vettelsbees - Tumblr blog

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. ��Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

#f1 x reader #lando norris fluff #lando norris x reader #ln4 x reader #ln4 rec #holy cow this is fueling me it’s so cue

3K notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

like..I'd go to hell and back to back him up but sometimes he ain't the sharpest tool in the shed and honestly, same

15 notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

purple lilacs — 𝐜𝐥. 𝟏𝟔 charles leclerc x florist! fem!sri lankan!reader (fc: maitreyi ramakrishnan) smau. requested! fluff. light angst. strangers to lovers. kika and pierre being good friends. original female character (océane). implied unhealthy work-life balance. chapter two; view the (flower) arrangements table of contents.

synopsis: a mutual friend, océane, upsets kika’s plans when she begs to be set up with charles. kika can only hope that océane doesn’t take it personally when she realizes that charles has his eyes focused on you, and he won’t let his gaze wander.

༊࿐ ⊹ it should not have taken me this long to post part two, but i could not think of instagram comments for the LIFE of me. enjoy reading, loves 🤍

imessage • océane -> kika & you

imessage • kika -> charles & pierre

imessage • pierre -> kika

imessage • océane -> you & kika

instagram • kikagomes

♡︎ 121K 🗨️547 ➤ 5.6K

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly, iamrebeccad, and others

kikagomes dressed the girls up for dinner 😋🍽️🤤

𖤘 yourinstagram | océaneofc

view comments

pierregasly: i dressed up too but somehow didn't make the final cut?

kikagomes: you should have worn brown like i told you too < 3 joris_trouche: if i had known there was a color theme i would have out dressed all three of you 🥱🥱🥱 océaneofc: lying is a sin you know 😉

user1: lindaaaaa 😍😍😍

user2: who's the baddie in the seconde slide 😶

user3: lovelovelove brown on you kika 🤎

user4: BEAUTIFUL GIRLS ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

lilymhe: okay fomo warning 🥺

kikagomes: lily. i have so much to catch you up on 😁 lilymhe: call me. rn. user5: wait shit make it a group call!!! i want to know too!!! user6: instagram live is a function for a reason 😳

user7: who's the baddie in the middle 👀

user8: m-mommies?

océaneofc: food wasn’t the only thing we ATE at dinner 💋

océaneofc: you really SET HER UP to stand out didn't you 🤨 kikagomes: i did what i had to do and i won't apologize user9: what the hell happened at dinner 🙋🏻‍♀️ user10: i think kika's plotting smth crazy user9

user11: kika and océane need to drag the florist out of her shop more often if that's what she's hiding behind her apron 🥵🥵🥵

user12: the way océane always serves face needs to be studied!!!

yourinstagram: never letting you pick my outift again ♥️ by author

charles_leclerc: i think kika styled you very well 😇 charles_leclerc: you looked beautiful in that dress tonight ☺️ yourinstagram: um. thank you? charles_leclerc: don't thank me for stating the obvious yourinstagram: oh :) sorry? charles_leclerc: tu es trop mignonne yourinstagram: assuming that me being cute is obvious, what am i supposed to say instead of ty? ↳charles_leclerc requested to follow you. | CONFIRM or DELETE |

user13: if i were playing my favorite guessing game called: flattery or flirting—this would be flirting 🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️🤷🏼‍♀️

user14: she's so dry when she talks to him and charles just falls for her more and more with each response 🙂‍↕️ user15: it's okay girl. when hot men speak to me i also forget how to function yourinstagram user16: so what are the flower arrangements gonna look like at the wedding 😏 yourinstagram

instagram • yourinstagram 🔒

♡︎ 🗨️ ➤

liked by charles_leclerc, kikagomes, océaneofc, and others

yourinstagram i went outside for the first time in forever, and was quickly reminded why i don't trust the french and portuguese.

𖤘 kikagomes | pierregasly | océaneofc

view comments

christinanadin: you're so hot it makes me mad 😡🥵😡

lilymhe: body so tea the british want to colonize it????

yourinstagram: LOL the heart eyes emoji would have worked 🤣 kellypiquet: did she lie though 😍😍😍 lilymhe: 😘😚🤗

pierregasly: i understand not trusting kika, but what did i do 🤔

yourinstagram: i know you're involved somehow you chronic gossip 🫩

inesreiss_: oh no what did kika do this time…

kikagomes: unlike charles, i want to hear you thank me for this 😤

yourinstagram: there will be poison ivy in your next bouquet.

charles_leclerc: i am not french i am monegasque!

yourinstagram: i am aware charles_leclerc: that means you can trust me 😇 yourinstagram: we have met three times. yourinstagram: it would be insane if i trusted you charles_leclerc: sounds like we have to meet again then 😌

océaneofc: you wouldn't forget how messy we can be if you went out with us more than once a year 😒😒😒

yourinstagram: i'd rather avoid you all completely océaneofc: booooooo you love us 💓💓💓 pierregasly: that's the most lie sounding lie ever told kikagomes: you couldn't survive without us 💞

charles_leclerc: do you really only go to dinner with them once a year?

yourinstagram: they are exaggerating 😒 it's at least once a month kikagomes: once every other month really 😁 océaneofc: ehhh maybe once every three months 😌 charles_leclerc: hmm i will have to find a way to pull your head out of the flowers more often 😶 yourinstagram: everyone has tried and failed at that. charles_leclerc: thankfully, i am not everyone 🤗

imessage • charles -> pierre & kika

instagram • bouquetiere

♡︎ 35K 🗨️469 ➤ 3.4K

liked by vogueweddings, parisfashionweek, charles_leclerc and others

bouquetiere blessed to say that we are fully scheduled for weddings until 2027! thank you for the endless amount of support and business; this milestone would not be possible without those who purchased a single flower to those who booked us for large events.

