ⓘ their small habits they don’t notice, but you do.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ est. relationship, fluff, 1.5k wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You didn’t even realize how often Lando did it.
How naturally he included you in things that hadn’t even happened yet.
It started with a conversation that had nothing to do with you.
Max and Pietra were talking about houses, casually discussing where they’d want to live one day. The kind of conversation people had when they weren’t talking about next month, but years from now.
“A place away from everything would be nice,” Max said. “Somewhere quiet.”
Lando nodded, thinking for a moment.
“Yeah, actually, I think when I retire and marry Y/n, I’m gonna buy a house for us somewhere on the French coast..”
You looked up from your phone.
Not because he said your name.
But because he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Not really in Monaco,” he continued, completely unaware that everyone was listening. “I mean, I love Monaco, but I don’t know. I’d want our kids to grow up somewhere quieter.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“Our kids?”
Lando glanced at you, confused.
“What?”
“You’re already planning children?”
He shrugged, looking at you with genuinely confused look.
“Of course!”
Then he looked back at Max.
“But it depends on what Y/n wants, obviously. It’s not just my decision. Maybe she wants something completely different.”
And somehow, that made it even worse.
Because he wasn’t joking.
He wasn’t trying to sound romantic.
He was genuinely just talking about a future where you were already there.
“Man, I’m so excited to have kids,” he added with a laugh. “Actually, maybe I should retire right now.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.
Later that night, when you were alone, you finally brought it up.
“Do you realize you do that?”
Lando looked at you.
“Do what?”
“You talk about the future like it’s already guaranteed.”
He frowned slightly.
“I do?”
“Yes. The house. The kids. Marriage. You say things like they’re already happening.”
A small smile tugged at his lips.
“And it isn’t guaranteed?”
You looked at him.
“I mean… yes, I really hope so, but what if we break up?”
The smile disappeared immediately.
“Nope.”
You laughed.
“Nope?”
“Not happening.”
“Lando—”
“I’m never letting you go.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Is that a threat?”
He thought about it for a second.
“Kind of. Yes.”
You laughed.
“I’d lock you in the basement if needed.”
“Lando!”
“What? I’m just saying I have options.”
You shook your head, still laughing.
But secretly?
You loved it.
Because Lando didn’t talk about a future with you because he was trying to convince himself it would happen.
He did it because, in his mind, there was never a version where you weren’t in it.
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ Oscar was usually the calm one.
The organized one.
The person who had everything planned before anyone else even realized there was something to plan.
Which was why you were slightly concerned when he was running around the apartment like he had forgotten how leaving the house worked.
“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” you reminded him.
“I know.”
“You’re still not ready.”
“I am ready.”
You looked at him.
He was standing in the middle of the room, looking around like he was trying to remember what humans normally took with them when they left.
You smiled. “Are you sure?”
Oscar ignored that.
“Do you have everything?”
You blinked. “Me?”
“Yes.”
He started counting on his fingers.
“Enough clothes? Shoes?”
“Yes, Oscar.”
“Your charger?”
“Yes.”
“Sunglasses?”
“Yes.”
He pointed at you.
“Good. Because we are not buying you another pair, baby.”
You laughed.
“It happened one time. Don’t be dramatic.”
“A very expensive one time,” he reminded you.
It was the one time you had accidentally lost your only pair of sunglasses in the paddock, and Oscar had insisted on buying you a new pair.
Of course, he then spent the entire day complaining about how much they cost.
You shook your head, amused.
Then you looked at him.
“Okay, but do you have everything?”
Oscar paused.
You immediately noticed.
“Everything you need for a triple header? Passport? Wallet? Team stuff? Everything you need to actually start a race?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Oscar.”
“Yes?”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
He said it very calmly.
Which somehow made it less convincing.
You watched as he grabbed his bag and started checking through it.
A few seconds later, he stopped.
The silence said everything.
You crossed your arms.
“What?”
Oscar looked up.
“I might have forgotten something.”
You smiled.
“Let me guess.”
He sighed.
“My paddock pass.”
You couldn’t help laughing.
The one thing he actually needed. The one thing that would make starting the weekend slightly difficult. You reached into your own bag and pulled it out.
His eyes widened.
“When did you get that?”
“When you left it on the counter five minutes ago.”
Oscar took it from you, shaking his head.
“You packed it?”
“Yeah.”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“That’s why I love you.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile.
Because that was Oscar.
