The Miscommunication GP (Multiple Drivers x Reader)
Summary: You didn’t leak the location, you didn’t flirt, you didn’t ghost — but they thought you did. Cue bratty sulking boys, tearful truths, and the sweetest grovels this side of the paddock
Pairings: Oscar Piastri x Reader, Charles Leclerc x Reader, Lando Norris x Reader, Max Verstappen x Reader
Updated on 10/4 - I made Lando grovel a little more, the boy seemed like he got away too easy the first time ☠️
Oscar Piastri
The apartment door clicked open sometime after midnight, Oscar dragging his suitcase inside with a weary scowl. The flight back from a brutal triple-header had left him running on fumes, and the simmering frustration of a weekend gone wrong hadn’t helped.
What made it worse? The calls.
Three missed FaceTimes. Two unread texts. He’d sat in the lounge watching the little “no answer” notification blink at him, jaw clenched. By the time he got home, he’d convinced himself you’d just… ignored him.
“Didn’t even bother to pick up,” he muttered, kicking his shoes off with more force than necessary. “Nice.”
He found you in bed, curled under the blanket, phone facedown on the nightstand. The faintest glow from the screen showed the “Do Not Disturb” icon.
“Really?” he scoffed under his breath, tugging at his hoodie. “Couldn’t even wait up—”
Your eyes blinked open, heavy and glassy with exhaustion. You sat up, rubbing at your face. “Oscar?”
“You didn’t answer me all day.” His voice was sharp, irritation masking the ache beneath it. “Not one call. Not one text. Do you know how that feels, flying home after that mess of a weekend, and you don’t even have dinner ready?”
The words landed like a slap.
You blinked at him, throat closing. Without saying anything, you pushed yourself out of bed, padding quietly into the kitchen. Silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you pulled chicken and broccoli from the fridge, spooning rice into the pan.
Oscar huffed and disappeared into the bedroom, too wound up to notice the way your shoulders shook as you plated the food.
When he returned twenty minutes later, the table was set with one plate. Just one. Chicken, rice, broccoli—his usual. No second dish. No glass of water for you.
You weren’t there either.
The sliding door to the balcony was cracked, and when he stepped closer, he found you outside. Curled into yourself in the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, hoodie sleeves hiding your face.
“Love?” His voice softened instantly, guilt already curling in his stomach. You didn’t look up.
He crouched down in front of you, heart dropping at the shimmer of tears streaking your cheeks. “Hey, hey… what’s this?” He tried to reach for your hand, but you pulled back, turning further into the corner.
It hit him like cold water: he’d snapped at you—his safe place, his anchor—because of his own bruised ego. Because of a race. Because of nothing.
“Oh, fuck.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, voice cracking. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I was an absolute dick. I didn’t mean it. I just—I came home angry at myself and I took it out on you. And you don’t deserve that. Not ever.”
You sniffled, hugging your knees tighter.
He shifted closer, desperation tugging at every word. “Please don’t shut me out. I know I don’t deserve a second chance tonight, but—god, I hate that I made you cry. I hate that you think even for a second that I don’t adore you.”
He reached again, gentler this time, brushing his thumb along your sleeve until you let him catch your hand.
“You weren’t ignoring me, were you?” His tone was broken now, realizing the truth as he asked. “You just… fell asleep?”
You nodded faintly, voice raspy. “Bad day. Phone was on silent. I wasn’t ignoring you.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted. He tugged you into his lap immediately, arms banding around you like he could physically erase every word he’d thrown at you earlier. “I’m the worst,” he whispered into your hair. “Absolute worst. And you still cooked for me.” His throat worked hard. “And I was a prick.”
You tried to turn away, but he kissed your temple, frantic with apology. “No more. I promise. You never owe me dinner, or calls, or anything. Just—please don’t curl away from me like this. Please don’t make me feel like I lost you over my own stupidity.”
He held you tighter, rocking you gently until your breathing steadied.
Later, he carried you back inside, tucked you under the blanket, and crawled in beside you—clingy and contrite, whispering “sorry” into your hair every few minutes. He couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop kissing your knuckles, your shoulder, the corner of your mouth.
By morning, the untouched plate was still on the table. But in bed, Oscar was wrapped around you like ivy, murmuring into your ear:
“First thing we do today? I’m making you breakfast. And then I’m spending the whole day proving I don’t deserve you, but I’ll try anyway.”