if you would like to join a waitlist for possible cancellations that may occur on your wedding date, there is a link in my bio that will take you to the form. otherwise, booking for 2027 will open soon. once again, thank you for your overwhelming support 🤩🥂💐

view comments

📌 vogueweddings: the best florist in monaco sounds more like a fact with every day that passes 😘😘😘

charles_leclerc: i told you this day would come! congrats 🥳

bouquetiere: i couldn't have done it without you showing up to the workshop. that brought so much attention to us, and your continued support has made this moment possible. charles_leclerc: i may have brought more people to the shop, but YOUR work made them stay and book. you deserve this, 100% 😌

user17: i love seeing my local businesses thrive!!! you earned this!!!

bouquetiere: thank you 🥹

kikagomes: SO HAPPY FOR YOU 🤩🤩🤩

bouquetiere: thank you, truly.

user18: so bittersweet! genuinely considering pushing my wedding date back to book with you 🥹🥹🥹

user19: crying about this if anyone even cared to ask! love this for you

bouquetiere: i'm crying too 🤧

océaneofc: hard work always pays off!!! proud of you girlie < 3

bouquetiere: and the dream is becoming reality!!!

twitter

imessage • you -> kika

twitter

imessage • kika -> you

instagram • bouquetiere

♡︎ 14.4K 🗨️3.6K ➤ 7.2K

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, kikagomes, and others

bouquetiere this week's edition: flower symbolism 🤓🕵️‍♀️🪻

white hydrangeas symbolize grace, purity, and innocence. they are commonly used in wedding bouquets to represent new beginnings. daffodils symbolize joy, rebirth, and new beginnings. in some cultures, daffodils are associated with wealth and prosperity. blue hyacinths convey faithfulness, sincerity, and devotion. they are often included in floral arrangements due to their rich fragrance and amazing color.

as spring nears, you'll be seeing more of these beautiful flowers featured on this page. stop by bouquetiere this season to grab a bouquet of your own 💐💐💐

view comments

📌 oscarpiastri: thank you for the impromptu lesson on flower meanings yesterday 👍🏻

bouquetiere: i did not mean to bore you by rambling about rose variations for 20 minutes 😬😬🫣 oscarpiastri: it wasn't boring, you saved me from buying flowers that meant the opposite of what i wanted them to mean 😅 my girlfriend loved the bouquet btw 😊 bouquetiere: happy to hear that! user20: she's singhandedly saving the relationships of f1 drivers now 🤧 user21: when is relationship advice going to be added to bouquetiere's services? i'm waiting ⏰

user22: why don't more people use daffodils in their wedding bouquets? it sounds like a perfect flower for it!

bouquetiere: it's mostly due to the bright yellow color! unfortunately, they easily clash with most wedding aesthetics :( user21: i wish more people embraced a colorful wedding! totally going to be using daffodils at mine 🤩

user23: 😍😍😍

user24: hyacinths are the best flower on earth!!!

charles_leclerc: what flower means 'i'm sorry for stalking your instagram and using our mutual friends to get closer to you, and for them nagging you to give me a chance when your reason for avoiding me is completely valid and correct BUT i really do like you, and your ambition, focus, commitment, and drive and i want to hear you ramble about flower arrangements and wedding bouquet samples, and annoying men who don't know their partner's or mother's favorite flowers, and i'm embarrassed and shameful because i ruined my chance to treat you well before i could even try?" 😃

bouquetiere: there isn't a single flower on this planet that could communicate that better than you just did. charles_leclerc: do you think she'd want to hear me say that in person? bouquetiere: she might. she might want some lily of the valley and purple hyacinths too—they are tasteful apology flowers. something tells me that you didn't ruin your chance. perhaps, she'll forgive you and thinks that lurking through her instagram is desperate, but also a little adorable and endearing. bouquetiere: she might have tucked a note with her phone number into your last bouquet. perchance. user25: sooo is this the right time for me to say girl what. or not?

twitter

your lockscreen

#charles leclerc x reader #cl16 x reader #cl16 rec

361 notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

ੈ✩ drivers sending you pictures of bf! lando ੈ✩

warning : fluff, chaos

a/n : sooo, i saw this on tumblr AND A LOT OF OTHER PALCES, THIS IS NOT COPYING, I AM JUST INSPIRED TO MAKE MY OWN! phew, anyways enjoy watching!

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

let me know if you want to be added or removed

permanent tg: @isotopemylove @chair-things @justaf1girl @bibblemiluvr @blushmimi @nikfigueiredo @amz824 @ivegotparticulartaste @raizelchrysanderoctavius @freyathehuntress @piastri-fvx @sadiemack9 @ilivbullyingjeongin @cherry-piee @luvleylisen @sweate-r-weathe-r @jxnellat @loveofmylife12 @budgetcupid @lilaissa @scorpiodiosa @wondergirl101ks @nichmeddar @hoeforlifee @urfavnoirette @lily-ann-b @okcurran @miniboast @teti-menchon0604 @motorsportloverf1 @formula1-motogpfan @capricornito @star73807-blog @isagrace22 @unstablefemme @lovestruck-sky @celiacallsitcausal

#f1 x reader #f1 smau #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #ln4 rec #ln4 x reader

3K notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

96K notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

oscar piastri’s “partner”

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: oscar piastri x lando norris sister!reader

summary: you appear on the race broadcast and f1 mistakenly puts “oscar piastri’s partner” as your title even though the two of you have never spoken and youre lando’s younger sister

notes: i love making smau one shots so much and would love to take requests from you guys!!

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / social media au / fc: lexi jayde

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux and 263,198 others

y/nnorris shoutout to my brother for winning monaco and giving me a free paddock pass

view all comments

user6 imagine being so girlfriend coded that sky sports couldn’t even wait for confirmation

↳ y/nnorris confirmation of WHAT😭

↳ user93 the relationship that apparently only you don’t know about

user14 paddock pass this, paddock pass that. GIVE US A PIC WITH OSCAR BE SERIOUS

lando glad to know i’m just your paddock pass provider now

user23 not her pretending like she didn’t get introduced as OSCAR’S PARTNER on live TV

user67 "free paddock pass" no babe they put your full relationship status on the international broadcast

user19 the way she’s not just a drivers sister now but a whole wag too

↳ y/nnorris WHOSE wag??? be so serious rn

↳ user43 girl don’t play dumb we all saw the monaco broadcast

user89 the fact that you’re confused just confirms it. that’s exactly how all the lowkey couples act

↳ y/nnorris I AM NOT A LOWKEY COUPLE

↳ user10 yeah that’s what the last lowkey couple said too

y/nnorris just added to their close friends story!

