against your pussy. it was completely and utterly driving you over the edge.
"lando, please– fuck, fuck, fuck! lando, lando, i-i'm gonna–" you choke out as you feel him insert two fingers into you. pumping them fast and hard before he's curling them and rubbing your sweet spot. his lips locked harshly onto your clit, and you can feel your eyes rolling into the back of your head from the pleasure.
you managed to look down, locking eyes with lando who is staring at you with those piercing hazel ones. he gives his fingers another few good pumps and his tongue drawing sloppy figure-eights until you're finally coming.
vision turning white as you feel your walls clenching violently around his fingers as your orgasm rips through you. you let out a loud moan mixed with his name as you feel your thighs shake from the force of the orgasm. especially when lando refused to pull away – drinking up all your juices. he stayed right there between your trembling thighs, tongue flattening against your folds, his hands holding you as steady as he could until you could finally feel yourself come down from your high.
slowly, lando finally lifted his head before standing to his full height. chest heaving and face flushed even under the pink lights. you could also see his lips and chin glistening with your wetness – the sight itself making you a little shy as the realization that he just ate you out in a club bathroom. with a shaky hand, you reached out towards lando to pull him closer to you.
your boyfriend leaned over you as you felt his hands wrapped around your waist. he gives you a firm kiss, the taste of yourself on his tongue, as he pulls you off the marble counter. holding your close as he trails his lips down your neck and fixes your skirt.
"guess i need to do this vegan diet more often," he whispers into your ear – breath hot and smug as his hand lazily strokes your back. "but i think i was already addicted to your pussy for a while."
"shut up," you mumble with a laugh, hiding your face in his neck and arms around your waist as you couldn't feel anything but completely and utterly ruined and in love with him.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( max verstappen x gymnast! fiance! reader ) ( 4k wc )
⤷ when an old childhood photo resurfaces during a race weekend, you suddenly find yourself trying to convince Max to regain the flexibility he left behind years ago. In true Max fashion, he counters with a deal of his own—he’ll let you bend him into shape if he gets to teach you how to drive.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff, cheesy, max is not flexible, reader cannot drive
( my m. list | more of MV3 ) ( requests )
Max already knew the fan-zone stage was gonna be chaos, but he didn’t expect this.
He was sitting on the high stools beside Yuki, Nico, and Gabriel, shoulders hunched just enough to look casual but not enough to look uncomfortable — the Verstappen balance he’d perfected over the years. The crowd was loud, the energy feral in that fun, happy way, phones up like a shimmering sea.
“And of course,” the host said, grinning like he’d been waiting all day, “congratulations to Max on his engagement!”
The cheer shot up so loud Max immediately ducked his head, laughing through his nose. Yuki clapped his shoulder, Nico let out one of those dad-congrats chuckles, and Gabriel actually whooped.
“Thank you,” Max said, simple, soft. He kept it tidy — you always did that for him, let him hold onto the things that mattered. “We’re happy. Keeping it private, you know, but . . . yeah, it’s been really nice.”
“Awe,” the crowd chorused, and Max visibly fought a smile.
“But we do have a photo to share,” the host teased.
Max blinked. “Wait— what phot—?”
Then it appeared on the massive screen behind him.
You and Max. Seven or eight years old. Tiny little kids. Both of you in a perfect bridge on the grass, heads tipped back just enough to grin at the camera upside down. Innocent. Squishy. Ridiculously adorable.
The guys lost it.
Yuki slapped his knee. “MAX WHAT— you looked so cute!!”
Gabriel leaned back, wheezing. “The form is better than mine now!”
Max buried his face in his hands. “No, man, no . . .”
“And speaking of flexibility . . .” the host said, wicked, “your fiancée is an Olympic gold medalist gymnast — very flexible. Are you flexible, Max?”
The audience went wild with that one.
Max peeked out from behind his fingers and just shook his head. “No. No. Not anymore. I— no.”
“But you used to be!” Nico laughed. “Look at this! That’s an actual bridge!”
“Used to be,” Max repeated firmly. “Long time ago. Like . . . many years. Many, many years. 20 years!”
“And how does the future Mrs. Verstappen feel about that?” the host teased.
Max just smiled in that way he got when he was thinking about you — all soft edges. “I think she finds it funny.”
Oh, if only he knew what was waiting for him when he got home.
You hear the apartment door unlock before you even see him, and you’re already padding across the living room like an excited cat. Max steps inside with that tired post-flight slump, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped—looking every bit like a man who’d just survived a grand prix weekend and a fan stage ambush.
You practically bounce toward him.
“Baby!” You throw your arms around his neck
“Mijn schat,” Max drops his suitcase and back pack, wrapping his arms around you. He returns the kiss you press against his lips with a hum like a starved man.
He pulls away after a moment, cupping your cheek with his palm and pecking your lips with a small muah before picking up his belongings and moving into the apartment.
“So . . .” you begin, eyes bright, smile definitely giving you away. “I saw the videos.”
Max stops mid-step. His whole face drops into an exhausted, knowing grimace. “Oh god. No. No, no—don’t start. I just got home.”
You pout immediately, stepping close and dragging your fingers along the sleeves of his hoodie. “Max . . .”
He groans, long and dramatic, head tipping back. “I knew it. I knew you were going to try and make me stretch.” He points at you accusingly. “You waited for me like some kind of—of flexibility assassin.”
You poke his chest lightly. “You were adorable. And stiff. Like, you could’ve snapped in half onstage.”
He blinks. “Wow. Thank you.”
“I’m just saying,” you hum, leaning in, “maybe we should work on it a little?”
