goldenroutledge

[goldenroutledge]

AFTER THE NIGHT

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a long night on patrol, Bruce returns home to find his wife in the shower. a/n: This is pure fluff, no smut.

The water was already warm, steam curling lazily against the marble walls as you stood under the shower, letting the heat soak into your muscles. A long sigh left your lips. Finally, quiet. Finally, peace.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

You didn’t flinch—just smirked. “You better be naked if you’re coming in here.”

There was a soft grunt and the familiar shuffle of armour being stripped away. A utility belt thunked against the counter, followed by the muted rustle of fabric hitting tile.

You heard the shower door open a moment later. Then—

“Oh my god.” You twisted slightly to glance over your shoulder. “You smell like alleyway and sweat.”

Bruce stepped under the spray with a low groan. Water hit his chest, sluicing down over dirt-smudged skin and faint bruises blooming just beneath the surface.

“Active night,” he said gruffly. “You smell like flowers. I hate you a little.”

You laughed, turning fully to face him now, palms braced against his chest. “You’re filthy. I’m filing for divorce.”

He snorted, “Joke’s on you—I already put the mansion in your name. If anyone’s getting left out in the cold, it’s me.”

You grinned, fingers absently tracing the edge of a bruise blooming just under his collarbone. “Good. I’ll sell it and use the money to fund my villain era.”

His brows lifted, amused despite the exhaustion hanging under his eyes. “You? A villain?”

“I’d be great at it,” you said breezily. “Menacing, seductive, morally ambiguous. I’ve got the layers.”

“Please, if anything you’re more like a little thief. You steal my T-shirts,” he deadpanned.

You leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “And don’t forget I also stole your heart. Look how far gone you are, Wayne.”

Bruce leaned in, crowding your space with the lazy weight of his body, head dipping low until his nose brushed yours. “Completely gone,” he murmured, voice roughened by the night, but eyes soft and unguarded in a way he reserved only for you. “Hopeless, really.”

Your smirk faltered into something gentler, fingers trailing up to tangle in the damp ends of his hair. “That makes the two of us,” you murmured. “Because it seems I’m hopelessly gone for you too.” You gave him a teasing look. “What other wife accepts that their husband dresses up like a bat and jumps across rooftops all night fighting killer clowns? They’d have to be insane.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a rare, amused smile. “Completely insane,” he agreed, eyes flicking over your face with fond exasperation. “We can share a cell in Arkham together.”

You huff out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his. “You joke, but at this point I’m convinced we’ve already earned our own padded room.”

Bruce’s fingers traced idle circles at the small of your back. “I call top bunk.”

You snorted. “You would. But I’m warning you now, I’m stealing all the blankets.”

“You already do,” he murmured dryly. “Little thief.”

“So if we’re going by that technicality, that means you fell for a criminal.”

“Explains why I keep coming back,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as his fingers slipped beneath the curve of your waist. “You’re my favourite kind of danger.”

Your smile faded into something softer, more vulnerable, eyes meeting his in the hazy glow of steam and silence. “And you’re my safest place.”

Bruce didn’t say anything—not with words. He just kissed you. Slow. Deep. Steady. 

The spray of the shower beat gently against your back, the scent of soap and heat curling between your bodies as his arms wound around you tighter.

Finally, you pull away, flicking you gaze back up to see his were still closed. “Turn around,” you whispered, nudging him gently.

He blinked open an eye, suspicious. “Why?”

“So I can scrub the grime off you, obviously.”

Bruce arched a brow, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You just want to feel up my muscles.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m your wife, that’s my right.” You didn’t even try to deny it. “However, you’re still covered in dirt and god knows what else—and you stink.”

He let out a short snort but obeyed, turning so his back was to you, water trailing down the powerful lines of muscle and scars. You reached for the body wash and squeezed a generous amount into your palm.

Then you began—working in slow, gentle circles, your fingers gliding across his back with practiced care. You didn’t rush. You traced each scar like it was a story only you knew, every old wound and fading bruise a chapter you’d read too many times to count.

Because you had. You knew them all.

Every place Gotham had marked him. Every place he’d broken and healed. Every inch of pain he bore like armor beneath the cowl.

“You’re tense,” you murmured, thumbs pressing lightly into the tight line of his shoulders.

He hummed low in his throat. “You try fighting six guys in a rain-soaked alley.”

