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wroetolando · 2 months ago

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𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚃𝚘 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍 | 𝙾𝙿𝟾𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: oscar piastri x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where oscar finally stops pretending he doesn’t feel something more

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: illicit affairs - taylor swift

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mild language, slight drinking

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The music thumped through the concrete walls of the club, bass vibrating through your bones, but your head was elsewhere—tilted slightly toward your friend as she leaned in to shout something over the noise. You gave her a lazy smile, lifting your drink in a half-hearted cheers. Around you, the place was buzzing: lights low and flickering, shadows moving across faces, bodies pressed too close together on the dance floor. The Monaco Grand Prix had wrapped up a few hours ago, and the entire grid was out blowing off steam.

Your eyes scanned the room.

Oscar had been there earlier—quiet, low-key as always—nursing a bottle of water and looking half-amused at the chaos around him. You hadn’t seen him for a while now. A couple of the McLaren engineers had dragged him off to some corner, and the last time you’d made eye contact, he’d given you a small smile and a nod, like he always did. Polite. Reserved. Maybe even too reserved sometimes.

You liked to think you understood him, though. You liked his quiet.

He wasn’t loud like some of the others. Didn’t need to be. He watched everything, took everything in, and when he said something, it always mattered. You found comfort in that—his steadiness. The way he never tried to be anything he wasn’t.

But just as your mind started drifting back to that moment—his hand brushing your back on the way past you earlier, a touch so subtle it barely counted—someone else appeared in your space.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” a voice purred beside you. Male. Confident. A little too close.

You blinked and turned your head.

He was tall, smug in the way only someone who thought the world owed them attention could be. Not a stranger—you recognized him immediately. Luis from the Red Bull garage. Not a driver, but in the inner circle. Technical lead, maybe? Something important enough to give him that air of entitlement. He leaned in with a smirk, already invading your bubble.

You shifted slightly but didn’t step back. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

He chuckled like you’d made a joke. “Because you don’t really strike me as the clubbing type. More… sophisticated, maybe.”

You gave a tight smile. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a diss.”

He lifted his drink, clinking it against yours without asking. “It’s a compliment. Trust me. I’ve noticed you.”

Of course you had. You were Oscar’s longtime friend, often seen in his garage, close enough to raise questions in the media, though neither of you had ever confirmed anything. You’d met before he ever joined F1—he was your best friend before the world knew his name.

And lately… things had started to shift. Long looks. Lingering touches. The silence between you wasn’t just comfortable anymore—it was charged.

Luis clearly didn’t care about any of that.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

You held up your half-full glass. “Already got one.”

“Then let me keep you company while you finish it.”

Before you could answer, someone stepped up behind you—close, solid, familiar in a way that instantly settled your spine.

Oscar.

You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. You felt him in the space beside you, in the calm he carried like armor.

His voice was cool, perfectly even. “Is there a problem?”

Luis raised an eyebrow, clearly not recognizing him immediately in the low lighting. “No problem here, mate. Just talking.”

Oscar didn’t even glance at him. His eyes were on you.

“You good?” he asked, voice low but firm.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Luis seemed to realize who he was dealing with and straightened slightly, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “Oh—Piastri, right? Big win today. Congrats.”

Oscar gave a curt nod. “Thanks.”

There was a pause. Tense. Awkward. Charged.

Luis gestured to your drink. “We were just having a chat. Didn’t realize I needed to check in first.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. Just a flicker—but you saw it. He didn’t rise to the bait.

“She’s not interested,” he said simply.

You blinked. Luis laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “Is that right?” He looked at you, smirking. “You need him to speak for you?”

Before you could reply, Oscar stepped forward just slightly. Not aggressive, not loud—just enough to shift the balance of power. You felt your heart jump.

“She doesn’t,” he said, voice calm. “But she shouldn’t have to waste her breath turning you down when she’s clearly uncomfortable.”

Luis’s expression shifted, irritation sparking behind his eyes. “You always this protective?”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Only when it’s mine to protect.”

Your breath caught.

Luis raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received.” He looked at you again, a final smirk. “If you change your mind…”

You didn’t even answer. Just turned away.

He walked off with his ego barely intact, and the moment he disappeared into the crowd, Oscar exhaled—shoulders softening, eyes finally meeting yours properly.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, a little stunned. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead, he just glanced toward the exit. “Wanna get out of here?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

You followed him out into the cool Monaco night, the music fading behind you, replaced by the distant sounds of waves and the muted buzz of traffic. The air smelled like salt and perfume and faint smoke.

You walked in silence for a while. Then, finally:

“What you said back there…” you started.

Oscar kept his gaze forward. “I meant it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You said—‘Only when it’s mine to protect.’ What does that mean?”

He stopped walking.

Turned to face you.

“It means I’ve been trying to ignore this for a long time,” he said softly. “You and me. But tonight, seeing someone else touch you—try to get close to you like that—it made me realize I don’t want to ignore it anymore.”

Your heartbeat was a drum in your chest. “Oscar…”

“I know I’m not always good at… this. Saying what I feel. But you’re not just someone I want to protect. You’re someone I—” He faltered. Then tried again. “You’re someone I care about. More than I’ve ever let myself say.”

You took a step closer. “Then say it now.”

His eyes searched yours.

“I want you,” he said quietly. “Not just as a friend. Not just around when it’s convenient. I want to be the person who gets to hold your hand in public. The one who walks you out of clubs and doesn’t have to pretend it’s just friendly concern.”

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body alive. “Then take me.”

He reached for your hand—his touch gentle, grounding—and pulled you toward him like he couldn’t help it anymore.

“Mine to defend,” he murmured again.

And this time, it didn’t sound like a warning.

It sounded like a promise.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You didn’t go home right away. Neither of you said it out loud, but there was a magnetic pull that kept your steps slow, meandering, following the coastline until the club lights had faded into the distance and only the soft splash of the sea against the rocks remained. The wind picked up slightly, and Oscar wordlessly shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It still smelled like him—clean, warm, something subtly expensive that reminded you of hotel sheets and late nights watching onboard footage while he mumbled strategy notes under his breath.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

You both sat on a low stone wall, looking out over the dark water. The city behind you pulsed with life, but here it was quiet. Still.

Oscar tilted his head, watching your profile. “You know I’ve always had your back, right?”

You turned your face toward him. “Yeah. But tonight was different.”

“I know.” His eyes dropped to where your fingers were laced. “I think I just… I got tired of pretending it wasn’t more than that.”

You gave a soft laugh. “Took you long enough.”

He smiled, that rare, private thing he only ever gave you—no cameras, no crowds. “You knew?”

“I hoped,” you admitted. “But you’re so… you. Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re reading telemetry or reading my mind.”

Oscar leaned his shoulder into yours. “Maybe both.”

A comfortable silence stretched out between you again, broken only by the distant buzz of engines and ocean. But beneath it, there was a different kind of tension now—like the air had shifted, like something fragile had cracked open.

You looked at him again, this time really looking.

“Why haven’t you ever made a move before?”

He hesitated. “Because I didn’t want to risk losing you.”

“And now?”

His thumb traced the back of your hand. “Now I think I’d rather risk everything than keep pretending I don’t want more.”

You inhaled sharply, the weight of his words sinking deep.

Before you could answer, he tilted his head, eyes searching yours again. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in, close enough that his breath mingled with yours, close enough to feel the way his fingers flexed against your hand.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild or frantic.

It was slow. Intentional. Like he’d waited forever for the moment and wanted to savor every second of it.

His lips were soft, but the way he kissed you was firm—sure. He wasn’t guessing. He knew. Knew how long you’d both waited, how close you’d always been, how inevitable this moment had become.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breath caught between a laugh and a sigh.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” you murmured.

He smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Only because I didn��t want to get it wrong.”

“You didn’t.”

Another silence. But now it felt different. Now it felt like a space being filled, not avoided.

You let your head fall onto his shoulder, and he leaned into you gently, his arm wrapping around your waist.

After a while, he spoke again.

“You know, I wasn’t going to say anything tonight.”

You raised your eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was going to let you have fun. Keep my distance. Same as always. But then he touched you.” His voice dipped lower. “And I saw your face. You didn’t want it, but you smiled anyway. Like you felt like you had to. And something in me just… snapped.”

You stayed quiet, letting the words settle.

“I’m not jealous,” he added quickly. “It’s not that. I just hated the idea of you feeling like you had to be polite when you were uncomfortable. And I hated that it wasn’t me standing next to you, making sure no one got the chance to cross that line.”

You sat up, turning to face him. “It’s okay to be protective.”

He shook his head. “It’s not just that. It’s the fact that you’re you. You always take care of everyone else. I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re alone in that.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Oscar…”

“I want to be the person who makes things easier. Not heavier.”

Your heart stuttered, emotions catching you off guard. You weren’t used to this from him—not like this. He was always the calm one. The steady hand. But now, he was the one laying himself bare, piece by piece.

You reached out, cupping his jaw gently. “You already are.”

The wind picked up again, and this time, you leaned into him not just because you wanted to—but because you could. Because he’d given you space to do so. Because he’d stepped out of his quiet shell and into something more.

He turned and kissed your temple. “So… what now?”

You gave him a crooked smile. “Now? You walk me back. You hold my hand. And tomorrow, maybe you buy me breakfast.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And after that?”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “I guess we see where this goes.”

He squeezed your hand, eyes never leaving yours. “I already know where it’s going.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not letting go this time.”

And somehow, in that moment, you believed him. Not because of the words, but because of the way he said them—quiet and steady, like everything else he did. Like a vow whispered in the dark, meant only for you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The streets of Monaco were mostly empty by the time Oscar walked you home, the city quiet in the way only post-race weekends could be—like it had finally exhaled after holding its breath through qualifying laps and champagne showers.

Neither of you said much, but the silence felt different now. Not awkward, not uncertain. Just… warm. You walked with your fingers intertwined, brushing shoulders every so often as if reminding yourselves this was real now. That nothing had to be hidden anymore.

When you reached the entrance of your building, you paused at the bottom step, turning to face him.

“So…” you began softly, voice low, tentative. “Is this the part where you say goodnight?”

Oscar looked down at you, his expression unreadable at first, then slowly melting into something softer. He glanced up at the building behind you. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you want me to say goodnight now, or in the morning.”

You smiled, heart skipping a beat. “In the morning sounds nice.”

His mouth twitched upward. “Yeah. I was hoping you’d say that.”

You led him upstairs with a quiet laugh, unlocking the door with slightly shaking hands. As you stepped into the cool, dim apartment, the nerves started to bubble—but Oscar’s hand at your back grounded you. Gentle. Steady. Still there.

He didn’t rush anything. He never did.

You offered him something to drink, and he took a glass of water, leaning against your kitchen counter while you sipped yours. The two of you talked quietly—about the race, the insane weather in FP2, the weird snack Daniel had dared Lando to eat during a team meeting—normal things. Familiar. Comforting.

But the longer the minutes passed, the more the unspoken pull between you built again.

You set your glass down first, stepping in front of him with eyes locked. His hands found your waist instinctively, and yours moved up to rest on his chest.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, whispering, “Yeah. I’m sure.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t the slow exploration of a first kiss. It was fuller, deeper—like a promise being made in pieces. His hands held your hips with reverence, his mouth on yours soft but certain, like he’d been waiting years to touch you like this.

You barely made it to the bedroom before his jacket fell to the floor, followed by yours, clothing shed like caution, tossed aside in favor of something braver. Something real.

Everything about Oscar that night was careful. Not hesitant—intentional. His touches weren’t possessive, but there was something about the way he held you, kissed you, looked at you like you were the only thing in his orbit that made it crystal clear:

You were his. And he was yours.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The morning came with soft sunlight spilling across the bed and tangled sheets. The Monaco streets below were waking up slowly, horns and footsteps echoing faintly through the open window.

You stirred before he did, blinking sleepily as you turned onto your side to face him.

Oscar was already halfway there—one arm draped lazily over your waist, his breathing steady. He looked so different like this. Softer. The faintest curls of hair messed up across his forehead, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, lips parted slightly with sleep.

You reached out, running a fingertip lightly down the curve of his cheek.

His eyes blinked open slowly.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep but still impossibly gentle.

“Hi,” you whispered, smiling.

He tucked his face into the pillow and groaned softly. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

You laughed. “It’s not.”

He peeked at you with one eye. “Good. I’d be really pissed at myself if I made that whole speech in a dream and then woke up alone.”

“You mean the one where you said I’m yours to protect?”

His gaze turned clearer at that, more focused. “I meant it.”

You nodded. “I know. That’s why I let you stay.”

Oscar reached out, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “I’ve never really felt like this about someone before. Not like… this.”

