#max verstappen x reader

[ccupcakqs]

— more than the win ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: public kiss, championship win, heart-melting softness pairing: max verstappen x reader a/n: inspired by "where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me"

he doesn’t hear the cheers at first.

doesn’t feel the sparks or the smoke or the flood of noise erupting from the grandstands. he hears his name over the radio, hears his engineer say the words he’s worked his whole life for — “you’re world champion, max. that’s it. you did it.” — and still, it doesn’t sink in.

not until he sees you.

because that’s the thing. not the crowd, not the flash of the fireworks, not the stats blinking across his dash. it’s your face in the crowd, right where he knew you’d be, eyes wide, hands pressed to your mouth like you forgot how to breathe.

he breathes again only when your eyes meet.

you are still there when he pulls into parc fermé. still there when the world runs to him. still the only thing that cuts through the chaos. he doesn’t stop to look at the cameras. doesn’t shout. doesn’t throw his helmet in the air like he’s done a hundred times before.

he steps out of the car and walks straight to you.

you barely have time to speak before he’s got both arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing at all.

“i was looking for you,” he says into your shoulder.

you laugh through tears. “i was right here.”

he doesn’t kiss you yet. he just holds you for a moment longer, like the weight of the whole year is finally gone and he can exhale into you. his fingers are still in his gloves, still curled with adrenaline, but they grip you like a promise.

when he finally sets you down, you don’t let go of each other.

the cameras don’t stop clicking.

“you really did it,” you whisper, brushing sweaty hair off his forehead.

he grins. a real one. boyish and golden and free. “i had to. promised you, didn’t i?”

you smile, breath catching.

his lips find yours then. slow, sweet, a little dizzying. the crowd explodes again, louder than the fireworks. someone throws a hat into the air. the confetti sticks to your cheeks and to his jawline. he kisses you again anyway.

they give him the trophy on the podium, and the whole world is watching.

his hands don’t shake when they place it in his grip. he’s never looked steadier. like this was always coming. like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

but when the anthem ends and the fireworks crack like thunder overhead, his gaze drops to the barrier.

you’re there again. hands on the railing. waiting for him.

max steps down without a second thought.

he doesn’t head straight to the media or the cameras. he walks to you. through the puddles of champagne and over the slick floor, ignoring the dozens of microphones reaching for a soundbite. ignoring the glitter, the clapping, the chaos.

his smile is softer now. not adrenaline-fueled or wild. just full.

he taps the trophy with one finger. “it’s heavier than it looks.”

you smirk. “that’s what happens when you carry a whole team on your back.”

he leans over the barrier and kisses you again. this time slow, unhurried, like the night isn’t moving.

you think that’s the moment.

but then he hands someone the trophy. and without a single word, he lifts you over the barrier and onto his shoulders.

you gasp, laughing, hands bracing on his head.

“max—”

“hold on.”

he turns toward the crowd, toward the flashing cameras, toward the thousands of people screaming his name. and he doesn’t care about any of them. he cares about you. up there, steady on his shoulders. your laughter in his ears. your arms holding tight.

he raises both fists in the air.

and that photo goes everywhere.

they caption it in every language. they call it victory, devotion, love. some say it’s a fairytale moment. others say it’s too much.

max just calls it right.

and when someone posts a side-by-side — a screenshot from months ago, mid-interview, where he said with a grin, “if i win, i’m putting her on my shoulders, no question” — it’s the most shared image of the night.

all those years. all those races. and this is what it comes down to — your hands in his hair, his name in the sky, a promise kept.

—

later, much later, after the podium and the press and the endless photos, you’re both tucked away in a quiet part of the paddock. max is sitting on a crate, champagne-splashed and starry-eyed, hair still wet from the bottle lando dumped on him earlier.

you’re in his lap. your hands are curled into his suit. your cheek is against his collarbone.

he’s holding the trophy again. but only because you insisted he keep it nearby. he was more than ready to leave it in the car.

“can i say something stupid?” you ask, voice muffled into his neck.

“you always can.”

“this feels like the first time we met.”

he huffs a tired laugh. “we were arguing in a motorhome.”

“and now you’re world champion.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his fingers trace slow patterns across your back.

then, quietly: “i don’t care about that.”

you lift your head. “you do.”

“i care that you’re here.”

he kisses you before you can speak again. softer than the podium. deeper than parc fermé. one hand on your cheek, the other still cradling the trophy like it’s just another part of the story.

you break the kiss first, forehead resting against his.

“what happens now?”

he smiles. “now?”

“yeah.”

“now we go home. you steal half my hoodies. i make you pancakes. and we forget how loud today was.”

you close your eyes.

“i’ll remember all of it.”

he tilts your chin up, kisses you one more time.

“good,” he whispers. “so will i.”

[p1girlfriend]

they’re in love with their PR girl who won’t give them the time of day

lando norris you once told him to stop winking at the camera during grid walks he started doing it twice as much when you finally scolded him after a press conference, he grinned and said,

“so you do pay attention to me.” would fake an injury if it meant you'd touch his arm would date you tomorrow would also tweet “i love my pr girl” and then delete it in 0.2 seconds “is it a scandal if we’re soulmates though?”

oscar piastri his flirting is subtle — but constant dry comments, lingering glances, always asking for you to review his answers when you tell him to focus on the race, he goes,

“i’d focus better if you weren’t in that outfit.” you freeze. he pretends he didn’t say anything he did and he meant it

charles leclerc this man is WHIPPED. trips over his words during interviews when he sees you watching asks for “private media training” just to spend time with you you say “charles, i’m here to help your image” and he’s like

“yes, please fix it by dating me.” would literally beg in french accidentally calls you mon cœur under his breath and prays you didn’t hear it (you did)

lewis hamilton the smoothest menace alive never flirty in public, but in private?

“how are you always so composed around me?” you: “professionalism.” him: “boring answer. try again.” writes thank-you notes to the team and always adds a personal one just for you the kind that makes your stomach flip would 100% show up outside your hotel room with flowers and a bottle of wine saying “no cameras. no pressure. just you and me.”

carlos sainz thinks he's being subtle spoiler: he's not literally stares at you in meetings asks you to “approve” every interview, even ones he knows went well starts speaking Spanish just to see if you’ll blush one day calls you “mi reina” and swears it slipped watches you leave the room like it physically pains him it does

daniel ricciardo no shame calls you “boss” and “hot stuff” interchangeably sends memes to the media group chat that are clearly directed at you “when ur pr girl tells you to stop flirting but she looked cute af today 😔” says “i’ll behave” with a wink and then absolutely doesn’t you: “daniel please—” him: “daniel please kiss me? wow okay that escalated”

gabriel bortoleto tries to play it cool completely fails stumbles through interviews and always looks to you for reassurance calls you “minha deusa” once when he’s tired and soft you pretend you didn’t hear he hopes you did

franco colapinto nervous. quiet. obsessed. tries to flirt but ends up giving you his coffee and tripping over his words asks you if he’s “handling the press okay” just to get your praise you once touched his wrist to adjust his watch and he thought about it for three days just wants you to smile at him would literally cry if you ever called him “pretty boy”

max verstappen doesn’t flirt. just stares and asks personal questions like

“do you ever get tired of dealing with us?” you answer professionally he doesn’t break eye contact his hand brushes yours when you hand him his briefing notes you don’t talk about it but he feels the tension every time

lance stroll pretends to be chill. is NOT chill. you told him to stop smirking during interviews he started smiling every time you entered the room instead texts you memes. waits for you to like his IG posts. when you told him “this can’t happen,” he just blinked and said,

“so you have thought about it.” sends you flowers signed “from a fan”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 35: October 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The first time Galahad was led out of his mother’s stall alone, Belle cried.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. The kind of tears that surprised even her — warm and sudden and absolutely uninvited.

She stood just outside the barn, arms folded over the top rail of the paddock fence, watching as the stablehand gently led Galahad toward the adjacent enclosure. The foal pranced a little, all long legs and indignation, ears flicking in every direction as he let out a confused, reedy whinny.

“God,” Belle whispered, swiping at her cheek. “This is awful.”

Behind her, Max paused with two bottles of water hand and the unmistakable look of a man deeply unsure how to proceed.

“…You okay?” he asked, cautiously.

Belle sniffled. “He’s so small.”

“He’s the size of a sofa.”

“Emotionally, Max.”

Max came to lean beside her, handing her the water. “They said it’s a gentle wean. He’s already eating hay. It’s time.”

“I know it’s time,” she said, taking a sip. “I’m not arguing with biology. I just—he’s confused. Look at him. He doesn’t know where his mum went.”

Max squinted. “He looks like he’s trying to eat his own lead rope.”

“That’s a trauma response.”

“Belle.”

She wiped at her face again. “It’s just… she was so gentle with him. Fleur nudged him whenever he got stuck. She waited for him. And now she’s just back in her stall like—like nothing’s changed.”

Fleur, from her stall, let out a soft exhale and proceeded to dunk her hay in her water bucket like a seasoned professional who had zero emotional attachment to this conversation.

Max followed Belle’s line of sight. “You think she’s heartbroken too?”

“I think she has to be.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you want me to go in there and ask her?”

Belle gave him a flat look. “You’re not funny.”

Max grinned and bumped his shoulder against hers. “A little funny.”

They stood in silence a while longer. Galahad, still pouting, eventually flopped himself dramatically into the sunniest patch of the paddock. Belle sniffled again.

“It’s stupid,” she muttered. “I know it’s normal. I know it’s healthy. I’m just—”

“Wired for attachment,” Max said gently. “And watching someone you love grow up is hard. Even if they’re a four-legged menace who tried to eat your ponytail last week.”

Belle gave a watery laugh.

Max wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “He’ll be okay.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I think part of me just keeps waiting to be sold too.”

Max froze for a second, then held her tighter. No teasing now. Just warmth.

“You won’t be,” he said. “Not ever.”

Belle leaned her head against him, watching as Galahad stretched out and blinked lazily at the sky.

“Okay,” she whispered. “But I’m still going to check on him every hour.”

Max pressed a kiss to her hair. “Of course you are.”

And when they turned to go back inside, Galahad lifted his head and let out the tiniest, most indignant whinny — like he knew.

Belle looked back, teary again.

Max sighed. “He’s manipulating you already.”

“I’m not even mad about it.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: just so you know your best friend cried today like. actual tears.

Emilie: omg what happened?? is she okay??

Max: she’s fine Galahad got weaned he got moved out of fleur’s stall apparently this is emotionally devastating

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 OH MY GOD

Emilie: she loves that horse he’s like her softest secret

Max: he tried to eat a fence she said he was “processing loss”

Emilie: he IS have you ever been weaned?? it’s betrayal with extra hay

Max: please stop i can’t have two of you

Emilie: don’t lie you’d die without us

Max: also she looked me dead in the eye and said “i think she has to be heartbroken too” about fleur the mare who was dunking hay in her water bucket like nothing happened

Emilie: she projects, max. let her project.

Max: i think she meant herself

Emilie: oh.

Emilie: okay. gentle reminder: your wife still has a lot of little versions of herself inside. some of them are scared. some of them remember what it felt like to be left behind.

Max: i know. i told her she’d never be sold.

Emilie: you did good she trusts you even the small versions of her

Max: she’s going to check on the horse every hour

Emilie: duh have you MET her

***

Max had been up before sunrise.

Not for training. Not for the simulator. 

No.

Max had woken early for one reason: to beat every Monaco tabac owner to the punch and buy every copy of the October issue of Architectural Digest that he could find.

By 7:43 a.m., he had five.

He wanted more, but the man behind the counter at the third shop had blinked at the stack in Max’s arms and said, “Monsieur Verstappen, surely… five is enough?” Max had mumbled something about resale value and legacy and fled.

By 8:15, he had also acquired croissants (three kinds), pain au chocolat, two fresh baguettes, and a little paper-wrapped wedge of Belle’s favorite cheese from the bakery that always sold out early.

He walked into the kitchen like he was presenting her with the spoils of a victory parade.

Belle, still in her robe, blinked sleepily over her mug of tea. “What’s all this?”

Max placed the magazines on the counter like precious artifacts. "You're in Architectural Digest, schatje. That’s not a normal Tuesday."

Belle stared. “You bought five copies?”

Max shrugged, unrepentant. “One for us. One for the baby’s memory box. One for my mother. One for the factory. One just to frame. I would’ve bought more but they started asking questions. So I just ordered them online.”

She laughed—soft and stunned and already a little emotional. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so proud.”

And then, gentler: “You don’t just make houses beautiful. You make them live.”

Belle bit her lip and looked down, suddenly shy. “You read the article?”

Max smiled, already pulling out the jam. “Twice.”

And just like that, the kitchen felt a little fuller—with joy, with pride, with quiet, croissant-scented love.

***

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST | October 2024 Edition

A Villa That Breathes: Inside the Thoughtful Transformation of Daniel Moreau and Jules Girault’s Provençal Refuge By Laurent Brousset | Photography by Sylvie Hohmann

Nestled on a winding hillside just beyond the edge of Monaco’s old town is a villa that feels like a held breath — slow, serene, and completely alive.

From the outside, the property gives little away: stone shutters, terracotta roof tiles, a fig tree bowing gently toward the sun. But inside, a story unfolds — of time, of tenderness, of architecture that doesn’t erase history, but cradles it.

And at the heart of that story is Belle Verstappen, interior architect and founder of Studio_B.

The Soul of a House

“When we bought it, the bones were beautiful — but tired,” says Jules Girault, who owns the home with his husband, creative executive Daniel Moreau. “We didn’t want to gut it. We wanted someone who could see what it had been and help us understand what it could be.”

Enter Belle Verstappen.

Known for her ability to design with emotional resonance rather than trends, Verstappen took on the project as her first full commission under her own name.

“I walked through the house once and knew,” she says. “This wasn’t a place that needed reinventing. It needed remembering.”

Quiet Luxury, Lived In

From the original tiled floors to the weathered beams overhead, every decision in the villa feels like it came from conversation — not just between client and designer, but between designer and space.

“I don’t like interrupting a house’s rhythm,” Verstappen explains. “I try to listen first. The textures, the light, the way a door creaks when it opens — it tells you what the house wants.”

That listening resulted in a home that whispers instead of shouts.

The plaster walls, finished in mineral-washed hues, shift color with the light. Custom shelves in the living room curve around the restored fireplace, filled with books and hand-thrown ceramics sourced from local artisans. The kitchen retains its original footprint but now hums with intentional design: a deep farmhouse sink set into hand-crafted cabinetry, limewashed walls, antique fixtures with softened patina.

Daniel, ever the aesthete, calls it “a masterclass in restraint.”

“There’s a version of this house that could’ve ended up looking like every other ‘minimalist Mediterranean’ villa,” he says. “But Belle didn’t impose a vision. She revealed one.”

The Courtyard, Reimagined

One of the home’s most striking spaces is the internal courtyard — once neglected, now transformed into what Jules calls “the soft heart of the house.”

“It’s quiet here,” he says. “Lavender, jasmine, the fig tree… it smells like memory.”

Verstappen kept the original stonework and introduced subtle landscaping: rosemary, thyme, and climbing vines that will age as gracefully as the walls themselves.

“It wasn’t about making it new,” she says. “It was about letting it grow.”

A Designer Coming Into Her Own

The villa marks a turning point for Verstappen — not just professionally, but personally.

“This was the first project I signed under my name,” she shares. “No firm. No studio initials. Just me.”

That transition wasn’t without weight.

“There’s a vulnerability in that,” she admits. “But this house gave me the courage. Jules and Daniel gave me the trust. And I think that’s what made the work stronger. It was personal — not just for them, but for me too.”

Designing for Emotion, Not Aesthetic

Verstappen’s work has been described as “emotional architecture” — a term she’s hesitant to claim, but doesn’t reject.

“I think we forget sometimes that homes aren’t just spaces. They hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays,” she says. “My job is to make room for all of that — not just to make it pretty.”

Jules echoes the sentiment. “She didn’t just give us a home. She gave us a future. And somehow, it still feels like it’s always been ours.”

What’s Next?

With her studio growing and a child on the way (“I’ve learned more about fabric durability in the last six months than I thought possible,” she jokes), Verstappen’s approach remains the same: quiet, collaborative, deeply rooted in the human experience.

“Beauty is easy,” she says. “But meaning? That takes work. And it’s the kind of work I love.”

As she walks through the finished villa one last time — running her hand along the smooth curve of an old beam, checking the shadows that dance across a plastered wall — it’s clear:

This isn’t just a space someone lives in.

It’s a space that lives with them.

Photography by Sylvie Hohmann | Styling by Eloise Dervaux To see more from Belle Verstappen and Studio_B, follow @/belleverstappen and  @/studio_b on Instagram or visit studiobdesign.com

***

Instagram Stories: @/maxverstappen1

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1wivesunite I just read the Belle Verstappen AD piece and now I want her to design my house, my life, my nervous system.

@/archiluxe “Not reinventing, but remembering” — I would tattoo this quote from Belle Verstappen’s AD profile if I wasn’t afraid of commitment.

