maxsplaining and leclerifying

[spidermandes]

WELCOME TO MY HOME! ˚ ༘✶₊˚. ིི

> evening folks! i've got snacks, drinks, and blankets for all. feel free to get comfy and stay a while. masterlist is below the cut :) spread lots of love and find me elsewhere on wattpad under the same username. stay safe kiddos!

❛ MASTERLIST ❜ ↓

FORMULA ONE ↓

(requests open!)

> MAX VERSTAPPEN

CATCHING UP

HARTY PARDER!

RIVALS MAKE GREAT LOVERS

> CHARLES LECLERC

BACK TO DECEMBER

STUCK WITH YOU

MISS AMERICANA AND HER FORMULA ONE PRINCE

STAY IN MY EAR

CONSPIRACIES, BRACELETS, & OSCAR PIASTRI NOT GIVING A FUCK

> LANDO NORRIS

DISTRACTION FROM MY DISTRACTIONS

MRS GRAND PRIX WINNER

FLAIR FOR THE DRAMATICS

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

SAY IT AGAIN

I LOVE TIK TOK

CALL OF DUTY ↓

(requests open!)

> TASK FORCE 141

CARRY ME HOME

MARVEL ↓

(requests closed!)

> BUCKY BARNES / SEBASTIAN STAN

DOG TAGS

THE STAN’S

AS OF 1949 , PART TWO , PART THREE

THE DORA MILAJE

NIGHT TERRORS

RED DRESS

when can i breath again? (drabble)

MIDNIGHT WHISPERING

OUTER BANKS ↓

(requests closed!)

> JJ MAYBANK

HEARTBREAK GIRL

BESIDE YOU

JJ WOULD FALL FOR ... one shot

SOUL SURFER

GUARD DOG

> KIE CARRERA

CATCH AN EGO

> POPE HEYWARD

SEVEN BILLION PEOPLE

[spidermandes]

RIVALS MAKE GREAT LOVERS

max verstappen x driver!reader

warnings: very heavy themes! attempted sexual assault (nothing graphic), drugging, violence, blood, fighting, strong language, and similar themes are present!

YOU DIDN’T MEAN TO FALL IN LOVE WITH HIM.

Though, that seems to always be the likely story. But you didn’t. In fact, you both spent the majority of the fifteen years you’ve known each other— hating each other. From karting days when the most interaction you were willing to give each other were scowls and middle fingers— to your first year in Formula One where Max spent an outrageous amount of time cursing you out on his team radio (that of which earned him more community service that he fully blamed on you).

Truly, you think at one point, you did hate Max Verstappen’s guts. He made it so easy back then. All he cared about was winning, driving faster, being better. And back then— you didn’t care that the monster under his bed was his father. Because so was yours. You had similar demons, and it made the fire rage so much hotter. All the insults you threw at each other were verbatim from what you both heard from your overbearing fathers.

Blaming your failures on each other so you both didn’t crumble under the weight. Easier to blame someone else, yell at someone else, when the real person you hate is also the person signing the checks.

Fifteen years later, now rivals in one of the most prestigious sports in the world, the fire burned with someone different.

You wore red, looked good in it too. The prancing principessa of Ferrari, the red devil, the lion hunter— whatever they called you in the media these days. Didn’t matter really, only results did. And you made sure that you weren’t a waste of money or a PR disaster. Two championships later, you had skin in the game.

He wore blue, looked just as good. Mad Max, the flying dutchman, the lion, and all the many more names they thought up for him. Three championships of his own, skills behind a wheel that could cash the checks his fat mouth signed. No one was ever doubting whether or not he was a good driver, not even you.

It was like expecting fire and gasoline not to mix.

You didn’t, not for years. You couldn’t afford to be anything different than professional with every single man you worked with. You’d worked too hard, burned too many bridges, cried too many tears, bled too much blood, just to throw it away and be called a paddock bunny. Years of being Max’s worst nightmare dressed in all red, showing him that Lewis Hamilton was a rival of his dreams compared to you. You never let him misstep, misspeak, or mess up. You were watching him, always there to profit.

And it was always thrown right back at you. It was just how it was.

Until it wasn’t. Until one argument got taken outside of the club one night after a race during celebrations and it ended up with you taking every inch Max was giving you in the back of your vintage Ferrari.

And while competition stayed on the track, both of you acting like you didn’t know what the other tasted like— there was a shift in the dynamic. Screaming matches turned into whispering arguments in between messy kisses, angry looks across the paddock turned into dirty text messages to see who could get the other to fold first and come fuck the other in their drivers room.

Mutually beneficial, never spoken about before or after. No one even noticed the difference.

You hated him, like no one ever before. But god did you love him like no one ever before.

It didn’t matter if it was reciprocated— you actually prayed that it wasn’t. Then it got complicated, then things changed, then he’d treat you different, treat you like a girlfriend instead of his competition

Besides. It would be terrible for both of you. Love didn’t look like tonight. It didn’t look like standing at the bar beside the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your life, a man you’ve seen on his knees in front of you with fucked our eyes as he desperately goes down on you, telling him that he acted like a whiny brat on the track today and should’ve given the position back.

But that was you two.

And after throwing back and forth and you always did, insult after insult, Max had finally had enough of you for the night. Snatching the drink he ordered, he wished you a terrible night, and disappeared into the crowd to find whomever he arrived with. Probably to complain about you— but you didn’t need to know that.

Still waiting on yours, you fiddled with your phone a bit before hearing someone else speaking over the music at you.

You frowned, looking up. What? You’d shouted back, unable to hear over the pounding bass of the techno DJ blasting music through the cramped building.

Some guy, one you’ve never seen in your life. Easy on the eyes, but dressed like you have a teenage boy five dollars and one hour inside a Gucci store. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that! That guy— the one that just left!”

You hummed, nodding, and looking back down at you phone just as your drink arrived. You shot a questioning joking text to Lando— whom you’d arrived with that night and planned on joined in the DJs booth as soon as you collected your drink. “Yeah, it’s whatever.”

The man bit his lip momentarily, head bouncing to the music and drink in hand— eyes bouncing side to side anxiously. “So! Who are you here with? It’s a pretty exclusive place!”

If this guy was trying to hit on you, he was failing miserably. Was he socially stupid? Maybe he had seen your face on television when they announced your victory today? Playing dumb wasn’t a good look, and just not even knowing was an even worse one. You hum, taking the drink off the bar and sip it hastily. “Um… some friends!”

“Cool! Celebrating something?”

You yearned to escape. Small talk with strange men was not your forte— shouting as Max was. That, you were a self proclaimed expert at. “Yeah, kinda. Nice meeting you!”

A hand wrapped around your bicep as you twisted and tried to walk the opposite direction, immediately scowling at the man as you turned back to him.

“Wait! I didn’t get your name! Maybe we could get out of here and get to know each other!”

Ripping your arm away, you narrowed your eyes. “I didn’t offer! Have a good night!”

“Come on! You don’t wanna go back to that douchbag! I can treat you a hell of a lot better than that! Come on, I’m the Porshe outside, I’ll take you on a drive!”

You raise your glass at him, shaking your head. “No thanks! I’m in the Ferrari!”

And then you’d escaped into the crowd; hustling through it to find your way up into the booth. And just like that, a very exciting forty five minutes passed filled with dancing, jumping up and down with Lando along with the beat, and downing your entire drink to cool you down under all the lights.

Like a wrecking ball, your body felt like triple its weight.

This was only your third drink, and you were not a lightweight by any means. Not in a million years had you ever felt like this after only three drinks. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand, stomach twisted and turning uncomfortably, eyes weighed down with bowling balls, vision blurry and dim.

Lando suddenly touched your shoulder, “Hey! Hey, are you alright?”

You shook your head slowly, the world moving in slight slow motion. Had you been drinking too fast? Had the small meal she'd had before coming out not been enough to hold her over like she thought it would? "I think... I think I need some air."

Lando nodded cautiously, head spinning around to find the nearest exit. He spotted one at the back, "Here, out the back. I'll wait right here for you, make sure you make it back in."

Slowly but surely, you make your way through the crowd on wobbly feet and heaving lungs and use your entire body weight to shove the door open. The chill of the night air creeps into your spine as cold chills cover your exposed skin. But ultimately, it does feel better out here. Maybe it was the drinks mixed with the crowd, an unexpected panic attack had stirred without you even noticing. You breath out heavily, leaning against the brick wall for a moment. When you go back in a few minutes, you note to yourself to return your drink to the bar and grab a water instead, take a breather a bit without ruining the night for everyone.

Any minute now you hope, waiting for the feeling to return to your fingers and feet, expecting the nausea to fade.

"Hey, are you alright?"

The world slanting as you turn your head, you know your bobbing back and forth but can't bring yourself to stop either. The bile rises in your throat, but you push it back down and take a deep breath. Through half closed eyes, you spot the same guy who had bothered you at the bar after Max left. "Wha-- oh, uhh, yeah. Waiting for... fuck."

It's not getting better. You need to go home, you need Lando, you need someone to keep you sitting upright. This is not the person you want around you right now, not even remotely. But you can barely get any words, barely able to ward the guy off.

"You don't look so good." The man speaks, but you can't gather any real concern in his voice. And... is he smiling right now? "I mean, you look good. You look fucking amazing right now. That's a really tiny dress too. Are you cold?"

"I... mmhm... Lan... I don't... fuck." Speak! Say something! Tell this guy to fuck off! Get back in the club! Find someone, anyone you know from Adam and tell them that you need to go home. Hell, you might need to go to the fucking hospital. Your entire body fuzzy, brain functioning entirely too slowly, you feel like you've been...

Drugged. Fuck. No. No. NO.

"Come on, we can go find that Ferrari you talked about. I'm sure those backseats are nice and warm. We can get more comfortable, take a few layers off, get to know each other better."

You feel his hands grabbing at your wrists, pulling you off the wall slowly and closer to his body. Every ounce of fight in your body is gone, your muscles not listening to your brain as you beg yourself to pull away and run for the hills. "No... I... no, I don't... stop..."

Weakly pulling your limbs away, his death grip on you is too overpowering as he leads you towards wherever. You protests go wholly ignored, forced into uncomfortably close proximity with the devil. He smells of liquor and cheap cologne. He doesn't smell good, he doesn't smell like Max. Max is safe, Max is comfortable, Max is home. Where's Max?

"Ma... Max..." You slur, begging your voice to get louder when it won't. The man's grimy hands slide the thin strap off your shoulder chapped lips coming into contact with your skin gently. It feels like poison melting into your bones, disgust making your nausea worse. "Please..."

He nods slowly, his other hand groping the side of your breasts in a way that make your skin crawl, "I can be whoever you want, baby."

The sound of a door opening echoes in the alleyway.

"Lando, you can't fucking let her come out here by her-fucking-self, are you fucking insane?" A voice bellows deeply, filling your heart with hope. You know that voice anywhere, and it sounds more like a saving grace than that of a man you were bullying not so long ago. "I take my eyes off her for one fucking second and I can't even... what the fuck?"

The voice catches the man enough off guard that your little bit of strength that you have left, you pull yourself from the invasive hands and stumble to the side. Your shoulder smacks into the wall when your feet can't steady you, tripping over yourself and crumbling to the cold concrete. Pain radiates from your shoulder, tears welling in your eyes and a headache forming quickly.

"Fuck... here, come on babe," Nervousness fills the man's tone. "Hey, man. My girl here drank a little too much, asked me to take her home."

Footsteps pound the concrete, heavy breathing getting louder as Max bounds closer. Lando slips back into the bar, his accent echoing quietly as you hear him calling multiple names you recognize from the grid as well as calling for a bouncer before coming right back out of the door. Just as the man tries to mumble out some kind of excuse, you hear knuckles hit bone. You wince, your stomach churning as you watch out of the corner of your eyes as Max pummels the man into the ground. His head hits concrete, a pathetic welp leaves his throat just as Max's fists connect with his cheekbone again.

Lando's suddenly beside you, hands on your arms and blocking your view of the carnage in front of you. Whimpers leave your lips as you silently cry, Lando's fingers swfitly fixing your dress back onto your shoulder and covering more up. Another form shows, Charles Leclerc and his girlfriend, Alexandra, kneeling as well with a million concerned questioned flying out of both of them. You feel Lando's jacket lay over you, the expensive smell of your best friend comforting you. Over their shoulders, you spot Carlos Sainz wrestling Max, desperately trying to pull the racer off of the bleeding man, cursing violently in Spanish.

"No! No! I'm gonna fucking kill him! Fucking-- move! I will fucking kill you! You fucking piece of shit!" Max boomed, retching against Carlos.

Alexander turns to Charles, urging him to help his teammate. She tells Lando to help her get you on you feet, and you finally see Oscar standing off to the side with a look of horror on his face. Alex grabs his arm, pleading him to call for the cars so they can get you to a hospital.

Anything after that, you don't remember at all.

The beeping of a heart monitor wakes you from a heavy sleep, your eyelids weighing a thousand pounds and your lungs aching painfully. But aside from every part of your body feeling utterly exhausted, you feel tenfold better than you did before. You can feel your fingers, your mind seems to working at the right speed and the room around you isn't spinning.

And your hand is warm.

You frown, lifting your head ever so slightly. A hospital room surrounds you, a few bouquets of flowers and a redbull duffel bag sits on the table in front of your bed. You remember enough to know why your here, and it feels your stomach with nausea all over again. His hands on you, his stench that burned your nose, the feeling of his lips on your skin that you could swear there would be a burn mark left behind.

But you spot a figure at the side of your bed, hunched over it and head pressed into your thigh with quiet snores leaving him. Max Verstappen looks uncomfortable, yet his arm remains still on the bed with his hand tightly gripping onto yours as if his life depends on it.

How long as he been here. How long have you been here?

"Max?" Your voice is scratchy and quiet, you swallow thickly to try once more, "Max? Hey... Max, wake up."

His head shoots off the bed, revealing tired eyes with slightly purple bags underneath them. His hair is wild mess, face unshaven with a five o'clock shadow growing just barely. He gets to his feet in an instant, moving to stand right next to your head but making sure his hand doesn't let go of yours. "Y/N? Fuck... y/n. How are you feeling? Do you feel okay? Does anything hurt?"

You blink slowly, shaking your head no.

He nods curtly, reaching around your head and grabbing the bed remote and pressing the nurse call button harshly. "Okay, there's gonna be a nurse in here soon, okay? I just wanna make sure."

"Max, what-- I don't remember... Alex and Charles and... is everyone okay? What happened to that guy?" You whisper hoarsely.

He pulls the chair to where he's standing so he's closer, sitting and pulling your intertwined hands under his chin. "You don't have to worry about that fucker, okay? He's gonna fucking rot in whatever hole they throw him in, I don't care."

Max was there. He was the one who found you out there. He was the one looking for you, the one shouting at Lando. The one who only took his eyes off of you for a moment, which meant they'd been watching diligently before. It sounded almost too good to be true, like you didn't recognize this man at all yet knew him better than anyone you'd ever known.

"Thanks for looking for me." You mumble quietly. "If you hadn't..."

He shakes his head. "No, don't do that. It doesn't matter. I found you. It's over. I'm never going to let you out of my fucking sight ever again, okay?"

You fall quiet for a moment, before letting your curiosity get the best of you. "Why were you looking for me?"

He runs his tongue over his lips momentarily, before rubbing his thumb gently across the back of your hand. It's a gentler touch that your used to from him, the least sexual. This Max isn't one you've met before, and it's utterly confusing. "Just kind of a habit at this point, I guess. And honestly, I don't know, I got worried you were leaving with someone else on purpose."

"Worried?"

"Y/N, I don't want you to leave with anyone other than me, ever." He sighs, "This game we play? The one where we pretend to hate each other unless we’re fucking— I’m done with it. And it got you hurt. I’m done.”

You frowned, never having seen Max be so serious. He wasn’t an outwardly emotional guy, you knew that. For all this to come out, how long had he been holding this in? As long as you have? Longer? Since the beginning? “Max—“

“Please, Y/N, let me… just let me get through this before you shoot all this down. Just— I need more than this. I can’t go one night where I get to hold you in the bed as tight as I possibly can and then the next we’re in a screaming match in the paddock over fucking nothing. I need all of you. All of it. And if you don’t want that, than I… I can’t do this anymore. I can half ass this anymore.”

The stress on his face is polar opposite to your soft smile. Like hearing gospel for the first time, something you’d give anything in the world to hear over and over again. This wasn’t a Max you recognized, but one you so desperately wanted to get to know inside and out. The one who wanted more, the one who wanted you.

“I want more. I want to take you to that restaurant love so much in Monaco where you can see the hairpin turn from the table. I want to share an apartment and pretend to get mad when Jimmy and Sassy like you more than me. I want to get out of my car after a race and kiss my fucking girlfriend without acting like I’m committing murder. And— and fuck it! Am I such a bad fucking person for wanted you to win an another championship with my ring on your finger?”

Your eyes widen. “Max—”

He sighs heavily. Too much, too fast. Sometimes in his life, he took that motto much too seriously. He didn’t want to get down on his knee now, but he wanted a future. He wanted something real, something that wasn’t a secret or a fling. “Fuck… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t want to keep doing this if I can’t have that. If that’s not what the next ten years of my life is gonna look like, then tell me. If you don’t feel that too, then please fucking tell me now. Tell me, so I can at least try and move on.”

His hand starts to slip from yours, but you don’t let it, gripping it just as tight as he was before. “Don’t.”

He looks up. “What?”

“I mean,” You shrug, “I do really like that restaurant. And you know, I wouldn’t mind giving ‘trophy wife’ a whole new meaning.”

His smile spreads across his entire face, like a kid who’s just opened their favorite present on Christmas. “Really?” He says, tentatively.

You nod. “I didn’t want to tell you because… I thought I would lose you.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, laughing slightly and his heart eyes never leave yours— not even for a second. "You wouldn't have. Never. Rivals make the best lovers, I hear."

You roll your eyes. His ego had obviously returned just as quickly as it had left. You shrug. "At the time— a little bit of you seemed a lot better than none of you."

The door peels open, a nurse poking her head in and waving kindly. Max waves her in, getting to his feet slowly to give her some room. Though— not before leaning over the bed and pressing a sticky kiss to your cheek hard enough where too can feel how hard he’s smiling throughout it.

His lips hover near your ears. “Little— is not the word you usually use, schat.”

A blush spreads across your face and you’re immediately aware of the heat between your legs. Something Max is always to blame for these days. But this time, neither of you can solve each others problem.

And there’s nothing you want more than to be out of this bed and back where you belong. Pinned against a wall, Max Verstappen as close as humanely possible— now with a high possibility he’ll stay in the morning when you two wake up.

[spidermandes]

HARTY PARDER!

max verstappen x wife!reader

drunk max absolutely loves his wife.

warnings: lots of cursing, alcohol, intoxication, mentions of sex, and absolutely sickening lovesick max.

BEING MARRIED TO AN F1 DRIVER WAS NOTHING LIKE YOU EXPECTED.

But being married to Max— that was an entirely different story altogether.

You’d known him since childhood. Max says now that he should’ve known he’d marry you way sooner than he actually did, claiming it only made sense that he’d fall in love with someone who knew him before all the fame. You liked to make fun of him and say he just didn’t want to spend the energy getting to know a stranger.

Married young, feeling older than both of you actually are, even when Max and you were only 26– you’d been married for four years. And since he made his claim to fame with RedBull by the age of seventeen, neither of you were strangers to the party scene.

The media liked to speculate that Max got tied down too early, that he should’ve been able to enjoy the luxury of it all. They wanted him to date around, been seen with models and famous actresses, get caught in a scandal or two, live the formula one driver life for all it has to offer.

He disagreed. Be able to hit any club in Monaco with the most beautiful woman on his arm that he knows he’s also going to wake up beside? Awesome. Go drinking with the lads and know that he gets to stumble back into his apartment where you’re waiting for him on the couch with your little book and cute reading glasses? The best. A yacht day where he gets to lounge in the water and watch you sunbathe in the bathing suit he bought you? Incredible. Winning formula one races and knowing he gets to climb out of the car and run into the arms of the only person on Earth who understands what he’s been through to get there? He wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Plus, he thinks a handjob with a diamond in your finger is better than the original. But he keeps that to himself.

You’re not as much of a party goer as Max is, which isn’t saying much since he often trades the club for a movie night with you anyway. If Max has a night off in Monaco, he’s not wasting at some luxury club and would much rather finish watching whatever romantic comedy that you’ve convinced him to watch (he says you convince him— when in reality he absolutely loves Legally Blonde more than he should and always recommends that’s the movie you watch)

But overall, he’s more likely to go out that you, especially if some of the other drivers are going. And it’s something you’ve both worked out between yourselves. He goes out, texts you updates when he needs to, he makes you promise to text him when you finish your book (so he’ll know he needs to take you book shopping again soon), and he promises in return to always send you a text when he’s ready to come home so you can come get him.

It makes you feel better whenever you’re the one bringing him home. Knowing no one’s going to take advantage of him, some Uber driving asking for autographs or filming him when he is clearly inebriated.

But tonight, you joined him. You wouldn’t miss this for the world.

This evening, Daniel Riccardo himself had spared no expense in throwing an extravagant event to celebrate the end of the 2024 season. Danny has been a friend of Max ever since their first season of teammates, and knew the two of you since before the marriage. In fact, Danny was one of Max’s groomsmen, and even demanded that he be apart of the bouquet toss. So it wasn’t even a question if you two were going.

Go out with a bang, he said in the invitation text message, celebrate his retirement the right way with the right people. Of course, when your Daniel Riccardo, that means nearly every single contact in his cell phone and all their plus ones.

There’s over a hundred people in this house.

Max had always told stories about Daniel’s parties— ones you half thought were exaggerated. And seeing as you just saw Charles Leclerc dancing to Max Verstappen’s song on a dining room table with a hat shaped like a Ferrari F1 car on his head while Pierre Gasly throws hundred dollar bills at him—you’re starting to believe in the legends.

