Like Father, Like Son | CL16

hihiiii carlos + 43 maybe? 😊

43. giving them a piggy-back ride

pairing: carlos sainz x friend!reader

DISCLAIMER: YOU ARE NOT A FAN OF HIKING.

It’s solid as a fact. Unmovable. Unchangeable. You simply cannot find the appeal of waking up in the crack ass of dawn to go on an uneven trail, only to reach the top, and then have to do it again. So, yeah, not a fan.

Carlos Sainz, however—childhood friend, sportsman, Formula One driver, annoying pain in the ass—is a fan of hiking.

And this wouldn’t normally be a problem. Carlos is an avid enjoyer of many things you don’t particularly have a fondness for, but it’s never been an issue. The problem here is that Carlos… he knows you too well. Because while you may not love hiking, he’s well-aware you do love taking pictures of pretty things.

Every time the two of you go out—regardless of whether it’s the city, the beach, the streets—he’s always stopping besides you, patiently waiting as you pull out your phone to snap a quick picture of whatever had caught your attention. Clouds, sunsets, birds on wires, pretty signs— you name it. Your phone’s storage is crying out for help.

And the truth is, you are weak. Because the pictures Carlos showed you of the view from the top were breathtaking. Truly, you caved way too easily.

(Beautiful sights and Carlos leaning close to you with those dumb, pretty, stupid doe eyes of his? It’s not like you’re made of ice.)

And while the sights awaiting you ahead were somewhat motivating, the climb certainly wasn’t.

“I hate you.”

Carlos chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I do. I really hate you.” You huff, feeling cold sweat between your shoulder blades. “Actually— no, I hate myself.”

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Stop being such a baby. You’ll get over it.”

“I’m dragging you to one of my dissertations next week— see if you love it as much.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Ass.”

Carlos laughs, stepping over large roots that poke outside of the earth. He’s fast— why is he so fast?

“Watch your step.”

He gets a few paces ahead quickly, as if he’s doing it on purpose. Always so goddamn competitive. Your lips part to shoot something, but whatever you were gonna say dies on your tongue. You don’t mean to do it— it just happens. And before you can help it, your eyes are on Carlos’ ass.

Damn.

“Enjoying the view yet?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Your head snaps up. “Huh?”

“The view,” Carlos repeats, stopping as he turns to face you. You think you see the corner of a smirk on his lips. There’s mischief in his eyes that’s gone in a blink. “You can start to see the city from here.”

“Ah,” you manage, clearing your throat. “The city. Yeah.”

Carlos chuckles, shaking his head at you. “Come on,” he throws his head to the upcoming trail. “Only a little more to go.”

“Only a little,” you repeat under your breath. Your jaw twitches. “I’m Carlos Sainz, I’m so sporty and fit and I don’t even sweat,” you mutter in a high-pitched voice.

“What was that?” he calls from up ahead.

“I said you— SHIT!” you yelp, sneaker snagging on an overgrown root, sending you tumbling onto the dirt. You think you swallow a handful of twigs on your way down.

Great. Fantastic, actually.

“I told you to watch your step,” Carlos says helpfully.

“Okay, I’ve had about enough of you and your little—” You try to stand up, but pain shoots up your ankle. You promptly stay on the ground.

Carlos laughs, watching you slump onto the dirt. “Come on, bonita. You agreed we’d get to the end of the trail.”

You shake your head, rolling down your sock a little to get a better look. You grimace. “No, Carlos—fuck, I think I sprained my ankle.”

Carlos stares at you with a disbelieving look, mirth evident in his half smile. But then, the longer you stay on the ground, the faster his smile drops, and concern festers in its place.

“Ah, really?” He mutters a curse you don’t really catch. You hear him rush towards you before halting besides you. He kneels down, gesturing with his hand to bring your leg closer to him. “Okay, let me see.”

He presses the pads of his fingers onto your ankle, feeling around when his brows furrow. Whatever one-sided mischief he’d been enjoying earlier seems to be long gone. He gently presses against a sore spot, making you wince.

Carlos exhales. “Yeah, it’s definitely sprained. Come on.”

You watch as he turns his back to you, still crouching. You huff. “Carlos, I’m not getting on your back on a trail like this.”

“You are, because I don’t want you putting any more pressure on your ankle.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “Right, then you trip and we both end up injured? I don’t think so.”

He exhales loudly. “Preciosa,” he says, a warning in his tone.

You hate the warmth you feel in your gut whenever he calls you that. Bonita, preciosa, guapa. Even if it’s some dumb joke from when you were younger. Feeling flustered when your gorgeous friend calls you pretty as a nickname? Who’s gonna sue you, huh?

You shake your head. “I’m all sweaty and gross. You’re gonna drop me.”

His face twists as he looks at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he actually looks offended. “What? I am not gonna drop you.” You open your mouth to protest, but Carlos beats you to it, his jaw twitching. “Can you stop being stubborn for two minutes and just get on my back?”

“Fine. Moody.” You limp a little as you climb onto Carlos’ back. You breathe deeply as you place your legs around his buff torso, your arms around his neck.

“Hold on tight, okay? I don’t want you falling off,” he says quietly. You nod, even though he can’t see it. Carlos’ big hands curl around your thighs, and you have to swallow a squeak. You hold on to him a little tighter.

Carlos braces himself as he starts stepping down the trail. Your brows knit together. “Are we not reaching the top?”

“No.” There’s a finality to his voice, a sternness he so rarely uses with you. “We should get that ankle checked out as soon as possible. Make sure it’s nothing too serious,” Carlos says, tone indecipherable.

Your hand squeezes his shoulder, and Carlos tenses beneath you. “But—” You press your lips together. “It’s not that bad, I promise.”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You’re not even walking.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you decided to pick me up and throw me on top of you,” you retort, and you can feel heat crawling up Carlos’ neck.

His voice feels hoarser when he protests, “That’s not what I—”

“We came all this way already,” you interrupt. “I didn’t just break my leg to just see trees.”

“You didn’t break your leg,” Carlos says, rolling his eyes. You can hear a small smile forming on his lips.

“Exactly! Now, if you think you can carry me to through the last stretch…” you trail off. You’re tilting your head against his shoulder, feeling a breath that rumbles beneath his skin. Your hands around him tighten slightly. “I think I wanna see what the view looks like,” you murmur, a quiet admission.

Carlos stops his descend, as if weighing his options. You feel him swallow sharply.

You smile against his back, teasing. “Unless, of course, you think you can’t carry me all the way up and then down. Which, I mean, Carlos Sainz Jr, sportsman extraordinaire— Mr. I am amazing and competitive at every sport I—” You yelp as Carlos turns around sharply, making his way back up the trail.

“You told me you didn’t watch that interview,” he grumbles.

You grin. “I lied.”

You laugh into his shoulder as he mutters a string of words under his breath, fixing your arms around his neck. He adjusts his grip on your thighs, pushing you higher on his back.

“Joder. Las cosas que hago por ti.”

You bite down another laugh. You don’t know what gives you the confidence— maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the situation, the fact that Carlos’ thumb is unconsciously drawing small patterns on your leg, or the strange physical closeness. You’re still stifling your laugh when you lean into his ear and whisper, “You’re too easy.”

Carlos scoffs a laugh, a deep, rumbling sound beneath his skin. He turns his face near imperceptibly. Beautiful brown eyes glance at you with unbearable fondness. “Only for you.” He looks away just as quickly, and you pray to whatever god is up there that he can’t tell just how much those three words got to you.

“Let’s go get you that picture.”

a/n: yeah i’m sorry my biggest pet peeve in carlos fics is when spanish isn’t used appropriately (ESPECIALLY in terms of nicknames) so this is vindication :)

translations: bonita — pretty / preciosa — beautiful / guapa — gorgeous / joder. las cosas que hago por ti — fuck. the things i do for you.

breaking zone

max verstappen x reader | 1.1k

max teaches you how to use his racing simulator.

cw: flirty fun, allusions to sexy fun, a lot of vague statements about the sim cause i don't know a damn thing

a/n: this came from a request! thank you, anon! sorry about the three pics of max up top instead of something aesthetic. i couldn't help it!

EDIT: found this in my drafts, too. wrote it aaaaages ago. have it for the no-race weekend.

--

Max is the one who suggests it.

"I don't want to break it," you protest. "You need that thing."

He rolls his eyes. "You won't," he says. "I just want to show you how it works."

You're on his couch, reading. He's just finished a stream and clearly has some energy from it -- which is why he's suggested, out of the blue, that you try his racing simulator.

There are some drawbacks to going along with his plan. First of all, you're very comfortable where you are. Second of all, you really just want him to lie down with you and watch a movie. He is a potent mix of adorable and devastatingly attractive in his low-slung sweatpants and Puma t-shirt. He's even wearing the glasses that rarely see the light of day.

Damn him.

"Alright," you groan. "Fine."

Max grins with his victory and tugs you off the couch and into his office.

"I'm not going to be good at it. Remember how the Playstation adventure went?"

You'd tried playing F1 2024 on Max's console. It became clear very quickly that you did not quite know how to get the hang of turning around the circuit without hitting other cars.

"Eh, you'd get better if you practiced," Max says. It's a combination of the somewhat undeserved unwavering confidence he has in you because he loves you, and the underestimation of a regular person trying to do his, in fact, very difficult job. But you let him think so.

"Sure, Max."

He turns on the monitors and boots up the sim system. It's maybe the most intimidating setup you've ever seen. Three huge screens curving in a half-circle around the seat, and another smaller one on top of the center screen. The wheel is like an oval dinner plate with so many buttons you almost laugh. You've seen it before, of course, but the idea that you're going to use that thing? Hilarious.

"You're going to sit here," Max says, patting the back of the chair. "Let's start with that."

He beckons you over and you gingerly slide down into the mock-seat. You misjudge how low it is by a few inches and plop down with a yelp.