He spent so much time making sure you had everything you needed that sometimes he forgot to check if he had everything himself.
And somehow, without either of you realizing it, you had started doing the same for him.
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ It wasn’t something Charles announced or even seemed aware of.
It was just… something he did.
Every single time you walked together.
The moment you stepped onto the sidewalk, his hand would gently find yours as he guided you to the inside, taking the side closest to the road without saying a word.
The first few times, you assumed it was a coincidence.
Until one afternoon, when you deliberately switched sides.
Not even five seconds later, Charles quietly guided you back.
You looked at him.
“Charles.”
“Hm?”
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always make me walk on the inside.”
He glanced at where you were standing before looking back at you.
“…Yeah?”
“Why?”
He frowned slightly, genuinely confused by the question.
“So you’re farther away from the cars.”
You smiled.
“I know, but… why?”
Charles shrugged.
“I don’t know. In case something happens and you don’t end up under a car.”
You looked at him for a second, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
Aww.
“That’s so cute.”
He tilted his head.
“Isn’t that normal?”
You laughed.
“No.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, Charles.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“I thought everyone did that.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh.
“No, that’s just you.”
He was quiet for a moment before giving a small shrug, as if he still didn’t quite understand why it was worth talking about.
“But,” you said, slipping your hand into his, “it’s very gentlemanly of you.”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Well… good.”
And just like that, without thinking about it, he gently switched places with you again the next time you crossed the street. It was simply what he did.
What he always would do.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚
Being with Max meant getting used to time zones.
Some weekends, he was halfway across the world while you were still at home in Monaco, trying to remember what country he was in that week.
This weekend, it was Baku.
Max knew about your plans. He always did. You had the habit of telling him everything, especially when he was away. Earlier that day, you told him you were going out with the girls.
His reply was simple.
Okay. Have fun.
And that was pretty much the end of the conversation.
Or so you thought.
By the time you got home, it was well after midnight. Your feet hurt, your makeup was smudged, and all you wanted was to collapse into bed.
You had barely kicked off your heels when your phone started ringing.
Max
A small smile spread across your face before you even answered. “Max?”
His voice was sleepy, rough around the edges.
“Hey, schat. You home?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “I just took off my shoes.”
You could practically hear him smile through the phone.
“Good.”
A small pause followed.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” you assured him softly.
Then you did the math. It was three in the morning in Baku.
“Max…” you said quietly. “You have a race tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“I know.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
“Then why did you call?”
He sounded genuinely confused.
“To make sure you got home.”
Your chest tightened.
“You could’ve just texted.”
“I wanted to hear your voice.”
You smiled, your heart warming instantly.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too, schat.”
“You’re going to be exhausted tomorrow.”
“I’ll survive.”
You let yourself fall back onto the bed, smiling at the ceiling.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For checking on me.”
Max was quiet for a moment.
“I always will.”
And somehow, you believed him without a second thought.
No matter what country he was in. No matter what time it was. If you were out, Max would always make sure you got home safely. Every single time.
ⓘ the moment you realized they were the one for you.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ fluff, 1.2k wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You almost didn’t tell him.
Not because it wasn’t important.
It was.
You’d worked for it for months. Late nights, stressful meetings, moments where you genuinely wondered if you were good enough.
But when it finally happened, it didn’t feel as big as you expected.
It was just an email.
A promotion. A new title.
A few words confirming that all your hard work had paid off.
When you finally got home, you mentioned it casually.
“Oh, by the way, I got promoted today.”
There was a pause.
A very long pause.
“Wait. What?”
You laughed. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Lando sat up straighter from the couch, his whole expression changing.
“Y/n, you got promoted.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. Don’t ‘but’ this.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Because suddenly he sounded more excited about it than you were.
“You worked so hard for this,” he continued. “Do you even understand how cool this is?”
“It’s just work.”
“It’s not just work. It’s something you wanted. Something you earned.”
You went quiet.
Because Lando wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better.
He genuinely meant it.
Lando was celebrating you in a way you never thought to celebrate yourself.
“It’s nothing, really,” you shrugged. “Just a small thing. I’d honestly be kind of mad at myself if I didn’t get it.”
His eyebrows immediately pulled together.
“Would you say the same thing to me?”
You looked at him. He didn’t let you speak.
“If I won another championship, would you tell me, ‘It’s basically nothing, Lan. You should’ve expected it’?”
The second he said it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because no.