You swallowed thickly. “Me either.”

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That if I told you how I felt, I’d ruin everything.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he said softly, eyes scanning your face. “I think I finally got something right.”

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his. “You got a lot of things right.”

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in warmth, hearts beating steady and quiet beneath the sheets. There was no need to rush. No media to answer to. No expectations yet.

Eventually, he rolled onto his back, sighing. “Do you want coffee?”

You grinned. “Only if you make it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You trust me with your morning coffee?”

“I trust you with a lot more than that, Piastri.”

He turned his head, smiling fully now. “Good. Because I’m planning on being around for a long time.”

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, interlacing your fingers again, the same way you had the night before.

And this time, when he held on—he didn’t let go.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#oscar piastri #op81 #op81 x reader #op81 imagine #op81 fic #op81 x you #mclaren #formula 1 #formula one #wroetolando

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wroetolando · 2 months ago

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Omg I loved the story you wrote for my song request for Lando!! You said send more so I have another song lol can you do one for soft spot by keshi I few like it can be written from either landos pov or the reader talking about doing things they hate but they do it for each other or however you interpret the song!! Thank you #anonymous🌟

𝚂𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚝 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗮/𝗻: first time listening to this song and i absolutely love it!

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando hates the rain, you hate chamomile tea, and yet you both keep choosing each other anyway—even when it hurts

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: soft spot - keshi

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mild angst

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Lando hated the rain.

Not in a dramatic, philosophical way. He didn’t stare at it wistfully or watch droplets slide down the windowpane while narrating his pain like some tortured poet. He just… hated it. It made his hair cling to his forehead, soaked through every layer of clothing, made walking miserable, and driving worse.

It reminded him of everything that could go wrong in a single moment. The unpredictability. The chaos. The cold that stuck to your skin.

Still, here he was.

Standing outside her building, fingers trembling slightly as he pressed the buzzer for the third time. Water slid down the back of his neck, and his hoodie had given up trying to keep him dry ten minutes ago. The umbrella? Long gone. It flipped inside out two streets ago, and in a very grown-up, emotionally stable move, he’d shoved it into a bin.

No answer.

He stepped back under the awning, breathing into his frozen hands. He should’ve just texted her. Or called. Or maybe he should’ve done that two days ago, when they had their last argument—when he’d let his frustration push her away again.

Her voice crackled through the speaker. “Come up, idiot.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You hated chamomile tea.

Not in the way people say they “don’t love” something. You hated it. The smell, the bitterness, the way it always promised calm and delivered disappointment. You only kept it stocked in your kitchen because of him.

And now, two nights after your last fight, you were brewing it again.

Not because you missed him.

(Okay, maybe because you missed him.)

You’d watched him through the window, standing in the rain like a lost boy—hood up, hands shoved deep into his pockets, buzzing over and over again like he didn’t care if you ever opened the door.

But you had. Because, despite the ache in your chest and the stupid, stupid way he always managed to say the wrong thing at the worst possible time, he was still Lando. Yours.

Even when you hated that you still cared so much.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He stepped into your flat like it was unfamiliar ground. Cautious. Careful. His curls dripped rain onto your floors, and his hoodie clung to him like a second skin.

“Hey,” he said quietly, and somehow it felt louder than anything else in the room.

You didn’t say anything. Not at first. You just moved to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. You needed something to do with your hands, and he looked so heartbreakingly small in the doorway that if you said anything, it would come out wrong.

“Chamomile?” he asked, voice unsure.

“You like it.”

There was silence. Then: “You hate chamomile.”

You shrugged. “You do stuff for people when you care about them. Even when it sucks.”

You heard him shift behind you. His voice came slower this time, lower.

“I hate the rain,” he said. “But I walked here. In it.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to fight with you.”

You finally turned, spoon resting in your hand. “You always say that after we fight.”

“I know,” he said again, and this time it wasn’t defensive. It was regret. Raw and real and sitting heavy in his chest. “I’m not good at this. Not when I miss you. Not when I feel like I don’t know where you are anymore.”

You didn’t answer.

He took a step closer. “I didn’t mean what I said about you not showing up.”

“I know.”

“I was scared. That maybe you were starting to outgrow this—us. Me.”

That cracked something in you.

“You think I’d work 14-hour days, take red-eye flights, and stand behind rope barriers getting shoved by fans for you if I didn’t want to be with you?” you asked, voice sharp.

His eyes flickered, and he looked ashamed. “I know you hate that.”

“I do. But I do it anyway.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

You softened. Just a little.

“You’re my soft spot, Lando. That’s what it is. I hate airports. I hate the paddock. I hate the waiting and the press and the fact that I barely get five minutes with you before someone pulls you away. But I love you more than I hate any of that.”

It was his turn to break.

“I sleep in your hoodie when you’re not here,” he said, like it was a confession.

“I figured,” you said. “Smelled like me.”

“I left it here on purpose.”

“Why?”

“So I had a reason to come back.”

Your chest tightened. “You never needed a reason.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The tea went cold on the counter.

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, face buried in your shoulder. You let him. You always did. That was the problem and the answer all at once.

“Do you remember Monaco?” you asked after a long silence.

He hummed. “Which part?”

“That rooftop dinner. When you said you were too tired to go, but you came anyway because you knew I wanted to.”

He smiled into your skin. “I hated that night.”

You pulled back, surprised.

“I didn’t tell you then,” he admitted. “I was exhausted. We had a full day of media, then debriefs. I was running on fumes. But I looked at you in that red dress, and I couldn’t say no.”

You blinked. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because sometimes,” he said softly, “you do the things you hate for the people you love.”

Your heart cracked in half and stitched itself back together in one breath.

You turned to face him fully now, resting your palms on his soaked chest. “I don’t need you to always push yourself for me.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “But I will anyway. Because you do it for me.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “We’re idiots.”

“Two idiots in love.”

“You still smell like rain.”

“You still smell like mango body mist.”

You shoved his shoulder. “You said you hated that.”

“I do,” he grinned. “But you wear it, so now I kind of like it.”

You stared at him for a long second before pulling him down into a kiss. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and sure and aching with all the things you hadn’t said in the last forty-eight hours.

When you broke apart, you leaned your forehead against his.

“I hate racing season,” you whispered.

“I hate off-season.”

“But I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you more.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later, he stood in your bathroom, toweling off and wearing the pajamas you always kept for him—the ones he pretended not to like because they had cartoon stars on them.

You joined him in the mirror, brushing your teeth side by side like nothing ever broke between you. Like the silence had never happened.

“You still going to Spain next week?” he asked.

You nodded. “Booked the flight yesterday.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“I thought you had simulator work that day?”

“I do.”

You looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “Lando—”

“I’ll move it.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

You shook your head, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. He caught your hand as you turned to leave, pulling it to his lips.

“I hate moving my schedule around,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles.

“But I love you more.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The next morning, the rain had stopped.

The hoodie was dry.

The tea was warm.

And love felt a little more like a choice they made—over and over again.

Even when it sucked.

Especially then.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#lando norris #lando norris x you #lando norris 4 #lando norris fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren f1 #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 #ln4 x reader #formula 1 #formula one #wroetolando

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wroetolando · 2 months ago

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𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝙵𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚜 & 𝚁𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 | 𝙲𝙻𝟷𝟼

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: charles leclerc x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where charles loses in monaco, keeps his composure, but his hot-headed girlfriend storms the press conference and lights everyone up for him

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: fire meet gasoline - sia

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mild language

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The roar of the engines had long since died down, replaced by the low thrum of media crews packing up, camera shutters clicking, and team staff murmuring into radios. Monaco should’ve been a celebration. Instead, it was another heartbreak in red.

And you were furious.

You stood outside the Ferrari motorhome like a live wire, arms crossed over your chest, back straight, eyes fixed on the garage entrance. The tension in your jaw was starting to give you a headache, but you didn’t care. You could still see it playing out in your mind, frame by brutal frame: Lando’s overly aggressive lunge down the inside, the contact, and Charles getting thrown into the wall like it was a demolition derby instead of a Grand Prix.

No penalty. No investigation. Just a line from Race Control: “Racing incident.”

Bull. Absolute bull.

You didn’t even realize you were muttering to yourself until someone from the comms team walked past and gave you a wide-eyed glance, immediately picking up the pace.

“He pushed him into the wall,” you growled. “And they’re calling it a racing incident? Are you kidding me? What, does McLaren have pictures of the stewards or something?”

Just as you were debating whether storming the stewards’ room yourself would get you banned from the paddock, you heard his voice.

“Chérie.”

You turned sharply, your anger softening—only slightly—when you saw Charles. His race suit clung to him, streaked with sweat and grime. His curls were damp, his jaw tense, and his eyes… they told the whole story. Pain. Frustration. Exhaustion.

“Don’t,” you said immediately. “Don’t try to play this down.”

“I’m not.” His voice was soft but firm. “But this isn’t helping you either.”

“What’s not helping is pretending this is normal!” you snapped. “You got driven into the wall on your home track, and everyone’s acting like it’s just another Sunday.”

“I know,” he said, his tone rising a notch. “You think I don’t know?”

He glanced around, catching the attention of a few staff members lingering nearby. He reached for your hand, gently pulling you around the side of the motorhome where it was quieter.

“I know it sucks,” he said. “I’m angry too. But I can’t explode about it.”

You stared at him. “Why not? Why can’t you, for once, tell them you’re pissed off? That you deserve better?”

“Because this is F1. You lose your temper in public, and suddenly you’re ‘emotional.’ You push back too hard, and you’re ‘difficult to work with.’ I’ve been walking this line since I was fourteen, and I’m not going to throw everything away just to shout at a camera.”

You hated how much sense that made. But you hated even more that he had to think that way in the first place.

“So you’re just supposed to take it?” you whispered. “Let people like Lando play bumper cars with your life and smile for the cameras after?”

His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face. “I don’t want to be this bitter. I’ve lost in Monaco before. But this time…”

“This time it was stolen,” you finished for him.

He nodded.

You were still fuming when a team assistant appeared and said the press conference was starting. Charles sighed, clearly dreading it, but you stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Go. Be classy. I’ll handle the rest.”

He gave you a look. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” you said sweetly. “Now go smile and say Lando’s your best friend or whatever.”

He narrowed his eyes but walked off. You waited three beats. Then followed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The post-race press conference was already a circus when you arrived, standing just out of frame near the back of the media room. Lando sat to the right, obnoxiously cheerful, gesturing animatedly as he answered a question about the move that had ended Charles’ race.

“I mean, we were racing,” he said with a shrug. “It was tight. I think I left enough room—he just turned in.”

You bristled. Lies.

Charles sat next to him, composed but distant, eyes locked on the table in front of him. He hadn’t spoken yet.

The moderator cleared his throat. “Charles, your thoughts on the incident?”

He hesitated for a second before answering. “I haven’t seen the footage yet, but from the cockpit, it felt tight. I didn’t expect him to dive from that far back. I didn’t think he’d make the corner.”

“Are you suggesting Lando was reckless?” a reporter asked immediately.

“No,” Charles said, too quickly. “Just… optimistic.”

Bullshit. He was being diplomatic. Controlled. Chosen words.

Lando snorted a little laugh beside him.

That was it.

You stepped forward before anyone could stop you, past the barrier, past the stunned-looking comms assistant. Every camera turned. Phones were raised. Charles looked up, confused at first—until he saw your face.

You ignored everyone and looked directly at Lando.

“You do realize you ended his race, right? You can drop the ‘it was tight’ act.”

Lando blinked, his trademark smirk faltering. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you said, voice like fire. “You divebombed him from a mile away and expected him to disappear into thin air. That’s not racing. That’s wreckless and selfish.”

“Who are you?” one reporter called out.

“His girlfriend,” you answered without missing a beat. “And the only person here with the guts to say what he can’t.”

The room went deathly silent.

“I’ve watched Charles get taken out, blocked, penalized unfairly more times than I can count,” you continued. “And every time, he sits here and gives polite answers. He praises the team. He defends other drivers. But enough is enough.”

Lando’s face had hardened now, his jaw tight.

“This is his home race. He qualified brilliantly. He was ahead. And you—you couldn’t stand not having the spotlight, so you threw a desperate move and ruined his weekend.”

“That’s not how I saw it,” Lando said sharply.

You stepped forward. “Then maybe get your eyes checked.”

“Okay,” the moderator cut in, panicked. “Let’s wrap—”

“No, let them talk,” Charles said suddenly.

Everyone turned to him.

He stood slowly, looking between you and Lando. His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried.

“She’s not wrong,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t going to say it. But yeah. It was reckless. And I’m tired of pretending things like this are normal. I shouldn’t have to lose points just to protect someone else’s image.”