"Jesus," you say. "This is so much lower then I thought it would be. There go my fantasies of having sex in your car."

"Your what?" Max sputters. His cheeks are red and you wink up at him. "I have other cars," he adds.

"I know," you laugh. "Teach me this, first."

Max sighs like the most put-upon man in the world and crouches down next to the chair so he's more eye level. His voice is right by your ear when he says, "Now, put your feet on the pedals. Do yo see them?"

You look under the screens and see what he's talking about. You stretch your legs and find yourself in a much tighter position than you expected, knees close to your chest and back at an angle.

"This is not comfortable," you grumble. "My abs already hurt."

"All the training isn't just for show, you know," Max teases.

"Yeah, yeah," you say. "You're strong and handsome and a WorldChampion. I know. Now tell me how to work this thing."

You gesture at the nightmare of a steering wheel.

"Okay," Max begins. "So, left to right, you have the radio button --"

Max does what he does best: explain. You already knew he was a good teacher, but to be on the receiving end of his knowledge about the thing he loves most and is brilliant at is kind of thrilling. Worth getting up the couch for, at least. He explains the buttons, the knobs, the clutch paddles. The tyre status, the DRS, the flag indicators.

You retain probably a quarter of it.

"And this is set up differently by each team?" you mutter. "Shit, how do you guys do this?"

He smirks. "Well, not everyone does it very well."

"Max."

"Time and training, liefje," he says. "If you had both of those, you could learn."

"Good thing I like listening to you explain it," you sigh. "It's hot."

Max clears his throat. "Flirting isn't going to get you out of trying it at least once."

"Fire it up, then," you goad him. "We'll see what it might get me after."

His hand darts out to squeeze your thigh, golden hairs on his wrist shining in the sunlit room, and then he stands. He fiddles with the program for a minute and then all three screens light up and you're basically in a Formula 1 car.

"This is Zandvoort," he says.

"Your track?"

"Mhm," he hums. "Figured you could start somewhere you know."

Know is a bit of an exaggeration -- you've been there with him more than once and even walked the track with him during race weekend.

"If you say so," you mutter. You look behind you and find him standing with his arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.

"Well, start it up, then."

As you predicted, the entire venture goes horribly. If this was a real car, they'd take away your license and ban you from setting foot on a racetrack ever again.

But this is your boyfriend's racing simulator. And he is a world champion as well as in love with you, so it's not as bad as that. He's patient -- more than you expected him to be, honestly -- and gentle with his instructions. He doesn't chastise you for things you don't know, instead coaching you to think about one thing at a time. As the laps go on you manage to achieve a low-level form of cohesion between your feet on the pedals and your steering.

It's fun. It's fun to have Max at your shoulder, his constant stream of commentary mingled with praise for your incredibly mediocre ability to follow his directions. It's fun to understand the thing he does all the time, the thing he is so good at, a little better. Sitting in the chair is a little like being inside his head.

You finish another lap almost in stitches from how hard you're laughing, Max's chuckles making it even worse.

"That certainly does not deserve a podium," you say, gasping. "God, get me out of this thing."

You pull your legs from the pedals, abdominal muscles aching, and Max maneuvers himself so it can grab your forearms and tug you up.

"I think you deserve a reward, anyway," Max says. You face him and find a neutral expression apart from a quirked eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah?" you muse. "What would that be?"

He tugs you a little closer. "I can think of some things."

Your noses brush. "Like what?" you ask, a little breathless. "Do you want to show me a lap?"

"No," he whispers, lips so close they brush yours as he talks. "I want to show you something else."

He grabs your hand and tugs to towards the bedroom. 

speechless - lewis hamilton.

The mirror in front of you reflected the final touches of your look—elegance and confidence wrapped in a stunning outfit that hugged your figure just right. Tonight was important. An exclusive event, cameras flashing, eyes watching. But there was only one gaze you cared about.

Lewis had been getting ready in the other room, giving you space to perfect everything. When you finally stepped out, the sound of his watch clicking into place was the only noise in the room.

Then, silence.

You turned to find him standing still, his lips slightly parted, brown eyes locked on you like he had just forgotten how to function. His usually sharp tongue—quick with jokes and playful remarks—had gone missing.

"Wow," he finally managed, though it came out almost breathless. He ran a hand over his jaw, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

A teasing smirk played on your lips. "My baby got nothing to say? That’s a first."

Lewis let out a small chuckle, but his eyes never left you. He stepped closer, his hands finding your waist, fingertips grazing the fabric before pulling you in gently. "You look…" He exhaled. "I mean, you always look beautiful, but this? This is something else."

Tilting your head, you traced a finger over the chain resting on his collarbone. "Should I be concerned? Did I break you?"

His arms tightened around you, and in a swift move, he dipped his head, lips finding your bare shoulder, then trailing up to your jaw. "You might’ve, yeah," he murmured against your skin.

You hummed, enjoying the way his breath fanned over you. "Guess I should get you used to it, then."

A deep chuckle vibrated through his chest before he finally kissed you—slow, warm, and filled with the kind of admiration that made your knees weak.

"You're unreal," he whispered, forehead resting against yours. "You sure we even need to go to this event?"

You laughed, nudging his nose with yours. "Oh, we're going. But don't worry, you can stare all night."

His smirk returned, hands slipping lower as he pulled you even closer. "Oh, I planned on it."

Radio Silence | Chapter Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, mentions of an autistic meltdown, Lando being horrendously down-bad.

Notes — I love to ramble with ya’ll about my fics, so send me as many asks as you want!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2018

Amelia liked it when the pit garages were like this. Tools neatly racked, screens idle but ready, the scent of fresh tire rubber still hanging in the air — not yet burnt.

Fernando sat on a workbench, sipping his espresso.

She was perched on the same tire she always chose, butter-yellow water bottle in hand. There was enough ice inside to keep her drink cold all day, even under the Abu Dhabi sun. She wore a white cotton dress that would probably be stained with oil by the end of the day — she didn’t care.

"You are thinking too much," he said eventually, voice low, words shaped by the curl of his accent. "I can hear them.”

She turned the bottle slowly between her hands, listening to the ice crash against the insulated metal. “You can’t hear thinking.” She told him. 

"I can when it is this loud," he replied. She frowned, staring at one of the stickers on her water bottle. Either there was a language barrier — or Fernando was some kind of mind reader. “You are worried about the new boys, yes?”

She rounded her shoulders up to her ears in response. 

He shifted slightly, the sound of his espresso cup touching down on the metal bench. “You worry they will not like you. Or not understand you. That they will say stupid things.”

“I don’t care if they like me,” she said automatically, but her voice was too tight around the words. “I just… I don’t want to make them uncomfortable. Because I don’t act the way they will expect, since I’m their boss’ daughter. Or because I don’t always know how to—”

He cut her off with a short sound — not quite interrupting, just catching the sentence before it turned into something more self-deprecating than necessary. “Mi niña,” he said. “You are not responsible for the comfort of two boys. Especially not ones who still trip over their own feet getting into the car.”

She didn’t smile, but the edges of her thoughts softened.

“They come into your garage. You were here first. You are a very helpful addition.” He paused. “And you are never unkind. This is more than most.”

She tightened her grip on her water bottle. “I make people uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed, and his honesty was nice. People always tried to lie to her in a silly attempt to make her feel more normal. “But only the ones who do not listen properly to what you say.” He picked up his espresso again, then added, “And if they do not listen, I will teach them.”

Amelia glanced toward the open garage, where footsteps passed in rapid beats and voices moved in bursts. It was the last race of the 2018 season. Lewis had already secured the Drivers’ Championship. She’d sent a big cake to his house with Well Done for Being Fast written on it. He’d posted a picture on his Instagram, which meant he’d appreciated the gesture.

She glanced at her phone and started chewing on her bottom lip.

Thinking about Lewis only reminded her of the email — unread, unacknowledged — sitting in her meticulously organised inbox.

Toto Wolff had taken it upon himself to email her. From his personal address, not his work one — no “Mercedes” anywhere in sight.

She’d taken one look at the subject line (Unconditional Job Offer / Employment Opportunity) and promptly launched her phone across the room. Miraculously, the screen had survived.

Lewis had warned her more than once that his team principal was interested in her talents. She’d assumed it was flattery. Apparently not.

If her dad ever found out about the email, he’d have a full-blown meltdown — the kind usually reserved for her. A rival team trying to poach his daughter wasn’t just a personal affront; it was a declaration of war.

“Amelia,” Fernando said. 

She didn’t look up right away. 

"Yes?” She asked. 

"Do not worry so much,” he said, tapping the side of his cup. "It ruins the coffee."

— 

The MTC was half-empty, lit with the flat grey light of a British winter morning. Most people were still on holiday. Lando wasn’t most people anymore. 

He tugged at the sleeves of his new team jacket as he walked the corridor past engineering, sneakers squeaking just slightly with each step. It still felt surreal; being here. Not as a junior, not as a maybe, but as a full-time McLaren Formula One driver.

He was so wrapped up in the thrill of it that he nearly walked right past her.

Amelia Brown was crouched beside a cart of sorted telemetry tablets, scanning each one like she was decoding a puzzle, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed unhappily. Her white trainers were smudged, her dark hair pulled back loosely, and her signature butter-yellow water bottle was sat beside her on the floor.

Lando stopped.

“Hey,” he said, a little too loud for how quiet the corridor was.

She looked up, blinked once, then gave a small nod. “Hello.”

Not cold. Not warm either. Just… Amelia. 

“I, uh… I set two alarms now,” he blurted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “So I’m never late anymore. Not even accidentally, you know?”

She turned her attention back to the tablets. “Okay.” She mumbled, hardly eligible. 

He waited. 

Right. That was it. 

Just okay.

“You know,” he tried to remind her, smiling because he wasn’t sure what else to do with his face, “because you said I lacked discipline and wouldn’t get the promotion if I kept being late.”