“Maybe next time,” you laughed quietly, fingers still digging expertly into the knots along his spine. Each pass of your hands drew out another groan, low and guttural, like the tension was finally bleeding out of him. You felt the weight leave his shoulders piece by piece.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I’m firing Alfred. You’re in charge of post-patrol recovery now.”

“You couldn’t afford me,” you teased.

“Try me.”

When you finished with his back, your hands slid downward, soft now, reverent, tracing the path you’d just soothed. For a beat, you just stood there—your palms resting flat against his skin, the thrum of his pulse steady beneath your fingertips.

Then, you reached for the shampoo.

You stretched up onto your tiptoes, trying to reach the top of his head, grumbling to yourself as your fingers barely skimmed his damp hair. “Why are you built like a damn skyscraper?”

Bruce let out an amused breath. “You need a stool?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, finally managing to get your hands into his inky locks.

Any teasing vanished the moment your fingers began working gently across his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, unable to help the low, content exhale that slipped from his throat. He melted under your touch—shoulders loose, body quiet, breath slow.

You finished rinsing the suds from his hair with quiet care, the water rushing gently between you as your fingers combed through the last of the soap. When you were done, you let your arms wrap loosely around his waist, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.

Then he turned, his hands finding your hips as he gently caged you between his body and the slick tile wall. He leaned down to kiss you again, lips finding yours with the kind of aching familiarity that had your heart skipping a beat.

“I missed this,” he murmured against your mouth.

“I missed you,” you whispered back.

[goldenroutledge]

⟡ cₕₐᵣₗₑₛ ₗₑcₗₑᵣc ₃ ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

ᵐʸ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜˢ ᶠ¹ ʳᵉᶜˢ

— ᶠᴸᵁᶠᶠ ⟡

admiring - @lcriedlastnight

tu es si jolie - @lvndosnorris

our honeymoon - @sincerlyleclerc

love and leo - @poetsblvd

kisses and wishes - @thef1diary

will you marry me? (a little suggestive at the end) - @halsteadlover

sweet dreams (^)

puppy - @of-many-fandoms

a thousand words - @pierregazly

like father, like son - @itsallyscorner

il pawdestinato - @fangirl-dot-com

wake me up - @arieslost

can you watch my boyfriend for me - @delewlew

a in anniversary is for apple pie! - @rosyblooom

off limits - @ivoirerose

the ways in which charles shows you he loves you - @thatsdemko

inCHident - @lovemomhatepolice

as a boyfriend (^)

company - @hugleclerc

first kisses - @sunsetchicane

il predestinato - @littlegrapejuice

monaco & monza - @itsprashimusic

quiet mornings with you - @f1daydreamers

little steps to forever (^)

frosty morning - @mistymysticalmoon

new years day - @chaostudee

she's busy - @vroomvro0mferrari

war is over - @theonottsbxtch

winter wonder - @mrsfancyferrari

his care - @f1verse

sous les étoiles de noël - @goldsainz

photograph - @no-144444

side street (^)

— ᴬᴺᴳˢᵀ⟡

take care of her (SEB MENTION 🧡) - @uglyducklingofthe2000s

burning the candle at both ends (tw: exhaustion, overworking) (^)

pit lane (tw: mentions of asthma, and jos verstappen) - @neymarsangel

broken home - @mytinycrazymind

false god - @elizaleclerc

don't you remember - @goldenroutledge

don't you - @bbitches

— ˢᴹᵁᵀ⟡

early mornings - @lolapiastri

you're the risk, i'm gonna take it - @maxtermind

sex by the fireplace - @uluvjay

honeymoon - @lecsainz

itch - @monzamash

he's so pretty when he goes down on me - @amaranthineghost

you got me touching - @httpsserene

our first night (suggestive) - @uglyducklingofthe2000s

perfect strangers (^)

cruel summer (^)

can't keep my hands to myself (little sexual but no smut) - @charles-eclair16

i need a charles dickens - @neferaskingdom

kiss it better - @pucksandpower

inserts himself where? (^)

the night before christmas - @whorekneecentral

— ˢᴼᶜᴵᴬᴸ ᴹᴱᴰᴵᴬ ⟡

so american - @landoscar

more than friends - @halsteadlover

tortured poets - @harrysfolklore

lestappen reimagined (^)