And for once, he wasn’t joking.
⸻
Charles Leclerc
The night was supposed to be perfect.
Charles had said so himself when he kissed your hand on the way into the restaurant: “Just us tonight. No cameras, no noise. Only you.”
The place was tucked into the harbor, quiet, romantic. You’d snapped a picture of the sunset bleeding orange over the water, the kind of photo that begged to be shared — except you hadn’t. You’d texted it to your mum with a quick line: my love treats me so well. That was it.
But before the main course even hit the table, fans had started arriving. One, then three, then ten. Charles signed napkins, menus, a Ferrari cap someone had in their bag. By the time he slid back into his chair, jaw tight, his wine glass sat untouched.
“You couldn’t wait, could you?” he muttered, cutting into his food with more force than necessary.
Your fork paused mid-air. “Wait for what?”
He gestured at your phone, still face-down by your plate. “Posting. Sharing. Whatever. You gave the whole world our location.”
Your chest went cold. “Charles, I didn’t. I texted my mum a picture. That’s all.”
“Sure, bébé,” he said, voice clipped. He didn’t even look at you when he rolled his eyes.
The rest of dinner passed in silence, broken only by the scrape of cutlery.
⸻
The ride home was worse. The city lights blurred by the window, your reflection pale in the glass. Charles kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping restlessly against his thigh.
Finally, he muttered, “I just wanted to do something nice for you. One night for us. And you had to go and ruin it. Show it off.”
You turned sharply in your seat, heat rising to your face. “I didn’t ruin anything, Charles. I texted my mum. That’s it. If anyone ruined the night, it was you — accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
He didn’t answer. His knuckles just went whiter on the wheel.
Your voice cracked when you added, “If you don’t trust me, then why do you even bother with me?”
Silence swallowed the rest of the drive.
⸻
Back at his apartment, you went straight to the bedroom. Your phone landed on the dresser with a thud, screen lighting up with the most damning evidence of all:
my love treats me so well
Mum: He’s such a gentleman. You’re lucky, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.
You didn’t wait for him to follow. You locked yourself in the bathroom, water scalding hot as you cried through your shower, hands pressed to your face.
A knock came after a while. “Mon amour,” Charles said softly through the door.
“Go away,” you choked, voice breaking.
Silence. Then retreating footsteps.
When you finally crawled into bed, eyes swollen, he was there already — on his side, back turned, shoulders tense. You slid under the covers, facing the opposite way.
“Bébé, I’m sor—”
“Not now, Charles.” Your voice was flat, final.
He exhaled, the sound heavy. “Tomorrow,” he muttered.
And that was it.
⸻
Tomorrow came with an empty bed.
You drifted through the morning in a haze, heart heavy. The apartment was too quiet, too big. You made tea and didn’t drink it, curled up on the couch and stared at nothing.
When the door finally opened, you didn’t bother to look up at first.
“Mon amour…” His voice was careful.
You turned your head — and froze. Charles stood there, hair mussed from the wind, bouquet of white roses in one hand and a takeout bag in the other.
He set them down gently, like a peace offering. “I was wrong,” he said simply. His voice cracked, just a little. “I accused you without listening. I didn’t trust you, and you didn’t deserve that.”
Your throat tightened, but you stayed quiet.
He unpacked the bag slowly, almost nervously, and slid the box toward you. The smell hit instantly — warm, sweet, familiar. Your favorite French toast, piled high with strawberries and powdered sugar.
You tried to fight it, you really did. But your lips twitched when he pushed the fork into your hand.
“You’re still in trouble,” you muttered, spearing a bite.
Relief broke across his face like sunlight. “I’ll take it. Just… let me make it up to you. A redo. No distractions this time.”
You chewed slowly, letting him sweat. Finally, you sighed. “One redo.”
He grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Merci, mon amour. I won’t waste it.”
And this time, you believed him.
⸻
Lando Norris
Martin’s set was insane. The lights, the beat, the crowd surging with every drop—it was the kind of night Lando lived for. He was grinning ear to ear, a tequila shot in one hand, already pulling people onto the dance floor.
You tried. Really, you did. You nursed one tequila soda, then switched to water when your head started to ache. The bass thudded so loud it rattled your ribs, and by the time Martin went into his third remix, every pulse of the music sent a spear of pain through your temples.