You’re a few drinks in, maybe more than a few. You and Max had already agreed that when the night ended, the two of you would just walk a block or two and get a hotel room for the night so no one had to worry about driving. Max had split with you an hour or so ago, something about seeing Lando and Oscar arm wrestling in the other room. By now, you would bet money that Max’s competitiveness had kicked in and you’d find him arm wrestling Lando and Oscar at the same time just to make a point.

You didn’t mind, it left you in the kitchen with Kika, Pierre’s girlfriend, and Alexandra— Charles’ girlfriend who was talking about one of the new art pieces that just came into the gallery she worked out. You weren’t exceptionally close to these girls, but close enough that you’ve been to a few luxurious sleepovers and very expensive shopping trips with them.

Your stomach was bubbling with warmth, lips feeling fuzzy, and eyes slightly unfocused as you tried to listen to Alex’s story while Kika was trying to contain her giggles and failing miserably, causing you to giggle, and eventually Alex as well.

Hours passed like this, many of which you’d check in with Max or he’d come find you and smother you in kisses. You’d gotten to the point of drunk, played a very bad game of beer pong with Carlos Sainz who was annoying good at it, and even joined the very crowded dance floor when Smooth Operator came on when Lando weaseled his behind the DJ table.

The clock ticked past three a.m. and you were properly wiped. Your mission now was finding Max and telling him, knowing that he’d immediately tell the guys he was the tired one and wanted to go home so you didn’t have to be the bad guy— and then you’d both go have mind blowing drunk sex in a hotel room just like you two used to do when he was just your boyfriend and you’d surprise him by coming to his races.

You spotted the head of dirty blonde through the crowd pretty efficiently— seeing as he had somehow found a plastic golden crown and was wearing it rather confidently. You dug through the sea of people until your hands gripped onto his bicep and pulled yourself close to him.

“Hey! How are you feeling, love?” You shout over the music, noticing his delayed blinking and slow blinking eyes.

His head eventually turned to look at you, brows furrowing deeply and his eyes were barely open to even see you. His arm jerked out of your grasp, body turning harshly away.

You frown.

“Hands off, lady! I’m— hiccup— Im married! Happily fucking married!”

You don’t think you’ve seen Max this drunk since the party after he won his very first world championship. That night— he’d fallen asleep on the kitchen floor with a half eaten bagel next to his face, his shirt halfway off, and two different shoes (both of which weren’t his).

You giggle, there are worse things a man can do when he’s drunk. Being rather tipsy yourself, you decide to go along with it. “Come on, baby, let’s go have some fun! She doesn’t have to know!”

Max suddenly starts shouting, like a fire alarm going off, but it isn’t loud enough to disturb the party. “Ah! Ah! Ah! No! Back! Stay back! My wife is crazy! She kills people! Ah!”

Holding back your laughter is nearly impossible.

“It’ll be our secret, cutie.” You giggle, finger dragging down his arm lazily. “I’m way more fun that your wife!”

“No!” He stomps his foot like a toddler, “My wife is wife! Wife! I have a wife! She’s hot! My wife is hot! I fuck her all the time and it’s fucking awesome! I only fuck my wife! She’s nice and has a pretty smile! I love her! Wife!”

If you believed in blackmailing, you’d be filming this.

“Is that so?” You tease, chuckling to yourself.

Max huffs, fixing his crown stubbornly, “I have a wife and she’s fucking awesome, thank you very much. She reads sexy books and wears my shirts and has pretty eyeballs. Very much so don’t touch me.”

You grin. The man that he is will never cease to amaze you. The man who the entire F1 world wants to make their villain— is the one standing in front of you with a pout on his lips. The man they used to call Mad Max, is the one so distraught over the idea of even touching another woman that he looks like he might cry.

“Max, darling, open your eyes real wide for me.”

With strenuous effort, Max peels his eyes open and they suddenly shoot fully open. A gasp leaves his lips and he immediately wraps his arms around you and lifts you off the ground completely.

“Liefje! You won’t believe it! Another woman tried to fuck me!” He sets you down, big hands holding onto the sides of your face gently as his eyes soak in the sight of you wholly and fully. “Fuck, you look so pretty darling. I would never fuck another woman. I have you. I have the prettiest fucking girl in the entire world and she has my last name. I bought her a pretty ring for her pretty finger.”

You smile in his hands, “Oh, love, I know. I know you wouldn’t.”

He stands so close to you that there’s barely enough room for air, pressing his forehead to yours. The entire world is gone now, he’s made it so it’s just the two of you. His eyes and yours, shoes touching, and the smell of liquor. “Schat, I love you so fucking much. God— I cannot believe how fucking lucky I am. You’re so good to me.”

You see tears well in his eyes. “Oh! Oh, baby, no! Don’t cry! It’s okay! I love you too, don’t cry!”

He nods, “I wanna be married to you forever. Like a really long forever. I don’t ever wanna not be married to you. I really really like it.”

“You wanna go, Maxie?” You see his eyes water even more at the nickname that he usually despises but obviously secretly liked. “Let’s get that hotel room okay? Get some water and some sleep?”

He nods, lips shaking ever so slightly. Lots of emotion washing over him so suddenly. He’s not an outwardly emotional man, that’s just always been how he was. He showed his love other ways, all of them good. But it’s always heartwarming to hear out loud, to hear how loved you are and hear your husband express just how much he loves you.

“Let’s go baby, I’ll text Danny when we get there.”

“Can we still be married when we get there?”

You grin. “Baby, we’re gonna be married forever.”

“Fuck yes!”

[spidermandes]

I LOVE TIK TOK

lando norris x best friend!reader

where she attempts to make a funny tik tok and ends up falling more in love with her best friend. tragic.

WHERE THERE WAS Y/N, THERE WAS LANDO.

That’s how it seemed to always be. Welcome to your twenties, where you originally imagined you’d be on a college campus and at fraternity parties on the weekends— you were in foreign countries and formula one races. Lando used to be you best friend who lived across the street, nothing more and nothing less.

But every step he took, he took your hand and brought you along with him. He used to compare it to a child bringing their favorite stuffed animal everywhere with them. If you’d come with him, make his hotel rooms feel like home and cheer him on from the McLaren paddock— he’d pay for your schooling.

You’d be an idiot to say no. Besides— who wouldn’t want to spend a year abroad with their best friend who you sometimes dream about? Unrequited love really makes a girl do crazy things.

But a girl also needs to make her own fun sometimes. Today had eaten up most of the day and while he was away you’d been hunched over your laptop in the hotel writing one of your essays that was due soon. In as little words, you were beyond bored.

And since tomorrow was race day, Lando was allowed to do a bit of a cheat meal. It couldn’t be anything crazy and still annoyingly healthy— but Lando had begged all night for you to cook something English. After all, you were both always a tiny bit homesick and some good classic British food would hopefully cure that ailment.

And after scrolling on tik tok and not writing your essay all day, it was the perfect time to finally play a prank on Lando instead of the other way around.

You piled his plate full, sauce trailing down the side and hear emanating from the top is swirling stream. It smelled absolutely amazing, you’d say. You weren’t too shy to say it— you were a damn good cook. Setting his down, you watched his eyes practically turn into hearts as he stared at the plate.

The camera was recording across the kitchen, hidden behind a box of protein bars. It was undeniably hard to keep a straight face.

“Oh, darling, this looks— oh my god. Holy shit.” Lando groans as he takes his first bite, shaking his head wildly. “Holy fuck. So good, y/n, so fucking good.”

You grinned, scooping a single quarter serving into your plate. Enough to look believable, but significantly less than what Lando had. “Yay! I’m glad.”

You took the seat next to him at the island, folding your napkin and placing it on your lap. And as soon as your plate hit the counter, you felt Lando’s burning into you.

“Love, what is that?”

“Hmm? My plate?”

He’d fallen deathly serious, his fork stopped moving in the air completely. “What— what are we doing? Why have you got a mouse serving on your plate? Are you feeling okay?”

Damn you Lando. This was supposed to be funny, not adorable. You’d half hopped he’d just make a joke out of it and devour his plate like he always does with his food. You’d wanted to laugh, not swoon. You did enough of that the rest of the days.

You pushed down your giggle. “Oh, this was that was left, Lan. I didn’t buy enough.”

His face fell as he looked at his own plate and back to yours, like a puppy that’s been kicked. “Oh…”

“It’s okay, I’m not all that hungry anyway.”

It was nearly everything inside you not to break character quite yet. His sad eyes and brain humming as he thought of what to say, looking back and forth between his plate and yours with brows tugged downward. "But... well here, we can split mine."

He was too good, too pure. How he made a career out of being competitive and aggressively driving a car going nearly 300 kilometers an hour-- you'll never know. This is the only Lando you knew, the one who whined and whimpered and spent his millions on Lego sets and pretty cars.

You shook your head as he tried to push your plates together and scrap half his serving onto your plate and make them even as possible. "No, no, Lan, it's okay. I'm alright. You eat, you've got to get all your calories before the race."

He looked up at you desperately sd. "Then can I order you something, darling? That's not nearly enough for you. We can go drive and get something, or I can go get it? I-- I don't... you'll get hungry, love."

"Lan--"

But he shook his head and grabbed his plate, spooning mouthfuls of the food into his mouth at exorbitant speed as he trotted around the room and slid his feet into his shoes, awkwardly grabbing his keys off the side table.

"Mhmf, mhm, fuck this is good. Okay!" He scraped the last bit onto the fork and chewed loudly, "Let's go! Come on, what are you feeling? We can get sushi, since I'm not eating. Or maybe pad thai? Or I can find a pizza place?"

You started laughing, climbing off your stool and grabbing your phone from its hidden perch, and shuffling towards the door where he was patiently waiting, "Lando--"

He shook his head, laying the plate on the end hall table and snatching his McLaren jacket off the coat rack and opening it wide and motioning for you to slide your arms into the sleeves. "Nope, no arguing. My darling must eat. Get big and strong, big muscles like mine. Come on, love. We're listening to Taylor Swift in the car as well."

"It's a prank, Lando!"

He whipped around, brows furrowed deeply. "Huh?"

You grinned, grabbing his hand and pulling him back into the hotel room and taking the keys from his hand. "There's plenty to eat. It's the tiktok trend. I just wanted to see what you would do!"

He scoffed, chuckling lightly as he twisted around sheepishly, "Fuckin' hell, y/n... goodness. You're sneaky, very sneaky. I actually felt bad! You-- oh my goodness. Ugh, oh my stomach hurts because of you! Oh fuck.. ugh, I ate too fast."

Your joy made your chest ache as you leaned against the wall, howling with laughter as Lando breathed heavily and leaned onto his knees. You pressed the stop on the phone as he eventually stood back up and rubbed his hand over his stomach with one hand as he walked toward you. Your laughter was replaced with a gasp as two arms wrapped around your middle and your feet left the floor. Now suddenly upside down with Lando's back an inch from your nose. "Ah! Lando! Put me down!"

"You muppet, that was mean!" He chuckled, carrying you with heavy steps to make sure you bounced dramatically before hurling you backwards onto the plush couch in the living room. "Still funny? Still giggling your little heart out?"

You snorted lightly, but most of your euphoria from laughing now morphing into shyness as your eyes washed over Lando. Sweatpants, socks, and his McLaren shirt had ridden up ever so slightly to show a visible V-line and the waistband of his Calvin Kleins underneath. He'd grown up since your crush first formed, and he'd only filled the shoes of the man you'd prayed he wouldn't become. Charming, funny, thoughtful, kind, and damn good looking. Why did he have to do that to you? Why did he have to make this so hard?

And now, with the lingering sweetness of his response, you found yourself unable to think of much else. "That was cute, though. Admit it, you were stupidly nice about it."

He shrugged, throwing himself down next to you on the couch with a puff of air dramatically before correcting his posture and sitting upright. Quickly, almost naturally, his arm looped around the back of the couch and around you, his thigh dangerously brushing against your side. "I am pretty cute, aren't I?"

You have no idea.

"Oh yeah?" He turned, brows pulled in with a cheeky smile.

Your eyes widened ever so slightly, cheeks burning a bright pink as you realized that your inside thoughts had made their way out without you realizing. "Umm..."

He wiggled comfortably deeper into the couch and closer to you, outreached hand on the other side lazily drawing random lines along your shoulder and a smile still plainly evident on his face; "Well I think you look pretty cute when you blush like that, darling. And don't worry, I wouldn't have asked you to live with me if I didn't."

Less than 24 hours later, the overwhelming amount of comments on said Tik Tok video were bringing into question how exactly you didn't know that this man had been in love with you for just as love as you had been falling for him. Including Lando, who was quite blown away that you hadn't figured it out a long long time ago.

[spidermandes]

SAY IT AGAIN

lando norris x ex!reader

when a poorly timed night on the town leads to bruised knuckles, a cuppa, and hangovers.

YOU AND LANDO HAD ENDED NEARLY SIX MONTHS AGO.

So technically, you didn’t have the grounds to be angry at him for moving on. It wasn’t the cleanest breakup, and you have mustered the courage to admit to yourself that you were still not over it. You certainly didn’t plan on dating soon, not the slightest interesting in opening up to another person the way you did for Lando.

You’d really believed he was the one. You’d dated for two years, breaking up just a few weeks before the official anniversary. You’d spent days afterwards rotting in your apartment, a complete mess. Weeks wrapped up in every piece of Lando’s clothes he left behind, watching movies he showed you, listening to playlists he curated for you, watching his races, and anything else you could do to simulate him still being around. Now— you were feeling better. You left the apartment more, saw your friends, missing race Sunday’s to sleep in. Life wasn’t better, but it was moving along with or without you. So you were going to make the best of it.

Like tonight. Your friend was dating some DJ— one Lando introduced the both of you to, unfortunately— and he was doing a show locally that he’d gotten you VIP tickets for. Access to a practically impossible to get into club unless you were a A-Lister, open bar, the works. You’d be an idiot not to take advantage of it.

So, dressed in your shortest dress, most comfortable pair of heels, a nice layer of makeup making you feel more put together than you had in months. Already on a buzz from the getting-ready-pregame, you and your friend slinked into the club feeling utterly untouchable from the royal treatment you were getting.

The same treatment you used to get when you went anywhere with Lando Norris. But— that’s not what tonight was about. You ordered another drink just to make sure lingering thoughts didn’t ruin the night.

After all— he’d moved on. Plainly obvious by social media posts and the appearance of a new girl in the McLaren paddock last weekend, he’d moved on to a girl who looked nothing like you.

It hurt, a lot more than you hoped it would. But he was an adult, a grown man who can make his own decisions and kiss whomever he wants now. He was faithful during your relationship, that was all that should’ve mattered.

So were you here to watch a DJ, dance with some friends and some strangers, and get drunk enough not to think about the way Lando Norris was probably taking some girls dress off tonight and doing all his tricks that he used to do to you.

“Holy fuck.”

You turned suddenly, the room swayed as you did, turning to your friend with a worried expression plastered across your face. “What? What? Are you okay?”

A drunk laugh stumbled out of her mouth as she grabbed your arm and forced you to stand where she stood and pointed through the hazy club all the way across towards the booths. Where you’d initially thought you’d spot someone super famous like Zac Efron or something— it was much more harrowing.

Among a group of women standing on the booth dancing and drinking happily, two people sat in the center. All over each other, basically fucking through their clothes and giggling like school girls. For a moment, it crossed your mind that your friend was just surprised at how vulgar they were acting in public— you feel a chill run down your spine.

Lando’s girlfriend. In a tiny silver dress that covered the bare necessities, hair pinned up effortlessly beautifully, makeup perfect except for smudged lipstick that matched the stains on the man’s face next to her. And the man was not Lando.

“Isn’t that—”

“No fucking way!” You gasp, “Okay, wait, no, no, no— we know nothing. They could’ve broken up! It’s fine, it’s none of my business.”

Your friend takes a deep breath and nods. You’re both trying desperately not to jump to conclusions or do anything drastic. Lando isn’t yours anymore, you have no right to meddle in his relationships or anything to do with him. You don’t need to protect him, even if you really want to. “Okay! Okay! You’re right. Come on, Z’s set it about to start.”

You nod cautiously. “Okay, yeah, I’m gonna go pee and get another drink. Meet you at the front?”

She nods back, eyes still flickering back to the girl, “Yeah, flash your ticket. Make that drink a double.”

The line to the bathroom was annoyingly long.

Thankfully, they were still setting up the stage so you weren’t too desperately worried other than you really had to pee. You bounced side to side, swiping through some instagram posts as you waited to help pass the time. One that you saw was quite concerning— including a post from Oscar Piastri from today in the paddock. It was Friday night, so today must’ve been free practice. In the post, in the deep background— Lando and his girlfriend are there. They look happy, for what it’s worth, he’s holding her hand and whispering something into her ear. She’s smiling and leaning into him as well. They look… good together.

Except this is from today. She saw him today. They looked happy today. Just mere twelve hours ago this girl was cuddling up next to Lando and wearing papaya colors— and now she’s giggling in a club all over some random guy.

You take a deep breath— maybe they broke up after this was taken. Maybe she’s grieving a really fresh break up. Who are you to judge?

You see the sparkle of her dress in your peripheral vision, and your thumb immediately clicks off your phone and shove it into your purse. Fuck. Not good. Very not good.

“Do you have a ride out of here tonight?” Her friend slurs out, fixing the wrinkle in her red slip dress as they join the bathroom line right behind you. “Cause I need one.”

The girlfriend shrugs, “Can’t help. I’m totally hitching a ride back to his apartment. He says he lives in a penthouse not far. Plus— he drove something nice. I cannot be seen leaving here in a fucking Uber X.”

Your eye twitches, begging her to redeem herself. Say something. Talk about how hard the break up was. Say something about how much she misses Lando, say that she loved him and hope it’s for the best, that she is gonna miss his curly hair and wearing his hoodies. Cry and scream just as hard as you did, anything to make this better.

Her friend nods, “What’s he driving?”

“A McLaren. If he’s lying then I’m totally out.”

Of fucking course. You want to turn around now and beg her. Ask her to tell you that it’s over, say that she’s not a terrible person and is just relishing in new freedom.

The friend is seemingly reading your mind, destined to help you find your answers. “And what are you gonna tell Landon?”

“Lando? Ugh… can we just not talk about him?”

You raised your brows, feeling better as you take a step forward in line.

“Bitch— you’re crazy. Isn’t that guy like a mega millionaire? He hasn’t even bought you a necklace yet. A Birkin? Can’t you just like… stick it out with him?”

No. No. No.

The girlfriend rolls her eyes, applying a fresh layer of glittery pink lip lacquer. “Ugh. I know. But he’s dragging me to all this shit all the time. Like— we’re supposed to fly to Japan next week for his little race thing. Like— what the fuck am I going to do out there? I’m still waiting for him to take me on his friends yacht. I am literally dying. Three months in and nothing to show for it. He’s fucking exhausting. If anything, it’s his fault I’m here.”

Your heart stalls in your chest.

Her friend throws the final bit of dirt on the grave. “Send him pics. Maybe he’ll buy you something nice to get you back.”

Their laughs will haunt you.

Lando has hurt you, no doubt about that. You both said hurtful things maybe you didn’t mean and shouldn’t have said, threw rocks in the glass house— it didn’t mean Lando deserved this. For what is was worth, he was the best thing that had ever happened to you. He was kind and thoughtful and endearing. He remembered every important date and always encouraged you to keep pursuing your dreams. He loved you like you’d never been loved before.

He was good. Even when he made mistakes, he was good. To you, for you, with you, even without you.

Now he was with someone who was tricking him. Asking for money and gifts that she didn’t deserve, crying like a wolf when he just wanted her to enjoy his job as much as he did, for giving her such a luxurious life that she didn’t think was enough. She wanted things and this monotone boyfriend that wasn’t a real person with real feelings. She wanted to use him and his friends, suck them dry until she was satisfied and tossed him to the wind.

He didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve him.

And your anger got the better of you. Maybe drinking tonight was not the best idea, and every bit of anxiety you felt left your body and all you had left was rage.

“What did you just say?” You grumble, turning around with narrowed eyes.

They both looked at you strangely. “Mind your business, maybe?”

“No, no, no. Say it again. Tell me all about how you’re just a gold digging bitch who wouldn’t know what common fucking sense was if it hit you in your shit talking mouth. Is that what you want me to do?”

Her eyes widened, “What the fuck is wrong with you, psycho bitch?”

You stepped dangerously close to her, “Say it to my fucking face, bitch. Talk me through why the fuck you’re here selling yourself out to whoever flashes some fancy car keys at you while you have the greatest fucking guy waiting for you somewhere who just wants to spending some fucking time with you! Is in hollow in your head? Just a sparkly ping pong ball bouncing around up there?”

Her friend is clearly getting nervous, backing away and disappearing into the crowd.

But you don’t let the girlfriend off so easy. “You’re so fucking blind. You don’t deserve him, not even a little bit. He’s so fucking good and could’ve been the greatest thing you ever had. But no, no, no! You’re here! You’re grinding on some dude who doesn’t give a fuck about you, and whining like a bitch that your fucking boyfriend won’t drop twenty grand on some bitch he’s known for three fucking months.”

She scoffed. “You’re fucking insane. Jesus fuck. Back the fuck off me and scurry back to your broke ass bum boyfriend or whatever. I can do whatever the fuck I want. He’s too stupid to even guess, okay? I’ve fucked dudes you couldn’t even dream of getting near in the past two weeks, okay? And I’m still getting on a private jet to fucking Japan next week. Not you bitch. Take a step back.”

You don’t remember slapping her. Or pushing her. Or punching her. Or the bouncer coming up behind you and throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you out of the club. Nor do you remember your friend finally finding you in the McDonalds across the street an hour later eating french fries and driving you home.

But now, a loud knocking noise wakes you up rather unwillingly. You find yourself on your apartment couch— covered in a thin blanket and still in your dress with a headache from hell— it slowly coming back to you.

You groan quietly and get to your feet, pushing down the nausea in your stomach as you wobble around. You grab the first hoodie you see and stumble over to the door where the repeated and highly annoying knocking is coming from.

Pulling it over your short dress and licking your finger to remove smudged eye make up— you peel the door open and pray it’s just the mailman or something. Someone you’ll never have to see again, preferably.