Never.
The thought alone felt wrong.
“That’s different,” you argued quietly. “Your work is not the same as mine. My work is not that serious.”
“Why?”
“Because, Lan… you’re literally a Formula One driver.”
“And?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“It is serious, baby,” he said, softer this time. “Your work matters. Your goals matter!”
And somehow, that was the moment.
Not when you got the promotion.
Not when you saw the email.
But when Lando looked at something you had already dismissed and made you see it the way he did.
Yeah.
You knew you chose right.
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You knew Oscar hated shopping.
He had never tried to hide it.
The first time you dragged him along, he made it very clear that he didn’t understand how anyone could spend hours walking around stores just to “look.”
And yet, somehow, he kept coming with you.
Even today.
You were already in the third shop, holding up another outfit in front of him while he stood there with your bags, giving surprisingly honest opinions.
“Okay, what about this one?”
Oscar looked up from his phone.
“It’s nice.”
“You said that about the last one.”
“Because it was also nice.”
You laughed. “That’s not helpful!”
He shrugged. “You asked if it looked good. It does.”
You looked at him for a moment.
Oscar Piastri, who hated long shopping trips. Oscar Piastri, who would rather be doing almost anything else.
And yet he was still there.
“Isn’t this boring to you?” you asked.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Very.”
You blinked.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
You laughed. “Then why are you here?”
Oscar looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you wanted to go shopping.”
“But you didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked at you for a second, like the answer was obvious.
“I like spending time with you.”
And somehow, that was it.
Not some huge romantic gesture.
Just Oscar willingly spending hours doing something he hated because he liked being around you.
That was the moment you realized.
Oscar wasn’t the type to say a lot.
He just showed up.
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t think Charles was the kind of person who remembered small things.
Not because he didn’t care.
Actually, it was the opposite.
He cared about so many things that you assumed the little details would get lost somewhere between everything else.
So when you mentioned it once, you didn’t think anything of it.
You were sitting together after dinner, looking through the dessert menu, when you pointed at one of the options.
“Oh, I love that one,” you said casually. “But they never have it anywhere.”
Charles looked up from his menu.
“You like that?”
You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s probably my favorite.”
And then the conversation moved on.
You forgot about it.
Completely.
Weeks passed.
Life got busy. Schedules changed. You had a hundred other things to think about.
Until one evening, Charles showed up at your door with a small box in his hands and a smile on his face.
“I brought you something.”
You looked at the box, then back at him.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside was the dessert.
The exact one you had mentioned weeks ago.
For a second, you just stared.
“Charles…”
He looked slightly confused by your reaction.
“What?”
“You remembered this?”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Of course I remembered, chérie.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“You know I only mentioned it once, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you still remembered?”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You liked it.”
That was his entire explanation.
You looked at him for a moment, realizing something.
Charles wasn’t remembering things because he was trying to impress you.
He remembered because when you spoke, he actually listened.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You knew Max loved padel.
Everyone knew Max loved padel.
It was one of those things that made him genuinely happy. A few hours where he could forget about everything else, joke around with his friends, and just enjoy himself.
So when you texted him about your IKEA disaster, you weren’t expecting much.
I think I bought a wardrobe that’s too complicated for me.
His reply came almost immediately.
I have padel tonight.
You smiled.
I know. I’m not asking you to come.
A few minutes passed.
Good.
You laughed at his very Max-like response and put your phone down.
You weren’t expecting him to show up.
Which was why you were completely shocked when someone knocked on your door an hour later.
You opened it.
Max stood there.
With a toolbox in one hand.
You blinked.
“Max?”
“Hey, schat.”
“What are you doing here?”
He looked past you, directly at the half-built wardrobe taking over your apartment.
“I’m fixing that.”
You stared at him.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at padel?”
“I was.”
“And?”
“I cancelled.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
He shrugged, already walking inside.
“I can’t risk that thing falling on you.”
You looked at the wardrobe, then back at him.
“That’s your reason?”
“Yes.”
“You cancelled padel because you’re worried my wardrobe might attack me?”
“It looks unstable.”
You tried not to laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
He picked up the instructions from the floor.
“But I’m also right.”
And annoyingly, he was.
You watched him sit down on the floor, completely focused on building something he had no responsibility for fixing.
“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”
Max looked up at you.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
For a second, he looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you needed help.”
Simple. No dramatic explanation. No making it a big deal.