@/softmaxv Belle Verstappen being like “I listen to how a door creaks” and then making a whole home feel like a hug??? she’s not an interior designer she’s a poet

@/formulawags this woman said “homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays” and I have not known peace since. (also Max is 100% her Tuesday.)

@/tinygp can we talk about how Max Verstappen’s WIFE is out here dropping AD-level wisdom while pregnant and making rustic beams look emotionally resonant??? how is this fair

@/verstappenupdates AD: “This was the first project I signed under my name.” Me, sobbing: it’s HER name. HER name. HER studio. HER work. HER life. she really said ✨liberation✨

@/archdigestgirl i am OBSESSED with belle verstappen’s design philosophy like… “it didn’t need reinventing, it needed remembering”??? i’m crying over plaster walls. over limewash. over a giraffe lamp. help.

@/monacoliving when daniel moreau said the house “smells like memory”??? belle made a COURTYARD smell like a backstory. i want to live in her mind.

@/softf1defender Max: aggressive overtakes at 300km/h Belle: emotional architecture that holds grief and joy them: married me: sobbing

@/emotionalwallpaper if belle ever opens a retreat i will walk there barefoot and sleep on a reclaimed linen pouf

@/formulaicon the fact that she signs her projects Belle Verstappen and not Isabelle Leclerc… that’s not just a name. that’s a choice. and it’s saying something loud.

@/thegridwhispers it’s Belle Verstappen in Architectural Digest, not Isabelle Leclerc, and somewhere in Monaco a family group chat is vibrating with unspoken tension

@/gridgossipqueen MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST POSTED: “She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses.” SIR??????? ARE YOU A WORLD CHAMPION OR A POET????

@/chaoticgridwives the way he tagged her work account AND her personal one the way he said “very proud of my wife” like he’s been waiting his whole life to write that the way he wrote “she never misses” and MEANT IT 😭😭😭

@/tiregirlie MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED HIS WIFE’S AD FEATURE AND SAID: "She sees space the way I see corners on the track. And she never misses." I AM CRYING IN IKEA

@/helmetedsoftie he said: 🏁 i win races 📐 she builds homes 🍼 we made a baby 👑 and you will deal with it

@/fernvillainera “she sees space the way I see corners” that’s not a compliment that’s a wedding vow

@/formulafloof max verstappen could’ve said “nice job babe” and kept it moving instead he gave us POETRY

@/artdigesttears she didn’t even mention the Leclercs once in the article. not even in the baby joke. not once. it’s all Belle, all Studio_B. she’s not hiding. she’s just her.

@/emiliestandclub "the first project I signed under my name." and the name she used was Belle Verstappen. we’ve left the era of being overlooked. she’s not asking for a seat at the table. she’s designing the table. and the courtyard. and the backsplash.

@/maxxxmode1 Max calling her Belle wasn’t just a pet name. it became her name. and now it’s on the cover of Architectural Digest. tell me that’s not poetry.

@/sogoodithurts her name isn’t “Isabelle Leclerc” in the byline it’s not “Studio Leclerc” it’s not “Leclerc Interiors” it’s Studio_B. Belle Verstappen. she’s no one’s shadow. she is the sun.

@/jardinarchitecture the way Architectural Digest didn’t even feel the need to footnote “née Leclerc”… it’s almost like her work introduced her, not her family. wild.

@/kartingwife calling it now: the Verstappen baby grows up and thinks his mom is more famous than his dad. and honestly? fair.

@/emotionalbabywatch i don’t care what they name the baby. i care that it’s going to be loved so deeply it won’t ever question if it’s enough. and honestly? that’s the real win.

@/turn1drama this child is going to be raised in a home that smells like jasmine, has hand-carved drawer pulls, and hears I love you more times in a day than Jos Verstappen said it in a decade evolution

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Okay. Okay. I made it to the second paragraph before crying. Not sniffling. Crying. Open-mouthed, full-body, you-did-it-you-beautiful-genius crying.

Emilie: You were always going to end up in AD. But Belle. You signed this one under your own name. You built something. You told a story. You made a house remember itself and made the whole world notice. I’m so proud I can’t even breathe.

Emilie: We are framing this article. We are putting it in the baby’s memory box. We are not normal about this. You hear me?

Belle: I’m crying now. Like. Properly.

Belle: I didn’t think anyone would actually read it, let alone feel it. I kept thinking… maybe it was too soft. Too quiet. Too much like me.

Belle: But you saw it. You always do.

Belle: Thank you for never letting me shrink. For every time you reminded me that being quiet wasn’t the same as being small. That I didn’t have to be loud to take up space.

Belle: I love you.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: UM. HELLO. EXCUSE ME.

Victoria: You absolute sneak. You’re just out here being the interior design oracle of Monaco and didn’t bother to mention that you’re in ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??? Do you know what I was doing this morning?? Folding laundry. In sweatpants. Meanwhile, you’re making villas cry with emotion.

Victoria: That courtyard?? I nearly sobbed. That kitchen?? I want to move in and raise goats.

Victoria: You’re a masterpiece. I love you. Also I’m stealing that mineral-wash plaster idea. You can’t stop me.

Belle: I— You’re making me laugh and cry at the same time. Please stop being good at this.

Belle: I wasn’t trying to keep it secret. I just… I didn’t know if it would be worth making a fuss over.

Belle: But then I saw it. And it felt like me. Really me. And now you saying all this— It means more than I can explain.

Belle: Please steal the plaster. I’ll mix it for you myself. Love you too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Christian Horner

Max: Did you see the AD article?

Christian: The what?

Max: Architectural Digest. Belle’s feature. It came out today. I’ll send you the link. Actually, I’ll send you the PDF. Also a printed copy. What’s your home address?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

 Max: [sends picture of the courtyard from the article] Is this not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?

Daniel: That’s definitely the most serene lavender I’ve seen this week, yes. Max, are you okay?

Max: I married an artist.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Did you read the part about the courtyard?

Lando: Yes. You’ve sent it to me four times. I don’t even have a courtyard. ***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Belle is in Architectural Digest. Front feature. They called her work a “masterclass in restraint.”

Jos: You’re very lucky.

Max: I know.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: have you seen belle’s AD article?

GP: Max. I read it at 7:05am. You literally sent me a copy. Physically. To my house.

Max: okay good just making sure

***

Group Chat: RBR STRATEGY & OPERATIONS

(members: Max, GP, Christian Horner, Gemma from PR, Helmut Marko, various engineers)

Max: i’m just saying if we need a new hospitality suite design i know someone. page 42. AD October. you’re welcome.

GP: Max.

Gemma: …Did you just send a PDF of your wife’s Architectural Digest spread to the team comms group?

Max: that’s her on page 42. the kitchen is beautiful. don’t say i never contribute.

Christian: She’s very talented.

Helmut: What is Architectural Digest.

Max: It’s like the Monaco Grand Prix for interior designers.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Oscar: I know absolutely nothing about interior design. Like, genuinely. I can barely hang a picture frame. (Which you know, because you rescued my apartment) But even I know that Architectural Digest is a huge deal. And I just wanted to say — I’m really, really proud of you. That house looked like something out of a movie, but it still felt like someone lived in it. Which is… I guess that’s the whole point. Anyway. You’re amazing. That’s all.

Oscar: (Also, the kitchen made me want to learn how to cook properly. Lily said that was the most unhinged thing I’ve ever said.)

Belle: Oscar Piastri. If you keep being this nice to me I’m going to have to name a backsplash after you.

Belle: “Piastri Grey.” Unassuming, unexpectedly elegant, slightly smug when the light hits it right.

Oscar: You joke, but if you ever name anything after me, I’ll brag about it in every driver briefing until they kick me out.

Belle: Duly noted. Also, just so you know — if you and Lily ever want help redoing your kitchen, I’m one unsolicited Pinterest board away from getting involved.

Belle: You’d have to promise not to burn water though.

Oscar: Deal. But only if I get to hang one (1) badly framed motivational quote in return.

Belle: Oscar. No.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

​​Lando: OKAY WAIT Just read the AD feature. BELLE. HELLO???

Lando: That courtyard?? That kitchen??? That quote about doors creaking??? I didn’t know houses could be poetic. You’re a menace and I love you.

Lando: Also. Serious question. How do we feel about redoing my streaming room?

Lando: I’ll pay. I’ll bribe. I’ll cry. Name your price. Make it less “goblin tech dungeon” and more “mildly functional adult.” I deserve better lighting.

Belle: Lando. You have a racing simulator, multiple ikea bookcases filled with helmets and an apartment literally covered in fanart of yourself. Also a wall entirely dedicated to memorabilia that glows in the dark in your bedroom, according to Emilie. 

Belle: Your apartment actively resists adulthood.

Belle: But yes. I accept your bribe. I’ve already got a mood board titled “cozy chaos with HDMI ports.”

Lando: YES. That’s all I needed. Do you think I could have a drawer that hides snacks?

Belle: Already planned it. Drawer under the desk. Cooled. Lined with felt. Accommodates two cans of Monster Energy Drinks, one packet of Haribo, and your shame.

Lando: You’re a genius.

***

Pascale Leclerc hadn’t planned to read it.

She had clicked the link out of idle curiosity, the way one might glance through someone else’s holiday photos—detached, polite, with low expectations. Maybe she had expected color palettes. Fabric swatches. A few nice sentences about Belle’s “eye for detail.” Something charming and delicate and softly insignificant.

What she hadn’t expected was prose that read like poetry. Or her daughter’s name—her married name—printed in serif font beneath the words “Interior Architect and Founder.”

She hadn’t expected paragraphs that quoted Belle with a kind of reverence. Clients speaking about trust. About transformation. About homes that held memory and meaning.

She hadn’t expected that her daughter—quiet, overlooked, always fading behind the noise of her brothers—could command the shape of a space so profoundly that the world would take notice.

By the second paragraph, Pascale had sat down. By the third, she had put her glasses on properly. By the fourth, her hand was over her mouth.

"She didn’t want to reinvent it. She wanted to remember it."

"The house gave me the courage."

"Homes hold grief, joy, ordinary Tuesdays."

It was all so Belle—soft, sharp, careful. A kind of invisible mastery woven between sentences and ceiling beams.

Pascale thought back to every time she had asked, "So what do you actually do?" and winced.

Because the answer had been there all along. And Pascale had never truly listened.

She hadn't realized this was more than a job. That Belle had a signature. A philosophy. A reputation. That people sought her out not because she was Max Verstappen’s wife or Charles Leclerc’s sister—but because she was herself.

Because she could walk into a tired old house and see the soul of it. Because she could make things feel like they remembered you.

Pascale read the last paragraph three times. This isn’t just a space someone lives in. It’s a space that lives with them.

She closed the tab slowly, the image of Belle’s hand skimming along an old beam still hovering in her mind.

For the first time in years, Pascale felt like she had to relearn her daughter. Not as an extension of the family. But as a woman with her own name, her own work, and a world she had built with her bare hands.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: ok wait what is architectural digest?? is it like a newsletter for… architecture?

Charles: …it’s not a newsletter. it’s Architectural Digest, Arthur. It’s a huge deal. 

Arthur: yeah i gathered that now everyone on twitter is freaking out CONGRATS belle!! even if I don’t understand what “mineral-washed hues” are 🫡

Lorenzo: Hold on. You’re in Architectural Digest?

Charles: Wait wait wait YOU’RE IN ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST??

Belle: …yes?

Charles: As in THE Architectural Digest? As in like… that’s a big deal.

Belle: I know.

Charles: Why didn’t you TELL us??? We could’ve sent the link around. Or made a story. Or thrown confetti. Or—idk—prepared emotionally??

Arthur: again: still not sure what it is but belle looks great in those photos and the house looks rich so I assume it’s important

Pascale: I read the article. It was… It was beautiful.

Belle:  

Thanks, Maman. That means a lot.

Arthur: so you’re like…a fancy architect now?? do you have a business card?? I want one

Belle: Arthur. I’ve had a business card for 4 years.

Charles: You designed an entire villa and never mentioned it?? You were just… going to let us find out online??? I just read the article. Belle. It’s stunning. I’m so proud of you.

Lorenzo: Same. I’m reading it now. The courtyard?? The fireplace?? The patina on the fixtures?? You made this house feel like a memory.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Max: i might have emailed the AD article to toto wolff. with no context.

Belle: MAX.

Max: what if he wants to hire you for the new Mercedes motorhome wouldn’t that be hilarious

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Liam Lawson, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda

Max: Guys. My wife is in Architectural Digest. As in THE Architectural Digest.

Lando: Oh we’re starting early today.

Max: PAGE 42. Go look. Read it. Appreciate it. You’ll learn something about restraint and plaster finishes.

Franco: what is architectural digestion

Oscar: Digest. It’s like Vogue for rich houses.

Yuki: Wait so like… Belle designed a house?

Max: SHE BROUGHT A VILLA BACK TO LIFE WITH EMOTIONAL ARCHITECTURE. It’s not just design. It’s art.

Pierre: Bro he’s yelling.

George: I already read it. Very elegant. Love the limestone accents.

Zhou: I want to do a collab with her. My Shanghai apartment needs help.

Esteban: I’ve never cared about tiles before but now I have opinions??

Lance: Can she do race trailers?

Liam: I still don’t get it but I support whatever is happening.

Nico H.: This is the softest I’ve ever seen Max. I’m scared.

Oscar: Update: Lily now wants Belle to design our house. We don’t have a house yet. This is your fault, Verstappen.

Max: You will all learn to appreciate plaster texture and reclaimed beams. Mark my words.

Alex: I liked the old Max better. The one who just said "understeer" and threw a wheel.

Carlos: The man is gone. We have husband era Max now.

Lando: And I, for one, welcome him.

Yuki: Can we all go live in the Provence house

Max: Get in line.

Fernando: It was great. I also liked the lavender courtyard. That woman understands serenity.

Valtteri: Does Belle do Finnish saunas? Asking for a friend.

Max: YES. AND SHE’LL SOURCE YOU THE PERFECT STONES.

Charles: I didn’t even know she did that villa. She never said a word.

Max: Because she’s not an attention seeker like the rest of us. (She also said she didn’t want to be annoying about it… so I’m being annoying for her.)

Valtteri: You’re dangerously close to mailing us print subscriptions.

Max: Funny you mention that. Check your mail.

George: OH MY GOD MAX WHY DID YOU SEND ME THREE COPIES

Lewis: Honestly? She deserves all the noise. That piece was stunning. Tell her I said the kitchen design was sublime.

Franco: am I supposed to know what any of this means

Oscar: Just say “quiet luxury” and nod a lot.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Lando Norris: 📸 screenshot attached So this happened in the grid group chat.

Daniel: holy shit this is so much text is this about the house again

George: It’s not just a house, Daniel. It’s an emotionally restored Provencal villa.

Sebastian: Belle made limestone flooring feel like poetry. I respect it.

Yuki: You said that with your chest

Carlos: Max has officially entered his soft husband era and I’m 70% sure he’s about to start bringing copies to media day

David: I have never seen Max this sentimental. Ever. It’s unnerving.

Mark: Honestly? Good for him. Good for her. That article was great.

Nico R.: Belle made stone walls existential. I had a crisis halfway through page 44.

Alex:Max sent everybody copies Which is wild But also… I’m halfway through the article and now I want Belle to redesign my brain.

Oscar: Lily said it changed the texture of her soul

Pierre: I’m not going to lie I googled “mineral-washed plaster” at 2AM last night I think I blacked out on Etsy

Kimi: what are you all talking about

Zhou: Architecture But like. Feelings.

Esteban: Is it normal that I’m emotional about a kitchen sink

Sergio:She said “homes hold grief and joy and ordinary Tuesdays” and I started pacing

Nico H.: I read one sentence and now I want to throw out all my furniture

Yuki: You should.

Valtteri: I have never been more inspired to paint something beige in my life.

Lewis: I told her the kitchen design was sublime. I meant it. She’s a storyteller.

Sebastian: I think I want her to redesign my garden. And possibly my emotional landscape.

Daniel: so… none of you are gonna help me hang the IKEA shelves I just bought?

Oscar: Sorry mate we’re on a different level now. We only accept reclaimed oak.

Mark: I have never seen Max more smug. He sent me the article and a Google Maps link of the villa.

George: We are witnessing a man in love And honestly? It’s terrifying.

***

“You’ve had quite a big month,” Camille said softly, looking at Belle. “Would you like to talk about what it felt like, having your work recognized like that?”

Belle hesitated. Then she shrugged, arms loosely folded. “It was… good.”

Camille smiled. “You don’t sound sure.”

“It was,” Belle repeated, quieter. “It meant something.”

Charles was the one who broke the silence.

“I didn’t even know you were in Architectural Digest,” he said, not accusing — just confused. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Belle’s eyes flicked over to him. Then to Pascale, who was watching her carefully.

She inhaled slowly.

“Because,” she said, “you never took my work seriously.”

The words landed like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

“Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive,” Belle said calmly, almost too calmly. “When I got my first real job offer, Arthur asked me if I was going to be installing throw pillows for a living.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lorenzo went very still.