comeback (^)

the great escape (^)

not good enough - @holllandtrash

happy ever after - @leclercmode

this is me trying (tw: addiction, depresion, suicide, etc.) - @81folklore

don't cry at my wedding - @hamilando

younger - @sooshihu

lucky charm - @landograndprix

limelight - @isaadore

everyone adores you (at least i do) - @clerc16

who cares? - @marlenesluv

a thousand miles - @luckylzclerc

don't dim your light - @no-144444

fogo e noite - @redtrack

my best friend's brother - @sharlsworld

1-800-HELP-ME-PARK - @httpsserene

baked goods - @maxverstappendefender

scream queen - @checkeredflagggs

(piano) keys to your heart - @astonmartinii

the king of monza can do what he wants (^)

wherever the roots may lead you (^)

love letters - @ladyofmonaco

sweet treat (^)

— ˢᴱᴿᴵᴱˢ ⟡

guilty as sin (smau) - @astonmartinii

so high school but daddy i love him afterglow daylight (smau) - @youreverydayfangirl

wistful yearning two (smau) - @leclercsainzz

karma is my boyfriend two (smau) - @writtenfangirl

one latte please? two - @floweringlee

the story of us - @httpsleclerc

gotta be you two three - @mythicalmaven

[goldenroutledge]

high five 🐶

[goldenroutledge]

Snoopy's creator Charles M. Schulz (1922-2000) and the real Snoopy. 🐕

[goldenroutledge]

Lando and Magui don’t have to confirm or deny a single thing to you. You are not entitled to nor do you deserve to know anything about their personal lives. They don’t owe you that. At all. For any reason. Ever. They could be together for the rest of time and never have to say a damn thing about it publicly. I don’t know who you think you are but a ridiculous amount of you need to get so over yourselves.

[goldenroutledge]

🙂‍↔️.

[goldenroutledge]

beautiful 🥹 i love the way you write, where both of them see each other so perfectly and wholeheartedly ❤️

Superfine: Tell me again - Lewis Hamilton

genre: fluff (for real, it's just pure fluff)

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

wordcount: +2K

a/n: MET 2025 special

a/n 2: slowly (very slowly at that) starting to write again and it's not even funny how long it took me to get this one to feel right, but small steps. hope you guys like it.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

The robe tied around my waist is mostly for effect as I go through the mental list of things to get done before the world starts watching. Yet can't seem to tear myself from the kitchen counter, half-asleep, half-amused, and entirely waiting.

Lewis has been buzzing since before sunrise. Not in a loud, over-the-top way, but in the way I can always feel through the walls of our home. That quiet but so intense energy that comes with big days and heavy meaning.

It’s the first Monday of May. Met Gala Day.

And not just any Met. The very one he’s co-chairing. The one he’s been planning for a year. The one with a theme that lives in his bones.

He’s halfway dressed, barefoot in sweatpants and a white tank top, pacing softly through the flat with his phone in one hand and an ipad in the other.

His stylist Eric is due any minute. Grace, as in Wales Bonner Grace, has been texting since five.

Lewis’ energy’s quiet, but impossible to miss. The kind that fills a room without a word.

He’s been up since before dawn, moving through the flat, checking his phone, adjusting small things that probably don’t need adjusting. His thoughts are clearly miles ahead of us, halfway to the carpet, maybe further.

So I don’t wait for him to come to me. There’s no point in even considering food is anywhere on his mind right now.

I pour his coffee and carry it over to where he’s standing near the window, still barefoot, the soft cotton covering his chest. He’s scrolling through something, barely noticing the way the morning light casts gold streaks on his skin.

“Hey” I say softly, offering the mug. “You’ve had nothing but nerves and air since yesterday”

He looks up, eyes flicking from the coffee to my face.

That brief moment of pause where his eyes seem to focus on the present, that’s what I’m after.

He takes the cup from my hands and exhales, just a little. “Thanks, babe.”

I nod and stay in front of him, letting the quiet stretch. His fingers curl around the mug, and for the first time all morning, he’s still.

Then his gaze lifts again, softer this time. “You’re just tryna slow me down, huh?”

“Caught” I murmur. “But just a bit.”

There’s something behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe, or just the comfort of being seen. And before he can slip back into the current of the day, I step closer and lean in.