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 289,472 others

y/nnorris pls stop tagging me in “wags of the grid” edits sorry to disappoint but i’m just lando’s little sister

view all comments

user27 girl be so fr. you expect us to believe sky sports made a whole graphic for fun???

user4 she debunked the rumor but i somehow feel even more convinced

lando you had a boyfriend and didn’t tell me?? damn thought we were close

↳ y/nnorris YOU ARENT HELPING

user38 “just lando’s sister” okay but why did oscar like this post 17 seconds after it went up? be fr

user3 the fact that oscar liked the “we’re not dating” post is the exact behavior of a man IN LOVE

user32 girl you had us in the first half but now you’re following each other??

oscarpiastri sorry about the graphic btw… not sure how that happened

↳ y/nnorris nah it’s okay 😭 my mum was so excited and now i have to explain we’ve literally never spoken

↳ user27 “we’ve literally never spoken” and yet… here they are… speaking

user29 girl he commented. he FOLLOWED. he LIKED. sky sports knew before y’all did

user2 no but how have they never met before oscar and lando have been teammates for like 3 years???

y/nnorris just added to their close friends story!

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 304,592 others

y/nnorris he ordered for me so now i have to marry him i guess

view all comments

user63 rue when was this??

user87 we went from “sky sports accidentally exposed them” to this?? i’m grieving

user93 this is so sick. sky sports gave us hope just for you to do this vague little boyfriend soft launch??? and you’re saying it’s NOT oscar????

↳ user5 she never said it wasnt oscar

↳ user35 nurse she’s out again

user73 we were rooting for you. we were all rooting for you.

user26 this post aged me 7 years and it’s only been up for 6 minutes

user48 idc if his face isn’t in it. that’s oscar. my heart told me.

lando hilarious post considering who took the second pic

↳ y/nnorris i’m going to unplug your sim rig

↳ user26 WHAT DO YOU KNOW LANDO

↳ lando 🤐

y/nnorris just added to their story!

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and 430,982 others

y/nnorris my love just won the spanish gp!!! congrats to my brother too ig

view all comments

user16 no bc oscar hugging you was already too much but this caption just buried us alive

user75 nah bc the fact you posted this with ZERO photos of lando is sending me

user41 okay but does anyone feel like this happened too quick

↳ y/nnorris babe i’ve had a crush on him since he joined mclaren so no it def didn’t happen to quick

↳ oscarpiastri i’m sorry WHAT i didn’t know that??

↳ y/nnorris u ever try flirting while your brother’s also in the hospitality suite??

↳ lando alrighty logging off forever

user73 can we talk about the fact that oscar LIKED THIS POST IN UNDER A MINUTE

user26 con😭grat😭ula😭tions😭

lando you’ve known me 22 years. oscar? like 3 months. betrayal.

↳ y/nnorris ok but who won today? that’s what i thought

oscarpiastri wait wait wait… you’ve liked me this whole time??

↳ y/nnorris yes bro. i was literally fighting for my life in silence while you talked to my brother about tire degradation.

liked by y/nnorris, lando and 987,924 others

oscarpiastri 25 points, a podium, and a photo that might be my favorite

view all comments

user26 “a photo that might be my favorite” YOU ARE NOT SLICK

user4 25 points for McLaren and -1000 points for my emotional stability

user15 we won. sky sports was RIGHT. the prophecy is fulfilled.

lando y’all are gross. blocked. reported. see you at dinner.

↳ y/nnorris don’t be mad ur teammates pulling more than you 😌

↳ oscarpiastri she said it not me

↳ lando i’m sitting between you at dinner. say goodbye to holding hands

↳ yourusername bold of u to assume we wait for dinner

↳ oscarpiastri bold of you to assume we just hold hands

↳ lando I’M CALLING MOM

user46 he said “my favorite photo” and it’s HER??? we lost him. it’s over.

user16 y’all called me delusional for connecting the dots but LOOK AT ME NOW

user72 WE DID IT JOE

#op81 x reader #f1 x reader #oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri x reader #op81 rec

5K notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

red carnations — 𝐜𝐥. 𝟏𝟔 charles leclerc x florist! fem!sri lankan!reader (fc: maitreyi ramakrishnan) smau. requested! reader’s ethnicity isn’t detailed — she speaks sinhala & tamil (and french! lmk if i need to make any changes < 3). fluff. strangers to lovers. takes place during the 2024 f1 season. small business owner!reader. calm and collected!reader. down bad!charles leclerc. kika and pierre playing cupid. original female character (océane). implied unhealthy work-life balance. slow burn. chapter one; view the (flower) arrangements table of contents.

synopsis: kika refuses to let you waste another night holed away inside your shop, arranging bouquets that will never be gifted to you, since you’ve become “too busy for a relationship.” she discovers that charles might be willing to assist you in improving your work-life balance.