His eyes narrow. “Absolutely not.”
You kiss him—soft, slow, sweet, the kind that knocks the air right out of his lungs.
He exhales in defeat. “. . . Okay, maybe a little.”
You grin triumphantly.
Two minutes later, he’s sitting on the yoga mat with the expression of a man questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.
You lower into a gentle fold, palms flat against the floor, spine loose and warm. Max attempts the same—and immediately groans.
“Oh my god, babe,” you say, eyebrows lifting, “you suck.”
Max whips his head toward you. “I don’t need to be flexible! I just need to sit in a car and take g-forces!”
“It has benefits,” you sing-song. “Keeps you healthy. And young.”
He scoffs. “I am young.”
“Mhm. Not with that lower back.”
He glares, offended. “I hate this.”
“Yes,” you say sweetly, “I noticed.”
He sits back, arms crossed, stubborn as anything. You crawl over, settle onto your knees beside him, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Then he sighs like he’s about to negotiate a peace treaty.
“Fine. Deal time.”
You perk up instantly.
He holds up a finger. “If I get flexible—actually flexible—you get your driver’s license.”
You freeze. “But I don’t know how to drive.”
He gives you a look, all smug and matter-of-fact. “Well, aren’t you lucky you’re married to the best driver in the world?”
You roll your eyes so hard they nearly leave orbit. “Can’t the best driver in the world just drive me around?”
“No,” Max says flatly.
You pout—actually pout—and he bites back a smile.
“Or,” he continues, lifting that same finger again, “he could teach you how to drive.”
“But I’m a passenger princess,” you whine, leaning on him dramatically.
“You will always be a passenger princess,” he assures, cupping your jaw and kissing your cheek. “But you can’t keep spending so much on Uber when I’m gone.”
You stare at him. “I hate driving.”
“And I hate stretching,” he counters, shrugging like this is cosmic balance being restored.
He sticks his hand out between you. Solid. Final. A challenge.
You groan. Whine again for good measure.
Then take his hand and shake it.
“Deal,” you mumble.
He kisses your forehead, smiling into your skin. “Good. Now stretch me, princess.”
It becomes a routine so natural you can count the days by it.
Every night, sometime after brushing teeth and turning off the main lights, Max ends up on the bedroom rug while you sit cross-legged on the bed, hair tied up, watching him with that soft little grin that always gets him flustered.
He pretends not to like stretching.
He completely likes stretching now.
Not the pain part—no, he still grumbles and complains like a man twice his age—but the part where you sit behind him, hands guiding his arms forward, your breath warm on his neck. The part where you kiss his cheek every time he manages an extra centimeter. The part where the two of you laugh through half the poses and he groans through the rest, calling you cruel while secretly loving every minute of it.
You reach out, pressing your palm between his shoulder blades. “Okay, fold just a little more. You’ve got it.”
Max inhales sharply and wheezes, “I don’t got it.”
You laugh, leaning in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re doing amazing, baby.”
He whispers, “bribery kisses are not fair,” even though he leans into every single one.
Sometimes the pain makes his eyes sting—just a little—and you wipe the corner of his lashes with your thumb before kissing the crown of his head. Max melts instantly, because affection is a performance-enhancing drug for him, and he’ll stretch himself into a pretzel if he gets to hear your soft “good job, love” afterward.
It’s become your best kind of nightly ritual.
Just you and him.
Your giggles. His groans.
A quiet, warm tenderness at the end of every day.
The next morning at the Red Bull gym, Rupert is setting up Max’s usual routine when Max clears his throat like he’s about to confess to a crime.
“Uh,” Max starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “so—maybe we can add… flexibility stuff?”
Rupert freezes mid-way through rearranging resistance bands. Slowly turns. Raises an eyebrow.
“. . . Flexibility?”
Max nods casually, trying too hard to look normal. “Yeah.”
There is a full, silent three-second pause where Rupert just stares at him.
Then: “Since when do you want to stretch voluntarily?”
Max shrugs, staring at the treadmill like it might rescue him. “My back hurts all the time now. Getting older. You know how it is.”
“You’re twenty-seven,” Rupert deadpans.
“Yeah. Ancient.”
Rupert narrows his eyes. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your wife, would it?”
Max’s jaw tightens. “No.”
“Mhm.”
“No,” he repeats, looking away.
“Max.”
He sighs deeply, defeated. “Maybe.”
Rupert laughs—actually laughs—and claps him on the shoulder. “Alright then. Flexibility it is.”
Max tries to stay cool, tries to stay tough. But when Rupert pulls out the mats, Max mutters, “Please don’t tell her,” like he’s trading state secrets.
Rupert grins. “Your secret’s safe.”
And so, behind your back, Max trains twice as hard.
Evenings with you—soft, warm, kiss-rewarded stretching full of laughter and barely-there tears from the pain.
Mornings with Rupert—focused stretches, mobility drills, hamstring torture disguised as “hip openers.”
He never says a word about the extra work.
He just comes home every night, drops onto the rug in front of you, and stretches like a man on a mission.
And every time you say, “Wow, baby, you’re getting so good!” Max just smiles—shy and proud and a little smug.
The sun is warm over the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, the asphalt shimmering just slightly in the late afternoon light. The garages are quiet, most of the paddock already gone for the day, leaving only the echoes of your footsteps and the faint hum of distant generators.
Your first driving lesson.
Max insisted on making it special.
You insisted on not dying.
The two of you walk toward the car parked at the end of the pit lane, and your nerves are already chewing at your spine. Max, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to have the best day of his life.
He opens your door first—gentle, sweet—and helps you in before rounding the car to take the driver’s seat.