The kiss is light, nothing dramatic. Just enough to make him pause. Just enough to bring him back.

His free hand settles on my waist, the gesture instinctive. And when I break the connection, he pulls me back and kisses me again, slower this time. Deeper breath.

When we part, his forehead rests against mine for a second longer than usual.

“Okay” he whispers, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m here.”

“Good” I whisper back. “Stay with me for a minute.”

I rest my forehead against his chest, feeling the quiet drum of his heart — steady but quick. He might seem on a mission and strangely calm on the outside, but I know this man. I know what a day like this does to him.

The pride. The pressure. The significance that he wears like a second skin.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” I ask gently.

He shakes his head. “No. Just... it’s a lot. Feels big.”

“It is big.”

I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes are soft, reflective. I can see the list of things he’s still thinking through — the look, the speech, the press, the photos. But more than that, I see how much he cares.

Lewis sighs out a laugh, half-exasperated with himself. “I just want it all to go right.”

“It will.”

And I mean it. He’s been working on this night for over a year, since the minute Anna told him. Every detail, every meeting, every decision. He’s poured himself into it, solely out of what it means. The platform. The space to open doors for others. To tell stories.

His outfit? A statement. Every thread of it. And not because of how it looked, but the message it was carrying.

And he’s so damn proud of it, even if he tries to act all modest about it when he talks to press, or his friends, or anyone for that matter.

“Tell me again,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “About your look.”

He looks at me sideways. “You’ve seen it.”

“I know” I say, sipping my coffee. “But I want you to tell me. Tell me why it matters.”

His eyes meet mine, then shift quickly down to the rim of his mug, that now sits by the window sill, like it might give him time to think.

He shrugs lightly. “You already know everything by now.”

“That’s not the point” I murmur, watching him over the steam of my coffee. “I want you to say it. For you.”

He lets out a soft exhale, almost a sigh, and I can see the flicker of nerves flash across his features, the kind that comes when something matters. When you’ve poured yourself into it and is afraid it still might not be enough.

“You know I’m not good at talking about myself” he mumbles.

“You’re really good talking about what matters” I counter.

He rubs the back of his neck, slow, deliberate. Then leans against the back of the sofa like he needs something to ground him. His fingers tap the soft surface once, twice.

“I mean...” He starts, then pauses again, shaking his head a little. “It’s the Met. That already feels surreal. But then they ask me to co-chair the whole thing? And with this theme?”

His voice is still quiet, but there’s a shift, like something in him is trying to catch up to how meaningful all of this is.

“Superfine” he says, testing the word like he’s still getting used to the taste. “Tailoring Black style. It’s not really just about suits and toppers, is it? It’s legacy. Spirit. All those black men who made style into political standings long before anyone was watching.”

He talks with his hands. Subtle gestures, always thoughtful, deliberate. I nod, but I don’t speak. I want him to keep going and get me even more lost on how he manages to make everything so consuming.

“When I heard that” he continues, “I knew I didn’t want to just show up dressed nice. I wanted to honor it. Really honor it.”

His fingers twitch again on the mug. He’s not just being modest, anyone can see he’s feeling the weight of getting it right. Of doing justice to something bigger than himself.

“I reached out to Grace. Knew she’d understand what I was trying to say. And she did. More than I could’ve imagined.”

He finally looks at me again, and there’s vulnerability there, like he’s letting me peek behind the veil few get to see through.

“Do you remember how long we spent on the sketches alone? Not just designing, but researching. Every fabric. Every symbol. I wanted it to carry meaning.”

My chest tightens, and I step closer, setting my mug down so I can lean into him a little. I press my side into his and rest my hand gently on his forearm.

“Walk me through it again?” I say again, softer this time. “Like you and Grace described it to Anna last week.”

He hesitates, clearly not too sure, then swallows. But he starts.

“The ivory. It’s not just beautiful. It’s status. Royalty. It makes a statement without shouting. Then we added the cowries, because... they’re more than decoration. They’ve been traded, worn, passed down. Carried by others. They’re protection. Wealth. A different kind.”

I can hear the catch in his voice as he says it, like the gravity is still settling in his own throat.

“There are ancestral beads sewn into the details, they’re freshwater pearls, garnet-colored diamonds. We wanted the whole look to be elegant, simple almost, but ... spiritual. The sash is what turns it from merely tailored to ceremonial. Shamanic, Grace calls it. It feels like armor.”