༊࿐ ⊹ lwk...spain was just as boring as monaco; i'll say it if you won't. great triple header for the 481 side of me, and the 1644 side of me is conflicted. love y'all, xoxo

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents | next↻

instagram • kikagomes • ⚑ galentine's day

♡︎ 100K 🗨️193 ➤ 239

liked by pierregasly, haileybieber, charles_leclerc, and others

kikagomes to all the girls i've loved before 💝

thank you bouquetiere for the beautiful flowers, and happy belated birthday to the owner. she's my best friend—and the most hardworking, stubborn, driven, ambitious woman i know. wishing you many more years, endless growth and success, and many relaxing vacations in the future 😘😘😘

view comments

pierregasly: do you even love me ☹️

kikagomes: sorry meu armor, today is for the gals 😋 océaneofc: don't worry, we'll let you have her to yourself for v-day 🙈 pierregasly: how kind of you to let me to see my girlfriend on the day of celebrating love user1: remember your place pierre lolll user2: the girls before hoes always 💅🏽

user3: lindaaaa 😍😍😍

user4: you look so pretty in pink! love you kika 🩷🩷🩷

christinanadin: love my galssss 💓

christinanadin: i'll host next year! kikagomes: love uuuuu y/ninstagram: 💞 lilymhe: can't wait!!! océaneofc: love you more xxx inesreiss_: te amo 😘😘😘

user5: I LOVE THOSE FLOWERS!!!

user6: i ordered flowers from bouquetiere for my little sister's graduation and the bouquet was absolute perfection! y/n was so kind and patient as she helped me decide which flowers looked the best! 100% going to use her services for my future wedding :)

user7: omggg we should totally plan a hangout like this user4

user8: YESSS SEND IT TO THE GROUPCHAT !!!

user9: 😍😍😍

user10: happy galentines kikaaaaa 😚

user11: where's your dress from? i neeeed it 😫😫😫

y/instagram: best birthday party i have ever had :)

y/ninstagram: and i do not need a vacation.

lilymhe: yes you do christinanadin: you do 😐 inesreiss_: do you realize whenever we visit the shop, we're performing a wellness check on you? kikagomes: you need to go on holiday with something to distract you from doing or thinking about work kikagomes: or someone to distract you. like...idk a boyfriend? y/ninstagram: i don't need a vacation or distraction. and, i definitely do not need a boyfriend. ↳ charles_leclerc requested to follow you.

instagram • bouquetiere

♡︎ 2.5K 🗨️30 ➤ 89

liked by charles_leclerc, kikagomes, océaneofc, and others

bouquetiere last call to all singles located in monaco! join us on valentines day for a flower arranging workshop 🌹🌺🌷

alcohol, snacks, music, and flowers will be provided. you'll be taught how to craft a beautiful bouquet without feeling like you're falling behind in life because you're lacking a romantic partner—i'll provide a listening ear, tissues, and a shoulder to cry on free of charge, as well.

last day to sign up, don’t miss out! once again, anybody who is single is welcome! see you on february 14th, at 1PM 💞💞💞

view comments

user12: yk i'll be okay if i never find love. as long as bouquetiere hosts the singles workshop 💀 ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: haha! i'll make sure we keep doing this until your special someone comes and sweeps you off your feet ✨

user13: i wish you were located in paris! i'd defintely attend if you were < 3 ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: thank you for the support! i hope we grow big enough to open a store in paris ☺️ user13: i'll be the very first customer in line when you do! bouquetiere: 😚

user14: je suis très enthousiaste (i’m so excited) !!! ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: a bientôt (see you soon)!

user15: are men allowed to attend?

bouquetiere: of course! bouquet making is a skill everyone can learn. i hope to see you there? user15: just signed up 💪🏻 ♥️ by author

pierregasly: do this instead of third-wheeling kika and i on valentine’s day 😂😂😂 charles_leclerc

joris_trouche: 🤣🤣🤣 charles_leclerc charles_leclerc: you are both terrible friends 😐 charles_leclerc: i have blocked people for less. joris_trouche: 😭😭😭

arthur_leclerc: sounds like the perfect place for you 💀charles_leclerc

charles_leclerc: i should have ran you over with my kart at the very first chance i had when we were kids. charles_leclerc: you all are making it sound like i am sad about being single and that i am desperate for love 🤣🤣🤣 charles_leclerc: which i'm not, by the way! being single is okay and love is something that you cannot force. i am completely normal about being single and having no one to come home too, and i like it that way hahahaha charles_leclerc: not that i need anyone to come home too lol. relationships are sooo overrated 😌 charles_leclerc: but, like, i'd be the best boyfriend. i respect boundaries, i clean, i plan very good dates, i'm a great listener, i have so many sweaters that can be stolen, i have many ferrari's that you would look very pretty in the passenger seat of, i would learn to cook your favorite meals charles_leclerc: but being single is better, obviously 🤣🤣🤣 arthur_leclerc: …righttt big bro.

user16: why did charles leclerc just have a mental breakdown in the comment section of my favorite flower shop :D

user18: will there be mimosas 🥺

bouquetiere: i'm offended that you had the nerve to ask me that question. of course, there will be mimosas. bottomless mimosas. user18: i love you 🤩 ♥️ by author

messages • kika -> pierre

message • two lovers & kika gc • charles -> pierre & kika

instagram • bouquetiere

♡︎ 432K 🗨️348 ➤ 12.2K

liked by charles_leclerc, kikagomes, pierregasly, and others

bouquetiere another year, another successful valentine's bouquet workshop! most spoiled themselves with mimosas and moscato, some found the courage to use their handmade bouquets to ask their crush to be their valentine, and some found their valentine while they argued over flower combinations.

and others, like charles leclerc came to today's workshop for the sweetest reason: to learn how to make the perfect bouquet for his mother.

wishing you all a happy valentines day, from bouquetiere 💓

𖤘 user23 | user32 | user33 | charles_leclerc

view comments

📌 charles_leclerc: ahhh the bouquet turned out perfect because i had the best florist in monaco teach me her ways! ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: the bouquet turned out perfect because you were easy to teach :) thank you for coming, and i hope your mother loves the flowers. bouquetiere: i don't know if i have earned the title of the best florist in monaco yet 😅 but i'll wear it like a crown! charles_leclerc: you carry yourself like a queen so i think a crown is fitting ♥️ by author user19: let's play a little game i like to call: flattery or flirting 🤗 océaneofc: she really is the best 🥰🥰🥰 ♥️ by author

user20: charles 🥹🥹🥹

user21: happy valentine's day bouquetiere !!! ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: happy valentine's day 😚

user22: that's so fucking sweet of him why am i sobbing rn

user23: she said yes!!! bouquetiere thank you for teaching my how to make a bouquet and for encouraging me to ask my crush out !!! ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: so happy it worked out for you 🥹 your next bouquet for her is on the house ! user24: omg love thisssss user25: i've never been happier for complete stranger!!! user26: i love love!!!! thrilled for u friend 🥳🥳🥳 pierregasly: i wish someone else found the courage to ask out their crush... user27: who pierre ⁉️ what do u know !!!

