#F1 drabble

[cutielando]

on the stream | lando norris

synopsis: in which people finally found out about you on his stream

a/n: based on this request!

pairing: lando norris x girlfriend!reader

my masterlist

It was one of those quiet Saturday afternoons when everything seemed perfect—peaceful, undisturbed, and calm.

You had spent most of the day curled up on the couch, catching up on shows and scrolling through your phone, while Lando sat at his desk in the corner of the room, eyes focused on the screen of his gaming setup.

His Twitch stream had just begun, and you’d decided to join him for a bit of company.

You weren’t one for the spotlight, so you typically stayed off-camera during his streams, content to let him do his thing while you offered the occasional distraction or just hung out in the background.

Lando had been streaming more lately, and his fanbase had grown significantly. The requests and comments came flooding in as soon as he went live, but Lando took it all in stride, always offering a wave or a friendly greeting to his followers.

He was as charming as ever—fun, spontaneous, and always up for a laugh.

It was just supposed to be a normal day—Lando gaming, you in the background, maybe chiming in every now and then, keeping it low-key.

But things quickly spiraled when Lando’s chat exploded with a question that made your heart skip a beat.

"So, Lando," one of his loyal fans asked, "is that your girlfriend sitting behind you?"

You froze. You hadn’t even realized you were sitting in the frame. In the corner of the room, the angle of the camera captured you perfectly—your face partially visible, your eyes glued to your phone.

You tried to duck out of view, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

Lando, oblivious to the impending disaster, leaned back in his chair with a smirk.

"That’s… that’s my friend, just hanging out," he said, his tone casual, as though it was no big deal.

But as he glanced at the screen again, his eyes widened in realization.

The chat was flooded with comments now.

"Wait, that’s definitely her, isn’t it?" "Is this the famous girlfriend??" "OMG Lando you’ve been hiding her for so long!" "Is she really your girlfriend, or is this just a friend thing?!" "Aww, they’re so cute together!"

Lando’s face went red as he quickly tried to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"Alright, alright, calm down, chat" he said nervously. "Nothing to see here. Just a friend. We’re just chilling"

But even as he said it, you could tell by the way his voice wavered that he was less than convincing.

You had always been good at staying out of the spotlight.

Lando was the famous one, the one with the fans, the one with the spotlight. You were just his private world—someone who stayed behind closed doors, keeping to yourself while he handled the public life.

But today, that boundary had been crossed.

The comments kept coming, faster and faster, as more people recognized you. The whole situation felt like it was spiraling out of control.

"Okay, okay, you caught us" Lando finally admitted, laughing awkwardly. "Yes, she’s my girlfriend. But I’m keeping things private, alright? We’ve been keeping this on the down-low for a reason, guys. Please respect that"

Your heart raced as you glanced at him, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and dread. You weren’t sure if you were ready for the world to know.

The fact that this revelation had happened so unexpectedly, in front of thousands of strangers, made it feel overwhelming.

You weren’t used to being so exposed. In fact, you liked it that way—your relationship with Lando had always been something just for the two of you, far from the prying eyes of the internet.

Lando, sensing your discomfort, quickly turned his chair toward you.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, "are you okay with this? I didn’t mean for things to go down like this. I can end the stream if you want."

You shook your head, trying to compose yourself.

"No, it’s fine. It’s just… a little overwhelming" you admitted. "I didn’t expect it to happen like this."

He smiled at you, the reassurance in his eyes enough to make you feel a little less panicked.

"Don’t worry. We’ll handle it. I’ll just answer some questions, clear the air, and we can go back to normal, yeah?"

Lando’s fans, though shocked at first, seemed to rally around the revelation.

The chat filled with heart emojis and congratulations, and a wave of support came pouring in. But you still felt a bit nervous.

The internet had a way of turning things upside down, and while you trusted Lando, the idea of being thrust into the public eye wasn’t something you’d ever really signed up for.

After a few minutes of fielding questions about your relationship, Lando looked at the camera and spoke directly to his followers.

"Okay, okay, I see the hype, but please, just respect her privacy. She’s not in the public eye, and I want to keep it that way. We’re just two people trying to enjoy life, and I’d appreciate it if you gave us that space"

The chat slowed down a bit, but there were still dozens of comments popping up, many of which were asking about how the two of you met, how long you’d been together, and whether you were going to appear more often on his stream.

You sat quietly behind him, biting your lip, trying to figure out how to navigate this new chapter of your life—one that was no longer just shared between you and Lando.

But Lando, always the calm and collected one, seemed determined to put you at ease.

He turned back to the game, focusing on it for a few moments, then called you over to his side.

"Come here," he said with a warm smile, holding his hand out to you. "I’ll make you feel better. Let’s finish this round together."

You hesitated for a moment but then walked over, sitting beside him on the edge of the gaming chair.

As soon as you were close, Lando pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist. His fans went wild in the chat, but you didn’t mind anymore.

Lando’s touch was the grounding force you needed.

"See?" Lando whispered in your ear, his voice only audible to you. "We’ll get through this together. It’s just a little bump, nothing we can’t handle"

And for the first time in a while, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Lando, ever the protective and caring boyfriend, wasn’t going to let anything shake you.

No matter how many people were watching, you were still his—and that was all that mattered.

The rest of the stream passed by with a few awkward moments, but mostly fun and lightheartedness as Lando managed to steer the conversation back to his usual antics.

As the stream ended, and the camera was turned off, you finally let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"That wasn’t so bad, was it?" Lando teased, his fingers gently brushing your hair.

You smiled at him, finally feeling the weight of the situation ease. "I guess not. But I still can’t believe you just exposed me like that."

Lando laughed, kissing the top of your head.

"Hey, I’m sorry! But I figured it was time to let the world know about you. You’re too special to keep to myself"

"You're ridiculous" you smiled, but leaned down to kiss him nonetheless.

And in that moment, just the two of you in his home, you knew that your relationship was going to be different now that it was in the public eye, but you didn't care.

As long as you were with Lando, everything would be okay.

comments and re-blogs help us grow!

much appreciated!!

REQUEST HERE

[norristeria]

You're a Strange One ! LN04

SUMMARY 𝄡 Being Oscar's personal assistant is easy. However, you cannot help but think his coworker is the strangest man you've ever met.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 650.

NOTE 𝄡 This is just a little something I had in mind. This is more of a pairing exploration than a real one-shot. I don't know what to make of it, tbh. Do you think this couple has enough potential for a one-shot? <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

You never imagined that you'd end up working as Oscar Piastri’s personal assistant after getting your degree in communications summa cum laude.

If your parents had nearly had a heart attack upon seeing their daughter “reduced to a servant” after paying for one of the country’s most prestigious universities, you, on the other hand, had learned to bless this twist of fate.

Because it was indeed fate you had to thank for the way your life had turned out. People underestimated its power far too often, but you had come to cherish it and to welcome it back whenever it decided to reappear.

Fate made its grand entrance in your life one night in 2023, after yet another rejection from talent agencies and management firms. Internships, professional experience, glowing references—none of it seemed to matter to the big corporations. What mattered were connections, and you had none.

That night, you'd had two glasses of red wine, perhaps more, your cheeks streaked with mascara and frustration.

Fate, ironically methodical despite its name, had chosen that precise moment to show up in the form of a job listing on a website whose name you no longer remember. What you did remember, however, was how your eyes widened as you read the salary and perks.

One cover letter, three interviews later, and suddenly your life was split between racetracks, England, and Monaco.

Every day, you thanked fate for putting Oscar Piastri in your path.

He was easy to work with: a coffee without sugar in the morning, a calendar of sporadic appointments to manage—mostly concentrated on race weekends—and very few public appearances outside those. In short, a normal guy, refreshingly different from the awful clients you'd heard horror stories about since entering the strange world of celebrity.

The only blemish—though not quite that, more a curiosity you hadn’t anticipated—was that working for Oscar Piastri meant regularly crossing paths with Lando Norris.

And you didn’t quite know what to make of him, except that he was oh so very strange.

The first time he saw you, he tripped.

You hadn’t even had time to shake his hand, and Oscar hadn’t yet introduced you.

Your eyes met, the Brit blushed furiously, then went sprawling to the ground. You stood frozen before exchanging a baffled look with Oscar, who merely sighed and hauled his friend back to his feet.

The following encounters were no better.

By the third one, you concluded that Lando Norris must have some kind of speech impediment—he couldn’t seem to string two words together around you. Not even to answer simple questions like “How are you?” or “Do you know where Oscar is?”.

Instead, he’d stammer something utterly unintelligible, then vanish, leaving you to wander alone through the endless corridors of the McLaren Technology Centre in search of Oscar.

And now… now he stared. All the time. Without saying a word. You had never felt more awkward in your life.

Even now, you couldn’t escape those green eyes, burning hotter than the Bahrain sun. The McLaren garage was buzzing as the race neared, yet Lando remained still in one corner, eyes locked on you.

Too busy fetching cold towels and water bottles to cool Oscar down, you had ignored him at first. But now that the Australian had his towels, his bottle, his headphones, and his phone, there was nothing left to keep you distracted.

You finally looked up. Your gaze met Lando’s just as he took a sip of water.

Startled, he choked, spraying water all over his engineer—who shouted something you couldn’t quite catch. Lando floundered through an apology, cheeks crimson.

Your eyes met again.

He smiled—sheepishly, like it hurt—and turned around.

Before walking straight into a wall.

You frowned, shook your head and turned your attention back to the race schedule.

Yes. Lando Norris was definitely the strangest man you had ever met.

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧… 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞?)

🖇️ more...

"Whose idea was it to rent one house?" you asked from the kitchen, watching as Charles tried to squeeze giant inflatable pool toys through the door while Lando yelled something about sharks in the pool.

Max raised his hand unapologetically from the couch, with Kimi asleep on top of him like a koala.

"You wanted ‘family bonding,’ love."

"Not with the entire grid!"

Oscar walked past you looking utterly exhausted, holding a checklist.

"Alonso and Checo are arguing over who’s doing the barbecue. Carlos took the car into town without asking. And Lando just ordered pizza for twenty people, in case ‘fans show up’."

"Where’s George?" you asked.

"Planning group activities. He said there’s mandatory karaoke at six."

"And Lewis?"

"In the meditation room. Said he ‘needs to cleanse himself from the chaos.’"

You looked at Max. He just smiled.

"Kimi’s fine. Look," he said, gently stroking the boy’s hair. "Spending time with family is good for him."

"You do realize he didn’t ask for this? He went to one race and ended up with two dads, five uncles, seven cousins, and an Oscar who’s completely burned out taking care of him."

"And a Charles who sneaks him out for ice cream," Oscar added, still staring at his list.

Max shrugged.

"He didn’t ask for it… but he loves it."

Right then, Kimi mumbled sleepily:

"Is there family breakfast today too?"

Your heart melted. Oscar sighed. Max smiled.

"Yes, kid," you said. "And with pancakes."

In the background, Lando fell into the pool fully clothed. Charles applauded. Fernando yelled at him not to splash the meat.

And you thought: total chaos… but I wouldn’t change a thing.

[leclerc-hs]

romantic chocolates? - mv1

pairing: max verstappen x fem!reader summary: in which you don't read the label on the chocolates OR you and max accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolates and get too horny on vacation. warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT. all smut. degradation, spitting, fingering, dirty talk, filthy filthy, slight breeding kink, mean!max, edging, language...NOT PROOFREAD (might be some typos or things that don't make sense lol), cute ending word count: ~3.9k author's note: SURPRISE!!!! ITS A DAY EARLY ;) this is a continuation to an anon request!!! i wrote a cl16 AND ln4 version of this. UP NEXT: OP81

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

You should’ve read the label before eating them.

Some little box tucked in the corner of the welcome basket, tucked beneath bottles of wine and a note from one of Max’s sponsors. You didn’t think about it twice. Why would you? 

Just ripped it open with sun-warm fingers and let a piece melt on your tongue. Then fed Max some. Let his lips wrap around your fingers. Slow, tongue brushing against your knuckle. Eyes locked on you.

Humming at how good it was.

You laughed. And neither of you thought twice about it.

You were both stretched out on the daybed, high up in the cliffs, where no one could see you but the ocean. Linen cushions under you, a light breeze, and the ocean humming.

Your body is still damp from the pool. Bikini clinging to your skin tightly. And Max is lying next to you in nothing but a dark pair of swim trunks. Waistband pushed dangerously low on his hips. One leg bent. One arm behind his head. Comfy. Happy.

The way he always is when its just the two of you.

You’d been talking about something. Nothing important. Just a lazy conversation that happens between the stretches of silence.

He’s half-laughing, fingers ghosting down your arm every once in a while.

About thirty minutes go by, and something in you shifts.

It’s not all at once. Slow. A subtle ache in your belly. Your bikini bottoms sticky. A wetness you hadn’t noticed before. Thighs clenching automatically.

Max lets out a breath next to you. Like something in him changed too.

You don’t look over right away. Because the ache doesn’t stop.

It spreads like a fucking wildfire.

Low and deep and pulsing between your legs. As if your body decided to speed past the arousal and straight into desperation. 

You try to cross your legs, needing some sort of pressure. But it doesn’t even help in the slightest bit. If anything, it makes it worse.

Then you heard him.

A quiet, “Fuck.” 

You turn your head.

He was still laying on his back. But no longer relaxed. In fact he was ramrod straight. Jaw tight. Eyes shut. A hand still behind his head, but the other now fisting the edge of the cushion.

Swim trunks tight over his hips.

And lower….

You swallowed hard. 

He turns to look at you, slowly opening his eyes. 

“What the fuck was in that chocolate?” He asks, voice rough. Low. 

You blink. “I don’t…Uh,…I didn’t read the…”

His gaze drops to your legs. The way your thighs were pressed together like you could stop it. Like you weren’t fucking dripping.

You try to play it cool. Try to make it seem like your cunt isn’t clenching on nothing. Again and again. Begging to be filled.

He feels his cock twitch at the sight of it. Your thighs pressed together like some common whore.

“You’re squirming.”

You breathe in. Swallow.

“I’m just…I’m just hot.”

He hums. But it’s not kind.

And he watches the little shift in your breathing. The twitch of your muscles.

His cock twitches in his swim suit.

And he smirks.

“Just a bit of chocolate and what?” He laughs. “Now you’re lying here thighs pressed together like a fucking slut.”

You flinch. Eyes widening. And he grins even bigger.

“This what gets you wet now?” His voice teasing. “Candy?”

“Max…”

“No. Go on. Tell me.” His eyes trail down your chest, landing on your hips. “Is your pussy this wet because of the candy? Or is it because you let me suck it off your fingers like a good little whore.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Hips jerking. 

He laughs. Mean.

“Oh, you liked that, yeah?”

You nod. Whimpering.

He moves closer. Fingers reaching for your skin, pulling your legs apart just a little bit, trailing up your thigh, stopping right near your core.

“Bet if I pulled your bottoms to the side, you’d be fucking leaking onto the daybed.”

And its not a question. It’s a statement.

He’s on his side now. Watching you, propped on his elbow, cock visibly straining against the thin fabric.

“Poor, liefje.” He coos. Mockingly. “Trying so hard to act normal. Bet your pussy’s fucking pulsing.”

You moan, barely. Head falling back. Chest rising.

��Go on, pretty. Rub your thighs together all you want. Let that needy little cunt grind against nothing. See if that makes you feel any better.”

“You’re being mean.”

His smile twists. Darker. Meaner.

“You should’ve read the fucking label.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

“I trusted you, you know?” He mutters. “Handed me that chocolate like it was a fucking game.”

His jaw clenches.

“And now I’m sitting here with my cock fuckin’ aching…and you’re…” He glances at your thighs again for a quick second. “Dripping on the cushions like a fucking whore.”

He shifts, kneeling beside you now. “And the worst part?” He leans toward you. Noses almost touching. “It’s your fault.”

His fingers still rest on your thigh. Squeezing it. Trailing to the fabric of your bikini with two fingers, dragging it. Slow.

Until you’re exposed.

“Oh, fuck me.” He groans. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ soaked, schatje.”

And he laughs. It’s almost cruel. 

“Dripping. All from what? A piece of chocolate and some dirty talk?”

You whimper, hips twitching as the cool air breezes against your hot core.

“You look like you’d let me fuck you right here.”

And you whimper. Pushing your head deeper against the cushion behind you. Sunglasses pushed up on your head.

“Not even trying to hide it, huh?” He spits. “Too fucking dumb from being so horny, yeah? Can’t even keep your hips still.”

You nod. A lot. Fast. It’s almost pathetic.

“You gonna admit it?”

You blink at him. “Admit what?”

“That you’re clenching around nothing. Aching for my fingers. For my cock.”

He leans in closer.

“Say it.” He demands. “Or I won’t touch you.”

Your voice quivers, “Max, please…I’m so wet.”

He raises a brow, smirk growing. “Sorry…what was that?”

You feel your cheeks redden. “I’m wet,” your voice is louder. “Fuck. Max…I’m fucking aching for you.” You sound frustrated. Annoyed almost.

And his smile is wicked. “There’s my liefje.”

“I should make you fuckin’ beg. Keep you like this for hours…because this…” He slips two fingers between your folds. “Is what I have to deal with.”

You jolt from his touch. Whimpering.

“Sensitive already, hm?” He grunts. “Fuck, I could probably make you cum just by spitting on you. Needy little cunt.”

And you try to close your legs. Clench them.

But he grips your thighs and forces them to stay open. Rough.

“Keep them open, schatje.”

His voice is so mean, but it only makes you ache more. “I’m so fucking hard that it’s making me fucking sweat. Can feel my cock leaking.”

Your breath hitches as he sinks his fingers into you.

“You know,” he says, like its a normal conversation. Like his fingers aren’t curling in your cunt. “We’re supposed to be relaxing.”

And his one arm gestures to the view. The pool. The cute villa. The ocean.