He glances at me again, voice dipping low. “I’ve never worn something that felt like this before. It’s not just a suit. It’s a... reminder.”

There it is — the truth at the core of it all.

“It’s your history” I whisper.

He nods once, barely.

“And I just keep thinking,” he says, voice tightening, “how many people never got to be seen like this. To walk into a place like the Met and wear something that carries all this meaning, and have people actually pay attention. Not mock it. Not reduce it.”

I nod along, not just listening but soaking him in. Every word. Every spark in his eyes. Every pause where he gets a little lost in thought.

And I’m in love. God, I’m so in love.

It’s not even about the fashion. It’s the way he cares. The way he never does anything halfway. The way he’s not afraid to pour his soul into things the world might deem superficial.

He’s beautiful. Anyone will attest to that. But it’s his heart that takes me out.

I thread my fingers through his slowly. “And now you get to do it. Create a space. For at least some of them. For you.”

His grip tightens.

“I just hope I carry it well” he murmurs. “I hope people see it.”

“They will” I say, pressing my forehead to his shoulder. “Because you already do.”

He doesn’t speak for a second. I don’t need him to. I can feel what this moment means to him in the way his chest rises, in the way he lets me hold this part of him without flinching.

After a while, I look up. “Do you know what the women at your table are wearing?”

He smiles, a little bashful now. “Not a clue. They all told me the same thing — ‘Anna knows and approves”

I laugh. “That’s fair.”

“But I just know they’ll be glowing” he adds, more quietly. “That’s why I asked them. I mean, they’re brilliant. But they just know how to carry that weight.”

“Your own pantheon” I tease gently.

“Yeah” he says almost dream-like. “Lauryn. Regina. Ming. Lorna. Danielle, Jordan, Adrienne, Radhika... They’ve each shaped a bit of how we see ourselves. The way the world sees us.”

His voice is steadier now, although his gaze still looks dream-like when he’s listing the names.

“I wanted them with me tonight, because they have been the blueprint. Always.”

God, if he only knew what he sounds like right now. If he only knew how soft my heart feels inside my chest, just listening.

I tip my head up. “You should be proud.”

He looks down at me with something tender in his eyes. “You think so?”

“I know so. Grace is. Eric is. Anna is. I am” I swallow. “This matters because you make it matter.”

He kisses the top of my head, and I smile.

“You don’t always have to be the quiet one” I whisper. “You’ve earned to take up this space too.”

“I’ve got you to remind me of that” he murmurs.

“Always.”

I smile, picking up my mug back from the window. “Plus, you’ll be the best-looking co-chair the Met’s ever seen.”

He chuckles. “Not the point.”

“Still true though.”

He leans in again and kisses me once more, slower this time. No longer distracted. Not buzzing. Just him, just me, just morning.

“I really am proud of you” I whisper against his jaw.

And I mean it in every way a person can mean those words. Proud of the way he moves through the world. Proud of the way he keeps showing up. Proud of the way he kisses me like this, short and sweet, but always fully present.

He rests his forehead against mine. And I can’t help but think how the world always get to see the version of him that commands all the attention.

But I get this one, my favorite one. The one who whispers before he shouts. Who paces before he walks out onto any carpet. Who makes meaning come first.

Tonight, he’ll be huge, as always.

But this morning, he simply is.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Except maybe for those moments everyone else finally sees the part of him that makes me fall in love all over again.

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @itsmrshamilton @vicurious28

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@hiireadstuff @f1-football-fiend @unlikelystay @thesizzler

If you’d like to be added to my taglist you can leave a comment or send me a dm/ask.

[goldenroutledge]

I think, ultimately, it comes down to the self belief you have in yourself, and it's just the mentality. Like, I truly believe that, you know, I'm far from perfect. Truly believe that each day I can do better? I can try harder. If I fail, I try again. I think when it gets low, I have tools in which I utilize. I don't really listen to all the stuff. There's so many rumors. There's so many people making assumptions, comments, judgments. You know, 99% of them don't actually know really what's going on. 99% of them or probably 100% of them don't know what I've been through to be, to get where I am today.