Just Max showing up because, in his mind, that was the obvious thing to do.
And as you watched him fight with IKEA instructions instead of playing padel with his friends, you realized something.
ⓘ one morning, Lando decided to speak only in British slang and found it way too entertaining when you had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
feat. lando norris x fem!reader ⨾ established relationship, british slang, humor, teasing, fluff, 831 wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
It started on a completely normal morning.
You were half-awake, sitting at the kitchen table in one of Lando’s hoodies, hair a mess, still trying to wake up.
Lando walked in looking far too pleased for 8 a.m.—and he hated mornings.
“Morning,” you mumbled.
“All right, love?” he replied casually.
You frowned slightly but didn’t think much of it. “Yeah… tired.”
He nodded like it was obvious. “Yeah, you look a bit knackered.”
You blinked slowly. “I look a bit what?”
“Knackered,” he repeated, as if it was the most normal word in the world.
“I don’t know what that means. Do I look sick?”
“No, baby. Just tired. Fancy a cuppa?”
You stared at him, still half-asleep, his words feeling like a foreign language.
“Genuinely, what are you saying?” you asked, looking at him in confusion.
Lando had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too much.
“Nothing complicated,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Just asking if you want tea.”
“Then say tea,” you muttered.
“I did.”
“No, you said… cuppa.”
“That is tea.”
You stared at him. Properly stared. “Did you hit your head?”
He tilted his head, still fighting his grin. “Nah, I’m sound.”
You squinted. “You’re… sound?”
“Yeah. Fine. All good.”
“…That’s not a real sentence. You are not a musical instrument, Lando.”
That did it.
Lando broke.
A laugh slipped out before he could stop it, and he quickly turned his face away like the counter was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“I’m not a musical instrument,” he repeated, still laughing under his breath. “You’re killing me.”
“You’re the one speaking in riddles,” you said, pointing at him accusingly. “First knackered, then cuppa, now… I’m sound? What’s next, are you going to tell me you’re chuffed about the kettle?”
He turned back, eyebrows raised. “Actually, yeah. The kettle’s class.”
You blinked. Slowly.
“I’m going back to bed.”
“No, wait—” he said quickly, stepping closer, but the grin on his face ruined any seriousness. “I’m only joking.”
Your eyes narrowed. “So you are making things up.”
“Not making them up,” he corrected. “Just… British-ing them up.”
“British-ing them up,” you repeated flatly.
He nodded proudly.
You sighed. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“…I strongly dislike you.” You said, mocking his accent.
“Bit dramatic, that.”
You grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing properly now, completely unbothered.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said.
“Yeah,” he admitted, setting the pillow aside. “Bit of fun, innit.”
You pointed at him again. “Don’t.”
He leaned in slightly, voice softer but still teasing. “Fancy a brew, then?”
You froze.
“…A brew is tea, isn’t it?” You were guessing, or you heard it somewhere before, you weren’t really sure.
He smiled like he’d just won something.
“Finally!”
“Just because I guessed one word doesn’t mean you’ll speak British. We speak English in this household, babe,” you warned him.
Lando pressed a hand to his chest like you’d deeply offended him.
“English?” he repeated. “I am speaking English.”
“No, you’re speaking British.”
“I remember how you told me my British accent is hot.”
“Two years ago.”
He gasped. Properly dramatic.
“So now it’s expired?”
“Yes.”
“Like milk?”
You pointed at him. “Exactly like milk.”
A few minutes later, you were in the kitchen making coffee for both of you. Not tea. You had trauma now.
You turned slightly toward the couch where Lando was sprawled, watching TV like he hadn’t just mentally destabilised your entire morning.
“Want some biscuits, baby?” you called out.
Silence.
Then—
Lando slowly turned his head.
“Biscuits?” he repeated, a grin already spreading across his face.
You froze.
“I meant cookies,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “Don’t think much of it.”
“I’d love to fancy a cuppa with biscuits, darlin’,” Lando said with a smug little smile, clearly enjoying himself way too much.
You stared at him for a second.
Then you pointed a spoon in his direction.
“I hate you.”
Lando laughed, pushing himself off the couch and walking over, still grinning like he’d just won a race.
“No you don’t,” he said softly, taking the spoon from your hand before you could accidentally weaponise it further.
You tried to stay annoyed. You really did.
But then he bumped his shoulder lightly against yours, voice dropping into something gentler.
“You’re just upset you’re losing the British language battle.”