“Summer break. No work. No races.” His fingers curl just a bit more. And your mouth falls slack. “Was supposed to be quiet. Easy. Nap in the sun, maybe fuck you slow after dinner.”

He clicks his tongue, eyes dragging over you. The way your tits rise. The way your thighs are twitching. You’re a mess. And he looks fucking furious about it.

“And instead I’ve got this.” And pushes in another finger just to prove a point. It has you jolting.

“Squirming on this cushion like a needy little bitch who can’t sit still.” He huffs. “Legs twitching and pussy leaking in the middle of the day.”

You whimper. Lip quivering.

“My dick’s been leaking since you moaned the first time.”

And you whimper. Quietly. But he hears it. His jaw clenches.

“Max…”

“No. Don’t ‘Max’ me.” He cuts you off. “You did this.”

He leans in closer. Fingers moving with a more hurried pace.

“You fed me that chocolate.” His voice drops. “Now I’ve got my cock pulsing in my suit, you’re cunt’s crying for me, and you expect me to be fucking calm?”

His voice is shaking. Fingers twitching.

Your walls squeeze against his fingers. And he hisses in a sharp breath of air.

“Have to spend my afternoon with a fuckin’ brat whining for my cock.” He places a soft bite on your shoulder. “Like shoving my cock in you is the only thing that will help your poor cunt calm down.”

He can feel your cunt squeezing him. See the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Your cheeks redden. All the tell tale signs. 

And he pulls his fingers away. And you cry out from the loss of his touch. 

“You don’t get to come yet.” His voice is fucking flat. “Not until I say so. Not until you earn it.”

He presses his fingers back to your cunt, slow. Teasing. “Should rub this needy cunt for hours. Edge you over and over until you’re sobbing for it.”

You let out a small sob, hips grinding against his finger tips.

And he pulls his fingers away almost instantly.

“No.” He grunts.

Presses his soaked fingers to your lips. “Open.”

And you do. 

He groans as you suck his fingers. His hips twitching just slightly. Eyes not leaving from his fingers in your mouth.

“That’s it, pretty.”

He palms himself with his other hand, groaning. His eyes darkening. Almost feral looking.

He leans toward your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

Presses a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. 

Lips hovering over you ear. Soft.

“Now say thank you.”

Your narrow your eyes. Fucked out of your mind. Glaring at him.

“Let me hear it. You’re gonna lie here like a good girl, and thank me for taking care of your soaking needy pussy while I’m leaking into my fucking suit."

“Th…thank you, Max.” You whimper. “For taking care of my needy pussy while you’re supposed to be relaxing.” You manage to get out. Sarcastically. Frustrated.

And his cock twitches.

He leans over you now, on his knees, jaw tight. Slipping his hand back down between your thighs. Dragging his fingers between your folds again. Not pushing in. Like he’s testing you.

“Ohhh, liefje.” He clicks his tongue. “you’re lucky I haven’t fucked the attitude out of you yet.”

The air is hot against your skin. 

“Messy little thing,” He grunts. Watching his fingers move. Pressing the pads of his fingers against you. Still not pushing in.

Your hips twitch. 

“You want it?” He tilts his head. “Want my fingers inside?”

You nod. Begging. Eyes pleading.

And he laughs. But it sounds like he’s struggling. Like he’s using every ounce of control to not push his suit down and fuck you into the cushion.

“My cock’s fucking throbbing, schatje. Feels so heavy.” He mutters. “You have no idea how bad I want to be inside you.”

And he pushes two fingers in. You moan. Back arching. Loud. 

And he’s locked the fuck in.

Watching your pussy clench around him. Groaning.

“Fuckin’ squeezing me.”

He moves them, slow. Dragging. 

“Y’hear that?” He grunts. “Pussy’s fucking crying for me.”

And you’re gripping the cushion. Gasping. The heat in your stomach building fast.

And he leans over you. Mouth at your ear again. One hand putting his weight onto your thigh.

“Don’t you fucking come.”

Your hips move. You’re so close. Right there.

He drags his thumb to your clit. Circles it a few times. Slow. Fucking brutal.

“You wanna?” He huffs. “Wanna come on my fingers? Soak me like a fucking slut?”

You’re panting. “Please….Max…”

“I know.” He slows his fingers. “I know you need it.”

And he speeds his fingers up. Pushing in and out of you deeper. Curling his fingers.

And right as your body seizes up. Your orgasm about to rip through you. 

He pulls his fucking hand away.

And you scream.

Twitching. Clit pulsing.

“Fuckin’ hell…Look what you’re doing to me.” He palms his cock, the fabric stained with a wet spot. And he’s so hard.

His head is cocked. Eyes blown. Fingers covered in your slick. 

He grabs your bikini top. Fisting the fabric and shoves it up. Nipples so hard from how worked up you’re feeling. And they bounce free. 

He groans.

He palms himself again. Once.

Then reaches greedily, pinches your nipples between two fingers. And you whimper.

“So fucking pretty…look at you…” He whispers, before leaning down and bites.

Not a hard bite. Just enough to make your back arch when his mouth closes around your nipple. Sucking. Tongue swirling. Teeth grazing.

And his other hand returns to your folds. Pushing into your cunt with two fingers. Deep.

He sucks harder on your nipple, groaning against you. 

Curling his fingers just right.

And you’re squirming. 

“You like this, huh?” He hisses. “Like when I shove your top up and suck your tits like they’re mine?”

“Ye…yeah,” You are gasping.

He groans, pressing kisses to your breasts. “You sound fucking wrecked.”

And he looks kind of calm. His brows are focused like he’s studying. Smirking. Licking his lips.

“Y’gonna come already?” 

You nod. And he slows down his movements instantly.

“You think you deserve it?” He pulls his fingers out, slow. Holding them up. “Look at this fuckin mess.”

His fingers are glistening. Covered in you.

He brings them to his mouth. Sucks them fuckin’ clean. Moaning at the taste.

“Fuck, schatje.” He pulls his fingers out with a ‘pop’. “Tastes so good.”

Max moves lower onto the day bed, almost laying down on the day bed.

And then his fingers are back. Pressing into you so filthy that you’re arching. Shoving them deep. Hard. Still slow.

“You wanna come?” He picks up the pace. “Say it.”

You gasp. “Max…please.”

“Not good enough.” And he’s pressing his thumb to your clit. Rough. “Tell me what you want.”

You’re grinding into his hand. Begging for more. Aching.

“I…plea…Max. I need….” You’re breathless. His fingers not giving up. Curling inside of you. “I need to..”

And he laughs.

“Need?” He repeats. “No. You fucking want it. You want to come all over my fingers like a pathetic whore, yeah?”

And the heat in your stomach hurts. 

And he leans in. Breath on your cheek. “Don’t.”

Your body jerks against his, about to come.

He pulls his fingers out again.

And you fucking scream.

“Y’gonna come if I put my mouth on you?”

And your breath hitches at the bare thought of it. Eyes glassy. A whimper pushing past your lips.

“Too fucking bad.”

But then he drops between your thighs. And licks.

One heavy drag of his tongue against you. And you careen forward with a sharp cry before falling back down to the cushion. 

He groans against you. Hands digging into the skin of your thighs as he opens you wider. As he buries his face into your cunt. Tongue lapping you greedily.

And Max?

He’s grinding himself against the cushion of the day bed. Rutting himself against the bed. Cock dripping against the fabric.

And he’s fucking panting.

“Fuck, baby… fuck. Fuck. I can’t…” His hips are jerking into the cushion. Rutting into it. Desperately. Messy. 

Nose nudging your clit. Burying his face into you like he’s feasting.

His hips jerk harder against the cushion, and then he’s fucking coming. His body shuttering as he watches you suck his fingers win. 

“Fucking fuck…” His voice is wrecked. “Go on. Come for me…you deserve it. Fuck.”

His thumb drags against your clit again. And your back arches. Thighs clamping around him.

“Oh fuck..fuck…Max.” 

“Yeah,” he’s groaning. “That’s it.”

His mouth sucks over your clit. Hard. 

And you crash. Pussy clamping down against his fingers. Pulsing. And body trembling.

But he doesn’t give you any time to recover.

He’s breathing hard and his cock is still hard in his soaked suit. 

He grabs your hips. Voice cracked. “Get on top of me.”

And you blink. Dazed. “What?”

But he’s already pulling you against him as he sits down. Dragging you over him. 

“I need to be inside you,” voice dark. 

And when he see’s you hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because your head is spinning. His voice comes out harsh. “Now, schatje.”

You snap back. Don’t hesitate. 

“You’re gonna ride me…pull my fucking cock out and sit on me.”

Your fingers push the waistband of his swimsuit lower…and fucking christ. His cock smacks his stomach. Flushed. Red. Leaking.

You wrap your hand around it, and he groans. Head tilted back.

And you sink down on him. Slowly. Trying to take him inch by inch. Tease him a little. 

And it isn’t until he’s fully bottomed out in you that he lets out a laugh.

And you feel everything. 

You rock your hips only once and Max fucking loses it.

Snaps.

Hands digging into your hips as his rises off the cushions, just a little bit. His grip is bruising. 

“Move.” He spits. “Ride me. I don’t fucking care how…just do it.” He’s demanding. Mean. Feral.

And you start to move. Circling your hips. As you pant. Head leaning against his shoulder.

“Fuck…fuckin’ look at you,” He huffs. 

You moan. Too loud.

“Shut the fuck up.”

And he slaps your butt. Hard. The sound echoing.

He slams up into you, and you cry out. Eyes rolling.

“Pathetic,” he grunts. “Feel how deep I am, huh? Like my personal fuck toy.”

Your thighs are shaking. Clit dragging against his pelvis as you start bouncing on him. 

It’s messy and soooo desperate.

And Max just laughs at you. His neck flushed red.

“I can’t…fuck. I can’t hold…” He bucks up into you. “Too fucking tight, so wet…ride me harder. Please, baby.”

And you do.

You fuck yourself on him harder. Faster. Slamming down on his cock with every single bounce. And you can barely breathe.

You’re babbling. Moaning. Panting. Cursing his name into his shoulder.

“Come with me,” He begs. “Fuckin’ come with me, baby…please…C’mon..”

And you break.

You snap around him.  Orgasm ripping through you. Clamping down on his cock so hard that Max shouts. And he spills inside of you.

And its so much.

Hot, sticky spurts pushing deep as he jerks his hips. Your name falling out of his mouth with pleas.

You collapse on to his chest. Trembling.

And Max?

He’s still inside you. 

Doesn’t soften. Not even the slightest amount.

Somehow still fucking hard.

And your legs are shaking as he flips you over. Hands gripping your hips like he’s about to destroy you.

You barely manage a breath before he’s shoving your knees into your chest, folding you. One hand pressing into the back of your thigh, holding them there. Your soaked cunt spilling his come down onto the cushion beneath you.

The other wraps around your throat. Pressing.

And he looks like he wants to eat you the fuck alive.

Controlling.

His cock twitches as he presses it back to your entrance. Slamming into you.

And you sob. Back arching. So full and wet.

“Still so tight.” His fingers squeeze your throat just a little bit harder.

And your mouth falls open with a loud moan. 

And he spits right into it. Hitting your tongue, dribbling down your lip. And you don’t even have to think about it…you swallow. Lick your lips for more.

And Max moans as if he just came again.

“My god, you’re fucking mine.”

And he fucks into you harder. Relentless. Like he needs to chase this feeling. 

“Fuckin’ look at this mess. Hear how wet you are?” Your hands fist the sheets.

“You’re so loud baby. It’s disgusting. This isn’t how a good girl fucks.”

And he slaps your thigh.

You’re panting. Gasping against the grip of his hand. And he feels every breath through his hand.

He leans in close. Voice fucking filthy.

“This is how you wanted it, huh?” Wanted to get me all fucked up.”

He’s cruel. Pounding into you with such urgency as you nod. Lips still parted.

He rubs the pad of his thumb against your jaw. “My filthy fuckin’ slut. Letting me choke you. Spit on you. Pounding you like I’m trying to fuck a baby into you.”

And your walls clench down on him. Hard.

And he snarls. “Ohhh, you like that?” He tilts his head a little. “Want me to fill you up? Stuff you so full. Get you swollen with my baby.”

And you’re twitching now. Moaning. Head tilted back deep into the cushions.

And his hand leaves your throat. Only for a second. Only to slap your cheek. Once. It’s light, but its enough to make your eyes snap back open.

“Eyes on me, schatje.”

You’re dazed. Cheeks flushed red.

“C’mon give it to me.” Max urges you. 

And you instantly do. 

Your orgasm ripping through you again. Spasming around him. Squeezing him so tight that Max loses it.

He slams in three times. Then groans like he’s been punched. Spilling into you. 

You’re leaking. Can barely breathe. And he’s panting above you. Shoulders shaking. 

And then he brushes your jaw again. Leaning forward and kisses you.

Soft.

So soft. You whimper against his lips.

And he kisses you slow. Messy. Breathing in your whimpers.

And then he’s kissing you deeper. Like he’s hungry.

Slipping a hand into your hair, the other still at your jaw. His tongue licks into you. And you sigh into him. Melting.

He groans into you.

“Can’t believe how fucking good you feel.” He mutters. “Unreal, baby.”

You whimper. Too sensitive. And he kisses you again. Quick. Soft.

“You okay?” He brushes his noses against you. Kissing the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Jaw. And then under your ear.

You nod. Slowly.

“Good,” He grins. “Because I’m not pulling out yet.”

Then he quiets. Smiles. A real smile. Like something has settled in his bones.

His fingers trace your cheek. Caring.

“You’re gonna marry me.”

You gasp. But you’re not surprised

He kisses your cheek. The crinkled skin by your eyes. Your forehead. Still inside you. Holding you tight.

“You’re gonna wear my ring,” he mutters. “Take my name. And be my fucking wife.”

Your hear pounds in your chest.

“Would you want that?” His voice is low. Hushed against your lips. “Want to belong to me? Forever?”

You nod. A small whimper. “Yes.”

“Say it.” Its a little demanding. But then his eyes soften. “Please?”

“I want to be yours…” Your voice is soft. “Forever, Max.”

He groans, pushing himself in closer to you. His full weight pressing against you now. 

“You are.” He pecks your lips. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. It’s all mine.”

He flexes his hips just once. Just enough to make you gasp.

“My wife.”

And he means it.

taglist: @biancathecool @oh-kurva @lilorose25 @rtorrésblog @dontsupressthejess @marisol4k @dollstappen @alireads27 @landoscarinthefastlane @idontknow0704 @astrlape @downsideup1989 @ptrickbateman @olivialup @theonottsbxtch @deeziee @alucardsdaddyissues @lilith-123321

[springintosummerxx]

ᡣ𐭩 certified loverboy ᡣ𐭩

op81 x reader

in which oscar is a certified loverboy!

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining

notes: this takes place in the downbad!universe, however it can be read as a standalone :)

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

oscar piastri is not a jealous man.

since childhood, he's always known exactly who he was, what he wanted and what he was worth. his mother had raised him to appreciate what he accomplished, to be humble but proud of his achievements.

even in prema, he had a strong sense of self, of what he brought to the table.

but seeing you, laughing with lando across the room as zak held him hostage about something to do with turn three, he can admit easily he is jealous.

it's not that he doesn't trust you; he's letting you cradle his heart in your hands already.

stupid, he thinks, as lando says something that makes you hide a smile behind your hand. a pit is growing in his stomach, something hollow and grasping.

but if he's honest, he will always be jealous of anyone, anything that has the honour of basking in your sunshine, in the pretty split of your smile that tangles into all of your features.

"oscar?" zak asks.

"sorry," he offers a sheepish smile, eyes darting back to where you and his teammate are standing.

his team principal lets him go after a few more minutes, and oscar tries to subtly speed walk over to you.

lando greets him with another "congrats" and a handshake, looping you in for an one armed hug you return loosely.

as soon as he leaves, oscar's hands are slipping around your waist.

"hi, winner," you grin brightly, fingers smoothing his unruly hair and wiping some sweat from his forehead.

"sweetheart," he greets, pressing his exertion-warmed cheek to yours.

you hum quietly, hands gentle over his sore shoulders. he doesn't want to part from you, your warmth, but a mclaren photographer interrupts you with a shutter-click.

he smiles sheepishly, gesturing for the two of you to pose.

sighing, oscar maneuvers you slightly in front of him, resting his cheek on the top of your head.

his smile is exhausted but content, yours is proud and soft. he almost forgets that ugly feeling he'd felt earlier.

as you climb onto the bed later that night, a little clumsily in a tank top and an old pair of his basketball shorts, he clears his throat.

you're choosing some romcom to play as he scoots closer to you.

"you cold, baby?" you ask. he shakes his head, feeling the warmth of blood rushing to his face.

oblivious to his emotional torture of how to bring up the whole...situation, you snuggle back into the pillows.

although you and oscar have been dating for a while now, sometimes he still gets a little shy when asking for affection. it's unusal for him, to want to touch and be near someone all the time.

your eyes flicker to him and a soft smile - so intimate and familiar that it makes his chest ache - appears on your face.

without a word, you pat your lap and he shifts down to press his face into your stomach, the side of his head resting high on your thighs.

he grumbles comfortably, settling into the bed as you card careful fingers through his still-damp hair.

"tired?" you ask quietly, as the opening credits of 10 things i hate about you start. he shakes his head, burying his face deeper and inhaling your body wash through your tank top.

when his arms tighten around your waist, your fingers stop their meticulous combing.

oscar huffs, peeking at you.

your frowning, and he wants to smooth out the crease between your brows.

"what's wrong?" you ask, thumb brushing gently under his eye.

he feels stupid, but he can't deny you of anything, so he answers, "i saw you and lando today."

you shift underneath him, "yeah, he was keeping me company while you talked to zak,"

"he was making you laugh," he mutters, hiding his face.