“The building better be on fire or something I swear to god.” You grumble as you stand in an open door and try to wipe the exhaustion off your face.

“Not that I know of.

Your eyes snap open, taking in the figure you only saw in your dreams nowadays. Wearing jeans and a McLaren hoodie, you can smell the familiar cologne and teakwood aftershave wafting at you. It smells like home, somewhere you’d always want to go but could never get back to. Lando Norris is standing right in front of you with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Fuck. Lando.” You spit without being able to stop. “Um, what— what time is it?”

He shrugs. “A little after six. Just got out of quali not long ago.”

“How’d you do?” You ask mindlessly, it coming out naturally. It’s one of the first few sessions you’ve missed recently and you can’t exactly stop caring about it so quickly.

He shrugs again. “P4.”

You nod. “People have won from lower.”

“Stop. Just— can I come in?”

You hesitate and think if there’s anything criminal he could spot in your living room. Maybe it’s because of the pounding in your head, but you can’t think of anything immediately and shrug— opening the door wider for him to shuffle in. He looks around, body molding around the counters and chairs like he’s walked this floor a thousand times, and he has.

You don’t have the capacity to wonder why he’s here, shutting the door and becoming interested in finding the strongest painkillers you own and the tallest glass of water.

Lando watches you struggle to keep your eyes open in the brightly lit kitchen and dig through crowded cabinets for some pills. He sighs and lets his instincts kick in— not at all why he came, but what he’s gonna do either way.

“Sit down you muppet. Just— here. Let me do it.”

You listen silently, sitting with a huff at your dining table as he glides into your kitchen and finds the things you were looking for with ease. He sets two pills on the table and a cold water bottle, before shuffling back and filling the kettle with water and setting on the now ignited stove. He gets the tea bags out, as well as the honey.

You start the crave the tea he used to make. You’ve been trying to replicate it for months.

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms as he waits for you to take the pills and a deep breath. You can feel his eyes raking over you over and over again.

“Have an interesting night? Do anything fun?”

You cover your eyes with your hands and lean onto your elbows on the table, shaky as you do. “Awesome. So what? Everyone knows? Trending on fucking Twitter or something?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just got a rather angry phone call this morning from my girlfriend. Said my ex attacked her at a club for no reason.”

You nodded, laughing quietly.

“Do you think this is fucking funny? Hmm?”

You’re laughing gets a bit louder when you really think about it. How free the girl was to spin this story however she wanted, especially to Lando. After all, no matter what, you were the ex-girlfriend. You were the instigator. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Great.” Lando scoffed. “Awesome. My girlfriend has a fucking black eye, Y/N. She could press charges.”

You laugh harder.

“Jesus, Y/N. What is going on with you? You go radio silent for six months and now this?”

In the few moment of silence as you try to compose yourself and draw back. You want to laugh, you want to cry, you have a million and a half things you could shout at him. Radio silent? What did he want from you? Did he want daily updates on how heartbroken you were? Did he want a text message every time you cried? What did he want from you? Your pride? Your dignity?

The kettle suddenly screeches on the stove. It rattles your brain wildly, hissing as you leap up and wretch the kettle off the stove and place it down in the sink now open to release the pressure.

You swear under your breath, backing away and leaning against the sink, laying your head in your heads as your brain pounds painfully.

“What were you thinking, Y/N? Seriously? Was it revenge? Are you mad at me? What— I don’t— what is it?”

You lift you head with wide eyes? “Re— revenge? You’re so joking right now.”

“I don’t know! You tell me! Cause I’m having a hell of a time trying to figure it out!”

You push off the counter, your nerves ignited on their tips and frustration boiling over. “Fucking hell, Lando! She’s cheating on you! She’s a piece of shit girlfriend who is waiting for you to dig into your wallet and cry wolf! That’s it! I— I’m— I really don’t know what got into me, I don’t, okay? She was there, and I didn’t even know it, and then I heard her say all this vile shit about you and whatever— I couldn’t deal with it.”

Lando froze, before breathing out quietly.

Your expression turned to one of guilt. “I’m sorry Lando. I tried to stay out of it. Out of your relationship, out of your business, out of your life— but I just… she pushed my buttons. All of them, at once, really hard.”

Lando’s eyes flickered to yours sadly. “What?”

“I said she pushed my buttons.”

“No, no, no,” He shook his head, “What— why— why did you think I wanted you out of my life? Like forever?”

You hummed, narrowing your eyes. “Usually that’s what a breakup means, Lan.”

You miss the way his shoulders deflate when he hears the nickname slip out, nearly letting a whimper out and throw caution to the wind— get down on his knees and beg for you to say it again. He’s missed it so dearly, missed the way that name made him feel— missed how you made him feel. But all you can pick up on is how quiet he is.

“I’m sorry, Lando. Let me deal with it. She can… I dunno, do whatever she wants. Just don’t… don’t worry about it, okay? Not now. You’ve got too much on the line.”

He frowns, but is still racking him brain for the right thing to say. All those times he’d sat outside your apartment building in his car, trying to convince himself to go up and say all the million things he should’ve. All the calls he wished he had the courage to make, the texts he wanted to send, memories in his camera roll he refused to delete. You were still very much a part of his life, a part of him. Where has he gone so wrong?

You continued your rant, unable to shut up with the nerves running through your body. “God— it’s just— okay. Look, it was like I blacked out or something. It was so weird! Like— I was just thinking about that night, like I could hear you yelling and me crying, and all I could think about was that this girl was literally fucking up her chance with the greatest guy in the world and she didn’t even care. I just got so… angry.”

Lando felt tears welling in his eyes, no matter how hard he was trying to hold back, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe properly. Staring at you standing across from him in the small kitchen, leaned against the counter with your head in your hands.

“So I’m just… I’m sorry, Lando.” You breathe out, “For what she did. For what I did. It was stupid and reckless and that’s not me, and I shouldn’t have— but I did. So… maybe I’m not exactly sad that I did it but I am sorry that I put you— you get what I’m saying.”

He nods slowly, looking at his hands.

You frown, “Nothing? No yelling? No lecture? Considering I just possibly made your life ten times more of a shitshow?”

He smiles suddenly, looking at you. He missed this. he missed arguing with you. He missed how passionate you got, how long you’d ramble. When you’d talk for so long, it had usually always given him time to calm down and compose himself. It was how it worked, why it worked.

“What?” You blinked.

Lando kept his grin wide, stepping ever so closer to you. Every inch closer, his body felt calmer. Nothing beyond that apartment door mattered. Just you, standing there, those doe eyes that he missed so much. “Nothing.”

He closes the gap, now standing right in front of you with his hands on the counter at your sides and faces just mere inches from each other. He hears you gulp as quietly as you can, eyelashes batting as you peer up.

“You’re… really… um, close.”

He nods. “Is that okay?”

You shrug, “I mean, you’re in a relationship. You have a girlfriend. She’d have a fucking field day with this.”

Lando shook his head, moving one hand to brush the escaped hair from your field of vision and behind an ear. “Not anymore, I’m not. M’ sure she’ll find someone with more money to climb into bed with. As you said— she’s obviously got options.”

“Lan, we can’t—“

He swears under his breath, shutting his eyes momentarily, “Fuck… say it again.”

“Say what?”

“Call me that name. Please, love, just call me that name again.”

“Lan…” You whisper lowly.

Both his hands moved to cradle your waist, lips gently touched the crown of your forehead. His entire body felt at peace, like he was exactly where he belonged. His withdrawal symptoms of you, the grumpiness and loneliness, it all evaporated in an instant. “I love you. I love you so fucking much and I’m sorry about that night. I’m a fucking idiot and I can’t say that’ll change but I’m going to be better. Better is you, it’s with you. It’s been a really fucking long six months.”

You feel the first of your own tears rolling down your cheek. Every single word you’d wanted him to say to you, he’d said loud and clear. Nodding wildly, you feel every fiber of your body agreeing with him. It had been an agonizingly long six months without him. “I missed you…”

He wraps you in an impossibly tight hug, you can feel him trying to get you closer than space will allow. “I know, baby. I’m not leaving, not ever again.”

“You knew?”

He pulls away momentarily with a knowing grin, “Darling, you’re wearing my hoodie, my sweats are laying on the couch over there, our photos are still on the bookshelf— and you fist fought a girl for me last night. I’m putting the pieces together.”

You turn a bright red, sighing and pushing your head against his chest. “Yeah… well… I’m gonna make fun of you for your choice in rebound women. Then we’ll be even.”

“Whatever you want, love. Let’s make you some tea and make sure those knuckles don’t bruise.”

“Finally.”

[spidermandes]

right where you left me

lando norris x ex!reader

summary — lando hasn’t considered the fact that breaking up with a songwriter meant he’d get his own album. and that it would make him miss you worse than he already did.

a/n — song credits to taylor swift, madison beer, sabrina carpenter, maisie adams and all others used. faceclaim is madison beer. use of songs is for this series and entertainment purposes only, not claiming them as my own. 🫶

y/n.y/l/n. thank you for all your patience with this one. grab your tissues and listen to right where you left me the album. for those in loving relationships, this one isn’t for you lol.

comments. . .

username nevermind the GUTWRENCHING lyrics. the composure alone is grammy worthy.

username SO LONG LONDON?????? BASICALLY CALLING OUT LANDO NORRIS BY NAME???

username “my spine SPLIT FROM CARRYING US UP THE HILL” she was coming for BLOOD

username love of my life????? loss of my life???? i’m unable to recover.

username not her using Aston Martin in imgonnagetyouback. mclaren slander???

username opposite??? yall are sleeping on this. lando has been SEEN with blondes recently. he rlly can’t stand to be w someone who looks like her

username i’m sending y/n my therapy bills

username breaking up w my boyfriend to fully grasp this album brb

username “even picked a house and chose our kids names” BRO IM SCREAMING AND CRYING AND THROWING UP

username champagne problems when lando is famous for his champagne pops on the podium. i’m absolutely gutted. leave me alone

username proud of the f1 fangirl community for collectively still supporting y/n and not fckn being weird and gross. y/n is our mother with or without lando.

username “AND I WOULDNT MARRY ME EITHER A PATHOLOGICAL PEOPLE PLEASER WHO ONLY WANTED YOU TO SEE HER” AHHHHHHHHH SOMEONE SEDATE ME

username not her saddest album being five of the top ten on pop charts rn. this generation is doomed.

username OSCAR LIKED????? even he is done w lando’s bullshit rn.

username max did too!! the entire grid loves this woman

username i want them to play so long, london next time lando is on podium.

username y/n rlly wrote “i want to sell my house and set fire to all my clothes, and hire a priest to come exercise my demons even if i die screaming and I HOPE YOU HEAR IT” and lando norris is still breathing????

username bro her subtle ass f1 references??? “six weeks of breathing clean air and i still miss the smoke”????

TWITTER

NEW MESSAGE FROM: OZZIE P 🫶

NEW MESSAGE FROM: VAX MERSTAPPEN 🇳🇱

STORY REPLIES

> username i love you! you deserve it!

> username still have it on repeat! so beautiful! ❤️

> alexandriasaintmleux 🤍🤍 much deserved belle fille!

> y/n.y/l/n. still sobbing!

> username we love you!

> danielriccardo i want backstage passes when u go on tour please and thank you

> y/n.y/l/n. already promised them to ur mom 🩷

> danielriccardo :(((

> username so long, london is a masterpiece 👏👏

> username 🫶🫶🫶

> landonorris2937282 my album

> y/n.y/l/n. another burner acct? really?

> landonorris2937282 i’m not giving up

> y/n.y/l/n. leave me alone lando. you ended it. so it’s over

> landonorris2937282 not until you see me

> y/n.y/l/n. i’m in london next week.

> landonorris2937282 anything you want. thank you.

LANDO THINKS HE’S NEVER BEEN MORE NERVOUS IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE.

Not for a grand prix, not for any qualifying, any meeting, or even his first formula one interview on camera. Only one thing feels even close to what he feels right now— and it was his very first date with you. Must’ve been five years ago by now, if he remembers right (which he does, he’ll never forget it). He remembers having to change shirts right before he left because he’d sweat through the first one and had to layer on an embarrassing amount of deodorant.

In all honesty— he never imagined you actually agreed to see him again. It was subtle harassment at this point, which he only felt slightly bad about. A dozen new burner instagram accounts that you kept blocking, three phones he borrowed (stole) from other drivers who had your number, and one message he asked Oscar to give you (the Australian did not). He should’ve taken the hint a while ago.

Maybe when you released your latest album. Forty eight minutes of heartache.

He’d known you were an excellent songwriter. While he often stumbled over his own words with you and knew his cheeks got all red when he tried to be romantic— you’d always been so elegantly eloquent. So well spoken, speaking in poems and always saying things to him that turned him into putty in your hands.

He used to be your muse for your love songs. He remembered the first song you’d ever played for him, the one you told him was about him. He’d cried in front of you for the very first time that night. No one had ever made him feel like you made him feel. Nothing had ever been so raw.

Lando nearly got sick to his stomach the first time he listened to this album. And the second time, and the fifteenth. Now it played in his ears every time he went to the gym or on a run, even right before free practice sometimes. It certainly made him angry enough to put in some real energy where he’d lacked it before.

He’d gained seven pounds of muscle in two months on accident, and sprained his wrist. His trainer was pissed.

But he couldn’t help it. The pain of a hours long workout made him feel something other than heartache. The hole dug into his chest could be ignored when his calves burned so bad he couldn’t walk. He couldn’t cry if he was squatting two hundred pounds.

Lyrics smashed around in his head all hours of the day, he simply didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. This was his last hope.

“My friends said it wasn’t right to be afraid every day of a love affair, every breath feels like rarest air when you’re not sure if he wants to be there,”

Had he been so terrible? Had he not said he loved you more than a million times? Did he not hold you close enough at night? Was he away from home for too long? Had he not bought flowers often enough? Or maybe there was too much time between each romantic date he took you on? What was it? Why didn’t you say anything? Why hadn’t you given him a clearer hint?

“and i wouldn’t marry me either. a pathological people pleaser, who only wanted you to see her.”

He would’ve. He should’ve. He would’ve proposed to you a million times. In every country, at any hour of the day. Why hadn’t he done it? You’d been dating for five years, that was plenty long. He’d known he could spend the rest of his life with you ever since you first held his hand.

It was at the first race he’d ever brought you too. You should’ve been the nervous one, but you’d held his hand and promised him that everything was going to be just fine. You’d told him how excited you were to see him do what he did best. You said you didn’t care about the cameras or what anyone had to say. That day was one of the best of his life. It’s where the picture got taken of him kissing you in the paddock was taken. It’s still his phone background.

Why hadn’t he gotten down on one knee? What was his excuse? That you were both young? That he was too busy? That he’d just started his career? What stupid excuse had he thought was good enough to risk losing you?

“is it something i said? why am i alone in this bed? tell me the truth, what did i do? look at me, why can’t i see? no, it can’t be this easy to let me go”

His stomach twisted. After all was said and done, after he’d yelled and shouted and you’d done the same— you both said things you didn’t mean that night. After you took a bag with as much as you could carry and left the rest to go sleep at a hotel and never came back. In the end, when Lando knew it was his fault— you blamed yourself?

What did you do? How could you ever think this was because of you? How had he failed so miserably to make you see how utterly perfect you were? How did you not see that losing you made him so entirely miserable? Girls who looked nothing like you were photographed with him at clubs, how could you not see? He never went home with them, not once. He’d never be able to give himself to someone else like that. No one would ever compare to you. It wasn’t you. It could’ve never been your fault. It was him. He was the bad one. He held the knife. Him. Him.

“and i’ll see it until i die. you’re the loss of my life.”

No. Lando couldn’t accept it. He’ll bare the worst insults and consequences you throw at him. He’ll let you hate him just right, he’ll let you cry and hit him and throw everything you can at him. It doesn’t matter. He won’t lose you. He won’t let you lose him.

Someone has to watch sad movies with you when you just want to cry and hold you when you want to watch horror movies that give you nightmares. Someone has to be on the other end of your three a.m text messages about a melody you’ve brainstormed in the dead of night. Someone has to bring you another blanket because you think it’s so damned cold in his apartment, even though he always kept it that way so you’d stay close to him in bed. Someone has to be it for you, someone has to look after you.

It’ll be him. You can hate him forever, but he’ll be there. He’ll love you.

There’s a knock at his apartment door.

You have a key. He never asked for it back, not wanting it. Though maybe you’d gotten rid of it, given it to Oscar or Max to give back. Doesn’t matter now.

He wasn’t in London this week, wasn’t supposed to be. Technically he had to be in Australia in three days for media day and then a race weekend. You used to know his schedule like the back of your hand. Maybe that’s long gone too. But it wouldn’t have mattered if he needed to be on the moon tomorrow. He was here, where you were. He flew on the red eye, slept in the airport and barely eaten. He’d be here if you were.

He tries to stop himself from running to the door, settling for wide strides double what he usually does to get there. Peeling it open, his heart stops in its tracks. Every time he saw you, he never got used to it. Beautiful, head to toe. Not a flaw in sight, even if you tried to nitpick about a pimple or stretch mark— he’d never believe you.

He saw his future in a girl standing in front of him wearing sweatpants, a cropped tee with your new album name embroidered on it, and a pair of slippers he remembers buying for you to keep your feet warm in his oh-so-freezing apartment.

There’s no formalities. You slide past him and straight into the apartment you used to call home, narrowly avoiding your shoulder from brushing his. The smell of your perfume invades his senses like a tsunami, his brain short circuiting for a moment. For a second, he feels like nothing has happened. Like he’s going to follow you into the apartment and give you a kiss before starting to cook dinner for the two of you like he usually did. You’d start rambling about your day and asking a million questions about his day.

He hopes you notice that nothing has changed here. All your design influences have been untouched, your blankets still folded on the couch and your favorites of Lando’s hoodies you’d wear still hanging on the corners of the doors. It looked like you still lived here, like you never left. He didn’t want you to leave. He’d never wanted that.

It had all gone so wrong, so quickly. So much anger, so much frustration— everything burned to a crisp in such a short amount of time.

“I only have an hour, so.”

He hadn’t heard your voice in four months. All he’d gotten was your music. Everyday he played it, desperate— starved, for something that sounded like you. He nodded, following you in and shutting the door behind him. Your bag went onto a chair and you awkwardly sat on the couch with your hands in your lap.

You looked so uncomfortable.

In your own home. His home.

“I really didn’t think you’d come, if I’m honest. Thought you’d be in America or something.”

Your eyes bore into him. “I’m not a liar. And I’d feel bad anyway. You’re supposed to be in Australia right now. Oscar would kill me if you bailed on media day because of me.”

His heart lifted ever so slightly. So you did remember?

He was too nervous to sit, brain running over everything he wanted to say. So much, and so little time. “Right. Yeah. ‘Course.”

“What did you want to say, Lando.”

Lando. Not Lan. Not baby. Not honey. Not love. His full name on your lips was harsh, critical and judgmental. He hadn’t heard you say it out loud in years. “You look beautiful.”

“That’s what you flew here to tell me?”

“No. But I should tell you. I should’ve told you all the time.”

You sighed. “Lando—”

He hates how it sounded. Rarely did he hated how something sounded from you. Your voice was usually so welcomed, so soothing to him. But his full name, the tone of disappointment and exhaustion, it was a terrible mix. “Look, just— okay. Fuck. It’s hard to know where to start. Because it doesn’t seem like I’m sorry is going to fix anything.”

“I wouldn’t know. You haven’t tried it.”

“I am sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For everything I said. It was stupid, and dumb, and I wish I could go back and rock the shit out of myself for ever even thinking of those things, for saying them.”

He hopes you know that he means it. While this is all some desperate attempt to fix what had been broken all those months ago on one fateful night— he needed you know that he wasn’t talking out of his ass.

“I said things too. We both… you know.”

He shook his head. “You were calling me on my bullshit. You were right. I did spend too much time on the console. I didn’t plan enough of our dates. I didn’t give you the attention that you needed… that you deserved. I… I stopped trying so hard. I thought— I guess I just got comfortable, you know? I was stupid enough to think that I couldn’t lose you, that I didn’t need to try as hard as I did at the beginning. I was wrong.”

You couldn’t lie, it felt good for him to admit it. “Why are you telling me all this now? It’s been five months. You sent me back all my clothes. Those girls at the clubs. You deleted all of our pictures.”

“You’d blocked me on everything. You kept coming back here when I wasn’t here to get your stuff so I just… I was trying to make it easier. At the time I just— I dunno, I thought you wanted out. Thought fighting you on it would just make it worse. Make you hate me more.”

“I don’t hate you.” You quickly correct, though perhaps too quickly. You’re supposed to be the one who’s moved on, the single and thriving one. “I did. I should. But I don’t.”

He nods. “You should. I said some shitty things.”

You couldn’t agree more.

“I didn’t mean them. The race, the team, I was so pissed off at them than I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have. You were trying to help. I know that now. And Im working on it. I’m trying not to get so angry at myself, how to keep my mouth shut when I know nothing good it gonna come out of it.”

For a moment, you’re speechless.

And he basks in the silence for as long as he has it. The light from the balcony doors are putting you in a glow that he admired, and he’s missed seeing you inside this house. It was just as much yours as it was him. No amount of time apart would ever change that for him. That spot on the couch was yours. The second hook near the door was for your keys. The wine glasses next to his pint glasses were yours. The second gaming set up in the guest bedroom was yours. The spot on the left side of the bed was yours.

He needs you back. Right where you belonged. Right where he left you.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness, I know I don’t deserve it yet. And this is a really shitty apology as far as they go. But I just— I needed to tell you.”

You repeat your question. “But why now, Lando? Why not yesterday? Or last week? Or why not the morning after I left? Why now?”

“I didn’t ever want you to write break up songs about us.”

Your heart sinks a little in your chest. “Lan…”

And with the nickname slipping out with or without you truly noticing, Lando knows he’s made enough progress to keep going. You weren’t lying, you didn’t hate him like you probably should.