And I think the other things I often, find myself having to just remind myself, I have won seven world titles. I have won more than any other driver in history. I have to remind myself that I also have done great things, and whilst things are not always gonna be great, and we're having this period of time, things will get better, if you believe and if you continue to push, you continue to work, and there's no lack of enthusiasm or talent in this team. So, I genuinely, truly believe we're gonna get there at some stages. I just, you have to be patient. - Lewis Hamilton

[goldenroutledge]

"Seat? Fitted 👌" - may 16, 2025 📷 @.scuderiaferrari / instagram

[goldenroutledge]

f1 grid (1/2) | oops wrong name

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : accidentally calling them the wrong name for shits and giggles - tiktok trend

୨ৎ : genre : comedy / pranks ୨ৎ : tws : playful banter ୨ৎ : word count : 2305

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i was ctfu while writing this LMFAOO i think my bf would KILL ME if i called him the wrong name 😭 the charles gif makes me wanna 😩

ʚ・max verstappen

you were lounging on the hotel bed while max sat at the little desk beside it, tapping something into his phone. his hair was still damp from the post-qualifying shower, messy and sticking up in tufts. the tv was on, but you weren’t watching. not really. you were focused on your plan.

“tom,” you said casually, stretching out across the mattress. “can you pass me my water bottle?”

max didn’t respond at first, too focused on his phone. but then he froze.

his head tilted slowly, like a machine turning to scan a threat.

“sorry, what?”

you glanced at him, innocent. “water, please?”

now he was fully facing you. his eyebrows raised, that signature are you serious look all over his face. “who the fuck is tom?”

you shrugged. “just asked for water.”

“yeah, but you didn’t ask me.” he leaned back in the chair, arms folding. “you asked tom.”

you bit back a laugh. “you’re overreacting.”

“i’m overreacting?” he repeated, tone flat. “you’re lying on our bed calling for 'tom' and i’m overreacting.”

you picked up your phone like you were checking something. “maybe i got the names mixed up. tom, max. could happen to anyone.”

“not unless tom’s been around enough to replace me in your muscle memory.” you glanced at him and saw he was trying really hard to keep his expression unreadable, but his brow was twitching. “seriously...tom?”

“it’s a joke,” you finally said, unable to hold the straight face any longer. “you’ve been pranked.”

max didn’t speak for a moment. then he shook his head, muttering in dutch under his breath.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he said finally, getting up to hand you the water you never really wanted in the first place. “but if i hear that name again, i’m revoking cuddling privileges.”

you grinned. “noted.”

but later that night, just as you drifted off, you whispered, “thanks, tom.”

max shoved a pillow in your face.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you were in the middle of organizing lewis’ growing sunglasses collection in the closet when he walked in, shirtless and relaxed, holding two smoothie bottles. one was your favorite.

“thanks, marcus,” you said sweetly, taking it from his hand.

he stopped mid-step.

“…come again?” he asked, lips parting just slightly.

you didn’t look up. “hmm?”

he blinked. “what did you just call me?”

you sipped your smoothie. “i said thanks. for the smoothie, babe.”

there was a pause. then—

“marcus?” his voice pitched up at the end like he was genuinely trying to figure out whether he heard wrong… or whether he was being cheated on in real time.

you blinked innocently. “huh?”

he slowly put his bottle down. “babe, i don’t want to jump to conclusions, but...who the hell is marcus? is that some guy from soulcycle or something?”

you stifled a laugh and shrugged. “that name jogs my memory...i thin he just brought me a smoothie once at work? very thoughtful.”

lewis crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, eyebrows up. “wow. okay. and what does marcus do? race? rap? make smoothies for girls who forget their boyfriend’s name?”

you bit your lip, holding the laugh deep in your chest.

he looked away, shaking his head, grinning despite himself. “unbelievable. seven world championships and i’m getting marcus’d in my own house.”

you walked over to him slowly, trying to look apologetic. “lewis—”

“no, no. marcus is probably better at opening jars too,” he said, deadpan.

you finally broke, laughing as you wrapped your arms around him. “it’s a prank, babe. from that old trend. there is no marcus.”

he let out a long sigh, dramatically resting his forehead against yours. “you play too much.”

“but you looked so betrayed. it was kind of cute.”

lewis kissed your cheek, then whispered, “you’re lucky you’re adorable.”

as you turned to leave, he added, “but i’m calling you katie all day tomorrow. just for balance.”