"wait," you pull him up, "are you jealous?"

he shakes his head, cheeks pink, but his fingers have unconsiously found their way underneath your knees, pressing the soft flesh there.

laughing softly - not meanly, never mean - you cup his face.

"oscar jack piastri," you say solemnly, "you have nothing to be jealous about. i only have eyes for you, and nobody else."

he's sure that his face is 50 shades of red, but your words settle the pit in his stomach, replacing that hollowness with that certain warmth he's come to associate with you, with the feeling of home.

"plus, we were talking about you. lando was telling me about how much you talk about me," you tease slyly, and he tackles you into the bed.

you let out a loud squeal, pinned under his full weight.

when you both settle again, the movie playing quietly in the background, you murmur "i love you, baby" so quietly and earnestly into his ear that he forgot why he was feeling so down in the first place.

ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩

oscar piastri is not clingy.

he prides himself on his independence, the fact that he moved away from his parents in his early teens - and survived - is a testament to how indepedent he is.

but all of that is thrown out the window when he comes home from a triple header.

you're waiting for him, cozy in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized mclaren hoodie. soft, he thinks, is how you look, all barefaced and sleep-deprived.

he drops his bags on the floor of the entryway, pulling you into his chest.

your breath is warm on his neck, your fingers curling into the fabric at his waist.

murmuring a greeting, you turn in his arms to lead the both of you back to the bedroom. he doesn't want to let go; he keeps his arms locked around your shoulders, and you waddle together, collapsing onto the bed.

tucking him in, you ask, "hungry?"

"no, just tired," he smiles, tugging you into him by the wrist.

"sleep." he tells you, and you giggle, pressing your back to his front.

oscar sleeps well for the first time since he left you at home in monaco, the scent of your shampoo lulling him to close his eyes.

when he wakes, it's from one of those naps that leaves your mouth dry and your eyes sealed shut.

reaching for you, all he feels is the warmth you've left behind.

grumpily he gets up, stumbling towards the sound of your singing.

in the kitchen is where he finds you, plating up his favourite pasta.

"you're awake," you say, surprised. he shuffles behind you, nose pressed against your neck in greeting.

"go sit, handsome. i'll be a second. there's cookies in the oven."

he ignores your request, instead murmuring, "you take such good care of me."

you answer with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and laugh loudly when he chases your lips.

"go, sit!" you exclaim. he pretends he doesn't hear you, arms locked around your waist.

after nearly flinging a plate off the counter, you end up on the kitchen island, oscar holding a massive plate between you as he leans between your legs.

you twirl the pasta carefully, and he opens his mouth so you can feed him.

"you are such a baby," you tease, and he shrugs, unabashed.

"just missed you," he confesses, and rolls his eyes when you melt.

"there's going to be headlines," you push another mouthful towards him, "oscar piastri, 2025 race leader and secret romantic."

"not secret," he says with his mouth full, and laughs when you slap a hand over his mouth.

when he swallows, he kisses you between your eyebrows, relishing in the lack of crease there. you're happy he's home, and that's all that matters.

"not secret?" you ask.

"just circumstantial," he grins, "only for you."

you slump against him, nearly getting sauce all over your (his) hoodie.

"i missed you too, you sap."

ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩

oscar piastri does not like shopping.

his closet can attest to that, most of his outfits are repeated so much that paddock photographers are sick of him.

one thing he does like though, is sitting in a dressing room watching you try on dresses.

it's probably the third store you've been to today, and the floor of the room is already scattered with bags.

he's paid for everything, to your dismay. no way he's letting his girl pay with her hard-earned money when he can spoil her with whatever he wants.

"zip me up?" you ask. he obliges, watching you with hooded eyes as you turn gracefully.

"oscar," you whine, "i said zip up, not down!"

he smirks, lips finding their way to the gentle slope of your shoulder.

"later," you scold, shooting him a look through the mirror.

huffing something about too much clothes and zippers, he slides it up, nudging your cheek with his nose until you smile, eyes bright.

"what do you think?" you ask, and he sits again, smoothing a hand down your thigh.

"beautiful," and you groan at his answer.

"you've said that about everything!"

"because it's true, pretty."

you flush, turning away, picking up a light orange dress.

when you slip it on, oscar voluntarily stands to zip you up.

"this one," he says too quickly.

you smirk at him, "oh really?"

oscar pulls you close, "like you in my colour."

smiling in earnest now, you ask "is this some neanderthal thing?"

"sure, sweetheart. whatever you want to think."

and when you get home and try on the dress for him again, he admits that shopping isn't that bad, not at all.

ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩ᡣ𐭩

oscar piastri is not a sentimental man.

he's never cared for material things, always valuing your time spent together at home, tucked under the washed-soft comforter with you curled up under his arm.

but the first time he had to leave for a race, he was thinking about you so much that he saw a little magnet in your favourite colour and bought in on a whim.

the way your eyes had shone, with emotion and tears had scared him at first.

"did i do something wrong?" he'd asked panicked, but you shook your head.

"no, it's just," you' d sniffed, "no ones really ever thought of me this much. it's nice."

after that day, he brings you back a magnet after every race.

sometimes he'll bring something else too, a hat he thinks you'll like, a piece of jewelry that matches your eyes or even a candy from a local convenience store he prays will pass TSA.

but always a magnet. something a little bright and cheerful, not to make up for the hours and miles spent away from each other, but a reminder that he thinks of you, always.

you tell him one night, that it surprises you how consistent he is. how he never forgets, even if he has a bad race or he's so jet lagged he mistakes the morning for night.

he had responded with a sigh, one full of promises he's going to see through, full of future plans when everything settles down.

he tells you modestly that it's not much, not when you call him every day and every night, when you watch every sprint, every race.

you deserve the world, and if all it takes is for him to buy you enough trinkets to fill every book shelve in your shared apartment or enough magnets to fill the fridge and for you to use as paperweights, he'll do it.

because when it comes to you, oscar piastri is a certified loverboy, through and through.

[tsunodaradio]

all along there was ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 to the world, yuki tsunoda is focused. singular. someone whose only love is racing. and for a long time, that’s the truth.

♫ starring: yuki tsunoda x soulmate!reader. ♫ word count: 3k. ♫ includes: romance. alternate universe: soulmates; mentions of food, alcohol. strangers to ???, love at first sight -ish, red string of fate. @opastries81 requested invisible string by taylor swift. ♫ commentary box: took me a hot minute to write this one because i wanted to do it right 🧵 thank u for giving me the excuse to write yuki soulmatisms,, 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Yuki is nineteen when the thread first appears.

At first, he thinks it’s a trick of the light. A shimmer that dances at the edge of his vision when no one else is around. But soon it sharpens into something unmistakable: a slender red cord, no thicker than embroidery floss, looped snugly around his thumb like a taunt. It pulses faintly, like it’s alive. Like it knows something he doesn’t.

He hates it.

That first year in Formula 1, there’s too much to prove. Too many eyes watching. Too many things that could slip away. He doesn’t have time for fairytales or fate. 

So he tucks his hand into his gloves before every race, hides the thread in the blur of speed and gear shifts. He doesn’t talk about it. Not to his engineers, not to his friends, not even to his mother, who still believes in the old stories. Stories about invisible strings and foregone endings.

The thread becomes something he trains himself not to see. Because when he does, it’s endless.

It stretches out across the paddock, slipping through pit lanes and motorhomes, across borders and oceans. Sometimes, he thinks he sees it glimmer in the heat-haze of Bahrain or catch the floodlights in Singapore. Once, it drifted gently through the paddock in Suzuka, brushing against the petals of falling sakura as if teasing him. But it never leads anywhere. Never tightens. Never tugs.

Only stretches. Always slack.

It’s not the case for everyone. Take Alex, for example. Yuki notices the older man sometimes. Not directly—he’s careful not to stare—but enough to catch the way Alex’s expression shifts when his girlfriend Lily is nearby. Oscar looks at his Lily the same way. 

Yuki wonders if their threads ever tangled. If they fought it. If they felt lucky.

It isn’t jealousy, not quite. It’s not bitterness either. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t have a name for. Something that sits in his ribs and presses forward when he’s tired.

So he races.

He drives like the thread doesn’t exist. Like it hasn’t wrapped itself around his thumb and burrowed into his blood. Like it doesn’t sing against his pulse every time he wins, or crashes, or sits alone in his car after the engine cuts out and the noise fades away.

To the world, Yuki Tsunoda is focused. Singular. Someone whose only love is racing.

And for a long time, that’s the truth. 

The first time the thread pulls, Yuki is in a country he doesn’t know well.

The race weekend is a blur of heat and media obligations, of tire compounds and unfamiliar road signs. The city hums around him, foreign but alive, and Yuki finds brief solace in the backs of cabs with the windows cracked open. Taylor Swift’s Bad Blood plays so often on the radio it becomes a kind of anthem, the steady beat weaving into the rhythm of the weekend.

It’s after Friday practice when he finds a quiet spot to eat. A small local place. Nothing glossy, nothing tourist-facing. The kind of restaurant where the menus are handwritten and the staff speaks only a little English. He points to dishes on the menu with hesitant fingers and eats until he feels warm and full and almost like he belongs.

The food is good. Better than good, actually. Comforting in a way that sneaks up on him.

He’s halfway through paying the bill, card already outstretched, when he feels it.

The thread.

Not just hanging there like usual. Not just stretched and useless. But moving.

It tugs softly, a sudden pull against his thumb like a whisper turning into a shout. It’s enough to make him flinch. He stiffens. Tries to hide the motion by shifting his weight. 

The cashier, a woman maybe a little younger than him with a practiced, amused smile, raises an eyebrow. “That bad?” she jokes, nodding toward the bill.

Yuki startles then gives a quick, awkward laugh. “No. Just spicy.”

She clearly doesn’t buy it, but lets him off with a knowing chuckle.

He taps extra zeroes into the tip line, more than necessary, and mumbles a thank-you before pushing out into the night air. The thread is still humming, now tugging slightly left, and it takes everything in him not to look. Not to follow.

He shoves both hands into his jacket pockets. Tells himself it’s nothing. He’s here to race. He’s always only been here to race. He walks—no, runs—in the opposite direction.

That weekend, Yuki finishes in the points.

That alone is enough to make the night feel like it’s already crackling with something electric. It had been a good race. One of those clean, rare Sundays where the car behaved, the strategy stuck, and the overtakes came like instinct. The garage erupted when he crossed the line. High-fives. Claps on the back. Laughter that lingered long after the interviews.

He’d earned this night. When his mechanics suggest some dive bar tucked down a narrow street with flickering neon and sticky floors, Yuki goes. He doesn’t even hesitate. The triple-header is over. The next week stretches ahead of him like a promise.

Inside, the place smells like beer and nostalgia. The music is loud enough to shake the tables, and the lights are low enough to blur the hard edges off everything. It’s perfect.

Someone buys a round. Someone else insists on shots. Yuki lets it happen.

He leans back into the cracked leather booth, jacket unzipped, cheeks flushed with drink and residual adrenaline. People are dancing. People are shouting over music. His team is glowing with post-race joy, and he lets himself float in it.

And then—

He hadn’t noticed it earlier, in the lights and the noise and the haze of celebration. But now, his thread glows faintly in the dark, unmistakable and alive.

Shorter.

Yuki blinks. Rubs his eyes. Maybe he’s had more to drink than he thought. Maybe it’s a trick of the lights, or the smoke machine hissing over the dance floor. But the thread is moving. Tugging.

He turns his head slowly, heart stuttering like a missed gear change.

There you are.

Across the room, past the people and the pulsing lights. Standing with a drink in hand, half-turned as if you’d just been looking elsewhere. But now you’re looking at him. Your eyes follow the same thread.

You smile. 

It’s not a big smile. Not the kind that asks for anything. Just enough to say I see you. Just enough to anchor him to the floor.

Yuki forgets how to breathe for a second. Forgets the music, the laughter, the taste of whatever drink still lingers in his mouth. The thread has never pulled like this before. It has never led anywhere.

Until now.

You cross the dance floor slowly, navigating through limbs and spilled drinks and the warbled echo of a pop remix that no longer matters. Yuki doesn’t move.

The thread grows taut, humming with something that doesn’t feel like destiny so much as inevitability. He watches you come closer, each step shrinking the distance between you, and his mind rushes to fill the space with every story he’s ever heard.

That girl in high school whose thread wrapped around a boy she couldn’t stand, who moved schools just to escape him. The man in the supermarket line who’d found his thread ended in divorce five years later. The influencer who posted about meeting her soulmate, only to vanish offline six months after.

Some people called it a curse. Others called it lazy love, a shortcut that stripped you of choice.

Yuki had believed in it once, when he was young and the thread first shimmered into view. Time had dulled things. Distance made belief easier to ignore. For years, he told himself it didn’t matter. That racing was the only thing he needed.

Because of that, he’s already planning his escape.

He’ll go back to the hotel. He’ll get on his flight to Faenza. He’ll make something up if his engineers ask why he left early. In his mind, he’s already cataloguing this evening as a mistake. A beautiful, dangerous mistake.

Then you’re standing in front of him. Your eyes meet his, uncertain but kind. And then you say it—soft, like you’re trying it out for the first time.

“Hello, soulmate.”

Yuki feels like he had just been punched in the gut. Something quietly unravels in his chest. It’s not the words. It’s the way you say them, as if the thread didn’t make you come up to him. As if you’re offering something instead of taking it.

And that’s when he knows.

He’s going to cancel his flight the moment he gets back to the hotel.

He does exactly that before he can even change out of his clothes. His shirt is rumpled with the scent of smoke, spilled beer clinging faintly to the sleeves. He sits on the edge of the hotel bed, heart thrumming against his ribs, and taps through his airline app like he’s defusing a bomb.

Flight: canceled.

Then he opens another tab, searches for a place that isn’t a hotel room with stale air and impersonal furniture. Finds a small, bright AirBnB in the heart of the city—a studio with floor-to-ceiling windows and plants in the kitchen. He books it for five days without thinking.

His third impulse decision is to send you a message. Your conversation on the dance floor had been brief and impersonal, charged with the knowledge that the next few days could mean something, if you let it. You punched your number into his phone and told him to text you, and then you were gone, the string between you two unspooling once more. 

Yuki [1:43AM]: dinner tomorrow? - yuki.

He doesn’t have to wait too long for a response. 

You [1:44AM]: only if it’s at my favorite resto 👋

Your next text features a screenshot. The image makes something warm spike through him, because it’s the very place he’d eaten at when he first felt his string budge. The comfort meal, the waitress who looked like she knew something, the too-big tip he’d left because he was flustered. 

Yuki falls back against his bed, his phone clutched to his chest. Of course, he thinks with a giddy laugh that sounds so small in the grand scheme of everything, of course. 

The next day, he gets there early. Somehow, you still beat him. He pauses for a moment at the entrance, eyes scanning the place like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s now seeing it in a different light, the same way he’ll never see the world the same now that he knows who’s on the other end of his string. 

You’re here now, and the thread is so small it feels like breath. It curls around his thumb and your pinky, a bright little tether that glows softly in the ambient light.

You look up as he approaches. “Didn’t get lost, did you?” you tease, already smiling.

Yuki scoffs as he slides into the seat across from you. “I’m a professional driver. I don’t get lost.”

“Sure. But you are new here,” you counter, eyes twinkling. “And I bet you didn’t remember the restaurant name. Just followed the string, huh?”

“Maybe,” he counters easily. God, was it always meant to be this easy? “Worked though, didn’t it?"

“Can’t argue with results,” you say as you flag down the waitress to order for the both of you. 

The conversation flows like you’ve known each other longer than a few hours. You don’t ask about racing. You don’t even bring it up until the end of the meal, when he mentions his next travel dates and you blink.

“Wait,” you say laughingly. “Are you actually, like, proper famous or something?”

He shrugs, leaning back with the kind of confidence that’s more armor than truth. “Depends who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

Yuki pauses. Grins. “Then yeah. I’m kind of a big deal.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn't fade. “Cocky.”

“Only a little.”

“Well,” you say, folding your hands under your chin. “I suppose I like that. A little.” 

The thread pulses gently between you. Over the table, it’s a simple thing. Red and soft, barely there. But it ties him to something that no longer feels like fate or burden.

It just feels like you.

Another truth comes to light: Yuki doesn’t remember the last time he stayed still on purpose.

He’s always moving. Between circuits, between time zones, between places that never quite become homes. But here, with you, in this city he’d barely known a week ago, he wants nothing more than to stay.

He spends every moment he can get by your side.

The studio apartment he rented becomes just a place to sleep, shower, change. The rest of the time, he’s with you. On side streets and rooftops, in corner cafés and flower markets. He learns that you like your coffee in an uber specific way, that you hum when you’re focusing, that you never fold receipts but crumple them into your pocket like secrets.

He learns to listen more than he talks. And when he talks, he lets you in. About Japan. About how Italy changed him. About the first time he touched a kart wheel and knew.

He understands, now. Every love letter and poem. Every person he’d side-eyed in the paddock for swooning over someone else’s laugh. Every teammate who’d seemed far away even while in the same garage. He wants to go back in time and apologize to them all.

Because this—this—makes sense.

The thread is always there, lazy and glowing, looping between your wrists and fingers like a promise with no deadline.

You’re eating street food one evening, perched on the low edge of a plaza fountain. The sky is streaked purple-gold. Yuki’s got sauce on his fingers and you’re halfway into teasing him for it when the food vendor squints at him and says, “You look like that one Japanese driver. Tsunoda, right?”

Yuki doesn’t miss a beat. “Never heard of him.”

“Yeah, no resemblance,” you throw in, pursing your lips to tamp back a laugh.

The vendor shrugs and waves you two off, probably dismissing the both of you rascals on a date. You grab Yuki’s hand and tug him away, the thread between you fluttering behind like a ribbon in the wind.

“Think we pulled that off?” he whispers conspiratorially. It’s not necessary, but he likes how it forces you to lean into him so you might hear him better. 