“I did say that,” she said, tapping on one of the screens and letting out an almost silent sigh when the screen remained black. “It was a problem.” 

Still nothing. No smile. No teasing. 

Lando cleared his throat. “Right. Well. It’s not a problem now.”

“Good,” she said.

A pause stretched between them. 

Lando rocked back on his heels. “Cool. Alright. I’ll just— I’ll see you around?”

Still, she didn’t look up. “Highly likely.”

He gave a quick nod and turned to go, cheeks warm.

He’d always thought of himself as pretty likeable. People laughed when he wanted them to. He was decent at reading a room — usually. But clearly, none of that meant anything to Amelia Brown. 

As he walked off, he glanced back without thinking. And, like an absolute idiot, he stumbled a little when he saw her absolutely beam at one of the tablets as it flickered to life, screen lighting up her face like something out of a bloody PC World advert.

Jesus Christ. She was fucking pretty.

Not in a flashy, look-at-me way. Just… quietly, properly pretty. The kind of pretty that made his stomach do something proper dodgy. He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering to himself. “Yeah. Sick. Nice one, mate. You’ve got no chance.”

— 

iMessage – Tuesday, 19:47

Lando mate she’s well fit 

Max F. bro 💀

Lando can’t stop staring at her she probably thinks im a right creep

Max F. yeah probably who are you even talking abt

Lando zak’s daughter

Max F.

are you actually brain dead?

you can’t fancy your boss’s daughter, mate

Lando she smiled today not at me but i saw it 

Max F. get a grip

Lando shut up you don’t get it

Max F. it’s a miracle you’ve still got a job 

Lando is this a safe space or what??

Max F. absolutely not you’re delusional, mate she’s so off-limits it’s not even funny

Lando 

🖕

— 

The Browns didn’t really do Christmas — not in the traditional sense. No matching pyjamas, no big family gathering, no chaos in the kitchen over a turkey no one actually wanted. They kept it simple: jazz music, good coffee, and her dad’s usual schtick — “I forgot to buy you anything this year.”

Which was a lie. Obviously.

She found it parked just outside on the driveway. A muted grey, weather-worn 1974 BMW 2002. 

Amelia stood and stared at it for a long time. Long enough that the cold bite of English winter started to seep in through her socks, and the tips of her fingers began to sting.

“Don’t just stand there,” her dad called from the doorway, hands tucked into his dressing gown pockets. “Take a proper look. She’s all yours.”

She took a slow step forward, then another. The car was old, but solid — just the way she liked things. A little rust, some scuffed chrome. It was beautiful. She crouched next to the front fender and ran her hand along the edge, careful, reverent.

“You hate shopping,” she said, still staring at it.

“I didn’t shop,” her dad replied. “I emailed a man named Clive and paid way too much to have him do all the work for me.”

There was a long silence.

She stood, glanced at him, tried — really tried — to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

He gave a small nod. “You’ll need new tires. And probably a carburettor.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her sleeves, but this time it wasn’t nerves — it was barely-contained energy. Her thoughts were already whirring; parts lists, toolkits, diagrams, weekends in the garage with grease on her hands and her favourite playlist playing on repeat.

“I— I can order those online,” she said, already calculating delivery times in her head. “And the belts. And the spark plugs. And—” She stopped herself.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled into his coffee mug that said ‘Worlds Best Dad’ and stepped back inside, leaving her alone with her new car and barely contained excitement.

Her hands started moving at her sides — flapping, stimming, too fast to stop once they began. She shoved them into her pockets, fists clenched tight against the fabric. Closed her eyes.

She took a breath. Let it out slowly.

Old habits died hard. Years at school had taught her to mask her reactions — even the harmless ones — because they made her stand out. Because they made her weird.

She hadn’t just been ignored. She’d been mocked. Not always loudly, but enough to stick. The way she flapped her hands. The way she didn’t make eye contact. The way she talked too much about one thing and not enough about everything else.

There was a reason she’d chosen not to go to university, even though she loved learning. Even though engineering made perfect sense to her in ways people often didn’t.

She could get a degree. She’d probably be good at it.

But it would drain her — the social minefields, the unspoken rules, the overwhelming noise of lecture halls and shared spaces and trying to be something she wasn’t just to fit in.

She’d spent so long trying to pass as normal. To not stim in public. To not talk too much. To not be too much.

Once, a girl in her class had said, in a tone that Amelia guessed was meant to be kind, “At least you’re pretty. You wouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve got, you know… issues.”

She still thought about that sometimes.

How it was supposed to be a compliment.

How it hadn’t felt like one at all.

— 

2019

The lights were off in her dad’s office. Just the soft hum of the monitor on standby, the gentle click of the old wall clock, and the warm, familiar scent of coffee baked into the furniture. She curled up on the old leather couch, knees tucked close to her chest, head resting against the arm. She had her weighted blanket on. Her yellow water bottle was beside her, half-full. The room felt like a safe haven. 

After yesterday, that was all she wanted.

The meltdown had come on fast — she’d been too hot, the lights too bright, someone had changed the layout of the front-desk without warning her, and it had all just spiralled. She hated how quickly she lost herself in the emotions. Hated the looks people gave her when she couldn’t hold it all together.

She’d apologised more than she should have. Her dad told her that she never needed to apologise for being who she was.

The office door opened.

She didn’t move, but her eyes flicked toward the sound. Her dad stepped in first, deep in conversation, and behind him were Carlos and Lando.

“I told you, she’s probably curled up somewhere charging like a phone,” her dad said lightly, then saw her. His voice softened. “Ah. There she is. Amelia — this is Lando. And this is Carlos.”

She blinked. Sat up a little. “I already know Lando.”

Lando almost tripped over his own feet. “Yeah! Yeah, we’ve, uh— run into each other a few times. Around. Just, like—hallways. And stuff.”

He scratched the back of his neck. His face went bright pink.

Amelia stared at him for a moment before she turned her attention to Carlos. “Hello.”

He gave her a small smile. “Hola,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a small pause.

Her dad cleared his throat, cheerful as ever.

“Carlos is one of the good ones,” he said. “No nonsense. I like that in a driver.”

Amelia nodded once. That made sense. She respected no-nonsense people, too.

She tucked her knees back under her chin. “Okay,” she said quietly.

Carlos smiled again, just a little wider this time. Still cautious, but less unsure.

Amelia didn’t return the smile — not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t always remember that she had to. Instead, she reached for her water bottle and unscrewed the lid. 

“You retired in Australia,” she said. 

Carlos blinked, then gave a small laugh. “Yeah. Not the best start to the season.”

“It was the power unit,” she shrugged. “Renault engine. Unreliable. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her dad gave a low chuckle. “She doesn’t miss much. Reads through race data like it’s the morning newspaper.”

Carlos tilted his head slightly. “You work with the engineers?” He asked her. 

“I don’t work anywhere,” Amelia said. “But I sometimes sit in on meetings. And I fix things when they’re wrong. Fernando used to let me be in his garage. He said I was very useful.”

“You are useful,” her dad said automatically, from across the room.

She didn’t respond. Compliments were difficult — they always made her feel like she was meant to do something with them, and she never quite knew what.

She looked at Lando. He was already watching her.

She blinked. His eyes widened a little.

She let out a quiet sigh through her nose. She hated not knowing what expressions meant — what came next, what was expected.

“Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” Carlos said, breaking the silence.

Amelia took another sip of water. The right words settled on her tongue this time.

“You overshot Turn Nine,” she said, turning back to Lando.

He coughed. “I—Yeah. I know.”

“You let off the brake too early. You always do that when you’re nervous.”

Carlos let out a small, choked sound.

She frowned at him. 

Lando shifted. “I don’t always do that.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “You did it at Monza in 2018.”

“Okay.” He said. His neck was going red. 

“But you’re getting better,” she added. “You were twelfth. That’s good, considering the partial engine fault.”

He looked at her for a second too long. She didn’t know why. Then he said, “…Thanks.”

She nodded once, and then tugged at her blanket. 

There was a quiet pause — the kind Amelia usually didn’t mind. Lando shuffled his feet. Carlos glanced toward the door, then back to her.

“Right then! I’ll come find you later,” her dad said to her. “We’ll get something nice for lunch.”

“Okay.” She agreed. 

Carlos gave her one last polite nod. “See you around, Amelia.”

She didn’t say goodbye, just looked at him, then at Lando. “You should eat more complex carbohydrates before qualifying sessions,” she told him. “You looked quite pale.”

Lando stared at her. “I—yeah. Alright.” He paused, then added quickly, “It was, uh, nice seeing you again.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips pressed together in a way that, for her, was close to a smile.

— 

iMessage – Thursday, 10:51

Lando i’m fucked like properly fucked

Max F. bro come on

Lando she’s unreal and actually insanely smart

Max F. mate this is such a catastrophically bad idea

Lando she remembered i locked up into turn 9 in monza like three years ago i think i’m in love

Max F. you’re not in love you’re having a breakdown

Lando can’t it be both

Max F. lando i’m staging an intervention where’s jon⁉️ does he know you’re acting like this

Lando jon just keeps saying i should be stretching more he doesn’t care about my emotional wellbeing

Max F. he’d start to care if he found out you were thirsting after zak browns daughter 

Lando gonna make her my wifey 😏

Max F. fucksake lando 

— 

Amelia stood behind the screens at the back of the McLaren pit garages, fingers looped through the sleeves of her jacket. She’d already organised the weekend’s tyre allocation list by compound, colour-coded the data feed to match, and adjusted the ride height figures twice. Not because she needed to — just because she could.

It was her first race of the year.

The first time back since before the winter break. 

The new chassis looked better in person than it had in the renders. She liked the way the papaya paint caught the light.

“Amelia,” someone said softly.

She turned her head slightly. One of the engineers — Greg? Grant? She still hadn’t learned his name. She was terrible at remembering names. 