user28: don't think about how charles is getting his mother flowers for vday because his father isn't here to give her them anymore 🥲

user29: fun fact! saying don't think about it, doesn't actually stop people from thinking about it 🙂‍↕️ user30: m sobbing wtffff user31: 😭😭😭😭😭

user32: peonies are superior to hydrangeas! and just because we like each other, that doesn't mean that he's going to change my opinion bouquetiere !!! ♥️ by author

user33: i can't believe i like a woman who refuses to admit that hydrangeas are the perfect flower 😟 ♥️ by author bouquetiere: wellllll peonies and hydrangeas are a beautiful combination in a bouquet! happy valentine’s day 😇😇😇 user34: at this point, i need to go to bouquetiere because it sounds like it's the best place to find love user36: something's in the air at bouquetiere and i'm not talking about pollen 🙅🏽‍♀️

messages • charles -> pierre

messages • y/n -> kika

charles_leclerc uploaded a story!

[caption; bouquetiere is pascale approvedddd!!!! happy valentine's day everyoneee]

allow replies from followers you follow back.

océaneofc: joyeuse saint-valentin 💓

bouquetiere mentioned you in their story.

bouquetiere: glad she liked the bouquet 🙂 ↳charles_leclerc: she LOVED it 😌 she's thinking about getting some of your flowers to decorate her hair salon! ↳bouquetiere: i'd be honored to make custom flower arrangements for her. ↳charles_leclerc: i will let her know! i think i will be stopping by more regularly to pick up flowers. it shouldn't need to be a holiday for me to get her a bouquet 🫠 ↳bouquetiere: it's very sweet of you to do to that for her, charles. most people only gift flowers to apologize or for special occasions but i think the best reason to give someone a bouquet is just because you want to ♥️ by author ↳charles_leclerc: i will keep that in mind ☺️

pierregasly: dis à ta mère que je lui souhaite une joyeuse saint-valentin (tell your mother i wish her a happy valentines day) ↳charles_leclerc: bien sûr (of course)

kikagomes: charlie 😱 that bouquet is beautifully made! tell your mother i said hello and that pierre and i will come over for dinner soon! ↳charles_leclerc: i will 😊 the bouquet only looks good because of your friend lol ↳kika_gomes: duh obv i know that 🙄 but, she did tell me that u were a good student so ig you can take partial credit ↳charles_leclerc: she said that 🤭 she talked to you about me 😳😳😳 ↳charles_leclerc: kika what else did she say about me???

messages • please excuse my french gc • océane -> kika & y/n

instagram • bouquetiere

♡︎ 19.4K 🗨️75 ➤ 161

liked by charles_leclerc, océaneofc, kellypiquet, and others

bouquetiere working with my clients to bring their version of a perfect wedding to life is something i'm very honored to be trusted with handling. from selecting the best flower combinations, to curating the ideal bouquet, to designing tasteful centerpieces, to crafting intricate arrangements for venue decoration—we do it all, at bouquetiere 🤗

view comments

📌 charles_leclerc: telling all of my friends in serious relationships to get married and to book you for their weddings so i can see the intricate flower arrangements you curate for them!

charles_leclerc: are you planning on proposing anytime soon pierregasly pierregasly: your best man status has been revoked 🙎🏻‍♂️ charles_leclerc: can't revoke it if there's no wedding for me to be a best man at 💆‍♂️ océaneofc: when i find the perfect man to settle down with, i'm totally booking my girl bouquetiere to do the flowers! i'll make sure you have the best view of the bouquet charles :) user32: girl what is u talking about 😒 océaneofc user33: 😭😭😭 user32 she's a friend of charles irl—or friend of kika, pierre, and y/n, who's the florist and owner of bouquetiere. user32: omfg i thought she was a rambling fangirl or smth LMAOOO my fault sis 🙂‍↕️

user34: i'm a wedding planner in monaco and i always recommend that my clients book your services or at least visit your shop! your taste in flowers is immaculate bouquetiere ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: i appreciate that! dm me, i'd love to chat and have a stack of your business cards to display in the shop :)

user35: that bouquet in the third slide 😲 ♥️ by author

user36: omg that bouquet in the 3rd pic paired w the multicolored bridesmaid dresses 😍😍😍 ♥️ by author

user37: i had no idea you did flower arrangements for venue decoration as well! i might have to do a destination wedding in monaco so bouquetiere is my florist 😆 ♥️ by author

user38: do you work with artificial flowers? my girlfriend (soon to be fiancée) has an allergy to most flowers, but she's obsessed with the bouquets you design! ♥️ by author

bouquetiere: hi! i currently have a limited selection of faux flowers in store—but, when the two of you are ready to start wedding planning, reach out to me and i'll gladly order more faux flowers that the two of you like, to craft allergen-free arrangements :) user38: leclerc wasn't lying when he said you were the best florist in monaco 😁 we'll be reaching out soon!

charles_leclerc uploaded a story!