Still—you smiled when Lando bounded over, sweaty and glowing, planted a sloppy kiss on your cheek. You leaned into his ear, yelling, “I’m gonna Uber back to the apartment, okay?”
“OKAY, BABY BACK!” he shouted, already looking past you at the crowd.
Not exactly listening. But you took it as enough. You slipped out, phone buzzing faintly in your hand as you ordered the ride. By the time you stumbled into the apartment, head splitting, you were nauseous and shaky, medicine bottle rattling as you fumbled it open. You didn’t remember falling asleep—just the cool pillow under your cheek, the blanket pulled halfway over you.
⸻
The texts came first.
Lando 🧡: Where’d you go??
Lando 🧡: You just left me??
Lando 🧡: Not cool.
You groaned, head pounding too much to even answer.
The second blow came in the morning:
Lando 🧡: Since you left me last night, I’ll just go get breakfast with Charles and Alex.
You dropped your phone face-down, chest tightening.
⸻
When he finally came back around noon, you were curled on the couch with the curtains drawn. The door slammed, sharp enough to make you flinch.
“There you are,” he muttered, shrugging off his jacket. “You could’ve at least told me before you disappeared last night.”
You pulled the blanket tighter. “I did. You weren’t listening.”
“Yeah, sure,” he scoffed, kicking his shoes into the corner. “Convenient excuse. Do you have any idea how shit it felt, standing there like a dickhead when people asked where you’d gone? Looked like we’d had a fight or something.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to—”
“And then you ghost me all morning?” He yanked open the fridge, let it slam shut again. “Could’ve just said you didn’t feel like going out instead of bailing. You made me look like an idiot.”
You blinked hard, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying. He stomped around the apartment, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to catch every jagged edge: always so dramatic… ruin a good night… can’t just enjoy things…
Each word landed heavier than the last, your chest aching worse than your head.
⸻
By late afternoon, you couldn’t take it.
“I can’t—” Your voice cracked, tears spilling over before you could stop them. “I can’t do this right now, Lando. My head still hurts, and you’ve been stomping around blaming me like I ruined your night when I just—” A sob broke free. “I felt sick. That’s it. I felt sick, and sleep didn’t help, and the pain meds didn’t help, and the sound of that stupid door slamming made me want to pull my hair out.”
He froze, guilt washing the anger from his face in an instant. “Wait—what?”
You were crying harder now, pressing your palms against your temples like you could squeeze the pain away. “It’s too loud. Everything’s too loud,” you whispered, voice shaking.
“Hey, hey, baby—stop, stop,” he murmured, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands hovered helplessly before he reached, prying your fingers gently out of your hair. “Don’t do that, love, you’ll hurt yourself.”
You whimpered when he pulled your hands down, and the sight nearly broke him.
“Christ, I’m such an asshole,” he whispered. “Come here.” He slid his hands up to your scalp, thumbs moving slow and steady, lightly massaging where your hairline met your temples. The pressure was soft—tentative—but the second he found the right spot, a shaky sigh escaped you.
“That help?” he asked quietly, fingers still moving in gentle circles.
You nodded weakly, tears still streaking your cheeks. “A little.”
“Okay,” he murmured, voice low and guilty. “Okay, we’ll stick with that.”
He stayed like that for minutes, maybe longer—hands in your hair, murmuring soft apologies in between every breath. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I shouldn’t have assumed. I didn’t even check on you. God, I’m so sorry.”
When you leaned forward and your forehead brushed his shoulder, he took it as permission. Slowly, carefully, he shifted you into his lap, tucking the blanket around you until you were cocooned against his chest.
“Let me get your meds, yeah?” he whispered. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t pull away when he eased you back to the couch, sprinted to the bathroom, and came back with the bottle and a glass of water.
“Here. Two, right?”
You took them wordlessly, swallowing them down before curling right back into him.
He didn’t let go this time. One arm wrapped around your back, the other kept up that slow, careful motion against your scalp. Every so often, he pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’ll fix it, baby. I promise. I’ll feed you, I’ll shut up, I’ll do whatever you need.”
He did exactly that—tiptoeing around the kitchen to make toast and eggs, setting the plate on your lap, coaxing you to eat between soft apologies. Every bite you took felt like a small step toward forgiveness, but he didn’t rush it. He didn’t deserve to.