“I studied Architecture at Sorbonne,” Belle continues, her voice still steady. “I studied for years. I interned, I worked for one of the best interior architecture firms Monaco has to offer. I built a studio from scratch. I made a name for myself. Quietly. Without any of you ever noticing.”

She looked at them then — really looked.

“And it was never as important as racing. Never as exciting. Never something you asked about unless it was to make fun of me for choosing beige.”

Charles looked gutted. Pascale was blinking quickly.

Lorenzo’s voice was low. “I don’t think I ever realized how much that hurt you.”

“I know,” Belle said. Not cruel — just tired. “Because I stopped trying to explain it a long time ago.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Camille gently said, “It sounds like you protected something really important to you by keeping it private. Does that feel true?”

Belle nodded.

“I didn’t tell you about the article,” she said, “because I wanted to enjoy it without wondering if anyone would roll their eyes.”

Pascale finally spoke. “I’m sorry.”

It was soft. Raw. No justification. Just the words.

Belle didn’t reply right away.

But she didn’t look away either.

“I’m sorry,” Pascale said again, voice catching just slightly. “I didn’t know it made you feel that way.”

Belle didn’t flinch, but she also didn’t soften. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

“You didn’t ask,” she said.

That was the part that always hurt the most.

Camille let the silence linger for a moment. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty—just full of everything unspoken.

Then she looked at the others.

“Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo,” she said gently. “How does it feel to hear Belle say that?”

Arthur’s shoulders hunched slightly. “I think we just… thought you liked being in the background. You never made a big deal of your work.”

“I didn’t,” Belle said. “Because when I did, no one cared. So I stopped.”

Charles looked pale.

“I think I was waiting for you to prove it was real,” he admitted. “That you were serious about it.”

“I was serious about it,” Belle said, sharper now. “From the start. You just didn’t see it because it wasn’t your definition of ambition.”

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I didn’t think it was nothing,” Lorenzo said finally, voice low. “I just… didn’t know how big it was. And I never asked, and I should have. That’s on me.”

Pascale looked stricken. “I don’t even remember saying those things,” she murmured. “But I believe you. And I’m sorry. You deserved better from me.”

Belle swallowed hard. Her voice was quieter now.

“It wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. No one asked about my first job. Or my first client. Or when I started my studio. You didn’t come to my graduation. You forgot my birthday.” Her voice cracked. “And now I’m in Architectural Digest, and it still doesn’t feel real because I keep expecting someone to say it’s not a big deal.”

Belle inhaled slowly. The air felt thick in her chest.

She glanced down at her hands, resting in her lap. Her engagement ring glinted against her skin. Her wedding band. Quiet things. Not loud like podiums or race wins or trophies. But real.

“Max and I met in a bar. We talked about one of my colleagues frothing at the mouth at the thought of designing an apartment for him, because they had heard that he was touring a penthouse. One of those ridiculous ones with views over the harbour.”

“A few weeks later, I got the call. Max bought that penthouse. He hired the firm I worked at and he demanded that I be the only architect allowed to work on it.”

She smiled faintly at the memory.

“He said he trusted me. He only wanted me working on it. Because I was brillant.”

Her eyes lifted, landing on Charles first, then Pascale.

“He didn’t mean, like, picking throw pillows. He meant everything. Design it. Build it. Choose the floors, the fixtures. Max could have hired any firm in the world. But he gave it to me—because he saw me. He trusted me. No credentials flashed. No résumé sent. I told him I had a vision, and he believed me.”

A long pause.

“No one in this room has ever believed in me like that.”

Pascale flinched like the words hit her square in the chest.

“I’m not saying that to be cruel,” Belle said gently. “But you should know it. I studied at Sorbonne. I interned in Paris. I worked twenty-hour days for years. I built a studio from scratch. But to you, it was always—Pinterest boards. Throw pillows. Expensive taste.”

She looked toward the window now, blinking fast. “Meanwhile, I built Max and me a home. A real one. I built a studio from scratch. And now my work is on the cover of Architectural Digest. And you’re all surprised.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“You say you love me. But you’ve never asked what I love. What I do. Who I’ve become.”

Camille didn’t interrupt. No one did.

Pascale was crying now. Arthur stared at the carpet. Lorenzo looked hollowed out. Charles was stock still.

“Max saw me the moment I walked into that restaurant on our first date,” Belle whispered. “Not because I was his girlfriend. Not because I was a Leclerc. Just… me. He gave me a home to build. And he moved into it. Do you know what that meant to me?”

“It is a big deal,” Camille said softly. “And Belle, your pain is valid. And you’ve carried a lot of it alone.”

There were tears in Belle’s eyes now, but she didn’t let them fall.

“I wanted you to be proud of me,” she whispered. “And you weren’t. Not until everyone else was.”

Pascale reached for a tissue. “I’m sorry.”

She’s said it before — for missed birthdays, for things that slipped through the cracks. But this time, there’s something heavier underneath it. Not just regret, but realization.

Belle didn’t speak. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Camille waited a beat, then gently shifts the focus.

“Charles,” she said, “you look like you’re holding something. Would you like to say it?”

Charles exhales like he’s been underwater.

“I just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know. I think I… assumed you were happy doing your little projects, and I didn’t ask more because—”

He stopped himself. Winced.

“Because you assumed they weren’t serious,” Belle finished for him, voice still quiet.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Belle echoed, “but you did.”

Charles flinched. “I know.”

Arthur, sitting beside him, suddenly said, “I always thought you were brilliant at it.”

Everyone turned.

Arthur shrugged, like it’s obvious. “I just didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t want to sound stupid.”

Belle blinked. “What?”

“You redesigned your entire apartment in Paris with like… two chairs and a string of lights. I remember visiting and thinking it felt like magic. Like it wasn’t just pretty — it fit you. I didn’t know how to say that.”

There’s a long silence.

Belle’s expression softened — just a little.

“I didn’t need you to say I was brilliant,” she said, “I just needed you to act like it mattered. That I mattered.”

Lorenzo finally spoke.

“You do.”

Belle gave him a long, tired look. “I’m just starting to believe that.”

Camille gently stepped in.

“I think what Belle’s saying is really important,” she said. “This isn’t about punishment or blame. It’s about being seen. About building a relationship where she doesn’t feel like she has to shrink herself just to be accepted.”

Pascale pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes glassy.

Charles swallowed. “We want that,” he says. “I want that. I want to do better.”

Arthur nodded. “Me too.”

Lorenzo, steady as ever, added, “Me too.”

Camille offered Belle a soft, anchoring look. “Would you like to start with something small? Something they could do that might feel meaningful?”

“…Ask me about my work,” Belle said. “Not to be polite. Ask because you actually want to know.”

The others nodded. Pascale quietly murmured, “We will.”

Belle exhales, slow and shaky. But she nodded.

***

It was late.

The kind of late where the world felt like it had tipped sideways, quiet and slow. Rain tapped lightly against the windows of their bedroom, and Belle was curled into the pregnancy pillow that had taken over Max’s half of the bed. Her back ached, her ankles were swollen, and their son had been practicing karate for the last half hour — but somehow, the room still felt peaceful.

Max was beside her, propped up on one elbow, reading something on his iPad that he clearly wasn’t retaining.

Belle shifted slightly. “Max?”

He glanced down immediately, setting the iPad aside. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just… thinking.”

Max didn’t say anything, just reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, waiting. He was good at that — at knowing when she needed silence instead of answers.

Belle exhaled. “There’s a name I keep coming back to.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I haven’t said it out loud yet. Not even to myself, really. But it’s been stuck in my head for weeks.”

Max tilted his head, gently curious. “What is it?”

She hesitated, heart thudding a little faster. “Emilian.”

There was a pause — a quiet, weighted pause — and then Max smiled. Not the bright, media-trained one. Not even the cheeky one she knew too well. Just soft. Surprised. Touched.

“My middle name,” he said.

“And Emilie,” Belle murmured. “Not on purpose. It just… happened that way. I didn’t mean to do that, I swear.”

Max’s smile grew. “You don’t have to justify it.”

“I thought I’d change my mind,” she admitted. “I kept thinking, ‘it’s too sentimental’ or ‘what if it’s weird’ or ‘what if he doesn’t like it’… but I keep circling back to it. Like orbiting. I don’t know why.”

Max leaned in and kissed the side of her forehead. “Belle. It’s a beautiful name.”

“I wasn’t trying to name him after you,” she said softly. “Or Emilie. Or anyone. I think I just… like the way it feels.”

Max ran a hand gently over the swell of her belly, feeling a fluttering kick beneath his palm. “Then maybe that’s why it’s right.”

Belle looked up at him, eyes shining. “You really don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “No. I think… I love it, actually.”

She blinked fast. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Max smiled again, then leaned down to press a kiss just above her belly button. “Hi, Emilian,” he whispered. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Belle’s breath caught. Her hand found his, resting over their son, and she nodded slowly. “Then that’s his name.”

Max looked up at her with something close to awe. “We have a name.”

“We have a baby with a name,” Belle whispered, half in disbelief.

And in the quiet, with the rain still falling and their son kicking lightly in response, Belle finally let herself feel it fully — that he was coming. That she was ready. That Emilian was already loved.

[verstappenverse]

Can you do one where max is teaching reader how to sim race and is really bad but when max is gone to races reader is secretly using his sim setup to get better and one day reader surprises max showing they got better? I feel like this made no sense 😭 I really love your writing thought you could make this idea come to mind 🫶🏻❤️

Ghost Laps

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: What starts as Max teasing you over your terrible sim racing attempts turns into a secret mission to impress him. (Requested)

1.8k words / Alternate Scene / Masterlist

You’re awful at this. Comically bad. You spin out in the first corner, crash into a wall in the second, and somehow end up driving in the wrong direction before Max can even stop laughing.

“I just don’t get it,” you groan, half-laughing, half-threatening to throw the wheel across the room. “How am I already off track? I haven’t even hit the first corner yet!”

From the couch behind you, Max chuckles. He’s draped lazily across the cushions, an arm slung over the backrest and one leg bouncing with idle amusement. “You missed your braking point again,” he says, far too calmly for someone witnessing you virtually crash for the third time in five minutes.

“Maybe if you gave better instructions—”

“You’re the one who missed the turn,” he deadpans.

You spin around in the seat to glare at him, cheeks warm. “Because you said left while pointing right!.”

Max bites back a grin, eyes crinkling. “Come on, you can figure it out. You’ve watched me race a million times.”

“You don’t watch Gordon Ramsay and magically become a chef,” you shoot back, gesturing wildly to the sim setup. “This thing is terrifying. Why is it so sensitive?.”

Max gets up and saunters over with that usual quiet confidence that borders on cocky. He rests his hand on your shoulder and leans down, his voice lower now. “I think you’d rather argue with me than try again.”

You tilt your head up, lips quirking. “Oh because you’re so patient and humble when I spin off into a wall.”

Max laughs, soft and warm. “Alright, fair. But you’re doing better than you think.”

“Really?”

He hesitates. Then lies. “Sure.”

You shove his hand off your shoulder, laughing. “You’re the worst.”

“Okay, maybe this is not my calling,” you mutter, yanking off the headset.

Max kisses your temple, still smirking. “Told you. But hey, it was cute watching you try.”

You should be annoyed, but you know he’s not actually trying to mock you and it’s impossible to stay mad when he looks at you like that, so instead you lean into his side and grin.

“I’ll find a different hobby,” you say.

But later, when he leaves for the next Grand Prix weekend something tugs at you. You find yourself staring at the sim rig after he goes. You are bad at it. Really bad. But maybe not hopeless. And Max, for all his teasing, had been annoyingly kind about it.

The screens glow in standby mode, waiting. Your fingers hover over the power switch.

Just one lap.

That’s how it starts.

You drive.

You crash.

You swear.

You adjust the pedals, crack your knuckles, and whisper to yourself: don’t spin it this time.

And you try again.

Max's sim rig is intimidating, and you know it’s expensive, plus it’s precise and utterly punishing. You don't dare touch his settings, so you make do. One YouTube tutorial turns into five that tuns into ten. Then you’re watching old onboards, listening to the pitch of engine sounds like you actually know what you’re doing. You’re scouring the web late into the night researching for any tips or tricks you can find.

You stop crashing by Day 4. By the end of the week, you can finish a lap. A clean one. You start setting decent lap times by Day 9. By Day 12, you’re doing consistent laps

Two weeks in, you're chasing ghosts. Literally, you race against Max’s stored ghost laps on Spa, watching the glowing blue car pull away in Sector 2 and vowing to close the gap. Every night after work it's a routine, tie your hair up, grab a water bottle, and boot up iRacing like you're training for something. You even start logging your lap times in your notes app like a serious amateur.

It becomes your own secret ritual. A way of being close to him when he’s away that doesn’t hurt so much.

Max texts you in bursts during the two week. Voice notes between debriefs, a quick facetime from the paddock, a few rants about tyre degradation and setup frustrations. He always asks how you’re doing, what you’re up to, and every time you somehow manage not to mention the hours you’re now secretly spending in his sim.

Can’t believe it’s been two weeks since you traumatised the virtual car. time flies. would 100% pay to watch it again.

You’re grinning when you read that one, but you keep the secret anyway.

You don’t know why you’re keeping it a secret. Maybe it’s because it started as a bit of fun, or maybe it’s because you want to surprise him. But part of you also just wants to do something for yourself. Just to prove you can.

He comes home on a Monday.

His flight arrives at midnight, and you meet him at the door, hair a mess from waiting up and eyes barely open. He’s still in his team hoodie, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and when he sees you, he drops everything just to pull you into a hug.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your hair.

He looks exhausted, eyes rimmed with fatigue, but he’s smiling like he’s never been happier to be home. You help him carry his stuff inside, and once he’s showered and curled up beside you in bed, he finally asks:

“So… do I get another performance on the sim this week?” Max grins, nudging your side. “Could use a good laugh.”

You shrug casually. “Might’ve had a little go while you were away.”

That gets his attention. He sits up slightly. “Wait, seriously?”

You toss him a look, still deliberately casual. “You were gone, I was bored. Figured I’d mess around a bit without the peanut gallery laughing this time.” You narrow your eyes at him, just for emphasis.

“I never laughed at you,” he insists, way too fast.

You raise a brow. “Max, you wheezed. I thought you were going to pass out.”

He winces, then grins. “Okay… maybe a little.”

Your heart stutters, but you smother it with a smirk. “Wanna see or not?”

His brows draw together, curious now. “Right now?”

You’re already sliding out of bed. “Come on champ.”

You lead him to the sim, flick on the lights, and sit down in the chair. The screens flicker to life, the whirring of the pedals and wheel now familiar.

Max watches from behind you, arms crossed, leaning against the chair but sweatpants and a sleepy smile.

“Alright Verstappen,” you say. “Watch and learn.”

You load into Austria. Red Bull Ring. Home turf.

The loading screen fades, and you place your hands on the wheel. Your shoulders relax. You take a breath.

And then you start.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches.

You hit turn one with precision, clipping the apex just right. Brake late into turn three, hold your nerve through the uphill. You’re smooth on throttle. Confident in your braking points. Sector by sector, you thread the lap with a rhythm that feels second nature, because it is now.

By the time you cross the line, Max is no longer smiling. He’s blinking at you like you’ve just grown a second head. He’s still now, standing upright. Eyes fixed on the screen. His smile has slipped into something else entirely, something bordering on disbelief.

You spin around in your seat, heart pounding, breath a little tight in your chest. “Surprised?”

“What the fuck?” he breathes.

You laugh, unable to hold it back. “That bad?”

“That good,” he mutters, eyes flicking from you to the sim, then back again. “That was… really good.”

You beam. “No crashing this time.”

“That was more than just not crashing. That was… I mean you nailed every corner.” He cuts himself off, watching the replay. “You practiced this much?”

You nod, a little shy now. “Every day whilr you were gone.”

His brows shoot up. “Every day?”

“Morning. Night. Whenever I had time.” You shrug, trying not to sound self-conscious. “Just wanted to see if I could do it.”

Max stares at you. Then at the sim. Then back at you.

“You practiced,” he says again, but this time it’s not disbelief. It’s something closer to delight.

“While you were away, yeah.” you repeat, gentler.

He glances at the sim again, then back to you, voice almost reverent. “You used my rig.”

“Every day.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you change the settings?”

“I never touched your settings,” you say quickly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I'm not suicidal.”

Max laughs, breathless. “Holy shit.”

You grin, smug. “Wanna see how good I am?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches out and cups your face in his hands, his touch suddenly soft, steady.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“Thank you,”

“I love it.” He pauses, then adds, quieter now, “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel bad. I was just messing around, but if I made you feel silly—”

“You didn’t,” you say, but he presses on, voice rougher now.

“I love you and I love that you care about something I care about. That you even tried. That means more than you think.”

Your cheeks flush, but you lean into his touch, heart thudding.

“Maybe I wanted to impress you,” you admit.

He grins. “Well consider me impressed. And slightly terrified.”

You laugh. “Terrified?”

Max kisses your forehead. “Yeah. If you’re this good already, you’re gonna start beating my lap times soon.”