Lando stared at him, stunned.

And just like that, the press conference became the most-watched clip of the weekend.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You were waiting by the Ferrari hospitality suite when Charles caught up with you after the conference, eyes wide.

“You’re a maniac,” he said breathlessly. “They’re all talking about it.”

“Do I look like I care?”

He grinned, pulled you into his arms, and kissed you like he hadn’t been allowed to for weeks.

“I can’t believe you actually stormed a press conference.”

“I told you I’d handle it,” you said smugly.

He laughed against your lips. “You’re trouble.”

“Only for people who mess with you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, that soft, quiet love shining in his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Sure you do,” you said. “You just need to start fighting for yourself the way I fight for you.”

“I will,” he promised. “Starting now.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

And if Lando avoided you for the rest of the weekend? That was just a bonus.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #cl16 imagine #cl16 x reader #cl16 #ferrari #cl16 fic #formula 1 #formula one #wroetolando

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wroetolando · 2 months ago

Text

anytime, anywhere - lando norris x childhood sweetheart!reader

summary - lando fell in love when he was ten years old, heres small moments of that love over the years.

warnings - kisses, panic attacks, small amount of violence & lando being a SAP

wc : 8k

some music - work song, hozier | my love mine all mine, mitski | love of my life, harry styles | pov, ariana grande | super rich kids, frank ocean.

authors note - hi! as always, enjoy! reblogs & likes are always hugely appreciated!! lots of love, clove!

ten - the meeting

The fluorescent lights of the afterschool program shined bright as you were sitting at the snack table, quietly picking away at the food your mom packed for you this morning. It was 5:30, most kids had been picked up by their parents or siblings. Leaving you and four other kids left, one was a curly haired boy who was sitting not far across from you. Working away at his homework.

You remembered he was in your class. Lando, you remember, was his name. He was quiet, and he sat far across the room from you, so you haven't spoken to him much since meeting him in september.

One of the coordinators for the program, Allie walks into the room, having left minutes prior to take a phone call, she looks at you with a sympathetic look on her face before sitting down next to you carefully.

You already know what she's going to say

“Hi sweetie, that was your mum” she began, taking a deep breath trying to keep her voice low. “Your parents are going to be a bit late today, your mum said dad will get here as quick as possible” she continued.

This wasn't the first time your parents have called, they were late most days, you tried to understand that they have unpredictable jobs, with both your mum and dad being doctors at one of the top hospitals in the country.

You huffed, nodding before pulling out a colouring book that was given to you by your teacher as homework, the same homework the brunette across the room was doing.

Down the table, the other three boys seemed to have heard your conversation with allie.

“Ooooohhh y/n’s parents abandoned her!” one of them taunts, the boys burst into giggles before Allie sends them a stern face. they don't let up.

“Isn't this like the third time this week? They must forget about you alot” they poke while their laughter grows louder

You see out of the corner of your eye, Lando looks up from his book, his eyes looking to you while your head stays down, trying to focus on your coloring.

Tears prick your eyes as Allie sends them to the hallway, probably to tell them off, some more. The sound of your sniffles fill the room and Lando watches you wipe your tears with your sleeve before he stands up and makes his way across the room and places himself right next to you.

“I like your colouring” he says shyly, like he isn't sure what to say. You turn to him, his green eyes looking into yours as he offers you a warm, genuine smile. You find yourself smiling softly back at him, like it was contagious.

“Thanks, yours is okay” you giggle mischievously, looking down to see his work. His colours were slightly different than yours, but you both had the same idea with shades and detail, his jaw dropped in faux offense.

“Hey! They look the same!” he says, you both break out into a fit of giggles, playfully chatting while you continue with your artwork.

When Allie returns, she finds you two in a very in depth conversation about the movie you watched in class today. Crayons scattered around the abandoned colouring books, she smiled softly at the two ten year olds as she watched a special bond form between them.

You chatted about everything, Lando told you about his newly found hobby in karting. How he wanted to try competing and was mostly excited to miss school for races. You told him small details about you, his attention never wavering as you spoke.

You both chatted until the rest of the kids had left, leaving just you two and Allie, who was sitting quietly in the corner playing some game on her phone.

“You should come to one of my races” he declares, “i'll let you drive my kart” you cringe slightly, frowning at the boy. the thought of operating the machinery scares you slightly. “When you win a race I'll go karting with you.” You say shaking your head at him,

The door opened and in walked a lady whose eyes found lando almost instantly, lando had his back to the door since he was fully immersed in his conversation with you.

“I think your mums here” you say as Lando whips his head around to see his mum. He smiled, getting up from his seat and hugging her tight. You felt your shoulders drop as you realized lando would now go home, leaving you alone.

“Hi sweetheart, ready to go home?” she asks her son, who hesitates before he answers. Lando made eye contact with you, the girl he’d found a new friend in and felt quite sad to leave her here, when he got to go home.

Looking at his mum, he shakes his head “no i wanna stay with y/n until her dad comes.”

His mum looked at you, shrinking into your chair with all eyes on you. She had a sparkle in her eye as she watched him make his way back to you. She could tell her son had grown fond of you by seeing how he continued your conversation as if his mum wasn't there.

“so, if I win a race, you will come karting with me. deal?” he holds his small hand out, you smile, showing him a toothy smile that made his ten eight year old brain stop in time. Wanting to freeze frame it and paste it onto his eyelids.

You shake his hand

“deal.”

Fifteen - the unofficial first date

You were anxiously scuffing your feet into the asphalt of your local karting track. Lando had won his first karting race long ago, he was actually set to win his first series this year. But you two had never gotten around to getting you into a kart and on track with him.

Since that day five years ago, you two had been inseparable. He took you to races on the weekend, and you had helped him catch up in school when he needed help.

You even started going home with him after school and your parents began to just pick you up at Landos.

Lando knew he liked you, he had known since he met you. Since your hand brushed against his when you both reached for the same crayon. Your smile was contagious and he swore you grew flowers wherever you walked.

What started as a small elementary crush– over the years had bloomed into something bigger, something Lando couldn't explain just yet.

Lando was so excited to show you karting, you could see it on his face. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet while he pulled you through the garage with his hand held in yours. You tried to ignore the butterflies that have made home in your stomach years ago when Lando started getting touchy like this with you. It started with his hand lightly brushing your shoulder in conversations, hugs that lasted longer than they should’ve while his head was tucked snugly in the crook of your neck.

he leads you to a small single seater that you assumed was yours for the afternoon, “this is what you’ll be driving, i'll be in my kart with you the whole time” he explains, showing you how to control it and the proper steering technique, while throwing in a couple tips. His hand is still laced with yours as he tells you about his own kart.

You loved seeing him in his element. Watching him race was your favourite thing. You admired his face as he spoke, the freckles you've grown to love topped with his curls that he was still learning to care for properly (after you had begged him too).

“You with me?” he nudges your arm, shaking you out of your daydream. You nod

“yeah, just zoned out a bit.” you reply,

When you walked out in fireproofs and a karting suit, Lando felt like time froze, the world around him spinning to a halt as his gaze found you. He thought you looked beautiful everyday, but seeing you in a race uniform made his mind go fuzzy.

His breath caught in his throat as he watched you walk over to him, holding a helmet and gloves. His green eyes sparkling at you, like you were the only girl in the world.

He helped you with your helmet, his fingers brushing under your chin as he clipped the chinstrap, sending shockwaves down your spine. When you were secured he gave you a light tap on the side of your head before you both got in your karts, starting your engines.

You were slowly getting the hang of the machinery, the kart vibrating underneath you as you took each corner with more confidence as you went, Lando staying steadily out in front of you. Turning his neck around to check in on you when you two would rush down the straights. You understood why he enjoyed this so much, the thrill of taking a corner slightly too fast, pushing the kart to its limit.

You almost enjoyed it too much.

The barrier came quickly, you hit a dead spot on the track, your kart skidding straight into the make-shift padded wall. When Lando watched the yellow flag fly out, he immediately felt his stomach drop, turning around to see you wobbling slightly in your kart.

Stopping his kart safely off the track, his feet hit the ground as he sprinted to you, dropping in front of you, flicking his and your visor up, his eyes scanning yours frantically as he watched tears brim your eyes.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, his concern evident in his voice as he checks you over. “Where does it hurt?” you groan as he moves your arm slightly, cringing as your muscles contract from the sudden shock.

“Im okay, just annoyed, im sorry” you huff, tears threatening to fall from your eyes, you knew how much lando wanted to take you karting and show you his world. And now you've ruined it by crashing.

“No, no none of that.” he soothes, helping you out of the kart and back to the garage. Sitting you down and helping you take your helmet off. You looked adorable when he saw your messy hair from the balaclava. Lando had never wanted to kiss anyone yet, but at this moment he was coming very close to kissing you.

It was like an itch that surged his whole body, the desire he felt to do all the things a couple does. He wanted to try them, with you. The hand holding while walking to classes, the nights spent wrapping in eachothers arms, he wanted all of you.

he wanted to learn what being in love was like, and he only saw himself learning with you.

“Are you sure you're okay?” he asks cautiously, concerned that your adrenaline hasn't allowed you to fully feel any pain you might be in.

“Yeah, i think i'll just be sore” you sigh, taking a sip from the water bottle he retrieved from the cooler for you, sitting himself on the floor in front of you. He's looking up to you like he's mesmerizing every inch of your face, studying every mole and freckle.

Lando chuckles, “oh yea, you're gonna hurt like hell tomorrow” he jokes, you kick him lightly as you break into a fit of giggles, your laughs filling the garage with a sense of joy.

The mechanics nearby smile at the two of you, infatuated with the way Lando acted in your presence. On a normal race weekend, he was focused, almost unable to see past the task at hand. With you, he was light, laughing, almost as if you showed him what happiness was.

Your laughs die down and you catch yourself staring at the way his nose crinkled as he smiled. How his curls sit perfectly even after being smushed in his helmet. Your cheeks go flush while you fidget with the hem of your fireproof.

Lando gaze locked onto you, he watches as your face focuses on your fingers, smiling softly before he stands up, offering his hand out to you.

“c’mon, lets make my dad get us ice cream”

You break out into a smile, linking your fingers with his before standing up, you two making your way to find Landos dad.

Even though karting didn't go how he had planned, Lando felt today was a successful day nonetheless. Because he got to spend his day with you, showing you his other world he loved, the world he was building and working towards, imagining what the future would be when he climbs his way to the top, and he knew he wanted you to be right there with him when he did.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue” you say playfully as you walk with him towards the car, he just smiles, his curls bouncing as he strolls beside you.

“Anytime, anywhere.”

Seventeen - bruise knuckles with a side of love

The lights were dimmed as you walked into the house of your friend's house, music was pumping through the speakers providing background noise to the conversations you could hear flowing throughout the room.

Your eyes scanned the room, looking for the familiar head of chocolate curls who you refused to admit was the whole reason you had come. Lando had been away karting for the past week and you haven't seen him, when you spot him, he has his back turned to you fully engrossed in a conversation with Max Fewtrell.

Max's eyes catch your from over landos shoulder, a small smirk creeping into his face as he announces your entrance.

“ayeee!! There she is!” he shouts, landos head whips around, slightly confused to who Max is referring to, when he spots you, his eyes light up. You two lock eyes and it's like the world falls away for a moment as you take each other in. He noticed you had straightened your hair differently, training a soft curl at the end of your hair, framing your face perfectly.

He's on his feet in seconds, making his way across the room to close what felt like a ravine between you. Mumbling a soft hey while engulfing you in a hug, it felt like coming home after a horrible day. His arms squeezing you softly as he tucks his head into your shoulder. You hug him back, closing your eyes as you both linger in the hug for a moment.

You don't realize that it's been long until Max is next to you, he clears his throat loudly, startling you guys apart. He smiles, greeting you with a brief hug that has Lando sending him a slight glare. You failed to notice the brunette pinching his friend's side afterwards, max letting out a small whine.

You told Lando how much he missed school, he shrugged it off with a laugh, you both knew he had given up on completing school. Joking that you were getting the degree for both of them. The three of you had always been close, going through schooling together since you were young. Though Max knew there was a bond between you and Lando that he would never be able to fully understand.

You two understood each other without even having to speak, if Lando was upset with a race, Max often would text you as they drove home, you’d be waiting for them on the porch with snacks and a movie. Lando falling into your embrace before you settled on your own end of the couch, one of his favorite films playing on the tv.

If Max looked over to you two, he’d see Lando absentmindedly playing with your fingers, he’d see you slowly running your hand through his curls, something you knew would calm him down

You always knew lando needed comfort after a bad result, but you failed to understand that all he ever really needed was you.