“There is no battle.”
“There is now.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
Lando noticed immediately.
“Oh, look, she’s smiling,” he whispered. “That means I win.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And you love me.”
A pause.
“…Unfortunately.”
He laughed, pulling you into him before you could protest, arms wrapping around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. In fact, it was.
“Fancy that cuppa anyway?” he murmured against your hair.
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ puck & paddock princess. montreal canadiens girl ( ⌗ 20 ！ ) ꫂ ၴႅၴ. 𝓶claren fan. 𝟒𝟖𝟏. singapore gp enjoyer. lando norris’ baby. olivia rodrigo enthusiast. the cool 𖬺͟ only daughter. ln ¹ defender. ocean lover.
⾕ rul𝐞s
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ⓘ The first time you met them, you just knew this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see them. Call it intuition, call it fate—either way, you were right.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ first meet, fluff, 1.6k wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You and your friend were mid-conversation in a café, fully committed to the important topic at hand—how golf was, objectively, one of the most boring things ever invented.
“It’s just walking and hitting a ball,” you said, stirring your drink. “I don’t get it.”
Your friend nodded. “Exactly. No chaos. No excitement. Nothing.”
“That’s literally the point,” a voice cut in from beside you.
You both looked up.
A guy had just slid into the conversation like he belonged there, leaning slightly on the counter with an offended little smile.
“You think golf is boring?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
“Very,” your friend added.
He looked personally attacked.
“It is not boring,” he said. “You just don’t understand it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing to understand. It’s slow.”
“It’s strategic,” he corrected, instantly more animated. “It’s precision. It’s pressure. It’s—”
“Sleepy,” you interrupted.
He gasped like you’d insulted his entire family tree.
“Okay, no,” he said, pointing at you. “That’s just wrong.”
You stared at him. “Are you… arguing with us right now?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
Your friend leaned back slightly. “Who even are you?”
He paused.
Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world:
“Lando.”
That should’ve meant something.
It did not, to you.
“So, Lando,” you said slowly, “do you always join strangers’ conversations to defend golf?”
“Only when they’re wrong,” he said immediately.
You scoffed. “Confident.”
He grinned.
“Yeah, well,” he said, eyes flicking to you, “you looked like you needed someone to make this conversation more interesting.”
You blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean,” Lando added casually, leaning a little closer, “you’re arguing about golf in a café. That’s kind of impressive in a sad way.”
Your mouth opened.
Your friend made a sound like they were trying not to laugh.
“You’re so annoying,” you said.
His grin widened instantly.
“Yeah?” he said. “You’re kind of cute when you’re annoyed.”
Silence.
Your friend slowly looked between you two like she were witnessing something illegal.
You pointed at him. “Shut up.”
You did not, in fact, want him to shut up.
“You should come play sometime,” he said casually. “Then you can tell me it’s boring.”
You blinked. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It’s not,” he replied immediately. “It’s an invitation.”
Your friend looked at you like don’t you dare.
So of course you did.
“Fine,” you said. “But I’m only coming to prove you wrong.”
His grin widened instantly.
“Perfect,” Lando said. “I’ll book you in.”
Why were you actually excited?
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You didn’t mean to end up sitting on the pavement.
It just… happened.
One minute you were upright, convinced you were absolutely fine, and the next your legs had decided they were no longer participating in reality.
The pavement was cold. A little uncomfortable. But stable. Which, at the moment, felt like a fair trade.
You blinked slowly at the blurry streetlights above you, trying to remember where your friends had gone. Or where you were. Or what direction “forward” meant.
“Are you okay?”
The voice came from somewhere above you.
Male. Calm. Way too calm.
You looked up slowly.
There was a guy standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at you like you were a mildly concerning but manageable situation.
Tall. Dark hair. Expression unreadable.
You squinted.
“…Yeah,” you said immediately, because that felt like the correct answer to everything.
He didn’t look convinced.
“You’re sitting on the pavement,” he pointed out.
“I’m resting,” you corrected firmly.
A pause.
“Right,” he said, like he was filing that information under not true, but okay.
You tried to stand up to prove your point. Your body disagreed halfway through the attempt, and you immediately sat back down like nothing happened.
The silence that followed was loud.
Then he crouched slightly so he was closer to your eye level.
“I’m Oscar,” he said simply. “Do you know where your friends are?”
You stared at him for a moment.
Oscar. That sounded like a responsible name.