You buckle up with trembling hands. “Okay,” you exhale, “don’t go fast.”
Max turns to you with the flattest, most unimpressed stare he has ever delivered. “I’m literally a Formula One driver.”
“Yeah, exactly,” you say, gripping the seatbelt, “that’s why I don’t trust you.”
He revs the engine.
“Max—”
He speeds off.
The acceleration slams you into your seat, and the scream you let out is so loud it mightvas well have echoed through the pit lane.
“MAXIMILIAN—!”
He’s giggling. Actually giggling. Proud, smug, delighted with himself.
By the time he slows at the end of the straight, you punch his arm—lightly, but dramatic.
“You’re insane!”
He grins, “Good start to your first lesson, no?”
You whack him again. He kisses your cheek in apology. “Okay, princess. Your turn.”
Switching seats feels like a death sentence.
You sit behind the wheel, shaky, your foot hovering carefully over the pedal like it might explode.
Max sits sideways in his seat, elbow on the headrest, looking at you with this soft, supportive, annoyingly handsome smile. “Just breathe. You’ll be fine.”
You start the car.
It stalls immediately.
You wince. “Oh god—sorry—”
Max cupps your cheek and kisses you gently. “That’s one.”
“One what?”
“One stall, one kiss.”
You groan. “Is this bribery to fail? So you never get flexible?”
“This is motivation,” he corrects, tapping your knee lightly. “Try again.”
You inhale, exhale, start the car again—and stall again.
He leans over, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Two.”
By the third stall, he’s laughing quietly, kissing you soft and slow before resting his forehead against yours. “You’re doing perfect. Keep going.”
Eventually, you roll forward—slowly.
Very slowly.
Max beams like you’ve just won pole. “There you go! Look at you.”
You mutter under your breath, “I hate this,” gripping the wheel like a lifeline, but you keep going.
Lap after lap, turn after turn, at a snail’s pace—but still going.
He doesn’t care how slow you are. He cares that you’re trying.
Over the next few weekends, every track becomes your classroom as you follow Max and his circus.
Austria.
Spa.
Zandvoort.
Monza.
Whenever you’re able to join him, the two of you sneak onto the circuit (with permission) after hours—Max driving first, you yelling at him for going too fast, then switching seats for your slow, cautious laps while he cheers you on like you’re a rookie in F4.
At one track—Silverstone—you misjudge a corner and hit a sausage curb a little too hard. The car bounces, jolting violently.
Your breath stops. Your chest tightens. Your eyes sting immediately. AwèYou freeze, hands glued to the wheel.
Before you can even exhale, Max is already unbuckled, leaning across the console, cupping your face with both hands.
“Hey, hey, schatje—look at me. You’re okay.”
You swallow a sob. “I—I hit it—”
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing your cheeks, voice soft and steady. “It happens. You didn’t crash. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m right here.”
Your eyes blur. He pulls you into his chest, letting you shake into him, warm hand stroking your back until your breathing steadies.
“You’re safe,” he whispers into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
It takes a few minutes before you can sit back again, wiping at your face.
Max kisses your forehead. “We stop here for today. You did good.”
“Good?” you squeak. "I'm the shitiest driver in all of history."
He shakes his head. “You kept going. That’s good.”
You sniff, leaning into his hand. “I hate driving.”
“And I hate stretching,” he smirks softly. “But we’re getting there.”
Max had insisted on choosing the quietest stretch of road he could find — a sleepy residential area on the outskirts of town, sun dipping low behind the trees, casting that soft honey-colored glow he always said made you look “dangerously pretty.” The car idled at the curb, your hands hovering above the wheel like it might bite you.
He watched you with this gentleness he didn’t even bother hiding anymore. One hand rested casually on the center console, fingers tapping softly — he always tapped when he was nervous, but today? Today, you were the one who kept swallowing like your throat was too tight.
“You ready?” he asked, and his voice had that warm rasp it got whenever he was trying to be patient.
“No,” you said immediately.
Max breathed out a laugh, exactly the kind that softened him around the edges. “Well, you’re gonna do it anyway.”
You glared at him, though it held no heat. “I swear, Max . . . if I die—”
“You’re not gonna die,” he said, leaning a little closer. “You’ll be fine. I’m right here.”
That part made your stomach flip, and he knew it, because the corner of his mouth pushed up just slightly.
"I'm the one who's going to die," he finished, joking and trying to hold in his smile.
You whacked him, smacking his chest and pushing him, not finding his joke funny.
He chuckled softly, leaning over the console and kissing your cheek, his lips lingering for a momeny. He pointed to the ignition. “Come on. Start it.”
You sighed dramatically — because if you didn’t, your heart might explode — and turned the key. The engine hummed to life, vibrating under your palms. You tensed immediately.
Max noticed. Of course he did. “Hey,” he murmured, covering your hands with his for a second. “Relax. You’re good.”
You inhaled slowly, let it out even slower, then nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Foot on the brake.”
You did.
“Shift into drive.”
The car lurched a little. You flinched. Max chuckled under his breath.
“That’s normal,” he promised. “You’re doing great.”
“Max,” you muttered. “I hate this.”
He gave you a look — that fond, amused, I told you so look he reserved specifically for you. “You promised you'd try,” he reminded.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re bossing me around.”
His eyebrows lifted, offended-but-not-really. “You boss me around during stretching.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” he challenged, leaning back, crossing his arms.
“Because I’m cute,” you said flatly. "And your future wife," you continued.
Max froze.
Then he blinked. Slowly.