“Telemetry’s live when you’re ready.” He told her. 

She nodded once and moved closer, careful to avoid the cables that trailed across the floor like snakes.

The numbers lit up on the screen in front of her. Speed. G-force. Delta times.

She exhaled, long and slow. 

“Morning.”

She looked up. Lando.

He was already in his race suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair a mess and half-damp. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly after his shower.

“Hello,” she responded.

“You’re here,” he said, smiling. Then quickly added, “I mean — yeah, obviously. It’s only the third race. But still.”

She tilted her head. “Yes. I’m here.”

A pause. His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, then closed again.

“Okay, cool,” he said finally. “Sick. Um. Good luck out there.”

“I’m not driving,” she frowned at him.

“Right.” He turned and walked straight into a support beam.

Amelia blinked, then returned her attention to the screen.

Lando’s throttle trace was spiky again. She’d make a note of that.

— 

The garage was quieter now. Not silent though. It was never fully silent. Engineers were keeping their voices low. Tools clinked still, but in a less urgent rhythm. Some of the pit crew were already sweeping up debris from the floor. Wiping away a mess that no one wanted to talk about.

Amelia stayed where she always did, behind the screens, legs crossed on the floor like it helped anchor her in place. Her yellow water bottle sat by her knee, half-empty and warm now. She hadn’t drunk much since the race started.

DNFs always left a strange taste in the air. Bitter. Like metal.

She hadn’t seen the full replay yet, but she didn’t need to. Lando’s car had made it twenty-eight laps before something failed; she’d seen the warning signs creeping into the data before the radio call was made. His voice had been clipped. Tired.

The flap of the garage partition opening made her flinch. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

It was obviously Lando. His helmet was gone, race suit peeled halfway down, sweat-damp fireproofs clinging to his arms. He stopped just beside her.

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice cracked a little. “In case anyone’s, you know. Wondering.”

Amelia didn’t respond.

He hovered.

She tapped the edge of her tablet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Kind of was.” He dropped onto the floor beside her with a groan, back against the wall. “Clipped the kerb weird coming out of six. Probably jarred something.”

“No,” she said. “You were nursing a power unit issue from lap seventeen. You did what you were supposed to.”

He looked at her, then away again, picking at the velcro on his gloves.

She watched him for a second. Tried to decide if she was supposed to say something else. If there was something people usually said in moments like this.

Nothing came.

So she offered the only thing she could give. Facts. “You did better than the data predicted.”

Lando glanced at her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

She squinted at him. Hadn’t that been obvious? “Yes.”

He smiled a little. Just with the corner of his mouth. “Cheers.”

They sat there in silence for a while. A few people came over to touch Lando’s shoulder and offer him sympathy. His jaw got tighter every time. 

Eventually, she picked up her tablet and started rewatching his onboard. Then she angled it toward him. 

“You’re going to tell me exactly what I did wrong, aren’t you?” he asked.

She nodded.

He let his head thump back against the wall. “Brilliant.”

—

The motorhome had quieted after media duties and the two-hour race debrief. Lando sat slouched on the drivers' lounge sofa, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling. Carlos was across from him, arms folded, watching with a look Lando had come to recognise: the I know something you don’t want me to know look.

“I need to ask you something,” Carlos said, tone casual. But the accent gave it weight — Som-theeng.

Lando didn’t look up. “No.”

Carlos chuckled. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say, coño.”

“I do.” Lando groaned. “And the answer is still no.”

Carlos leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You like her.”

“What? No, I—” Lando paused, brow furrowed. “Like who?”

Carlos tilted his head. “Come on. Don’t play dumb, amigo. Amelia. You like Amelia Brown.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “Nah. We’ve barely talked.”

Even he could hear the lie in his own voice.

Carlos raised a silent eyebrow.

“I’m just being respectful!” Lando snapped. “She’s—she’s McLaren royalty, basically. And she knows more about my car than I do half the time.”

Carlos shrugged, eyes sharp. “Sí, she’s smart. And I like her. But...” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You need to be careful, cabrón.”

Lando’s jaw tensed. “Why? Do you like her? Is that what this is?” The words came out sharper than he intended, something hot and ugly twisting in his gut. Jealousy. Stupid, immediate, and impossible to hide.

Carlos blinked. “Ay, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lando didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said he wasn’t convinced.

Carlos sat back, arms folding again. “She’s not a paddock flirt, okay? She’s not like the grid girls or the influencers who want a selfie and a race pass. She is your boss’ daughter. You screw that up, it’s not just her you lose — it’s your job, your reputation, and the respect of thr whole damn garage. If you haven’t already lost your seat.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “Why does everyone act like I’m some... idiot teenager with zero self-control?”

Carlos held his gaze. “Because you are a teenager with zero self-control.”

“I’m nineteen!” He argued. 

“Exactly.” Carlos exhaled through his nose. “So, listen to me. If you’re serious? Fine. But don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “I’m not a total dickhead, y’know.”

Carlos gave him a long look, then nodded. “Bueno. Just remember what I said.”

Lando muttered under his breath, “Still worth it.”

Carlos groaned, grabbing a cushion off the sofa and chucking it at him. “Ay dios mío. You are so getting yourself fired.”

— 

Amelia was sat on the low wall outside the McLaren hospitality unit, sipping from her water bottle, tablet balanced on her knees.

She heard him before she saw him — Lewis never really moved quietly. Valtteri was beside him. 

“Morning, little genius,” Lewis said, slowing to a stop.

She looked up, blinked once. “Good morning.”

Valtteri gave a small nod. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m fine,” she said, glancing back down at her tablet. 

There was a pause. 

She sighed softly before looking up at them both. “You can tell Toto thank you,” she said, tone even. “For the offer. I appreciate it, but I’m not interested.”

Lewis blinked. “Offer?”

“Yes. The job.” She paused. “I assumed he’d told you.”

Valtteri and Lewis exchanged a glance; surprised, a little caught off guard.

“He didn’t,” Valtteri said slowly.

Lewis folded his arms. “He reached out to you directly?”

She nodded. “From his personal email. Not the Mercedes one.” That felt important.

Lewis let out a low whistle. “Damn. That sneaky bastard.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Amelia went on. “And I’m staying with my team. With my dad. Loyalty is important to me.”

Valtteri raised his brows. Lewis looked at her for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. “Well, he’ll be disappointed,” he said, voice lighter now.

Amelia shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

“Guess we’ll just have to beat you on track then,” Valtteri added, grinning.

She frowned down at her tablet screen. “You have a significantly better car than us.”

Lewis laughed. “Yeah. Guess we do.” 

— 

“Miss Brown, I’d like a word.”

She turned, blinked, and then frowned.

The team principal for Renault smiled at her, a little too wide — it was off-putting.

“I’ll just jump straight to it. I think you could be a great asset to our team. We’d love to have someone with your brain power. I could offer you a very generous employment package.” He said. 

She blinked at him. She’d been getting these exact kinds of propositions ever since the season started. Every team, it seemed, was suddenly interested in her ‘brain power’. She wasn’t sure what had changed. Maybe they had followed her on Twitter. 

“I am happy where I am,” she said flatly. “Thank you.” 

The man was still smiling, though it was starting to fade just a little. “Are you sure? We’d be willing to work out a very appealing arrangement for you. It could be a great opportunity.”

She wasn’t interested. She didn’t need to be polite. It didn’t take a lot of effort to walk away from the conversation. She took a step back, her fingers clenching around her yellow water bottle.

As she moved past him, she heard him call after her, but she didn’t stop.

Gosh, she thought to herself, as she made her way back to McLaren motorhome. Could none of them find anyone better than a 19-year-old without a degree?

NEXT CHAPTER

Admin looking for love! - c.sainz

Day 17 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: Why did Alex Albon feel the need to post you on his story as a ‘lonely woman looking for love’? And why did Carlos Sainz dm you after it? 

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alexalbon

liked by carlossainz, williamsracing, reallyy/n, and 2,398,234 others

alexalbon: Are you a Monaco man looking for love? Look no further! Presenting Y/n Y/l/n, a lonely woman looking for love! She's a williams marketing manager (and also my assistant sometimes!), she drives a motorbike, and she's super mean but sometimes really nice! (Real enquiries only, don't be a creep please :) @/really/n

user63: I know Y/n is LIVID rn.

reallyy/n: alex albon, I will kill you with my bare hands don't pull this shit with me right now.

lilymhe: DOG HOUSE -> alexablon: COME ON I'M TRYING TO HELP HER -> reallyy/n: Alex start running. -> alexalbon: you're literally in england right now -> reallyy/n: boarding my plane to monaco. -> alexalbon: FUCK.

oscarpiastri: when do we get you back to the psych ward @/alexalbon ? -> landonorris: Don't make fun of your elders, at least let him leave instagram with a little bit of dignity.

georgerussell: Mate, take it down already she's going to hurt you -> alexalbon: I don't know how, she usually does my social media :(

zhouguanyo: awful choice, I posted her once and she took away all internet devices and made me think about what I'd done for 4 hours (aka staring at a wall for 4 hours). -> alexalbon: YIKES Y/N I'M SORRY PLZ

user46: she's so pretty

user97: QUEEN Y/N

user56: thank you alex for these CRUMBS of y/n please make her get on the podium if williams stops fucking around

user267: SHE'S GORGEOUS WTF liked by carlos sainz

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f1gossip

liked by pierregasly, and 567,038 others

f1gossip: Williams CMO (chief marketing officer) Y/n Y/l/n was auctioned off today by none other than Alex Albon. In an instagram post he said: Are you a Monaco man looking for love? Look no further! Presenting Y/n Y/l/n, a lonely woman looking for love! She's a williams marketing manager, she drives a motorbike, and she's super mean but sometimes really nice! (Real enquiries only, don't be a creep please :)

user47: why is she so gorgeous she looks like a fucking WAG liked by carlossainz

user88: Is that not alex's WAG? ->user67: no she just works for williams and they're close.

user99: HOW IS SHE SO PRETTY WHAT

user75: she's such a queen

user33: If i had a face like that I'd be a model! -> user22: RIGHT? LIKE SHE'S SOOOO GORG

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You knocked on Alex's door with as much force as you could. Why the fuck would he post that? It was all over the internet- you were all over the internet. Every F1 gossip page was shipping you with some random driver, or some random f1-adjacent celebrity. You were livid, and rightfully so. He had no reason to do anything like this, to pull a stunt like that. Honestly, you could just kill him-

"Hello?" Alex grimaced as he stared at you. He knew all hell was about to break loose.