“You are one of the most talented people I’ve ever met. The songs, they’re… they’re just so fucking good. But they’re about me. You’re hurting, and I did that. I— I don’t want to be the reason you’re hurting. I don’t want to be the loss of your life. I don’t want you to leave London. The Black Dog is the shittiest bar and I’m never going back. You did fix me. I want to marry you. I want to keep your picture in my wallet. I want you to be my wife and wreck whatever car of mine you want to. Because I am in love with you. I’m never going to stop being in love with you.”

“Lan—”

He shook his head. He’s too far in it now. If he stops now, he’ll never say everything he wanted to. “Please, please. I just— I’m almost done. Cause I’ll let you take your time. You can have as much space as you want for as long as you want. But just know, that I’m always going to be here. There’s no one else in the world for me. You can write a million songs about us, as long as it’s us. I’ll spend every second of the rest of my life making it up to you. As long as you just… let me.”

You take in Lando for everything he is. His desperate tone bleeds through in his hopeless expression, hands begging and feet anxious as he paces the room. But beneath all of it, beneath the new muscle you noticed and stubble he was growing— it’s still the Lando you’ve always known. So passionate and expressive, his emotions always bigger than he knew what to do with.

You’ve missed his rambling, so dearly.

You hadn’t spent these months healing, you know that. Seeing as you spent most of them crying inside a recording booth writing songs about your ex lover— you’d never truly ever be able to ‘get over’ Lando Norris. You think that was a fear no human was able to accomplish. But part of your head is anxious, worried this is all for naught and it’ll end in heartbreak all over again.

You might not survive the next one.

“It’s nominated for a Grammy.” Is all you can think to say. “Got it released in time to be considered. Album of the Year.”

Lando whimpers, shuffling over to you gently and lowering himself to the ground in front of you on the carpet with his legs folding themselves over. His hands slowly move to where they feel most comfortable, gently moving up and down the sides of you calves and you lean onto your knees with your elbows. “A Grammy. Fuck… Y/N. That’s— I mean, I knew it. Called it a long time ago.”

You scoff with a smile. “Shut it.”

He looks up at you with the same look you remember falling in love with like it was yesterday. “Is… is this okay?”

It feels like home. How could anything that felt like this be wrong? “Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

He grins so widely he thinks his muscles may get stuck that way on his face, fingers tracing the stitching of the grey sweatpants on your legs. “Good. Are— are these mine?”

You frown. “They were in the box of my clothes you sent back. Don’t think so.”

And his cheeks turn a rosy pink as his fingers curl around the fabric tightly like they’re a lifeline. “I may have put them in there then. These were your favorite ones. They’re mine.” He smiles. “Smell like you now though.”

You’d work these at least twice a week. Even when you tried to hate him, when you’d been so mad at him— you were surrounded by him, comforted. Even when he hurt you, he’d taken care of you.

“Lando?” He looks up at you like a puppy. “We’ll both do better?”

His hands move and collect yours and intertwine the fingers. They fit like puzzle pieces, a relaxing feeling washing over you that you have been missing for months. “Always. Can I drive you to your meeting?”

“I may have lied about the meeting.”

“Then pack a bag. You’re going to Australia.”

NEW POST FROM LANDONORRIS

📍Melbourne, Australia

LANDONORRIS can’t forget my favorite travel buddy ❤️ (she won’t let me call her my girlfriend again yet but soon guys i promise) @y/n.y/l/n

comments. . .

username oh his dick is big

username bro id forgive lando norris too

username nooo! lando was almost free of this witch!

> username not only does no one know why the took a break but literally lando only ever talks abt how much he loves this woman. go touch grass.

carlossainz how did you pull this off

> landonorris don’t jinx me

username thank god! mom and dad are back together!

username number one f1 wag is back yall

username image they broke up just so she could write a grammy nominated break up album and get that check

oscarpiastri dude we’re getting the band back together! :D

> y/n.y/l/n tell lily i’m in mclaren hospitality 🫶

> oscarpiastri when will i be enough for you

username lando being self aware that he fucked up is so funny to me

maxverstappen1 thank GOD

username bro almost lost the baddest bitch

> landonorris i’m groveling don’t worry

[spidermandes]

THIS TOWN

max verstappen x fem!reader

— — the one where max usually isn't so sentimental, but something about him is different after you.

— And Max, question for you. do you have a favorite memory from this year?

— Ah, racing or no? Any?

— Any. yeah, any.

— Several. It has been a very good year, all around. But there is one. I guess, in the least amount of words, I've learned a new favorite song.

— Oh?

— My wife likes it very much, so.

SIX MONTHS AGO

     HE'S ALWAYS ENJOYED DANCING WITH YOU.

When you met, he usually could only steal those moments inside a club or bar with loud music and a drink in each of your hands. Back then, dancing usually ended up with both of you in whatever hotel he was booked up in with Red Bull and his racing stuff thrown all over the room and doing something else entirely under the sheets.

A very different kind of dancing.

Now, he considers himself blessed with some kind of cosmic luck. He's managed to make things work. Despite the long distance and the arguments, the two of you always make it back to each other. He's hurt you, and you've hurt him, but in the end it didn't seem to matter all too much. For him, always came back to you. Always.

You two own a home together, buried in the further out rolling hills of Monaco. He still adores the country, and could never find it in himself to want to leave. His life started here, not only with racing, seeing it was the very place he met you.

You were both so different then. Young, stupid, whatever you wanted to call it.

You're both older now, smarter, kinder, gentler. You've learned the ins and outs of each other, figured out what makes the other tick. But Max likes to say he learns something new every day, like how's he's just learned that you look the best in black. He'll say you're beautiful in blue, stunning in red, sexy in white, and adorable in anything of his. But black is his favorite. It's classic, it's timeless, something he'll never get over.

He's seen you in skin tight dresses in a club, in formal floor length gowns while being his date to those FIA events he hated so much, in matching exercise sets when you promise you'll join him for a run, in matching lingerie that he's ruined,  in a a black bra and shorts waddling around your home while carrying your first born son.

Black was effortlessly beautiful on you.

But tonight, he's learned it's his favorite.

There's a back patio to your home, there's a dining table and chairs that had been cleaned of a home cooked meal that Max claims he did most of the work when he knows it was you (he did the dishes, so it was even enough). The fire pit still sputters a few sparks, but the moonlight is doing all the work illuminating the yard.

Max returns from the second story, your son having fallen asleep on the grass where the three of you had been sitting and roasting marshmallows. It was officially summertime now, Max was on furlough from racing and you'd come home from work early. You'd been both promising your son a family fire for weeks now, trying to wait till the weather was perfect.

Tonight had been the night, and you'd both begun to believe your son would never fall asleep. But when the sugar rush finally crashed, he was out like a light. Max left you outside, asking you to stay out a while longer until he got back. Your lives so chaotic most of the year, Max cherished quiet moments like this.

And where he honestly expects to find you also asleep on the blanket in the grass, where he'll scoop you up and carry you to bed just like those nights so long ago where he carried a drunk you up to his bed and promised he would stay and be there in the morning. He'd never broken that promise. Even during the periods the two of you were on bad terms, he never left you alone when you needed him.

But you're awake. Yawning, surely, but awake. He finds you flicking through a box of CDs, the stereo clicked on and awaiting input. He clicks the door shut behind him quietly, making his way over to you slowly and wrapping his arms around your waist gently.

"What're you looking for, liefje?"

"Not sure. Maybe we better head to head to bed too. He'll be up early."

But he can't let this night slip away so soon. He wants to experience marriage for everything it is, the moments not interrupted by toddler tantrums and trying not to swear out loud when he steps on a toy. He needs these nights, and he knows you do too.

He spots a CD he knows you like, and catches it before you flick past it. It doesn't matter if he doesn't know all of the words, but he knows he recognizes the album cover from all the times it plays on your phone.

He'll listen to it a million times over, if you want. "What if we danced?"

You lean your head back onto him. "You want to dance?"

"What? Of course. I love dancing with you."

"You hate dancing."

"Not with you. There's a difference."

It's dark, but the stars and the moon are performing brilliantly up above them, the patio just well lit enough where Max can push the CD into the player and find his footing. He extends a hand, drawing you closer to him. And the music isn't loud, barely enough to even hear out of worry you'll wake your son and ignite a whole set of problems.

But there's something, and it's enough to sway to.

You're wearing black. Yoga pants and a long sleeve of his that has a Red Bull logo on the chest. You look divine, something he swears he couldn't even dream up if he tried. You're both barefoot, stepping small side to side with hands connected, his hand on your lower back and yours on his shoulder. It feels like how it did at the wedding. He's argue you look prettier tonight— but he wouldn't say that out loud.

"We haven't done this in so long."

He grins when you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss onto your head as you move as one. It's like a lullaby, slowly intoxicating the both of you with slow movements and a melody. And Max Verstappen does not sing, but he'll do what he needs to do to make you feel like the only woman in the world.

"I still get nervous when you walk in a room," He mumbles against your skin, trying to push away the awkwardness. "and the butterflies come alive when I'm next to you. Over and over, the only truth. Everything comes back to you."

Your laugh is gentle and warm against his chest. His Dutch accent has never sounded so sweet to you, and you'll never get used to how it differs from yours.

"If the whole world was watching, I'd still dance with you. Drive highways and byways to be there with you. Over and over, the only truth. Everything comes back you."

Max learns new things everyday. He's learned black is his favorite color on you today. But, sometimes, he's reminded of things he already knew. Because right now, holding you impossibly close as you both tiredly sway side to side to a song on repeat, half falling asleep but neither willing or wanting to pull away— he feels like he's back in the body that he was in the first time he knew he loved you. He loved you endlessly and effortlessly. Max was a confident guy most of the time, though he'd never been this sure about anything else in his life.

Here, in front of him, wearing his favorite color, listening to his new favorite song, your ring finger decorated with a simple diamond he'd picked out, both of your bodies different with all the things life had thrown at you—

Your hearts were the same.

And yours was his favorite.

— You must get tired of it, no? Ha ha!

— No. Never. We dance to it over and over again. We did it for the first time this summer, I'll never forget it.

— Max Verstappen, dancing! I don't believe it!

— Only with her.

[spidermandes]

CONSPIRACIES, BRACELETS, & OSCAR PIASTRI NOT GIVING A FUCK.

charles leclerc x driver!reader

the five times other drivers realized Charles doesn’t hate her as much as they thought, and the one time she realized it too.

ONE IS COMPANY!

Out of all the people on the grid, Max Verstappen is the first person to suspect there is something different than hatred resting in Charles’ eyes when he looks at you. Max is a veteran of being an enemy of Ferrari and has double the experience of being a rival of their prince Leclerc himself.

It wouldn’t be hard to believe that Charles just didn’t like Red Bull drivers, end of the story. And Max would’ve been fooled just like everyone else in the paddock and the world.

It was so fast, that Max barely saw it happen. The night should’ve gone up in flames honestly, with how close the two of you had been seated. Usually, most admin know not to put the two of you close at any table or meeting. It ends in disaster every single time, both of you going at it like hissing cats.

But the two of you had been civil all evening. Maybe you took a Xanax or something, or maybe Charles was being docile because he placed higher than you on the podium that weekend. Maybe the stars had aligned for just one night and there could be a simple mid-season driver’s dinner in peace.

It was the sound of the fork hitting the ground that caught his attention, thankfully. No one else turned, too busy with whatever conversation they had going. But Max saw it.

You bent down in your seat, going below the table to search for the missing utencil. And as soon as your head disappeared, Charles’s hand stuck out and covered the corner with his palm to make sure you didn’t hit your head on the way up. Charles was in the middle of a conversation with Lewis, it didn’t make sense. It was like he didn’t even know he did it, like it was instinct.

No one else saw, but Max did. And you can’t fake caring for someone like that.

TWO IS A CROWD!

Unfortunately for Charles, Daniel Riccardo was the next man to catch onto his long con game that he was supposedly playing.

Max had been nice about it, not saying a word about his suspicions to anyone-- much less Charles or you. First of all, you were his teammate. It benefitted the team that you not get distracted by a certain Monegasque that was also on the grid with you. And secondly, most importantly, Max didn’t want to be wrong.

But Daniel, as soon as he figured it all out; Charles was doomed.

Though, perhaps it was Charles’ fault for being so obvious about it? Daniel waited all day to prove his hypothesis. He watched the two of you talk four separate times along the pit lane, most likely arguing about something or trying to give the other person passive aggressive advice. After all it was a shared favorite past time.

But without fail, as paddock cars, safety cars, and even other Formula One cars drove through the pit lane past the two of you-- he watched Charles four times move from his spot to stand on the other side of you, putting himself between the cars and you. Four separate times, four different spots, Charles put himself street side every single time without fail-- even the time he was going after you to try and get you to admit a penalty on the practice lap (one the FIA did not find you guilty of but Charles knew it would bother you).

And so as soon as Free Practice ended, Daniel was all over his case. The entire day Charles denied it, arguing that he couldn’t imagine bretryaing the team like that and secondly, how would he ever be able to stand being around her so often.

And with Daniel’s big fat mouth the next day before qualifying, it might’ve slipped out while he was talking about what he witnessed to Max. And then there were two conspiratists.

THREE’S A PARTY!

At first, Lando absolutely did not believe that the two people who argue the most on the track, could ever even like each other much less love each other. And while the littel actions that Daniel and Max witnessed might be cute or whatever, Lando didn’t conside that proof.

Charles continued to deny the allegations every time Carlos brought up him being smitten or his school boy crush. Lando wanted some proof for himself, something undeniable that even Charles wouldn’t be able to explain away or deny.

And it took a while to find the evidence, something concrete.

But he found it. It appeared in front of him, and it should’ve smacked him in the face with how apparent it was.

It wasn’t uncommon for drivers to wear little beaded bracelets that fans or friends made for them, in fact most of them did it and forgot they were even wearing them. They were small, fit under the race suit, didn’t pinch arm hair, it was great. And Lando was guilty of wearing too many sometimes, he had to admit. And sometimes it was funny to wear one with something funny on it, like Lando’s current favorite that said ‘daddy’ or the fact that Lewis was wearing one that said ‘forza ferrari’. Made Lando laugh every single time.

But Charles was very particular with his selection. They often matched his often, had some sort of significance to him, or had been on his body so long he’d forgotten. Like the one with Jules’ number and initials on it, of course Lando knew about that one. And the red ‘forze ferrari’ one that was almost identical to Lewis’ new one, except Charles’ was almost a faded red how long he’d worn it.

But there had been a new addition this season. Which Lando didn’t think too much of it, initially assuming some fan had given him one that he really liked, or that it said something funny like daddy or prince or something.

And it was always tucked away, always under his race suit. But when he was wearing normal clothes, the bracelet was gone, no where to be seen on his body.

Lando finally saw it today.

Red and blue. Odd color choices for someone who’s normally pretty anti-Red Bull. Though maybe it was an ode to the blue Ferrari suits they’d worn in Miami? Perhaps. Lando had lost of guesses about what it meant that were put to shame when he could finally read the little white beads in the center of them.

Your initials. Your racing number. And a heart.

Lando tells Max in secret knowing if they tell Daniel about it, Charles will never wear it again. And it seems, like his other bracelets do, they bring him a little bit of luck each day. Charles, in theory, has had a fantastic start to a season. And now three people on the grid have an inkling into why.

FOUR IS FAMILY!

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when Carlos Sainz appeared with photo evidence. The three conspirators didnt even let Carlos finish bragging about catching Charles in the act of rebellion when he found out that three other drivers already had suspicions.

Despite his miniature tantrum about being excluded from the gossip in the first place, Carlos shared the photo evidence he’d collected over the race weekend.

You’d taken podium, Charles in second, and Max in third. Maybe in Max hadn’t been trying to drench you in as much champagne, he would have noticed Charles’ behavior more.

Despite the rivalry and tension, you and Charles never showed any disdain on the podium for one another. You were both good sports, always clapping when others deserved and giving each other their time to shine when they earned in. Teasing them and arguing about it later in public, now that was where they excelled.

But seeing the photos Carlos caught from down below, it won’t take long for the entire internet to be in on this conspiracy right along with the four of them.

At least a dozen, all of Charles. He’s collected his trophy and put it off to the side already, grabbing at his champagne bottle just as Max did. But they;ve saved your trophy for last.

Max has never seen that kind of love and admiration so adamantly expressed through just eyes. How did Charles do that? Like he was writing an entire love letter for her with one look. Full of pride, hope, and love all for the woman standing one podium step above him. He’s genuinely happy for her, and it shows. He’s in love with her, and it shows.

The rest of the photos have similar expressions as both Charles and Max spray you down with champagne, Charles laughing with a smile so bright, even Max feels the tug at his heart strings. Its been a while since he’d seen Charles look that happy, even on a podium. But now that he thinks about it, every podium he’s shared with you and Charles-- Charles has been in such an elated mood.

Maybe it wasn’t about getting points for Ferrari.

It was because you were up there, with him.

AND FIVE IS A BIT LOUD!

Funnily enough, it’s the one who tries his hardest to stay out of grid drama that fills the fifth spot on the unofficial official conspiracy squad that has formed around both you and Charles. Rookie Oscar Piastri didn’t even hate to try nearly as hard as the rest of them.

With all of the evidence they have of Charles being beyond in love with you, they’re starting to notice similarities between how you two treat each other.

While at first it may come off as arguing and brutal honesty, if they all listened closely, both of you danced around your words. No mean names left your lips, and most of the insults remained on and only around racing. Charles would mock your Red Bull suit while you’d call him a tomato in his Ferrari red. He’d joke that you couldn’t find a racing line even if it hit you in the face, and you made the same joke about him finding a car where something didn’t break halfway through a race. You’d call him Ferrari’s show pony, and he’d call you Red Bull’s PR stunt. He’d call you winning Rookie’s luck, and you’d call out that he went through teammates faster than Williams did their chassis.

There were meaner jokes to be made, if there was real hatred there.

And at the same time, not once, not one single time, would either of you defame the other on camera. If the interviewers asked you about an argument the two of you were caught having-- you’d insert an ‘inchident’ joke as fast as you could. If an interviewer mentioned the conspiracy of you being handed wins because you’re the only woman on the grid-- Charles would announce your F2 and F3 winning streaks that got you here.

Quick to argue, but quicker to defend.

And it was Oscar Piastri to nab the missing puzzle peice, out of all people.

He was easy to talk to, more than anything. And it happened after an odd qualifying. You’d barely qualified top ten after a severe breaking issue that nearly took you out, leaving you rather frustrated. But Oscar had done quite well, qualifying p3 up there with Max and Charles, Lando right behind in p4. Enjoying the spotlight of a good qualifying, Oscar didn’t even know he was striking a nerve when he asked about her.

“Feels weird not to have Y/N, up here, huh?” Oscar chuckles, “Feel like I took her seat in class or something.”

Max finds it funny, as he usually did when other drivers acknowledged the total dominance you and him had both in points and podiums. It was undeniable, you and Max were quite the team to beat this season.

Charles nods. “Guess so. She won’t know what do during the race, back there with the pack.”

But Oscar never really paid much attention to their rivalry, so he didn’t now either. “Sucks she’s so nice. It would be really easy to hate her.”

Max watches Charles carefully. The Monegasque scoffs and nods.

Max needs to add some fire to this flame, he needs more than just a nod to report backt ot the squad. Danny would have his head for losing such a rare opportunity. “Oh, Charlie finds it real easy. Mortal enemies, those two. It’s harder to pull my two cats apart when they’re clawing the shit out each other.”

Charles looks up oddly, “What? I don’t hate her.”

Max titls his head. “Mate, you two argue the moment you get to track till you leave. I can’t believe you haven’t run each other off the track by now.”

And Max leaves with that, knowing Charles won’t give him anything juicy to his face, praying Oscar takes the bait.

But Charles is defensive, and it obvious. “What is he talking about? I don’t hate Y/N. Do you think I hate her?”

Oscar shurgs. “It was basically part of my rookie orientation. Don’t get between Charles and Y/N, ever.”

“I don’t hate her!” Charles is visibly upset, his mind racing with the possibilly that even Y/N believes this narrative that he can’t stand her. “That’s not it at all!”

Oscar bites. He knew about Lando’s conspiracy, and he can’t deny he wants to know the truth as well. “Then what is it?”

“Fuck, I dunno, mate.” Charles deflates, “She’s the best driver on this track. She makes this fun again. You can’t not love her, you know?”

Oscar agreed. Everyone did. It was you. Everyone loved you. It’s why the Charles and you rivalry was so entertaining.

She doesn’t take any shit and I just keep giving it to her. I wanna make sure she can take it. I don’t wanna lose her to something stupid like the press. They treat her like shit and I-- I can’t lose her when I’ve only just gotten her, you know?”

Oscar widens his eyes. He doesn’t really care for conspiracies or masterminded plans. He just wants to see two people he looks up-- figure their shit our and stop making everything so tense. “You should tell her that, mate, before it goes to far.”

SIX IS JUST TOO MUCH. SERIOUSLY.

Oscar is so nonchalant about the fact that he encouraged the biggest change in grid dynamics ever since the fall out between Lewis and Nico for Mercedes. If Y/N and CHarles aren’t arguing, what is going to happen? How will anyone know what to do if they don’t get to take ten seconds out of their day to watch them chase each other in the paddock just to get the last word?

So nonchalant that in fact, the conspiracy squad isn’t even aware of it until it’s happening. Until they see a Ferrari red race suit stalk into the Red Bull garage and venture back towards Y/N Y/L/N’s driver’s room.

His knock is quiet.

“Max, I’ll be out soon.”

Her voice is sad, not convincing at all, and not as expressive as he’s used to hearing from her at all. He knocks again, “Not Max.”

The door peels open, seeing a frowning Y/N as she stands with her racing boot laces loosened a bit and her suit folded at the dip in her waist. Your hair has been pulled out of its tight braids that you so often do so it’ll fit under your helmet, braids so tight is has left your hair with tight ripples rolling through it. Charles swallows nervously. Thankfully for his sake, he’s usually arguing with you when you both have helmets on and he can’t see you, or your eyes, or your hair, or the little indent in your lip, or the light casting of freckles across your nose that he adores so dearly.