He pauses after that, smile softening, something quieter flickering behind his eyes. Pride. Admiration. Maybe even awe.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and pulls you gently up. He slides into the rig like it’s second nature then reaches for you again, tugging you back down into his lap. His arms wrap securely around your waist, chin settling on your shoulder.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and lazy against your neck, “we should do a proper race. Side by side. Full setup. Winner picks dinner for a week.”

You raise a brow, fighting your smile. “You sure? I am pretty good now.”

“I’ll just punt you into turn one,” he says, without an ounce of shame.

You gasp, dramatic. “Cheater.”

“Champion,” he corrects with a wink, far too pleased with himself.

You laugh, loud and honest, your head tipping back against his shoulder. The sound vibrates between you, soft and full of affection. You don’t move right away content to just sit there, cocooned in the moment. The hum of the rig beneath you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, the smell of his shampoo and the way he still hasn’t stopped touching you.

Maybe it started as a joke. A way to prove something to yourself.

But now?

Now it’s just another thing you love doing together. Another reason to love him. Another way he loves you.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can I just say your write amazingly. One of my top favourite writers. I was wondering if I can request a dad lando fic where reader is like 4 or 5 and when lando dose his drive to survive interview thing he takes his baby girl and the whole crew just love her. And she gets to snap the 🎬

Lights, Camera, Action!

The Netflix crew was already buzzing around the sleek, sunlit studio set when the door creaked open, and in walked Lando—hair a bit tousled, hoodie slightly rumpled, and one hand holding onto the tiny fingers of a girl no taller than his thigh.

She peeked in first, big eyes blinking at the brightness of the room, her other hand clutching a squishy pink bunny that had clearly seen better days.

“This her?” asked the producer, grinning as he pulled off his headset and came forward.

Lando nodded proudly, crouching down to her level. “Go on, love. Say hello.”

Yn blinked at the man, then mumbled, “Hullo…” in a shy but unmistakably British accent that made three crew members audibly coo.

The producer beamed. “And what's your name, sweetheart?”

“Yn,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Yn, that’s beautiful,” he said, genuinely charmed. “How old are you?”

She held up five tiny fingers. Lando chuckled, brushing a curl from her cheek.

“She just turned five last month,” he said. “And she’s very excited to help Daddy today. Aren’t you, bug?”

Yn nodded shyly but clung tighter to his hoodie.

“She’s a little shy at first,” Lando told them, smoothing down the back of her hair. “But she warms up fast. Just give her a few minutes and maybe a biscuit.”

The whole crew laughed at that, already softening under the spell of the little girl with the bunny and the shy smile.

The Drive to Survive crew had seen drivers in every emotional state: victorious, furious, hungover, nervous, indifferent. But this—this was something else entirely.

One of the assistants knelt beside Yn and held out a small tray of juice boxes and individually wrapped cookies.

“Would you like a snack while Daddy does his interview?” she asked gently.

Yn looked up at Lando, and he smiled reassuringly. “It’s alright, poppet. You can sit just over there and watch me if you want. Or hang with the nice lady.”

“Can I watch you?” she asked in a tiny voice.

Lando melted. He really did.

“‘Course you can. You’ve got the best seat in the house.”

He helped her into a small canvas director’s chair just off camera, close enough to him that he could sneak her smiles between questions. One of the sound guys handed her a set of child-sized headphones—not plugged into anything, just for fun—and Yn lit up like it was Christmas.

“All ready?” the producer called out, watching Lando settle into his seat with an amused look.

Lando looked to Yn, gave her a wink, then turned to the camera.

“Ready when you are.”

The interview started normally.

“How does it feel being one of the more experienced drivers now, after all these seasons?”

“Old,” Lando deadpanned, and the crew laughed. “I mean, I still get carded when I try to buy wine, but I’ve been here a while now. It’s weird.”

“And now you’re not just a driver—you’re a dad.”

Lando’s whole face changed. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, and the smile that crept across his lips was involuntary and impossible to miss.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing to the side where Yn was swinging her legs, watching quietly. “I’m a dad. And it’s the best job I’ve ever had.”

“What’s it like, being a single parent and a full-time F1 driver?”

“Hard,” he admitted. “Like, really hard. I won’t pretend it’s easy. The schedule’s mental, the travel’s constant, and trying to make sure she has stability in all of that—it’s a lot.”

“But?”

“But I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” Lando said. “Not a second of it. That little girl is my heart walking around outside my body.”

Someone behind the camera whispered a soft “awww” and a few heads nodded.

“I try to take her with me as much as I can,” Lando continued. “Because I don’t want her to feel like I’m always gone. And she actually loves the paddock. She’s got uncles everywhere.”

The interviewer laughed. “Who’s her favorite uncle?”

Lando smirked. “Now that’s dangerous territory.”

“Come on, give us something.”

“She calls Carlos ‘Uncle Giggles,’ because he always makes her laugh. And Max taught her to say ‘chicane’ properly, which is weirdly adorable coming out of a five-year-old. But I think Charles is her favorite.”

He leaned in conspiratorially.

“He sneaks her gummy bears and lets her press buttons on the simulator when no one’s watching.”

During a short break in filming, Yn walked up to her dad and tugged on the hem of his hoodie.

“Can I sit with you now?”

Lando lifted her up effortlessly and sat her on his lap.

“She’s very well-behaved,” one of the crew members commented, watching her tuck herself comfortably into his arms.

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” Lando said. “She’s a bit shy, but she’s got a kind soul.”

“Do you like being on set, Yn?” someone asked her gently.

She looked up and nodded. “I like the big camera. And Daddy talks nice.”

Another wave of chuckles rippled through the crew.

“Think you could help us with something, Yn?” the producer asked.

Her eyes widened, curious. Lando looked intrigued too.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well,” the producer said, holding up the old-school film clapper. “We usually let the talent snap the board before we roll. Think she’d like to do it?”

Lando looked down at his daughter. “What do you think, bug? Wanna help Daddy start the show?”

She considered it for a second, then nodded with an eager smile.

“Alright then!” Lando grinned and helped her down from his lap. “Go on, big moment now.”

The assistant handed Yn the clapper, and she held it in her small hands like it was a sacred treasure.

“Can you say ‘Scene One, Take Two’?” someone prompted.

She took a deep breath and in her clearest little voice said, “Scene One, Take Two!” Then she clapped the board shut with both hands.

Everyone applauded. Lando’s smile could’ve lit up the whole building.

“That was amazing,” the producer said, genuinely delighted. “You’ve got a future in film, miss.”

Yn giggled and ran back to Lando, who scooped her up with ease.

“She’s gonna be insufferable after this,” he joked, kissing the top of her head. “Hollywood’s gone straight to her head.”

Lando let Yn stay in his lap for the second half of the interview.

Her bunny rested on his thigh. She leaned against his chest, occasionally whispering questions into his hoodie like, “Why does the man ask so many questions?” and “Can we get ice cream after?”

“Yes,” Lando replied both times, the second one earning her a quick kiss on the temple.

The crew was utterly smitten. One of the camera operators whispered to the sound guy, “I’d watch an entire show just about him being a dad.”

The questions turned more personal toward the end.

“What do you hope she remembers when she’s older?”

Lando went quiet for a beat.

“I hope she remembers that I tried,” he said softly. “That I tried to give her everything. That even if I wasn’t always home, I was always hers. I hope she remembers feeling loved. Safe. Seen.”

There was a lump in the interviewer’s throat. He glanced at Yn, who was now playing with the strings of Lando’s hoodie, humming quietly to herself.

“You’ve made a beautiful little human.”

Lando smiled down at her. “Yeah. She’s everything.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[ghwostcult]

Coffee for a lifetime

Paring: Max Verstappen Summary: Max visits a small coffee van and now he has a new favorite place to go after a race weekend.

You had been working at Lee's coffee van for almost three years. It was safe to say that you enjoyed it, for the most part.

Some days there would be outlandishly rude customers who seemed to think that whatever you said was just a suggestion. The saying "the customer knows best" was a load of BS in your opinion.

Like today.

You were on the last leg of your six-hour shift, and it was quiet. If you knew anything from your time here, it was that quiet was never good.

You had been cleaning up the front in hopes of an early escape, not wanting to stay back much longer after your shift.

That’s when an older lady walked up. She seemed to be in her late 50s and came marching up to the window like she owned the place. Only she didn’t, and you had never seen her before.

After taking her order and serving her the coffee she asked for, she pushed it back to you half-empty, demanding a refund because it was “not made right.”

So here you were, in the last half hour of your shift, dealing with this woman while a line slowly formed behind her. When you say line, it was one guy, but still. Your point stood.

After another gruesome five minutes, the guy behind her seemed fed up too. He walked up to the counter with a sour smile directed at the woman and spoke.

“I apologise for interrupting, but I would enjoy my visit here a lot more if I didn’t have to hear your arguing over something you’re clearly and severely wrong about.”

His voice was strong. His point got across the moment he opened his mouth. His accent was thick. You couldn’t quite place where it was from, but it stood out to you and seemingly to the lady in front of you too.

She looked visibly shocked, as if the idea of someone talking back to her had never occurred to her. Her mouth hung open, and her cheeks immediately heated up in embarrassment. She hadn’t expected others to be annoyed by her complaining.

The woman quickly took back her coffee, which was definitely on the colder side, and ran back to her car, out of sight.

Little did you know, the reason she was so embarrassed wasn’t just because she got called out. It was because of who called her out. Max Verstappen, famous F1 racing driver known all around the world as Red Bull’s king.

You weren’t a fan of the sport, not finding much interest in rich men driving around and then complaining when something went wrong. All you knew was that there was a race this weekend.

Your boss, always eager to cash in on big events, decided to draw in racing fans by putting up some propaganda, as you called it, for one of the teams. You weren’t sure which one.

Max smiled at you before apologising. “I’m sorry for making a scene, but I’ve had an iffy day and just wanted a coffee. I could tell you couldn’t be bothered dealing with her.”

You gently shook your head.

“Don’t apologise, please. It’s fine. I’m surprised you got her out of here so fast. Normally they like to stay and complain longer. Anyway, what can I get you?” you asked.

Max gave you his coffee order with a smile before noticing the small decorations around the van.

“You a big McLaren fan?” he asked, nodding toward the decor.

You shook your head while brewing the coffee. “There’s this big race on this weekend and the boss likes to capitalise on weekends like this by putting up some decorations related to the event,” you explained, mixing the coffee.

“Every year he changes the colours. Last year it was black and blue, who I believe was Mercedes, and the year before that was pink, and I have no clue who that was,” you said with a laugh. Max’s gentle laugh joined yours.

“Smart man,” he replied as you handed him the coffee.

“You work here every weekend?” he asked. The question surprised you, but you nodded. Normally, you would have ignored a question like that or lied, but for some reason you didn’t do either with Max.

He nodded back, offering you a small smile.

“Then I shall see you tomorrow for some coffee. Hopefully without the lady this time,” he said.

You let out a small, real laugh.

“Yes, hopefully without the lady,” you nodded, watching as he walked back to his car.

You allowed yourself to smile. You weren’t complaining about the company.

[anonf1writer]

the reaction after he stands up for his family — single parent universe

second part to this.

text au. ig post. 2k words. drivers: max, charles, oscar and lando.

note: i promised there would be a second part, and here it is. i tried something different, so i hope i didn’t disappoint (although i have the feeling already this wont be everyones cup of tea, so im sorry in advance!).

thank you to everyone who sent requests that led me to create this cute universe. ive had the greatest time with it, and i know it wouldnt have happened without your ideas. so thank you ❤️

──────────────────

MAX

First, came the soft click of Oliver’s bedroom door, and then the lazy thump of Max’s feet making his way back to you. 

Leaning your side against the kitchen counter, you knew a conversation was coming. From the moment you heard the question and turned the TV off, to the moment Max arrived home with a smile on his face, you knew it wouldn’t be something either of you could ignore. 

“Fucking hell,” he murmured as soon as he stepped into view, both hands running up and down his face. “I can’t remember the last time I wanted to punch someone’s stupid face this fucking much.”

You pressed your lips together and shifted on your feet, stepping away from the counter. This was the first moment alone the two of you had gotten after the race, the first moment without a little boy demanding attention, and the first moment Max was finally letting it all out. The anger, the frustration, the disappointment. So you didn’t want to shush him. You didn’t want to tell him he shouldn’t be cursing and swearing right now, that he should be careful, that he should think before he spoke. It didn’t seem fair to him, especially after he had clearly tried his best to put on a fantastic show in front of your son. 

“Did you watch it?” he asked, voice closer than before.

You nodded, removing the whistling kettle from the hob and stepping towards the empty mugs. “Just saw the video. We were watching it live on TV, but I turned it off as soon as I noticed what was happening.”

“Shit.”

“Oli didn’t hear a thing tho, don’t worry about it.”

You took your time filling the first mug, watching how the tea bag floated and swayed in the water, then eventually sank into the bottom. 

“They were so out of line,” Max said, his voice a quiet whisper in the bright kitchen. “I can’t believe that question even crossed their minds.” 

“I know…” 

“But I caught his name,” Max added. “And I had a meeting with the team as soon as I called the interview off. I’ll make sure that guy doesn’t get a fucking word from me anymore.”

You nodded again, and poured boiling water into the other mug. His mug. 

A moment went by before you felt him. Before he wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, and pressed his chest against your back. 

“You ok?” he asked, voice low and too close to your ear. 

You placed the kettle back in place and nodded, one hand resting on his forearm and the other reaching to touch his face. 

“Yeah…” you said, your body instantly leaning into him. “I’m just… I hate that you had to go through that.”

Max nodded, his facial hair brushing your skin as he moved to kiss your palm. Once, and twice. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “For putting you two in this position.”

At that, you frowned. You dropped your hand and shifted on your feet, turning to properly face him. 

Max’s exhaustion was written all over him. But there was also worry there. Maybe a little bit of fear, too. 

“Hey,” you said, hands cradling his cheeks, eyes firm inside his gaze. “Don’t be silly. What you did for us was amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The way you stood up for us… The fact that you won’t let anyone speak about our son like that… That’s what I care about.” 

He sighed, then leaned in. Forehead resting against yours while he closed his eyes. 

“Our son,” he repeated, like he was savouring the words. 

“Mhmm…” You nodded, slightly. Just for him to feel the movement face to face, skin to skin. “It was really hot, y’know? To see you like that…”

Max smirked. Eyes staying close while he listened to you.

“The way you talked about us… How you got all worked up… When you said ‘that kid is mine’?” You sighed. Loudly than you normally would. Your hands moving down to his neck, shoulders, then back to cradle his face. “And then when you stormed off… Damn you, Max.”

A low, amused chuckle escaped from his chest, his whole body shaking lightly against you. “I should’ve figured you’d like that.”

“You should, yeah…”

You leaned in, then. Your lips barely meeting his before you pulled back again.

Max reacted instantly, taking a step forward and fully pressing you onto the counter, his feet slotting between your legs. “Hate teasing,” he murmured, already crashing your mouths together for a much needier kiss. 

You smiled, his lips barely giving you any time before he was capturing them again. 

And again. 

And again. 

──────────────────

CHARLES

──────────────────

OSCAR

──────────────────

LANDO

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Lando said, leaning against the handrail and watching Olivia run around the synthetic grass of the paddock. Just like you had been doing for the past ten minutes or so. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said. “They were the ones who crossed the line.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts,” you said, curling your lips into a smile just in case someone was watching you. “Like I said, it wasn’t your fault. That’s not up for discussion.”

Next to you, Lando sighed. Loudly. 

You heard it, you felt it. 

His unhappiness with your answer.

So you shifted on your feet, crossed your arms on your chest, and kept your eyes ahead as you said, “You stood up for her. That’s what matters to me. I wish these things didn’t happen at all, but it’s not up to us. We can’t control what others say or do, but we can control how we react to it. And the way you reacted… That’s how I want it to be. So as long as you stand up for her, just like you did today, then you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

For a moment, Lando didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Didn’t react. He just stared ahead, focusing on the little girl that had everyone’s attention as she distributed papaya-unicorn stickers all around. And then, when you thought he would finally speak up, he just coughed and looked away. As if taking a break to organize himself before returning his gaze back to her. 

To your daughter. 

Yours, and his. 

“Should we go inside?” you asked. “Talk inside?”

He shook his head. “She’s having fun… I just… I wanna watch her for a while.”

You nodded, but your heart skipped at that, and you couldn’t help but sigh and take a step closer to him. Unwillingly. Without thinking. 

Elbow almost, almost touching his arm. 

Lando’s whole body stiffened. 

He stretched his legs, straightened his back, and pulled his arms closer to his sides. 

And the tiniest gasp left his mouth. 

Once again, you couldn’t help yourself—you snorted, bringing your hand to cover your mouth and lowering your chin to look down at your feet.

“What?” he asked, quietly. But you could hear the smile in his voice. The amusement. Growing just like yours.

“Shut up,” you said, muffled behind your hand. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Shaking your head, you held back your laughter and looked up, eyes meeting your oblivious daughter. Happy and full of energy amidst so many strangers. 

You dropped your hand back down to cross your arm around your chest, and after a beat, you murmured, “I can already imagine a video going viral…”

You caught the way he nodded. 