"Alexander Phillipe Albon Ansusinha," you spoke calmly, too calmly. His stomach turned. "Give me your phone."

he handed it over, no question, no hassle.

You quickly deleted the post, deleted instagram, then turned his phone off completely. From inside your bag, you handed him a nokia flip phone. "It already has everyones numbers on it. Don't fucking try to buy a new one, or else I'll freeze all of your cards. Understand?"

He nodded, accepting his fate. "Understand."

"Don't ever pull some shit like that again, alright?" you scolded.

He nodded, his head down. "I got some responses..." he mumbled after a few seconds of silence.

"Alex-!" you were completely prepared to fully scream at him, but suddenly the door behind you swung open and revealed Carlos Sainz. He looked dumbfounded by the two of you and went red. "I'm sending you for 4 weeks worth of mandatory PR training," you turned back to Alex. "I'm so sick of your shit. Between this and Franco's inability to keep it in his pants, I'll be backlogged till Christmas. Just stop causing trouble, ok?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Ok."

You turned back to Carlos. "Sorry about the noise."

He shook his head. "No, that's alright."

"Did you need something?" Alex asked.

Carlos shook his head, his eyes trained on you.

You. He'd seen you around the paddock for years. He'd watched you from afar, unaware of his growing feelings for you until they sucker-punched him in the face about 4 months ago when he was visiting the williams HQ to finish up the contract signing, and there you were in that gorgeous black dress. He couldn't even talk to you. It was embarrassing.

"Alright, well, goodbye Alex, bye Carlos," you smiled at the both of them (the smile Alex got was a bit more disingenuous than the one you gave Carlos) and off you went.

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He knew he had to do something before someone else swooped in. He knocked on Alex's door, more nervous than he thought he'd be.

"Hey Carlos-" Alex smiled.

"Is Y/n single?"

Alex smirked. "She is, yeah."

"May I have her number?"

"Yes Carlos," Alex has the smuggest smirk he'd ever seen. "Yes you may."

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It had been quite the day. You'd been catching up with friends when Carlos fucking Sainz texted you, and then you were on your way to a date with him.

What a fucking day.

You finished up you makeup just as the doorbell rang, and you smiled when you opened it. There he was, standing there with a big bunch of flowers and a goofy smile.

"Hi," you smiled. "Come in."

"Hi," he smiled back. "I got these for you."

He handed over the flowers and you grinned at him. "Thank you, that was very thoughtful."

"Pretty girls deserve pretty flowers," he shrugged.

You felt the butterflies in your stomach go crazy, and you absented yourself to put the flowers in water.

"So, what do you like to do?" He asked, coming up behind you.

"I like films, I like to ride my bike, I like reading, I like motorsport, I like a lot of things. You?"

"Well, I love motorsports, obviously, and I love golf as well," he smirked at the way you grimaced. "Not a golf fan?"

"It's just a little bit boring for me," you admitted. "I do play tennis and padel though. And I played volleyball back when I was in college."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to make you like golf," he smirked.

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reallyy/n

liked by pierregasly, carlossainz, alexalbon and 798,374 others

reallyy/n: alex albon-> part time f1 driver, full time matchmaker apparently. happy 6 months @/carlossainz (still hate golf btw)

limited comments.

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff @5sospenguinqueen @yootvi

Can you please write kimi antonelli fluff🙏

summary: It’s supposed to be their first real date, but nothing goes to plan—except how he looks at you like you hung the stars.

content: Pure fluff, soft awkward romance, first-date sweetness, hand-holding, cuddling, Kimi being a nervous wreck but trying really hard

word count: 5,5k

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!reader

a thought: thank you for the request anon! i hope this is fluffy enough hehe also thank god i was prepared for this one

You hear the knock before you’re even done fixing your sweater—two quick taps and one long. Familiar. Practiced. When you open the door, Kimi’s there, holding out a single daisy like it’s the most important gift in the world.

“It’s kind of wrinkled,” he says quickly, “I didn’t mean for it to get squished. I was holding it the whole way over. I didn’t want to put it in my pocket. It felt like… like it’d get lonely in there.”

He’s rambling. Adorably.

You take it gently, brushing his fingers by accident—he freezes like you’ve short-circuited him, then blinks fast and laughs under his breath, clearly trying not to combust.

“You look really…” He gestures vaguely, his voice softening. “Like someone who’s about to be complimented really badly, so maybe I’ll just stop.”

You try to respond coolly, but your cheeks give you away.

He’s clearly dressed up—new shoes, slightly-too-crisp shirt, hair that smells faintly like something expensive and piney, gelled just enough to look natural. It’s obvious he tried. For you. Like he wanted every tiny part of tonight to say, this matters.

The reservation’s gone when you get there.

He panics.

“I triple confirmed it,” he mumbles, shoulders tensing. “I set a reminder and everything. I even printed a backup email, who prints emails anymore—”

You slip your hand around his elbow. “Hey. It’s okay. Honestly, I’d rather just… wander with you.”

He blinks. “Really?”

You nod. “Really really.”

You end up back at your apartment, shedding shoes and expectations at the door. He hesitates on the threshold like he’s entering a holy space, eyes wide, hands politely still at his sides like he doesn’t want to touch anything unless he’s invited.

“You can sit,” you say, gently amused. “It’s not, like, a museum.”

He laughs nervously and perches on the edge of the couch, hands folded like he’s a kid in a waiting room. You sit beside him, and only then does he breathe out properly, like your presence is the real invitation.

“I’m gonna order pizza,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Any topping requests?”

“Whatever you like,” he says instantly. Then, after a beat: “Wait. No. Not pineapple. Unless you like pineapple. In which case, I can learn to like pineapple.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “No pineapple. You’re safe.”

You order something easy, something warm and cheesy and guaranteed to arrive in thirty minutes or less. By the time the pizza gets there, he’s taken off his shoes and curled one leg under himself like he’s slowly allowing himself to be comfortable here—with you.

The box lands on the coffee table with a satisfying thump. You bring over sodas and napkins and sit back beside him, legs brushing as you both lean in for a slice at the same time, almost knocking heads.

“Sorry—!” he laughs, backing up. “I swear I wasn’t going for a romantic pizza Lady-and-the-Tramp moment.”

“…Wasn’t?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He blinks. Then grins. “Okay. Maybe I was a little bit hoping for it.”

You bump shoulders and settle in, the pizza hot in your hands and the air filled with that easy silence only shared between people who really like each other. On the TV, a nature documentary plays quietly in the background, all soft narration and slow pans of forest animals. You’re both barely watching.

Eventually, you lean into him—just a little. His arm shifts, then lifts, tentative but hopeful.

You glance up at him.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, already halfway into wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

You nod, heart fluttering. “It’s better than okay.”

So he pulls you close. And you lean into his chest, warm and secure and smelling like pine and pizza and Kimi. His fingers play absently with the edge of your sleeve, brushing back and forth in the tiniest motion like he has to be touching you, even if it’s barely anything.

“I like this better,” he says eventually, voice quiet against your hair.

“Better than the reservation?”

“Better than everything,” he murmurs.

Your hand finds his where it rests on your shoulder. He squeezes, just once.

The night melts away in soft conversation, shared warmth, and the occasional slice of cold pizza you both pretend is still good. By the time you’re lying together on the couch, barely keeping your eyes open, he’s whispering something you can barely hear:

“Do you think... we could do this again?”

You smile, drowsy and safe.

You don’t know when the TV got turned off or how long it’s been since the last slice was touched. The apartment has gone quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You’re tucked into his side, his arm around you like it belongs there—and maybe it does.

Kimi’s head has tilted a little, resting gently against yours, his lashes fluttering now and then like he’s fighting sleep but losing, slowly. His body is warm under yours, chest rising and falling in a way that makes you feel like the world might actually be a soft place, just for tonight.

Your fingers drift upward before you think too hard about it, brushing gently into his hair—soft and a little messy now, no longer gelled into place, just warm strands that slip through your hand like silk.

He makes a small sound, not quite a word. A hum. His eyes flutter open, just for a second, then close again, this time with a deeper breath like he’s letting go completely.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep right here,” he mumbles.

“You already are.”

He smiles, just barely, the kind of smile that only shows when someone feels completely safe. “Keep doing that. It feels nice.”

You keep running your fingers through his hair, slow and easy, scratching lightly at his scalp, letting your nails drag in lazy circles near the nape of his neck. He melts under it, breath hitching a little when you hit a good spot.

“Okay,” he whispers, not even trying to hide how much he likes it. “Okay, you’re dangerous.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah. You’ve got… sleepy spell powers or something.”

He shifts just slightly, enough to nuzzle into your shoulder like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. One of his hands finds yours, linking your fingers loosely, like even in half-sleep he wants to make sure you’re not going anywhere.

You don’t say anything else—not because there’s nothing to say, but because this moment already says it all. The quiet warmth of shared closeness. The gentle weight of his head against you. The hush of a night ending with someone choosing to stay—not because they have to, but because there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

You keep playing with his hair until his breathing evens out completely.

And even then, you don’t stop.