“I'm gonna go grab a drink, do you want anything?” you ask softly, pointing to the small mini bar that was set up in the corner, one of the guests dramatically pouring non-alcoholic drinks as if you were in a club.

“Monster pleasee” he drawls, smiling widely as if mimicking a little kid asking for candy. You roll your eyes with a smile before turning to Max, who shows you his already half drunk redbull.

You turn away, sauntering your way to grab the beverages, lando and max watch you as you make your way. Once you're out of earshot, Max drops his smile before turning to smack lando in the arm. The boy yelps in pain, grabbing his arm with an unamused look on his face

“Oww!” Lando groans as Maxs face stays serious.

“Why haven't you told her” he asked, leaving no room for bullshit. Lando and you had been dancing around the idea of a relationship for years, and he was tired of it. He was tired of seeing his two best friends hopelessly in love with each other and choosing to ignore it.

“It's just not the right time,” Lando argues, his voice small. He tried so many times to tell you, to blurt his feelings out like a case of word vomit, to just scream i love you in your face. But every time, the words died in his throat at the possibility of you not returning his feelings.

“Bullshit.” max counters “you two have been all heart eyes since we were what? twelve? I don't care whatever story you’ve run in your head, she loves you Lando and you both need to open your eyes and see it” he commands, sending a blow straight to Landos heart as he exhales with a sigh, his gaze fixed on you chatting with the boy handing out drinks.

“What if it doesn't work out? I'm never here anymore max, how is that fair to her?” Lando says, a sense of longing evident in his eyes while he looks at you.

Max’s offense crumbles slightly, but he didn't let up “she loves you enough to fight for it. She just needs to know you're willing to fight for it too.” he offers, you make your return, holding two cans of monster, the two boys staring slightly. Like they had just been caught doing something they shouldn't. You frown slightly, your hand rising to cover your face.

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask worried, your hand rubbing along your features as you search frantically. Lando chuckles, lightly grabbing your wrists to halt your movements

“No no,-” he breathes through a laugh, his touch sending sparks up your forearms “you look beautiful” he said lowly, like it was only for you to hear.

You exhale deeply with a small laugh, sending him a soft, genuine smile that had Lando seeing double.

This boy was done for.

–

The atmosphere had shifted since you arrived, the party was now in full swing as bodies filled the house, the base of the song vibrating underneath the floor. You and Lando were standing in a corner, your conversation light as you both nursed your drinks.

Lando was explaining the new video game he and max had started playing when he was– quite rudely– interrupted by a boy approaching you, it was the same boy from the drink bar, whose name you learned was james

“hi y/n, i just wanted to say that i enjoyed our conversation earlier. It's always a pleasure chatting with you” he smiles, one of those smiles that has a cheshire cat behind it, one that makes you slightly stiff next to lando. James didn't acknowledge landos presence, acting as if you were standing next to a plant pot.

“Oh, thank you james.” you say, noticing lando’s eyes have turned to the black and neon can in his hand, fiddling with the pull tab. He's trying not to listen, but the way you shifted towards him slightly as James kept talking to you made him wary.

“–hey you wanna get outta here?” James offers.

Something in lando snaps when he sees the cocky smirk on his face.

“Woah,woah,woah, let's slow your roll here, mate.” he steps slightly in front of you, puffing his chest.

“Last time I checked I wasn't talking to you” James barks back. his voice became louder as you hid behind lando.

“she clearly doesn’t want to be talking with you” he argues, you could see Landos fists balling at his sides. the monster abandoned on the windowsill behind you. Landos neck grows red as the anger bubbles underneath his skin.

“Yk’what, why don't you let me and the lady have a conversation, yeah?” he says trying to push past Lando, his tone dripping with smugness.

Oh that had Lando seeing red.

His fist connects with James' jaw, then his nose. Sending him to the floor, you gasp as James groans, before getting up and raising his fist. He doesn't have the time to think before Lando sends another blow to his chest, knocking him down for good.

Two guests go to James, picking him up to place him on the couch as Max rushes over to you and Lando, his eyes falling to Landos hand.

“Shit mate–” he exhales, scanning the room for a way out “–c’mon let's go get some ice and fix that, you have to drive this weekend.”

He leads you upstairs to a somewhat secluded bathroom, shutting the door as Lando sits on the sink, the pain from his hand evident in his movements.

You haven't spoken since the fight, slightly shaken up from watching your best friend almost did beat the living daylights out of someone. You didn't want to think about what could've happened if James was able to land his own punches.

You press toilet paper to his bleeding knuckles, and Lando hisses from the pain of you pressing on the inflamed flesh. Dropping his head onto your shoulder as max ruffles through the cabinet.

“score!” he exclaims, holding up a bright red first aid kit. He pulls out the alcohol wipes and hands them off to you.

“m’sorry, this is gonna hurt” you say quietly before you clean the wounds, lando squeezes his eyes shut at the sting, his uninjured hand finds your waist, using it as a lifeline.

Once the wounds are clean you begin to wrap his hand, your touch light as max hands you gauze, but nothing to secure it with.

“Max, I need tape or something–” you mumble, focused on the task at hand. Lando watches as your tongue pokes out of your mouth while your eyes –which he's just noticing are slightly glossed over– are focused on carefully covering the wounds.

Once Max makes his way to find you tape, you and Lando are left in silence, spare from the muffled sound of music still coming from downstairs. You were mumbling soft swears as the gauze would slip in your hold.

“um- i'm really sorry–” lando breaks the silence, you look to him but he won't meet your eyes, “–i didn't like where he was going with that, but if you–uh..wanted him though, i understand” he says low, his eyes fixed on his lap while you look at him slightly shell shocked.

You scoff, almost like a laugh “you’re an idiot” he looks up, green eyes pouring into yours, hyper aware of the hold you had on his hand and his on your hip.

“Wh-what?” he breathes, confused. You send him a small are you stupid? look before saying what you’ve been trying to build the courage to say for years.

“I don't want him, god did you see his greasy hair?-” you roll your eyes, lando chuckles softly before you continue “i want you, you muppet”

Lando froze, he stared at you with nothing but admiration, you stood in front of him with a smile on your face, he swore he could’ve died right there. He exhaled deeply as a smile grew wide on his face, reaching both ears as he pulled you closer.

“Thank god because i'm not sure what i would've done if you didn't” he whispers, his eyes flicking to your lips, tilting his head down slightly. You leaned in slightly, his breath fanning across your face before he locked his lips onto yours.

The kiss was slow, but hard, like the crescendo of a musical piece. Years of longing being poured into it, your lips slotting together perfectly. Moving in sync as your free hand cups his jaw. He pulls you closer by his hold on your waist, humming slightly when you bite his bottom lip.

The world seemed to have faded away as he deepened the kiss. His tongue swiping across your bottom lip, asking for access you happily granted. You kissed him until you were breathless, smiling against each other's lips, you swore you could see sparkles in landos eyes.

“ten year old me is so happy right now” he mumbled against your lips, smiling so wide as you giggled. You kissed him again, softer this time, drinking in the kiss that you had dreamt about for years.

You kissed him multiple times in that bathroom, the pain in his hand forgotten as his focus was solely on you.

That was, until the doorknob jingled before Max opened the door, holding tape and a bag of ice. You step back quickly as Max halts his movement, it didn't take an idiot to put two and two together. Your puffy lips, landos slightly messy hair, and his poorly wrapped hand that had been perfectly wrapped when he left moments ago.

All he did was smile, before handing lando the ice to hold to his hand. He hands you the tape before moving back to the door, lingering in it before he leaves.

“I am so, so, fucking happy for you both.” is all he says before shutting the door, leaving you alone once again.

You turned to each other slowly, staring for a moment before you broke out into giggles. Once you both quiet down, you rewrap his hand, maybe stealing a kiss or two (or three) while you work, making up for all the time you could’ve been kissing him over the years.

Lando watched you lovingly, thinking to the future. Yes he was scared, he was scared of what this meant with you in school and him racing. But he could see that you wanted this, you wanted him. if he had to die fighting to make you two work, he was gonna sure as hell try.

Nineteen - through the storm

The crisp autumn air turned your nose red as you walked through the streets of London towards Max and his girlfriend, Pietras’ flat. It was Saturday afternoon and Lando was in Italy, it was Lando’s first year in F1, you two had been dating for two years now, and had your own flat in London you called home.

Every race weekend, it became a tradition for you to watch qualifying and the race with Max and Pietra. Ordering pizza while you shout at the tv against anyone who dares to overtake your boyfriend.

Opening the door you waltz in, announcing your arrival before shrugging your shoes off, placing your coat and bag in the mudroom. Your sock clad feet pad across the floor into the living room where Max had set up the broadcast.

“How's he doing?” you ask, grabbing a blanket and snuggling into the couch. “He's doin’ fine but I'm not sure we're getting out of Q2” he answers, a sigh escaping his lips as you frown. Lando had told you the struggles he's been having recently with the car, not being able to find that balance he needs.

The media knew it too, it felt like every time you checked your phone, someone had something horrible to say about the man you loved. You knew it was getting to him despite the brave face he put on.

Your boyfriend was the type of person who wanted everyone to love him, the amount of scrutiny was eating at him while all he did was try his best in the car he was given.

It wasn't his fault the car he was given was a tractor.

You watched anxiously as the timer ticked down, a minute left in Q2. Lando was setting his final lap, nibbling on your fingernails as he rounded the final sector, crossing the line to land in P14. his teammate Carlos sainz, landing in P7.

You deflate, knowing lando wouldn’t be happy with himself, you knew him too well. After years of watching him in F3 and F2, you know what was running through his head and it killed you that you couldn’t be there with him.

When he was home earlier in the month he told you one night how the one thing that scared him was people thinking he didn’t deserve his seat, this result certainly didn't help him with his self doubt.

“He's going to be so upset” you mumble, turning your ringer on while you wait for his call. Another small tradition you had was if you weren't in attendance, the minute he had a moment alone, he was on the phone with you.

Max nods silently, Pietra sighing as she makes her way to the kitchen to order pizza for you all, silence stretching throughout the apartment as you watch the final moments of qualifying.

As the commentators congratulated the pole sitter, raving on about the final laps that had been revolutionary all you could think about was Lando and how he was beating himself up over this.

You could see the tweets now, the hate, the scrutiny that was going to flood your socials the second you looked, just as you went to pick up your phone, it vibrated from lando calling you, the goofy smile of his contact photo smiling back at you as you answered the call.

“heyy baby!” you say, walking into the guest room for some privacy, sitting down on the foot of the bed. The line was quiet for a moment before Lando responded with a soft “hey” his voice wobbled as he spoke.

“You drove really well lando.. don't beat yourself up over one bad quali” you say softly, keeping your tone light. Soft sniffles came from Landos end of the line, your heart squeezes as you hear him cry softly. Lando wasn’t a crier, so when he did, you knew he was close to his breaking point.

“I can't do this anymore,” he sniffles. “I don't even want to know what they're saying right now.” he cries. You listen to his broken sobs as tears escape your own eyes. You hated being so far away from him while he was hurting like this, he was alone and vulnerable and that made you want to scream. Wishing you could crawl through the phone and get to him.

You debated telling his trainer, getting someone else in the room with him to make sure he was safe, but you knew he needed to let it out first. You’d tell Jon later, right now you needed to be there for lando.

Landos breathing starts to become ragged as his sentences come out in short breaths, you hear the panic attack coming before it fully hits him, his voice was shaky as it grew quieter. His words dying in his throat before he could say them, you could hear his breathing becoming more frantic.

“Lan, baby i need you to breathe for me” He was sending himself deeper into a panic and it only worried you more. You felt useless just listening while he struggled to find a breath.

“I ca- i cant” he chokes out, his sobs echoing through the phone as you begin to frantically text Jon. Your fingers shaking as you message the man, tears flowing down your face.

You: 911!

You: get to landdo now he's habvin a panic attack on the phone wit me

You: please jon im panicjking myself listning to him

Jon: On it.

You keep assuring him through the phone, trying to say something– anything that will calm him down. Telling him to unzip his race suit, asking him what he can smell, see, hear, or taste. None of it worked, the boy was breaking down in your ears and you felt helpless while waiting for Jon to find him.

You hear the door open on the other end, the phone falls to the floor as the murmurs of Jons voice filter down the phone. You don't hear much for a few moments, taking the time to compose yourself, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your landos hoodie.

“hey y/n, he's all good now, i'll have you call him back in a bit. Are you okay?” Jons voice crackles through the phone after a while, you exhale a sigh of relief, clutching a hand to your chest.

“Yeah… sounds good, thank you jon.” you say softly, hanging up the call.