“Definitely. I bet he thinks you’re, like, a barista or something.”

Yuki grins. “A very fast barista.”

You laugh, and he tucks the sound somewhere safe for when he will eventually have to leave.

Everywhere you go, the thread goes with you. Tucked in the crook of your elbows, wrapped around coffee cups, brushing against your knees as you sit cross-legged in the grass. It glints like a secret. Yuki, for once, has no desire to keep it hidden.

On his last day in your city, the sun is soft and forgiving.

It filters through the branches in golden patches, turning the park into something out of a picture book. You and Yuki lie sprawled on a picnic blanket beneath a wide-bellied tree, shoes kicked off, fingers brushing between you. A paper bag of pastries rests beside you, half-eaten. The thread winds lazy circles from your wrist to his.

You’ve been here for hours, trading stories. The conversation has drifted toward the past.

“Okay,” you say, squinting at him through the sunlight. “Worst date you’ve ever been on. Go.”

Yuki groans. “God. Okay. I was seventeen. She showed up an hour late, and then, she brought her cousin. Said she didn’t want it to be ‘weird.’”

You burst out laughing. “Oh no,” you wheeze. “Don’t tell me the cousin sat between you two.” 

“The entire time.” 

It takes you a moment to stop laughing, to exchange your story with his. “Okay, okay. I’ll top that: I once dated a guy who was obsessed with his ex’s dog. Like, still talked about it,” you divulge. “Showed me pictures. Would say things like, ‘Luna wouldn’t bark like that.’”

Yuki snorts. “Did you dump him because of the dog?”

“I dumped him because he asked if I’d change my shampoo. Said Luna was sensitive to strong scents.”

You’re both laughing now, full-bodied and unguarded, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt. Yuki watches you through it, your nose scrunched, your head tilted back to the sky. Beautiful, he thinks to himself, and then he realizes he’s allowed to say it out loud. 

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you, and then he repeats it in all the languages he knows until you’re flushed pink and begging him to stop. He says it in the familiar intonations of Japanese, the romantic lilt of Italian, the clumsy cadence of your mother tongue. He had looked it up on Google Translate four dates ago, wanting to surprise you and succeeding. 

He resolves to learn how to say it in every other country he goes to, moving forward, just for the sliver of a chance to see you smile like that again. 

As the sky shifts into dusk, casting the world in purple pink skies, a stillness settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Just waiting.

Yuki hesitates. His fingers curl and uncurl beside yours. It’s been a while since he’s been this nervous, and even as he resolves to not beat around the bush, he finds himself stuttering through the words. “This... thing. Us. The string,” he says lamely, “I travel a lot. And it won’t always be easy. But... is this something you want to try? Even with all of that?”

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his.

The red string disappears between your palms, pressed into the warm space where skin meets skin. For a moment, Yuki can pretend it doesn’t exist. This—what you have—is not a product of destiny, of sanctioned romance.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it will be. Yuki wants it to be. 

He thinks about every name before yours. Every person he thought might have been something more. How none of them could’ve been, not really.

Because they all led to this. To you.

Hell was the journey, but it brought him heaven. ⛐

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Tantrums | Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: After 10 years together, Lewis keeps pushing back the date on when “forever” can start. Realising that forever applies to her job and not their relationship, she makes it clear that she’s had enough. 

Warnings: slight age gap, reader is 32. angst, heavy on the angst. 

Requested: @madelynn-sienna (sorry it took so long. i didn’t think i was gonna do it ngl to you because i don’t really write for lewis)

F1 Masterlist

next.

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_ln just posted

liked by carmenmmundt, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yn_ln when he feels bad that he’s on the other side of the world for your birthday 

4,444 comments

lewishamilton happy birthday, love. i’m so sorry i’m in australia and not with you but i promise i will make it up to you when i’m home. roscoe promised me he’d spend the day spoiling you 

→ roscoelovescoco yes i’s did’s 

user1 oh to be loved the way y/n is loved by lewis 

user2 no one makes me feel as single as lewis and y/n do 

carmenmmundt @/georgerussell63 take notes

→ yn_ln you tell him, hun

→ georgerussell63 i buy you flowers all the time! 

f1 we’re sorry that a race fell on your birthday. we’ll ask the fia to fix the calendar next year so this doesn’t happen again

mercedesamgf1 we’d give him back if we could. happy birthday, yn

georgerussell63 hang on a second. you’ve not left us yet. that’s not the right car

→ charles_leclerc that’s the perfect car 

→ yn_ln i didn’t buy the car. i just jumped behind the wheel

user3 not me hoping she’d be getting a ring for her birthday 

→ user4 we’ve been waiting for this for the past 8 birthdays

→ user5 it’s been 10 years. we were expecting two rings and a few kids by now

→ user6 i mean, he just bought her a sports car. not very kid friendly 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

lewishamilton just posted

liked by francolapinto, sebastianvettel and others 

lewishamilton happy 10 years to the love of my life. every moment with you is an adventure i never want to end

9,448 comments

yn_ln forever with you ❤️ mainly because i can’t be bothered to train some new guy to photos that good of me

mercedesamgf1 can’t believe it’s been 10 years already. it feels like only yesterday yn was making her paddock debut. here’s to another 10 

→ user7 not mercedes commenting like they’re a part of this relationship 

→ user8 well he’s been with yn almost as long as he’s been with mercedes so they practically are at this point 

user9 my favourite f1 couple

user10 i love their rich money vibes

roscoelovescoco happy’s anniversary’s mum and’s dad 

→ yn_ln my precious boy 

→ user11 now she needs a real baby 

danielriccairdo i can’t believe she’s managed to put up with you for ten years 😂 huge love to you both

→ yn_ln ngl, it’s been tough

→ lewishamilton i’m taking the ferrari back 

user12 wedding and baby when? 

georgerussell63 happy 10 year anniversary. yn is my favourite part of you being my teammate 

→ carmenmmundt can we keep her when you go to ferrari?

→ charles_leclerc no. it’s my turn now 

→ lewishamilton i think you’re all forgetting that she’s mine 

mercedesamgf1 just posted

liked by georgerussell63, kimi.antonelli and others 

mercedesamgf1 GET IN THERE, LEWIS 🏆🥇 LEWIS HAMILTON IS YOUR BRITISH GRAND PRIX WINNER 

23,441 comments

yn_ln my love. i honestly have not stopped crying since you crossed that line. i’m so proud of you. you deserved this and proved to everyone why you’re a motorsport legend

→ lewishamilton couldn't do it without your support 🩷

→ mercedesamgf1 it’s true. the mechanics were uncomfortable when they realised they couldn't just keep giving her tissues

georgerussell63 you deserve it, mate

valterribottas well done champ

user1 can’t believe he won silverstone the same weekend he celebrated 10 years with yn 

→ user2 she’s always been his good luck charm. he performs so well when she’s watching

→ user3 they’re the dream team together 

user4 the fact that yn is the only one he responded to

user5 she’s getting it good tonight

skysportsf1 posted a new interview

user6 oh no, lewis…

user7 lewis, she was asking what was next for you and yn, relationship wise

user8 oh, that’s not quite

user9 i hope yn doesn’t see this otherwise i fear lewis might be in the doghouse tonight 

→ user10 i hope she does see it so that she knows he’s not thinking of her future in the same way 

user11 i always thought lewis loved yn as much as yn loved lewis but now i’m not sure

user12 it’s the fact that the poor interviewer looked upset at his answer as well. like she hoped for better

→ user13 we all hoped for better 

user14 it’s the fact that she’s always talked about wanting kids and getting married but has always said they’re waiting until lewis is ready

→ user15 the fact that every year passes and he never indicates that he’s ready for any of it though 

replies to @/F1Wags

user1 lewis still follows yn

→ user2 and still has all of his photos up, including their anniversary post 

→ user1 i’m hoping this means he’s in denial and is still trying to win her back

user3 i can’t believe this is real. she went all the way back and deleted everything related to him in 10 years. even edited posts to delete slides he was in

→ user4 dedicated queen

user5 just fell to my knees in walmart

user6 i’m devastated but i also hope this means she finds a man who will be prepared to give her the life she wants 

→ user7 well, more fool her for staying this long

→ user6 not really. ever think she wanted those things because she wanted them with lewis

→ user8 don’t break my heart like this please  

replies to @/WeDon'tThink

user9 okay but your pen was on fire when you wrote that 

user10 he literally had the best weekend of his life with a 10yr anniversary, winning silverstone and then clearly messed it all up somehow in the end 

user11 if sir lewis hamilton can’t even do right, what hope do the rest of us have in finding a decent man

→ user12 no because they looked just as in love as they did 10 years ago and he still fumbled

user13 i saw rumours it was because he gave her an ultimatum and she didn’t take the path he wanted 

→ user14 what do you mean?

→ user13 apparently “close sources” said that he told her if she wanted kids, she couldn't have him and so she left 

→ user14 wtf!!! good on her for dumping his ass

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

calvinklein and yn_ln just posted

liked by nicorosberg, fernandoalo_official and others 

calvinklein @/yn_ln is stunning in calvin klein underwear. shop the collection now 

5,533 comments

yn_ln oh okay. i look goooood 

→ alexandrasaintmleux i would let you take me home

→ carmenmmundt me too

→ georgerussell63 excuse me, i don’t agree with this

user1 aha, nico we see you 

→ user2 and fernando

landonorris oh so he fumbled bad 

→ oscarpiastri they’re going to take your social media off you again

user3 is this her version of a revenge dress?

→ user4 more like undress

user5 not sure why you wouldn’t want to marry and give a baby to a woman like that 

→ user6 okay, ew

user7 can we appreciate how she’s handled this with class. instead of speaking out against lewis, she’s been booked and busy and flitting about europe on modelling jobs 

→ user8 just further proof that he managed to lose the best woman ever 

roscoelovescoco you’s look’s nice, mum

→ user9 i know lewis hires someone to run this account but what are the odds that he’s actually behind it now so he can stalk yn 

yn_ln please can we all focus on the clothes and support how hot i look by buying some! 

→ danielricciardo don’t even have tits but you convinced me to buy a bra

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

lewishamilton just posted

liked by valterribottas, scuderiaferrari and others 

lewishamilton mixed feelings about today. obviously happy for a win but very disappointing for george and the team missing out on a 1-2

7,744 comments

georgerussell63 we put up a good fight today

user1 not really a deserved win though, is it

user2 you fumbled yn and now you’re fumbling wins. you only got this because merc screwed over george 

roscoelovescoco well’s done’s dad

user3 see what happens when you play a good woman, you get a dirty win

user4 man needs to act his age. can’t believe at the grand age of 39, he strung along a girl who loved him more than anything for 10 years

→ user5 destroyed my faith in men for real 

user6 robbed a win from george like you robbed 10 years from yn 

(comments on this post have been limited)

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

I wrote this out and was really proud of it and then when I was adding the other driver’s versions on, I realised it was the same principal as Daniel’s so I’m so sorry for the repeated plot

Baby Fever Angst Masterlist

requests are open

[diqldrunks]

PRE SEASON INTERVIEW; op81 [smau]

nav | inbox (open) | main masterlist

a/n: gonna try really hard to post my requests! everything’s been so bleh but we’re gonna fix that! (starting with interviewer!reader bc she’s my safe space)

cw/tw: none!! lilli this is all bc of the pics you sent me 🤭

(part one | part two)

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ

twitter

instagram

yourusername just posted!

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and 528,296 others

yourusername ✓ i was supposed to be interviewing oscar piastri today to keep you fed with papaya content during this boring summer break. key word: supposed. he kept on running away 😕

64,625 comments…

user4 STOP THIS CANNOT BE REAL

yourusername ✓ as real as my heartache 😔

user5 bad oscar 😡

yourusername ✓ exactly 😔!!! see @/oscarpiastri 😌 they’re on my side

oscarpiastri ✓ YOU FOLLOWED ME AROUND FOR AN HOUR 💀

yourusername ✓ I WOULDNT HAVE HAD TO IF YOU JUST DID WHAT I ASKED 🙄

landonorris ✓ she crazy…

yourusername ✓ oH

landonorris ✓ um... hi

yourusername ✓ hi.

user6 LANDO RUN!!!!

landonorris ✓ 🏃💨

twitter

oscar taglist 1 (lmk if you want to be added); @llando4norris @mharmie-formula1 @mixedribbons @formula1-motogpfan @tallrock35 @mel164 @awritingtree @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @sheslikeacurse @futuref1-wag @tinyhrry @lokideservesahug @ricciardonut @sumlovesjude @emryb @ems-alexandra @pausmoon @dear-fifi @silkenthusiasts @yesmanbabe @hwalllllllelujah @saachiep81 @sunlithearts @spanishcorndogs @gr1mes-cc @yukiotadako @evie-119 @kissesandmartinis @thebookbakery @merchelsea @booksandflowrs @sinfully-yoursss @gigigreens @alilstressyandlotdepressy @itsss4t4n @agmoon03 @noemidude @forza-charles @dullypully @poppysrin @1800-love-me @alilstressyandlotdepressy @bookishnerd1132 @heavy-vettel @hangingwiththestars @suns3treading @theonottsbxtch @coff33andb00ks @thebookbakery @p1astrisgirl @urfavnoirette @esposasatoru @il0vereadingstuff @op81-ln4 @ravisinghs-wife

[23victoria]

“can you watch my boyfriend for a sec?” ❁

f1 grid x fem!reader

summary: TikTok trend with the grid!!

authors note: saw the carlos one and knew i had to write about it!! his reaction made me laugh!! i also just saw mclaren do it to oscar!! i hope the other teams do it to their drivers as well!! also first time writing for seb, jenson, and daniel, i had the time so i said why not?!any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!

f1 masterlist

Lewis

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to grab something from the car."

You head out, leaving Lewis alone in front of your phone's camera. He looks around, slightly bewildered.

"What? Y/N who’s on the phone? Uh, hey there. I guess I'm being watched. So... how's everyone doing? Good? Cool. Uh, any Mercedes fans here?" He starts talking about his day and how Roscoe is doing, trying to entertain the 'audience'. "Alright, she'll be back any minute now... right?"

Max

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to take out the trash."

Max raises an eyebrow as you walk away. He looks at the phone, unsure of what to say.

"Huh? Um, okay. This is weird. Hi, everyone….I guess…..Y/N what is this?! Who’s on the phone? So…what do we do now? Should I... talk about racing? Or... maybe I could just sit here…?" He awkwardly shuffles in his seat, checking his watch. "How long does it take to throw out the trash? Y/N come back! I don’t know what to say or do!"

Lando

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to get a drink from the kitchen."

Lando grins as you walk away, immediately knowing the TikTok trend. He leans in closer to the camera.

"Hey, TikTok! I was wondering when Y/N was going to do this trend on me! What have you guys been up to? Should I prank her back? Give me some ideas in the comments!" He starts to look around, trying to find something to do. "Should I play some games on my computer or maybe I'll hide and jump out when she gets back?"

Oscar

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to get my food."

Oscar blinks, looking at the phone and then at the door you just walked towards. He frowns slightly.

"Huh? What….okay? Uh, hi? I guess you guys are going to watch me eat my breakfast…Not sure what I'm supposed to do here. Should I be saying something interesting?" He scratches his head, and moves his food around, clearly uncomfortable. "So, did you guys have breakfast yet? I hope you did, breakfast is important….uhhh yea. Y/N!! Babe!! Come back!! I don’t know what to do!!"

Charles

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to take a call."

Charles watches you leave, then looks at the phone, confused but trying to be polite.

"Uh? Wait what? Hello, everyone. I guess your...on watch duty?" He laughs nervously. "This feels strange. Maybe I should sing a song? Or talk about Ferrari? Oh, I know, I'll play some music on my piano!" He moves towards the piano, but then hesitates. "Wait, how long is this call going to be? Y/N! Baby!!"

Carlos

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to make a smoothie."

Carlos looks at the camera, then at the direction you went, raising an eyebrow.

“What is this? Hello? Anyone there? Who were you talking to? Y/N?! Uhhhh hi… Wait, a smoothie? Bebe make me one too please! Okay, hi everyone. This is Carlos, just here... being watched?" He starts looking around, picking up random items on the table. "So, let me show you my favorite things on this table. This is a cool pen, and this is... a coaster. Fascinating, right?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "This is so weird. How long does making a smoothie take anyway?"

Sebastian

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to water the plants."

Sebastian gives you a puzzled look as you leave and then turns to the camera, smiling politely.

"What?! Y/N what is this? Hello? Hello? Anywhere there? I’m confused… Y/N!! Who were you talking too? Honey? … Um, hello everyone… I guess I'm under surveillance now." He chuckles. "So, while she's watering the plants, let's talk about... sustainability! Did you know you can make your own compost at home? It's really simple and great for your garden." He starts explaining the process, gesturing enthusiastically. "I hope she comes back soon because I might run out of eco-friendly tips! Oh wait!! I know! Let me show you my bees!!"

Jenson

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to grab the mail."

Jenson watches you leave with a bemused smile, then looks at the phone.

"Ummm what?! Babe? Y/N? Hello? Uhhh..hey there. So, I guess I need to be watched for a minute. You guys are in babysitting duty? Let’s see... what can I do to entertain you?" He glances around and spots his dogs. "Hey, meet my dogs! Come here babies!." He tries to get their attention but Bentley and Rouge ignore him, while Storm walks up to him, just to sit and stare at him. "Well, that didn’t go as planned. I guess they’re tired from playing this morning. Oh well, maybe next time! Isn’t that right Storm." he says putting down the camera.

Daniel

You: "Hey guys, can you watch my boyfriend for a sec? I need to fix something in the bathroom."

Daniel immediately grins and laughs as you walk away, sensing a prank.