You nodded slowly. “Lost them.”
“Okay,” he said, still calm. “Do you know where you’re going?”
You considered this very seriously.
“…Home?”
“Good start.”
Another pause.
He exhaled softly, like he had accepted something about his evening had just changed.
“Can you stand?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
You did not, in fact, stand.
Oscar nodded once, like he’d expected that answer.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m going to help you.”
“I don’t need help,” you informed him.
Oscar crouched anyway, and before you could properly argue, he lifted you up like it was nothing.
“Hey—”
“Yeah,” he said calmly. “I’ve got you.”
“This is so embarrassing,” you mumbled, hiding your face.
“It’s fine.”
“It is not fine.”
“You’ll think it’s funny tomorrow,” he added.
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
You squinted at him. “You don’t even know me.”
“I’ll get to know you when you’re sober.” he said simply, like it was a fact.
….oh?
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You were standing in the pasta aisle for way too long.
Not because there weren’t options—there were too many. Too many shapes, too many brands, too many “authentic Italian recipes” staring back at you like you were supposed to have an opinion on them.
You sighed, shifting your basket.
“Why is this so complicated?” you muttered to yourself.
“It’s not.”
You turned your head.
A guy had appeared beside you like it was completely normal to join someone mid-crisis in a grocery store aisle. Calm posture, easy expression, like he wasn’t also standing in front of twenty kinds of pasta.
You frowned. “It kind of is.”
He looked at the shelf once, very quickly, like he already understood everything.
“That one,” he said, pointing.
You blinked. “Why that one?”
“It’s the best.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugged slightly. “It is.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you work here or something?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
A pause.
Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world:
“Because I know. By the way, I’m Charles.”
You stared at him.
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“It does,” he said, completely serious.
You looked back at the pasta, then at him again. He didn’t look like he was joking. That somehow made it worse.
“…Fine,” you said slowly, grabbing the one he pointed at. “If this is bad, I’m blaming you.”
“It won’t be,” he replied immediately.
You walked forward, expecting that to be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Because Charles followed.
“Do you need anything else?” he asked.
“I was just buying pasta,” you said.
He nodded like that was an insufficient plan for life.
“You can do sauce,” he added.
You stopped walking. “Are you… giving me a full meal plan right now?”
He looked at you, completely unbothered. “I can cook dinner for you with it. Friends say I’m a good cook.”
That made you turn fully toward him.
“…Is this your way of inviting me on a date?” you asked slowly.
There was a beat. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just him considering the question like it already had a simple answer.
Then he smiled a little.
“Absolutely yes.”
Even though you knew this Charles for like a minute, you were absolutely saying yes.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ Rain had a way of making everything more difficult.
The bus was late, your umbrella had given up twenty minutes ago, and your shoes were making that annoying squelching sound every time you took a step. At this point, you were less of a person and more of a walking puddle.
A car pulled up beside the curb. You ignored it.
Then the window rolled down.
“Do you need a ride?”
You stopped walking and looked over. The driver was a guy around your age, one hand resting on the steering wheel, looking completely unbothered by the fact he was talking to a stranger standing in the rain.
Immediately, your suspicion levels reached dangerous heights.
“No, thanks.”
He glanced outside at the weather before looking back at you. “You’re soaked.”
“I noticed.”
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
“Get in.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
To your surprise, he laughed. Not an awkward laugh or an offended one—an actual laugh.
“Fair point.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Rain continued hitting the pavement between you while you considered your options.
“Okay,” he said eventually. “I’ll try again. I’m Max.”
You stared at him. “That doesn’t make it less suspicious.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. Somehow, that was what convinced you. Not the introduction, not the insanely expensive car, but the fact he wasn’t trying so hard to get you to trust him.
So a few seconds later, you were sitting in the passenger seat with the heater blasting warm air at you.
“You know,” you said, “most people would just keep driving.”
Max shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “You looked miserable.”
“That’s not a reason to pick up strangers.”
“It was for me.”
The strange thing was that the longer you sat there, the less nervous you felt. The conversation came surprisingly easily. You talked about work, about the weather, about random things that didn’t matter. Max wasn’t overly talkative, but whenever the conversation slowed, he’d ask another question, like he was genuinely interested in the answer.
By the time your destination came into view, the ride didn’t feel nearly long enough.
“Thanks for the ride,” you said as he pulled over.
“No problem.”