He fears the performance wouldn’t have lasted the near two seasons it had if he’d been able to see how beautiful you were. Just like right now. The thought of making you anymore upset that you were right now dug at him in a nasty way, the kind that would do anything to lift your spirits, make you smile the way you did when you were on the top step of the podium two weeks ago.

“I’m not in the mood Charles.” You breath out, shaking your head, “If you came to gloat, then kindly let this door break your pretty face on your way out.”

There she was. The Y/N he knew.

He shook his head. “Actaully, I wanted to make sure you were all right. Tough break today, I get that. The car sometimes lets you down.”

Just as you had been moving to shut the door, you’re caught off guard. Something not mocking coming from Charles Leclerc?

“Who are you and where is the real Charles?”

He smiles gently, “I’m serious. Try not to let it get to you. Trust me, I’ve got plenty of experience with shitty breaks. You still made it to Q3, so you can still brag about that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I said, I’m checking on you.”

“Did Max send you?”

“What? No!”

“Danny?”

“No.”

“Lando?”

“No, I--”

“My engineers?”

“No! Y/N! Listen to me!” He suddenly bursted, “I--- I’m sorry. I just, you know, maybe I don’t want argue all the time anymore.”

You crossed your arms over your chest suspiciously. Just this morning you remember him making an L with his fingers at you from his garage. “You. You don’t want to argue. Since when?”

“Since I found out that people think I hate you… and I realized that you might think that too.” He breathed out, feeling a bit of weight lift off, but he still feels heavy for some reason.

You lean on the doorway slightly. “I’m sorry— are— are you trying to say that you don’t hate me? That all the arguing and the mocking and the teasing was because we’re best friends? And the… the stupid jokes and stares from across the damn grid were because we’re just buddies? Where else was I supposed to pick on these hints that we’re friends, because the only thing you’ve ever shown me no matter how hard I tried to be friends with you last year was that--”

He backed her into the driver’s room, hands recently freed of gloves on his walk over and a very specific beaded bracelet having escaped the confines of his tight sleeve is exposed as he reaches for your jaw and pushes you against the wall gently. The moment your lips touch, the door shuts behind you, and Charles finally feels weightless.

And instead of getting a slap to the face or becoming part of a screaming match— he feels you kissing back.

And its everything every love song, romance sotry, fairytale, folktale, and poem has ever described. He feels the fireworks and the sparks, he feels how perfectly you mold against him as your bodies get closer and breifly touch. It’s the definition of perfection, and he’s slightly disappointed when it ends and you both pull away.

He’s out of breath, tongue grcing over his lips as to not forget the taste you’ve left behind. “I don’t hate you. I couldn’t.”

Your eyse float to his wrist, frowning. “Is that my number?”

His cheeks flush. “Uh… its… for good luck.”

You grin widely, pulling up your sleeve as a full red beaded bracelet rolls down your skin with his initials and a number 16 in the center. “Me too.”

And he kisses you again.

Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Daniel Riccardo, nor Max Verstappen knew what would happen when the two of you finally admitted that you didn’t hate each other. They’d been afriad that it wouldn’t come to fruition, worried they were about to make it worse, or ruin a good natural rivalry.

But now, all five of them wish they’d never intervened.

Listening to the arguing was so much better than listening to the PDA.

[spidermandes]

stay in my ear

charles leclerc x reader

summary ; charles leclerc had a nasty habit of not wanting to listen to his team strategists in the heat of a race, until this season. for some reason, his stubborn ass listened to her. and it certainly paid off.

— charlie, radio check, love.

— loud and clear, cherì, ready to race

— happy to hear, have fun out there

— stay in my ear

— always. grid line up, p4.

Charles Leclerc learned over the years that he’d gained a sort of paranoia around his previous race engineer. His childhood dream had been to be where he stood, wearing that stunning red, to be in the driver one seat. But seemingly everything that glittered, wasn’t always gold. He knew he could get a championship, he knew he could push himself to the limits. He just needed the car at the strategy to do.

He knew he could be good enough.

Although he’d never voiced that opinion, not willing to blantantly accuse an engineer of causing Ferrari to lose a championship. It was truly a team effort all around, but Charles was the one in the seat. He was the one losing points. He was the one watching other drivers pass him on the track, watching drivers thrive inside cars designed to win.

But apparently the team principal decided the engineer wasn’t doing his job either, and Charles never saw that man again after the 2023 season. A season to forget.

That’s when he met her. Ferrari had a team dinner to announce her commitment to the team, fancy restaurant with really expensive wine and designer couples. All for one girl.

But you weren’t just some girl.

You were the best in the game. You were everything Ferrari— everything he needed.

And that night, Charles had laid awake in his bed cursing himself. He’d met you only hours ago, and yet you remained in his mind. His age, stunningly beautiful, astonishingly smart— a show stopping strategist that half the grid wished they had on their team instead of a competitor. Working your way through the racing ranks through academies and engineering for F3 and F2 with stunning success.

You were going to be Charles’ secret weapon. The one who’s going to get him that championship trophy.

— chase, charlie. pace set to catch up in two laps. good work.

— what position?

— well p3, but perez is overdue a pit. be prepared for a fight for first. copy, darling?

— oh how you treat me so well, cherì

— i do try, i do. how’s the car?

— working as hard as you

— keep pace, leclerc. flirt later.

— ‘mwah!’ prepare to be amazed!

His obsession grew painstakingly worse. Having to work with you nearly every day of the week, and so intimately close was beyond frustrating. Day in and day out, trying to hide his obvious weakness for her. They were professionals, she was technically his boss. There was so many rules he couldn’t break.

But sometimes, when she was talking to another team member, Charles couldn’t hide it.

He watched how spoke so wildly with your hands. You pushed your bangs behind your ear seemingly a thousand times. So often did the bright lights above bring his eyes down the shine of your lipgloss. Your energy brought an entirely knew feeling about the garage. Everyone had such high hopes, your confidence was illuminating. Everyone finally believed Ferrari had a winning car, a winning duo. Nearly no one even questioned Charles’ swooning nor brought it up— they were too happy that Charles was finally listening to engineers again, and getting podium. Finally, crush or no crush, Ferrari had a winning team.

You and him.

He adored when it just you and him. When you tried to give him pep talks before his races, in person and not on the radio where every one could hear. You’d kneel beside the car, peeking through the halo. And you’d tell him your game plan, you’d even ask Charles if he wanted to change anything.

He finally felt like he was part of a team. A team that cared.

And quite the inseparable team you became.

— can i— overtake on turn 23? is the pace good?

— stop doing my job, charlie. yes, free to push.

— want to switch? you would look good in my helmet.

— … pace is um.. go 33.0 next lap, if the car feels good.

— are you blushing? please tell me your blushing

— copy 33.0 charlie, and be quiet.

— i like it when you boss me around. copy. overtake before the straight, clear for DRS then?

— clear, that’s p2.

He was leading in points. He’d spent so entirely long begging to be podium, pleading for a good strategy and a good car that he can take to the championship podium. And finally— finally, he was in the fight for a world championship. He was finally getting the recognition for his years and years of hard work. He’d dedicated his life to this. Finally.

All because of her.

He could never thank her enough. She’s spent her entire season working with him, not against him. When he said something was wrong with the car, she didn’t stop until it was found and fixed. When he had ideas for strategies, she listened. Whenever he slipped up or the car got taken out of race— she never once yelled or threw things. Instead, she met him at the garage and wrapped her arms around him.

She’d say, “Good race Charlie, there’s always another. Nothing we can do now, right?”

He’d learned over the season that she was always right. Not just for his car, but seemingly always. She always knew when it was going to rain, and she knew when any girls he ever texted were bad news. She knew what movies were gonna be bad and what songs he would like. It was an annoying habit of hers, being right all the time.

And they made excuses to see each other so often, excuses to keep suspicions off of their backs. Oh— she was coming over to his house to talk about the car, to rewatch the race. Oh, he was taking her out to dinner in a professional way, they were teammates. He only gave her his hoodie because she was cold and he’s a nice guy. She gave him a friendship bracelet with a heart on it because their friends.

Excuse after excuse. They just always seemed to gravitate towards each other. Like magnets. And each day— Charles became worse and worse at hiding his feelings. Every day he had to stop himself from grabbing her hand, from kissing her in the middle of a sentence, from inviting her to stay the night— to stay forever.

But telling her his feelings could ruin everything. So he didn’t.

— Charlie! Oh, Charlie, that’s p1! Congratulations darling!

— yes! yes! oh my-yes! nous l'avons fait! oh-- mon amour, je pourrais t'embrasser. vous êtes un ange.

— i’ll learn french one day, darling. i’ll learn when you win this championship. we’re in the fight.

— see you from the podium, cherì. fantastic work. simply amazing.

And that he was. The championship was his for the taking by the final race of the season. It was close, for sure, he didn’t have the same kind of lead that Max had last season— but he swears he could taste it. He needed this last win like he needed air. He needed at least a p3, and then it would all be his.

And then he could set his plan into motion. Make the best day of his life even better.

He was going to ask Y/N on a date, if she’d take him. The season would be over, she wouldn’t be his boss— technically. And if she said no, they’d have a couple months to work through things, he’d have time to attempt to get over her, and make sure it wouldn’t affect their professional relationship come next season. It was the perfect plan, practically fool proof.

All he needed to do was win the stupid championship first.

— alright mon amour, take the slipstream from carlos. pace is good to keep ahead of the Redbull’s. I’m seeing good things on my end.

— ooh, you’re french accent is almost believable, cherì. i’m impressed. car is good, feels very good. fast.

— don’t bully me. just do your job.

— anyone ever tell you that you sound beautiful when you’re bossing me around?

— flirt when you’re p1, charlie.

— deal. stay in my ear?

— always.

[spidermandes]

FLAIR FOR THE DRAMATICS

lando norris x driver!reader

— sometimes a podium comes at a cost, one that lando doesn’t want her to have to pay.

THERE WERE MANY DIFFICULT THINGS ANOUT BEING A FORMULA ONE DRIVER.

Of course, there’s the things that are obvious. The rigorous training, the strict dieting as to not throw the weight of the car off, the g-forces during a race, the falsified rivalries and nosy media reports. Those were all things drivers signed up for, things they knew about. Things they all agreed to.

Then there were more non traditional struggles she braved through.

Being a women in Formula One in and of itself was something so foreign. The sexist and pig like comments and questions, the constant need to prove herself when in fact— if she were indeed a man, she’d easily be considered one of the greatest drivers of all time. Yet even with her championship titles, outstanding statistics, and broken records to her name; many still questioned if she truly belonged.

And to make those assumptions all the worse, you had to go and fall in love with another driver. Specifically a driver on a different team. It wasn’t planned, as some suspected, and it certainly wasn’t how you expected your career to work out— but you wouldn’t change anything about it either. Years of trying to explain away those delicate stares and promises. A friendship morphing into hidden love.

It was a mutual agreement. Private was always going to be better. You and Lando may have been soulmates, and it wasn’t a secret or anything, you both just decided to keep the romance aspect of everything; off the track. Kiss at the hotel, congratulate each other professionally, minimal physical contact and allowing the fans to decipher all the subliminal messages on their own time. It was for the better. Less rumors that way. This complicated thing’s obviously— but as far as the FIA could tell; being romantic hadn’t interfered in race strategies or grid dynamics in any other way than friendships among drivers did.

Obviously, seeing as you left Lando in the dust in the points. The championship was yours, racing for RedBull this season, reigning victorious yet again, Lando just as proud as ever in his papaya McLaren colors. He’d never mind losing if it meant losing to you. Besides, he’d come to learn in his life that second place was not first loser— it was just second place.

But outside of personal affections and all other struggles of the sport— no driver had prepared adequately for such race conditions.

Not rain, they knew how to drive in the rain. It wasn’t the sun nor the moon that upset them.

It was the godforsaken heat.

The track was hot enough as it was, even if the race happened after the sun went down— it had cooked the pavement nearly all day. Every team garage had already invested in extra sets of tires for the Prix, knowing their cars would melt through the rubber faster than average. And every driver hydrated efficiently, wearing ice cold towels around their necks any chance they were outside of the cars— fans howling cool air at them in the paddock and empty water bottles discarded everywhere. It was going to be a tough race, the air temperature, pavement conditions, and the boiling heat of the engines sitting right behind them— they knew this.

They trusted the FIA wouldn’t send them into a death trap. There were rules about this, necessary precautions to protect drivers how they could. Right?

And a tough race it was.

RedBull took another double podium, Max Verstappen being the one to speed over the finish line first for a change with you only three-hundredths of a second behind him. By now, the season has turned into who was going to stand on the podium with you and Max. Even you in second place, you had a seven second lead on third place— who was Mr. Charles Leclerc this time around. Happy to have him, cute as a button you’d say.

But something was off when you’re car rolled up behind the second place flag near the ceremony stage. Lando had already gotten back and out of his car, chugging what felt like an entire gallon of water as soon as he did. He stood next to a fan until he literally saw your car pull up, until the very last second.

He capped his bottle and planned to give you the rest, and rolled up his sleeves as he shuffled closer to your car. A smile grew on his face, his heart racing with pride and excitement to greet his lovely girlfriend. You slowly rose out of the car, popping the steering panel off and pushing yourself out.

But something was wrong.

He furrowed his brows as he watched you pause at the halo of the car, leaning back on it for a second. His pace quickened. Were you upset about the race? What was going through your head? Did you need water as badly as he had?

Your hands gripped the halo tightly— as if it was a lifeline. Cameras flashing, celebratory music and fireworks going off like a machine gun. Your head was pulsating, a vicious headache rilling through your skull as each crack of the explosives, the blinding lights never stopping behind your closed eyelids even when the cameras stopped.

Lando was too far away— he didn’t hear you whisper his name under your helmet, like a prayer— a plea.

You grip loosened, knowing you needed to get out of the car and get to water, to anything cooler than the radiating heat of the engine of the car. You needed Lando, Lando could fix this, he would make you feel better. He always did. He always knew what to do. He was good like that.

And you barely got one leg lifted before nausea rushing through your, static overwhelming your senses and blinding you. Everything was spinning, revolving around you. Everything went quiet. Everything went dark.

Every camera watched your now limp figure collapse on top the car, fumbling off the top of it and colliding with the asphalt below— like a rag doll.

Lando’s shoes nearly skidded on the pavement, reaching you just as your helmet hit the concrete and cracked in the back— thankfully protecting your head from the trauma— a now prominent split in the plastic.

He cursed under his breath, panicked tears welling in his glassy eyes. Arms scooped you into him, his knees crashing into the concrete roughly as he tried to pull you in. You were dead weight, completely unmoving on him. His hands gained an unsteady shake, unclipping the bottom strap of your RedBull helmet and tearing it off your head. The balaclava too, then wires out of your ears. He needed to see your face, make sure you hadn’t left him quite so soon.

He wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked, just like he always did after a race. He wanted to make fun of the indentations left behind on your skin from the tightness, mess up your messy helmet hair even more so. It was why he didn’t want to make your relationship a total secret.

He wanted to be able to love you publicly.

But you didn’t respond to his worried mumbles. Engineers of several teams surrounded him, both Max and Charles rushing out of the paddock just as soon as they’d heard the gasp of the audience, trying to help Lando. Daniel too, Carlos and Oscar. But to him— it was just you and him right now. Only you and little Lando Norris, when it was just all too much.

“Y/N? Y/N? Wake up, love. Hey— come on! Hey— someone get medical! We need medical! Now! Y/N! Wake up, darling, wake up!”

Why wasn’t anyone here yet? Why was everyone only watching?

Lando finally noticed that brother-like protectiveness he’d seen a few times before in Max. It was the reason there was no jealousy between the two, other than the fact that Lando knew it would be beyond fun to be her teammate— and half of that was because she was just such a damn good driver.

Max stood, anger flushing his system as his mushed his way through the crowd and resorting to climbing on top of your car, “Hey! We need a fucking— we need medical!”

Lando had never heard that tone from Max before.

Nervous eyes looked up to Charles, the second person to arrive and trying to help remove her gloves and unzip the top half of her suit. Lando couldn’t get any words out to him, but Charles recognized the tears in his young eyes. “She’ll be alright, Lando. She’ll be okay.”

Charles’ words were empty promises for now, turning to face max, “Where’s medical! Max! Get them over here now!”

Max cursed a colorful sentence, head swiveling between his unconscious teammate in Lando’s arms and the slow-moving medical staff trying to weave through the crowd of onlookers. “Fuck! Lando—”

Lando didn’t respond, hands shaking as he attempting to carefully pour his remaining water on your forehead.

“LANDO!”

His head jerked up, his eyes betraying him as the first tear slid down his face, blending with the sweat already present.

“Pick her up, mate. They’ve got a stretcher, come on! They’re mulling through the fucking crowd, taking too fucking long.”

Lando transitioned from his tearful state into one with a purpose. He gritted his teeth, sniffling his tears away and digging his arms underneath you, deadlifting you off the ground with the ease of adrenaline pumping through him. Cameras still flashing and dozens of people crowding around him to try and see what was going on, hurting more then they were helping. Charles did his best to push through, Max being more effective seeing as he wasn’t trying to be polite and more or less shoving people out of Lando’s way.

Finally, he met in the middle with the stretcher, medical staff immediately clearing the bed so Lando could set you down as gently as possible. They began speaking to him, asking a barrage of questions that he’d probably know the answer to if he had been listening.

He should’ve been closer. He should’ve been there. Just like the race. Just like what felt like his entire career. He was simply not fast enough to catch her. His gloved hand refused to detach from yours as they switched directions and head towards the medical bay.

“You’re gonna be okay, love. Just fine, I’ve got you.”

After waking up under florescent lights and medical staff dressed in neon, you’d gained enough consciousness to decline going to the hospital. That was the very last place you wanted to be tonight. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, you had a win to celebrate with your team— with Lando.

Where’s Lando?

The paramedic helping you immediately noticed your sudden panic, smiling gently as she handed you a bottled water, making sure the fan was pointed at you directly. “He’s just stepped out to tell your mates you’re alright, s’all.”

You nodded. “Oh— yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“Never see a boy so stressed, and he drives a car at 300 kilos an hour racing against you.”

You forced a small smile. A lot of thoughts overwhelmed your mind, most of which guilt for complicating the evening. You’d stressed out a lot of people over something as simple as dehydration and overheating, as well as indirectly delaying the entire podium ceremony. “Yeah, he’s a worryer.”

“That and totally in love with you.”

You blushed wildly, but unable to say much of anything else before the door cracked open and a orange and grey racing suit squeezed through. He’d been so concentrated on being quiet up until the moment he saw your open eyes, immediately filling with excitement. “Y/N! Fucking hell, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

He shuffled around the medic with the widest smile you’ve ever seen, hands immediately collecting your into his and stealing the stool sat beside your cot. “How are you? How are you feeling?” He turned to face the medic, “Is she alright? Is she going to the hospital soon?”

“Lan, I’m not going to the hospital. I’m alright.”

He whipped around, brows furrowed. “What? No, yes, yes, she’s going to the hospital. We’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m fine, Lando. Promise, I’ll be just fine. Just a bit of water and air is all I needed. Just have a flair for the dramatics.”

“Y/N,” He pressed a kiss to your hands, “I say this with no intention of being mean or shouting, and I love you with all of my heart— you fell out of your car!”

It was usually him being the one to attract injuries and random bruises. With all his shenanigans and pent up twenty-something year old energy he had, he was always tripping or bumping or stumbling. So when it was you the one falling, the one needing help, he simply hadn’t known what to do with himself. And he needed to make sure it wouldn’t happen again, ever. At least not when he wasn’t there to catch you.

You swung your legs off the bed, using his shoulder to push yourself off the bed. Grabbing the ice pack left behind and shoving it behind you neck and tucking it under your compression shirt— you grinned. “Come on, Lan, I have a trophy to collect.”

“You stress me out, a lot. Did you know that?” But despite it, he was still right beside you as you walked through the halls, hand tightly gripping yours to make sure you didn’t stumble.

And you couldn’t lie, you still felt a bit nauseous and shaky, but nothing you couldn’t handle. And as long as you spent the rest of the night laying down in the hotel room with Lando right beside you— you were surely going to be just fine. “Just giving you a taste of what you put me through when you got that concussion last summer.”

“Wha— that is not the same! I never went unconscious!”

“Potato-Patato. You love me.”

He sighed, wrapping his arm now around your shoulder, pulling you as close to him as he could manage. After tonight, he wouldn’t want to very far from you at all. “Yes. Yes I do. Unconditionally, you psychopath.”

[spidermandes]

mrs. grand prix winner

lando norris x reader

— where lando norris finally gets his maiden victory in formula one, and he gets the girl at the same time

IT WAS A GOOD A SPOT AS ANY.

Despite Lando’s best efforts, behind the guest barrier inside the McLaren garage was as close as he could get you. Not that you ever argued, it was mostly Lando honestly believing Zak would allow you to stand out in the pit lane so you could give him a kiss during a pit stop. When Lando mentioned it, you really hoped it was a joke.

So you stood where you normally stood behind the barrier, anxiously watching the race with the bulky papaya colored headphones over your ears.

Your heart was about to pound right out of your chest. You felt like you couldn’t say anything, like if you acknowledge the 4-secound and growing gap between Lando in front and Max Verstappen behind him. You could barely breath you were so nervous, feeling the camera on you constantly as you were sure the livestream of the race was showing your distress with the stupid little logo underneath you that showed “Y/N Y/L/N, Lando Norris’s partner”.

It always made Lando laugh whenever he saw clips of your expressions during the race. You certainly weren’t one for hiding how you were feeling.

But you could feel it.

You were going to witness Lando ending his burdening streak of no Grand Prix wins in his Formula One career. He had points, he had podiums, he had sprint wins and pole positions in qualifying. But never yet had he been able to pull off his maiden win.

And with five seconds now between him and the reigning world champion and only three laps left, things were looking mightly good.

Your phone buzzed consistently, surely his mother expressing her wild emotions through text as well, seeing as she couldn’t exactly text Lando at the moment. Besides, his mother liked you just as much as her son, sometimes Lando even argued she loved you more.

A mechanic appeared at the barrier, “Y/N, come on!”