Neither of you ever facing each other.

But keeping the conversation for only the two of you to hear. 

“Lando Norris avoids contact with his girlfriend,” he said. 

And then, you cackled. Dropping your head back and laughing to the sky while bringing both hands to cover your mouth. 

Next to you, Lando chuckled as well, albeit not as hard. The soft sound making its way to you and adding extra warmth to your already heated cheeks. 

He waited until you had calmed down before speaking again, the playfulness hinted in each syllable of each word. “Little do they know… All along, I’m the one who’s been deprived of love.”

“Oh my God,” you grunted and laughed. A mix between disbelief, but also joy. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Dramatic? Please. I’m just a boy… Standing next to a—”

You gasped and turned your body, leaning onto your side so you could face him. 

“—a girl… Asking her to hold my hand.”

“Lando…”

“Or give me a hug.”

“You do not get to quote my favorite movie back at me.”

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead of him. “Just anything,  really.” 

You pressed your lips together and turned back to Olivia, a sigh leaving your chest while you watched her engage in a conversation with some other kids she had met earlier that day. 

“You know that’s not how it works.”

Lando, on the other hand, simply smirked to himself.

“What I know is that you won’t love me in public.” 

“Because you get way too handsy!” you reminded him. “And you don’t know how to kiss me in public. You always end up going for a full make out session. Why is it so hard to keep it simple?”

“Because it’s you!” he laughed. “Can’t help it if you’re irresistible!”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “If you can’t help it, then we stick to my rules.” 

“Fine.” 

“No PDA.”

“I know.”

“That’s all.”

“Yep.”

You sighed. 

He sighed. 

Max and Pietra stepped out of hospitality, both of them stopping to chat with Olivia before she pointed straight at where you were. Lando’s best friend looked at you and nodded with understanding, meanwhile his girlfriend waved and lowered her weight to get Livie’s attention. 

You knew, from that on, that Max and Pietra would keep an eye on her. That they would stay around and give you two a chance to take a little break, like they usually did. 

“I never thought I could get so mad at someone,” Lando blurted out. So out of nowhere that you needed to blink a couple times to make sense of it. “I’m watching her right now and it’s just… Look at her… She’s the cutest child around here… She’s kind to everyone… Makes everyone laugh… Always has the funniest, most random comments… And she’s so sassy and bold in such an adorable way… She’s just perfect. How can they… I mean how can they even ask something like that? I don’t get it.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you found yourself unable to reply.

“I meant what I said, y’know? About being proud of being her dad… I know it’s not on the paper… But I don’t mind that… Like it won’t make me love her any differently… What we have now it’s something I’ve earned, y’know? We’ve built it from scratch… I know you wouldn’t have allowed me to be here if you didn’t mean it… So I just… I can’t imagine my life without you anymore… Both of you. And I hate that they tried to use that against me… Because they knew what they were doing when they asked that… They knew they would touch a nerve…”

The emotions in his voice touched your nerves, your instincts, your need to protect him and stand up for him. And before you knew it, you were already walking. Already stepping away from the handrail, turning to him and closing the distance. Until you were standing in front of him and then close enough to crush your body to his. Wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek against his chest. 

“Whoa…” Lando stumbled the slightest, the handrail keeping him in place as he placed both arms around your shoulders and kept you close. Close. Close. Close. “Hold on with the PDA, love.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled. “Just take it.”

At that, he chuckled. Chin pressed on your temple and arms squeezing you tightly. 

“Your favorite words.”

“Lando!”

“What?!”

You pinched his hip, and he flinched.

“Heyyy!” he laughed.

You smiled, cheek all nuzzled onto him while the world kept moving around you. While the public walked up and down the paddock. While curious eyes and intruding cameras watched you. 

“I love you,” you said. “And I’m so proud of you. Really. Thank you, for everything you do. For who you are. I can’t imagine our lives without you anymore, too. I don’t want to know what it would be like to go back to a life without you. So again, thank you.”

“Who are you and what—”

“Lando!” 

“Ok, ok,” he laughed. “I’m shy, I get nervous…” 

“I know, but I had to say it.”

He shifted his arms, his hug getting both gentler and tighter at the same time. 

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear. “And I can’t wait to show you how much. But Livie is running up to us right now, so I’ll keep it to myself for now… Just for now.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

──────────────────

[ripmyselfxd]

Monaco Magic | Max Verstappen

Summary - After winning the Monaco Grand Prix, Max Verstappen kisses you—his secret girlfriend—revealing your relationship to the world in a moment of love and triumph.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

You’re pressed against the rail, just beyond the paddock, heart pounding so loudly you swear it rivals the growl of the engines. The Monaco sun glints off the harbor, dazzling and hot, but you barely feel it. All your focus is on the screen in front of you—on the last few corners of the final lap.

Your fingers tremble slightly as Max rounds Rascasse. You know this circuit like the back of your hand by now—not from driving it, but from watching him pour his soul into it, year after year. This place is unforgiving. Legendary. A win here doesn’t just earn you points; it earns you legacy.

He’s in the lead. By seconds.

The tension coils tighter in your chest. You know him—how he drives when he smells victory, how he guards the lead like something sacred. And you know better than anyone just how badly he wants this one.

The final straight.

The checkered flag waves.

You don’t hear your own scream of joy—only the eruption of the Red Bull pit wall, the champagne being prepped behind you, the announcers losing their minds.

Max Verstappen has just won the Monaco Grand Prix.

And nobody knows you’re his girlfriend.

Well… not yet.

You stand frozen for a second, caught between the urge to rush to him and the invisible wall you’ve both carefully built for months. You two have guarded your relationship like it was part of the strategy. No Instagram tags. No media leaks. Just hidden smiles, private texts, hotel hallways at midnight. Monaco was supposed to be no different.

But something in your chest cracks when you see him climb out of the car.

He doesn’t even glance at the cameras or the broadcasters circling like vultures. He pulls off his helmet, shaking out his damp curls, and instantly—instinctively—his eyes search for you.

And he finds you.

The look in his eyes is everything. Relief. Pride. Love. There’s something fierce in it too—like he’s decided, right here, right now, that he’s done hiding. That this moment is too big, too real, to pretend anymore.

Your feet move before you realize it.

You duck under the barrier, ignoring the startled glances from team members and PR staff, heart hammering like a second engine in your chest. He walks straight toward you. No hesitation.

“Max,” you whisper, breathless, half in disbelief that you’re doing this.

He grins. “Come here.”

And then he kisses you.

Not a fleeting peck. Not a quick, concealed moment behind a garage.

This is public. Passionate. Unapologetic.

His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid to let go, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. Your fingers twist into the back of his fire suit, still warm from the race. The taste of adrenaline and victory lingers between your lips.

Cameras flash like lightning. Somewhere, someone gasps. A journalist practically drops their mic.

But Max doesn’t care.

When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, breathing fast, smiling so wide it makes your eyes sting with emotion.

“They know now,” you whisper with a nervous laugh, cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he says, voice low, firm. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t love you in front of the world.”

You blink up at him, stunned.

And then you smile.

He laces his fingers through yours and turns to face the chaos—paparazzi, reporters, fans leaning over balconies. Some are cheering. Some are filming. Some are just staring, trying to figure out who you are.

But Max holds your hand tighter.

He’s not letting go.

The podium ceremony is a blur after that. You watch him climb to the top step, champagne bottle in hand, national anthem blaring. He points to you once. Not to the crowd. Not to the camera.

To you.

You catch Christian Horner giving you a knowing look. Checo gives Max a smirk that says, finally. Even Helmut cracks something like a smile.

And when the press conferences begin and the questions inevitably come—“Who was that girl you kissed?” “Are you two dating?”—Max doesn’t deflect.

He just smiles that devilish grin and says, “Yeah. She’s been mine for a while.”

It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and oddly freeing all at once. The world knows now. There’s no going back.

But when Max finds you later that night—after the interviews and the celebrations, after the suit is off and the cameras are gone—and he pulls you onto the balcony of your hotel suite overlooking the glittering city, you realize you wouldn’t go back even if you could.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both look out at the shimmering lights on the water. “You okay?” he murmurs.

You lean into him. “I am now.”

And with his arms around you, Monaco glowing beneath you, and the weight of secrecy lifted off your shoulders, you feel it in your bones:

This isn’t just a race he won.

It’s a new beginning.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

[yuramour]

I THINK HE KNOWS — F1 GRID

synopsis. trying to keep your crush on a certain driver a secret isn't exactly easy. but do they know about it, or not? pairing. f1 grid x reader (ft. mv1, yt22, ln4, op81, gr63, cl16, lh44, dr3, aa23, cs55, ih6, jd7, eo31, ka12, ob87) genre. fluff, headcanons warnings. mild secondhand embarrassment, maybe some suggestive themes, mostly coworker!reader, some of these are noticeably longer than others. my bad word count. 3k-ish (200-ish each)

note. this slowly devolves into silliness. alsoooooo, im tryna have a more consistent upload schedule, but i did just get a job and im taking online classes over the summer, so like, its hard to find the time to actually sit down and write. i'm trying, tho!! hope you guys enjoy this one :p

MAX VERSTAPPEN

۶ৎ completely oblivious

of course, it was glaringly obvious to everyone but max. everyone else saw the way you immediately stopped whatever you were working on to stare at him whenever he wandered into the red bull garage. ever since you started working for red bull as an analyst, you had the biggest crush on max. at first, it was just a harmless thing, blushing whenever he was in your general vicinity, your coworkers giggling and elbowing you whenever he walked into the room. the teasing from your coworkers was really the most annoying part at first. but now? the most annoying part by far was how max was just apparently totally oblivious to the fact that you liked him. you weren't even keeping it a secret anymore like you were at the beginning. you'd all but asked him out at this point. but he had absolutely no idea. it wasn't until charles teased him about how you stared at him during the driver's parade that max realized. it took him aback at first, but trust he'd never felt more dumb than when he realized you were in fact hitting on him all that time. asks you out the next time he sees you.

YUKI TSUNODA

۶ৎ has a suspicion

he could be wrong- maybe. but for the past several months, yuki's had a feeling that all those times you've brushed against him in the hallway, stared just a little too long during team debriefs, and laughed a little too hard at his jokes meant you saw him as a little more than just a coworker. it's hard for him to keep to himself- you haven't actually said anything that would indicate that you like him, so he doesn't want to bring it up. which sucks for him, because he really likes you, too. the way your hand feels on him when you pat him on the back after a race, the way your voice sounds when wishing him luck, the way your eyes soften when they meet his- it gives him butterflies. but he doesn't want to tell you. maybe he's just scared of rejection- because what if he's wrong? what if you don't actually like him? you have to be the one to tell him first. his imposter syndrome refuses to let him make the first move. he's elated when you do- a grin breaking over his face, a soft "i knew it" slipping from his lips.

LANDO NORRIS

۶ৎ thinks you hate him

maybe it's just the way you show affection- but lando thinks you can be a little...mean. not just a little mean- really mean. lando genuinely thinks you hate his guts. the way you refuse to make eye contact with him, the way you practically flee the room whenever he enters- he's convinced you have something against him. lando's a sensitive soul, he can take things a little personally. and you're perfectly content letting lando think you hate him if it means he never finds out ab out your stupid little crush. on another note, lando's absolutely flabbergasted when oscar makes a passing comment about your little crush on him- leaving both of them confused; lando because he was convinced you hated him, and oscar because he thought your crush was so blatant. oscar was right, of course. you just have a rather elementary way of navigating your crushes on people. lando practically corners you about it the next day, your violent blush and stuttering at the sudden confrontation telling him all he needed to know. he asks you out properly and nicely after that.

OSCAR PIASTRI

۶ৎ he knows but you have no idea he knows

oscar clocked your crush immediately. he's an observant guy. but he's so incredibly normal about it. you have absolutely no idea that he knows. the thing is, he thinks he's being obvious about liking you back. he'll open doors for you, give you his coat when you're cold, open energy drink cans for you, and he thinks it's incredibly obvious. the problem? you just think he's the kind of guy that'd do all that stuff anyway. because he's just so relaxed with it. it goes on for MONTHS. you both thinking you're being plainly obvious about your feelings for each other, and oscar just simply not wanting to be the one to make the first move. lando eventually knocks some sense into him- telling him to just ask you out because you're obviously not going to be the one to initiate it. as soon as he does, you're taken aback- not having expected oscar to be into you, too. but of course he was. how could he not be?

CHARLES LECLERC

۶ৎ thinks its all platonic

charles thinks that you're just a good friend- his best friend. doing things that all best friends do. of course a best friend would drop everything because he asked you to go out and do something. of course a best friend would go out of their way to come to all his races. of course best friends hug each other for extended periods of time after a bad race. he thinks you're just his best friend. because none of his other friends really do things like that- you must just be that good of a friend! right? no. of course not. you are head over heels in love with charles and you always have been. and he's never noticed. to be fair, you didn't exactly want him to. you were scared of the rejection you'd face if he ever found out. he's the charles leclerc. why would he go for you? even if you were his best friend. funny enough, it's his mother that ends up spilling your secret. charles thinks she's just joking at first, but once he realizes she's not, he's absolutely mortified. not only because he never realized it, but because he's felt the same about you for years, thinking you only saw his as a friend. calls you over immediately and confesses everything.

LEWIS HAMILTON

۶ৎ he knows, but doesn't say a word

lewis, ever the gentleman, notices your crush immediately, but chooses to keep it a secret. because you obviously don't want him to know about it, otherwise, you wouldn't be keeping it a secret. he thinks its charming more than anything. completely endeared by the way you immediately blush and look away whenever he makes eye contact, scurrying away like a little mouse whenever he ever so politely asks you to do even the most miniscule task. he didn't have any feelings for you at first- but the more time he spends observing you, the way you interact with others, your kindness, your individuality, he falls for you slowly but surely. you know lewis is a good man, so when he asks you to go to dinner with him, you think it's just to show his thanks to you for being such a hard worker. when he tells you how he feels about you, you feel like you're about to melt out of sheer embarrassment. lewis watches the blush take over your face with a soft laugh, your reaction reminding lewis exactly why he liked you in the first place.

GEORGE RUSSELL

۶ৎ thinks it's just a joke

even if you are so completely blatantly obvious about having a crush on george, he just thinks you're kidding. any time you openly flirt with him, he just laughs along and takes it as a joke. it gets to a point where you're all but telling him to his face that you're in love with him, and he's just like "haha, good one!" straight up, for a man that's so in love with himself, you think he'd be able to take a hint. but no. he's blind to the truth. and he's like this for MONTHS. you are LAYING IT ON, and he just does not understand that you are being 100% for real. only gets it when you literally corner him and tell him blatantly to his face that you are genuinely actually into him. he's both flabbergasted and overjoyed bc this rich boy gets zero play.

KIMI ANTONELLI

۶ৎ he has NO idea

silly silly boy. despite the fact that you've followed him around the world since you were kids, been by his side the entire time, through his best and worst days. he just doesn't see it. and you'd never tell him, of course. you value your friendship too much to ruin it over a stupid little (not little at all) crush. but still. who tf basically puts their entire life on hold to follow their best friend around the world? either someone who's in love, or someone who's just that good of a friend. in your case, it's the former. but unfortunately, kimi thinks you're the latter. he doesn't even realize he's in love with you until he's talking about you to ollie one day, just absolutely gushing about you and ollie's just listening like "...😐 you're stupid." after kimi realizes how he feels, he tries to keep it to himself, but accidentally lets it slip out one day while talking to you. to his ABSOLUTE SHOCK (idk how it was a shock he's lowkey blind), you feel the same about him.

ALEX ALBON

۶ৎ he knows & is very obvious about it

he KNOWSSSS. AND YOU KNOW HE KNOWSSSSS. unfortunately, as an employee for Williams, you know that dating a driver is looked down upon at the VERY LEAST. so despite the fact that you keep it as professional as possible, any and every time you so much as make eye contact with alex, this mf giggles. like, actually giggles. like a middle schooler. you don't even really know how he knows. but you suspect that carlos told him after you let it slip to him one day that you thought alex was cute. but nevertheless, you never let your interactions go beyond relaying basic information and wishing him luck before a race. but one weekend, you and alex end up with you hotel rooms booked right next to each other, somehow leading to alex basically living in your room all weekend. after that, it's all longing stares across the garage and holding hands in secret.

CARLOS SAINZ

۶ৎ totally blind to it

i think he just likes to think that you're a very kind and respectful person. like, he says jump and you ask how high, type shit. despite the fact that you try to keep it a secret at first, you realize that he is truly never going to get it unless you start like, actually putting the moves on this man. he thinks you're just a really nice person until one day it just slaps him in the face that you're literally obsessed with him, and he just feels SO stupid bc of it. like, you are all but offering to literally become his personal maid and he hasn't realized until now??? not very smooth operator of him. when he suddenly starts flirting back to you, you realize the vibe switchup IMMEDIATELY and you know he's clocked you</3 he asks you out on a casual coffee date at a cute quiet little cafe and it's very sweet and fluffy and eughhhh i hate (love) him so much.