THE ICEBREAKER| KIMI RÄIKKÖNEN

Pairing; Kimi Raikkonen x wife!reader

Summary; It never fails to amaze the formula one community just how much of a difference there is in Kimi’s attitude whenever his wife is around.

Warnings; Simply fluff.

F1 Master List

It was common knowledge in the world of formula one that Kimi 'the iceman' Raikkonen was everything that his nickname implied. He was blunt, hard faced and cold, straight to the point.

There's only a few instances where that guard drops; when he's drunk, caught off guard or sometimes when he's around Sebastian Vettel.

However, everyone knew that the ultimate Icebreaker was his wife.

It amazed everyone how quickly that icy facade melted whenever Kimi was around her, he was a completely different person, the paddock changed when she was around, Kimi was full of soft smiles and loving glances.

They were complete opposites, she was sunshine and spring, he was winter and icy winds but there had never been a pair more suited for each other.

Kimi wasn't due on track for another half an hour so him and Y/N had hidden themselves away on a bench at the far side of the garage. Kimi's back was rested against the wall, his wife sat between his legs, back resting against his chest. His arms were securely wrapped around her, his chin rested on her shoulder, eyeing the data he was holding in his hands.

Every now and then the Finnish man would nuzzle his head into her hair, inhaling the comforting smell of strawberries and a scent that was so uniquely her, followed by a soft kiss on her shoulder before returning back to his data.

Y/N relished in these small moments before races, even though they were surrounded by people running around it always felt like it was just them, alone in the world and they were perfectly content getting lost in each other's presence.

She closed her eyes, relaxing into the love of her life's embrace, she would never take these moments for granted, not when their lives were so hectic, it was relieving to live in a moment like this, to use it as a sort of pause button to take a small but needed break.

'...And there is the golden couple of the paddock, world champion Kimi Raikkonen and his wife, that man looks anything but what we know him as...'

She heard David Croft's voice filter through a nearby radio causing her eyes to open in confusion before she noticed a camera zooming into them from outside of the garage, sure enough they were on the big screen.

She smiled, lightly tapping Kimi's arm to get his attention, he turned his eyes from the papers in his hand to look at her. She pointed to the camera, Kimi looked in that direction, shaking his head with the smallest of smiles when he noticed the camera.

He knew what everyone said about him, how he was a different person when he was with her and they took every chance they could to capture him in a moment with his guard down. He didn't try and deny it because he knew they were right, sort of.

He wasn't a different person with her, he was himself with her, just a softer version of himself that he reserved for family and closest friends.

"Kulta" Kimi whispered 10 minutes later, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Hmm" she responded, eyes remaining closed, more than relaxed in his arms.

"It's time for me to get in the car" he mumbled into her ear, softly patting her thigh. She sighed but sat forward, standing up from the bench, stretching as she did.

Kimi groaned as he stood, folding the papers into his right hand, reaching out his left to grab hers, leading her over to his car where his engineer stood with his balaclava and helmet in hand. He handed the balaclava to Kimi and helmet to Y/N before walking away, giving them privacy.

Y/N watched as her husband got into his racing mode, his icy-blue eyes turned hard and determined, his body tensed up as he became more focused, strategies running through his mind.

She handed his helmet to him and once he had secured the straps under his chin she stepped closer to him, gently cupping the sides of his head and pressing a loving kiss on the hard material where his lips were covered.

Her hands ran down his arms before eventually reaching his hands that were covered in his gloves, she laced her fingers with his, her eyes never leaving his.

"Win for me" she told him "I love you so much" his eyes shined brighter at her words, his right hand rose to her cheek, his thumb brushed across her skin.

"I love you" she heard his muffled voice repeat back causing her to smile. He stroked her cheek one last time before lowering his hand, releasing her hand from his left and turning to his car.

Once he had climbed inside and checked his radio was working, he was ready to go. He looked towards where Y/N was standing and gave her a thumbs up before the mechanics wheeled him and his car out of the garage.

She walked back over to his side of the garage, sitting in front a screen that would be streaming the race.

There was no greater sight than watching the love of her life living his dream, his heart may beat for her but he was born to race. She had supported him up to this point and would continue to support him until the day he decides to let racing go, even then she would cheer him on in what he decides to do next.

Friends Don't | George Russell⁶³

Pairings: George Russell x fem!bestfriend!reader

Summary: you go out to celebrate George's home race win, not even imagining what the night will bring

Warnings: smut, drunk driving, unprotected sex

A/N: you will maybe have to necessarily read part 1 and part 2 hehe. For the sake of the plot, we'll pretend some things already happened. I've spent the whole week writing this and only got it to all click together from the third attempt. Third time's a charm, right? But at least had a blast while editing, which is a rarity. I actually enjoy writing these 'chapters' and building this world sm <3

Sundays were a day for rest and relaxation. A day for sitting down with a good book and a cup of coffee. A day for cuddling up with a loved one and watching a movie. A day for taking some time for yourself; a day to reflect and recharge.

That was, of course, unless your best friend was George Russell. And that your Sundays didn't consist of spending most weekends a year at different race tracks around the world. Not all of them, but you tried to be there for him at least once or twice a month, as much as the opportunity allowed.

That afternoon, George took the checkered flag in Silverstone in P1 and now you were in your room, preparing for tonight's celebration. The victory party was going to be wild, and you knew it. You had seen how George celebrated previous wins, and tonight was going to be no different. Especially because it was his home race.

You took a deep breath and glanced at yourself in the mirror. You had dressed to impress, wearing a sparkly blue dress that fit you perfectly. Finishing your look with a pair of strappy heels and a silver necklace, you couldn't help but think about how previous events with George brought you even closer together.

Your friendship kind of became more... intimate. No pun intended. Guess you were both afraid not to lose each other over the past experiences, and that deepened your bond whether either of you wanted to admit or not. Now your only fear was that your closeness wouldn't tear you apart.

A soft knock pulled you out of your thoughts and you turned around to see George standing at the door with a sheepish grin on his face. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and black pants, his hair tousled in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he said, his voice low and husky. "Ready to party?"

Never before have you paid any mind to the nicknames he called you, but now a thrill ran down your spine. The way he looked at you made you feel like the only person in the world.

"I am," you said, smiling at him.

As you stepped out of the door, George took your hand in his and led you to the car waiting outside. The drive to the club was short, but the anticipation was high. The party was in full swing when you arrived; loud music, flashing lights, and the smell of alcohol filled the air.

George led you to the VIP section where his friends and family were already celebrating. You saw his siblings and a few of his close racing buddies. You could hear their loud cheering as they saw George walk in with you and feel the envious glares of the other women in the room.

George handed you a glass of champagne and raised his own in a toast. "To the best damn team in the world," he said, looking at you and his friends.

Everyone cheered and clinked their glasses together. You took a sip of the bubbly liquid, feeling it go down smoothly. The night was young, and the energy in the room was electric.

The party kept going on as the night deepened, and the noise of the songs blasted through the room. Glasses were filled up with drinks constantly, making it more of an effort to ignore the effects of the booze. You found yourself on the dance floor, surrounded by George and his friends. The bass of the music throbbed in your chest, and you let yourself get lost in the rhythm.

Throughout the night, each person had a chance to take their turn with you on the dance floor, and eventually you were spinning around in George's arms. The heat of the club mixed with the buzz of the alcohol made your skin flush against his. You could feel his muscles flexing as he twirled you around, his hand firmly holding onto yours. The closer you danced, the more the tension between you grew.

For a moment, you forgot where you were and who was watching. You moved on him like it was just the two of you in the world, your hands moving over his body like never before, and hips swaying in perfect synchronicity. You were so close to him that you could feel his breath on your neck, and the scent of his cologne filled your senses. You felt yourself getting lost in him, and something stirred inside you.

And it seemed like George caught up on your odd behavior as the song faded away. He grabbed your arm and started leading you away from the dance floor until you reached a quiet corner. But your drunken mind wasn't understanding his intentions.

You threw yourself onto him and he had to secure your hips with his hands to stop you from slipping. You let out a hazy chuckle as you started grinding against him once more before he pushed you back against the wall.

"Stop it, that's not why I brought you here."

But you didn't listen. You pulled yourself even closer, letting your lips brush against his neck. "Then why did you bring me here?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, your breath tickling his skin. "The drinks have gone to your head. I brought you here to take a break and cool off a little." he avoided telling you that you were drunk and not acting like yourself, afraid to provoke any unnecessary argument between you two.

Still, you weren't paying any attention. You were too inebriated to realize that your behavior was a little out of character, and you certainly weren't considering the consequences of your actions. You clasped your hands around his shoulders and pressed yourself against him again.

George tried to keep a respectable distance between you, pushing his hip backwards as you pushed yours forward, fighting the urge to get too close. That got you into an interesting position; you were leaning against the wall in between his arms with your shoulders as he leaned into you with his upper body. Your hand naughtily ran down his side, poking him. You knew you probably shouldn't touch him, but you couldn't stop yourself. His muscles strained as he let out a shaky breath.

"You're getting awfully close to me," he murmured, unable to bring himself to look you in the eye. His fingers slowly slid from their grip on the wall.

"Then don't push me away," you said back.

His face was just inches away now, and your lips unconsciously moved closer. The atmosphere between you two was thick with anticipation, a feeling that you currently relished in. Your lips were only a breath away from his when he spoke.

"We can't." his eyes locked with yours.

"Why?" you asked breathily.

"Because we're best friends." his voice was barely a whisper.

He hoped the reason he gave you would remind you of everything you asked from him that first time. But he didn't tell you that he feared you'd regret it when you sobered up, and that it would be his fault for not stopping it.

"And?" in the state that you were, did he really think that would stop you? He couldn't have been more wrong. You wanted to push him to feel something. Anything. "Best friends can do a lot of things." you smirked.

He clenched his jaw, his eyes still on yours. "No, they can't." he gritted, shaking his head.

"You're right." you said, the alcohol clouding your judgment. "They can't do this." and your hips finally met his.