“Huh? Babe? What? Oh wait! It’s that TikTok trend!! Alright, what’s up TikTok, what's going on? He starts making funny faces at the camera and then leans in closer. "I have no idea what to talk about. This is so stupid and awkward.” He says bursting out laughing. He keeps glancing towards the bathroom, barely containing his laughter. "Babe come back!!"

© 23victoria 2024 I all rights reserved. do not republish, steal repost, modify, translate, or claim my work as your own.

[jungwnies]

the dad who stepped up | carlos sainz (cs55)

୨ৎ : featuring : carlos sainz x fem!reader/singlemom!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : not the biological father, but rather the father who stepped up!

୨ৎ : genre : romance & fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 947

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was such a cute little story, i can only imagine the spanglish going crazy in this household <3 psa... intentionally all lowercase

carlos never thought about being a dad so soon. sure, he wanted kids someday, but he always figured it would come later, after racing, after settling down. what he didn’t expect was for you to walk into his life, a single mom with a baby boy who barely knew how to say papa yet.

he met you when your son, nico, was only eight months old. you had been hesitant at first, not wanting to bring someone into your child’s life unless you were sure. but carlos? carlos was patient. he never rushed you, never forced his way in. he just showed up.

at first, it was small things; holding nico when your arms were full, rocking him to sleep when he got fussy, making faces at him across the dinner table just to see him giggle. then, before either of you knew it, nico wasn’t just some baby carlos happened to know. he was his boy.

now, four years later, carlos can’t imagine life any other way.

—

"okay, buddy, one more time, but this time big swings," carlos calls from the backyard, watching as nico grips his tiny golf club, determination all over his little face.

you stand nearby, sipping on a lemonade, watching your two favorite people as the warm breeze rustles through the trees.

nico, tongue sticking out in concentration, takes a swing, too hard, and the plastic ball rolls about a foot away.

"that was amazing!" carlos exclaims, throwing his hands up as if nico just hit a hole-in-one at augusta.

"it barely moved!" nico whines, stomping his foot.

carlos kneels beside him, adjusting his grip. "the trick isn’t power, campeón (champion), it’s control. even papá sainz had to learn that."

you smile, shaking your head as you watch them. “carlos, if you turn him into a golf snob before he even learns how to ride a bike, we’re gonna have a problem.”

carlos grins over his shoulder at you. “you say that now, but when he’s winning the masters, you’ll be thanking me.”

nico nods along, even though he has absolutely no idea what the masters is. “sí, mami! (yes, mommy!)”

your heart melts every time nico switches between english and spanish so naturally, something carlos had made sure to teach him from the moment he could talk.

—

later that evening, after dinner, you’re curled up on the couch together, nico snuggled in between you and carlos with his favorite book in hand.

“papá, can you read the book en español? (papa, can you read the book in spanish?)” nico asks, eyes wide with excitement.

carlos raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased. “sí, pero solo un poquito, eh? (yes, but just a little, okay?) i don’t want you getting confused.”

you smile, resting your head against carlos’s shoulder as he begins reading, seamlessly switching between english and spanish.

"the little dog ran through the…el bosque (the forest)…looking for his friend… pero no lo encontró (but he didn’t find him). so he kept running and running…hasta que… (until…)"

nico listens intently, repeating some of the words in his tiny voice.

“bosque!” he says proudly.

carlos grins, tapping his nose gently. “eso! muy bien, campeón. (that’s it! very good, champion.)”

you watch as carlos pauses and turns to nico. “and what’s a bosque?”

nico scrunches his little face, thinking hard before answering, “umm… a forest?”

carlos nods approvingly. “exacto! (exactly!)”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i swear, this kid is gonna be fluent before i am.”

carlos smirks, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “well, mamá, looks like you need some spanish lessons too.”

you playfully elbow him, making him chuckle.

just as you think nico is starting to doze off, his tiny voice pipes up.

“papá, i’m sleepy… pero i want uno más cuento. (papa, i’m sleepy… but i want one more story.)”

carlos lets out an exaggerated sigh, feigning exhaustion. “one more? vale, uno más. (okay, one more.)”

he flips the page, his voice soft as he continues reading. you feel nico’s breathing slow, his tiny body relaxing between the two of you.

you glance up at carlos, who is watching nico with that same gentle, loving look he always has. he catches you staring and gives you a small smile, his fingers reaching out to brush over your hand.

“you know,” you whisper, “you never had to do any of this.”

carlos furrows his brows. “what do you mean?”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “i mean… you didn’t have to be his dad. you could’ve just dated me and kept your distance. but instead, you’re his person. and i just… i don’t know. i hope you know how much i love you for that.”

carlos studies you for a moment before shaking his head, as if the thought of not stepping up for nico is ridiculous. he lifts your intertwined fingers, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand.

“i didn’t have to, amor,” he murmurs. “i wanted to. i chose this. i chose you. i chose him. and i’d do it again a thousand times over.”

tears prick your eyes, but before you can say anything, carlos leans down and places a gentle kiss on nico’s forehead.

“buenas noches, mi pequeño campeón. (good night, my little champion.)”

nico barely stirs, already deep in sleep.

carlos turns back to you, smiling softly. “now come on, mamá, let’s go watch bad reality tv and pretend we don’t have to wake up early tomorrow.”

you laugh, shaking your head as you follow him to the couch, where his arm instinctively wraps around you.

carlos sainz wasn’t the father by blood.

but he was the father who stepped up.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[fastandcarlos]

"Will You Be My Dad?" : ̗̀➛ Lewis Hamilton

summary: where your daughter wants lewis to take on a new role in her life

“Come on, time for bed,” you smiled, scooping your daughter up off of the ground. 

Amelia let go of a groan as she stood to her feet, looking across at you with a pout. You’d already let her stay up much later than you usually did, treating her seeing as Lewis had come around to visit, knowing how much she loved spending time with him. Lewis couldn’t help but smile as she huffed, calling out to you, begging for a few more minutes with the two of you. 

It still felt like a dream for you sometimes as you glanced at Lewis, watching as he picked up some of Amelia’s toys and placed them back into her toy box. She was never too far away from him, practically glued to his side whenever he spent any time with you both. 

Ever since you and Lewis had started dating, Amelia had relished in it. She was only young when you started dating, she didn’t really know life without Lewis in it, all she knew was that although he loved you, he wasn’t the man that she called dad, despite being the one to raise her. 

As Amelia continued to groan, Lewis quickly stepped in. He scooped her up and carried her into her bedroom, throwing her down onto her bed as she giggled away to himself. 

No matter what the situation, whenever you were struggling Lewis was there to step in. He saw Amelia as his own, he treated her as if she was. She was a part of the deal when it came to dating you, but rather than be an inconvenience, she was the greatest addition which made dating you even sweeter. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” Amelia whispered across to Lewis. 

“I think so,” he smiled, looking back to you to check. “That means I’ll be right here when you wake up in the morning, maybe we could eat breakfast together.” 

Her smile turned up as you nodded in agreement with Lewis. “Will you cook for us? You always cook us the best breakfast Lewis.” 

“I can do that,” he assured her, pressing a kiss against the top of her head. “Although I can’t promise that my cooking will be as good as mummy’s dinner was that she made tonight.” 

You slowly stepped towards the bed, perching down on the end of it. “Lewis can only stay if you promise to get some sleep, we can’t have a tired girl at the breakfast table tomorrow morning.” 

Amelia nodded as she sat herself up and cuddled into Lewis’ side. His arm immediately moved around her frame, pressing several kisses against the top of her head. Your smile was wide as you watched the two of them, wondering once again how you ever got so lucky with the two of them. 

“Maybe soon we can live so that we don’t have to have sleepovers,” Lewis spoke, taking you by surprise. “I’ve got a couple weeks off soon, and I was wondering about asking you and mummy what you thought about maybe coming to live in my house instead.” 

“In your house?” Your daughter, grinned, spinning out of his hold so that she was face to face with Lewis. “Would we stay in your house forever?” She quizzed, bouncing up and down as Lewis’ head nodded, his eyes glancing across at the surprise in your expression. 

It was a conversation that you’d never really had, and never expected to have so soon either, but Lewis’ mind was made up and he knew exactly what he wanted. 

He couldn’t imagine life without the two of you, he hated the feeling of returning home to an empty house. The feeling didn’t compare to the feeling he got when he walked through your front door, immediately showered with love and greeted by his two favourite people, filled with excitement. 

“You’d be able to come up with lots of plans and make your room exactly how you want it.” 

“With a big bed?” She grinned, “and loads of teddies in the room too?” 

Lewis nodded, wanting to give Amelia anything she wanted and more. He spoilt her rotten, one of the perks of not being her parent, even if it did leave him in trouble with you time after time. 

“Are you excited about us coming to live with you Lewis?” She asked him. 

“More so than you could ever imagine,” he whispered, reaching across and taking a hold of your hand. “You two have changed my life, I love being around the two of you, annoying your mummy and tickling you until you’re begging me to stop, that’s my favourite thing to do in the world.” 

Both of you wore wide smiles as Lewis spoke openly, letting you know exactly how big of a role you both had in his life. The sentiment didn’t quite mean as much to Amelia as it did you, your heart was full as he spoke, whilst she still daydreamed about the new, amazing bedroom she’d been promised. 

“If we live together, would we be a proper family? Like mum, dad, and me?” 

Neither you or Lewis knew what to say, looking at each other. Your heart raced, terrified as Lewis stared blankly across at you, not quite believing what he had heard from her either. 

“You do everything that a dad does,” Amelia spoke up, feeling the need to explain herself a little more. “You take care of me, and mummy. You take me to school, help me fix my toys when they break, give me cuddles when I’m having a nightmare.” 

“That’s because I love you sweetheart,” Lewis smiled across at her. 

“I know,” she smiled, “do you think...maybe...will you be my dad?” 

You were nervous for a moment, but luckily the corners of Lewis’ mouth soon turned up. He squeezed Amelia even tighter, scooping her up and sitting her in his lap, scattering a trail of kisses from the top of her head, down and all over her face. 

“I would love to be your dad, if that’s what you want,” he whispered. 

Her head nodded, pressing her palms together. “You’re the best daddy in the world,” she told him, already full of confidence that no one could do a better job than Lewis. 

“Sorry,” you whispered across to Lewis as you met his eyes, Amelia cuddling closer into his chest, “I had no idea she was going to ask you that, I’m sorry if you feel a little put on the spot.” 

“It’s alright, in fact, it’s better than alright,” Lewis quickly assured you, “it would be the biggest honour of my life, it makes us more of a family, doesn’t it?” 

You nodded in agreement as Lewis laid Amelia back down in bed again. “Did you mean what you said about moving in? You really want us to live with you? It’s not something you can just change your mind about.” 

“I’ve never been more confident about anything,” Lewis smiled, “I don’t want to have to sit around and wait to see you guys anymore, I want to see you every day.” 

You stretched across and pressed a kiss against Lewis’ cheek, “thank you for completing our family, I don’t know what we’d do without you.” 

“You’re an amazing mum, with or without me,” Lewis smiled. 

“And you’re an amazing dad too.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[cressidagrey]

A Pawfect Coincidence

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Margot Bonheur (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc loses his brother’s emotionally codependent dachshund, he doesn’t just misplace a dog—he accidentally jumpstarts a full-blown Leclerc family crisis. Luckily, Leo is found by Margot Bonheur: local vet, egg chef extraordinaire, and the girl Charles Leclerc was once devastatingly in love with (and never quite got over).

Warnings and Notes: 

I am feeling so bad about bashing Charles in White Horse that I figured I needed a palate cleanser, so I pulled this out of the purgatory that are my Google Docs.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Arthur Leclerc was not in the habit of losing things.

Not his phone, not his keys, and definitely not his older brother’s ridiculously spoiled dachshund, who was currently - oh, merde—nowhere to be seen.

“Leo?” he called, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the park, panic tightening his chest.

Ten seconds ago, everything had been fine. The sun was sinking, he’d taken a casual detour through Parc Princesse Antoinette, texting a friend back while Leo sniffed a patch of grass for the fifth time. Arthur had only looked away for a moment. A moment.

And now? No leash. No golden tail. No floppy ears. No dog.

Arthur cursed under his breath, scanning every path and hedge. He jogged toward the playground. Nothing. He doubled back to the fountain, heart rate climbing like he was doing qualifying laps in the rain. Still nothing.

“Leo!” he shouted again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from an elderly couple and a kid eating ice cream. “Leo, come on! This isn’t funny!”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles. Of course.

Charles: All good with Leo?

Arthur stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering, “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

Because he could already imagine it. Charles’ blank face when Arthur admitted he’d lost the dog. The slow, silent stare of older-sibling disappointment. The inevitable “I asked you for one thing.”

And worst of all—Leo. Leo, who adored Charles more than anyone else in the world, probably off charming some stranger into giving him treats or belly rubs while Arthur had a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of a public park.

He jogged toward the exit, breath catching. “I swear to God, if I find you eating someone’s sandwich again—”

Nothing.

Just the rustle of leaves. The empty sidewalk. And the slowly dawning realization that Charles’ dog might actually be gone.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with guilt in his chest.

He was so dead.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I need you to swear on your life you won’t tell Charles.

Lorenzo: ...what did you do.

Arthur: Hypothetically If someone was walking Leo And he maybe slipped his harness And then vanished into thin air How bad would that be?

Lorenzo: Arthur. Where is Leo.

Arthur: THAT’S THE PROBLEM. I DON’T KNOW.

Lorenzo: You LOST Charles’ dog???

Arthur: No!!! I temporarily misplaced him. There’s a difference. (He’s very small and very fast and honestly too independent for his own good.)

Lorenzo: Do you want to die. Is that it. Is this a cry for help.

Arthur: Please. Help me. I can’t tell Charles. He trusted me. He said “don’t let him eat anything off the street.” He didn’t even think to say “don’t lose him” because he believed in me. And now Leo is GONE.

Lorenzo: Where are you?

Arthur: Parc Princesse Antoinette. I’ve done three laps. I checked the bushes. I even bribed a child with gelato to help me look.

Lorenzo: You bribed a child.

Arthur: WITH GELATO. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

Lorenzo: Okay. Breathe. Dogs like routine. Try retracing the walk. Call shelters. And vets. Someone might bring him in to check the chip.

Arthur: Do you think I should fake an injury so Charles pities me before I break the news?

Lorenzo: Try finding the dog first.

Arthur: Right. Right. Operation Find The Sausage is underway.

***

Arthur retraced his steps.

Twice.

He checked every corner of the park, the shaded paths, the trash bins—because Leo had zero shame when it came to half-eaten food. Nothing. No flash of caramel-colored fur, no jingling of a collar, no yappy bark announcing his tiny reign of chaos.

He even tried bribery. Again.

“Leo,” he called, crouching low with the last bite of a croissant he’d bought from the boulangerie around the corner. “If you come back now, I’ll give you the whole thing. No questions asked. No leash. No walk of shame.”

Silence. A pigeon stared at him, unimpressed.

Arthur groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not even my dog,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true, not really. Leo wasn’t his dog, but Charles’ ridiculous little dachshund had somehow made himself part of the entire family. He’d wormed his way into Arthur’s life with stubby legs, sad eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding the most expensive thing in the apartment to pee on.

Arthur pulled out his phone again, hovering over Charles’ name. His thumb wavered.

Don’t you dare tell him you lost Leo, his brain screamed. He’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll never let you walk him again.

And he really liked walking Leo. The little guy made strangers smile. Old ladies waved. Children asked to pet him. Once, a girl gave Arthur her number entirely because Leo was wearing a raincoat.

Now he was just a guy pacing a park, sweating through his T-shirt, muttering to himself like he’d lost his mind. Which, fair. He kind of had.

He circled back to the park gate for the third time when a flash of hope struck—a woman with a small dog!—but it wasn’t Leo. Just a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink harness who barked at Arthur like he’d insulted her personally.

“Not helping,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Maybe someone had found Leo. Maybe he was already somewhere safe. Maybe—please, please, please—someone would scan his chip and call Charles.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: It’s getting dark. I’ve checked the entire park. Twice. Then the neighborhood. Then the park again. Still no Leo.

Lorenzo: You haven’t found him at all?

Arthur: Unless he’s developed the ability to turn invisible—NO. I even asked a guy walking a chihuahua if he’d seen a dachshund. He asked if I was okay. I said no.

Lorenzo: You need to call Charles.

Arthur: No. Absolutely not. I will fake my own death before I tell Charles I lost his dog.

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s LEO. You lost the love of his life. You think this isn’t going to end up in a group chat?

Arthur: I CAN FIX THIS. I just need a little more time. And maybe a tranquillizer dart.

Lorenzo: For Leo??

Arthur: For me. So I can stop panicking for five seconds.

Lorenzo: Okay. Deep breath. Have you called every vet in a 2km radius?

Arthur: Yes. One of them asked if I was crying.

Lorenzo: You're two hours in, and it’s getting late. If someone found him, they’ve probably taken him somewhere. You need to start thinking damage control.

Arthur: You mean like… buy Charles a new dog?

Lorenzo: Arthur. I will block you.

Arthur: Okay okay okay. I’ll call more vets.

Lorenzo: Good. And maybe prepare a will, just in case.

Arthur: Tell Maman I loved her. Tell Charles it was Arthur Jr.’s fault. That’s what I would’ve named the new dog.

***

Margot didn’t notice him at first.

Her hands were full—reusable bags weighed down with vegetables, pasta, a bottle of wine, and the fancy sheep’s cheese she only bought when she was having a day. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, the sky settling into a navy velvet dusk as she trudged home through the winding streets above the port.

She was thinking about the silence of her apartment. The way her keys still felt unfamiliar in the lock. The way everything in her life was still slightly off, like a puzzle someone had forced together with the wrong pieces.

And then she heard it.

A tiny, pitiful sneeze.

Margot turned instinctively, eyes scanning the dim sidewalk—and there, right at the edge of a crumbling stone wall, sat a dachshund. Small. Muddied. Trembling slightly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, kneeling immediately and setting her bags down. “What are you doing here?”