You reached for the door handle, but before you could open it, he spoke again.
“If it rains tomorrow too,” he said casually, “I can give you another ride.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Something told you this wasn’t going to be the last time you saw him.
ⓘ things they do that you pretend to absolutely hate, but secretly love.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ est. relationship, fluff, 1.7k wc ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You hated being in the passenger seat when Lando was driving.
Absolutely “hated” it.
Because the second you got in the car, he suddenly seemed to forget every speed limit in existence, like road signs were just optional decorations and not actual instructions meant to be followed.
“You’re doing it again,” you said, already gripping the seat a little tighter.
“Doing what?” Lando replied, far too casually for someone who was definitely up to something.
The car accelerated—on purpose, of course. Not a mistake. Just Lando deciding that normal driving speed was, in fact, deeply offensive to his character.
“Lando.”
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. The worst kind of grin—the one that already meant he had decided to ignore whatever you were about to say.
“You know we’re not on track, right?”
“I’m aware,” he said, far too calm for someone currently treating a normal road like a qualifying lap.
“Then why are you driving like we’re fighting for pole?”
His grin only widened, like that was exactly the reaction he wanted.
And there it was. The reason.
He was showing off.
Like a twelve-year-old boy with a brand-new bicycle, desperate for someone to watch.
“You know I’m not impressed by this,” you said, trying to sound firm, even as you kept your eyes on the road ahead.
“Really?” he asked, glancing at you briefly, grin still there.
“Really.”
The car took the next corner just a little too fast—completely unnecessary, completely intentional.
You immediately grabbed the door handle.
“Lando Norris!”
He laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “We’ve been dating for too long for you not to be used to my driving, baby.”
What he didn’t say—but absolutely knew—was that you were used to it. That you did think it was a little impressive. That you hated how much you secretly liked the confidence, the control, the way he made everything feel a bit too fast and a bit too exciting.
And that was the real problem. Because he knew it.
“I am used to it. I just value my life,” you said, still holding onto the door handle like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.
“Some people would kill for having an F1 driver as a chauffeur, you know,” Lando said, glancing at you with that smug little half-smile that meant he was enjoying this far too much.
You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I should drive next time.”
The smirk on your face made it worse.
Lando went completely still for half a second—then slowly turned his head toward you like you’d just suggested something deeply personal and deeply dangerous.
“Absolutely not,” he said immediately.
You raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“I value my life too,” he replied, way too quickly.
That made you laugh, because for all his confidence on the road, the idea of you behind the wheel clearly terrified him more than any corner at high speed ever could.
“Interesting,” you said softly, leaning back into the seat. “So you trust yourself with my life… but not me with yours?”
“Exactly.”
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You breaking your phone should not have been a big deal.
In theory.
In reality, it absolutely was.
One second it was in your hand, the next it was slipping, hitting the floor, and lighting up one last time like it was saying goodbye before completely dying.
“No—no, no, no,” you gasped, crouching down immediately. “Are you serious right now?”
You pressed the power button. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
“Oh my God.”
Oscar looked over from where he was sitting, your panic barely registering on his face yet. “What happened?”
“My phone just died,” you said, voice rising slightly. “Like properly died. It’s gone. Everything is gone!”
“It’s fine,” he said calmly.
“It’s not fine,” you snapped instantly. “There are photos, messages, everything—this is literally my whole life.”
Oscar stood up, walked over, and gently took the phone from your hands like it wasn’t currently a disaster.
“Calm down,” he said simply. “We’ll buy a new one.”
“That’s not the point!”
He glanced at the screen, then back at you. Still completely unbothered. “It kind of is the point.”
You stared at him. “How are you so calm right now?”
Oscar shrugged slightly, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s just a phone.”
That made you stop.
Just for a second.
Because to you, it felt like everything crashing at once. To him, it was just… a thing that broke.
He reached for your hand without making a big deal out of it, tugging you slightly closer.
“We can back it up,” he added. “Get a new one. Nothing’s actually ruined.”
You wanted to argue.
You really did.
But the longer you stood there, the more your breathing slowed to match his. The more your panic felt a little… too big for the situation.
And that was the thing with Oscar.
He never made your feelings feel stupid.
He just quietly showed you when they were bigger than reality.
Later, when you had a new phone and everything was fine again, you still thought about it.
How he didn’t panic. How he didn’t make it worse.
How he just stayed calm until you could be calm too.
And annoyingly enough…
You loved that about him.