You frowned, constantly glancing at the screen to make sure you didn’t miss a single second, “Wait, where?”

He grinned widely, knowing he was going to make good on his promise that he made the British driver the week after the two of you started dating, AKA nearly three years ago now. Lando was as lovesick as a puppy, quite frankly never shutting up about you until he was inside the race car-- and even then, he managed to bring you up during practices when he was sitting still.

Lando made the man promise him one thing.

THREE YEARS AGO

“When I get my win, I want you to make sure she sees it. Up close, not on a t.v. screen or anything. I want her to see it for real.”

The mechanic perked a brow, looking at the young driver oddly, “Didn’t you two just start dating?”

Lando looked fakely offended, “Hey! I could win any day now. You know… if someone steals the engines out the Red Bulls.”

They laughed, but Lando fell serious once more. “I mean it man. I really want her to be there. I want her to see me finally do it. And I--”

“Hey— Hey— You’ve got my word.” The man promised, seeing just how important this all seemed to him. Even so young, so much life ahead of him, so much he didn’t know and unknowns— not just in F1. Anything could happen, but it seemed Lando didn’t care. He just wanted her there. “And just so you know man, love is a good look on you. Don’t fuck it up.”

Lando grinned cheekily, “You know— I’ve had a ring in my childhood bedroom sock drawer since I was thirteen.”

Lando finds the woman he speaks so fondly of, off making friends where ever she goes. She’s found Alex Albon’s girlfriend, those two had been quick to become friends ever since Lando started bringing Y/N around the paddocks at all. And now, technically, Y/N had official WAG authorization. Even though half the grid kind of already thought they’d been dating, that’s neither here nor there.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away, never off of you. Every time he saw you was an opportunity to fall in love for the thousandth time. Amazed he’d gotten so lucky as to have you in his life— that you’d stuck around.

Even now, when you can’t see him staring, he wants to tell you how beautiful you look, that papaya is definitely your color, and that he can’t wait to get home with you and waste the days away lying in bed and playing video games. Tell you that you complete him in a way he didn’t even know he needed.

“She doesn’t know it yet, mate. But that’s my wife standing right over there.”

PRESENT

Lando was never an overly serious guy, rarely not taking the piss out of whatever situation he found himself in. But the mechanic will never forget the look on that kids face when his eyes found you mingling about on the grid. Childhood bestfriends turned lovers after too long, the two of you finally coming to your senses with a bit of help from matchmaker and love doctor Carlos Sainz.

He’s never seen Lando so deadly serious than when he called you his wife. Both you barely over the age of 20 back then, Lando knew.

“Just come on! I’m making good on a promise!”

He took your hand and helped you over the fencing, dashing through the garage and following out the entire papaya team as they crowded around the barrier that split the pit lane and the starting grid where the finish line lay.

The orange car whizzed by, then 19 more.

Mechanics, engineers, and strategy workers alike piled onto the barriers and tall fencing. Lando zoomed past once again, and the rest of the pack followed.

The last lap. It would only take him about a minute and thirty seconds to go around one more time. The longest of your life, but still. All your hands and your head bend around the fencing along with his team, watching for the papaya car that matching your ands their outfits to come around that final corner, the grand stand cheering wildly.

Finally. Finally.

He needed this. He deserved this. He wanted this. Lando deserved everything in the world, and this was one those things you couldn’t give him. He had to get this himself-- and he did.

Orange peeked around the final bend.

Waving like crazy, screaming and cheering and crying as loud as you could with the rest of his team as he put the pedal to the floor and raced over thefinish line with the chekcered flag, fist in the air as soon as he saw the blur of orange screaming at him from the sidelines.

He rolled around for is victory lap, nearly every driver catching up to him and calling out of him a cheering him on from their cars.

You still wore your headset, and you’ve never been more thankful for that than hearing Lando’s voice moments after.

“Wooooo! Yes! Finally! We did it!”

Proper Lando to say we.

“Lando No-Wins who? What? Woooo! Yes! This is for my mum, and my dad, and my grandma. And I saw her on the sidelines, I saw her in my favorite dress! This is all for you, Y/N! I love that dress!”

Your laughter was not helping how hard you were crying, following the team over to the grid where Lando would park in the number one spot for the very first time. The irony of the win right after his interview about staying with McLaren because he believed he could win with them-- “Maybe not tomorrow, next weekend, the next, or the next. And ‘26 looks really good.”, he’d said.

It was beyond crowded and you were smushed between people you did and didn’t know, but the emotions were all the same for everyone around. Not being quite tall enough, you slightly disappeared into the sea of people, catching glimpses of Lando climbing out of his car and standing on the nose, finally able to stick up just one finger and call the win his. Finally.

Old teammates and friends, some who took hard losses today, it didn’t matter. They all caught up with Lando as he walked, congratulating him warmly with hugs and smiles. And as soon as Lando laid eyes on his team, his helmet went down to the ground and he darted across the pavement, launching himself into the air and diving into the crowd as they caught him.

Miami’s atmosphere was like a never ending party ever since you arrived, and that feeling had definitely only increased now. Every person who cared so deeply for this racer, wanting nothing but success to come to him after all his tireless work and devotion to the sport. He deserved it, he deserved this.

Bouncing him up and down as he crowd surfed, they finally set him down on the other side of the barrier. Lando heaved up and down, still exhausted from the race, gave a few more high fives and handshales before twisting around wildly, eyes darting around the garages and pit lane.

His brows furrowed, his elation dying down only ever so slightly. A day he’d dreamed about, and he refused to celebrate it without you. “Mates, mates, where is she? Where’s Y/N? Y/N! Y/N!”

Eyes hunted you down in the crowd as you tried to politely weasel your way through--an attempt going very poorly at the moment.

“Lando! She’s in here!”

“Lando!”

“Y/N!”

“Lando!”

“Aye, lads, pick the girl up! Come on! Get her over there!” The same mechanic who’d retrieved you the first time announced, the rest of the team cheering as you were hoisted off your feet and shuffled over the crowd of teammates, finally able to see Lando clearly. “Hustle! Hustle! Get the winner his kiss!”

He stood on his own, eyes locked onto you with the biggest smile you’d ever seen.

Just at the edge, Lando’s hands replaced the others around your waist and didn’t let your feet even dare touch the ground as he spun you around. Shoes kissing the ground you reciprocated his hug excitedly as you gained your footing and danced around with him. “You did it! You did it! I’m so fucking proud of you! You finally did it! I was so nervous watching you and you--”

“Shut up, darling, just kiss me already.”

His whisper into your ear was motivation enough as you chuckled and felt the blood rush into your cheeks. Both you pressing your lips to the other with intense passion and intensity, the same sparks flying that always did every other time you kissed him since the very first time three years ago in Monaco.

Finally, you two pulled away at the sounds of teasing whistle of his feiends made you both laugh. He had places to be, he knew that, but he didn’t want to be any where else than exactly where he was right now. With you, in his favorite floral dress, beautiful eyes staring right back at him, lips flushed and swollen from such a fervent kiss. Everything he needed-- he had. There was no trophy that could replace this.

“Go on, you muppet, you’ve got a trophy to collect.”

Lando didn’t want to let go. He didn’t want to lose tbis moment. He’d only just gotten here, he didn’t want it to be in the past so soon.

“Lando, love, I’ll be near you the whole time. I’ve got word they’re gonna pick me up again during your champagne pop, right where you can see me.”

But his eyes wouldn’t leave yours as you both slowly made your way to the interview box where Charles was currently giving his p3 interview in his Ferrari blue coveralls.

He stopped you both in your stride.

“Lan--”

“Marry me.”

Your eyes widened, “What?”

“Mrs. Grand Prix Winner Lando Norris. Mrs. Pole Position. Mrs. McLaren. Mrs. Future World Champion. Mrs. Muppet. Mrs. Love of my Life. Pick a name and I’ll call you it, just marry me. Marry me and be here everytime I do this. Be here and stand right in the front so you’re the first thing I see when I get out of the car. Marry me and celebrate every win with me so I can show you off. Please, god, please just marry me.”

It’s been Lando and you for as long as you could remember. Neighrbors, friends, best friends, strangers, long-distance, situtionships, friends-with-benefits, lovers, soulmates, everything. You’ve done it all, seen it all, achieved your dreams all with Lando by your side. Ups and downs alike, there had never been a single fleeting moment in your life where you haven’t been in love with Lando Norris.

Winner or not, you loved him. And you would’ve married him anywhere too.

“Yes! Yes! Of course! Now go! Hurry up!”

He smashed another kiss on your lips and sprinted off to the rolled out carpet as both Max and Charles patted his shoulders again, taking the microphone.

He called you his wife in his second sentence spoken in that interview. And immediately again in the next interview. And in the cool down room, he danced around telling Max and Charles to find a nice tuxedo because there was about to be a wedding. And on the podium, finally on the top step, his shoulders relaxing as the weight of his career seemingly left him for just a few minutes.

He took the trophy graciously-- but as soon as he saw him mechanics lift you onto his shoulders, his eyes never left yours. It was only you and him in the world right now, quite simply no one else seemed to matter.

Not to mention that as soon as Max and Charles finished absolutely drenching him in champagne-- he popped his and shot it striaght down at you.

Laughing as the bottle fizzled out, he pointed down at you with a beaming smile, “That’s my wife! Thank you, Mrs. Norris! I love you!”

[spidermandes]

DISTRACTIONS FROM MY DISTRACTIONS

lando norris x pregnant!reader

— where the reader wanted to wait until the day after a race to give birth to her little lando norris. inspired by that episode in the office

LANDO NORRIS WAS AN ANXIOUS GUY.

But that seemed to be why you and him worked so well. You mellowed him out, seemingly always knowing exactly what to say and when to say it to calm him down and make sure his head is twisted on just right. And he’d felt the once he met you, everything else kind of made sense now. Everything fell into place the very first night he ever saw you.

And every single time you would ask him, over and over again, to tell you about the moment he fell in love— he had no problem reciting it by heart. It was the happiest he’d ever been. He would never forget the very minute that he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with you.

And the day shouldn’t really have been all that special. And it wasn’t even the day that he told you that he loved you. That day would come a few weeks later after this. But it was one of those rare nights where you’d both been too tired to do much else other than make dinner and rot on the couch of his apartment watching movies.

You’d gotten spaghetti sauce on your nose somehow and you didn’t notice it for hours. Staring at you on his couch, cuddled in close with your legs bent over his, hands mindlessly messing with his as you watched. He couldn’t even remember what movie was playing, not even now. But remembered that he’d never felt so calm in his entire life, like you’d been able to turn his mind off completely. No worries, no thoughts, just you and the little red stain on your nose. And from that moment on, he’d sworn to himself that he had to do whatever it took to spend this rest of his life feeling like this— with someone who made him feel like this.

And he’d done right by that so far.

A couple of years in, he’d gathered up the courage to get on one knee and pop a very important question— to which you yelled at him for asking you to marry him while wearing sweatpants but nevertheless you said yes. He promised you could both get all dolled up to take engagement photos that you could send your folks back home later on. He needed to put that ring on your finger as soon as he could, anyway. It hadn’t really mattered what you were wearing.

Now living together in Monaco, not taking a single moment for granted since you’d spent the entire first year of your relationship mostly not being able to see each other. Even arguing over small stupid stuff, having some nights were you both needed some alone time, and just bad days in general— you both always knew that neither of you wouldn’t want it any other way. Because whenever those bad moods ended, whenever you made up and apologized, it was all okay. Because you’d married the person of your dreams.

And besides. Make-up sex always fixes the problem.

And sometimes, make up sex causes other problems of sorts. Problems like morning sickness, sore boobs, and weight gain.

And after one morning full of tears, Lando’s panic attack about being a father, and a carefully thought out post for the internet— being pregnant was a rollercoaster of emotions. Lando was heaven sent, being at your side every minute he could and getting you everything you could and might need. He got photo evidence of your weird cravings, filled his jpg instagram account with photos of you and the baby’s progress.

It was a dream. And Lando never missed an opportunity to tell you how amazing you were. You were the one waddling around the apartment while creating a human being inside you, in all sorts of pain and discomfort now that your final trimester had arrived. With the final few races upon you, you and Lando considered yourself geniuses with planning. You’re little bundle of joy should arrive just in time for the off-season, where Lando would be home and out of harms way.

You just needed to make it a few more days.

Too big to see your toes, happily enjoying warm weather where you could wear a nice dress and not have to fight to get on a pair of jeans. The entire McLaren family had taken care of you throughout the season. After all, you were about to give birth to a the very first papaya baby. Making your way through the McLaren hospitality, you waved and smiled to everyone you’d grown to recognize over the years.

Finally you made it to the paddock where you’d be awaiting Lando before the race. He’d done beautifully, finishing in p3 in qualifying— you both had high hopes for today.

An engineer lifted his head from his screen as you padded past, very involved with your tiny package of mini oreos that you’d brought along for when you got snacky. He smiled, “Y/N! Good to see you! I wasn’t sure we’d see you this late in the season.”

You shrugged, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Oh! Well, you know how it goes. Trying to hold off. Little one can’t be born during race season, s’ bad luck.”

He frowned. “Bad luck?”

“Don’t wanna spend every birthday they have at a race track where they’ll never see their dad.” You argued. Your due date was technically anytime now, but you absolutely refused for this to happen on a Sunday. Talk about inconvenience. “I can hold off until tomorrow at least.”

The engineer scoffed. “I remember when my little girl was born. No one could stop her from coming out that day, let me tell you.”

Suddenly you winced, grabbing the edge of the table. Immediately, you knew it was a contraction. It wasn’t the worst, you could still stand and keep your mouth shut— but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. You’d felt one earlier this morning, right as you’d gotten into the shower. That was hours ago, you hadn’t really been all too worried. After all, there were those Braxton Hicks ones, right? It didn’t mean anything. All those parenting books said labor happened when there were painful contractions happened every five to seven minutes.

You were good. It was your superpower, always so calm and rational. But holy shit did it hurt.

“Hey, hey, Y/N? You okay?”

You breathed in and out deeply, nodding as you gently rubbed your stomach. It didn’t feel as good as when Lando did it, it didn’t even compare, but it was enough for now. Tonight when you were both asleep, you’d ask Lando to do the trick where he lifted your stomach from behind and give your back a break, he’d rub some vaseline onto the thin stretch marks on your skin that he loved so much, and you’d take on everything else tomorrow. “I’m okay. All good. Is there a chair over there?”

He nodded, “Yeah of course, darling. I’ll bring your headphones and such over to you once we get the car out on the grid.”

You have him a thumbs up and went to waddle away.

“I’ll have them bring a water over! Nice n’ cold!”

“Love you!”

Lando’s kindness to the McLaren team was something the entire team wanted to repay. His attention to detail, constantly making sure he wasn’t some overzealous jerk who just drove the car and left. And since Lando didn’t want any special treatment, he asked the team to make you feel at home here. And ever since you’d gotten that positive test, they’d gone above and beyond for their favorite McLaren pregnant WAG.

It was only fifteen or so minutes until the festivities would start, and Lando was technically already supposed to be on the grid with the team and the car— but he had other duties. Including getting his good luck kiss.

He found you sitting comfortably in your chair in the viewing section, looking effortlessly beautiful with the thick papaya colored headphones over your head and resting on your neck. You wore a stunning long dress with wide sandals on your feet, elegant and comfortable all in one. He knew you missed your old body, one that didn’t always ache, when you could see your toes and go longer than a few hours before having to pee.

But call it his fatherly instinct kicking in early— he’d never thought you looked more beautiful. “There she is! Hello, darling.”

You grinned, getting ready to stand ever so slowly. He shook his head, resting a hand on your knee as he knelt down beside you. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll come to you. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

“I’m alright, love. They’ve got it set up quite nice in here.”

He kissed you forehead quickly before giving your stomach another. He’d never thought himself to be the parental type, much less had he given being a father much thought beyond thinking about kid names and his future with you. But as soon as it happened and it became real— he couldn’t imagine his life being about anything else. Lando was wholly and completely prepared to dedicate his life to you and this baby. Whatever the two of you needed, he’d do it a heart beat.

Suddenly, your hand went to his shoulder, gripping his skin tightly as you shut your eyes tightly and sucked air in.

Panic flooded his system. “Darling? Y/N, what’s going on. Hey— are you okay? Hey, look at me, what’s wrong? What can I do?”

You shook your head. “I’m okay. I’m alright.”

He watched your pain ease, your grip loosening significantly and you relaxed back into your chair. “Was that a contraction? Do we need to go? Is the baby coming now?”

“No, no, it’s alright. Labor is if they happen every five to seven minutes. I’ve only had a handful of them all day. I just need to distract myself.”

“What?!” Lando held your hand tightly in his. “Darling, hey, we should go to a hospital! We— we need to make sure everything is alright.”

“Everything is alright.” You promised. “And we agreed. I’m not giving birth on a Sunday.”

Lando sighed, “Love, I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a race and I have to retire. If she’s coming— she’s coming. We’re going to make sure you’re okay. I know you don’t want her to be a race baby but we don’t always get to choose.”

“Lan, I’m okay. We’ll go tomorrow just to make sure. Now give me a kiss and go do your thing, darling. I’ll be right here, still very pregnant, when you get back.”

He stared at you. “Y/N…”

“You’re distracting me from my distractions.”

Lando pulled out his phone, scrolling to his photos (albums filled with screenshots of pages from baby articles and parenting books) and found the several images. “Look. Five to seven minutes. Oh— and this one, five to seven minutes. This one says six minutes, which is different, but it’s the same.”

You smiled, poking his nose. “You’re just frazzled.”

“I don’t like being frazzled. I’m sorry. If you’re okay, really okay, then okay. I just— I’m sorry. I just worry.”

You smiled warmly at him, your lips connecting and reminding you of every reason you loved this man down to his very core. Every spark still igniting your entire body. “You always worry. And I always make it better.”

He pulled away, pressing his forehead to yours. “That you do, love. You always do. You should go pee before it all starts.”

You laughed. “You’re probably right.”

“Need any help?”

Well, Lando was going to do what Lando always did. And you had no problem letting him do it. “Help me up and I do the rest. And drive safely, love.”

His hands wrapped around your arms as he gently pulled you off your chair, making sure you were steady before letting go and letting his eyes roam over your body hungrily. Not for one single second had he lost any attraction, and he always made sure you knew that. “Always do. Did I mention you looked beautiful?”

“Don’t make me blush, mister. Go. I love you, you little worry-wart.”

“I love you too, darling.”

“They’re getting pretty close.”

Your grip loosened on your chair and the pain subsided once more. You didn’t want to admit it, these ones worse than they were earlier this morning. You refused to admit your worries and fears as they started creeping over your shoulder. You weren’t a worrier. Everything was fine. Everything had to be fine. You weren’t supposed to do this today. Not today.

You frowned as one of the mechanics glanced at his watch and stood in front you. “What? Aren’t you supposed to be over there doing stuff with… with the stuff?”

He didn’t even bother answering. “The contractions— they’re pretty close. You’re in labor, Y/N. It’s time.”

“No. No. I’m fine.”

He deadpanned.

“Don’t give me that. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t giving you any time for excuses. “We’re calling Lando in. It’s time, hon. No more waiting.”

Heart pounding, you shook your head viciously and held your ground with ferocity. “No! No, there’s half the race left. He’s in p2, don’t take this from him.”

Your voice was stern, and they’d rarely heard you be so serious. They didn’t want to do this to you, they didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or bosses around when it was your pregnancy and your birth. But someone needed to look out for you— and Lando had made them promise him they would do so. Especially today.

“Y/N.”

“No. Not yet.”

And they felt bad for lying to you. Cause as soon as the mechanic shook his head and stalked away, he closed on his radio so only he’d go through to Lando and Zak— Lando was coming into the pits next lap and not coming back out. With a swift promise that Y/N was okay for now, Lando’s McLaren seemingly kicked into a new gear on his last lap.

And two minutes later— Lando pulled into the McLaren pits and was out of the car in record time. Pulling off his helmet; the race was entirely gone out of his mind. The results didn’t matter, nothing else in the entire world did. He darted through the team and towards the viewing area as he vaulted over the divider to find your chair in the back.

You’re face paled. “Lando? Lan, what are you doing?”

“Alright, come on, let’s go. We’re going to the hospital.”

Oddly— Lando felt completely serene. Everything became clear. It was you and the baby, nothing else mattered. No worries, just concern. He needed to man up, do what was right for the two most important people in his life. Time to put his foot down if you wouldn’t. No more waiting. The rest of his life was starting now, like it or lot.

“Lando, no, hey— I’m okay.”

He shook his head, “No. We’re five minutes apart and it’s time to go. You’re hurting and we need to go.”

“No, no, I’m not going.” Your protests continued as Lando tried to help you to your feet, the calm in your voice disappearing completely as you fought off his hands. “No! No! I’m not going! I’m not going! No, I’m not going to the hospital because I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I don’t think I can do this!”

Lando stopped in his tracks.

“I can’t do this, Lan. I don’t think I can do this.” Tears welled in your eyes as you tried to glue to yourself to your chair. Every anxiety you pushed away rising to the surface, everything you couldn’t face before being confronted.

He frowned. How long had you felt like this? “Darling…”

“No! No! I can’t do it.”

He kneeled down beside you, frowning deeply at your confession. A women he’d rarely seen break down like this, who always knew how to take it slow and take care of herself. No one was perfect and everyone got overwhelmed, but you’d always prided on yourself on how healthily you seemed to manage things like that. But today, right now, it was all too much.

He held your hand gently. “Hey, hey, are you kidding me? If anyone can do this— it’s you. You can do this. I’m scared, love, I’m terrified. But— guess what, darling. We’re gonna have a baby today.”

A tear trickled down your cheeks, biting your lip as you nodded.

“So let’s have it at the hospital,” He looked back at his mechanic. “How far apart are they?”

The mechanic smiled, still happy with the sweet moment that had happened. “Two minutes.”

Lando smiled at you, barely hearing him. “Two minutes. Two— two? Two minutes?”

Your eyes widened. “Two? Lando— Lando?”

“I told you to warn me at five. What— what happened at four and five? What happened?”