ISACK HADJAR

۶ৎ again, thinks you hate him

poor baby thinks you getting red in the face and cutting the conversation off early whenever he tries to talk to you is indicative of you hating him and not of you getting flustered by his mere presence. he's pacing back and forth wondering what he could have possibly done to make you hate him, meanwhile you're in the other room pacing back and forth wondering how the hell you're ever going to be able to tell him you're basically in love with him. isack eventually decides to just be as nice as possible; getting you coffee, doing his best to make your job easier for you, complimenting you whenever he notices you've done your hair differently or whatever. unfortunately, this may or may not make things worse bc you have no idea how to take a compliment and just mumble a "thanks" and immediately leave the room whenever he does so. eventually, one of your coworkers talks some sense into you and convinces you to tell isack how you feel. shocked and elated don't even come close to describing how isack feels when you finally confess to him. relationship immediately starts from there, and he's basically obsessed with you and giving you allllll the words of affirmation.

JACK DOOHAN

۶ৎ thinks its just "bestie vibes"

again. stupid boy. stupid dumb boy. let me set the scene; you and jack have in fact been best friends for as long as you can remember. you weren't even into him at first, but after not seeing him for a while, and all of a sudden, he comes back as an accomplished formula driver, not to mention he's like, half a foot taller and significantly more ripped than he was the last time you saw him, something definitely changed in the way you looked at him. but of course sweet oblivious jack is just happy to hang out with his best friend again after so long. the two of you take a trip to the beach not too long after he gets back, and you have to physically stop yourself from staring at his abs for too long. ofc he just thinks you're looking at him so longingly bc you missed your best friend (him) so bad. that same night, the two of you get a little drunk and you accidentally call him hot to his face. oops! he thought about it for a solid ten seconds before he realized that he, in the back of his mind, thought the same about you. i just love this himbo so bad okay :(

OLLIE BEARMAN

۶ৎ he WANTS you to, but has no idea

to ollie, you were just so fucking cool. always so poised, level-headed, always cool under pressure. and he was absolutely head-over-heels for you. he practically followed you around like a lost puppy everywhere you went. not just because he's always getting lost at social events, but because he wanted to be near you as much as he physically could. to ollie, you were totally and completely out of his league. he wanted so badly for you to notice him as more than the guy that you were getting paid to basically babysit and make sure he doesn't say anything stupid to the media. little did he know, you'd been charmed by his cute smile, sweet demeanor, and puppy-like tendencies since the day you met him. he thinks he's seeing things when he starts noticing the blush that creeps up on your cheeks whenever he says something sweet. "wishful thinking" he tells himself. he swears he's dreaming when you knock on his hotel room one night and say that you have a secret to tell him. and he practically dies from happiness when he wakes up the next morning with a text from you confirming that you meant it when you told him you liked him.

ESTEBAN OCON

۶ৎ he's SUSPICIOUS of you

what do you want from him?? why are you so nice to him? what are you planning?? are you, the sweet alpine employee that says hi to him every morning in the paddock with that cute little smile spying on haas for your team??? he notices the way you come to the haas mobile home to "visit your friend" that works for the team. every time you wish him luck on the race in passing, he narrows his eyes and nods curtly, suspicious of the way you always happen to bump into him. little does he know, he keeps seeing you around because you have the biggest crush on him. you're close with a couple of the guys on the haas pit crew, and they've been trying for months to get esteban to notice you. which he has. just not in the way that you hoped. it all comes to a head when esteban relays his suspicion to your friends on the haas team, all of whom are absolutely flabbergasted that that's the conclusion he came to. they couldn't possibly let him go on thinking that. esteban is completely floored when they tell him you're always hanging around not because you're spying for alpine, but because you have a crush on him. immediately pulls you aside the next time he sees you and apologizes for being so unwelcoming towards you. he takes you out for an apologetic dinner, and realizes you're actually really great :p

DANIEL RICCIARDO

۶ৎ he knows and you know he knows

not only does he very obviously know, he teases you about it. you're too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of telling him flat-out how you feel. that's exactly what he wants. so you let him tease you, taking the shit-eating grins, flirtatious jokes, and the way he gets just a little too close for comfort in stride. you absolutely refuse to give him any kind of confirmation when he leans in, going "come on, i know you like me a little bit." it gets to a point where he's gotten on your nerves so much, you're not even sure if you even like him anymore or if you're just so stubborn, you can't even admit it to yourself anymore. it goes on for literal years. you think it's finally over when daniel leaves red bull. finally, you can let go of your stupid crush and live the rest of your life in peace knowing you won't have to deal with the australian ever again. but no. of course not. despite the fact that he was now in renault, he would come sidling up to the red bull mobile home just to flash you that shit-eating grin with a painfully flirty "how you doing?" all that time while he was in red bull, the possibility that he liked you back hadn't even crossed your mind. you thought he was just kind of a dick, teasing you for being into him. turns out, he was just waiting for the moment you weren't working for the same team so he could ask you out properly. "surprised" doesn't even begin to cover how you were feeling after he told you after the 2019 season was over.

taglist: @bear-yawns @revelauver

[hoolaand]

Max Verstappen

💌: max verstappen x actress! reader

💌: have you ever made a man cry? If so, tell me your BESTEST TIPS ON HOW TO CLOCK A MAN BECAUSE I AM GETTING SO FUCKING MAD GOD.

but apart from that, I love writing fics mwah

[marxchxoxo]

STILL YOURS

you’re the calm to his chaos. the brains to his speed. the one person who sees past the championship crown.

You don’t flinch when Max rips off his gloves, jaw tight, eyes sharp. The media’s already buzzing behind the paddock curtain, lights and microphones waiting to devour him.

You stay seated at the workbench, your Red Bull jacket half-zipped, headset still looped around your neck. You don’t speak. You don’t look at him like he’s broken.

You just wait.

“Rear grip was gone,” Max mutters, running a hand through his hair, wild with sweat. “Should’ve boxed lap 34.”

“I told you,” you say, barely looking up. Calm. Annoyingly right.

He huffs. Half-laughs.

Then it’s just silence. Not the heavy kind. The us kind. The kind where you both breathe the same air, share the same unspoken thing that’s always been there ,somewhere between telemetry data and late-night glances when no one’s watching.

“You mad at me?” he asks quietly, stepping closer

You finally look at him. That helmet hair. That stupid fireproof collar still half-tugged down. Those blue eyes that always look tired, but never when they’re on you.

“Not mad,” you say. “Just waiting for you to stop sulking.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps between your knees, plants his palms on either side of you on the workbench, and leans in.

“You always wait for me.”

“Always.”Max leans forward until his forehead touches yours — nothing showy. Nothing loud. Just a man who burns too hot, finally landing somewhere soft.

The door’s still open. Anyone could walk in.

But he doesn’t care.

“Still mine?” he murmurs, voice like gravel.

“Since lap one,” you whisper back

And when the interviews start and the crowd wants their champion back… he walks out like nothing’s changed.

But his hand brushes yours on the way out. Just once. Just enough.

part two. masterlist.

[rawrfrferrari]

Bad Romance | MV 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x girlfriend!oc

Type: SMAU, PR Relationship.

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

f1wagsofficial

Liked by maxverstappendaily, maxlanaupdates and others

f1wagsofficial Spotted: Alana arriving solo two days in a row for FP & Quali while boyfriend Max Verstappen took the back entrance into the paddock.

Cameras caught only a few interactions, but let’s see what Sunday brings.

view all comments

gridgirlie she literally looked stunning yesterday I would also want to make a solo entrance

wifeverstappen lmao that fake couple arc lasted like 3 weeks

f1wagstea i don’t blame her. fake or not, she’s gotta protect her peace lol

redbullbabe33 maybe she’s letting max focus?? she doesn’t have to be glued to him lol

username1 idk they both seem chill… not everyone’s gonna cling for clout

lecfosi16 wasn’t she supposed to be at the garage? hmm

→ f1wagsofficial I think she was in the garage for quali, rest of the time she was I the club with his mother.

username2 first the kiss leak, now this… they were never meant to be.

maxlanaupdates maybe it’s to avoid giving the press too much too soon?

tifosiangel not y’all assuming they’re breaking up cause she showed up in her own car 😭

alana.miller

📍Monaco Grand Prix

maxlanaupdates

Liked by f1wagsofficial, maxlanaupdates and others

maxlanaupdates Max and Alana shows up at paddock together. Also Alana was also spotted going to the garage with his mother.

view all comments

redbullbabe33 She fits in like she’s been there all the time.

maxlanaschild Her walking ahead to give the journalists space to interview max.

wifeverstappen Max isn’t smiling like that… he looks tired not happy.

username1 Max really upgraded tbh 👀

trulylandhoe I feel like Lando’s definitely teasing Max about this rn 😂

maxyfanforever She got the mom approval y’all. IT’S REAL.

username2 Can she chill for one race? Just one?

teamalanam The way she waved at the cameras all sweetly 🥹

tracktales Too fast, too PR-coded for me.

TO LANDO'S PARTY

Max was behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering lightly, the other resting on the gearshift. He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, just the soft hum of the engine and occasional chatter from the outside world slipping through the barely cracked window.

Alana glanced sideways at him. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the road, but not in the angry way she’d feared.

"You good?" she asked gently.

He nodded, but then shook his head. "Not really. P4 feels like a loss when you’ve been fighting for the top since round one."

"You drove hard," she offered. "It wasn’t your fault, strategy was all over the place."

Max sighed. "It’s not even about the position anymore. I just... I don’t feel like I’m enjoying it right now."

Alana stayed quiet for a beat, then said, "You’re allowed to be tired of something, even if you’re good at it."

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Problem is, I’m expected to be good at it. No room for tired."

The car rolled to a slow stop at a red light. Max leaned back, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

"But hey," he said suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Lando won today! That made it better. I saw how happy he was when he got out of the car."

Alana smiled. "He deserves it."

"Yeah. I told him after the cooldown lap. ‘Bout time someone shut us all up." He chuckled.

She said, adjusting her hair in the rearview. "Finally, You've stopped sulking."

He shot her a sideways look. “I’m not sulking. You’re annoying."

"But I'm right."

The light turned green. He shifted gears and they eased forward, city lights starting to flicker more vibrantly now that dusk was sliding in.

"Thanks for not letting Anna push me much today," Max said quietly, eyes on the road. "I know you probably had content to post but-"

Alana tilted her head. "You think I care about posting when you’re this grumpy?"

"I’m not grumpy."

"You’re very moody." She poked his dimple. He didn’t argue that one. Just smiled faintly as they turned toward the coastline, Lando’s party venue coming into view in the distance, lights already blaring.

alana.miller

tagged : maxverstappen1, landonorris

landonorris

tagged : maxverstappen1, alana.miller

caption: MAMA YE PAPA

maxverstappen1

liked by alana.miller, zendaya and others

maxverstappen1 I’ve been replaced from the favourite to the second favourite.

tagged: alana.miller, victoriaverstappen

view all comments

alana.miller You’ll always be my favorite, grump.

victoriaverstappen The babies adore her, what can I say? 😌

→ alana.miller I adore you all 💗

wagsexpose101 Who brings a full look to a family dinner if not for the cameras?

maxxalana.fp This is the content we needed. Thank you Max 🙏🏼

landonorris You’re lucky to even be second now tbh.

alana.miller In my defence, I give better cuddles and lots of snacks. 🐣

→ maxverstappen1 Where are mine?

→ alana.miller Get done with the sim fast

→ maxverstappen1 You dont know how fast I can be 😏

username1 They’re such a soft couple, my heart can’t take it.

wifeyverstappen Look how uncomfortable the kids are 😣

f1wagsdaily Jos leaving max at the gas station again because he's p2 in his family's favourite hierarchy now...

username2 Can we get a moment without the “look how perfect she is” rollout?

alanamiller4ever Her with Max's niece 🥺

username3 Them flirting in the comments was not on my bingo card for 2025

alana.miller

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and others

alana.miller Monaco Memories 📸🩶

tagged: maxverstappen1, victoriaverstappen

view all comments

maxverstappen1 You can't gang up with my cats against me.

→ alana.miller You're in my team first 😘

victoriaverstappen Monaco’s finest 🤩

wifeyverstappen Tell me you're a gold digger bitch with telling me you're a gold digger bitch.

kikagomes Cutie, we should hang out sometimes?

→ alana.miller Absolutely !!

username1 Mother is mothering the cats, kids ad Max.

username2 No one’s life is this perfect.

alanamiller.fp That dock photo made me sob. She’s such a softie 🥺

landonorris J and S chose their queen and we all bow

username3 All this for a girl Max met less than three months ago…

lilymhe adorableeee💕

alanaxmaxie Her and Max feel like endgame.

maxrbfanclub Max blink twice if you’re being PR-managed.

alanamillerdaily Max can you fight?

SPANISH GRAND PRIX, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The backdrop was loud, engines cooling, crews moving gear, fans still chanting names in the distance.

Max, helmet off and fireproofs unzipped to his waist, stood in front of the Red Bull hospitality wall. Reporters swamping around him to get content after the disappointing race.

“Max, obviously not the result you’d hoped for today, P10 after a tough weekend. Do you think your very public relationship with a model might be affecting your focus?”

Everything froze for just a second too long. Max’s jaw clenched. He looked directly at the reporter. Then took a step closer.

“Let me be very clear, my personal life has nothing to do with what happens on track. My girlfriend anything but a distraction. She's very supportive and keeps me grounded in ways most people wouldn’t understand.” His cold tone intimidated the reporter who gulped down and quivered back a little.

The paddock quieted a little around him. “If I finish P10, that’s on me and the car, not on the person who’s stood beside me through every frustrating weekend and still shows up with the same energy and belief.”

He took another breath, running a hand through his hair, still damp under the sun. “I’ll take responsibility for every race result. But don’t ever reduce a woman’s presence in a man’s life to a distraction just because it fits your headline.”

And with that, he gave a short nod to the Red Bull comms manager and walked off with his jaw tight.

RED BULL HOSPITALITY, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The door to the Red Bull hospitality swung open a little too sharply, catching the attention of everyone inside.

Max strode in, lips pressed into a hard line. A few heads turned, but no one said anything.

Alana stood near the coffee bar, laughing softly with Geri, Christian Horner's wife, one hand holding a bottle of water, the other brushing her hair behind her ear. Her smile made him feel like everything outside that moment could wait.

Max exhaled slowly. Without a word, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Alana jolted slightly in surprise, then relaxed instantly into his arms.

“Hi,” she whispered with a soft laugh, reaching up to place her hand over his.

Geri’s brows lifted slightly, but she smiled knowingly. “Hello Max. I’ll give you two a minute,” she murmured before excusing herself.

Alana leaned her head slightly toward his shoulder, smiling gently. “You okay?” she asked, keeping her voice low, not wanting to push him. She assumed it was the frustrating P10.

Max didn’t say anything. Instead, he just buried his face into the crook of her neck for a beat, breathing in. Alana’s brows furrowed a little, her instincts kicking in.

Still, she didn’t ask again. She just slipped her hand behind his back and began rubbing slow, soothing circles against the tense line of muscle just above his spine.

Max’s grip on her eased just slightly. “Come on, Let's get back to the hotel.” she murmured after a moment, lacing their fingers as they stepped out of the hospitality, the early evening sun casting long shadows down the paddock.

As they made their way to the parking lot, Alana didn’t rush asking questions. She knew how heavy he was feeling and didn't need someone to poke him right now.

alana.miller

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alana.miller 🍒🇪🇸✨

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maxverstappen1 Still stamina‑checked by churros ❤️

→ alana.miller 😳

→ lando.norris 🤮 eww get a room

→ maxverstappen1 we already did. Bye ✌🏻

lilyzneime when are we doing another girls’ day?

→ alana.miller As soon as our fanboys stop being clingy. Sure...

→ lilymhe frrrr

wagscentral We loved a cultured girl 😌

flavybarla this Monday deserves a mini vlog 😌

→ alana.miller best monday

alanahatereww no one asked for 8 photos

→ alanapretty no one asked for your opinion lol

kellypiquetlove Max downgraded y’all just scared to say it

kikagomez barcelona dumped and slayed.

→ alana.miller 💕

username1 Her and Max are my Roman Empire

maxlanaforever i just know max has that 3rd pic as his lock screen

lilymhe PhD in ig dumps.

→ alana.miller graduated with valedictory.

zendaya suddenly i need to book a barcelona flight

→ alana.miller @/tomholland2013 Listen to ur wife.

→ tomholland2013 Sure Ma'am.

f1truthbombs influencer energy is so off-putting in F1

maxlanaupdates They stayed Monday and Tuesday to explore the city instead of going to Montreal or back to Monaco 🥹

username2 They're so cheeky and flirty. I can't 😭

maxielovebot trying hard to be interesting lol

alanamillerfpmodel The vroom vroom boy treating our girl right 🫶🏽

MAX'S HOTEL ROOM, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

Anna tapped her pen against a Red Bull-branded notepad, scanning the week’s headlines on her tablet while Lexi sat poised, legs crossed, notes already highlighted in pastel pink.