You splash some water on your face before returning to max and pietra. The two noticed something was off with you immediately.

“You okay? How is he?” Max asks slowly, you didn't say anything. He could tell something was wrong when tears flooded your eyes. Closing the distance, he pulls you into a hug as a sob escapes your lips, you clutch onto him while you cry. Tears pour down your face as you explain what just happened, Max listens with sympathy written all over his face.

Hes silent for a moment, before an idea pops into his head “Let's get you to italy.” he says, determination in his voice as he grabs his phone, immediately googling flights.

“what- but i don't have anything packed- what if there's no flights” you ramble, slightly shocked he was so set on this idea, he shakes his head, finalized in his decision that you needed to get on a flight as soon as possible and he didn't care how.

“Go home and pack, you don't need much it's only a night- SCORE” he turns the phone around, showing you a flight to Italy “leaves in four hours, if we hurry.. we can get you there” he says. You two lock eyes, a new sense of determination blooming inside you. You needed to be there for Lando, and you were going to get there.

It all happened so fast, one minute you were packing clothes into a duffle bag, and now you had landed in Italy, the flight was quick, two hours from London to Milan. You sat in the cab, the streetlights fading by as you made your way to landos hotel.

The hotel was beautiful, wishing you could've come on better circumstances, thinking back to all the times you and Lando would be talking late at night, hushed whispers about what it was going to be like once he reached F1, all the places you’d go together.

You never expected what reality would end up being.

You stood in front of landos hotel room, Jon was standing next to you. Since the phone call, you had asked Jon to stay with lando. Explaining to him why incase of an emergency, you wouldn't be available for lando. He immediately agreed and also offered to walk you up to the room upon your arrival.

Once the door opened, and you saw him. His eyes looked drained, his hair was messy from him running his hands through it. When he locked eyes with you, they widened so big they could’ve popped out of their sockets.

He stared at you for a moment, trying to decipher whether or not you were really here, actually in front of him at his hotel in Monza. Once he felt you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace, it hit him.

It hit him hard.

“Oh my god” he breathed as he melted into your arms, his emotions bubbling over again as tears escaped his eyes. He had never felt so relieved to be in your arms, not since that moment in a bathroom years ago, it was like you were an angel sent straight for him.

He pulled away to get a good look at you, you were wiping his cheeks softly. He still couldn't believe you flew to him.

“Are you actually here, or am I dreaming?” he asks, a wet chuckle escapes you both as you realize you're also crying.

“Im here, i'm real” you smile, pulling him back into a hug as you smooth the hair on the back of his neck. “I couldn’t stay in London when you were here in this state. It would’ve killed me.” you sniffled. His hands wrap around you, holding on like if he’d let go, you'd disappear, and he'd wake up from this nightmare with you still in london.

He pulled back, placing a soft kiss to your lips before mumbling many “i love yous” into your mouth as you kissed him back, soft and slow. Forgetting about Jon standing a few feet away from you two. He turns away slightly, letting you have your moment.

You pull away echoing a soft “sorry” to Jon who just smiles softly, shaking his head in dismissal as Lando wraps his arms around your waist, activating his clingy-ness.

You say goodnight to Jon as you and Lando head into bed, the events of the day taking their effect. Lando immediately wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your shoulder, placing soft kisses on the exposed skin before resting his head on your chest.

“Thank you, for understanding me more than I do myself” he mumbles sleepily, his breaths even out as he finally looks at peace with his mind. Your smile is warm as you place a light kiss to his forehead before finally resting your eyes, having your boy in your arms.

And when you wake up to a text message from Jon, attached is a video of you and landos reunion he recorded secretly, you smile, cropping the video properly to post on your instagram story.

Posted is a small 10 second clip of Lando realizing you were standing in front of him, then showing the hug you two shared. Rocking back and forth as intelligible murmurs are exchanged between you two.

captioned for you, anywhere, anytime.

Twenty two - a handprint on her heart

The sun was shining down on your face as you perched yourself on a lounge chair on the exquisite yacht you get to call home for the summer break. You sported a bright orange bikini as you read your book while you listened to the waves below you.

It was peaceful, until you heard the stomps of two smaller people, followed by the stomps of a bigger person. You looked to the door to see Mila and Athena squealing as they ran around the deck, followed by none other than your boyfriend, who was chasing them, pretending he was a sea monster.

“Look! There's auntie, she’ll save us," Mila shouts as the two girls make a beeline for you. You quickly place your book down so the girls can climb on top of you, hiding from their overly enthusiastic uncle.

“Ohh auntie can't save you now! She's on my side” he says playfully while you begin to tighten your grip around the girls, not strong enough to hurt them, but tight enough to where they would struggle to break free.

The girls giggle as Lando ‘rounds the couch, the girls wiggling in your arms, sounding cries of betrayal while you laugh at the trio's antics. He makes it to your pile of laughter and starts tickling the two girls until they are breathless.

Once he ceases the tickles attack, you let the girls free. They hop to the ground, their baby feet bouncing off the deck as they make their escape from the tickle monster, but to you he's just lando.

Lando lets out a sigh as he sets himself down on the couch next to you, placing his arms around your shoulder. You had been on this yacht for a week and he had already worked up a tan, he looked divine, the sun hitting his face perfectly as he turned to look at you before placing a kiss on your temple.

“y’know, it’ll be nice when we have our own munchkins running around a yacht one day” he says, far too casually, as his hand traces your shoulder. You both knew you wanted kids, but also knew being twenty two, in the height of landos career was not the right time for either of you to even think about creating your own bundle of love.

Before you could respond to him, Max waltz’s his way onto the deck, sunglasses propped on his face as he spots you two. “Don't you two look cozy” he jokes, acting like you two haven't been head over heels for each other since you were small. It was a running joke for years, Max loves to tease you two about anything and everything.

Today was no different

“oi! LN,” he says, lightly smacking landos sunburnt shoulder, causing the brunette to wince. “When are you proposing, I've got bets placed man!” he says with a faux serious tone.

You giggle at him, you had discussed this before, you had an list of milestones that you and lando wanted to complete in a specific order

Championship

Marriage

Kids

“You act like we haven’t basically been married for years max” you say, playfulness evident in your tone as Lando pulls you closer by the shoulder. Lando knew Max was just joking, but deep down part of him did want to forgo the list years ago and just make you his wife.

He's known since before you were officially dating that he’d marry you, it was obvious to him, you were the only option. The only person he saw his future with, the woman he goes home to, the mother of his children, you checked all the boxes of perfection and he was anxious to put a rock on your finger to solidify it for eternity. Devoting himself to you completely.

Lando observes as you and Max move onto a different topic, he observes every detail about you, the way your nose crinkles when you smile, how your freckles pop when you spend more time in the sun, the way you always manage to speak with a heartwarming smile etched onto your face. It made him dizzy the way he knew you better than he knew himself. You were his everything, there is no lando without you.

“Lan baby, you with us?” you ask, noticing he spaced out slightly. Nodding he smiles, placing a kiss on your hand, interlaced with his.

“Yeah, just thinkin’” he says simply, thinking for a moment before he taps your shoulder,

“Wanna go for a walk?”

–

You walked down the side of the boat, your fingers interlocked as the sun casted a golden light on your skin. Lando rubbed his thumb over your knuckles as you walked to the edge of the boat, overseeing the mediterranean behind you.

Lando is quiet for a moment, his eyes following the horizon while he thinks. You can see in his eyes he's piecing his sentencing together but struggling– after a while, he speaks up.

“Max got me thinking,” he pauses, taking a deep breath “I wanna change the list.”

Your heart stops, looking up at him to find anything on his face that says he's joking, you meet his eyes already looking at you,

“Are you serious?”

He chuckles, running a nervous hand through his hair, “I've never been more serious about anything in my life baby,” you feel tears welling up in your waterline. “I've known my whole life that I wanted to marry you, I don't want to let a championship decide when.”

He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, your bottom lip trembling while he continues.

“You're it for me baby, I can’t remember what my life was like without you in it and I don't want to have to learn. You know me better than I know myself, I am hopelessly in love with you and there's nothing that will ever change that,” you were full on crying now, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts,

“–loving you is my greatest achievement, no championship could ever come close to how i feel about you,” Lando feels a lump form in his throat as he tries to finish his mini speech before he becomes emotional.

“Let's get married”

You cry softly before you cry out a yes and Lando feels a surge of love flow through him.

“Yeah?” he smiles so wide as you nod, tears freely flowing down both your faces as he pulls you into an earth shattering kiss.

He kisses you like you’re his last breath of fresh air— soft and sensual, holding your face with such gentle care like you’d break if he let go.

You pull away for air, giggling into each other's lips, stealing more kisses as the sun begins to set over the sea. The air felt warmer as you kissed your fiancè, you kissed him again, and again, you kissed him so many times you forgot where you were.

That was until Lando pulled away sharply with a gasp. “Wait here” he mumbles before he takes off running back into the yacht, you take a seat while you wait for him to return, slightly confused to where he ran off to.

Moments later he comes back, hands held behind his back as he makes his way over to you, a cheeky smile spread across his tanned face.

“I'm sorry, your actual ring is at home.” you choose to ignore that fact for the time being. “But I do have this,” he chuckles as he pulls a small ring pop from behind his back.

You laugh at the small candy as he opens it, placing it on your left ring finger, placing another kiss to your lips, you throw yourself into his arms, returning the kiss in full force.

“It's perfect, thank you.” you mumble into his mouth.

He rests his forehead against yours, his green eyes pouring into yours— a window to his soul showing nothing but love for you as he pulls you closer, his smile giddy. “We're getting married!!” he exclaims, you both giggle as you revel in being newly engaged.

You think back to when you were kids, before the fancy cars and extravagant races, you loved him before he made a name for himself, before the outside voices. When it was just you two on a karting track, nobody watching to see where he goes next.

you will continue to love him in the highs and lows of his career, as he shows the world what he's truly made of. You will forever be there, holding his hand, being his first phone call. Continuing to support him throughout it all, believing in his dreams as they’ve now become yours.

You will love him when it's over, when it's just you two in the quiet mornings, for when you have nowhere to be. When you're old and grey living in the countryside in London, hand in hand on the porch side of your family home, grandkids running around in the yard.

Like a handprint over your heart, Lando had plastered himself over every inch of your existence. His love hidden in plain sight of places you’ve yet to even realize. you loved this boy with every fiber of your being, and you would love him in every universe, in every past life and through the next.

You will love him anywhere, anytime.

i hope u enjoyed, thank u so much for reading <3

#oh my god #im in love #fanfiction reccomendations

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wroetolando · 2 months ago

Text

𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x reporter!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max and his reporter wife accidentally adopt five chaotic rookies and become the unofficial grid parents

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: sweet disposition - the temper trap

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The paddock was a hive of noise and motion as the sun began to dip over the circuit, golden rays catching the sweat on mechanics’ foreheads and the gleam of carbon-fiber wings. Post-race buzz hummed in the air—victory for some, frustration for others—but at the very center of it all stood the one woman who could command the attention of five energetic, half-exhausted rookies with nothing more than a look.

“You are not skipping cool down, I don’t care how much your legs hurt,” she said firmly, arms crossed as she stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit. “And Jack, stop trying to convince Gabriel to trade media slots with you.”

Jack Doohan blinked innocently. “Worth a try.”

Max, leaning a few feet away with his arms folded and an amused tilt to his lips, watched the scene with the same fondness someone might have when watching a cat try to wrangle five puppies. His wife—ever composed, ever commanding—had somehow become the gravitational center of the rookie pack, and Max had long since accepted his role as the silent co-pilot in their little operation.

“We need a whiteboard,” you muttered as Isack Hadjar arrived, hair still damp from his post-race shower. “I need a whiteboard. And a whistle.”

“You want a whistle?” Max asked.

“I want a bullhorn.”

Oliver Bearman arrived next, tugging off his cap and brushing sweat-damp curls back. “Are we doing interviews first or eating first? I swear I might pass out if—”

“You’ll eat after you give me one sentence that isn’t ‘the car felt good’ or ‘we take the positives,’” you cut in, tapping your iPad. “No bland quotes. I want actual thoughts.”

Gabriel Bortoleto offered him a protein bar from his pocket. “Here, you can survive five minutes.”

“You’ve had that in your pocket for two hours,” Oliver recoiled. “That’s like a biological weapon now.”

Kimi Antonelli, fresh from a P3 finish and visibly trying to act cooler than he felt, walked in just in time to see Oliver shoving the protein bar back at Gabriel like it was radioactive. “Children,” Kimi muttered under his breath.

Max straightened from the wall, clapping a hand lightly on Kimi’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way. Good race.”