ʚ・george russell

it started over breakfast. you were seated at the little table in george’s apartment, scrolling through your phone while he made tea. he was shirtless, hair still a little messy, humming some fleetwood mac song to himself, completely unaware he was about to be mentally ruined before 9 a.m.

“jake, can you pass the oat milk?”

george froze.

you didn’t look up. you scrolled a little more. very nonchalant.

he didn’t say anything at first. he just slowly reached for the oat milk and set it down in front of you — quietly, methodically — then walked around the table and sat across from you with that look.

“who’s jake?” he asked, voice light but suspicious.

you took a sip of your tea. “what?”

“you called me jake.”

“no i didn’t.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you absolutely did.”

you shrugged. “maybe you misheard.”

“i don’t think i did.” he leaned forward, elbows on the table now. “do i know this jake?”

you bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “i don't know, probably? that's what you heard right.”

george blinked once, then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like he was preparing to take you to court. “does jake have better hair than me?”

you snorted.

“is he taller?” he asked, a little more seriously now.

“george.”

“no, because if jake is over six feet and makes a good cup of tea, i’m leaving.”

that did it — you burst out laughing, nearly spilling your drink.

george tilted his head. “wait—oh my god. you’re doing that bloody trend, aren’t you?”

you nodded, face buried in your sleeve as you kept laughing.

he exhaled, rolling his eyes as he picked up his mug. “you’re awful. i nearly had a personal crisis.”

“i noticed,” you said between giggles.

“swear to god, if i ever call you ‘sophie’ and you cry, i’m just gonna say it was balance.”

“who’s sophie?” you blinked.

he gave you a look. “exactly.”

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was sprawled on the couch, flipping through the channels with one hand and lazily draping the other across your thighs, completely unbothered. it was one of those rare, quiet evenings where neither of you had to be anywhere, the kind that made you feel domestic and soft.

you were curled up at the end of the sofa, scrolling through your phone, when you looked over at him and said, casually, “matteo, can you turn the volume up?”

carlos froze.

the remote paused mid-click. he turned his head, eyes narrowing with laser focus. “what did you say?”

you blinked at him sweetly. “volume, carlos. i can’t hear.”

silence.

then, he sat up slowly — dramatically, even — his hand still hovering in the air like he was physically trying to process what just happened. “who,” he began, “is matteo?”

you shrugged. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” he said, placing the remote down like it offended him, “you just called me matteo. that’s not my name, cariño.”

you bit your lip to hold back the smile. “oh, i must’ve been thinking of someone else.”

carlos leaned forward, one eyebrow raised in complete disbelief. “someone else? so now i am… easily confused with other men?”

you snorted.

“no, no, it’s fine. maybe matteo has better hair than me. maybe matteo owns a vineyard and serenades you with a guitar.”

you lost it at that. but he wasn’t done.

“does matteo also say ‘smooth operator’? or is he a rough operator?” he added, now fully invested in this imaginary rival.

you leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder, voice soft. “carlos, i was kidding. it’s a trend. i called you the wrong name on purpose.”

he stared at you for a beat, lips pursed. “you’re playing with fire, mi amor.”

“i know,” you grinned. “but matteo would’ve let it slide.”

carlos lunged at you with a laugh, wrestling you into his chest. “then go be with matteo! but first, tell him i’m coming for him.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

you were doing your makeup at the vanity in your shared monaco apartment when charles wandered in, fresh from his shower, towel around his waist, hair a fluffy disaster. he looked at you through the mirror, all sleepy eyes and boyish charm.

“lucas, can you hand me my lip liner?” you asked offhandedly, still focused on your face.

you heard the towel drop.

not in the hot, sexy way.

in the he's shocked and spiraling way.

“lucas?” he echoed, voice higher than you’ve ever heard it. “who the hell is lucas?!”

you turned slowly, biting your lip to hide the smile. “what?”

he stared at you like you’d just run him over with a ferrari. “you just called me lucas.”

you shrugged. “did i?”

“YES,” he said, wildly gesturing. “you didn’t even hesitate. you were so confident—like it was natural! like you say it all the time!”

you turned back to the mirror, calmly applying mascara. “you’re overreacting.”

charles dropped onto the bed like he’d been mortally wounded. “lucas. mon dieu. that sounds like someone who wears boat shoes with no socks.”

you bit your lip harder.