The dog blinked at her with glossy brown eyes, ears drooping dramatically, like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“No collar,” she murmured, reaching slowly. “No leash. You’ve clearly been on an adventure.”

The dog didn’t flinch when she touched him. He wagged his tail once. Then sneezed again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

She looked around—quiet street, no one calling out a name, no footsteps approaching. Whoever he belonged to, they weren’t nearby.

So Margot scooped him up, balancing him against her chest with one arm while gathering her groceries with the other, and started the climb to her apartment.

Her building wasn’t far. Second floor, no elevator, uneven tile floors that made the dachshund snort when she carried him inside. He shook himself out as soon as she set him down, spraying mud across her hallway rug like he was blessing the space.

“Charming,” she muttered, flicking on the bathroom light. “Alright, monsieur, bath time.”

He did not resist. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the warm water, letting her rinse the grime from his fur, soap away the stickiness from his paws. Margot caught herself smiling as she towel-dried him, wrapping him up like a burrito and murmuring nonsense in a voice she hadn’t used in… well, a long time.

It had been almost three months since she’d moved back to Monaco.

Not a dramatic return—no big announcement, no confetti, just a one-way train ticket from Toulouse and a job offer she hadn’t expected to say yes to.

She hadn’t planned on leaving. She loved Toulouse. The city had been hers in a way Monaco never had—full of light and bustle and purpose. She’d built something there. Friends. A job. A future.

A fiancé.

Her smile faded slightly as she rubbed the dog dry.

It still stung, the way it had ended. The too-calm conversation. The finality of the phrase “I think we want different things.” The way he’d packed up and moved out like they’d been roommates all along, not five years of love and shared groceries and weekend hikes.

Margot hadn’t told anyone the full story—not even her mother. Just said she needed a change. A new pace. A return to familiar streets, even if they no longer felt like home.

The dachshund gave a content sigh, now wrapped in a fresh towel, head resting on her thigh like he’d always belonged there.

Margot looked down at him and exhaled.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re a good distraction.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: He’s still not back. It’s been hours. HOURS. What if someone took him? What if he joined a biker gang?

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s past midnight.

Arthur: YES I KNOW. THE CLOCK IS MOCKING ME. Do you think I could set up one of those “MISSING DOG” posters?? Like old-school. With tabs and everything. “Answers to: Leo. Probably judging you.”

Lorenzo: I’m going to bed. Unless you are calling emergency services, do not text me again.

Arthur: What if he never comes back. What if I have to look Charles in the eye and say, “Sorry, your dog is now one with the Monaco shadows.”

Lorenzo: Did you eat dinner?

Arthur: I shared half a croissant with a pigeon earlier, does that count?

Lorenzo: No. You’re spiraling.

Arthur: I’m spiraling because Charles is going to MURDER me and use my body as a cautionary tale for Pierre or something.

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: WHAT IF HE THINKS I DID IT ON PURPOSE. What if he thinks I took Leo to emotionally sabotage him before a race weekend???

Lorenzo: What race weekend?

Arthur: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED

Lorenzo: Eat something. Drink water. And stop pacing the same square kilometer like a cartoon.

Arthur: ...how did you know I was pacing?

Lorenzo: Because I know you. And because the last time you panicked this hard was when you lost your passport and it was in your pocket.

Arthur: Okay, that was ONE TIME and the pocket was weirdly deep.

Lorenzo: Look. If someone found him, they probably took him home. It’s late. Vets are closed. You’ll get a call in the morning.

Arthur: What if they don’t call? What if Leo decides he likes his new life better? What if he finds someone who gives him bacon without rules?

Lorenzo: Then you’ll be replaced. Which is fair.

Arthur: ...harsh. But valid.

Lorenzo: Go home, Arthur. Sleep. Or at least lie down and stare into the abyss like the rest of us.

Arthur: Fine. But if I die of guilt in the night, tell Charles I tried my best.

Lorenzo: I’ll tell him you wept nobly into a pile of posters with your own phone number misspelled.

Arthur: Okay that’s accurate.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Morning. Charles just asked me if you still have Leo. Can I tell him yes and get back to my already overbooked morning?

Arthur: So… funny story.

Joris: No. Absolutely not. I do not have time for a funny story. You either have the dog or you don’t.

Arthur: I don’t. I lost Leo.

Joris: WHAT. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a Leclerc brother prank. I knew I should’ve never let you all have a group chat.

Arthur: I’m not joking. He slipped out of his harness yesterday afternoon in the park. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t even go home. I’ve walked more than I did during preseason training.

Joris: ARTHUR.

Arthur: I KNOW.

Joris: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE??? You lost Leo. LEO.

Arthur: I am aware!!!

Joris: Leo is not just a dog. Leo is Charles’ everything right now. You lost the one source of unconditional love he has left since the breakup. The love of his life. The only thing he’s cared about since the breakup. THE DOG WHO HAS HIS OWN MONOGRAMMED TOWEL.

Arthur: Okay in my defense that towel thing is not normal.

Joris: YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE THE TOWEL WHEN YOU LOST THE DOG.

Joris: He cried watching a dog food commercial three weeks ago. THREE. Leo is the only thing he trusts. Leo is the only one he lets spoon him when he's sad. You lost the love of his life.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to!! I was texting back and he—he just disappeared. It’s like he melted into the pavement!

Joris: Oh my god. Oh my god.

He trusted you.

He handed over his entire emotional support system and said, “don’t let him eat anything off the street.”

And you said, “Great, I’ll just lose him completely.”

Arthur:

I bribed a child with gelato to help search. I tried. Can we not tell him yet? Maybe someone scanned the chip. Maybe he’s safe somewhere!

Joris: I swear, if we find out someone found him and called the chip number and you just didn’t answer, I am personally putting your name on a “Do Not Trust with Pets” list.

Arthur: That’s fair.

Joris: And if someone does call and Leo is fine, I’m still going to be angry. Just less angry.

Arthur: Okay. Please tell me if he’s okay. And, like. Tell Charles gently?

Joris: Gently?? GENTLY??

Arthur: He likes you.

Joris: So did Leo. AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM.

***

Joris had delivered a lot of difficult news in his tenure as Charles Leclerc’s personal assistant.

Travel mishaps. Press obligations. The time a well-meaning sponsor wanted him to pose with a falcon for reasons no one could adequately explain.

But this?

This was worse.

He found Charles outside the simulator room, still in his race suit from that morning’s promo shoot, looking relaxed in that suspiciously unbothered way that only made Joris more tense.

“Hey,” Charles said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joris took a breath. Then another. He held up a hand before Charles could get a word in.

“I need you to remember that you love your brother.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Just—just hold that thought in your heart for a second,” Joris continued, voice strained, hands gesturing like he was conducting a symphony of impending doom. “Because the thing is, Arthur was walking Leo. And then… he wasn’t.”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean, wasn’t?”

“Leo ran off,” Joris said, with the grave tone of someone delivering a eulogy. “Arthur looked away for maybe thirty seconds. Boom. Gone. No leash. No collar. Just vibes.”

Charles straightened. “You’re telling me Arthur lost my dog?”

Joris winced. “Arthur was walking him yesterday. In the park. And, uh… Leo slipped his harness.”

Silence.

“He what,” Charles said, very quietly.

“He… bolted. Arthur says it happened fast. He’s been searching all night, didn’t even go home. He’s calling shelters and—”

Charles dropped the knife. “He lost my dog?”

Joris took a careful step back. “Temporarily misplaced.”

“Joris.”

“He ran off yesterday evening,” Joris said, hands up in surrender. “Slipped his harness while Arthur was texting in the park. He’s been searching all night. I got the full unhinged confession this morning.”

Charles looked like someone had just unplugged him. All the light behind his eyes dimmed. “Leo has been gone since yesterday?”

“I didn’t know either,” Joris rushed to say. “Arthur didn’t tell me until an hour ago because he was apparently too busy bribing children and interrogating chihuahuas—don’t ask.”

“He lost Leo,” Charles repeated, voice rising. “He lost the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down in the last six months.”

And there it was.

Joris had been waiting for the breakup to surface again, quietly lurking under every tired sigh, every too-long pause in conversation. Charles hadn’t spoken about her in weeks, but he also hadn’t not spoken about her. He’d just… poured all of it into Leo. Every bit of softness, every ounce of trust.

And now Leo was gone.

“He’s okay,” Joris said quickly. “Probably. He has a chip. He’s smart. And Arthur’s already filed a report and left his number everywhere.”

Charles sat down heavily on the kitchen stool, one hand running over his face.

“I knew it,” he said hoarsely. “I knew Arthur wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even like mornings. Leo’s entire personality is built around 6:45 a.m.”

“I think he genuinely thought he was doing a good job,” Joris offered. “Like… mostly.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“He has a monogrammed towel,” he said suddenly, like remembering a lost heirloom. “He sleeps in my bed. He knows how to open the fridge.”

Joris nodded solemnly. “I know. You trained him well.”

“And now he’s alone somewhere. Scared. Probably judging someone else’s cooking.”

There was a long beat. Then Charles’s voice cracked—just a little, just enough.

“I can’t lose him too.”

Joris’s heart ached. He stepped forward, softer this time.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Charles gave a slow nod, silent. His eyes were glassy, and he looked young—too young for the heartbreak in his voice.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Brothers

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: So. I just spoke to Joris.

Arthur: 🥲

Charles: Tell me that this is some elaborate, deeply stupid prank and Leo is curled up in your apartment right now, wearing his stupid hoodie and judging your coffee table choices.

Arthur: I wish it was. I really, really do. Charles I swear, it happened so fast. I looked away for one second and he was gone. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t sleep. I filed reports. I called every vet and shelter.

Charles: You lost him yesterday. And didn’t say anything until this morning.

Arthur: I panicked. I thought I could find him before you noticed. Lorenzo told me not to fake a leg injury to get your sympathy, if that helps?

Lorenzo: To be clear, I said that was a bad idea.

Charles: Leo is not just a dog. He’s not a weekend errand or a plant you forget to water. He’s mine. He’s family. He’s the only thing I’ve had that didn’t leave when things got hard.

Arthur: I know. And I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.

Charles: I trusted you.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to break that. Please believe me.

Lorenzo: He does. He’s just scared right now. We all are.

Charles: If anything happens to him— I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s been the only thing keeping me grounded since everything fell apart.

Arthur: We’re going to find him. I swear it. Even if I have to knock on every door in Monaco and personally interview every dog.

Charles: He knows how to open the fridge, Arthur. You lost a genius.

Lorenzo: Let’s focus. No blame right now. Only action.

Charles: Joris is handling it. Of course. Because Joris always handles what we break.

Arthur: …do I send him flowers?

Charles: Send him a new spine. He probably needs one after carrying our chaos for five years.

Lorenzo: Okay, but seriously—Charles. We will get him back. And when we do, I’m buying that dog a GPS tracker, a backup GPS tracker, and probably a bodyguard.

Arthur: I already picked out a name. Sir Barkalot.

Charles: If I wasn't so emotionally ruined I’d block you.

Arthur: Fair.

Charles: I just want him home.

***

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed at an unreasonable hour, and a scooter rattled down the street, but Margot barely stirred.

She rolled over, blinking sleep from her eyes, the quiet weight of morning settling gently over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot about everything—about Monaco, about the clinic, about the fact that her life had recently undergone a full-scale emotional implosion.

And then she registered the sound. Not her alarm. Not traffic.

Snuffling.

She squinted down toward the end of the bed.

There, curled up like a smug croissant in the exact center of her duvet, was a caramel coloured dachshund.

Sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, snoring softly, utterly shameless.

Margot groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You did not start the night there.”

The dog gave a lazy tail thump in response but made no move to vacate the space.

“Oh, I see. You’ve claimed the bed. This is your apartment now,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen,and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. As the familiar hum filled the space, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dog trotted in a moment later, completely at ease, and went straight to the spot in front of the window where the morning sun hit just right. He flopped down with a grunt of satisfaction.

Margot stared at him.

“You’ve been here eight hours,” she said. “Eight. You’ve already decided on a sunbathing spot?”

He blinked at her. Yawned. Rolled onto his side and looked deeply unconcerned about the fact that he’d technically been lost less than a day ago.

She crouched beside him. “You know, if you were a person, this would be deeply invasive. Just showing up in someone’s life, taking a bath, stealing the blanket, and claiming the best corner of the apartment.”

The dog offered her a single, slow blink. Margot sighed.

“…but you’re not a person,” she added, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a spoiled little drama queen with big eyes and too much charm. No wonder someone’s probably out there crying over you.”

Margot watched him for a moment, her heart doing that soft little squeeze it hadn’t done in a while.

He didn’t seem stressed. Or scared. He wasn’t pacing or barking or trying to claw at the door. He was just… here. Cozy. Safe. Like this was temporary housing on his luxury tour of Monaco.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Let’s see if I have anything fit for a prince.”

She dug through the fridge—cheese, eggs, leftover roast chicken—and eventually settled on plain scrambled eggs. Just a little. No salt. Vet-approved. She plated them onto a saucer.

The dachshund sniffed the offering when she set it down on the kitchen floor, tilted his head like he was evaluating her taste level, then devoured it.

“Right,” Margot said. “A culinary success.”

He licked the plate clean and then followed her back into the living room, where he jumped up onto the couch like he paid rent. He curled into the throw blanket she’d left bunched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, already preparing for nap number three.

Margot leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him with a strange tightness in her chest.

He looked like he belonged there. Too easily. Too naturally. Like he’d decided she passed whatever secret dachshund test he’d run last night and now this was his summer home.

And Margot—who hadn’t expected to feel anything but detached competence and maybe a vague professional curiosity—felt something else entirely.

She felt… lighter.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not quite as adrift.

“I can’t keep you,” she said quietly, to no one and only him. “You definitely have someone. And they’re probably losing their mind.”

The dog, naturally, said nothing.

He simply sighed and closed his eyes, like he had all the time in the world.

Margot stared at him for a long moment.

She hesitated. Then added, “But if not… you can stay a little longer.”

***

The clinic smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the way it always did first thing in the morning—clean, calm, full of potential chaos that hadn’t yet arrived.

Margot pushed through the door with a reusable tote slung over one shoulder, and the dachshund’s head poking around like that was a completely normal mode of transportation for him. 

“Uh-oh,” Céline called from reception, raising an eyebrow as she spotted them. “You’ve brought in backup.”

“Temporary guest,” Margot said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Found him last night. No collar. Took him home so he wouldn’t end up in traffic or under a Vespa.”

“He’s adorable,” Céline said, already standing up to lean over the counter. “What breed is he? Besides ‘absolute heartthrob.’”

“Dachshund,” Margot replied dryly. “Clearly spoiled. Possibly royalty.”

“I mean, look at him,” Céline whispered as Margot lifted the dog onto the floor. He strutted across the waiting room and flopped into a sunbeam like he was taking a press photo.

Within ten minutes, he’d made the rounds of the break room, had a staff member attempt to make him a tiny paper crown from post-it notes, and somehow convinced the vet tech intern to feed him a single piece of chicken from her sandwich.

Margot watched it all happen with an expression of pure disbelief. “He’s been here twenty minutes.”

“He’s got it,” one of the techs whispered. “Like… star power.”

“I think he winked at me,” another muttered.

Margot rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She finally herded the dachshund into an exam room, gently lifting him onto the table. “Okay, rockstar. Let’s figure out who you are.”

He wagged his tail, smug as ever.

She grabbed the scanner from the wall, swept it slowly over his neck, and waited for the beep.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she said absently, turning to the screen.

The name appeared.

She froze.

LEO — Owner: Charles Leclerc. Contact: +33 —

Margot’s breath caught.

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

No.

No. There was no way.

She read it again.

Charles Leclerc.

She stared at the name, the familiar rhythm of it.

The Charles Leclerc.

As in, Formula One driver. Ferrari. International star.

Of course this was his dog.

Of course this smug, emotionally manipulative, blanket-stealing loaf belonged to him.

To Charles.

As in, the boy she’d kissed under the bleachers behind the tennis courts when she was sixteen. The boy who’d held her hand at the Monaco Grand Prix and whispered that one day, he’d be the one on the podium. The boy she’d cried over for at least three months after they broke up because “life was getting too busy.”

The boy who—apparently—now owned a dachshund named Leo.

“Oh,” she said faintly.

Leo looked up at her and thumped his tail, as if he knew.

Of course he knew.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

The phone rang just as Joris was mid-scroll through yet another email chain titled “RE: RE: RE: URGENT: Helmet Sponsor Placement Issue.”

He didn’t recognize the number. Monaco area code. That wasn’t unusual—his number was attached to everything from Leo’s microchip registry to Charles’ old tennis club membership.

Still, he hesitated. Then answered, already bracing himself for some kind of insurance call or dog-related ransom demand.

“Bonjour, Joris Trouche speaking.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Hi, um—Joris? It’s Margot. Margot Bonheur.”

Joris blinked.

Margot Bonheur?

He sat up straighter, every neuron in his brain suddenly pinging like a crash at turn one.

“Wait. Margot Margot?”

She gave a slightly breathless laugh. “I… think so? We went to lycée together.”

“Oh my god,” Joris said, stunned. 

There was a short pause. Then a soft voice, low and slightly tentative: “You don’t happen to be missing a dachshund named Leo, do you?”

Joris sat up straight. “You found Leo?”

“Uh, yes. Last night. He sort of… found me, really. He was wandering near Rue Bel Respiro, no collar. I took him home for the night.”

Joris covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed holy shit to the empty office. Then he cleared his throat. “Is he okay?”

“Perfectly fine. He had a bath, has been sleeping, eating scrambled eggs, sunbathing, and judging me silently ever since he woke up.”

Joris huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

There was a beat of quiet on the line. The kind of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then Margot said softly, “He’s yours, then?”

Joris’s mouth twitched. “No. He’s Charles’.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Of course he is.”