Kimi perked up at the rare praise from the four-time world champion, nodding once. “Thanks. Felt good after last weekend.”

Max didn’t say more, but the nod he returned carried weight—and Kimi caught it, posture squaring slightly.

You were already directing the boys into a loose circle outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, setting up for your impromptu group media debrief. The usual reporters had already swarmed them post-race, but yours was different—somewhere between an interview and a therapy session, half professional, half familiar. The boys trusted you. And Max… well, Max mostly observed, speaking when necessary, stepping in when the chaos got too loud or the mood shifted too dark.

Like now.

Isack had slumped onto the couch, jaw tight. He’d DNF’d—again. Three times in five races. The media had already started with the “overhyped” murmurs, and even though you hadn’t asked him to speak first, you noticed the way his leg bounced, eyes fixed on the floor.

You gave Max a look.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the younger driver, not pressing, not announcing himself. Just… there. Solid. Real. Isack noticed, of course. Everyone did. It was rare for Max to show warmth like this outside the Red Bull bubble—but when he did, it hit hard.

“Tough race,” Max said simply.

Isack let out a breath. “Felt like I was driving blind. Car didn’t respond. Almost clipped the wall.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I might next time.”

“You won’t.”

There was no false encouragement in Max’s tone—just certainty. That unshakable Verstappen steel. Isack didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little, the tension leaking out.

You watched it happen, heart softening.

God, how had this become your life?

You—the paddock reporter who used to get mistaken for an intern. Max—the closed-off, stone-faced champion who’d once swore he’d never babysit rookies. And now here you both were: grid mum and dad, sitting on uncomfortable couches with five boys who had no idea how deeply they were cared for.

You cleared your throat. “Alright. Rapid-fire. Best moment of the race—go.”

“Overtaking Jack,” Gabriel said immediately.

“Hey!”

“Jack’s reaction, then,” Gabriel added.

Kimi smirked. “Probably my start. Got the jump on Piastri.”

“Oliver?”

“When I didn’t pass out from heat stroke on Lap 42.”

You nodded. “You hydrated?”

“Define hydrated.”

Max groaned. “You’re getting electrolytes now.”

“You sound like my physio.”

“I’m scarier than your physio.”

“He’s right,” you said. “He once threatened to throw Lando in a lake because he wouldn’t stretch properly.”

“It was a very shallow lake,” Max defended.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two nights later, the paddock chaos traded its background of engine whines and pit lane screeches for the quieter hum of your home — though “quieter” was a stretch with five young drivers crammed into your kitchen like it was a race briefing gone feral.

“I’m telling you, the mushroom ones are not real tortellini,” Jack insisted, poking at a package of fresh pasta like it had personally offended him.

“They are,” you sighed, pushing him gently out of the way as you balanced two saucepans and a tray of garlic bread. “They’re gourmet.”

“Italians would riot,” Kimi muttered from the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

“Then they can come over and cook,” Max deadpanned from the stovetop, where he was fiercely focused on carbonara like it was an FIA directive.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Oliver asked suspiciously, leaning over Max’s shoulder.

Max didn’t even look up. “I’ve watched like six Gordon Ramsay videos.”

“That’s not the same as cooking.”

“I beat two of you last week,” Max said, stirring the pasta. “You really want to test me on this, too?”

You hid your smile behind your wine glass. There was something inexplicably funny about watching your world-champion husband in sweatpants and socks, bickering with young adults over parmesan cheese.

And even funnier watching the rookies actually respect it.

Dinner, somehow, made it to the table in one piece — pasta, garlic bread, salad (which no one touched), and three types of fizzy drinks because “we’re not hydrating with water off-duty, Mum.”

Plates clinked. Conversation overlapped. Gabriel told a wild story about nearly missing a flight. Jack roasted Kimi for accidentally texting “love u” to his race engineer. Isack, now with a better result under his belt, looked lighter, laughing easily between bites.

It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.

At one point, Max leaned back in his chair, just watching them. The dim kitchen lights caught in his hair, and his arm brushed against yours beneath the table.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is our insane,” you whispered back.

Halfway through dessert (store-bought tiramisu because you were not a miracle worker), Oliver spotted the old Nintendo Switch docked to the TV.

“Oh hell yes,” he gasped. “Do you guys have Mario Kart?”

Max blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“I’m calling dibs on Yoshi,” Jack declared, jumping up.

“No fair! You always play Yoshi!” Isack protested.

You blinked. “Wait, you guys… actually want to play a game here?”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve literally been waiting for an invite.”

Kimi, still cool as ever, shrugged. “Let them embarrass themselves.”

You stood with your empty plate. “Max hasn’t lost a Mario Kart game in five years. Good luck.”

“Five years?” Oliver echoed. “Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, a Mario Kart tournament was born.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two hours, three arguments, and one broken Joy-Con later, the living room looked like a war zone.

Jack had screamed loud enough during one of the rounds that your neighbor’s dog had barked. Isack got so invested he’d physically ducked during a turn. Oliver tried to cheat by leaning over to press Gabriel’s buttons. Kimi sat straight-faced the entire time and still won twice. Without Max playing of course.

Max, of course, held his crown with quiet smugness, holding his controller like a weapon of war.

You sat curled up on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold, your heart full.

Because they weren’t just rookies. They weren’t just kids with team uniforms and talent and pressure pressing against their ribs. They were yours in a way that no one outside this circle would ever really understand.

You remembered how scared Oliver had looked when he’d been called up mid-season. How Isack had cried quietly after his third crash. How Gabriel had pulled you aside after a brutal interview, asking, “Do I actually belong here?”

How Kimi — calm, quiet, composed — had once confessed during a late media day, “Sometimes I think I’m boring. Like I’ll never be more than a name.”

And you’d been there. Max, too. Quiet in different ways, but always present.

You looked over at Max now. He had his arm slung along the back of the couch, eyes focused on the screen but clearly aware of the way you were watching him.

“You’re soft,” you whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll never let me live it down.”

You leaned in. “Too late. I already told Kimi you teared up during that baby penguin documentary.”

“You what—”

You pressed your fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Grid dad’s gotta keep his edge.”

From the floor, Oliver shouted, “Okay but seriously, can we do this every week?”

Jack added, “I’ll bring dessert next time!”

Isack: “I’m bringing my own controller. I don’t trust these ones.”

Kimi, dry as ever: “Just admit you suck.”

Gabriel, mouth full of more tiramisu: “This is better than half the sponsor events we do.”

Max gave you a look.

You smiled.

“Every week?” he repeated, voice low, wry.

You looped your arm through his. “Every week.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The door clicked shut on the last of them just before midnight, leaving behind only the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a faint smell of burnt garlic bread.

You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the living room like it had personally betrayed you.

“Did Jack really spill soda on the couch again?” you asked, voice exhausted.

Max wandered in behind you, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he didn’t put the controller in the freezer this time.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Long story.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the couch—carefully avoiding the suspiciously damp spot—and tossed your head back with a dramatic sigh. Max stood over you for a second, as if deciding whether to help clean or collapse next to you. Predictably, he picked the latter.

He sat with a grunt, thigh brushing yours. The room had settled into that warm, familiar silence that followed a day well spent—TV off, dishes drying, the chaos of earlier fading into the comfort of shared space.

“Do you ever wonder how the hell we got here?” you asked.

Max tilted his head toward you, brow raised. “Here as in… couch stained with soda and Mario Kart casualties?”

You gave him a dry look. “Here as in… being the unofficial grid parents to five emotionally chaotic, underfed children in motorsport.”

Max smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. But I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

You fell quiet, surprised.

“I used to think I was done with caring about anything outside my races,” he added after a beat. “Media, the circus, the drama. But now…” He glanced sideways. “You care. So I guess I started caring too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You do more than care,” you said softly. “You show up. Even when it’s quiet. When they need something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “So do you.”

You leaned into him slightly, shoulder pressing to his.

There was a pause.

Then: “You think Oliver’s okay? He seemed distracted tonight.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “I caught him staring at his phone a lot. Could be pressure.”

“Or homesickness,” you said. “He mentioned something about his sister’s birthday.”

Max nodded. “I’ll talk to him at the track.”

You blinked. “You just volunteered for emotional labor.”

“I didn’t volunteer. I just said I’ll talk.”

“Which counts as—”

“Don’t.”

You grinned, sliding your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar.

The two of you sat like that for a while. Just holding hands in a room that smelled like pasta and bad decisions, with a broken Joy-Con on the coffee table and your collective future somehow resting in the ability to balance mentorship, love, and motor racing chaos.

You hadn’t meant to become this. You hadn’t planned for the jokes about “grid mum and dad” to stick. But somewhere along the line—somewhere between media sessions and debriefs, late-night calls and race weekend dinners—it had turned real.

And despite all logic, it felt… right.

“I swear if Kimi calls me mum in public again, I’m walking into the ocean,” you muttered.

Max snorted. “I think he does it just to make you flinch.”

“I think he does everything just to make someone flinch.”

Silence again. Comfortable.

Then Max said, “You think they’re gonna be okay this season?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“They’ve got each other,” you said. “And they’ve got us.”

He nodded.

And that was it. That was the truth of it. The unspoken contract written in pasta dinners and post-race pep talks, quiet hallway chats and raucous living room tournaments. The family you never saw coming—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even clean furniture.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The group chat was cursed.

You knew this the moment Jack renamed it “Grid Orphans Anonymous” and Kimi promptly changed it back to “Grid Children of Max & Mum.”

You groaned as the notification pinged at 2:12 a.m. on a race week.

Gabriel:

jack you absolute maniac you left your fireproofs in my hotel room

Jack:

I panicked! we swapped bags after the media thing remember???

also why is there a half-eaten protein bar in the pocket

Isack:

can we please just have one week without emergency?

Oliver:

guys max saw me spill my drink on the simulator

he didn’t say anything

just gave me the look

Kimi:

may God have mercy on your soul

You closed your phone and rolled over to Max, who was half-asleep and glaring at the ceiling like he could feel the idiocy through the walls.

“Tell me again why we let them have our numbers,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, pulling the duvet up to your ears. “This is your fault. You made eye contact with Oliver once and now you’re legally his father.”

“They need a manager,” he muttered.

“They need a babysitter. A live-in one. With military training.”

Max exhaled. “I’m not old enough to be a dad.”

You rolled onto your side. “Max, you yelled at Gabriel for not bringing a jacket in the rain. And earlier today, you said the phrase, ‘You’ll catch a cold like that.’ You are thirty.”

He blinked into the darkness. “That’s not that old.”

“You also made Kimi take a nap before media day.”

“He was cranky!”

“Oh my God.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two days later, at a sponsor event, it happened.

You were mid-conversation with a McLaren comms rep when you heard it—clear as day, across the crowd of journalists, VIPs, and crew.

“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your pen?”

Max visibly froze. The world slowed. Cameras clicked. PR reps turned.

Jack was holding out a Sharpie and looking at Max like nothing was wrong with the words he’d just said out loud, in front of dozens of people.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Max turned so slowly you thought his neck might snap.

“Don’t—call me that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jack blinked. “But you are?”

“I’m not your dad, Doohan.”

Jack grinned, unbothered. “Sure, dad.”

You wheezed behind a camera rig.

Later, Max hissed in your ear, “He’s dead. I’m removing him from the will.”

“You’re not even his real father!”

“Exactly!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The final straw came at 7:04 AM on a blessedly rare day off.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Max, still shirtless and half-asleep, cracked the door open to find Oliver and Gabriel standing on your porch with smoothies and matching expressions of deep panic.

“…Why?” was all Max said.

“There’s a sponsor Q&A at nine,” Gabriel said. “They changed the location last night, and our hotel’s shuttle won’t get us there in time.”

Oliver held up a phone with the email. “We’re begging you. We didn’t know who else to call.”

Max looked like he aged ten years in five seconds. “Do I look like an Uber to you?”

You emerged in his hoodie and pajama shorts, took one look at the situation, and sighed like a saint.

“Get in the car,” you said. “No talking. If I don’t get coffee first, I’m leaving you in a parking lot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later that day, after the boys had been safely dropped off (with strict instructions not to text before 10 a.m.), Max and you sat in the Red Bull motorhome, sipping your respective drinks in complete silence.

Max finally spoke. “We could’ve had another cat.”

You snorted. “We have enough cats.”

“So?”

“I think you secretly like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You like being the dad.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You do.”

He didn’t argue.

Just laced his fingers with yours under the table, silent and soft.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Somewhere across the paddock, five rookies sent the same text to the same chat:

Oliver:

race weekend dinner at yours again?

Gabriel:

i’ll bring snacks if Max promises not to cook

Kimi:

i’ll win mario kart again. just letting you all know.