The mechanic widened his eyes and looked at his watch, “Uh— wait. Oh fuck. Uh…”

“Lando! I waited too long!” Panic filled you again. “Lando, I don’t want to have our baby here. I don’t wanna—”

Lando sucked down all his own worry and grabbed your hands, pulling you up. Finding the small of your back and shaking his hand. “Hey— nope, it’s okay. We’re not having her here. It’s okay. Let’s go. I’m a race car driver, love, we’ll be there in no time.”

“Oh god…”

“Hey— hey. I love you. I love you and guess what.”

He met your teary eyes.

“We’re having a little Norris. We’re having a baby.”

[spidermandes]

MISS AMERICANA AND HER FORMULA ONE PRINCE

charles leclerc x taylor swift!reader

summary - the internet was not ready for the reveal of miss american and her ferrari red prince, feeling very stupid after noticing all the clues she’d left for them.

warnings — this was a self indulgent imagine and that’s all. slight timeline plot holes, leave me alone. use your imagination.

“welcome back miss y/l/n! it is certainly wonderful to have you. we know you are a very busy woman.”

“multitasking is my gift, what can i say?”

“well there’s just so many places to start tonight. but i think one thing is quite apparent. we are here to talk about the drop of your brand new album, midnights!”

“yes, oh wow. thank you!”

“not only have you been rather MIA in the music world recently since the release of the beautiful evermore and folklore, but you didn’t even bother announcing before you released this one! surely gave a few of your fans heart palpitations.”

“i’m an impatient person, deep down. so keeping secrets from them is much harder than everyone thinks. i couldn’t really wait any longer. it’s just… albums are so close to my heart, i was very excited for them to hear this one.”

“most certainly, my favorite is currently Karma. I cannot stop listening to it.”

“oh yay! i love that one.”

“and unfortunately, i must ask the question that i’m sure you hear in your nightmares. as with a lot of your works, you are certainly an expert lyricist when it comes to describing love and heartbreak. and i think i’m not alone i’m noticing you’ve dipped your toes in both pools for this album.”

“well, a lot of growing up is realizing you don’t have to forget to forgive. a lot of the people i’ve loved have been such large parts of my life, it would be nearly impossible to truly forget them. and i’m lucky to be in a spot in my life where i can share my heartbreak as well as show that there is also love.”

“then you know we must address the rumors.”

“we must.”

“you’re appearances at the formula one grand prix in monaco. and you’ve spoken on this before, we’ve known you as an F1 gal for quite a while. but dressed in ferrari red, we must know.”

“well i’m not the kind of girl to kiss and tell.”

“certainly not. just the kind to write an album about it!”

“everyone has their red flags.”

“are we allowed to assume, then? has a certain long time celebrity crush of yours finally come to fruition?”

“perhaps i can keep some secrets close to my chest.”

1 hour ago,

charlesleclerc its been an honor to be at your side while you take over the world, mon amour. no one does it better than you. i’m just here to be your driver. it’s you and me. that’s my whole world.

p.s. red is definitely your color ♥️

username who let this man hard launch

username the way i spat out my water. y/n and charles leclerc was not on my fucking bingo card.

username HOW LONG

maxverstappen1 can i finally ask if there’s any songs written about me????

charlesleclerc anti-hero was actually going to be called max verstappen the song

maxverstappen1 i am the problem. it is me.

username everyone put their delusion hats on and FIGURE OUT WHEN THIS STARTED

username how the hell did they pull this off without ANYONE finding out

landonorris thank god i’m not good with secrets. this was crushing my soul

charlesleclerc you only found out two months ago

landonorris and i was DYING

username you mean to tell me CHARLES PRINCE OF MONACO AND SCUDERIA FERRARI attended an eras tour show and NO ONE SAW HIM

username fuck. the red lip stick. ITS HER. he posted that red lip photo IN 2020

username NO FUCKING WAY

username we are stupid. we are stupid

username i’ve been sleuthing for an entire hour. find my findings on twitter

username charles got the green light to post his girlfriend and wasted NO TIME. husband material.

danielriccardo they are my roman empire.

username who taught daniel that

username finally a man to give us candid y/n photos because she won’t feed us. everyone say thank you charles.

username idgaf about any of this because of how HAPPY SHE LOOKS IN ALL THESE PHOTOS

username our baby is finally happy

username posted a thread!

y/n y/l/n i think they know. skipping down 16th avenue :)

username she’s calling us stupid

username he made THE heart. we’re so dumb. so so so dumb.

maxverstappen1 penelope says she wants aunt y/n to come back over. i don’t make the rules

y/ny/l/n rules are rules. i’ll be right over.

username P AND Y/N?????

username she really was the architect. drawing up those plans

username the MORAL STRENGTH of this man to not post that he was dating the QUEEN OF MUSIC

landonorris karma is the guy wearing 16, coming straight home to me?

y/ny/l/n LANDO YOU’RE A GENIUS

charlesleclerc world renowned lyricist here guys

username charles gets to indulge in his musical side with his musical girlfriend. i love this.

username love her for giving us no details and being like HAHA fuck you figure it out yourselves.

username wow she really does love her french boy huh

charlesleclerc only bc Monegasque boy doesn’t really roll off the american tongue. she’s lucky i love her and let it slide.

username can charles leclerc fight??

username i don’t care about the drama. i don’t care about the secrets. IDGAF. she’s happy. so so happy.

username not the midnight photo… he knew about EVERYTHING AND NEVER TOLD US

username i will never hear any of her love songs since 2019 the same way again. like what do you mean charles leclerc is the man on the screen coming straight home to her????

username since LOVER. they spent quarantine together. he was with her through her rereleasing her music. she was with him through the past THREE F1 SEASONS. excuse me while i cry.

— tune in for the post race exclusive interview with scuderia ferrari driver, charles leclerc!

“hello! hello! congratulations on your big win here today. it was a tedious race for all of us here today, very happy to see you take home the win.”

“oh, thank you!”

“before the race you mentioned being excited to talk about a very special certain someone on camera now. and you certainly put on an impressive show for her today, haven’t you?”

“ah, yes, y/n! it is like being a kid in a candy shop today. she is here, she was able to come see the race and i am very excited to be able to give her a win today.”

“and you two have certainly been making a lot of headlines recently, almost breaking the internet with your whirlwind romance in secret, no?”

“ah, well, we are very grateful for all the support. i enjoy being able to show her off, it is definitely what she deserves. it is definitely a weight off our shoulders, but we are happy we got to you know, fall in love kind of out of the spotlight. it made it all very real. and to see her work, create her music up close is just… bellisimo. oh my goodness. as you can see, i could talk about her for just… hours!”

“and that is all a girl can ever ask for, no? it seems everyone is just happy to see the both of you so happy, and her fans can definitely tell what songs are about you!”

“it is better than a championship, for sure, to have someone like her love you. to be a part of something like that. and to be on the receiving end of it, is… it’s just lovely. she’s amazing. she’s so talented.”

“amazing. yes, and just one last question and we will let you find your girl out there, i’m sure she wants to congratulate you as well. for all the fans out there, what is charles leclerc’s favorite y/l/n song?”

“yes, yes, this trophy is about to have red lipstick on it for sure. and it is the same as it has been since i heard it for the first time. miss americana and the heartbreak prince, a million times over. thank you!”

“congratulations again, charles!”

[spidermandes]

stuck with you

charles leclerc x reader

summary - staying late at work had never worked out so well for you

IT WAS ONLY A FEW HOURS

Technically, you weren’t ever supposed to stay late. Work culture in Monaco often meant prioritizing rest and wellness was half the battle, you often didn’t use all your vacation days and spent too many hours at home working on stuff that could’ve waited until you went into the office the next day. But, when one doesn’t have much else to do outside of work and you enjoy your job more than most, that doesn’t stop you.

Besides, the entire team was running behind, one of your coworkers was out for a few months with their brand new baby. And with the new season coming up on them so quickly, you had offered up your Friday evening to finishing up the prototype reports and permit applications. Besides, what else were you going to do? Go home and kill a bottle of wine? Watch a romantic comedy? Same as most Friday nights.

So finally, with hitting the save button a million times just to be sure, packing your bag, emptying the coffee pot, and clicking off the lights in your office— you finally stretched your spine and made for the elevator.

You checked your phone as you waited, your dating app had sent you a few notifications that a few of your matches had sent you more messages. But, none of those guys had piqued your interest in any way. Boring, hard to hold a conversation, and asked what your body count was way too soon. Maybe tonight would be the night, you would finally delete those apps. They didn’t seem to working anyhow.

Maybe it was cliche to find your soulmate in your twenties. Maybe you should just accept life for what it is, get married to some guy that is halfway decent, pop out a kid, get divorced, and hate life like everyone else. Isn’t that how it goes?

With a ding of the door sliding open, you postpone the existential crisis for your car ride home. Maybe some Taylor Swift can heal your heart for now, sasiate you for tonight.

“Oh! Sorry, excusé moi.” A voice comes from inside, your head lifting immediately to find out who else had been burning the midnight oil.

Working at Scuderia Ferrari, you know who Charles Leclerc is. Technically, you’re entire job is making sure he can do his job. Literally, the only reason you have a job is because there are guys like him who excel. In order for him to be better, you have to be better. He does the driving and smiling and fame part, you do the math and the computer parts.

So what in gods name was he doing in the elevator of the Factory office half past midnight on a Friday? Wasn’t he supposed to be on some relaxation retreat or sleeping with some super model before training started next week? Being here was specifically the opposite of taking some time off.

And seeing his exhausted expression that he attempted to hide, he was not relaxed.

You finally stepped inside, pushing past your starstruck face and forced yourself to keep your panic internal and act like a normal person inside a normal elevator with another normal person.

Normal, millionaire, Formula One driver, model, most attractive man in Monaco, French speaking, crowd favorite— Charles Leclerc. Easy, right?

“Didn’t expect to see anyone else here, if I am going to be honest. Late night for you as well?”

You groaned in your mind. Would he mind not sounding so attractive? It’s not exactly helping out your extremely overactive imagination. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Just um… actually, finishing some stuff up for the new livery. For uh… your car.”

His brows raised. “Oh? Really? You’re an engineer here?”

“Well, kind of. I do just the… boring stuff. I don’t put it together or anything.”

And if he would not smile at you like he was right now, you could control the entire zoo blossoming inside your stomach. Since when did people get to walk around looking so good without getting permission or something? Was he aware that he just left people speechless? Or did he just carry his sexiness without another thought?

He shook his head. “No, no, no boring stuff. I wish I was smart enough do it. I just drive the car.”

Great, now he’s humble. Awesome.

“Just drive the— okay, agree to disagree? We both couldn’t do each others jobs. All the working out and defying g-forces— no thanks. I mean you’ve got like abs and… oh my, no, not that I think about you naked or anything like that, I mean— not that you’re not good looking! I just— it’s hard work and I don’t— I’m… I’ll just be quiet now I think.”

He chuckled, obviously hit with a wave of satisfaction. “It’s not an insult to know pretty girls think about me naked.”

And now, he could definitely see the rush of blood to your cheeks, but hopefully unable to hear just how hard your heart was beating. And all you get out in return is a weak laugh, trying to hide your utter embarrassment.

“But it seems you know me, but I feel bad I don’t even know your name.”

“Y/N. Um… don’t worry about it.”

“Well, Y/N darling, I think to make this thing move, you’ve got to press the button.”

Your brows rose, eyes flicking to the array of buttons on the wall, none of them lit. Your cheeks are fiery hot now, hand immediately punching out and pressing the ground floor, mumbling incoherent apologies as Charles seems to find it more amusing than anything, laughing lightly.

And finally, the elevator makes a lurch, humming as it carries you both down a few floors.

Until it screeches. Both you have lost your prior emotions, now filled with confusion as the elevator jolts and cries out, before finally coming to an abrupt halt. It goes silent for a moment— and Charles is the first to speak. “Um… does that normally happen?”

You shake your head wildly, heart racing. You’ve never liked small spaces, not an abnormal amount to cause a phobia, but you surely didn’t appreciate the tightness of the walls. “Nope. Never.”

Charles frowns, seeing the floor number light above the door flickering between numbers, humming before reaching past you to press the ‘door open’ button along the bottom.

The entire box reacts. the doors grinding nastily as it tries to peel open and only opening an inch before something snaps and they slam shut once more, sending a ripple through the elevator— both of you grabbing at the side rails to steady yourself with fear taking hold and a quiet squeal leaves your lips.

“Ok! Don’t do that again!”

He nods rapidly, “Noted.”

Pulling out your phone, the dread rolls over you as you spot the ‘no signal’ icon at the top of your screen. Who you’d call, no idea, but it’s no good to lose the option. Charles does the same, but your eyes meet in the middle and neither of you need to say much to gather that your best bet is to push the scary alarm button at the bottom.

“Okay, you push it.” You mumble. “That way, if we die— I don’t get blamed for killing Charles Leclerc right before race season.”

He sighs, “You’re quite the pessimist.”

“Well I’m not the one that ‘just drives the car’” Your fingers shape air quotes, “There’s precious cargo here, and it’s not the kinda-engineer.”

Charles furrows his brows, crossing his arms, “Well maybe I don’t want to be blamed for killing the kinda-engineer. She seems rather important for the team.”

“Just push it!”

“You push it!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Fine, I’ll push it!”

“No! I’ll push it!”

You grin. “Oh, great! Go right ahead.”

He smirks, his chest puffing up as he reaches for it and jams down on the button, the silence now filled with a quiet alarm echoing from outside the elevator, even though there’s an empty office where no one can hear it. “Thank you— wh— how did you do that?”

Smug, you lean against the back wall. “Reverse psychology, bitch. They teach you that at ‘kinda-engineering’ school.”

And he can’t be any kind of irritated, so he just laughs and shaking his head, “Oh? I thought it might be ‘very-pretty-girl’ school.”

And he figures out that, for some unknown reason, he quite likes it when he’s the reason you blush.

TWO HOURS LATER

“I cannot be blamed for Arthur’s poor luck with women! He’s quite helpless, I’m afraid.” Charles chuckles, grinning ear to ear as he watches you crack up with laughter. It’s a wonderful sound, one he’s becoming slowly obsessed with.

You’re both sat on the tile flooring of the stuffy elevator, the alarm still echoing just outside. Time has passed, not quickly or slowly, but fast enough for you both to resort to story telling to pass the time. You’re out of work stories to tell, Charles now going on about a horror story first date experience his brother had gone through and you just can’t seem to stop laughing.

“Oh! Oh, my god!” You cry out, “That’s horrible!”

He shrugs, “I’ll let you guess if she ever asked for a second date. Because if you were going to guess no— you’d be right.”

You’re laughter finally subsides, a second passes where you both check your phones and still no signal. You sigh and lean back, shutting your eye’s momentarily as tiredness creeps over your shoulder. And while they’re closed— you miss it. You miss how Charles rakes his eyes over you, absorbing it all at once. He wants to know everything there is to know, learn what that charm hanging around your neck means, and which ring on your finger is your favorite, and without warning— he wants to know what you look like underneath of him, without all the layers you wear.

He shakes that thought away. “So, tell me your worst date. The worst of the worst.”

You hum, peeling open your eyes. “That’s tough.”

He grins, “Oh? Too many to choose from?”

“Hard to have a bad date if you’ve never been on one.” If you weren’t so tired, you maybe wouldn’t have been so open. But your mind isn’t working as well, worn out from overtime hours and the night slipping away by the minute. “Unless you count my prom date throwing up in my mum’s car. That sucked.”

He sits up straighter. “Hold on— you’re trying to tell me that no one has ever asked you on a date?”

“No! I mean— a few have asked. I just… I dunno. I was raised that you dated people you liked, and I didn’t like those guys like that.”

Charles felt a part of him creeping up his spine, a devilish part of him that relishes in the idea of corruption. To know that no one has seduced you the way someone so beautiful deserves to be. No one had wooed you over a candlelight dinner, no one has ever spoiled you with roses and romance. And he can’t help himself but wonder if you’re innocent in more way that one.

“And… do you like, anyone? I mean— what’s your type then, Y/N? Who would you like to take you on a date?”

You think for a moment. “Hmmm. I’m not sure. Someone who is successful, or at least has ambitions. Someone who is close with their family. Someone… someone kind. A hopeless romantic, I want to experience all the cliche shit.”

“Sounds doable. I’m sure those guys exist, somewhere out there.”

“I mean, fuck— just look at you? If I could find someone who looked half like you, had half your success, and was even just a lick as nice as you— as funny, then I’d marry them on the spot.”

Charles feels his heart race. He’s known an entire two hours and feels like he’s desperate to give you all of the above. He wants to show you what it’s like to experience love in its rawest and most beautiful form. Someone like you, so smart and witty, stunningly beautiful and easy to be around— deserves to be loved without hesitation.

He kicks your extended foot with his. “Well, I don’t know if I’m marriage material— but I do know how to take a girl on a date.”

“Exactly! Someone who knows what they’re doing!” She exclaims once more, “And I don’t mean to be vulgar, but someone who knows where it is would be great.”

He swallows nervously. Did he? He’d never had a complaint from a girl before. And from the best he could tell, they’d all enjoyed it as much as he did. “Well…”

You sighed, your delirium from exhaustion made you lose track of your words. “Just… you know what? I’ll just take a carbon copy of you, please.”

Charles smiled.

FOUR HOURS LATER

It must’ve been well past four am by now, you wouldn’t really know— your phone died around three. And you’d ask Charles to check, except the two of you were trying to savor the last twenty percent he had on his battery, even though he didn’t have any service either. The alarm was still blaring outside, but the two of you had long since gotten used to it.

You’d gone through every game you could think of. Never have I ever, Truth or Dare, Rock Paper Scissors, even trying to guess what song the other was humming.

And by now, you must’ve caught yourself dozing off every twenty seconds, catching your head from falling.

Charles, had also scraped the bottom of his activity barrel, one of your pens to trace the Monaco track from memory onto a spare piece of paper you’d also had. You’d asked him to keep you awake, in case rescue finally came— so he’d done so diligently, asking you whatever random questions he could think of.

“Um, what is your favorite flower?”

You rubbed your eyes, blinking slowly. “Tulips. But not the red ones. I like the white ones.”

He nodded. Unbeknownst to you, he’d also asked for the spare sheet of paper so he could make a list on the back. All of these questions had a purpose. He’d asked your favorite food, restaurant, wine, liquor, even what weather was your favorite. By now, he had the exact recipe for your ideal date and you’d been just a tad too tired to really notice.

He’d spent a total of four hours with a total stranger and he couldn’t have asked for a better night. Although, he’d appreciate a bathroom to be nearby the next time he saw you, just in case. Thankfully, neither of you had consumed too many water in the last six hours.

He’d never met someone quite like you. You had a way about you, something so entirely unique. You didn’t try to be someone else, or act like you were more than you were. You were a confident women, one who knew her worth her always blushed when he called you ‘pretty girl’ or ‘darling’ as if you didn’t know.

He was a flirtatious guy, that was no secret. But he always liked playing games with good prizes. If he could survive this night, get out of this stupid elevator— and the prize would be one spectacular night with the most stunning women he’d ever seen, then it would be well worth it. He needed to know what it was like to make you blush every day, to get to hear your voice at every hour, to see you when you weren’t tired. He wanted to know every version of you— and make each and every one smile.

And, he’d been pleased to meet a girl who hadn’t thrown herself at him. Fame didn’t always mean he was treated as an equal. You treated him like he was just a guy from Monaco that she worked with. Like he was normal. He liked normal sometimes. With the benefit of being able to know he could afford to take you to any restaurant in the country— that was nice too.

He saw you dozing off again, shaking his head. He can’t imagine what time you arrived at the office this morning, and then had to stick this out. “Cherí, you with me?”

“Mhmm, yeah.”

“Good, so tell me…” He thought for a second. “What is your favorite thing about me?”

Four hours was a long time to spend with one person within the same three feet of each other. For twenty minutes— you were playing thumb wars. It’s been rough out here, and he was running out of questions.

But you didn’t seem to mind, much less think twice about your answer. “You? Mhmm, what’s not to like? You’re ya-know, sweet and kind and not a psycho— and hot. Plus you speak French… mhmm, I like French.”

It only made him smile harder as he began to feel the weight of tiredness pull him down as well.

“Okay, would you actually go on a date with me? If I asked?”

You twisted and curled in your spot, trying to get more comfortable. “Charles, baby, anyone stupid enough not to say yes to you is… stupid. Stupid… very stupid.”

“Good to hear.”

SIX HOURS LATER

Six am came bright and early.

But much much too late.

By the time the first employee came rolling through the Ferrari factory doors, their ears immediately met with the piercing sound of the elevator alarm— they panicked and called emergency services. The officer on the phone recognized the sound of an elevator alarm, and sent the fire brigade headed their way.

And when they arrived, doing what they do best, they hustled the flight of stairs to where the small screen above the ground floor elevator read— and pried the doors open without too much hassle— and finally turned that godforsaken alarm off.

But inside, was no emergency. No one crying or dying.

Instead, the fireman wiped his brow, thanking god that no one was screaming about how long they’d been stuck, because even he couldn’t tell how long it had been. Based off the security system feed, the alarm had gone off at midnight. And that was only guessing that they pressed the button as soon as they got stuck.

Either way— he lucked out.

Inside the elevator was two people sat on the floor with their backs against the wall. A women, her makeup a bit smudged and phone discarded off to the side— was curled up like a sleeping cat, head resting on the shoulder of the other. The other, a man, one the fireman recognized quite quickly as that famous Formula One driver. He was fast asleep as well, head laid on top of hers, arm looped around the two of them as to keep them connected throughout their sleep.

And beside him, a sheet of paper folded into thirds.

“the perfect date - charles and y/n <3”

[spidermandes]

BACK TO DECEMBER

charles leclerc x singer!reader

summary - even though it’s been a while, she still turns up on his front door step, and he’s always going to let her in.

warnings - swearing, allusions to sex, and angst ig. also, very unedited

SHE IS REGRETTING HER DECISION AS SOON AS SHE’S IN FRONT OF THE DOOR.