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t even notice it at first.
It started small.
Harmless, almost.
You were sitting nearby when Charles was on a call with one of his sponsors, speaking in that smooth, professional tone you’d only ever hear him use in interviews.
Everything about him looked serious. Focused. Perfectly composed.
Until you heard it.
“Yeah, it’s been a busy week,” he said into the phone, nodding slightly. “Me and Y/n went to dinner after training, it was… nice.”
You blinked.
Me and Y/n?
You weren’t even part of the conversation.
You were literally just sitting there drinking water.
The call continued, and you tried to ignore it. Maybe it was a one-off thing. A slip. Nothing weird.
It wasn’t.
“Me and Y/n were in Paris last weekend actually,” he added later, like it was completely relevant to business strategy. “She loves it there, you know?” You slowly lowered your bottle.
Excuse me?
He smiled slightly at something the person said on the other end, completely unaware that your soul was leaving your body in real time.
It became a pattern.
Work interviews. Sponsor calls. Random media bits you weren’t even present for.
Somehow, everything circled back to you.
“How do you handle pressure?” “Honestly, it helps when I’m with Y/n”.
“What do you do to relax?” “Usually just spend time with Y/n.”
You finally confronted him about it one night.
“You know not every answer has to include me, right?” you said, leaning against the counter as he scrolled through his phone.
Charles looked up, confused. “Why not?”
“Because sometimes they’re asking about you.”
He frowned slightly, like that concept didn’t really compute. “But I am me and you are part of my life.”
“That’s not the point,” you muttered, trying not to smile.
But he just shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s honest.”
And the worst part?
It was.
Because when he wasn’t talking about racing, or sponsors, or anything else in his world…
He was thinking about you anyway.
Always you.
So eventually, you stopped fighting it. You just accepted it and eventually started loving it.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You had barely survived the week.
Emails, deadlines, mistakes you didn’t even make but somehow had to fix anyway. By Friday you were exhausted in a way that made even sitting on the couch feel like effort.
So when Max asked how it went, you just sighed.
“Bad week,” you said simply. “Everything went wrong.”
You didn’t think much of it after that.
Max nodded once, like he’d registered the information, then pulled you into his side without saying anything else.
You assumed that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Two days later, he came home and handed you a small box like it was nothing. No explanation. No warning. Just that calm, unreadable expression he always wore when he’d already decided something.
You opened it.
And froze.
A diamond necklace.
Not subtle. Not small. Not remotely casual.
“What is this?” you asked immediately, sitting up straight. “Max—no. This is too much.”
“It’s fine,” he said, already taking off his jacket.
“This is not fine,” you shot back, still staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked. “This is a necklace for a major life event. Not a… not a bad week at work.”
He glanced at you, completely unbothered. “You had a bad week.”
“Yes, so I get like—chocolate. Or takeout. Not… jewelry that looks like it belongs in a museum.”
Max shrugged slightly, like the scale of it made perfect sense in his world. “It’s just a necklace.”
You stared at him.
“It is not just a necklace.”
But he was already walking past you, like the conversation was done in his mind.
And that was the thing with Max.
He didn’t do small gestures when it came to you.
There was no mental scale where “bad week” sat at “reasonable comfort.”
To him, if something made you tired, annoyed, stressed—he fixed it in the biggest way possible.
Like anything less wouldn’t be enough.
You looked back down at the necklace, then toward him.
“You know,” you muttered, “normal people get flowers.”
Max paused. “Do you want flowers as well?”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands.
Because of course he would take it literally.
And of course, tomorrow there would probably be both.
You looked at him again, still holding the box like it might suddenly become less expensive if you stared at it long enough.
“Thank you, Max,” you said softly. Then, a little more serious, “I love you, but you really don’t know what to do with your money.”
Max just shrugged, completely unbothered, like that wasn’t even a problem worth solving.
“Does this mean I can buy another sim?” he asked, a faint grin forming as he leaned back against the counter.
You blinked at him.
Of course that was where his brain went.
“Absolutely not,” you said immediately, but you were already laughing despite yourself. “Not even a little bit.”
His grin widened like he’d at least tried his luck and was satisfied with the answer anyway.
— 🪷 lils speak ! hi hello!! i got inspired by few blogs on here so I decided to start writing too… so here i am! be kind to me world 🫶🏻. english is not my first language so please bear with me! see you on my next work ❤︎
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