Isack:

we should do a team quiz or smth. losers do pushups.

Jack:

do we think mum and dad will ever realize they adopted us

You smiled at the messages as they came in.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re coming for dinner again, aren’t they?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if Jack calls me ‘Dad’ again, I’m unplugging the Switch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv1 imagine #formula one #formula 1 #red bull racing #red bull f1 #red bull max #red bull gives you wings #wroetolando

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wroetolando · 3 months ago

Text

𝙸𝚗𝚔-𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚜 | 𝙾𝙱𝟾𝟽

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: oliver bearman x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where he writes her letters he never meant to send—until she finds them and reads every word he tried to hide

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: from the dining table - harry styles

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mild angst

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He doesn’t tell anyone he still writes her.

Not his teammate. Not his trainer. Not even his mum, who always knew how he felt before he said a word.

It started as a one-off. A flurry of words scratched down at two in the morning, four days after she left. She had stood in his doorway, eyes glassy but her mouth determined, and told him she couldn’t stay. She needed space. Time. To figure out who she was outside of them.

Oliver hadn’t argued. He hadn’t begged or broken down. He’d just nodded and let her go, even as every part of him screamed not to.

And so that night, alone in his flat that still smelled faintly like her shampoo, he wrote.

The letter wasn’t poetic. His handwriting was messy, the ink smudged in the corner where his thumb pressed too hard. But it was the only thing that made sense when everything else felt wrong.

I don’t know what to do with myself when you’re not here.

That was how it ended. He folded the page, slipped it into an envelope, and tucked it into an old shoebox he’d found while clearing out his closet the week before.

And then he kept writing.

One after each race weekend. One when her birthday came and went and he didn’t know if he was allowed to text. One when he saw someone in Paris wearing her favorite perfume and had to sit on a bench for ten minutes just to breathe.

Some letters were angry. Others were desperate. Many were just… quiet. A record of things he couldn’t say out loud. Of feelings he was still trying to untangle.

But none of them were sent.

Because she needed space. And he needed her.

So he wrote and folded and hid them away. A growing archive of love he wasn’t allowed to give.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The first time he sees her again, it’s by accident.

He’s just picked up a protein smoothie from the place near the old karting track, sunglasses low on his nose, hoodie pulled up. He doesn’t expect to see anyone he knows, least of all her, walking out with a paper cup and a bag of pastries.

She sees him first.

“Ollie?”

His heart stutters.

She looks the same and completely different. Same eyes, same voice, but there’s something new in the way she holds herself. Like she’s grown into her own skin.

He tries not to stare. “Hey.”

They end up sitting outside, the air crisp with spring, her croissant half-eaten as they catch up. She tells him about uni, about a part-time internship she loves, about the book she’s been meaning to finish for six months.

He tells her about the car. The new team dynamics. How he’s been trying to cook more but still mostly lives off UberEats.

It’s easy. Familiar. And just a little heartbreaking.

When she says she’s staying at a friend’s place for the weekend, he hears himself offering, “You can come hang at mine for a bit. If you want.”

She hesitates for a moment—just a beat—and then nods.

“Okay.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

She kicks her shoes off at the door without asking. He makes her tea the way she likes it, three sugar cubes and just a splash of milk. They sit on his couch and fall into that space between friendship and something else—where her leg brushes his, and he doesn’t move it, and she doesn’t either.

When his phone buzzes with a call from his race engineer, he steps out onto the balcony to take it.

She stays behind.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

She doesn’t mean to find it.

She’s looking for a charger—at least, that’s how it starts. His bedroom hasn’t changed much. Still slightly messy, still full of scattered gear and spare parts. She kneels by the edge of the bed, tugging at a drawer that sticks a little, and her hand brushes something shoved deep at the back of the closet.

A shoebox. Heavy.

She pulls it out, confused.

It’s old, worn around the edges, the cardboard faded and a bit soft in places. Her curiosity gets the better of her. She lifts the lid.

Letters.

Dozens of them.

Her name is on the first one.

She stares for a second, heart pounding, before carefully unfolding it.

I lied when I said I was fine.

She reads another.

I saw a girl who looked like you today. I nearly called your name.

And another.

I still leave space for you on the left side of the bed.

Each word slices deeper. Because she had tried so hard not to look back. Tried to convince herself he was moving on, that this was the right thing for both of them. And yet—here, in her hands—is proof that he never really let go.

She’s on the fifth letter when the door creaks open behind her.

“Hey, I—” Oliver stops. His voice cuts off.

She turns around slowly, guilt etched across her face. “I’m sorry. I was looking for a charger and I— I didn’t know what it was.”

His eyes fall on the box. “You weren’t supposed to find those.”

“You wrote all of them to me?” she asks, voice trembling.

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

She sits up, one letter still in her lap. “Why didn’t you send them?”

“I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”

She laughs, bitter and teary-eyed. “You think reading all of this at once isn’t hard?”

“I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, overwhelmed. “You were moving on. I didn’t want to pull you back.”

Her fingers skim the edge of another envelope. “You said in this one that you wore the hoodie I left behind every night for a week.”

He looks away. “I did.”

“I missed you too,” she says softly. “So much it physically hurt.”

“Then why didn’t you call?”

“I was scared,” she admits. “That I’d hear your voice and change my mind. That I’d come running back before I figured myself out.”

He sits down across from her on the floor. “You figured it out now?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But I know this feels real. I know reading these letters makes me wonder why I ever left at all.”

Silence stretches between them.

She picks up one of the unopened envelopes. “Can I?”

He nods.

She reads it aloud.

“I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. But if you do—please know that I love you. Still. Probably always.”

She looks up at him. “Do you?”

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

She crawls toward him, stopping when she’s just inches away. “Then don’t write me another letter.”

“What?”

“Say it. To my face. Don’t hide anymore.”

So he does.

“I love you.”

And this time, she doesn’t cry. She smiles.

Then she leans in and kisses him, soft and slow and certain. And it feels like coming home.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

She keeps the box.

Reads the letters over coffee, curled up in bed, on long train rides back to campus. Each one is a snapshot of his heart—of a boy who never stopped waiting.

Eventually, she writes one of her own.

Not because she has to. Not to even the score.

But because he deserves to know what she felt, too.

She slips it into his coat pocket one evening after he leaves for training.

He finds it the next morning.

Unfolds the paper with shaking hands.

You kept writing to me even when I was gone. So now I’m writing back to say I’m here. I’m staying.

And below it, a small postscript, scribbled in the corner:

P.S. I still sleep on the right side. Looks like we haven’t changed that much.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#oliver bearman #ollie bearman #formula 1 #formula one #haas f1 team #haas #ferrari #ob87 #ob87 x you #ob87 x reader #wroetolando

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wroetolando · 3 months ago

Text

ₒₗᵢᵥₑᵣ Bₑₐᵣₘₐₙ

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

ink-stained secrets

#oliver bearman #ollie bearman #formula 1 #formula one #ferrari #haas f1 team #haas #ob87 #ob87 x reader #ob87 x you #wroetolando

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wroetolando · 3 months ago

Text

𝙻𝚊 𝙲𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊 | 𝙲𝚂𝟻𝟻

𝗮/𝗻: guys am i in no way FLUENT in spanish😭🙏

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: carlos sainz x oc

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where a secret love between a spanish f1 driver and a soul-baring singer turns into a public revelation, a storm of headlines, and eventually, something beautifully permanent

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: tú sí sabes quererme – natalia lafourcade

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: mild angst

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Carlos found her in a quiet corner of Monaco, tucked away in a bookstore that smelled like sun-faded paper and time. It was the kind of place tourists walked past without noticing—the window display didn’t scream bestsellers or signed copies, and the bell above the door jingled like a secret.

He hadn’t been looking for anyone. That day, he was trying to disappear. The season had been relentless, his every move filmed, replayed, judged. Even paradise felt like a trap when you couldn’t breathe freely.

But she was there. Cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a book of poetry in a hoodie too big for her frame, with sunglasses perched on top of her head like she forgot to put them away. She didn’t glance up right away, fully immersed in the tattered copy of Lorca’s Poeta en Nueva York. It wasn’t until he shifted beside her—reaching for a copy of Neruda—that she looked up, eyebrows raised, half-smile tugging at her lips.

“¿Buscas algo en particular?” she asked. Her accent was unmistakably Madrileña, warm and sharp at the same time. “Or are you just here to look mysterious and pretend you read?”

Carlos paused mid-reach, grinning at the jab. “Can’t it be both?”

She laughed—not polite or forced, but real. The kind that warmed the air between them. Her fingers danced along the spine of her book as she closed it.

“You should read his letters,” she said, nodding at the volume in his hands. “Lorca’s, I mean. The ones he wrote to Dalí. Way more intimate than his poetry.”

“You’re one of those Lorca people,” Carlos said, amused. “I thought everyone preferred Neruda.”

“Lorca had teeth. Neruda was all seduction. I like the wounds.”

There was a flicker in her eyes, something like challenge, something like truth.

She stood, brushing off her jeans. “Ana,” she said, offering a hand.

He took it, warm against his. “Carlos.”

“Nice to meet you, Carlos-who-pretends-to-read.”

“And you, Ana-who-quotes-obscure-correspondence.”

She smirked. “The best kind.”

She was already halfway out the door when she turned back, walking backward now. “Read something angry. It’ll keep you sharp.”

Then she was gone.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It wasn’t until two days later that he saw her again, this time at a little café by the harbor. He was running on three hours of sleep, sunglasses shielding the worst of the jet lag. She was in line in front of him, hood up again, nursing a hangover-level scowl that made him grin.

“You stalking me now?” she asked without looking back.

“You wish.”

“You wish,” she shot back, then added her coffee order without missing a beat.

They ended up sitting together, mostly because the tiny place was packed, and she gestured to the empty chair at her table like it was obvious. She sipped her espresso like it was a religion, no sugar, no milk, and judged him openly when he added both.

They talked about coffee. Then books. Then Madrid—how she missed the way the city smelled after rain, how Monaco was too clean, too perfect, like it was afraid of being real.

“It’s like a rich man’s Instagram,” she said, absently peeling the label off her water bottle. “All filters, no soul.”

Carlos laughed. “That’s brutal.”

“True, though.”

And still—nothing. No recognition. No awkward pause, no wide-eyed moment of, Oh my God, are you Carlos Sainz?

Instead, she asked if he lived in Monaco.

“Sort of,” he said, stretching the truth. “Work keeps me moving. I do some…engineering stuff.”

“Figures,” she said. “You’ve got the look.”

“What look?”

She shrugged. “Like someone who measures everything in precision.”

Carlos didn’t know what that meant, but he liked how she said it. Like she saw something in him that went beyond the helmet, the sponsors, the world expecting him to be fast and flawless all the time.

When they parted ways, she didn’t ask for his number.

But she slipped a note into his hand, scribbled in tiny handwriting: a bookstore address in Madrid and one word—someday.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The next few weeks were a blur of travel and track walks and press, but that note stayed in his wallet.

They didn’t talk. Not yet. But she lingered.

It wasn’t until a random afternoon in Milan that everything shifted.

He was sitting in a café, headphones in, scrolling through playlists, when her voice filled the space between songs. It hit him like a wave—familiar but not. Softer, deeper. He glanced at the screen.

Ana Velasco – Trampa de Luz

He stared. Then stared harder. That couldn’t be her. It didn’t sound exactly like the girl from the bookstore—but the tone, the phrasing, the way she swallowed certain vowels—it had to be.

He googled. Videos. Interviews. Latin Grammy acceptance speeches.

Photos.

It was her.

And not just a singer. A star.

Carlos sat in stunned silence, watching clips of her playing guitar barefoot in front of thousands, her voice strong and clear, worlds away from the quiet girl in a hoodie quoting Lorca.

She had known. She had to have known.

And she hadn’t said a word.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He messaged her that night.

“Turns out you’re famous.”

She replied within minutes.

“You’re one to talk, Formula 1.”

His heart jumped. He hadn’t even told her.

“How long have you known?”

“Since Monaco. The barista called your name. You’re not exactly low profile, Carlos.”

He rubbed his eyes, laughed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I liked pretending,” she wrote. “It was nice. Meeting someone before the weight of who we are showed up.”

He got it.

God, he really got it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

They started texting. Voice notes. Memes. Book quotes. She’d send lines from lyrics she was working on. He’d send clips of the view from the track or the inside of his car before a race.

There was a rhythm to it. A cadence.

And slowly, then all at once, it turned into something more.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

She invited him to Madrid when the season calmed. He didn’t even hesitate.

The apartment was old, tucked above a record store, the kind of place that echoed when you laughed too loud. She wore sweatpants and a bun. No makeup. No pretense.