When you were done, he cleaned up without a word, then sank back beside you on the couch, guiding your head back onto his chest. His hands never stopped moving—thumb brushing your temple, fingers tracing lazy lines down your arm.
“I hate that I made you feel like this,” he whispered. “You should’ve been the one getting taken care of last night, not… blamed for it.”
You didn’t answer. You were too tired. Too wrung out.
But when your breathing started to even, when your body finally went limp in his arms, he exhaled shakily and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you now. I swear it.”
He stayed like that until you were deep asleep. Then, with infinite care, he slid his arms under you and lifted you from the couch. You stirred, a soft sound leaving your throat, but he shushed you quietly.
“Shh, baby,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.”
Your head fell against his shoulder as he carried you to bed, tucked you beneath the sheets, and climbed in beside you. One arm found its familiar place around your waist.
“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he whispered into your hair. “Even if it takes all week.”
And when you hummed weakly in half-asleep acknowledgment, he knew he’d spend every day trying to prove it.
⸻
Max Verstappen
It started as nothing.
Just a laugh in the garage during FP2. You, leaning on the counter with your notebook open, smiling at one of the Red Bull mechanics. He said something in Dutch that Max couldn’t catch, and you laughed, jotting something down.
Max’s chest tightened instantly. Laughing with one of his guys. Writing something down. He didn’t need to see the words—he’d already decided it looked wrong.
When you rejoined him, his tone was clipped. “What were you writing?”
You blinked. “Notes.”
“Notes,” he repeated, flat. “Or maybe a phone number?”
Your brows shot up. “Max—seriously?”
He looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t believe you.
⸻
That night, you slipped out for an errand. He noticed immediately.
Max 🦁: where are you
Max 🦁: who are you with
Max 🦁: why do you need to sneak off during race weekend?
You typed back quickly—just shopping, stop worrying—but his replies stayed sharp, suspicious.
By race day, the tension was unbearable.
You showed up at the garage, notebook tucked under your arm and two little paper bags in your hand—one tucked away for later, the other you passed discreetly to the same mechanic. Max’s eyes zeroed in on it, stomach burning.
Of course. Giddy smile. Bag in hand. Sharing it with him.
He didn’t care to wonder why you’d have two. Didn’t want to. It was easier to feed the anger.
So he shoved it down, got in the car, and when the lights went out—Mad Max came out. He drove ruthless, furious, unbeatable. Won the race because anger had always been the best fuel.
⸻
On the jet home, the bitterness spilled.
“You looked happy with him,” Max muttered, staring out the window.
You blinked. “What?”
“The mechanic. You smiled more at him than you did at me all weekend.” His knuckles whitened on the armrest. “First you’re laughing, then writing. Then you show up with bags. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
Your chest squeezed. “Max, it wasn’t—”
“Always an excuse,” he cut in. “You disappear during FP2, come back giddy, give him gifts, and you expect me to just ignore it?”
You stared at him, stunned. “You don’t trust me at all, do you?”
He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms, jaw iron-tight, eyes fixed on the dark sky outside.
You turned away, swallowing hard. “Fine. If you can’t trust me to talk to someone without assuming the worst, maybe we just don’t talk at all for now.”
Silence. Cold, suffocating. Neither of you spoke again until the plane landed.
⸻
At the apartment, you didn’t even try to fix it. Max stomped off toward his sim rig, headset already in hand, barking to his Team Redline friends. You quietly unpacked in the bedroom, shoulders heavy with defeat.
At the bottom of your bag, your fingers brushed the little paper package. The sweets. The ones Max had told you about once—half shy, half nostalgic—when he’d admitted his mom used to sneak him something sweet while he was at school. You’d asked the mechanic for help finding the shop. You’d even gotten him a small bag as thanks.
All so you could surprise Max.
Now it just felt pathetic.
With trembling hands, you set the sweets on his pillow. Then you retreated to the guest room, showered, curled up on the bed, and cried yourself to sleep. One of the cats padded up and pressed against you, their little purr the only comfort you had left.
⸻
Much later, Max padded into the bedroom. He froze at the sight of the bag on his pillow.
His heart dropped when he saw the logo. He knew that shop. The old Dutch place that still stocked those candies—impossible to find unless you knew exactly where to look.
He tipped the bag open with shaking hands, candy spilling into his palm. His chest seized.
That’s what you’d been writing. That’s why you’d disappeared. That’s why you’d had two bags—one for him, one as thanks for the tip.