Then he huffed out a small, breathless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “You are,” he admitted, and his voice dipped lower, softer. “But that’s not— alright, no, we’re not doing this. Hands on the wheel.”
You smirked but obeyed, making sure he saw the victory in your eyes before you faced the road.
“Okay,” he said, settling into teacher mode again. “Let’s start moving. Gently ease off the brake.”
You eased. Too fast.
“Brake,” Max said calmly.
You tapped it. The car jerked violently.
Max braced a hand on the dash. “Brake— okay, not that hard,” he said through a breathy little laugh.
“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with one hand.
“No hiding,” he said, pulling your hand away. “You’re fine. Try again.”
You inhaled. Eased off the brake slower this time. The car rolled forward, steady, and your shoulders lifted like the weight of the entire Dutch population was sitting on them.
Max noticed. Again.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re breathing like a tractor.”
You whipped your head toward him, scandalized. “Take that back.”
Max grinned. “Eyes on the road.”
You snapped forward. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he said, smug but warm. “Okay. A little more speed. You’re going… two kilometers an hour.”
“That’s enough!”
“Baby, children on scooters go faster than this.”
You gasped quietly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” he admitted. “Okay, keep going. You’re doing great.”
You actually were. The car rolled along nicely, and once the initial wave of terror faded, you relaxed by degrees — shoulders slowly easing down, breath coming steadier, grip on the wheel loosening just slightly.
Max watched all of it like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
At the next intersection, he pointed ahead. “You’re gonna turn left.”
“Max—”
“You’ve got it,” he promised. “Trust yourself.”
“I trust you.”
That did something to him — it softened him entirely, melted every sharp edge he had. His expression went warm in a way that made your chest tighten.
“Then trust me when I say you can do this,” he murmured.
You swallowed. Nodded.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He guided you through it — talking quietly, calmly, his voice steady enough to make the whole car feel safer. And when you made the turn, not perfect but smooth enough that you didn’t scream, he lit up like you’d just won a championship.
“There you go,” he said proudly. “Look at you.”
The praise made your ears burn. “Stop,” you muttered. “You’re making it weird.”
“I’m literally being nice,” he said, laughing. “You want me to be mean instead?”
“Yes,” you shot back instantly. “That would be less embarrassing.”
Max laughed so hard he had to rub his face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And cute,” you reminded him.
He groaned, leaning back in his seat like he was surrendering. “Yes. And cute. Now keep going.”
It’s late—late enough that Monaco has gone quiet, the windows glowing faintly with that silver winter softness that makes the whole apartment feel like it’s breathing slow. You’re curled up in bed, blanket bunched around your legs, phone slipping in and out of your hands while Max stretches on the rug like he’s gearing up for battle.
He’s been laser-focused for a good ten minutes now. Barefoot, hair a mess, jaw tight in that stubborn little way he gets when he decides something is happening whether his spine likes it or not.
You peek over your screen.
“You okay down there, soldier?”
He exhales through his nose, sharp and determined.
“I’m gonna try and fold and touch past my toes.”
Your phone is gone from your brain instantly. You sit up straight, scooting to the edge of the mattress like you’ve just been summoned.
“Wait—seriously?”
“Seriously.” He shakes out his legs like a sprinter on the starting grid, completely committed and completely dramatic in the way only he can get away with.
He sits down, separates his legs wide, then he lowers himself—slow, slow, slower—face twisting, breath catching. A groan slips out of him, then another, and—
He reaches all the way forward till his chest touches the floor.
Full fold—well, almost full fold, his stomach is not touching the ground, but it's the best to his abilities and an amazing personal achievement for him.
Your gasp could win awards. “Max! Baby—that’s insane!”
He looks up at you, flushed and glowing, like your pride might actually power him. “Reward,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You slide off the bed, kneeling beside him, palms cupping his face. The second your lips meet his, he melts—arms slack, body softening like he’s been waiting weeks just for this one moment. And he doesn’t even close his eyes; he watches you, soaking in your reaction like it’s the point of the whole exercise.
When you pull back, he groans again—this time because his legs are protesting as he tries to stand. “Yeah, okay, ow. Your turn to suffer later.” He shakes himself out, then nods toward the rug. “Bridge?”
You smile. “Bridge.”
He drops down first, planting his hands, pushing up. His arms tremble a little, but he gets there—chest open, back curving clean and strong. His face is red as anything, but he’s grinning at you like he’s seven again, showing off at some tiny, echoing Dutch gym.
You fall into your own bridge from standing, letting your spine ripple into position. Upside down, he looks even cuter—hair dangling, smile crooked, eyes bright.
You reach out, fingertips brushing his.
And like a genius, he tries to shift his hand to hold yours.
Instant regret.
“Woah—!”
His arm wobbles, he collapses sideways, crashing right into you. Both of you hit the floor in one messy, laughing pile that echoes off every wall.
You crawl over him, palms braced on either side of his ribs. He cups your cheek with one steady, warm hand and you meet him halfway, kissing him slow and soft, like you’re both trying to memorize the moment. His thumb strokes your skin, tender and sure, and he kisses you back with that quiet intensity he only ever shows when he’s genuinely happy.
When you pull back, he murmurs it against your mouth:
“Worth it.”
Every wobble, every groan, every stupid fall.
Worth it because it’s with you.
He shifts under you slightly, looking up with that soft little smile.
“Can we . . . take a picture of us doing it together?”
“Duh. Of course. I need to show your mom.”
You set up the camera. Max cracks his back with unnecessary drama. You smooth his hair even though he keeps insisting it doesn’t matter. Then you both lower into a bridge again — steadier this time, almost graceful — hands planted, feet firm.