He kissed her on the balcony after a night of wine and records, her voice humming low with a song he didn’t know yet.

He pulled back and whispered, “Write me something.”

She smiled. “I already did.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later, when she played him an unreleased track, he knew instantly it was about him. The way the melody hesitated at first, like it was afraid to be seen. The lyrics about motion, silence before storms, hands on steering wheels and hearts held in suspension.

“You wrote that before we even kissed.”

“I did,” she admitted. “You were already in my head.”

“And I’m staying?”

“If you want to.”

He did.

He didn’t say it yet. But she knew.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The world didn’t know. Not yet. Not officially.

But they would. One day, she’d sing about him on a stage with lights brighter than headlights at midnight. And he’d be there, arms crossed, head bowed, heart full.

Still calling her poetry girl.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Madrid felt different now.

Carlos had been there a thousand times before—press tours, family visits, racing obligations. But this time, it felt like breathing for the first time in a long while. No cameras. No staged interviews. Just morning light, warm coffee, and Ana curled into his side on her worn-out couch with a record playing softly in the background.

He had arrived two days earlier, no press, no warning. She’d buzzed him in with a sleepy voice and no questions. He brought takeout, she brought stories. They had barely left the apartment since.

They moved like people who had known each other longer than they had. Like lovers on borrowed time, clinging to the quiet.

“You’re going to be bored,” she said that morning, pouring olive oil into a pan. “Being here while I work.”

Carlos, still half-asleep in one of her oversized shirts, yawned dramatically. “Are you kidding? I’m finally getting rest. And food that isn’t from a team chef.”

She tossed a pepper slice at him.

He caught it with a grin and leaned back on the kitchen stool. The sun hit her cheekbones just right, warm and golden. She moved with the kind of effortless grace that came from someone deeply at ease in her own skin.

“You have a session today?”

She nodded. “I’m working on the last two songs. One of them’s yours.”

Carlos blinked. “Mine?”

She didn’t look up, just stirred something in a pot. “It’s called ‘Casi Real.’” Almost real.

He let the name sit for a moment. “What’s it about?”

She shrugged. “What it feels like to love someone when you can never be sure the world will let you keep them.”

He stared at her back, heart catching in his throat. She wasn’t being dramatic. This was their reality—two public lives balanced on the edge of privacy, always one headline away from being dissected, judged, misunderstood.

He stood, walked over, slid his arms around her waist from behind. “You have me. Whatever the world does, I’m still yours.”

Ana turned her head slightly, cheek brushing his. “Until the cameras find out.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The thing was, neither of them had a plan.

They didn’t owe the world anything—not yet. It was theirs, this fragile, luminous thing between them. But reality didn’t wait forever.

Rumors were already starting to circulate. A fan account had spotted Carlos leaving a Madrid café with someone who looked suspiciously like Ana, hoodie and all. A photo had surfaced—a blurry profile, nothing conclusive, but it sparked a thread that quickly caught fire.

Carlos’s PR team texted him.

“Do we need to get ahead of something?”

He ignored it for now.

Ana saw the same post that night, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her laptop. She didn’t say anything at first. Just scrolled, eyes unreadable.

Carlos watched her, unsure if he should speak. He hated that her work—her sanctuary—could be tainted by this, by him.

Finally, she looked up.

“They think I’m dating a Real Madrid player.”

He blinked. “That’s better?”

She snorted. “Marginally. At least no one thinks I’m with Alonso.”

Carlos groaned, falling back on the couch. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

But the truth hung heavy between them. This wouldn’t stay secret forever. They’d already stretched anonymity further than luck usually allowed.

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“I’m not afraid of being seen,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid of what they’ll do to you.”

Carlos sat up. “Me?”

“You have sponsors. Media deals. A whole career built on image. I’m just a singer who writes sad songs and wears the same jeans every day.”

He shook his head, gently cupping her jaw. “You’re more than that. And if people have a problem, they can watch me not give a damn.”

She kissed him for that. Slow, grateful, like a prayer wrapped in skin.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It was three weeks later when it happened.

Carlos was in Silverstone. She was in Barcelona, performing an intimate show at a small theater—just her guitar, a pianist, and a crowd of 300.

The show was being livestreamed. He watched from his hotel room, sitting in the dark with earbuds in.

The third song in was new. Unreleased. Her fans hadn’t heard it yet.

Ana stepped up to the mic, adjusted the guitar strap on her shoulder, and smiled like she knew a secret.

“This one’s… personal,” she said softly. “I wrote it after falling for someone I never expected. He came out of nowhere and changed the rhythm of everything.”

The crowd hushed.

The first chords were low and slow.

The lyrics told a story. A bookstore. A boy pretending to read. Coffee that tasted like fate. A name said in quiet, stolen moments. A hand reaching for hers while the world blurred outside.

Carlos sat frozen, listening as she sang about him in front of the world.

When the song ended, she didn’t say who it was about.

She didn’t have to.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The next morning, #CasiReal was trending worldwide.

Clips of the performance flooded TikTok, Twitter, Instagram. Fans dissected every lyric. Sleuths pulled up old blurry photos. The speculation hit full tilt.

And then someone found a photo from that Madrid café. A clearer one. Carlos’s smile unmistakable.

The next day, a reporter asked Carlos outright at a press conference.

“There’s a lot of talk about a certain Spanish singer and a new love song. Can you confirm if it’s about you?”

Carlos didn’t flinch. He could have dodged it. Could have given the PR-approved response.

But he thought about her voice. The way she curled into his side at night. The way she said his name like a secret she didn’t want to share.

He smiled.

“It’s a beautiful song,” he said. “You should listen to it.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Ana called him that night.

“Subtle,” she said dryly.

Carlos laughed. “You started it.”

“I started it with a poem. You confirmed it to half the world.”

“Do you regret it?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Not even a little.”

He exhaled. “Neither do I.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The media storm lasted a week. Maybe two.

There were headlines. Think pieces. Paparazzi tried harder. Fans went feral.

But eventually, the dust settled.

They didn’t make any big declarations. No magazine covers. No red carpet stunts.

Instead, they lived.

Carlos flew to her show in Lisbon. She watched him win in Monza. They left little breadcrumbs—matching bracelets, a single lyric with his race number in it, a photo of her hand on his wrist as he drove.

It wasn’t about hiding anymore.

It was about holding.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

A few months later, she came to the paddock for the first time.

No disguise. No hoodie.

Just Ana—sunglasses, leather jacket, head high.

The cameras went wild.

Carlos met her at the gate, pulled her close, kissed her cheek with cameras flashing.

“You sure about this?” he asked into her hair.

She squeezed his hand. “Let them watch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

That night, she sang a new song at a private event.

No one had heard it before. No announcement.

The title?

“Velocidad.”

Speed.

It wasn’t just about racing.

It was about the way love arrived sometimes without warning—burning fast, fierce, impossible to ignore.

And how, if you were lucky, it didn’t crash.

It flew.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

They got used to it, eventually.

The glances. The headlines. The endless swirl of attention that came from two public lives colliding like stars.

Sometimes it was too much. Other times, it felt like background noise—faint, irrelevant. They learned to move through it together, holding tight to the things that couldn’t be photographed: whispered jokes in bed, her voice at 2 a.m. humming in the kitchen, his steady hands lacing up her boots before a show because she always forgot the time.

But even the strongest love has its moments of silence.

And theirs came one October night in Austin.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Carlos had crashed out of the race early—sideswiped in a first-lap mess that cost him valuable points and bruised more than just pride. By the time he made it back to his hotel, his phone was blowing up with messages from journalists, fans, and sponsors all scrambling for a statement.

Ana was already there, curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, reading with a glass of wine.

“You okay?” she asked as soon as she saw his face.

He nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. She stood, crossed the room, and wrapped her arms around him without another word.

He buried his face in her neck and breathed.

“I hate losing,” he said after a while.

“I know.”

“And I hate that now when I lose, they mention you like it’s your fault.”

That made her freeze.

“What?”

“I don’t mean you—I mean…” He sighed. “It’s all over Twitter. They say I’m distracted. That being with you is the reason I’m not focused.”

Ana pulled back slowly.

“And do you think that?”

Carlos looked at her then, really looked. Her eyes were tired—too many flights, too many hotel rooms, too many nights trying to navigate a love that refused to stay in the shadows. He hated that his world had made hers harder.

“No,” he said. “I don’t. But I hate that they’re using you as an excuse. It’s not fair.”

“It’s never been fair,” she said quietly. “Not for women. Not when we’re successful. Not when we fall in love.”

He reached for her, but she stepped back.

“Do you want to pause this?” she asked.

The question knocked the air out of him.

“What?”

“Us,” she said. “Do you want to… take space? Until the season’s over. Until the noise dies down.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Don’t say that.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting,” he said, his voice hardening. “I need you.”

They stood there for a long time, caught in the silence between fear and love.

Finally, Ana exhaled. “I just don’t want to be the reason they take something from you.”

Carlos crossed the space and took her face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I’ve been racing since I was a kid. I’ve won. I’ve lost. I’ve broken bones, cars, hearts. But nothing—nothing—has made me feel like this. Like you do.”

Her eyes shone.

“I don’t care what they say. Let them write their stories. We’ll write ours.”

She didn’t speak.

She kissed him instead.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

That night, Ana posted a photo on Instagram.

Black and white. No caption.

Just her hand holding his, rings tangled, nails chipped, veins visible.

Real.

The comments exploded. Love. Hate. Curiosity. Jealousy.

Carlos didn’t care.

He reposted it to his story with one word:

Siempre.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

They made it to the end of the season.

Carlos didn’t win the championship, but he finished strong—clean races, bold overtakes, a podium in Brazil that made headlines for how fiercely he celebrated.

Ana watched every race she could, sometimes from the garage, sometimes from hotel rooms, sometimes curled on the couch at home with a blanket and her heart in her throat.

She wrote constantly. Late at night. Early in the morning. She didn’t tell him what the songs were about.

Until one day, she did.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The album dropped in December.

It was called “Altura.” Height.

Ten tracks. Half in Spanish, half in English.

Track 7 was the one fans fixated on. A guitar-heavy ballad called “Seis Segundos”—Six Seconds. The average length of time it takes to fall in love, she explained in an interview.

But Carlos knew better.

It was the six seconds between him crashing in Austin and her deciding not to leave.

The lyrics were brutal. Beautiful. Honest.

They told the story of fear, of pressure, of public scrutiny, of hands held in dark hotel rooms and words whispered when the world wasn’t looking.

She didn’t name him. But she didn’t need to.

The last line of the chorus sealed it:

“If you ask, I’d fall again. Every second. Every turn. Even if I crash.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He showed up at her show in Madrid that weekend. Unannounced. No cameras.

She spotted him side stage during the bridge of “Velocidad”—that slight shake of her voice the only hint that he’d thrown her off-balance.

After the show, she found him backstage, arms folded, watching her like he hadn’t seen her in years.

“I thought you had media in London.”

“I left.”

She blinked. “Just like that?”

He stepped forward, voice low. “You keep writing songs about falling. So I came to show you I’m still here.”

Ana stared at him, heart wide open.

“I love you,” she said.

It was the first time.

Carlos didn’t hesitate. “I love you more.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

They moved in together in the spring.

Not in Monaco. Not Madrid.

They chose a house in the countryside, far from cameras, near enough to both airports. A place with uneven floors and big windows and walls they could fill with records and books and photos that no one else would ever see.

Ana started leaving handwritten lyrics around the house.

Carlos left engine parts on the dining table.

They fought about silly things—coffee beans, late-night noise, her stealing his hoodies, him forgetting to close cabinet doors.

They made up just as quickly.

And through it all, they stayed rooted.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

A year later, he won in Singapore.

Ana watched from the pit wall, disguised in sunglasses and adrenaline. When he crossed the line, hands in the air, she cried without caring who saw.

Later, under the garage lights, dripping in champagne and sweat, he pulled her into his arms in front of the team.

“This one’s for you,” he said.

And kissed her.

No one looked away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

They never did a wedding.

Not a traditional one.

But on their second anniversary, they exchanged vows on their balcony at sunset. Just the two of them. Ana wore a black dress. Carlos wore the first shirt she ever stole from him.

He promised to choose her, even on bad days.

She promised to keep writing songs that made him blush.

They laughed. They cried.

They stayed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

La Canción Secreta—the secret song—wasn’t a secret anymore.

It was a story they told together.

Not with headlines.

But with everything in between.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

#carlos sainz #formula 1 #formula one #cs55 #cs55 x reader #cs55 fic #cs55 x you #ferrari #williams f1 #williams racing #mclaren #wroetolando

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