Not flirting. Not secrets. Just… thoughtful.
His throat burned. He left the sweets where they were and padded quietly to the guest room.
The door was cracked. Inside, you were curled into yourself, eyes puffy even in sleep, one of the cats tucked tight against your chest like a furry little guard dog.
Max stepped closer, sinking to his knees beside the bed. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. You stirred faintly but didn’t wake, a tear-streak still dried on your cheek.
The cat opened one eye, glaring at him like it understood everything. Like it was saying: you hurt her, asshole. She feeds us.
Max swallowed hard, guilt slicing him open.
“I’m sorry, schat,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I was wrong. So wrong.” He pressed a kiss to your hair, pulling back slowly. “I’ll fix it tomorrow. I promise.”
The cat’s glare followed him as he left, and for once, Max Verstappen knew he deserved it.
⸻
The sunlight crept too bright into the guest room. Your head throbbed—not from a hangover, but from the swollen heaviness that only came after crying yourself to sleep.
You dragged yourself into the kitchen, puffy-eyed, hair unbrushed. The apartment was quiet, empty. Max was gone.
Fine. Better.
You moved through the morning like a ghost. Coffee sat untouched. Your phone buzzed a few times with messages you didn’t check. Even the cat seemed quieter, trailing after you with soft paws like it knew you were still brittle.
By the time the door opened again, you were curled on the couch, blanket pulled over your knees.
Max stepped in with his arms full. Flowers. A sleek shopping bag. A white paper bag with the logo of your favorite café stamped on the front.
He looked almost… sheepish. “Schat,” he said softly. “I brought you breakfast.”
You stared at the table as he set everything down. Strawberries glistened on French toast, powdered sugar dusted thick, exactly how you liked it. The flowers were bright and clumsy, not perfectly arranged—like he’d grabbed the biggest bunch he could find.
And then there were the other bags. Designer. Shiny.
“Your favorite,” he said quickly, lifting the takeout container toward you. “And some… things. To show I’m sorry.”
You swallowed hard, heat rising in your chest—but not the good kind.
“You think a bag and a dress fix this?” Your voice cracked sharp in the quiet room.
Max froze, hand halfway between you and the table. “I—”
“You didn’t trust me.” The words came out raw. “You saw me smile at someone and assumed the worst. You thought I’d give my number to one of your mechanics. Do you know how much that hurts?”
He flinched, lips parting like he wanted to argue, then closing again.
“I wasn’t flirting,” you said, louder now, tears stinging again. “I was trying to do something nice for you. I wanted to surprise you. And instead you made me feel like a liar.”
Max’s chest heaved. His hand dragged through his hair, tugging like he could rip the frustration out. “I know. I know, schat. I was wrong.” He moved closer, kneeling in front of you. “I saw you laughing, writing, sneaking away… and I didn’t ask. I just assumed. And that’s on me. I got jealous, and I—” His voice cracked. “I hurt you.”
Your arms tightened around yourself. “You didn’t even let me explain.”
“I know.” His voice was desperate now. He reached for your hand, but you pulled it back. His eyes dropped, guilt carved deep in his features. “You don’t deserve that. You deserve trust. Always. And I didn’t give it to you.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy. You sniffled, glaring at the pile of expensive things he’d brought. “I didn’t want a bracelet. Or a dress. I wanted you to believe me.”
Max’s jaw clenched. Then, slowly, he pushed the shopping bags aside like they didn’t matter. He picked up the café box again and set it gently in your lap.
“Then no gifts,” he said quietly. “Just me. Trying to be better. Please, let me try again.”
You hesitated, staring down at the strawberries dusted in sugar. A tear slid down your cheek.
“Max…”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse, eyes searching yours. “I was a jealous idiot. And I’ll grovel as long as it takes, schat. But don’t give up on me. Please.”
Your throat tightened. He looked so raw—so unlike the stubborn, untouchable Max Verstappen the world saw. Just a boy on his knees in front of you, begging for another chance.
You let out a shaky breath. “This is your one redo.”
Relief crashed over his face. He nodded quickly. “I’ll take it. I’ll do better. I swear it.”
Finally, you let him take your hand. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, tentative and reverent, like he was scared you’d pull away again.
“You’d better,” you muttered, though your lips twitched faintly.
Max leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand. “Whatever it takes.”
And though your chest still ached, some part of you knew he meant it.
⸻