Joris leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he might spot the ghost of Monaco high school past hovering above him.

Charles and Margot.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years. The school hallway hand-holding. The shy smiles.

Margot Bonheur. Margot with the laugh that made Charles forget how to speak in full sentences. Margot who wore oversized cardigans, tied her hair with ribbons, and absolutely ruined Charles for other teenage girls.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, gangly and earnest and completely gone for a girl with curly hair and a laugh that cracked through his walls like sunlight.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, biking all the way across town with a melted chocolate bar in July because he’d heard Margot had a bad day.

Charles, heart-eyed and hopeless, telling Joris at least three times a week, “I think she’s the one, you know?”

And then the silence. The breakup.

Racing had come calling, and Charles—still a boy, really—had chosen speed over stability, pressure over presence. Not because he didn’t love her. Because he did, too much, and thought she deserved better than goodbyes over phone calls and promises he couldn’t keep.

It was the only time Joris had seen Charles cry in a hotel hallway. No cameras. Just him and a cracked iPhone screen with her name still at the top of his pinned messages.

And now?

Now she’d found his dog.

In Monaco.

At a time when Charles was still nursing emotional wounds, pretending he wasn’t sad, and sleeping curled around that ridiculous dachshund like Leo was a weighted blanket for his soul.

Joris stared at the desk.

The universe didn’t send you things like this for no reason.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’ll be relieved. He’s been—look, let’s just say the household emotional stability has been tied directly to that dog’s continued existence.”

Margot made a small sound, part sympathetic and part amused. “I figured. He looked very loved.”

“He is. But also? High maintenance. Like his owner.”

Another pause. He could practically hear her raised eyebrow through the line.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I’ll be at the clinic most of the day. You or Charles can come by whenever.”

“Thank you, really,” Joris said. “This means a lot.”

When the call ended, Joris didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood, walked to Charles’ door, and knocked.

This was going to be interesting.

And if—if—it led to something more?

Well.

He wouldn’t meddle.

Not directly.

But he also wasn’t above “accidentally” scheduling Charles to pick up Leo himself.

***

Charles was halfway through pacing the length of his hotel room for the fourth time when the knock came.

He turned sharply, the pent-up worry already pushing at his chest like pressure before a storm.

“Oui?”

Joris opened the door, face unreadable. “Good news,” he said.

Charles blinked. “You found him?”

“We didn’t,” Joris said. “But someone did.”

The world tilted slightly. His breath caught. “Wait—he’s okay?”

“He’s more than okay,” Joris said. “He was found last night. Someone took him in. He’s safe, healthy, probably being pampered as we speak.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, barely processing the words. His knees actually went a little weak, and he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re sure?”

Joris nodded. “I spoke to the person directly. They found him near Rue Bel Respiro. No injuries. Fed him scrambled eggs.”

Charles let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “He loves scrambled eggs.”

“I know,” Joris said, softer now. “He’s okay. You can breathe again.”

Charles pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to check that his heart was still there. “I thought—I thought maybe he got out of the city. Or worse. I didn’t know what to do, Joris.”

He nodded, too many thoughts tumbling around in his head. Leo. Safe. Leo, who he’d been picturing lying under a car or lost in some alley. Leo, who had become more than just a dog—his anchor, his post-breakup coping mechanism, the one living being who never asked for anything but a lap and a few treats.

His eyes stung. He scrubbed a hand over them.

“I know,” Joris repeated. “It’s handled. You can pick him up when we’re back in Monaco this evening.”

Charles closed his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “He’s really okay?”

“Completely,” Joris confirmed. “He’s just waiting for you.”

Charles looked away, blinking hard. “I thought—I kept thinking about the road. Or if someone tried to take him. Or if he was scared and cold—”

“He wasn’t,” Joris said gently. “Apparently, he made himself at home. Shocker.”

Charles let out a weak laugh, finally sitting down. “God. I feel like an idiot. I should have never let Arthur take him out.”

“No argument there,” Joris muttered.

A pause.

Then Joris added, voice casual: “Oh, and maybe don’t wear that hoodie when you go to pick him up.”

Charles frowned. “Why?”

Joris sipped his espresso. “Just a feeling.”

***

Group Chat: Disaster Mitigation Team

 Members: Joris, Lorenzo, Arthur

Joris: Update: Leo is SAFE. Found last night. Someone took him home, gave him a bath, scrambled eggs, and emotionally supported him through what I assume was a dramatic 12 hours. He’s completely fine. A little smug, but fine.

Arthur: OH THANK GOD. I’m not going to be disowned??? I can come out of hiding???

Lorenzo: Where was he?

Joris: Wandering near Rue Bel Respiro. A vet found him. Took him home for the night.

Lorenzo: This is the best news I’ve heard all week. Tell me who found him so I can send them a fruit basket and/or a handwritten apology.

Joris: …you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Arthur: Bro if you say it was someone from Ferrari PR I will actually combust

Joris: It was Margot.

Arthur: ...

Lorenzo: ...

Arthur: As in Margot Bonheur??

Joris: That would be the one.

Lorenzo: As in “Charles’ teenage girlfriend” Margot?

Arthur: As in “the only girl Charles ever wrote poetry for and then immediately denied it” Margot??

Joris: Yes. THAT Margot.

Arthur: NO WAY. Margot who used to make Charles forget how to speak?? Margot who literally ended all his teen crushes after 2012??

Lorenzo: Margot who knew how to shut him up with one look? That Margot?

Arthur: This is cinematic.

Lorenzo: This is fate.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m thinking about matchmaking but …I’m thinking about matchmaking.

Arthur: YES. FINALLY. She was the best of all of them. And she liked us. Remember when she brought cookies to family lunch and Maman asked if we could keep her?

Joris: The very same. Vet now. Back in Monaco. And apparently, Leo has chosen her as his new emotional support human.

Arthur: She was always my favorite. Honestly, best of all his exes. No contest. 10/10. Would support a redemption arc.

Lorenzo: Same.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m plotting anything. But I may have strategically left out her name when I told him he could pick Leo up tonight. Just… letting fate cook a little.

Arthur: Oh my GOD you’re playing the long game. I’m so proud.

Lorenzo: We support this. You have our blessing. 

Arthur: If they get back together, I’m taking credit. Even though I lost Leo in the first place. Especially because of that.

Joris: Focus, gentlemen. Tonight, Charles picks up Leo. From Margot. Let’s just see what happens.

Lorenzo: You want us on standby?

Joris: No interference. No chaos. Let them talk. Let the dog do his work.

 We may be watching the start of something ridiculous.

Arthur: Or something really, really good.

***

The clinic looked ordinary from the outside—white stone, blue shutters, a potted plant wilting just slightly in the sun. The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you had a limping retriever or a cat with dietary issues.

Charles had passed it before. Years ago. He hadn’t remembered until he stood outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, heart thudding with the kind of nervous energy he usually reserved for a final lap in the wet.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Leo was safe. That’s what mattered.

And yet—he couldn’t shake it.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Leo in two days. Maybe it was because this whole week had felt like a slow unraveling. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to confront the terrifying truth that he’d built his emotional stability on a dachshund with judgmental eyebrows.

He pushed open the door.

The bell above chimed.

Inside, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Soft music played overhead. The waiting room was empty, save for a sleepy golden retriever stretched out across the floor tiles and an older man flipping through a dog breed calendar like it contained state secrets.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

It was a veterinary clinic, not a press conference. He wasn’t here to face a grid of rivals or answer uncomfortable questions about tyre strategy or heartbreak.

He was just here for Leo.

That should’ve been it.

But his palms were sweating, and there was something tight in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment Joris said, “She found him last night.”

She.

He hadn’t asked questions. He’d been too focused on the relief of knowing Leo was safe. Alive. Fed. Unbothered.

But now?

Now, something about the quiet warmth of the waiting room made his heart stutter.

“Bonjour,” a receptionist called from behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

Charles pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m here for Leo. Someone brought him in this morning?”

“Oh! Yes, he’s in the back. Quite the charmer you have there, Mr. Leclerc. Margo found him yesterday. He’s still with Dr. Bonheur. She said to send you through.”

Dr. Bonheur.

Charles blinked.

The name hit like a gear shift slamming into place.

No.

He didn’t move right away—just stood there, rooted to the tile floor, as if his body hadn’t caught up with the memory. The receptionist gestured politely to the hallway, but her voice felt distant, muffled.

Margot Bonheur.

The girl who used to tuck daisy stems behind her ears. The girl who gave him her library card because he kept forgetting his. The girl he’d tried so hard not to look up after the breakup, because he knew he wouldn’t like the feeling if he saw her happy without him.

The girl he hadn’t seen in years.

And she’d found Leo?

Of course she had.

Of course it was her.

Because fate didn’t tap you on the shoulder. It threw your dog into the arms of your teenage heartbreak and waited to see what you’d do next.

Charles swallowed hard and walked toward the back hallway, feet moving before his brain could catch up.

The door to the exam room was ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Margot stood with her back to him, crouched beside a small exam table where Leo sat like an unbothered loaf. She was tying a bandana around his neck—a soft green one that made him look outrageously smug. The same springy curls. The same soft concentration in her movements. She hadn’t changed.

And then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the world tilted.

Margot blinked. “Oh.”

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave a slow, cautious smile. “Hi, Charles.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Memories rushed in uninvited—bike rides and beach afternoons, shared earphones on the school bus, her handwriting on the corner of his notes. And that goodbye. That stupid, quiet, I don’t want to make you choose kind of goodbye.

Charles couldn’t speak.

He was sixteen again, sunburned and awkward and head over heels. He was seventeen and heartbroken. He was eighteen and too busy pretending he didn’t still think about her. And now he was… what, exactly?

Margot didn’t look away.

She stood, slow and steady, wiping her hands on the hem of her white coat, as if grounding herself in the motion. She looked older, yes—but not in a bad way. She looked like someone who’d lived through things and come out steadier for it.

Leo gave a grunt, apparently offended by being forgotten in the middle of his reunion fanfare, and thumped his tail once against the exam table.

That was what broke the silence.

Charles finally let out a shaky laugh, stepping fully into the room. “He looks like he owns the place.”

Margot smiled softly, folding her arms. “He acted like it. Claimed my couch, my blanket, and the best sunspot in the apartment before I’d even finished putting my groceries away.”

“I believe it,” Charles said, crouching beside Leo. The moment he touched the dachshund’s fur, something in him cracked wide open. “I thought I lost him. I thought—”

“I know,” Margot said gently. “I figured someone would be looking. He’s… unforgettable.”

Charles let his hand rest on Leo’s back. “He’s been everything. These last few months… it’s been hard.”

She didn’t press. She never had.

“I’m glad he found you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “I mean—really. Thank you.”

Margot looked at him for a long, quiet beat. “I wasn’t expecting you to walk through that door.”

“Me neither.” He stood slowly. “When Joris said someone found him… I didn’t ask who. I should’ve.”

“Would you have come if you had?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.

Charles met her gaze. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

Her lips curved, a little surprised. A little knowing.

There was a silence, comfortable and awkward all at once. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who used to know each other completely and now didn’t know how to begin again.

“I heard you were back,” he said eventually. “From my mum, I think. Or someone in town.”

Margot nodded. “Three months ago. I’m working here full time.”

“That’s… that’s good.” Charles shifted his weight. “Toulouse wasn’t forever?”

“No,” she said, quiet. “It was good. Until it wasn’t.”

He understood that far too well.

“Well,” she said, patting Leo’s head, “your prince is in one piece. Clean, fed, slightly spoiled.”

“Always has been.” Charles hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out Leo’s leash. “Can I… take him?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Though he might pout for a while. I think he liked my eggs.”

Charles bent down, clipping the leash onto Leo’s harness as the dachshund made a snuffling noise of vague disapproval. “I can’t believe you cooked for him.”

“I was trying to win him over,” Margot said. “Turns out he’s an easy bribe.”

Charles glanced up, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the tired, strained smile he’d been wearing lately—but something warmer. Real.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked. “Just… for old time’s sake?”

Margot paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

Outside, the sunlight hit the street in soft amber as they stepped out together, Leo strutting ahead of them like a celebrity returning from a five-star vacation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps slow and in sync.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“You too,” he answered, and meant it.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “For back then. For how I ended things.”

Margot looked over, surprised. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” he said. “I never said it. And I should have.”

She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Thank you.”

They reached the corner. Leo stopped, sniffed a bush like it owed him money, and flopped down dramatically on the warm pavement.

Margot laughed. “You may need to carry him. He’s decided he’s done.”

Charles crouched again, scooping Leo up effortlessly. “You really took care of him.”

“I was glad to,” she said.

Their eyes met again.

“Margot,” he said, quietly. “Would you—maybe sometime—want to catch up properly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Or a walk. Or, I don’t know. Something.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Are you asking for you, or for Leo?”

Charles gave a sheepish smile. “Both.”

Margot bit back a grin. “Then maybe.”

Charles smiled back, a little stunned. A little hopeful.

And Leo—smug, full, and freshly bathed—closed his eyes in Charles’ arms, perfectly content.

***

Group Chat: Leclercs & Logistics

 Members: Lorenzo, Arthur, Joris, Charles

Arthur:DID YOU GET HIM???? IS HE OKAY?? IS HE MAD AT ME??

Lorenzo: Photos. Now. I need visual confirmation of the sausage prince’s wellbeing.

Joris: Are you still breathing or do we need to send a second emotional support animal to your location?

Charles: Yes, Leo is back. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, I nearly did.

Arthur: Tell him I love him. Also tell him I’m sorry and that I accept any form of punishment he deems fit.

Lorenzo: Start with a restraining order and work from there.

Joris: And how was Margot?

Charles:Yeah—about that. You could’ve warned me, Joris.

Joris: Warned you about what?

Charles: THAT MARGOT FOUND LEO. You let me walk in there unprepared, like it was any other Tuesday! I could’ve had a heart attack! Or worse—said something weird!

Joris: I believe I said, “someone found him.” That is technically true. I just didn’t say who the someone was.

Charles: YOU LEFT OUT CRUCIAL INFORMATION Like the fact that my teenage heartbreak was about to hand me back my dog.

Arthur: Did a breeze catch in her hair at just the right moment? Was Leo smug about it??

Charles: Yes to both. He refused to leave until she said goodbye. And she tied a stupid little green bandana around his neck that somehow makes him look even more entitled. It was… weird. Familiar. Like nothing changed, but everything had.

Lorenzo: So basically: cinematic.

Joris: So… how did it feel seeing her again?

Charles: Like getting the wind knocked out of me and then immediately wrapped in a warm blanket. She was Margot. Still Margot.

Arthur: CHARLES. ARE YOU IN LOVE AGAIN??

Charles: I never really stopped.

Lorenzo: Oh.

Arthur: OH.

Arthur:Did you ask her out?!?!

Joris:Are we preparing for a slow-burn second-chance narrative?!

Charles: I asked if she wanted to catch up sometime. She said maybe.

Arthur: A MAYBE IS A YES IN DENIAL

Lorenzo: A maybe is the foundation of hope. I approve.

Joris: I’m scheduling you both for a casual Leo-themed coffee run in two days. Nothing obvious. We’re letting the tension simmer.

Arthur: You’re terrifying.

Joris: I’m efficient.

Charles: You’re all insane.

Lorenzo: And yet here you are. Smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager again.

Joris: We’re not rushing this. No chaos. We give them space. Let Leo work his magic.

Arthur: Can I at least put together a playlist??

Charles: You’re all insane.

Joris: Yes. And we love you. Now take that dog home, feed him something outrageously expensive, and start planning your next casual run-in with Monaco’s most emotionally significant veterinarian.

Lorenzo: I’m so proud. 🥹

Arthur: Tell Leo he’s getting a new raincoat. Embroidered. “Wingman of the Year.”

Charles: He deserves it.

***

Margot had no idea why she was nervous.

It was just coffee.

With her ex-boyfriend.

Her first boyfriend. The one who used to blush when their hands brushed and left flowers in her locker with absolutely illegible notes. The one who broke her heart the way only someone young and kind and convinced he was doing the right thing could

 And now… he was sitting at a tiny café table across from her, stirring sugar into his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t been years.

Like he hadn’t shown up at the clinic two days ago looking like he’d lost his entire world—until Leo launched himself into Charles’ arms, and then everything shifted. Warmth. Relief. Something deeper that still hummed under her skin if she thought about it too long.

“So…” Charles said, glancing up with a shy sort of smile. “I feel like we should start with something safe. Like weather. Or Leo’s digestive schedule.”

Margot snorted into her mug. “It’s Monaco. The weather is always smug. And Leo’s digestive schedule appears to involve manipulating humans into feeding him eggs.”

“I knew that smug face meant he was being spoiled,” Charles muttered, mock-affronted.

She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “He was a perfect gentleman. Demanding, slightly judgy, but charming.”

“So basically me at seventeen.”

That made her laugh. “You were never demanding.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Maybe not out loud. But I was kind of... all-in. With you.”

That stilled something in her chest.

She didn’t look away.

“I was too,” she said quietly.

There was a pause—gentle and heavy in equal measure. The little café noise hummed around them: clinking glasses, a scooter rattling by, someone’s dog barking at a pigeon.

Charles cleared his throat, voice softer now. “I’ve thought about reaching out. Before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Because I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. And… I didn’t know if I was someone you’d be glad to hear from.”

She sat with that for a moment. The honesty of it. The way it didn’t sting, because it wasn’t said to wound.

“I was angry,” she admitted. “Back then. Not because you left. I got it. But because I kept waiting for you to stop choosing everything else first.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “From the chaos. From me, honestly.”

“I never needed protecting,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”

Their eyes met. This time, there was something calmer there. Grounded.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll be less chaotic. But I know how to show up now.”

Margot’s lips curved slowly. “Even if I burn the eggs next time?”