Just like when you were seven.
His fingertips find yours again. Light. Familiar.
You brush back.
Later that night, the photo goes up on your shared post — two bridges, side by side with the childhood one from years ago.
Caption:
“Some things don’t change.”
Max comments,
“Except now I get to marry her ❤️”
And on that same yoga mat, Max tackles you over with a dramatic groan.
“Actually — that stretch counted too. I deserve another kiss.”
The sun’s starting to dip over Monaco, that kind of honey-gold light that makes everything feel warmer than it is. You pull up beside the paddle courts, window rolled down, one hand draped over the wheel while you wait.
Max spots you first.
He jogs over, hair damp, cheeks flushed from running around with Lando and the others — and the second he reaches the window, he leans in without hesitation, kissing you like it’s the most natural greeting in the world.
“Hi, Mrs. Verstappen,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and stupidly proud.
You giggle, giving him another soft kiss.
“Hi, baby.”
Behind him, Lando slows to a stop. He blinks at the scene. Blinks again.
“Wait. Why are you in the driver’s seat?”
You grin, already reaching for the little plastic card tucked into the center console.
“Because I can drive now, genius.”
You hold up your license between two fingers.
YN VERSTAPPEN
right there in clean black letters.
Lando stares at it like you just revealed a secret government document.
“No way. No actual way. You — you passed? You have a license? They gave you one? And they let you keep it?”
Max snorts under his breath.
“Don’t ever drive me anywhere,” Lando jokes, hands raised like he’s warding off fate, giving you a side eye.
“Yeah, I will,” Max cuts in immediately, smug as anything as he moves around your car to the passenger side.
“Yikes. No thank you,” Lando mutters, waving by as he walks to his fiat jolly.
Max opens the door, leans in, and steals one more quick kiss before sitting down beside you. The ring on his finger glints when he buckles in. Yours glints right back.
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( lando norris x deaf!fem!reader ) ( 1.7k wc )
⤷ Lando is immediately hooked after a brief, flirty encounter at a Monaco party with a beautiful stranger who can't seem to keep her eyes off his lips. What he mistakes for coy, mysterious eye contact turns out to be something much more meaningful, setting off a sweet journey of learning how to communicate in a whole new way.
WARNINGS:
⤷ fluff and romance, meet-cute / coincidence trope, deaf reader / lip-reading, sweet/whipped lando norris, language barriers, learning sign language (bsl & fsl), disability representation (deafness/hearing aids), emotional sweetness, zero angst bc why would i do that?
REQUESTED!
⤷ this fic was requested by annon, see request here
( my m. list | more of LN1 ) ( requests )
The party was already halfway to wild when Lando arrived, music pulsing through the walls like a second heartbeat, voices echoing off marble and glass. Monaco knew how to throw a party, and his friends knew how to fill it with beautiful strangers.
He wasn’t expecting anything. Just a few drinks, a few laughs. Maybe a bit of dancing if the night got loud enough. He wasn’t looking. But she—you—were impossible to miss.
You were tucked against the wall, cradling a drink, eyes scanning the room like you were reading the air instead of listening to the bass. You didn’t seem shy, not exactly, but . . . separate. As if the world were one beat behind you, and you liked it that way.
Lando didn’t mean to stare, but when you looked at him, like really looked at him, it was straight to the core. No second-guessing or coyness, just a direct gaze, your eyes flickering from his irises to his lips as he said something to a friend nearby.
His heart stuttered. Was she checking me out?
The thought was a little spark of adrenaline. His smirk curled before he could stop it. And so, when he crossed the room—half-drunk on curiosity, half-encouraged by how you didn’t look away—he felt his pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he said, voice dipped low with that lazy confidence he wore like cologne.
Your gaze dropped again, flicked to his mouth. There it was again. That glance. That look. Was it on purpose? You weren’t speaking yet, just watching him, sipping slowly. Coy. Mysterious. And god, pretty.
He took a step closer, just enough to lean in. Just enough to blur the lines of personal space. You didn’t step back.
“You know,” he said, voice a little louder, pitched right for your ear, “if you’re gonna keep looking at my lips, I’m gonna assume you’re flirting.”
Your laugh wasn’t loud, more so luminous. It tumbled out of you like it had caught you off guard. Like you didn’t expect him to notice. Or to call it out so cheekily.
Your cheeks flushed, and your smile split wide and warm and real, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then came a giggle, tiny, pretty, involuntary. The kind of sound that made the air feel just a little more golden.
Lando’s grin deepened. Jackpot.
He reached out, light fingers brushing your arm before tugging you in, gentle and bold all at once. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, voices around you both fading into static.
“What’s your name, then?” he asked, the words a hush meant only for you.
You turned your face slightly, close enough that your nose nearly touched his cheek, and told him.
He repeated it softly, testing it on his tongue, letting it bloom between you. “Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he murmured.
You ducked your head a little, smiling like he’d just told you a secret, and Lando? He was hooked.
In that moment, he didn’t know why you hadn’t answered some of his questions. He didn’t know why your eyes lingered on his mouth instead of his eyes. He didn’t notice the tiny aids tucked behind your ears, almost hidden by your hair.
But he noticed you. And that was more than enough to make him want to know everything else.
Lando had the posture of an iPad kid—head bowed low, thumb tapping away like he was trying to beat his high score in some unspoken race. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, standing in the line of a cafe to order something, he was way too deep into his phone to notice much of anything.
That is . . . until he heard it.
Your voice.
Not loud, not dramatic—just familiar? Would that be the right word? Warm and airy, threaded with French charm, speaking to the barista two people in front of him in a tone he’d remember anywhere.