Max was slouched in a chair near the window, in his Red Bull polo. Alana sat on the edge of the bed.

“Alright,” Anna began, sliding her tablet across the table. “The race day fallout is manageable, but the clip of the interview is gaining traction.”

Max didn’t flinch. “Good. He deserved to be shut down.”

Lexi gave a small nod of approval. “Your response plays well in your favor. We’ve already flagged and slowed a few of the harsher edits circulating. But you two need to recalibrate what’s public and what’s not.”

“I didn’t plan to say anything,” Max muttered. “But I’m not going to let her being bullied or frowned down like this” He waved a hand vaguely.

Alana looked at him quietly. Lexi cleared her throat. “It’s good that you’re comfortable. But now we have to be intentional. Especially with the next race and the movie premiere.”

Anna adjusted her glasses. “Speaking of... Max, are we still holding on your travel plans for Montreal?”

“No,” he said. “I want her there.”

That landed heavy in the room. Alana blinked once. “You want me at the Canadian GP?”

He looked at her directly now. “Yes. After the way Barcelona ended… I want you there.”

Lexi glanced at her client, gauging her reaction. Alana didn’t smile, but she gave the smallest nod.

“Fine by me,” Lexi said, scribbling it into her planner. “That actually works better for the timeline. You both land in Canada wednesday morning, stay through the weekend. On Monday you fly to New York for the premiere with Christian, Geri and Yuki”

Alana tilted her head, brushing her hair behind her ear slowly. “If I show up for Canada and the premiere… you’re coming to my Dior collection launch.”

There was a beat of silence. Max met her eyes. “Done.”

Anna blinked. “You’ll be in Paris?”

“I’ll be in Paris,” he confirmed, glancing sideways at Lexi. “Send me the details.”

Lexi didn’t hide her surprise, just jotted it down on her planner.

“So,” Anna summarised, exhaling. “Montreal GP with joint press coverage. NYC F1 premiere, coordinated entrance, brief interaction on-camera. Then Dior’s Paris launch.”

“And after that,” Lexi said, “You two owe each other absolutely nothing… for at least 72 hours.”

Alana let out a quiet laugh. “Oh Thank God!”

Max rolled his eyes as she smirked playfully. He stood up rolling his shoulders back. “I'll see you in Montreal.”

MAX AND ALANA'S ROOM, MONTREAL - JUNE 2025

The adjoining door creaked open at exactly 10:43 a.m., like it always did whenever she entered without knocking.

Max was sitting on the armrest of the couch in his room, still half-dressed in team shirt with a towel wrapped around his waist. hair towel-dried and sticking up slightly in the back. His lanyard lay discarded on the table next to his phone.

Alana stepped in like she lived there. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for brunch with the girls,” she said, adjusting her twisted pendent in the mirror while he went back inside to wear his skinny jeans, Alana wishes to burn someday.

Max gave a slow nod, glancing at the mirror as he ran his hand through his hair halfheartedly. “Hmm. Lando offered to have dinner together.”

"Sure." Alana smiled faintly. “Don’t let them get under your skin.” She looked at him in the eye and straightened the collar of his shirt.

He looked over. “They won’t.”

“They will,” she corrected. “It’s media day. That's what they do.”

He huffed something that resembled a laugh. She picked up the Red Bull cap he’d tossed onto the coffee table and walked over to him, adjusting the peak slightly before pressing it into his hands.

“And if anyone brings up Monaco or Barcelona,” she added, tilting her head as she met his eyes, “Just say something vague, and walk away. Don't rage on them.”

He gave a slow blink. “You sound like my PR manager.”

“I should be,” she muttered under her breath, patting is arm. Max didn’t move.

She glanced at the time on his wall clock, then stepped up and leaned in. Her mouth brushing softly against his cheek, like it was a habit.

“Don’t cause trouble before brunch is over,” she said, grabbing the tote bag from the back of the chair.

Max came back to his senses and shyly muttered “I won’t.”

“You always say that.” And with that, she slipped back into her room, the door closing quietly behind her.

Max sat back on the couch and stared at the cap in his hand, the ghost of her kiss still warm on his cheek.

MONTREAL, CANADA - JUNE 2025

The brunch spot was tucked into a cobbled corner of Montreal. The five women had claimed a table near the window, half inside, half open to the breeze.

Alana sat between Flavy and Kika, long legs crossed, sipping her citrus drink. Their laughter flowed easily, until the tone shifted.

It started when two girls, maybe mid-twenties, who sat at the table behind them with red bull merch on, one of them holding her phone angled just enough to not look like she was recording.

Alana noticed them. It came like a sixth sense to notice cameras, after the becoming a public figure.

She didn’t say anything, but Flavy leaned over and muttered, “Ignore it.”

Then came the whispers. Loud enough to be intentional, soft enough to feign innocence. “She’s literally everywhere now. Like, why is she even in Canada?”

“I mean, Max is totally being managed. You can see it in his interviews, he looks drained.”

“She’s just another PR stunt. A stylish one, but still fake.” The table fell quiet for a moment.

Alana didn’t flinch. She calmly reached for the small silver butter knife and spread jam onto her toast.

Flavy glanced at her. “You good?”

“Peachy,” Alana said with a soft smile.

A few minutes passed. More laughter, more food, more ignoring the noise.

Until the girls stood up and approached their table, all too friendly now.

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt, but—” the taller one smiled too wide, “we’re huge Max fans, and we brought this little gift for him.”

She held out a small box, red ribbon wrapped around it. The other one chimed in, “Would you mind giving it to him? You know, since you’re… with him?”

“And maybe a quick selfie? You look sooo pretty!”

Kika blinked. Lily stared. Carmen looked like she might throw her coffee.

Alana smiled, sweetly and slowly rose, brushing crumbs off her cream skirt, and accepted the gift with delicate fingers.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I’d be happy to pass this along.”

The girls beamed. “But just a quick note—” Alana tilted her head, stepping just slightly closer, “next time you want to dissect a woman’s relevance, maybe don’t do it at the table directly behind her while wearing merch from the man she just kissed goodbye this morning.”

The girls’ faces paled instantly. Alana didn't stop smiling. She stepped back and handed her phone to Lily with a knowing look. “Shall we?”

The selfie was snapped, awkward but civil. The girls mumbled thanks and quickly retreated, muttering apologies that didn’t reach past their teeth.

alanamiller

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alanamiller Rooting only for the best 🤞🏼

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maxverstappen1 ❤️💙

→ alana.miller 😘

kikagomes queen of showing up and showing OUT

→ alana.miller Why hide such a masterpiece when you can flaunt 💁🏻‍♀️

alanamilfan rooting for her like she roots for him.

maxverstappen1 Stealing my kit so I have more casuals. Wow.

→ alana.miller Love You too 🫶🏽

f1sippingtea Her and Carman cheering for their boys together 🥺

redbullracing No one could slay the RB t-shirt better then you ☺️❤️

→ alana.miller It's totally my colour right !? 🥺

maxsrealwife you’re not the main character. he is.

→ alana.miller Always ❤️

→ username1 kdhckdsuvcouwa

→ maxlanaschild Gurl-

carmenmundt Goerge isn't taking you getting all the attention well 😂

→ alana.miller Sassy little bitch

→ georgerussell 🙄

username2 imagine treating fans like garbage and then posting this like nothing happened

flavybarla This is giving First Lady of Red Bull 🫡

madformax33 you were SO sweet to the little girl in the paddock 😭😭😭

victoriaverstappen Bests💙

→ alana.miller 💙

verstappenlion still convinced this is a PR thing...

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alanamiller off track & in the moment 🍁

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maxverstappen1 Why do I agree to roam around everywhere. I HATE IT.

→ landonorris You love my company. Admit it ☺️

→ alana.miller Delulando. We allowed you to hang around so we could get pictures 😂

→ landonorris 🖕🏻

→ maxverstappen1 LANDO NORRIS!

lilymhe she said “casually thriving”

landonorris No PC? You're such a hater 😒

→ alana.miller Cry me a river 😂

verstappensgirl she’s trying SO hard to stay relevant

username1 i miss when wags stayed in the background 😴

maxlanacontent He made it to the first pic of the dump 🥺

danielricciardo jimmy and sassy wants to know your location 😾🔫

→ alana.miller Nooo. Love my babies unconditional!!

→ mamamax She's a keeper verstappen!!!

alanafansforever Yes Max. Keep her protected like that. Good boy.

maxlovergirl87 this is literally staged lol

username2 Girl got Max to touch grass after he started Maxplaining the race to her 😭 ♥︎ by author

→ maxlanaupdates 😂 Alana Liked

→ username2 She's so unhinged. I love her !

simp4alana Red Bull Sales 📈

lanmaxdo Alana bullying Lando was not on my 2025 bingo...

maxverstappen1

🎵 Welcome to New York. Taylor Swift

alana.miller

📍New York City, NY

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

Alana Miller Gets Ready for the F1 Movie Premiere | Vogue USA

Alana sat on a velvet stool by the window, sipping cold-brew out of a takeout cup. Her skin glowed from the spa she and max went to in the morning. Max was fresh out of shower in a white robe choosing from the three suits brought in for him.

“I’ll be camera ready in… probably 45 minutes,” she smiled, looking into the lens before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Or two hours if Max has anything to say about it.”

The shot shifted, her vanity scattered with Dior products, pins, palettes, and sticky notes scribbled with touch-up reminders. Her hairstylist, Allen, was sectioning her hair while her makeup artist prepped her skin with moisturiser. On the couch nearby, her stylist was steaming a black gown.

“I’ve been a fan of F1 since I was a kid,” Alana said as the camera slowly pushed in, capturing her reflection in the mirror, back straight, brows being brushed. “My mom was the one who introduced it to me when I was young, and since she worked in automative engineering, she used to tell me all the technical stuff.”

The crew asked which team was her favourite. She laughed lightly, eyes flicking to the stylist’s rack of shoes. “I had a Ferrari poster in my room. Now switched to Red Bull because… well.” She pointed back at her boyfriend.

The crew chuckled off-camera. Max, sitting on the bed behind her in the black suit muttered dryly while wearing his shoes.

"You've been to so many red carpet events and movie premieres. What excites you about this one?"

Alana didn’t even look back, just smirked, “Well, My boyfriend was an extra in tonight’s film. I don't know if they kept his scenes because of his acting skills but if he is, Blink and you’ll miss him.”

A subtle camera zoom on Max. He flicked a Red Bull cap at her and mouthed “rude” with a grin.

“This one’s different,” Alana continued, voice softer. “This one’s… home turf. I know these drivers. I know the stress behind the screens. I’ve seen the grit in the garages. So It'll be great to see the representation.”

They took a break so she could go and get changed in her dress. As she came out. Max came up to her to get his shirt fixed. He mumbled "You look really beautiful and really hot." She punched him before fixing his collar.

"How have you two worked with your busy schedule and still find time for each other?"

Her voice continued as she went back to pick her jewellery. “Max and I keep very different schedules but we try to keep some shared routine like get lunch together if we’re in the same city, talk about our day before sleep even if it’s just on the phone. I didn't have much on my plate since the fashion week season ended a while ago so I went to a few races. He'll try to come to a few shows or events when he can.”

Alana moved to sit on the edge of a chair, holding her heels as her team bustled around her.

“Okay,” she said, gesturing toward the room. “This is Allen, she was in my team since I joined my first agency. Malik’s my makeup artist, Sheiba isn't here today but usually it's the two of them. Daisy is my stylist with Dior.” She gave a tiny wave to her stylist steaming the dress.

“And” she glanced to the side, where Max was quietly chatting with his manager by the minibar. “That’s Max. My boyfriend. And over there is Raymond, his manager.”

The camera zoomed to Max raising his hand imitating her as he approached her. “Bye, Vogue.” Alana laughed as she put on her shoes.

vogueusa

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alanamiller Lights on and away we glam 🖤

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maxverstappen1 If it was upto me we wouldn't even be attending the event 😉

→ alana.miller I'm right next to you. you didn't have to be so public🫠

→ landonorris For the love of god there are children on this app. YOU PERVERT!!

→ maxverstappen1 🤷🏼‍♂️

babickovaeli very into this femme fatale era 🖤

→ alana.miller 🫶🏽

alanastylecloset I would personally like to thank her makeup artist and the gown designer for this global gift.

yukitsunoda0511 Max wearing things other than redbull kit is weird.

→ alana.miller I can be quite persuasive 😁

→ maxverstappen1 Yeah you threatened to burned my kit if I didn't comply 🙇🏻‍♂️

kikagomes Gorgeous 🖤

f1tracktrash funny how she’s suddenly SO into F1 now that she’s dating the champ 🤡

landonorris Show Stealers!!!

lestappen4ever They’re making her the main character when it’s literally a movie premiere not about her 😭

victoriaverstappen danger couple 🔥

maxlanaupdates THE KISS 😭🥺🥵

maxverstappenwifey Girl cover up this is a movie premiere not a whore house show!!

damsonidris Damn girl, I could never serve so hard 😭

→ alana.miller You were literally the main character. STOPPP

lilymhe @/maxverstappen Can you fight 😁🥊

→ maxverstappen1 You bet 😡

→ alana.miller OK OK OK... No need to start a war here...

→ maxverstappen1 I'd start ww3 for you.

→ alana.miller Max. Don't.

→ maxverstappen1 I. Would.

alonamiller the most personality she’s shown is her back 🙃

maxmaxsupermax She gave max a major glow up 😭

alanaxangles The fact that she made the caption about F1. My creative goddess

paddockdevilwags One kiss doesn’t make this a love story, let’s chill.

kellymaxperfect You have a boyfriend but still wears such clothes to attest attention. Kelly would've never dressed like this🙄

modelsdailytea Dior does her so right!!!!!

maxverstappen1 If my girl being so hot bother you. You can get off her page 😒

→ alana.miller What happened to you 😭. Max you need to stop. pleaseeee

→ maxverstappen1 Never 👎

lanabananasupremacy max better thank the universe every night. every. single. night.

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The hotel room was quiet except for the sound of traffic from the street below. Max and Alana was sitting back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone with a clenched jaw, eyes scanning comment after comment on Alana's page either calling them out as a PR or blatantly hating on her for no reason.

Alana watched him from the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing as he typed back on her comment section. She tried to end his comments with a funny reply but he didn't stop. Without warning, she reached over and snatched the phone out of his hands.

“Hey—” Max reached out to take it back, but she dodged him effortlessly, tossing it somewhere behind her.

“Nope,” she said, swinging one leg over and straddling him before he could shift. “Now you’re stuck.”

Max looked up at her, breath hitching just slightly, like he hadn’t expected her to sit that close. She tucked her legs around his so he couldn’t move.

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’ve been grumpy since I posted on Instagram. Why are you being so… passive aggressive?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “This is supposed to be a fun night.”

His jaw tightened again, but the frustration had a different tint to it now. “People don’t get to say that kind of shit about you, Alana. Especially when they know nothing about you.”

Alana scoffed, her voice rising. “Okay, but maybe I don’t need you to go full knight in shining armour every time someone online has a bad opinion—!”

“You think it doesn’t get to me?” he interrupted, quieter than her but sharper. “You think I’m just supposed to let people talk about you like that?”

“It wouldn't look good on our end, Max,” she snapped, her voice trembling as she leaned in, “I need you to trust that I can handle it—”

A strand of hair fell out of the clip at the back of her head. She was mid-rant when he reached up and gently pushed it behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek.

She stopped mid-sentence, her breath hitched. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice suddenly small.

He didn’t answer. Instead, Max pulled her to his chest, arm wrapped firm around her waist as his lips met hers, full of passion.

When he pulled back, his hands came to cradle her face, and he kissed her forehead soft and slow.

It broke something in her. “What the hell was that?”, she snapped. Alana pushed off his lap, her voice breaking just slightly as she stood, stumbling back like the air had shifted too suddenly.

“Alana—” Max stood, his voice low.

“You can’t do that, Max!” she shouted, not caring if the entire floor heard her.

“I wasn’t thinking—” he started, stepping toward her.

“No, you weren’t!” she cut in, swatting his hand away when he tried to reach for hers.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and stormed toward the door. Max didn’t stop her. He just stood there, chest rising and falling a little too fast, fists clenched at his sides.

She left. And for a long minute, the room stayed very, very quiet.

HOTEL'S BAR, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The bar was mostly empty. Dim lighting pooled in soft gold over scattered high tables and the long marble counter. Low jazz played through old speakers.

The only other people were a cluster of businessmen laughing too loudly in a booth and a woman sitting on a barstool, hunched slightly over a glass of red.

Alana slid onto another, deliberately leaving a seat between them. She needed space and so did the lady, by looking at her sad demeanour.

Max’s name lit up her phone again. Call after call. Text after text. She stared at the screen, lips tightening, then flipped it on silent and tossed it into her purse.

Running both hands through her hair, she exhaled and flagged down the bartender. “One spicy martini. Heavy on the jalapeños.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Just nodded and turned.

Her pulse was still racing. Her chest felt too tight. She didn’t know if she was angry at Max or angry at herself for caring so much.

She heard the ice shake in the shaker. The click of glasses being set on the counter.