He swallowed hard, trying to stay level headed. "What am I going to do with you?" he said in desperation, his hands pressed flat on the wall behind you, trying their best not to touch you as they dangerously started slipping down.

You placed your hands on his chest, feeling his heart hammering under your palms as you glided them down his torso. "Remember how you said you can read my body language?"

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding his head.

"What is it telling you now?" you whispered against his lips.

"It's telling me we're going to be in big trouble if you don't stop this," he replied. "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now."

"Then don't fight it. Show me." you murmured.

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. Your arms snaked around his neck and fingers twined through the hair at its nape, pulling him closer. You couldn't believe that you had done all those other things, but never kissed. And when ultimately his mouth closed on yours, it was like finally locating the elusive jigsaw piece on a seemingly ordinary Tuesday while tidying up your home that you thought had been lost forever. It made you almost not want to kiss anyone else ever again — almost, because deep down you knew you shouldn't have been doing this in the first place.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as his head tilted to get a better angle. The kiss was soft, tentative, like both of you were very aware of what might happen. You pressed your mouth against his more firmly, tasting him. Parting your lips slightly, you felt the silky wetness of his tongue on yours. You bit his lower lip, letting out a deep moan when he groaned in response, hands that were in his hair tugging on the strands slightly. He groaned into your mouth again, pulling you even closer against him. You had no idea how long you were kissing, but it was definitely not enough.

The kiss broke, and you leaned your face against his neck, panting heavily. He glanced down at you, his lips so close to yours that if you had merely lifted your head, they'd be touching again. The warmth emanating from your body made him want to do things he knew he shouldn’t. He placed his forehead against yours, trying desperately to get control of himself.

"We should get back." he said between breaths. Your head was spinning from the alcohol and his scent and the magical kiss, it took you a moment to realize you were no longer kissing him. You opened your eyes and met with him.

"We should, before they realize we're missing." you nodded. He frowned, but his eyes were smiling. He was relieved, but he was also worried for you and what tomorrow might bring when you sobered up.

"Lets go," he said, turning around, but kept an arm around your waist so as to not let you get lost. You looped one arm around his neck, holding onto his shoulder, and gently hit his other shoulder with your head.

The night was still young and the party was still going. Music was playing, people were dancing, and laughter filled the room. Your friends cheered when they saw you two come in together, but neither of you paid any attention to them; all that mattered was that you were here, with him. Guys grabbed drinks for the both of you from different parts of the room and put it in your hands.

You found a spot on the couch and George sat next to you, his arm around your waist protectively. The conversations flowed easily between you two, and soon enough you both forgot what had happened earlier as you joined the rest of the group in drinking, singing along with music and laughing.

He later found you on the dance floor swaying around completely out of rhythm with a drink in your hand. Your face lit up when you saw him.

"There you are, my champion." you leaned into him, dropping your head onto his shoulder.

"I won the race, not the championship.” he chuckled.

“Mm, don’t care. To me you are the champion.” you slurred, pouting.

“Hey, is everything alright?" he asked, supporting you.

"Mmhmm." you mumbled. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." you could hear the frown on his face. "You're drunk." he spat as he attempted to take away the half empty glass from your grasp.

"I'm not." you said, feeling yourself lose your balance a little as you swayed back and forth. He put his arm around you to help you balance.

"Yes, you are. I should've taken you home the first time around." he sighed, somehow not surprised you managed to get even drunker. You were both intoxicated for that matter, it's just that George knew how to hold his liquor. And he looked to never go over his limit in case something like this happened.

"No." you tried to pull away from him.

"I'm taking you home." he tightened his grip around you, leading you out of the party. You mumbled something in response, not quite sure what you were saying.

He helped you into his car and buckled your seat belt for you, before getting in himself. He drove slowly, carefully navigating the roads while you were almost passed out in his passenger seat. Every now and then he'd take a hand off the wheel to reach over and brush your hair away from your face or wipe away a stray tear from your cheek if one escaped your eye. As he turned into your street and parked the car, your eyes fluttered open.

"Um, could you walk me to the door?" you asked.

"I was planning on it," he said, unbuckling his seat belt.

Both of your arms wrapped around his left one, holding on for support, as he walked you to your apartment. Your little nap helped clear the haze from your head, but you were still tipsy. When you reached the entrance of your flat, you propped yourself against the door and blinked up at him.

"Do you want to come inside?" inviting your best friend into your home have never before seemed more dangerous and George should've known better than to say yes.

"Do you want anything to drink?" you asked to break an awkward silence that fell among you the moment he shut the door.

Before even waiting for his answer, you made your way towards the kitchen, but he extended his arm and grabbed your waist, preventing you from moving further.

"I think we both had enough to drink tonight," he said.

"Then what do you want to do?" you whispered.

"I want to claim my prize." he must have had a few more drinks than usual at the club to summon up the courage for that sentiment.

You could feel your heart racing in your chest, the alcohol still fogging your mind but not enough to miss the implication of his words. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his intense gaze. His hand still rested on your waist, his fingers tracing small circles over the fabric of your dress.

"Is that what I am, a prize?"

"No, no." he said quickly, his eyes softening. "You're so much more than that, you know that." his hand cupped the side of your face. "When I saw you looking up at me on the podium today, I realized I couldn't have done it without you. You were the one who had been cheering me on from the sidelines all this time. You've been there for me when no one else was." he leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "You've been my lucky charm all these years and I want to show you how much you mean to me."

The way he was looking at you made your chest heave with a mixture of emotions. You were both under the influence, and you knew this was not the best time to make decisions, but you couldn't resist him. You leaned in and attached your lips together again, only this time with more passion, more desire. You could feel his hands running through your hair as he kissed you back, his tongue playing with yours, his body pressing against yours.

He pulled away, looking at you with a hunger you had never seen before. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, unable to say anything. His lips crashed onto yours, hungrily claiming your mouth as his own. Your body responded to his touch, your hands roaming over his chest and tangling in his hair. He lifted you up, your legs locking around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom.

He laid you down gently on the mattress, his eyes never leaving yours. Climbing on top of you, his lips trailed kisses down your neck and collarbone. You moaned softly, your hands gripping tightly onto his muscular back. He pulled his lips away from you, looking into your eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked again.

You nodded, reaching up and pulling him back down. He gently kissed you again and you responded in kind, but he pulled away again.

"I'll stop if you tell me to." he whispered. "I don't want to do this unless you want to." 

"I want to." you murmured. The alcohol may have distorted your judgment, but it surely helped your courage.

"Are you sure?" he asked a third time. You laughed softly, trying to push him off. He had you pinned to the mattress, still pressing you down.

"Yes, I'm sure." you said, no longer laughing.

That was all he needed to hear. He kissed you hard, his fingers lightly tracing over the fabric of your dress. He ran his hands underneath, gently resting them on your ribs, and pulled your dress upwards. You lifted your hands above your head, freeing him of the task of removing your dress as you squiggled out of it and freed yourself from the restriction that was your dress.

He kissed you again, letting his hands run over your bare skin. His lips kissed down your throat and chest, his hands undoing your bra. He pulled it away and tossed it aside, taking in the sight of you.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he said. You blushed, and he smiled. His lips traveled down your leg, gently caressing the outside of your thigh. "But I'm a little jealous, you know?" his lips traveled back up, his tongue tracing over the slope of your breast and hands kneading them softly. "You got to taste me, and I..."

He kissed his way down your body, his hands going over every inch of exposed skin, reminding you how skillfully he handled you that very first time. He reached your inner thigh and slid his hand underneath your underwear. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his fingers brush against you before a long finger slid inside you. You moaned loudly, spreading your legs apart for him. He smiled against your neck, his teeth taking in your skin, his tongue leaving a trail of fire behind.

His finger slowly moved inside you, circling you before sliding in and out. His hand pulled your underwear down, you kicking them off to the side. His mouth moved down your figure, hovering over your breasts. He teased you for a moment, blowing against your nipples before drawing the tip of his tongue over one. He did the same with the other, his fingers never ceasing to move. His kisses continued further down, over your stomach until they reached your mound.

"Can I?" he asked, peeking at you.

"Please..." you tried to hide the shake in your voice.

His tongue slid between your lips, gently licking you. You could feel his breath, hot and heavy against your sensitive skin. He teased you, his tongue circling your clit before sliding inside you. His tongue flicked over your clit, his hands holding your thighs apart. You spread your legs even wider, your body arching up to him. He leaned in, gently sucking on your clit and you moaned loudly, his tongue moving faster. You cried out in pleasure, your hips bucking against his face.

You were nearing your end, your moans growing louder with every movement of his tongue. You could feel his lips smile against your skin, enjoying the sounds you were making. You cried out, your body tensing as you came, shaking against him. He pulled away, slowly kissing his way up to the top again. He placed a gentle kiss on your lips, not hurrying you up as you sucked in his bottom lip, squeezing out your own juices.

"Taking that trophy is the second best thing that has ever happened to me." he whispered. He kissed you again, this time with more passion, your hands reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "The first, of course, being you. You're my greatest reward." he continued as you trailed kisses down his neck, removing the shirt off his shoulders.

"Stop talking, George."

"Sorry," he whispered as he closed his eyes, surrendering above you.

You kissed his chest, your nails raking up and down his sides, feeling his muscles tense. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, and could sense the urgency in his touch. His hardness pressed against you, begging to be liberated. You pulled away from him, reaching for his belt buckle and his eyes shot open, hands reaching for yours.

"Are you sure?" he asked again. He knew if you go any further there would be no going back and some irreversible things would be done.

"Are you sure?" you asked back, smiling mischievously. "I thought this is what you wanted." your nail dangerously circled around his lower abdomen, causing his breath to hitch with every word he spoke.

"I-I do. I'm just making sure you're not doing it just because I want it." you could tell he was really struggling to hold himself back.