[caption; bouquet making is becoming my faaaavorite hobby, thank youuu bouquetiere for the flowers 😁😁😁😁😁]

allow replies from followers you follow back.

bouquetiere mentioned you in their story.

pierregasly: you don't even promote your sponsors this much and they PAY you to advertise for them 🤣🤣🤣 ↳charles_leclerc: shut up ☺️ ↳charles_leclerc: and this did not work anyway. she didn't even reply, she only reposted it to the flower shop account. ↳pierregasly: she’s a busy woman, she may not have the time to respond to you 🤷‍♂️ ↳charles_leclerc: yeah maybe

océaneofc: great choice in flowers! how'd this bouquet turn out?

carlossainz55: i don't think you used enough smiley faces in the caption 😂😂😂 ↳block carlossainz55 ? | instagram won't let them know you blocked them.

imessage • two lovers & kika gc • charles -> pierre & kika

kika's lockscreen • please excuse my french gc • océane -> kika & y/n

#f1 x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smau #cl16 rec #cl16 x reader

369 notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

god save the king (x6)

1K notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Peter was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀��

yourusername added to their story

"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

view all comments

user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

view all comments

user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

#f1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fic #mv33 imagine #mv33 rec #mv1 imagine #mv1 rec

6K notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 3 months ago

Text

thinking about how long Oscar has been a fan of Lando's... how much a fan he has been of Lando's... how Lando - who wants to keep his people close to him forever, went through heartbreak twice with former teammates... how he loved being the younger teammate and wasn't sure about this new guy replacing Daniel... how having Alpine, McLaren and Danny Ric fans all against Oscar from day one made Oscar go completely inside his shell which inadvertently hid his real personality from Lando at first... how it felt to suddenly be the teammate of the guy you once told your mom you'd love to have as a teammate 'because everyone knows how good he is and Oscar won't be expected to equal him right away'... but Lando is wary and unsure and hates instability... Oscar is constantly having his integrity openly questioned by every team principle and talking head and his every mistake jeered at by fans... so they still connect very delicately and from a distance of very different places on the team and in the sport... are clearly feeling each other out for months... a lot of things seem to click between them and they have identical needs and wants for the car, and genuinely tender moments where Lando finds taking care of his tall rookie to be quite sweet and rewarding actually... but then Oscar goes back to being quiet and watching Lando from inside his shell... Lando goes back to hanging out with his old teammates... the old ways of McLaren's legendary multi-cam teammate PR is officially dead... but Oscar keeps coming up to parc ferme to congratulate Lando's podiums... and Lando starts noticing that Oscar is making a real point of being steady and patient and faithful... Zak and the team are fully in Lando mode for a long while because the other half the garage keeps changing... but Andrea sees Oscar for what he is and makes sure to hug him and say that he sees him every time he stands with the team watching Lando receive a trophy... and then Oscar grabs Lando's waist one day and tugs him close and Lando's face breaks into a shocked smile... and before long Lando's staring back at Oscar... and then they start waving at each other from the cars... and they start seeing a future together... and Oscar re-signs at every opportunity... and Lando wavers for a moment, eagerly pursued by every team, but then he re-signs... and says Oscar's the teammate who has pushed him the most... calls them the strongest teammate pairing around... and their relationship has been tested when they come together, when team orders are a mess, when strategy and driver error lose them the top step... but they smile at each other, show up for each other and they swallow their own pain and they move forward.. and then they are jokily but also seriously congratulating each other for the team culture they have built... that they want to grow old together and that they are both locked in together by the common bond of pushing each other and racing each other but also never wanting to lose sight of doing right by all the people who made the car... and when one of them knows their weekend isn't quite what it should be, they put all of themselves into joy for the other when they're nailing it...

and Lando complains that Oscar doesn't like any of the activities he does with other drivers... and so Oscar goes hard into padel and suddenly we hear that they play each other more and more... until they spend a week in Bahrain 2025 together after the race playing padel and relaxing... and Lando takes over for sparkling at the cameras and fans while Oscar takes over the lengthy wordy to camera pieces and interviews and Oscar helps Lando find the right words and Lando helps Oscar relax by teasing him and Lando finds it cute when Oscar is a hopeless nerd and Oscar finds it adorable when Lando pretends to throw a fit... and now there are some weekends they just stay glued together and won't even separate for the driver's parade and Lily and Zak and Adam are patiently waiting for them to finish talking after the race and they've spent every single season being begged by media, fans, and Bob Netflix himself to hate each other and fall out and destroy everything they've worked for and they giggle and sigh and smirk at each other over who's turn it is to answer this time

and we all know there will be Moments and Tensions but also look at how many Moments have happened already that have caused rifts or angry words in any other driver pairing... but these two just take a breath, shake hands, eat nuggies, play a board game, do their immediate little solo debriefs, and get over it bc now this isn't just Lando's home, it's also Oscar's home

where they asked for a privacy door so that they are the only ones who have direct access to each other's driver's room doors !!!

and am I too stupid pilled to say that Oscar watched Lando so faithfully as they both grew up and they both already shared a friend in Max and Lando needed someone as patient and persistent as Oscar to make him believe in a teammate the way he does about his own team... and now they are each other's home and they so badly want to keep it whole and it's not just cynical championship pursuit talking it's a fondness and a genuinely carefully slowly cultivated relationship that is unlike the easy buddy-buddy friendships on the grid or the childhood trauma bond friendships but instead a rare third thing where they handle what they have with delicate hands and caution but only because they respect each other so much and feel all the stronger because of it...

243 notes · View notes

vettelsbees · 4 months ago

Text

COOLDOWN - LN4&OP81

summary : Locked in a cooldown room with two teammates in orange is not how you expected to be celebrating your win. Definitely not expected, but welcomed.

listen up : smut!! taking abt threats. under lockdown, p in v. oral (m receiving), threesome, not proofread!!!!! i hope this is hot idk

words : 2547

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The three of you have been stuck for almost an hour. When the cameras cut out, so did the lights, then the doors locked and each of you got a million alerts to stay put.

Some threat was made, apparently a big one because the whole paddock is in lockdown just after the race ended. As scary as it sounds, you’re not worried.

The cooldown room is arguably the best place to be stuck. A backup light that drapes the room in a hazy yellow glow, No media, No fans, and two drivers in bright orange slumped in their chairs.

You can tell Lando is the most bored, stretching every five seconds and saying random things to try and start conversation.

Oscar is on the other side of you, his race suit matching Lando’s down the way they have it undone. His hair is a mess still, his hands behind his head and making you peak at his accentuated back.

The two men have been in your life for a year now, both too intrigued for their own good. “Have you guys ever had sex in a car?” Lando turns his head to both of you, getting to a certain point of insanity especially because how good you both look in his eyes.

“Us…?” Oscar says questionably.