“is he french?” charles asked, sitting up. “or worse… italian?”

“it was just a mistake, love.” you said airily, brushing your cheeks.

charles stood, eyes wide. “mistake?! i literally brought you pain au chocolat this morning and kissed your forehead like some guy in a rom-com!”

you finally broke, letting out a full laugh. “charles—”

“no, no, no. this is worse than the monaco curse. lucas. i can’t believe i lost you to someone named lucas!”

you got up and walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his dramatically tense shoulders. “babe. it’s a tiktok prank. i made it up.”

he blinked. “so… there is no lucas?”

you grinned. “no lucas.”

he exhaled. “good. because if there was, i’d have to challenge him to a karting race. or maybe just cry.”

you kissed his cheek. “you’re so dramatic.”

he whispered, offended. “it’s my birthright.”

ʚ・lando norris

you and lando were chilling on the couch, deep into a gaming session. or, more accurately, lando was gaming and you were curled up next to him, offering the occasional sarcastic comment and stealing his snacks.

he was laser-focused, headset on, tongue poking out a little as he tried to win some online match.

you waited for the perfect moment, just as he landed a kill and started celebrating.

“nice job, ethan,” you said sweetly, clapping once.

lando froze.

like… absolutely no movement. not in his hands, not in his mouth, not even a breath.

then, very slowly, he turned to look at you. headset slightly askew. brow furrowed.

“did you just call me ethan?”

you blinked. “hmm?”

“hmm?” he repeated, his voice cracking halfway through. “who the fuck is ethan?!”

you shrugged. “just… ethan.”

lando set the controller down like it was made of glass. “is he one of your gym guys? does he have better curls than me? wait, is ethan taller than me?!”

you laughed under your breath. “does it matter?”

“of course it matters!” he cried, fully spinning to face you now, hands on his hips. “you can’t just ethan me and then expect me to cope. i’m not built for this emotionally.”

you fought so hard not to crack. “just someone i know very lightly at the gym, he's a big motivator.”

“oh my god,” lando said, flopping backwards like he’d been shot. “i’m being replaced by a walking affirmation board.”

you finally broke, snorting as you leaned over him. “lando. baby. it’s a prank.”

he peeked up at you. “no ethan?”

“well..." you pause, "just kidding, of course there's no ethan."

he exhaled dramatically. “okay. good. because i was two seconds away from dming every ethan on your follower list and challenging them to a race.”

“you can’t race them all.”

he grinned, eyes gleaming. “watch me.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

it was a quiet sunday morning, the kind that begged for soft sheets, slow cuddles, and no alarm clocks. you were both curled up in bed, tangled under the duvet, with the curtains barely cracked to let the light in.

oscar was scrolling through something on his phone, his head resting against your shoulder, calm and cozy.

you stretched lazily, then nudged his thigh. “asher, can you hand me my water?”

he blinked.

paused.

then, with terrifying composure: “sorry, who?”

you yawned. “water, please. it’s by your side, osc.”

he slowly turned to look at you, expression blank, voice deadly even. “you just called me asher.”

“did i?”

“you definitely did.”

you shrugged, pretending not to notice the sharp turn in atmosphere. “just slipped out.”

oscar sat up a little straighter. “do we know an asher? is there an asher in the paddock? because i swear i don’t know an asher.”

you casually rolled over to the other side of the bed. “he’s someone from uni... no one special just someone i talk to during class for a little laugh.”

oscar scoffed, tone still flat but deeply offended. “he sounds like a real crowd favorite. must be hard, competing with asher and his sunshine energy.”

you were fighting so hard not to laugh, clutching the duvet to your face.

he wasn’t done. “tell me—does asher also give you the inside line into turn 3 at silverstone? does he organize your sock drawer? does he know your coffee order by heart?!”

you burst out laughing.

oscar narrowed his eyes. “you’re pranking me.”

you wheezed, nodding. “i couldn’t keep it going, you looked like you were going to call asher’s imaginary mother and file a complaint.”

oscar leaned back, smug smile on his face. “good. because i was five seconds away from changing your contact name to ashtray and never explaining why.”

you grinned, wrapping your arms around his waist. “no asher. just you.”

he kissed your forehead, muttering, “i don’t trust pranks. but i trust revenge.”

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