His head shot up. And there you were.
Hair tied back, sunglasses perched atop your head, that same effortless glow clinging to you like sunlight through a windowpane. You were focused on the pastry case, unaware that the boy from the party—the one who had whispered flirty things in your ear like they were sweet nothings carved into air—was standing just behind you in line.
Lando blinked. Destiny? Coincidence? He didn’t care. He was already smiling.
By the time he placed his own order and turned to look for you, you were by the pick-up counter, waiting, scrolling through your phone with one hip cocked lazily against the wood.
“Hiii,” Lando said, drawing it out softly as he approached, like a secret between friends.
You looked up—and your smile, god, your smile—was that same one from the party. A little startled, then a little delighted.
“Hey,” you greeted, voice like the fizz on top of soda, sweet and unexpected.
He leaned against the counter, just enough to close the distance. “What are the chances, huh?” he said, smirking. “I was just thinking about you.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with amused disbelief. “Really?”
“Swear,” Lando grinned. “It’s fate. The universe clearly wants us to keep bumping into each other.” His gaze softened. “And I’m not complaining. I get to see you smile again.”
Your cheeks flushed instantly, warmth blooming from your chest to your fingertips. You looked down with a small laugh, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of your mouth.
Lando’s grin only widened. He watched you as your order was called, and when you stepped up to collect it, he leaned in to peer over your shoulder.
“Ooooh, fancy order,” he teased, reading the label. “Almond milk, one pump vanilla, extra cinnamon. That’s very specific.”
You turned, eyebrow raised. “You mocking me?”
“Memorizing it, actually,” he said with a wink. “Next time I see you, I’m bringing it without even asking.”
You giggled, biting your lip as you tucked the cup closer to your chest. “Next time?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando said, walking with you toward the exit, casually ignoring the espresso he just paid for. “Now that fate’s done its job, it’d be rude not to follow up.”
You stepped outside together, and there they were—your friends, standing just a few feet down the sidewalk, talking and laughing and waiting.
You paused, turning to him.
“I should—”
“I know,” he said gently. “But before you go . . .”
He pulled out his phone, lifting his brow like a question. You smiled and handed over yours, your fingers brushing his in that soft, electric way. Numbers exchanged. Names saved.
He handed your phone back, his thumb lingering just a second too long on the edge of your case. “Text me when you’re free,” he said. “Even if it’s just for coffee.”
“Even if it’s just cinnamon?” you teased.
“Especially if it’s cinnamon,” he replied, shooting you a boyish grin.
And with that, you turned to your friends, coffee in hand, cheeks still warm.
Lando watched you go, that charming smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself,
Definitely fate.
The thing about falling for you was that it never felt like falling. No vertigo. No fear. No spiraling. Just that slow, golden drift like sunlight through car windows in late afternoon, warm and familiar, like he’d known you in a past life or two.
You and Lando had slipped into a rhythm without even realizing it. Coffee runs. Late-night drives. Dinner where his foot kept brushing against yours under the table and neither of you said anything, just smiled into your drinks.
He loved how expressive you were. How you laughed with your whole face. How you tilted your head when listening, how your eyes flicked between his and his mouth like they were both poems you were trying to memorize.
He thought you were just focused. Thought you liked eye contact. Thought you liked him (you do).
But somehow, he still hadn’t realised. Not until Max Fewtrell happened.
It was a casual sort of hangout, thrown together in a flurry of group chat messages and location drops. Max had just flown in and insisted on catching up. You had come along without hesitation, tucked close to Lando’s side, smiling as you belonged there, because by now, you did.
The conversation was light, fast, overlapping like crashing waves. Max was loud as ever, gesturing wildly, cracking jokes at Lando’s expense, and you laughed along even when you couldn’t catch every word. You leaned into Lando now and then, eyes flicking to his lips, catching pieces. Max noticed.
Lando had offered to grab pastries for the table, sliding out of the booth with a wink and a promise: “Don’t let Max corrupt you while I’m gone.”
You and Max were left behind with warm drinks and the soft murmur of indie music drifting through the café. The sun slipped lazily through the windows, painting soft gold onto mugs and faces.
Max took a sip of his tea, then looked over at you with that same easy charm you’d already seen him use on Lando half a dozen times. Only this time, it was softer. Gentler. Curious.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward a little. “I’m not great, but . . . I know a bit of sign. Not much. Just British Sign Language.”
You blinked, surprised, but your smile lit up like a spark catching kindling.
He fumbled a bit, hands moving clumsily through ‘name’ and ‘you’, raising his brows in that unmistakable question. “That’s . . . I know that, and ok, thank you and sorry.” Max lists what he knows, signing as he says them.
You giggled, delighted. Your fingers moved easily, confidently, signing your name with practiced grace and saying it aloud too.
Max’s grin was small but real. “Nice,” he said. “I’m Max. Lando already told you, I think.” He tried to sign it back—slower this time, a little off, but clearly making the effort. “You read lips too?”
You nodded, still smiling. He nodded back, clearly digging through some dusty corner of his memory for more signs. It was sweet and very thoughtful. And you could see why Lando kept him around.
A moment later, Lando returned, juggling two small plates and a smug grin.
“Okay, okay, I got you the one with the caramel centre,” he said proudly, setting the plate in front of you. “I remembered you said you liked it best last time.”
He paused, brow twitching as he glanced between the two of you—your smile still lingering, Max’s expression warm and a bit amused.
Max leaned back, still sipping his tea. “That’s so cool, though. I never would’ve known, well, until now.”