It was too easy to get here. She knew the roads like the back of her hand, and even if she didn’t— her GPS still called this place home. Just finding the mailbox number, the short driveway connected to the garage that she knew held a priceless vintage Ferrari that had seen unholy parts of her, all the way to the door she’d walked out of all those years ago. It felt like yesterday— she wished it had only been yesterday.

But even though the neighborhood had welcomed her, it’s warmth braving against the cold air and snow outside, she still had cold feet. All her gusto gone, no confidence left to raise her fist and knock on the door. After all, she didn’t have the key anymore.

She shouldn’t be here. It was a mistake to be here, to think she could just walk in and leave all her problems at the door like she used to. It was bad idea, he wouldn’t want her here. He wouldn’t welcome her. She couldn’t be here. It wouldn’t fix anything.

So, after a long twenty minutes of staring at the door as if it would open by itself, shivering with her heart in her heels, she shook her head as she twisted around and took the first step back towards the elevator. This was a terrible idea.

The lock clicked, and the door peeled open.

Her eyes went as wide as saucers, her hands still holding her arms close to her as she hoped she could simply melt away, disappear before he saw her.

“Oh, excusez-moi, désolé!”

It was the first time she’d heard his voice in six years. Never this close, never this clearly. The same draw pulling her in, warm and comfortable— like it could never hurt her. French curling in her ears so elegantly, just as endearing and romantic as everyone always assumed it would be.

“Y/N? Y/N, is that you?”

She hated how he said her name. But, unable to walk away any further, she plastered on a wide smile and spun around, waving as if he was just an old neighbor or friend she’d run into on the street. “Oh! Hey, Charlie! Gosh, yeah, hey, sorry. Um, I was just… um…”

She didn’t have an answer, not a convenient one anyway.

She didn’t quite see the glimmer in his eyes when his nickname flowed so easily off her lips, how his heart fluttered just by the sound of her Dutch accent had said his name so loudly. He prayed she hadn’t seen it, hadn’t seen how badly he wanted to hear it again. He had never realized how badly he wanted to hear it from her lips again.

“Where you outside the door?” He frowned. “How long have you been out here? It’s freezing!”

Her eyes narrowed, looking up at the falling snow from the dark sky above. Night had fallen hours ago, but time seems quite lost on her. “Uh… you know. Just… was in the neighborhood…”

You were never just in the neighborhood of the person whom you declared your worst and most devastating heartbreak. I’m fact, she regularly took detours to make sure they never crossed paths the first few years after their break up. Unless she had to be, she was never this close to Charles Leclerc.

He furrowed his brows, “At this hour?”

“Gosh, you— you are so right. Yes, Im— I’ve got to go. It’s quite late and the roads will freeze over soon. I’ve— I should go. Yes, yeah… sorry.” And she tried to take the out.

But he stopped her, hand on her upper forearm before she could step off the stoop. Six years… six years since they’d touched. It was only his hand on her puffy jacket, but it was more than they’d been prepared for. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, sucking in a breath as her eyes landed on his hand. Unconsciously, she made note that there was no ring on that special finger. But all the same, his hands were as stunning as they had been when she held them. “Um…”

He let go, “Well, I’ve got to know the reason I’ve got Y/N Verstappen on my doorstep nearly past midnight. Please, come in. It’s much warmer inside.”

Even the way he said her last name lit her up inside. “I shouldn’t. I’m sure your… your girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate it.”

He reached over the railing, listing the snow covered lid of the recycling bin and dropped the bag of trash that he’d come out here to throw away in the first place before meeting her gaze again with a gentle smile. “No girl. Just me.”

She couldn’t tell if it made her heart happy or sad to wonder if he’d been alone. “Oh… uh… okay.”

He was trying to be kind, she told herself. He was just being nice to the girl shivering on his doorstep. While she may be his ex girlfriend— she was also the baby sister to his colleague. An old friend, one from his childhood. No matter what had happened between them, Charles was still a chivalrous man through and through. “Come on, darling. You’re shivering. Inside, come on.”

Darling. She felt like a possessed woman. One who might give anything up for him to mean it, to say it how he used to. To feel the same way she did. Why couldn’t they have made it work? Why could he call her that for eternity, as he’d promised?

The two shuffled inside, Charles hastily removing her snowy coat and hanging on the hook. He kneeled down, allowing her to place her hand on his shoulder as he pulled off her boots, shaking off as much snow as he could before standing and carrying them over the the burning fire he had going. Thankfully it hadn’t burned out quite yet, as he’d been planning to put it out after taking out the trash before he went to bed.

Her eyes scanned the room, making her worry worse. It looked the exact same as it had the last time she’d been here. All the furniture and artwork they’d picked out together, that she’d designed for their first home together. It was all the same, like she’d never even left. Aside from a few new things, the blanket on the couch was new, and the piano as well. A few odds and ends that she’d never seen, it was the same house. Warm, homey, screaming at her.

“It’s the same…” Ehe couldn’t keep quiet, slowly stepping forward and farther into the living room. She could see into the kitchen, dirty dishes from a pasta dish in the sink and a re-corked bottle of white wine shoved back on the counter. It had been a quiet night in, she could tell. One she’d effectively ruined.

Charles looked up, setting the boots down so they’d dry, dusted his shoulders off of the ice they’d accumulated outside, “Oui, uh… yeah. You did a good job. Didn’t see any reason to change it.”

She frowned. No reason? Was he not reminded of her every time he stepped into this house? Of the memories they’d made putting it together? The shopping and building, hours upon hours of curating somewhere they could both call home? Now he was just fine with leaving it the same and calling it only his? “Oh, yeah, okay.”

“Sit. You’re not driving tonight. Not in that mess out there.” He spoke so calmly, no room for negotiation. “You still like white wine, yes?”

She shook her head, taking up as little space on the couch as possible. “I can’t stay, Charles. That’s an even worse idea than me showing up here in the first place.”

He shrugged, popping the wine he’d already opened and pouring it into two wine glasses, knowing there was no way she’d lost the taste for the white wine they’d discovered together and declared their favorite. “You’re staying. Id be a terrible person to send you back out, not to mention Max would kill me. And it’s late, you’re a terrible driver when you’re tired.”

She took the glass as he carried it over, even if she didn’t know why yet, swirling it around as he took his seat in the chair adjacent to the couch. As casual as he was being, he still acknowledged that there was some unspoken tension in the room. He couldn’t act like all that hurt wasn’t lingering. They used to be in love, and now they weren’t. It would always hurt.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“It’s a miracle you made it here alive.” He tried to joke, but her sad pout didn’t much change. “But you’re obviously here for a reason. Last time I saw you— was in Silverstone. And you were wearing RedBull colors.”

She sipped on the wine to make the night easier. All of it. “Max insisted.”

He shrugged. “Always looked better in red, I thought.”

She’d gone to the race to support Max, and see a few old friends. It was a rare weekend she’d gotten off from her tour. She’d been so entirely busy, constantly on the move, she’d only managed to make it to one Grand Prix the entire season. So, she’d gone wearing her brothers colors, cheering him on as he took home that trophy too. Her past with Charles would never deter her support for her brother. Even if every other Grand Prix she’d ever been to in her life— she’d worn Ferrari red.

“Y/N,” Her head lifted, hearing the more serious tone in his voice. “Why are you here? Six years, and you’ve never turned up at my door. No matter how much I’d wished for it, its never happened till now.”

Wished? Wished for this? Six years had gone by, no contact between the two past lovers. Six painstaking years of new and failing relationships because over time she’d learned she just kept looking for Charles in men who weren’t him. All this time, and he’d wished she’d show up? Where had this been? Sweet Charles, telling her she looked good in red and that he still drank their favorite wine, that he still lived surrounded by the home they’d created. Why was he hiding this from her?

“Don’t. Don’t do that. You haven’t spent the past six years moping. You’ve dated, you’ve… we’ve both moved on.” She immediately turned defensive.

Charles nodded, “Guess so. Doesn’t mean I can’t miss you.”

“I just… I’m sorry. It’s been a really long night.” She noticed she’d drank more of her wine than she’d realized, finishing it off. “Fuck… ugh! Why— why can’t I just… why can’t I just do it right? Why can’t I just pick the right one, at the right time? Why am I always the one who’s wrong?”

Charles frowned suddenly, leaning forward and laying a hand down on her knee, wondering if shed noticed and promptly ignored the fireworks just the same as he did. “Y/N, stop— slow down. Slow down, you’re alright.”

“I’m not alright, Charlie! I’m not!”

His heart skipped a few beats. Six years since he’d heard her call him that, he’d never get over it. “Then tell me, cherí, tell me what happened?”

“Sometimes it sucks. I know I’m supposed to write love songs and breakup songs. But sometimes I wish I didn’t actually have to go through that shit to write it.”

Charles understood that. He knows first hand. He knows that it certainly didn’t feel good when the album she’d written about their breakup won a Grammy. He knew she was an exceptional artist, eternally deserving of the award— he’d just wished winning it hadn’t meant they’d end.

He tried to offer a smile, “You wouldn’t have all your Grammy’s then, now would you?”

You scoffed. “I’ll trade you. I’ll drive for Ferrari, and you can get cheated on.”

The room felt as if it dropped ten degrees in an instant. And he was more concerned by the flurry of his own emotions, wondering if she could hear how hard his heart began to pound. Charles didn’t even know the man’s name, who he was or anything, but he knew that he’d do some regretful things to him. How much money he’d give to be able to inflict the same kind of pain onto him, as he’d done to Y/N. Then at the same time, he’d wanted to whisk her away. Somewhere safer, somewhere she wouldn’t have to feel the hurt anymore. He’d been able to be that place for her once, and he wanted anything to be it again.

Though— maybe he still was. She was here, wasn’t she?

“You know, I thought about you the other day. I was online, racing with Lando and some of the boys. And it was for a split second, I was muted and no one ever heard me. But I called your name, asked for a bottle of water or something stupid. And it was only a moment, but… I don’t know why it happened.”

She looked up at him, still trying to fight the tears that had welled in her eyes.

“And the rest of that night, I was stuck in this house, hoping I’d see you in the kitchen drinking this wine. Or on that couch, reading your book, writing music maybe. Somewhere, just doing whatever it was you did while I was online. And I knew that if you were, I’d have a million things to say to you. Things I should’ve said a really long time ago.”

She shook her head, standing up from the couch in and instant and leaving behind her lipgloss stained wine glass on the coffee table. “Charles, please, I— I shouldn’t have come here. It just— I caught them tonight. And it’s was just a lot and I was on autopilot and drove here. I’m sorry. But I really didn’t come here to hear this. I know, it’s been six years, I’ve had time to come to terms with everything I did wrong.”

But he didn’t move. “I didn’t say they were bad things.”

She stood awkwardly, looking over at him.

“I’d swallow my pride and tell you everything. That it didn’t matter what we listened to in the car, I’d always just liked giving you a hard time. And that I shouldn’t have let the flowers on the kitchen table die. And I’d let you leave you’re empty cups everywhere, I’d clean them up. I would tell you that I bought that stupid piano because I’d wanted you to teach me how to play, and I’d always hoped we’d write at least one song together— and in return I’d try and convince Ferrari to let you drive the car just once. I’d plan more dates, I’d stop nagging you about how you fold your laundry. And that the first time I ever saw you cry, I should’ve told you how beautiful you were when you cried. There was a lot of things I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

She was glad she was facing his back, just to make sure he wouldn’t be able to see her cry.

“Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t have gotten away from me. You wouldn’t have moved out. You wouldn’t have met whoever it is that hurt you tonight. It could’ve all been avoided if I just… realized what I’d had.”

Sniffling quietly, she padded into the kitchen and grabbed the open bottle of wine and carried it back over to the couch. Taking her seat back, and this time filling the cup fuller than Charles had, she sighed shakily. “It takes two to screw up a relationship. I wasn’t the best girlfriend.”

But instead of allowing her to speak, he smiled. “You were. You were the best. We just…”

“Should’ve talked more.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight. No one deserves that. Especially not you.”

She smiled softly. It still hurt, it would for a while, she assumed. But at the end of it all, the universe had taken her exactly where she needed to be. Because at the end of the day, it seemed her and Charles would always find their way back to each other. Exactly how it should be.

“Stay, just for tonight.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

[spidermandes]

catching up

max verstappen x olympic!reader

summary; the one where max doesn’t mind taking the time to correct an ignorant man and show you off on international television at the same time.

warnings: hints to sex, cursing, i think that’s it.

MAX VERSTAPPEN WAS A PRIVATE MAN.

Rarely did he share personal anecdotes or details with people who didn’t know him very well. In particular, the press and media that often ask those invasive questions any chance they get. But he liked the illusion of complete and total privacy, like that of someone without his reputation. Someone who could walk outside without someone taking a photo of them.

That’s why you two worked so well. Growing up in the limelight, as a shadow of a elitist, the child prodigy of someone who was one of the greats. Pushed to be better than the best, no matter the cost. That’s way everything about the two of you, meshed so perfectly well. You two understood each other.

Max remembered those nights the best. Usually when people found out the details of his childhood, all he got was pity. But when the both of you indulged into the horrific stories and traumatic experiences— you’d both spent the night laughing so hard tears welled in your eyes. Two people able to laugh at their misfortunes, smile as what was now the past and happy they’d escaped it. They were in better places now, no longer grieving the childhood they’d lost. You’d both moved on, and were able to live their life presently, with each other.

He’d been left as a gas station, left to walk miles back home alone. You’d been locked out of the house in your thin pajamas in winter, forced to skate on a frozen lake until your neighbor called the cops and you nearly lost a couple toes to frostbite. Max had been knocked around by his dad, you’d been pushed into frozen water by your mom. Life sucked back then, and it didn’t now.

His life was better now. You made his life better.

You both enjoyed the luxury of privacy at home, a home that he happily shared with you in Monaco. it was a recent development in your relationship, only having lived together for a few months after dating for years. At the prime of both of your careers— neither one of you was ready for marriage or settling down. But sharing an apartment? That was easy. You practically lived at his apartment anyway. And he declared you were an expert at relationships, especially the more mundane parts that he hadn’t thought about.

He’d never been in such a healthy relationship, something so pure and well-intentioned. There was a chore list that you two split pretty evenly. You both knew how to ask for time alone. There were nights he was in his simulation room for hours, and you were just as happy in your own world watching shitty reality t.v. in the living room with the cats. You still went on romantic dates— and Max liked to make it seem like you didn’t live together those nights. He’d leave the apartment and drive to find a bouquet of flowers, before pulling up his car in front of the apartment building and knocking on the door with a giddy smile— as if he didn’t have a key and paid half the rent.

And not to mention? Max adored your profession.

Sure, it was fun to be a cute couple and have you at his races. And he’d never turn down you kissing his helmet for good luck, or to know that Christian Horner himself actually preferred when you came around the paddock.

But there was nothing better on planet Earth than seeing you skate.

You were a well decorated figure skater, and had been before you’d met Max. In fact, your accomplishments were the reason you two had met. Being a RedBull promoted athlete yourself, you’d gotten invited to a pretty exclusive Formula One Grand Prix experience, meet and greet with the drivers and even a chance to sit in the car before the race. You didn’t really know that much about the sport, barely enough to hold a conversation with the interviewers who caught up with you while you’d been there.

But, no matter, Max didn’t come up to you to talk about his job anyway. He’d just wanted to talk to you. He needed to know you, to know who you were and how soon he could take you on a date. And luckily for him, you wanted to know who he was just as bad.

In fact, the way the entire world found out about your relationship at all was at an invitational international championship. After your landslide win, the way you’d jumped into his arms and nearly dropped your trophy while kissing him, it wasn’t exactly being secretive. And after attending just one of your events; it became one of his favorite past times. He liked watching you practice, he liked watching you qualify and compete, all of the above. You were stunningly elegant, like gravity wasn’t even real on the ice. Spinning and leaping into the air, everything about it was show-stopping.

He was an athlete. He worked out and trained for his job, blah blah blah. Whatever.

You were elite. And he always made sure you knew that.

The only thing, the one and only thing he ever complained about— was privacy. It wasn’t that you didn’t agree, you just weren’t as concerned with it. You liked talking about him to interviewers, you liked dedicating your wins to your loving and supportive boyfriend who— if he wasn’t at the event, was across the globe taking wins as well.

But it was more than paparazzi taking pictures of you two out and about. Hell, he was more than happy for people to know he’d managed to keep your interest for so many years.

But there were boundaries, things he hated ferociously.

Like when your anniversary trip, a weekend away out in the water— the paparazzi had found their longest lenses and nosy fans zooming in on their phones found a way to photograph the two of you. The comments that came out of that entire ordeal? He’d nearly gone berserk. How dare anyone comment on how you looked? How dare anyone invade such privacy, how dare anyone take a photo of his girlfriend and say such vile things?

Or the sexual comments, the harassment you faced online daily. The belittlement, the harsh treatment, the bullying and hate you received from complete strangers— sometimes people just hating on you publicly just for dating him? As if you’d stolen him? It was unacceptable, so he preferred to keep as much as he could private, just so they had nothing to say about it.

And Max was mostly good at keeping his mouth shut at races. He could say mostly whatever he wanted when he was streaming or talking to his friends about it. He could shit on the media all he wanted in private. But at a race, representing RedBull, he had an obligation to be courteous and simply walk away if he needed to.

Except for today.

A wonderful race day, only could’ve been made better if you’d been able to be there. But you were quite literally in a different country, training for the god damn Olympics. He’d have another race, another Grand Prix, you had to be where you had to be. Plus— you were adults. You both had careers, you could do what you were contractually obligated to do. He wasn’t butt hurt that you couldn’t be at this one race. Actually— he was more bummed about not being able to see you skate.

The video you took and sent him over text, where you’d propped your phone up and showed him your warmup routine, wasn’t enough for him.

But either way, he’d taken top of the podium, covered head to toe in sticky champagne and a wide smile. And everything was going fantastic in his eyes, in fact— he was honestly just patiently waiting until he could escape back into his driver’s room and reply to all your texts messages, maybe even sneak in a FaceTime call if he was lucky to catch you at a break.

Or maybe a photo of your outfit?

Oh— now he was thinking about you in leggings and your skin tight shirts, and that was bad luck when he was being photographed and in front of thousands of people.

“So, Max— you’ve collected the title of World Champion last race with your massive point lead, and you’ve just taken yet another podium here today. That’s quite an impressive achievement, breaking records left and right.”

Max nodded, trying to act interested. “Yeah, it’s uh… it’s all really exciting and I can’t thank my team enough. We’ve got a good car this year and things have uh… worked out pretty well this season.”

How do you answer the same question differently seven million times over again?

“And now with that title, I mean— does your girlfriend refer to you know in bed as three-time world champion Max Verstappen, or just Max?”

He tried to laugh that one off, trying not to think about how fucking weird it is to ask what two people call each other in bed. “Oh, no, no, we uh… we have some names for each other but uh… That is for me to know only,” He chuckled, once again allowing his mind to wander off into daydreams with you. “But uh, no. No, we’ll, it’s really not that impressive to her I assume.”

The interviewer frowned, “Oh? Was there a four-time world champion in her past?” He laughed, immediately making Max tense up.

Did this joker not know who you were? Does anyone do any research before just walking up to someone and interviewing them on live television?

“Well, obviously, she is has five Olympic gold medals and many many more trophies than me.” Max stated rather plainly, “You know— you knew that though. She is much more of a decorated athlete than me, very very good as what she does, so uh, you know, I am just catching up.”

You giggled over the phone, scrolling away from the video that had been sent to you by a million different people and was seemingly all over everyone’s feed today as soon as the interview went live.

Not to mention all the thirst-trap edits people were making because of it as well. You certainly did not mind that. You’d always loved edits of Max showing up on your feeds, even when Max was genuinely questioning what it meant when someone comments that you were ‘serving cunt’ or that he was such a ‘touch her and you die’ kind of guy.

Even then, you loved it. You loved him.

Max scoffed, twirling back into the bathroom with a towel at his waist. You were still wrapped in yours as well, both decompressing from an eventful evening together— on the counter, couch, and the shower.

After all, was Max not allowed to miss his girlfriend? “You’re still watching that? Please, it pisses me off.”

You shrugged, turning over and propping yourself up on your arms seeing as your legs were much too tired to do much of anything at all. You’re eyes immediately stuck onto Max, unable to not stare, water still dripping from his hair and his shoulders, then trailing down his chest to the glory trail where your nose had once been— then down… “It’s funny!”

“It’s not funny. He’s an asshole.”

“Not everyone watches figure skating Maxie,” You sigh, “I don’t expect everyone to know who I am.”

Max tosses his toothbrush back into the cup where it belonged next to yours, sighing and rubbing the excess water out of his hair with the spare towel hanging on the door. There was simply nothing more relaxing than steaming water and you in the shower, along side the domestic bliss of living with you. As he’d said, life was simply better now. And that included exhausting first-night-back sex. “Well, I do expect interviewers who plan to ask me about my girlfriend— to in fact know who my girlfriend is.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him for a second, watching him dig through the dresser for something comfortable to sleep in. Despite being rather disappointed he’d decided to put on a shirt, you didn’t care much for Formula One interviewers. They didn’t pay rent in your mind at all, so it was rather easy to evict them.

“Well, either way, can’t lie and say you defending my honor is quite hot” You chuckled, obviously teasing him as he turned to look at you and you bit your lip obnoxiously. “So sexy.”

Boxers and a old RedBull shirt, as well as the spare t-shirt he’d grabbed for you— he ultimately decided that neither of you would need clothes all tonight. He wouldn’t mind stripping once more as he stalked towards you. “Not defending anything, schat. You’ve worked hard, you deserve all of the attention. Everyone should know who you are.”

He liked when you batted your eyelashes at him like your were now, as if you were actually innocent.

“Well thank you— three time world champion Max Verstappen.”

“Of course, five time gold medalist Y/N Verstappen.”

“Oh! I think I like the sound of that. My ring finger is getting quite cold too, you better fix that.”

Max grinned, crawling on top of you and slowly peeling the white towel off. “Soon, my love, have to catch up with you first.”

[spidermandes]

I love your writings so much 🥲🥲❤️❤️

ily ily ily ily my heart wowo