“Man?” a voice said beside her.

Alana glanced over, surprised the other woman had spoken. The stranger didn’t look at her, just kept her eyes on her wine glass, twirling the stem between her fingers. Her accent was faintly Indian.

Alana gave a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

The woman turned then and Alana’s eyes widened slightly. She recognized her. “Wait... You’re Gia Kapoor, right? One of the producers of the F1 Movie?”

Gia smiled faintly, her expression tired but not unfriendly. “Guilty. And you're Alana Miller. I attended a few fashion week where you modelled. And tonight, girlfriend of the fastest driver.”

Alana scoffed, taking a sip of her martini. “Apparently.”

Gia raised a brow. “Apparently?”

There was a pause. Then Gia shifted slightly on her stool, angling toward her. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she said. “But... if it makes you feel better, I came down here because I’m confused about a guy, too.”

Alana blinked. “Seriously?”

Gia nodded. “Our parents got us arranged. We’ve been ‘engaged’ for a while. We didn’t even meet until a month ago.” She laughed lightly. “And it turns out… Ive had a crush on him since a long time. He’s funny and very mature.”

Alana listened quietly, sipping her martini.

“But,” Gia continued, fingers tapping her glass, “he told me after our engagement that he doesn’t think he can give me what I want. That he’s too tied up in his career. Too unsure of what love even looks like in this world.”

Alana’s expression softened. “Asshole. But what can I say I'm stuck in the same spiral.”

Gia looked at her. “But aren’t you and Max together?”

Alana hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “Well yes, but it’s… complicated. We started off as PR.”

“But?” Gia asked.

“But tonight, upstairs, he kissed me like it wasn’t fake. And then he acted like it meant something. And I’m not sure if it did.” Alana’s voice cracked slightly at the end. She laughed bitterly. “And I hated how much I wanted it to mean something.”

Gia was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, slow and knowing “Alana, I was at the premiere. I saw you two together. I’ve seen people in love.” She looked straight at her. “What you and Max have? That wasn’t for show.”

Alana opened her mouth, but Gia held up a hand. “I’m quite a romantic. How can I complain, I grew up around the film industry and it comes like inherited trait. I could tell, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Alana stared down at her drink. “Talk to him,” Gia said gently. “ If there’s a real shot at something… you shouldn’t run from it just because it started out written in fine print.”

Alana didn’t answer. She just sat there, eyes blurry and still, then gave a slow nod.

They continued talking for a while before she put the bill of her three martinis on Max's tab. He deserves this after what he did.

Gia stood, dropping a few bills on the bar with a casual flick of her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you up. You’re on twelve, right?”

Alana blinked. “Yeah. How’d you—?”

Gia grinned. “My fiancé is on the same floor, so I saw max when I went to his room before.”

Alana slid off the stool, smoothing down the folded hem of her pyjama shirt.

As they reached the elevator, Gia pulled out her phone. “Give me your number.”

Alana arched a brow. Gia smirked. “Support group for women entangled with emotionally repressed, work-obsessed men. We should be friends.”

" Of course" Alana laughed again and gave it. The elevator opened, and they stepped in. Once on twelve, Gia stepped out with her. “Which one’s yours?”

“1216,” Alana said, pointing to the right. "We have to share the room tonight."

Gia made a face. “You poor thing."

They walked together in silence until they reached her door. Gia stopped. “You good?”

Alana nodded. “Actually, can I come over to yours, if its alright either way you”

Gia shrugged, then pulled her into a brief hug "— the kind that didn’t feel forced, just warm and real. "Come on. I have some takeouts leftovers. We can watch a movie too."

taglist: @livelaughleclerc, @ale-522, @zulema222, @angelluv16, @kazansky-slxt, @formulaal, @esw1012, @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane, @freyathehuntress, @sltwins, gabrielaperez11

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[uluvjay]

Do they bite?- F1 edition

Other headcannons!

| CHARLES LECLERC | Everyday Charles does not bite however Tipsy horny Charles is a different story. When he’s got some liquid courage he turns into a piranha nipping at any skin he can reach while you help get him ready for bed. Not the biggest fan of getting bit in return, he’ll blush and go shy.

| LANDO NORRIS | Yes, sexually, teasingly, anyway he can sink his teeth into you he is. Likes to get bit back tbh…it’s a game he very much enjoys.

| MAX VERSTAPPEN | Yes and no. Similar to Charles it’s not his everyday thing. However mad max loveees to bite on his girl. Hips, boobs, lips, neck, thighs, anywhere he can sink his teeth. He’ll smirk when you bite his lips or nip at his skin when you kiss down his neck but that’s about as far as he lets you get.

| OSCAR PIASTRI | Oscar is not a biter, he’ll occasionally teasingly bite your finger if you feed him something. But just because he doesn’t bite doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to be bit…

| LEWIS HAMILTON | Not really his thing, he’ll occasionally bite your lip during a makeout but it’s not something he typically does. He’s not into getting bit either, it’s just not for him.

| CARLOS SAINZ | Yes, yes, yes, he loves when you wear outfits that show some skin, he always nips your shoulder when he places a kiss there. Inner thighs always littered with bite marks and left over bruises, lips always slightly swollen from where he bites. Biting is only for him, he wants to bite not to be bit.

| ALEX ALBON | Yes but not sexually, he’ll bite you to piss you off or if you’re not paying attention to him, bites your fingers when you feed him something, honestly just does it to be a little shit. Doesn’t care for being bit back, only he gets to bother you with that.

| DANIEL RICCIARDO | Yes, does it to be a shit but also enjoys it in the bedroom. Lips, neck, hips, ass, thighs, inner thighs, anywhere he’s able to sink his teeth during sex you’ll find a bite mark left behind! Enjoys when you bite back :)

[verstappenverse]

hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hiii. I live your stories so much and I just wanted to say you are my favourite author on Tumblr. Could I maybe request Carlos 16 year old daughter celebrating her quinceañeras (it sometimes gets celebrated in Spain). And maybe she smokes a it of weed and Lando and Oscar try to help her hide it. Like in Superstore (that's a show on netflix).

Thank you so much. I love you and your stories.❤️❤️❤️

Quinceañera

The music was loud. The lights were soft. The pastel pink decorations, gold balloons, and flower garlands twinkled in the overhead chandeliers. In the center of the ballroom stood Yn Sainz — fifteen years old, radiant, and more than a little overwhelmed. Her baby pink gown shimmered as she turned slowly, cheeks rosy, eyes wide.

Carlos stood at the edge of the dance floor, jaw tight, hands clenched behind his back, tears welling in his eyes.

“She’s grown up,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“I know,” Rebecca said from beside him, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, but also sipping champagne like a woman who knew this night was going to turn sideways eventually.

“I still remember when she tried to eat a tire at the McLaren garage,” Carlos said, voice cracking.

“That was a Lego tire, Carlos,” Rebecca said gently. “And she was three.”

“She’s still my baby.”

From across the room, Uncle Lando and Uncle Oscar were arguing over who got to cut the cake. Not help cut the cake — cut it. With a sword. Which neither of them was supposed to be near.

“Why would you get to hold the sword?” Lando huffed.

“Because I’m trustworthy,” Oscar replied, holding it up like King Arthur.

“You once got locked inside a portable toilet for forty-five minutes.”

“That was sabotage.”

“By a child.”

“That child had a vendetta, Lando!”

“Okay, boys,” Rebecca interrupted as she passed them, grabbing the sword with ease. “If you want to cut anything, go dance.”

“Fine,” they both mumbled, watching the sword disappear like it had just been taken by a Hogwarts professor.

Meanwhile, Yn and her gaggle of best friends — Valeria, Sofía, and Luna — snuck away from the buffet. They all looked like angels. If angels wore rhinestones and whispered things like “Okay, if we just go around the fountain and past Tío Javi, we can light it there.”

The joint, a skinny thing passed from Valeria’s older brother, was unceremoniously lit behind a floral arch made of artificial roses and pure teenage rebellion.

“Oh my God,” Yn giggled after her first hit. “I think I saw the balloon arch blink.”

“You did not!” Luna wheezed, coughing dramatically into her elbow.

Sofía, the chaos gremlin of the group, took an especially long drag, holding it like she was training for the Olympics. “No, wait. She might be right. That arch is looking at me funny.”

The four of them were now officially high at the most extravagant quinceañera southern Spain had seen in recent memory.

Back inside, the music had shifted from soft salsa to full reggaetón. Carlos was visibly vibrating.

“Who let Bad Bunny on the playlist?” he demanded. “That’s too suggestive.”

“It’s her birthday, cariño,” Rebecca replied, calmly eating an empanada. “She’s not going to become a criminal because Daddy Yankee came on.”

Carlos’s expression said he wasn’t convinced.

Meanwhile, Yn re-entered the ballroom like she was walking on pillows made of glitter. She was high. Blissfully, surreally high. And doing her very best to look like a normal, not-at-all-buzzed young lady.

“Smile,” she whispered to herself. “Smile like you don’t hear colors.”

She made her way to the table where Lando and Oscar were now seated with a plate full of churros between them.

“Uncles!” she greeted, a little too enthusiastically.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Hey, sweetheart. You okay?”

“Of course! I’m totally... ceiling.”

“...Ceiling?” Lando repeated.

“I meant feeling!” Yn said quickly. “I’m feeling great! So much...pink! Did you know your faces are wiggling?”

Oscar blinked.

Lando dropped his churro.

“Oh no,” Lando whispered. “She’s on drugs. She’s high. She’s stoned at her quinceañera. WE’RE GOING TO JAIL!”

“Calm down!” Oscar hissed. “She’s not going to jail — we are if you keep shouting like that!”

Yn sat down slowly, her hands hovering above the chair like it might disappear. “Is this chair...conscious?”

Oscar leaned forward. “Yn. What did you do?”

“Nothing! Nothing bad! I’m just...you know...a little elevated.”

“ELEVATED?” Lando shrieked. “You’re fifteen!”

“I was peer pressured!” Yn said quickly. “Valeria’s brother gave us a joint. It smelled weird and then we laughed at a balloon for twenty minutes.”

“Oh God,” Lando muttered, staring at his own hands. “What if I accidentally inhale second-hand weed smoke? What if I fail a drug test at McLaren?”

“You haven’t been at McLaren in years, Lando.”

“I still want to pass things, Oscar!”

Oscar, ever the steady hand, turned to Yn. “Okay. You’re clearly high. How do you feel?”

“Like the churros are talking about me,” Yn replied solemnly.

“Okay. She’s not dangerous,” Oscar nodded. “Just deeply paranoid.”

Carlos, meanwhile, was hunting for his daughter with the same intensity he brought to qualifying laps. “Has anyone seen Yn?” he asked random guests. “She was supposed to be back for the father-daughter dance!”

“Maybe she went to the bathroom?” someone offered.

“I’m checking all the bathrooms.”

He stormed off.

Rebecca calmly ate another empanada.

Back at the table, Oscar was coaching Yn like she was about to take her driver’s test.

“Okay, listen. Blink slowly. Don’t talk about chairs having souls. And if your dad asks how you are, just say, ‘I’m happy and grateful.’ Got it?”

Yn nodded solemnly. “I am a rock. I am a professional. I am...toast.”

“Oh for the love of—” Lando stood up. “We have to hide her. We need a closet or a dark pantry. Something neutral.”

“We’re not locking her in a pantry, Lando! What is this, Breaking Bad: Quinceañera Edition?!”

“She needs water,” Oscar said, standing. “And bread. I read that carbs help.”

Lando looked horrified. “She’s in heels and a tulle dress. She can’t exactly go full carb coma in the middle of the ballroom!”

Just then, Carlos returned.

“There you are!” he said, eyes lighting up. “The dance is about to start. Yn, come on.”

Yn turned very, very slowly.

“Hi Papa,” she said, blinking one eye at a time like a confused owl. “You look very...horizontal.”

Carlos froze.

Oscar jumped in. “She’s just tired! Emotional day. Hormones. Gowns. You know girls!”

Carlos narrowed his eyes.

“She smells like burnt leaves,” he said.

“She fell into a bush,” Lando blurted.

“WHAT?!”

“Not a real bush,” Oscar corrected. “A metaphorical bush. The bush of...growing up.”

Rebecca, who had walked up silently behind them, took one look at her daughter and burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” she said, grabbing Yn’s cheeks. “She’s baked.”

Carlos nearly fainted. “YOU WHAT?”

Yn’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Papá! I didn’t mean to, I just wanted to be cool and now I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster that smells like cinnamon!”

Lando was fanning himself with a plate. “This is a disaster. We’re going to be deported.”

“We live here, Lando,” Rebecca pointed out.

Carlos was pacing in a small circle, muttering in Spanish. “Mi hija...mi niña...marijuana?! On her quinceañera?!”

Oscar sat Yn down gently. “She’s not hurt. She’s just high. It’ll pass.”

Carlos rounded on her. “Who gave it to you?!”

Yn whimpered. “Valeria’s brother, but please don’t tell her parents! They’ll never let her hang out with me again and she helped me pick this dress!”

Carlos stared at the ceiling.

Rebecca sat beside Yn, patting her hand. “Sweetie, listen. We’re not mad.”

“We’re not?” Carlos demanded.

“We’re concerned. There’s a difference. You made a bad decision, but you’re not a bad person.”

“I smoked,” Yn whispered.

“I once accidentally shoplifted a roll of toilet paper when I was sixteen,” Rebecca replied. “We all do stupid stuff. The important thing is that we learn.”

“Thank you, Mamá,” Yn whispered, eyes brimming with tears.

Carlos sighed heavily, sitting on Yn’s other side.

“You scared me,” he said softly. “I just want you to be okay. No more joints.”

“Never again,” she said solemnly. “Everything smells like glitter and sadness.”

“That’s because you’re sitting next to Lando,” Oscar muttered.

“HEY!”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

Special love to my hermosa @kaworusgf

[daniiiboo]

mv1- every race, every hug

summary - max cant get his gloves on properly, so reader helps him.

dani's thoughts - first fic in my birthday countdown :)) i honestly love max, and this fic is so cute to mee

warnings - nothinn

word count - 610

read the rest of my birthday countdown fics : here !

It starts like it always does.

Max is pacing the floor of his motorhome in his race suit, one glove on, the other dangling from his fingers, his brows furrowed like something isn’t quite right. You’re leaning against the doorframe, watching him spin in little anxious circles.

"Max," you call out. He stops running, glancing over at you with that familiar look, like he requires help but is too arrogant to say so out loud.

You tilt your head. "Trouble?"

He raises his gloved hand in frustration.

"It's stupid," he mutters. "I can never get this one tightened up right. It's as if the glove has a sixth sense and knows when I'm rushed."

You smile and walk toward him, already reaching for the strap. “Here let me help you, I got it.”

Max chuckles under his breath. “You should be on the payroll.”

Pay me in hugs," you joke back to him, already getting the way the glove fits correctly, drawing it up tightly around his wrist like you have a dozen times. It's become a ritual now, quiet, intimate, something known by only the two of you before he faces the paddock storm.

When the glove is on and the strap buckled just so, you strike his knuckles and spread your arms.

"Okay. Now the other half of the bargain."

He comes in without thinking. Arms tight around you, helmet against your shoulder, his whole body unwinds in your arms. The tension before the race melts away to something more concrete.

"I hate how much this comforts me," he growls.

You grin. "Love you too."

The race is chaos.

There's rain on the track, there's a mid-race safety car, there's disaster narrowly avoided in Turn 11. Your heart's racing half the time, but your fingers are still tingling from tying his glove.

And then, he wins.

Not just a win, him dominating. Sprints a blistering last lap, crossing the line with space to spare before the next car even spots the checkered flag. The garage erupts. You're cheering along, but there is only one destination your eyes wander: the screen showing his face, red and flushed beneath the helmet.

You hardly realize he's pursuing you until you turn and see him running along the paddock walkway, helmet already off, rosy-cheeked and grinning.

He doesn't say anything. Just picks you up and holds you in his arms tightly enough that your feet lift off the ground for an instant.

"You were watching?" he asks, still panting.

"Of course," you laugh against his chest.

He belittles you but won't let go. No, he takes off one glove and shoves his fingers between yours.

"You're going to all the races now," he announces.

Your eyebrows jump. "What?"

Max edges closer.

"No more weekend skippings. I need you. The gloves won't fit on properly without you, and I don't win without the hug."

"Max—"

“I’m serious,” he cuts in, smiling but sincere. “You think it’s a coincidence I’ve had my best starts when you’re there? It’s the glove. It’s you. It’s us.”

You blink, overwhelmed for a second by how serious he is.

“But it’s, like… twenty-two races.”

He shrugs.

"Then we'll get you a paddock pass. Your own headset. I don't care. I just—" He stops, looking down at your clasped hands. "I'm better when you're there. And I drive better when I'm better."

You look at him, all windswept hair and pink cheeks and fireproofs unzipped halfway, and your heart actually aches with how much you love him.

"Okay," you whisper. "Every race. Every glove. Every hug."

He kisses your forehead, and your nose, and your lips.

"I'll win every damn time."