Lando blinked. “Until now what?”
Max looked at him, then at you. “What do you mean?”
“You said ‘until now,’” Lando repeated, sliding into the booth beside you. “Until now what?”
Max squinted. “Sign language.”
Lando tilted his head. “Why?”
Max stared. Then blinked once. Twice.
“. . . Because she’s deaf?” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lando froze, croissant halfway to his mouth.
“Wait. What?”
Max just stared at him. Then slowly leaned back in his seat, deadpan. “Are you serious?”
You took a calm sip of your drink, eyes twinkling like you were watching your favourite sitcom unfold in real-time.
Lando turned to you, visibly running a rapid mental montage: the preferred corner seating. The constant eye contact. The way you always needed him to face you when he spoke.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
Max slapped a hand over his forehead. “You absolute muppet.”
Lando groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “You’re telling me I’ve been flirting with the most amazing girl for weeks and didn’t even realize—”
“That she’s been reading your lips the whole time?” Max finished, grinning now. “Yeah. It’s honestly impressive. In a tragic kind of way.”
You reached out and tapped Lando’s arm gently. He peeked through his fingers, sheepish, ears pink.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” you say, your smile a little teasing, a little reassuring.
“I know,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “I just . . . didn’t see.”
You do now, you signed back.
And Lando’s face cracked into that signature grin—dimpled, sweet, slightly flustered but completely enamoured.
“Alright,” he said, “time to learn some French Sign Language then. I’m not staying the muppet in this relationship.”
Max coughed. “Too late.”
Lando flipped him off without even looking.
After that café day, something shifted in Lando.
It wasn’t guilt. You hadn’t made him feel bad for not knowing. It wasn’t obligation either, you’d never asked him to change a thing.
It was just you. You, with your expressive eyes and hands that danced like they were born to speak. You, who laughed without sound but made the whole room feel warmer. You, who made him want to lean in closer. He wanted to understand everything.
And so, Lando started to learn.
First came the French. That part, he could get away with. “Just trying to impress your friends,” he’d joke whenever you caught him practicing over FaceTime, flipping through learning apps with dramatic flair. You’d laugh and shake your head, telling him his accent was horrible—which only made him more determined.
But secretly, quietly, behind the scenes of your blooming romance, he was learning something more.
French Sign Language.
He practiced late at night, earbuds in, mouthing the French alongside his signs as he repeated gestures over and over. Some nights, he’d record himself, watching back the videos with a critical eye, hands moving just slightly too slow, too stiff. He’d rewind. Start again.
He scribbled notes on scrap paper. Left sticky notes around his flat with signs for beach, smile, you look beautiful today.
Max caught him once, mid-practice, half-signing I missed you to a mirror.
“You are so whipped,” Max said, deadpan.
“Shut up,” Lando mumbled, cheeks red. “It’s for her.”
Max just grinned. “You’re still whipped.”
But Lando didn’t care. He just kept learning.
And then, one day, weeks later, sun spilling across the Riviera, he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.
It was the golden kind of afternoon, one that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. The waves hummed lazily against the sand, your sandals dangling from your fingers as you walked side by side, wind tousling your hair and Lando’s hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sun was low and orange; it wasn’t hitting your eye, and the breeze was calm.
He kept glancing at you, like he was holding something behind his teeth. You noticed the twitch in his smile, the flicker of nerves beneath his dimple.
“Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane?” you teased.
Lando stopped walking. Turned to face you.
Then he took a breath, and slowly, carefully, signed:
I wanted to try something.
You blinked.
His hands moved again, a little awkward, a little shaky, but clear.
I’ve been learning French Sign Language.
You stared. Mouth parted slightly. Breath caught somewhere just beneath your ribs.
Lando smiled, cheeks pink. “Surprise?”
And then—he signed again.
I wanted to talk to you the way you talk. The way your world speaks.
Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of joy, of the way your hands suddenly flew to your mouth in stunned delight.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his hoodie. He laughed into your hair, holding you tight, the both of you swaying like waves on the sand.
When you pulled back, your asked quick and exited. “When did you learn?”
Since that day at the café, he signed. You were right there the whole time, and I haven’t been listening. So I wanted to learn how to.
You signed slowly, pressing each word into the space between you. Thank you. This means everything.
Lando’s smile was soft, his eyes a little glassy. He reached up, brushing your hair back with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You mean everything, he signed back.
And on that beach, with the sea whispering your names and the sun painting halos on your skin, you kissed him, your fingers curled in his curls, love sitting unspoken on your tongue, but echoing loud and clear in every sign you shared.
when i wake up, i'm afraid ◦ somebody else might take my place ◦ when i wake up, i'm afraid ◦ somebody else might take my place ◦ when i wake up, i'm afraid ◦ somebody else might end up being me
what do u think abt deaf!reader (or hard of hearing) x lando norris 🥹 i jst think the relationship would be so adorable and comforting! like he would actually learn sign language for her as well awh 🙏🙏💗💗 and the public reaction to their soft dynamic would be mostly supportive too >< pls do tell if u dont feel comfortable with this req!! love your writing and have a good day always !! 💗💗💗
. . . ( this has been in my inbox for so long but I love this idea! coming soon <3 )
FIC SUMMARY ⋆˚꩜｡ ( max verstappen x girlfriend!reader ) ( 1.2k wc )
⤷ what happens when an independent girlfriend and a very gentlemanly, chivalrous Max Verstappen are in a relationship where, no matter how hard he tries, you just won't let him do things for you?
( my m. list | more of MV3 ) ( requests )
You were the kind of woman who did things for herself. Grew up that way. Not out of stubbornness, not really—it was more survival instinct turned second nature.