He grinned. “Especially then. I feel like Leo would riot otherwise.”

She laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case,” Charles echoed, brushing his fingers against the edge of her mug, just barely, “maybe this doesn’t have to be just coffee.”

Margot looked at him, really looked. And saw not just the boy he was—but the man sitting in front of her now. Tired, maybe. Bruised by life a little. But open. Trying.

And hers, maybe, if she wanted him to be again.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said.

And across the city,  snoring on Charles’ couch, Leo Leclerc dreamed smug little dreams of eggs, sunbeams, and the chaos he’d orchestrated to make this happen.

[itsnesss]

𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

🖇️ more...

The alert from the “paddock family” WhatsApp group went off like a bomb.

Oscar: Can someone explain why Kimi and Ollie are on the roof of the Mercedes hospitality?!

You and Max turned to the window at the same time. And yep. There they were. Two helmets gleaming in the sun, next to a poorly made banner that read: “YOUTH WILL RULE”.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" you yelled from below, already rushing toward the Mercedes area.

"Peaceful protest!" Ollie answered proudly.

"A protest for what?!" Oscar shouted from the side, holding a coffee and looking traumatized.

"For more snacks in team meetings," Kimi replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Max arrived walking calmly, like this happened all the time (because it did).

"How many times have we told you not to climb up there?" he asked tiredly, looking straight at Kimi.

"It was Ollie’s idea…" Kimi began.

"But Kimi brought the duct tape!" Ollie cut in, betraying him without hesitation.

"Ollie, you snitched on me!" Kimi complained.

You ran a hand down your face.

"Max, do something."

Max crossed his arms.

"Boys. Get down or I’ll tell Toto."

Ollie went pale. Kimi climbed down in two seconds. Protest over.

Oscar sighed.

"I’m putting a literal lock on that roof. This can’t keep happening."

Kimi walked up to you and Max, looking like a guilty puppy.

"I won’t do it again…"

"Liar," you said.

"Yeah," Max agreed at the same time.

"But it was fun," Ollie added, already scheming the next adventure.

[leclerc-hs]

bunny! - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which lando always calls you bunny OR your favorite place to be is riding lando's cock warnings: smut, riding, dirty talk, language, pet name!, NOT PROOFREAD (I hate re-reading stuff I write if you couldn't tell hahahah) word count: 1.2k ish author's note: this idea came to mind LAST NIGHT and i just had to write it since i'm off of work today. talk about me feeding y'all LOL xoxo still working on oscar's version of aphrodisiac chocolates!!! I literally wrote this in like an hour so it’s shortttt. xoxo ily ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

Lando calls you Bunny like it’s your actual name.

Don’t forget your lanyard later, Bunny

Hey Bunny, can you hand me that?

Y’look great, Bun

It was constant. In the paddock. During interviews. Even the fans notice it. Some thought it was a childhood thing. Others assumed it was just something that stuck.

And the rest of the grid? Of course they asked. 

And every time, you and Lando offered a different answer.

She had these ridiculous bunny ears the first time I met here…never wanted to take them off.

Her nose used to do this little twitch whenever she was annoyed…I swear

She loves carrots

And tonight was no different. 

You’re curled into the booth beside Lando, wine glass in hand, one leg draped over his under the table. He was warm, hand on your thigh. Thumb brushing soft, lazy circles.

And then it came up again.

“Alright…someone has to ask again,” Pierre points his fork toward Lando. “Bunny. What’s it actually from?”

Groans went around the table. Everyone chattering how he’ll never tell you. Just let them have their secrets.

And Oscar grins. “No, I wanna hear this one.” He leans forward. “What’s the excuse tonight?”

Lando doesn’t miss a beat. Fingers gripping your leg. A grin pulled onto his mouth.

“Showed up to my flat in bunny ears once. Wouldn’t take them off.”

You scoff beside him. “It was Halloween.”

“She wore them to sleep.”

And laughter erupts around the table.

And his hand tightens on your thigh. And you felt the shift in his demeanor.

The part no one ever saw.

The reason why he started calling you that.

Didn’t know that the first time he’d said it, was barely a whisper, as you rode him in his driver’s room after a race.

How you were so worked up, desperate, how your knees trembled as you bounced on him like you couldn’t stop.

They didn’t know how he said it when you were on top. How he groaned against your lips.

“Okay but seriously,” Charles says, laughing. “Is it like a….is it like a kink thing?”

You choke on your wine. And Lando drags his fingers higher up your leg.

Lando didn’t even so much as blink. “Absolutely not.”

And later, after everyone said their goodnights and you slipped into the car with him, Lando was quiet. Calm. Fingers brushing against your skin whenever they could.

And when you got back to the hotel. The door clicking shut.

He says, “Everyone thinks it started with ears…”

He presses you into the wall.

“But it was this fuckin’ cunt, Bunny.”

His voice was low. And you gasp, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, as he grinds his hips into you. Slow. Heavy. Could feel how hard he was. 

He kisses your jaw, under your ear…biting, sucking, claiming you.

“Fuck,” he groans into your skin. “Remember that night? In the driver’s room? You got on top of me like you needed it. Like you were gonna die if I didn’t let you bounce on my fuckin’ cock.”

You whimper.

“I think about it every fuckin’ day.” He groans.

And you don’t even get a chance to respond before he lifts you off the ground, hands gripping your thighs, and carries you straight to the bed.

“M’so obsessed with it,” he says, voice rough. Kissing you again as he drops you on the mattress and yanks his hoodie over his head with one hand. “With you. With this fuckin’ cunt.”

He kneels between your legs, pulls your panties off, and then stuffs them in his back pocket.

He pulls his jeans down, cock hard and thick. Leaking.

“Don’t even wanna fuck you from behind anymore. Just want you on top. Losing your fuckin’ mind on my cock.”

You crawl into his lap, straddling him like instinct.

And he hisses when your cunt touches his tip.

“Y’turned it into a fuckin’ problem,” His hands grip your ass.

You drag his cock through your folds, teasing him. And he hits his head against the headboard with a thud as he drops his head back.

“Y’think I don’t notice the way you moan when I let you sit on it?” He pants. “The way you tell me to shut up and take it like a good boy?”

You sink down on him in a single motion.

“Fuck, Bunny…” He gasps. Hips jerking.

And you start moving. Steadily. Rolling into him.

“Every time you do this,” He says through gritted teeth, hands grabbing your hips. “I tell myself that it’ll be the last. I’ll tell myself Lando, be normal. Change it up.”

And you bounce on him harder.

“But then you climb into my lap with that fuckin crazed look in your eye. And I let you. Always let you.”

His head rests against the headboard. Neck thick. Veiny. Flushed.

“Ride me everywhere. Every fuckin’ place that you shouldn’t.”

He flexes his hips into you, just enough to make your cunt clench. And you gasp.

“Let you ride on me on that fuckin’ plane. My trainer two rows back. Had your sweatshirt over your lap like that would hide it.”

You whimper, pressing your hand to his chest. Cock twitching in you.

“Remember Suzuka?” He continues. “Showed up with no underwear under that skirt, climbed into my lap during lunch and said, five minutes. Just need to use it.”

He groans at the memory. At the feel of your cunt around him.

“Fuckin’ bounced on me while I tried to be normal. Bit into my shoulder while you came.”

You roll your hips harder, whining.

“Imola…my god…” He pants. “Told you I was exhausted. Needed to sleep.”

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. Eyes blown.

“And you just got on top. Said I’ll do all the work.” He huffs. “And you did. Fucked me so slow and deep. Grinding into me like you wanted my fuckin’ soul.”

You moan, squeezing him. Panting. 

“Monaco yacht…” His hands grip you harder. “Dragged me into that fuckin’ cabin during the afterparty…made me sit on that little chair.”

You both breath out. Hips grinding harder as he fucks into you.

“Remember how many people were there? How many of them heard the fuckin’ chair squeaking under us every time you dropped down onto my cock?”

You’re gasping now. Head falling into his neck.

And he fucking loses it.

Mouth on your throat, sucking a bruise there, as his cock slams up into you.

“Hotels, rental cars, Fuck…in a fuckin’ golf cart. Remember that?” He hisses. “Bahrain. Climbed into my lap after practice, pushed your panties to the side, said you needed to calm down. Calm down.”

You’re sobbing.

“It’s the only way I want it now. Moaning. Grinding. Milking me.”

Your body seizes. Hips uncontrollable now.

“Y’gonna come again?” He grunts. “Make another mess on my cock like always?”

You nod into his shoulder. Unable to speak.

“Do it,” He groans. “C’mon, Bunny. Fuckin’ come all over me.”

And you do.

With a loud moan, cunt squeezing him tight. Shaking. Trembling.

And he was right there with you. Hips jerking as he comes inside you, groaning your name out like he didn’t want it to end.

“Bunny…bunny. Fuck, I fuckin’ love you.”

You collapse into him. Wrecked. Smiling.

“You’ll do it in the morning, yeah?”

You laugh. “Obsessed.”

He kisses your temple. 

“Fuckin’ right.”

[springintosummerxx]

❀ downbad for you ❀

op81 x reader

in which oscar changes in little and big ways. aka oscar's downbad for you

warnings: suggestive, fluff, bit of pining, humour

word count: 1.9 k

masterlist

nicole piastri was not an impatient woman. she raised four kids, all of them talented, intelligent and painfully oblivious in some way or another.

so when oscar had started travelling on his own and barely - rarely - picked up phone calls or checked texts, she learned to wait for him to come to her. very reasonable, in her opinion.

but when she called him, early in the morning hoping to catch him before a sprint race, she was surprised to find that he actually picked up.

"hello?" he asked, tone a little eager and not it's usual monotone.

"oscar," she replied, a little startled.

"oh. hey, mum." he answered absentmindedly.

now she was suspicious, "why are you answering your calls all of a sudden?"

"didn't you call me?" he asked, with that born-nonchalance that made her want to rip her hair out sometimes.

"yeah, just checking in. everything good for the weekend?"

"sure, everything's fine. listen mum, i'm actually waiting on another call. i'll call you again after the sprint, okay? thanks."

then her own son, the one she'd painfully pushed - okay, that was a bit gross, but she was a little offended.

then it clicked.

the question she should be asking, instead of rolling her eyes over her firstborn's antics, is who is he waiting on?

nicole calls hattie next, who answers reliably on the first ring.

"is your brother seeing someone?"

"woah, mum. hello to you too," her eldest daughter huffs, "and yes, i think so."

she nearly jumps up in excitement, "who?"

"that, i have no idea. but he's been answering his texts so quick lately, and he asked me about what flowers were suitable for a first date."

"finally," nicole sighed, and then perking up, "when do you think he'll bring her home?"

lando is staring at oscar as he puts on suncream.

he looks so...serious, squeezing out lotion from a bottle that looks way too tiny in his hands, concentrating on the thin white lines that coat three of his fingers.

"what?" he then is rubbing it into his face, and lando is scared.

"mate, what the fuck?"

"i'm protecting my skin," the australian answers, straight-faced.

he is 100% sure he's never seen oscar put on sunscreen, ever. especially not in the middle of the day, right between filming videos outside.

it's probably a good idea, if they don't want to get sunburnt; oscar, especially, with his pale complexion.

and who is lando to judge? he used to love it when his ex-girlfriend's did his skincare or forced him to exfoliate - wait.

before he can think through what he's going to say, he blurts, "do you have a girlfriend?"

oscar stares at him, and the faint, pink blush that's rising from his neck is enough of an answer.

"oh, my days you do!" he gasps. oscar shakes his head, the corners tipping up despite himself.

lando watches him, half-disgusted and half-proud.

his teammate has an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face, eyes bright. he leans back in the chair, looking dorky in his team kit and a little bit of sunscreen not blended in at his jaw.

lando could say with full confidence, after watching oscar not flinch at turns or crashes, that this reaction means that he is in love.

the first time oscar brings you around (and hard-launches both of you to the moon) is during the miami gp.

the two of you, your smaller hand tucked into the crook of his arm, make your way across the green turf of the paddock.

he's aware of the cameras and eyes; it's kind of hard not to be, but he doesn't mind like he usually does.

it's probably gross and neanderthal, and he will definitely deny it if you bring it up, but he's so proud to have you on his arm.

the two of you met a months ago, in monaco, where you were starting the second year of your doctorate degree.

you were (and are, in his opinion) way too smart for him, drop-dead gorgeous with a dry sense of humour.

although monaco was known for hosting f1 drivers you weren't super well-versed in the sport.

he likes that about you, and even more the way you ask him to tell you about it as you run your fingers through his hair, when the two of you are out on a date in some little cafe.

"okay?" he murmurs, and you squeeze your fingers around his bicep once.

"hmm," he can tell you're a little overwhelmed by the crease between your brows that he smoothes out with his thumb, "m'okay."

the little yellow sundress you're wearing makes your skin glow under the florida sun, and he wants to press his nose to your shoulder.

"it'll get better when we're not-"

"hard-launching at one of your races? you sure go big or go home, baby."

however many times you use that nickname, whether in the early morning when you're bribing him with coffee or hushed as he presses himself into you late at night, it never fails to make him flush.

it sounds so pretty from your lips, so personal and intimate his stomach lurches still when he hears that pet name.

"yeah," he laughs, "can't help it though. want to show you off."

this time, it's your turn to be flustered.

he can't believe someone as put together and elegant as you turns into a pile of mush for someone as unromantic as him.

but perhaps he's changed, he thinks as you twist your mouth and brush a hand over your sun and love-warmed cheeks.

"god, oscar. you can't say things like that. i'm going to turn into a liquid."

"a very beautiful liquid," he offers, his free hand grabbing the yours that's tucked into his elbow.

he moves you to his other side, the one closer to the cafés and motorhomes as more people start flooding into the paddock.

"c'mere," he murmurs, pressing a kiss into your forehead.

normally, he would be against any sort of pda. but you look so relaxed under the sun, skin glowing as you watch him behind a pair of sunglasses that he can't help himself.

oscar hears the shutters of cameras, and he rests his cheek on yours.

"love you," he grins boyishly.

"love you, baby. good luck."

he wants a real kiss, one that makes you whimper the way he likes, but he's pushed his luck enough.

someone from the team leads you to the back of the garage to find a headset.

later that night, when the both of you are laying in bed, faces damp with skincare, he comes across an edit of you on tiktok.

there's some thirst-trappy song in the back and an annoying filter that makes everything a bit blurry, but he watches it three times anyways.

the first clip is of you in the garage, standing towards the back, fingers fluttering over your papaya headset. you look serious (though he thinks you do look a little confused, adorably so) with your eyes locked on the t.v. broadcasting his onboard.

the little skysports banner pops up, citing you as his partner.

oscar piastri's partner, it reads in block letters.

his heart warms in his chest, and he has to rub at it because of how intense he feels for you; you are so much more than that, and he can't wait for people to realize.

the next clip is you with alexandra, who you knew from someone's neighbor. or cousin. monaco was small, after all.

the two of you are laughing, striding with leo between your legs.

lastly, oscar watches with attentive eyes as the videos of you and him together come up.

it's undeniable that you guys look good together; he's smiling more than he probably has, ever, and you look up at him, adoringly as you blend some smeared sunscreen under his ear.

the sound of the tiktok has repeated four times by then, and you slide yourself into his embrace, wiggling up his chest.

he tilts his phone to you so you can see, and you bury your face in his neck.

"help," your breath warm on his skin, "i'm being perceived."

he laughs, pulling you up to kiss him, for real on the mouth, "thank you. for coming with me."

"of course," you say, a little surprised at how sincere he sounds, "anytime, baby."

now it's his turn to bury his face into your neck.

"he's never like this," hattie tells you.

"what?" you ask, smiling as your boyfriend's sister hands you a drink.

"he's so...touchy. it would be kind of gross, if you guys weren't so cute."

"yeah," edie pipes in, sipping her own drink, "it's freaky. unnatural."

"are you talking about me?" oscar asks drily as he slides into the seat next to yours.

frowning at the distance in between your chair and his, he wraps one large hand around the leg of yours and tugs until you're close enough for his to rest his arm to loop behind you.

mae shudders comically, just as edie pretends to gag. hattie hoots in laughter.

oscar, cheeks pink, unabashedly rolls his eyes as his parents take their seats around the table in their backyard.

it's nice seeing him in his natural habitat, teasing his sisters, helping his mum carry dishes to the dining table.

you insist on helping nicole wash up after dinner, and as you dry the dishes she hands you, she says something you don't expect.

"thank you," she tells you, "for taking care of him."

before you can respond, she goes on, "he's never been too good at taking care of himself. you know, he used to put his washing in the oven?"

you laugh, imagining oscar, on the cusp of adulthood, crouched over a oven with wet socks in his hands.

"but i can tell he's been well. so, thank you."

you blush, "i don't think it's anything to do with me."

she snorts, an easy smile on her face as she nudges you with her shoulder, "he's been calling more, he's eating well. i don't think he's been sunburnt or gone without fresh laundry for months."

you hum, "he takes care of me too, and i should thank you for raising a good man."

"i've got to stop leaving you alone with my family members." oscar sidles next to you, peering at his mum.

she brushes your cheek and pats his shoulder before wandering off to find his sisters.

"hi," he whispers into your hair, turning you around so he can crowd you into the kitchen counter.

"hi, baby."

he groans, burying his face into your neck. you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder, and you grin.

"okay?" you ask quietly.

"more than okay," he responds, smile content and squinty, "it's nice. to see you here, with my family. they love you."

"i love them," caressing his cheek, you press a kiss to his nose.

"this is probably weird for them," he hums, leaning into your hand, "to see me like this."

"i'm not going anywhere, so i think they'll get used to you being all gross and down bad."

"not downbad," oscar mutters, wrapping his arms around your waist in a hug and swaying the two of you back and forth, "just in love."

"downbad," you giggle, and he doesn't disagree, not when it makes you smile, so lovingly and soft at him.

maybe he is downbad.