Lando rolls his eyes, pulling off his cap and throwing it at his teammate, “No you muppet. Separately.” he smirks just as a rogue curl falls onto his forehead, “Unless…”

“Yeah.” Oscar answers quickly, hoping to shut him up, “Not with her.”

“Have you?” You can’t help but ask, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at the dark haired driver.

“I asked first.” he shoots back, something dancing in his eyes that tell you keep going, while everything inside you screams to stop.

“I crossed the finish line first.” You tilt your head, a slick reminder of why you’re sitting between the two.

They’d been in your rear view the whole race, swapping positions and fighting for that top step. They’d had a bad feeling just after lap one, as if they were in sync in realizing that you were not going to give either the chance to even try to fight you.

“Then cut me some slack, winner.”

Your eyes narrow, “I don’t like the idea of you knowing anything about my sex life.”

He just smirks, shrugging as if you’re the best of friends. “Seems great to me.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, giving in, more interested in his answer than yours. “Yes.”

“Damn.” He mumbles, “I feel left out.”

Oscar looks genuinely surprised at this, his brows furrowing as he leans forward in his chair, “You’ve never had sex in a car?”

You laugh, “That’s surprising.”

Lando’s jaw drops, letting out a scoff, “Why?”

You bite back a smile, eyeing Oscar who’s already looking at you. “You seem like the guy to christen a new car with an orgasm.” Oscar laughs at this, leaning back in his chair while Lando grins.

“Maybe I'll start.” He shrugs, moving his arms to drape over the back of the chair.

The younger of team Mclaren runs a hand over his face, “If we ever get out of here.”

“You offering, Piastri?” You can’t help but joke, the man eyeing you with no change in his expression except a quirk of his brow.

You stare at each other for one, weighted second, the silence being broken by Lando who’s seemingly taken the role of entertainer, “Where’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?”

“Are these all going to be related to sex?” Oscar pauses to ask his friend.

“Answer it, Osc.” Lando finds himself grinning now, looking at Oscar’s sudden shift in manner.

“It can’t be that crazy.” You say, shifting to the side and starting to get uncomfortable in the race suit.

“I don’t know… Oscar’s pretty freaky.” Lando says, looking directly at Oscar with a sneaky look in his eye.

You turn to him, raising a brow and not missing the way he smirks, “Speaking from experience?”

They both go quiet. Now this… you didn’t expect.

“Holy shit, have you guys fucked?” You laugh out loud. Wow, and you thought this day couldn’t get any better.

“No.” Oscar replies just as Lando shakes his head, “No way.”

You narrow your eyes at both of them, “But something has happened… right?” Lando shifts in his seat while Oscar just looks at the floor, “Don’t be shy. From what i’ve heard- it’s a common occurrence in teammates. Late nights… long meetings… hotel rooms…” They glance at each other. Oscar blushes. “I’m totally right, aren’t I?”

“So what, you’re fucking Verstappen then?”

You scoff, “I don’t do guys with children under twenty.” Lando is about to go back to your comment but you speak first, “Let me guess. Jacking eachother off? Or in the same room? Celebratory blow jobs? Don’t tell me you’ve shared a girl-”

“If we say yes will you stop?” Oscar has his head in his hands, his voice muffled and your smile growing.

“Which one?” You're pushing their limits but you don’t care.

Lando eyes you, “We’ve never shared a girl.” Oscar is shaking his head which still resides in his hands, the tips of his ears pink.

“You’ve done everything else?” Suddenly the room gets very hot- or maybe that’s just you. The thought of the two of them, desperate and needing each other, makes you squeeze your thighs together.

You hadn't realized that Oscar took his head out of his hands, his eyes blaring into you now and reading you like a fucking book.

“I had sex on a ferris wheel.” You say, desperate to change the subject suddenly.

“Jet ski. We flipped.” Lando says, looking at Oscar and tapping his foot.

“Principal's office.” He bites out, “Lost my virginity there.”

“I always knew I liked you.” You grin, tapping your nail on the armrest.

Lando cuts in, “How about another game? Truth or dare?”

You cross your legs and nod, “Truth.”

“Hottest guy on the grid.”

“It isn’t between you two… if that’s what you’re hoping.”

He shrugs, “Just hoping for truth.”

“Sainz.”

Lando scoffs, “He’s not even-”

“Hey! You asked for the truth.” Oscar laughs, making you look at him, “Something funny?”

“No, I agree.”

“What!?” Lando says soundly, “Hold on a second-”

“It’s the hair right!?”

He nods, “Body too.”

“I hate you both.”

“You’re a horrible liar, Lan.” Oscar says and it’s one of those moments when you remember how close the actually are.

Your mind goes straight back to them hooking up.

“So are you!” He argues, “Rivalry’s aren’t as hot as you think.”

“Truth or dare, Lando.” You say, an idea already in your head which is completely dependent on how reckless Lando is feeling today.

“…Dare.”

Oscar shakes his head, as if he knows what’s coming.

You just smirk. “Kiss Oscar.”

He doesn’t look worried, if anything, he looks pleased. Lando stands and as you motion Oscar to get up, he sends you an annoyed look. He’s not fooling either of you because as soon as Lando pulls him in for the kiss, Oscar definitely isn’t complaining.

You’re staring up at them. It’s probably the most insane thing you’ve ever seen, but then again, it seems so fitting. Lando holds the back of Oscar’s neck as if he’s done this a million times, he probably has.

Your mouth is slightly open, watching Oscar’s tongue meet Lando’s in a sensual and slow type of need.

Lando pulls away first, plopping down onto the floor and using his chair as a headrest, “Happy?”

“Horny?” Oscar coughs, looking directly at you when he does it. “Truth or dare, Y/n?”

The air is thick with tension, the faded light making both of them glow as they watch you. You say it confidently, “Dare.” but as soon as you see Lando’s smirk, your heart rate rises.

“Kiss one of us.”

It’s simple- it’s payback. It’s something that you can’t do. “No.”

“You’re chickening out?” Lando says.