You opened your own doors. You paid your own bills. You drove your own damn car (with a valid license, thank you very much).
Max Verstappen, on the other hand, was a gentleman. Capital G Gentleman. He held doors, carried bags, and insisted on walking closest to the street, even if it meant getting hit by a rogue bird scooter or even Charles Leclerc.
Which is what made dating you . . . a little frustrating for him.
“You’re my girlfriend, schat,” he’d complained to you over and over, “I want to spoil you. Why won’t you let me do things for you?”
And you always laughed, sweet and low. “Because I can do them myself.”
“Yeah,” Max would huff, “But you shouldn’t have to.”
It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it—it was that you weren’t used to it. That kind of gentleness had always felt like something from a storybook. But Max was different. He meant it. Every time he tried to make you feel like a princess, it wasn’t performative. It was just who he was.
Still, habits die hard.
Even tonight, after a perfect dinner date—wine, laughter, one too many appetisers—you walked yourself to the car like always. You were scrolling through your buzzing phone, a message from your best friend lighting up the screen as your heels clicked steadily against the concrete of the underground parking lot.
Max didn’t notice you had paused. With a hand in his pocket, he made his way over to the passenger door, expecting you to reach the handle before him like you always do.
Max didn’t realise you were a meter behind. Not really. He was deep in thought—his hand already reaching for the handle on your side, not expecting anything, just doing. His mind was somewhere between Should I take her to that little vineyard next weekend? and god, she looked good tonight, when he heard your steps stop beside him.
You looked up from your phone and raised a brow, amused. “Max?”
He blinked. “Yes, schatje?”
And for the first time . . . he’d opened the door for you.
You smiled. No teasing, no smug quip—just warmth in your gaze as you leaned forward, pressing the softest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”
Max blinked again, stunned, and then—he grinned. No. He beamed. And as you slid into the seat, completely unbothered, Max’s mouth stretched into something close to villainous glee.
When he sat in the driver’s seat, he just took a moment, not even starting the car, but looking at you with this cute smile that slowly widened the more he looked between your eyes.
By the time he was driving through the roads of Monaco, he was full on giggling. A "Heh. Heheheheheh." escaped under his breath, a cartoon villain chuckle if you’d ever heard one. It grew louder, more triumphant. You loved it when Max laughed like this, a usual sight in his streams; scrunched nose and crinkled eyes with his teeth showing in his smile.
When he stopped at a red light, he was buzzing. “Did you see that?” he asked like he’d just won a Grand Prix. “I opened the door for you!”
You raised an eyebrow. “You did.”
“You let me.”
You snorted. “I was texting!”
“I won,” he said dramatically, head thrown back in glee as he started driving again once the light turned green. “That was the greatest moment of my life.”
“You literally won the world championship—”
“This is better.” He whispered like it was some sort of secret, “I have four of those championships, but I only have one of this.”
The whole way home, Max couldn’t stop smiling. Grinning like an idiot, eyes crinkled and squinted and nose scrunched, humming to himself like a ma man, eyes gleaming with chaotic joy. You leaned your head against the window, giggling every time he said something like, “I can die happy now,” or “Do you think there’s a trophy for Most Romantic Door Opening?”
But it wasn’t over.
Oh no.
As the car eased into the garage and the engine turned off, you moved to unbuckle your seatbelt. “Alright, come on—”
“NO.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t move,” Max said, already leaping out of the car like it was on fire. “Don’t. Move. Don’t get out, don’t even breathe!”
“MAX—”
“I MEAN IT!” he shouted across the hood, which he had jumped on in hopes of getting to your side of the car faster than just walking around.
You watched, stunned, as your Formula One world champion boyfriend lunged across the hood like a man possessed. Dress shirt half-untucked, what a sight. he slid off the hood at your side.
You crack the door open and start to get out—but you are quickly shoved back in your seat with the door slamming shut in your face.
You blinked up at him, lips twitching.
He held up a finger, signalling “give me a second”, chest rising and falling as he straightened his shirt. Fixed his posture. Ran a hand through his hair like he was about to walk into a royal ball.
Then, with the gravitas of a knight, he slowly opened the car door.
“My lady,” he said with a bow, extending his hand.
You laughed. Laughed. It bubbled up from your chest and spilt out, uncontrolled. “You are so dramatic.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “Take my hand.”
You did.
He helped you out like you were made of glass. Tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like you were royalty. Walked you up to the elevator, then your shared apartment like he was on some period drama set, absolutely giddy with pride.
You were still laughing when you reached the front door. Shaking your head.
“If this is how you get when I let you open one door,” you teased, “I’m never letting you open one again.”
Max stopped. Froze, his jaw dropped.
His face crumbled—comically horrified, like a man who had just realised he’d wished on a cursed monkey’s paw.
“No. No, no no no—wait. You can open some! Not all of them—I’ll pick which ones—WAIT, PLEASE DON’T TAKE THIS FROM ME.” The Dutchman shook you from your shoulders.
You cackled as you stepped inside, him following quickly in step, pleading dramatically. “I’m begging you, schatje. You can open the fridge. Open your own texts. But let me have the doors, PLEASE—”
“You’re so ridiculous,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.
His hands slid to your waist, still pouty. “I’m ridiculous for you.”
You kissed him again, slow and sweet this time. “Fine,” you whispered against his lips. “You get the car doors.”
Max lit up again.
“I’m going to start timing myself,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Make it a sport. Beat my personal best to the passenger side.”
“You’re the fastest man in the world, Max,” you said with a grin. “Use your powers for good.”