“No, as in, I'm not choosing.” You shrug, unzipping your suit a bit more, “You pick.” They look at eachother, then you.

“Unfair.”

“Why? You both want me that bad?” You say it as a joke, carrying out the words with a laugh. They’re not laughing.

It’s Oscar who’s brave enough to say it, “Yeah,” he glances at Lando, “we do.”

“I-” none of the drivers have shown interest. Maybe it’s because of professionalism, maybe it’s because you’re too new and too female. This… is dangerous territory. “Arm wrestle.”

It seemed ridiculous at first, to them at least. But one end goal was always in your mind, and that is not having to choose one.

They’re up in a second, standing on either side of the table mounted to the wall’s corner. You stand, watching them lean over and join hands.

“We’re really doing this?” Oscar tilts his head at his teammate who purses his lips and nods towards you, theirs eyes still on eachother.

“Look at her.” When he does, every part of you feels it. Oscar Piastri never gives a meaningless look, that’s what worries you.

Lando’s hand is bigger than Oscar’s. Even though the three of you haven’t been close, it's something you’ve seen repeatedly either in real life or on social media. Maybe you’ve thought about it repeatedly too.

Both of their arms flex, fighting for dominance when you’re a bit distracted by their hands.

You roll your eyes when they take too long, sitting in Lando’s place on the floor and appraising the rest of them. Oscar’s taller, bigger… but Lando’s got the energy to overpower him even if he’s a brat.

Lando wins, locking his wrist and pinning his teammate's hand to the table, “Shit.” Oscar mumbles, stretching out his arm afterwards.

Lando scrambles to get next to you, waiting with puppy dog eyes and his face close to yours. You laugh, looking at Oscar who shrugs, sitting across from you both and nodding at you to kiss him.

God. That race now feels like fucking foreplay.

You kiss him soft, sweet. You kiss him like he’s the only thing in the world and the second his hand meets your waist, you stop. Lando pouts, a look that gets turned into confusion as you sit up and turn your attention to Oscar.

“I hate choosing.” Is all you say before crawling to the second man in orange and pulling him in. You can tell he’s trying to be soft, but you don’t want that for him. You grab his face and kiss him harder, feeling his hand on your ass and letting it stay there.

You hear Lando whine behind you as you straddle Oscar, hear Oscar groan as you grind into him.

Oscar’s lips meet your neck, allowing you the flexibility to look back at Lando. His hand is palming his underwear, his suit to his knees and his mouth slightly opened.

It’s so hot and so fucking dirty that you kiss Oscar again. “C’mon…” Lando whines, “I won the arm wrestling. I beat him in the race. I deserve it more.” he cuts right to the chase.

You pull away from Oscar who immediately works on pulling down your suit. “You’re a brat.”

Oscar pulls it off, only fireproofs and your pink lace thong left. They both groan.

You’re still on Oscars lap, his lips on your neck as you beckon Lando over. He comes right up to your face, trying to kiss you and getting rejected by a whispered, “You jealous?”

He nods, just nods.

Oscar cuts in now, “Of which one of us.”

Lando looks at you. Then Oscar. His eyes flicking between the two people who are responsible for his hard on. “Both.”

You kiss him then, hand going straight for his dick while simultaneously grinding on Oscars. “I think I dreamt about this once.” Lando mumbles into the kiss, making you and Oscar both laugh.

“Wanna check off that last thing on the list?” You ask, your mind consumed with the two men in front of you and how they would feel in you.

They both nod, Lando pulling off his fireproof as if it’s betraying him. Their lips meet in a strangled messy way, unconsciously moving your hips over Oscar again while Lando, fully distracted, tries to pull your top off.

“Want some help with that?” you say in a breathy voice, watching Lando twitch under his underwear.

“Thought that was my job.” Oscar says, smirking as Lando pulls out his dick, clearly not caring who helps. He’s standing in between you and with one wink, you and Oscar lick the sides of his cock.

He grabs your hair, Oscar’s shoulder, practically begging already. You take him fully in your mouth before Oscar can say anything about it. The feeling of rocking against a clothed, hard dick while having another one in your mouth is something you will never forget.

You feel your panties getting pushed aside, Oscar’s fingers, slim but mighty, slide into you with a choked groan. It’s a mess of wet and needy people wanting each other, Oscar taking over for Lando while still fingering you.

You pull Oscar’s dick out, too needy when his fingers leave you to meet Lando’s mouth. He’s hard as a rock, bigger than Lando but slimmer, making you practically scream when you sink down on him.

He moans on Lando’s dick, a sound so erotic that you could come right then and there. “Holy fuck.” Lando’s legs are shaking, his eyes meeting yours as he cums in Oscar's mouth.

Lando kneels again, kissing you hard and fast while Oscar, his mouth a bit sticky, throws his head back. Lando pulls your shirt up, kissing on your tits while you bounce up and down. You reach for his dick, it twitching and partially hard already.

“Take me so well…” Oscar groans, kissing you sloppily.

“So hot.” Lando groans, “I call next.” You don’t wait for you or Oscar to finish, rising up so the sudden feeling of him makes you feel empty.

You’ve got your sights set on Lando, ready to really see who can beat you in something, when someone bangs on the door.

You freeze. The lights are on. When did the lights come on?

“How are you three doing in there? Unlock the door. Situations over. Podiums still on.”

You all three swear. You get your clothes back on first, Lando and Oscar far slower and more obviously turned on.

“We can’t go out like this-” Oscar tries to readjust his hard and dripping dick.

“That’s what you’re worried about? You were inside of her and I was so close-” Oscar slaps the back of Lando’s head as he zips up his suit.

“That’s one way of letting the time pass.” You breathe out, brushing down your hair and smiling.

Lando groans, “Unfair- you look perfect. You’re fucking glowing! We’re fucking blue balled and a mess.”

“Have fun out there.” You drift your hand over Lando’s chin, fixing Oscar’s hair, “Drown me in champagne and pretend it’s cum.”

You unlock the door, practically skipping out and leaving them with their dicks hard, lips read, and jaws on the floor.

3K notes · View notes