"I think we've already established that..." you whispered against his lips and prompted your body more to his.

"Okay," his hand moved away from yours, and you undid his belt.

His pants fell around his feet and he kicked them off. His boxers were the last thing left, and you reached for them, slowly pulling them down. His hand held the back of your head as he kissed you, his tongue twirling around yours. You moved to pull away but he held on tighter.

His boxers hit the floor and you looked up at him, his hands resting on your frame. Gently taking your hand, he placed it on his dick. You gasped, feeling it grow even more underneath your touch. He pulled away, his lips planting kisses down your neck as his hand guided yours up and down his length. You felt him shiver as you grazed the tip with your nails, his breath hitching. He removed his hand, and your eyes shot open when you felt his tip brush against your entrance.

He teased you, running it up and down your slit. You threw your head back in pleasure, your back arching against him. The more he prolonged what you needed the most, the more your neediness grew. You tried to guide him inside you but he resisted, placing a finger on your lips instead. He dragged it over them before he made you suck on it, his eyes never leaving your face as he blew a stream of air out. Your eyes widened when you felt his head brush against you again, making you gasp audibly, his name falling from your lips.

"Please," you remembered what he told you the first time he had you in his arms like this. "Please, please, please, please, please, please, please..." you chanted over and over again.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath. Hearing you beg for him made his head spin again. It was like you'd put him under a spell every time you'd utter that word and he'd not be able to deny you anything. Not that he ever wanted.

He slowly pushed inside of you, stopping at every inch to wait for you to adjust. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

You nodded, your breath hitching as he began to move again. He kissed you, your nails digging into his back as he stretched you more. He was so gentle, it was unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. This was not the normal rough, lustful sex. This was the man who loved the sight of you, the sounds of your pleasure. This was the man who wanted to make love to you, to show you what true pleasure was.

Your fingers sank into his back again, and he responded by thrusting into you harder, your moans getting louder. His lips traveled down your chest, his tongue flicking a nipple as he pushed into you again.

"Oh, god." you moaned, George's name falling from your mouth repeatedly. Your hands dug into the sheets as his thrusts grew harder, deeper.

"You feel so good... so damn good," he kissed your skin. "Making me feel like I don't ever want to take anybody else again."

"Don't stop, please, whatever it is that you're doing, please, just don't stop." you cried, twining your legs around him to press him deeper.

He moaned in pleasure when you did, his hands tightening their grip around you. His breathing grew heavier and faster, your bodies reacting to each other. He was so close, and he could feel you held right on the edge.

You cried out his name, your form shuddering under him. He had no intention of stopping, and he continued his movements as you kept shaking, your voice loud enough to wake up the whole apartment complex.

"You, George, only you…" you whispered into his ear as you were coming down.

You felt his whole build shake, his cock pulsing inside of you, but it wasn't enough. You wanted to hear him as he climaxed. You wanted to hear the sounds he made, the sweetest song in the world.

"George… George…" you panted, your breathing coming out in jagged breaths.

He cursed, as his body trembled with pleasure. His hands tightened around you, pulling you closer as he came. You buried your face in his neck, your fingers playing with his hair. He kissed you, holding you close to him. He wanted to stay inside you forever, to feel the sight of your face as he pleased you. You did that to him. You were the one making him see another reality where only he and you existed.

But he pulled away, your eyes searching for his as you slowly came back to reality. He kissed you again, his lips landing on yours.

"That was amazing… you were amazing…" he whispered, stroking your face gently.

"So were you." you said back, playing with the bangs that fell over his forehead.

He rested his head on your chest, finding a comfortable spot, your hands moving into his hair.

"Are you going to stay?" you whispered, uncertain.

"Only if you want me to."

"Always."

He hugged you tightly and rolled over so that you were now on top of him. His fingers softly ran along your back as your body let go and fully relaxed. The peaceful sound of your heartbeats and his breath seemed to take over the room. You drew near to him, feeling the up and down movements of his chest gently rock you to sleep, matters of your friendship left for tomorrow's morning news.

Next part

What about Max dating reader who is a bit more shy? 🤭

Safe with you

It was the first race of the new season, and the paddock was already buzzing by the time Max and Yn arrived. Cameras clicked, fans waved, team members shouted greetings across garages—but all of it faded slightly as Max stepped out of the car and rounded it swiftly to open the door for Yn.

“Come on, liefje,” he said, hand already extended. “You ready?”

Yn nodded, offering him a soft smile as she took his hand and stepped out. She looked as she always did—graceful, elegant, a bit reserved. The type of presence that drew people in without needing to raise her voice. Her black sunglasses were perched perfectly on her nose, shielding her beautiful eyes from the chaos around her.

Max didn’t let go of her hand. He never did.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he whispered, leaning close. “We can go straight to hospitality.”

“I’m okay,” she whispered back, squeezing his fingers gently. “I like watching you work.”

He smiled, just slightly. “You like watching me boss everyone around?”

She smirked. “A little bit.”

As they started walking through the paddock, heads turned. Of course they did. Max, the reigning world champion, always drew attention. But lately, it was Yn who had caught the quiet affection of the paddock. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t post everything online or party until dawn. But she was steady, present. She remembered birthdays. She brought homemade cookies to the engineers. She always looked people in the eye when she thanked them.

And Max—well, Max was famously, visibly obsessed with her.

He never tried to hide it. Not once.

“Max!” someone called. It was Daniel, who was visiting the paddock, leaning against the McLaren wall with a coffee cup in hand. “Mate, you’re late!”

Max laughed and led Yn toward him. “I’m not late. You’re just too early.”

“I’m always early when I hear there’s a chance of seeing your girlfriend,” Daniel grinned, eyes already on Yn. “Hey, angel. You look beautiful today.”

Yn blushed, tugging lightly on Max’s sleeve before offering Daniel a shy smile. “Hi, Daniel.”

“Aw, don’t go hiding behind Max like that,” Daniel teased gently. “We’ve known each other for six years. I think that gives me friend privileges.”

“I’m not hiding,” she murmured. “I’m just standing where it’s safe.”

Max turned and raised a brow at her. “Are you saying I’m your shield?”

“Yes.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “That is the most accurate description I’ve ever heard. You should put that on a T-shirt. ‘Max Verstappen: Human Shield.’”

“I’d wear it proudly,” Max said, slipping his arm around her waist. “Anyway, we’ll see you later. I’ve got a briefing.”

Yn waved lightly at Daniel as Max led her away. As always, Max kept one eye on her while greeting others, making sure she was never overwhelmed, never too close to the media, never cornered by someone too chatty. It wasn’t that Yn was antisocial—far from it. She could hold a conversation with anyone. But it was always clear when she started getting tired. And Max? He knew the signs better than anyone.

They reached the Red Bull hospitality building, and Max opened the door for her before nodding to the team’s head of PR.

“She’ll be inside,” Max told him quietly. “No press today. She’s not feeling it.”

Yn gave him a look. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” he said with a small smile. “I know you.”

She rolled her eyes, fondly. “You’re too much sometimes.”

“And yet, you’re still with me.”

“I must be mad.”

“Six years of madness,” he agreed.

Inside, Yn settled on the couch near the back where it was quiet, while Max went off to his meetings. She liked this part of race weekends—being close but not in the way, reading her book or sipping tea while the world raced around her. The team passed by, nodding and smiling. A few stopped to talk.

“Yn! I made those cookies you liked again,” one of the engineers said, holding up a small paper bag. “Left them in the kitchen. There’s white chocolate chip this time.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, clearly touched.

“You bring him luck, you know,” the engineer added. “He’s calmer when you’re here.”

“I doubt that,” she laughed.

“No, really. Ask anyone.”

---

Later that afternoon, the paddock got louder as more drivers arrived and media started gathering. Max returned after his briefing and found Yn exactly where he’d left her, now chatting with Lando.

“She’s turning social on me,” Max joked, walking up with a teasing grin. “Should I be worried?”

Lando grinned. “Nah, she’s just being polite. I’ve been doing all the talking.”

Yn looked up at Max. “He’s been telling me about his sim setup.”

Max groaned. “He’ll talk your ears off. Come on, you need protection.”

“From Lando?” she asked, amused.

“From Lando’s voice,” Max replied, already holding out his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Bye, Lando,” she said sweetly, following Max again.

As they walked, Max noticed the way her grip on his hand tightened slightly when the press started to gather. He leaned close to her ear.

“Want me to block them off?”

She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve got you,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He smiled again, that same look he always gave her—like she was the only person in the world.

They passed a group of photographers. One tried to get closer, calling out for a photo of the two of them. Max stopped.

“She doesn’t want pictures right now,” he said firmly.

“No worries, just one—”

“I said no.”

The tone was calm, but unmistakably final. The photographer backed off, and Max guided Yn toward the garages.

She looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.”

“You’re too protective sometimes.”

“I’ll never apologize for keeping you comfortable,” he said simply. “You deserve to feel safe.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “Thank you.”

He leaned down and kissed her temple. “Always.”

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, media, team briefings, and garage prep. Yn stayed close but not intrusive, always just nearby. Max checked in every hour. Made sure she had water. Made sure she ate. Made sure no one talked her ear off.

At one point, Pierre walked by and spotted them sitting on a bench near the paddock fountain. Max had one arm slung over the backrest, legs stretched out like he owned the place, while Yn was sitting quietly beside him, her head on his shoulder.

“Well, well, well,” Pierre said, stepping into view. “If it isn’t the power couple.”

Yn lifted her head. “Hi, Pierre.”

“Hi, gorgeous. You look like you just stepped out of a Vogue spread.”

“She always does,” Max said proudly.

Pierre smirked. “You’re still the biggest simp in the paddock.”

“Not ashamed,” Max shrugged. “What’s your point?”

Pierre turned to Yn. “Does it ever get annoying?”

“No,” she said with a little smile. “I like that he loves me loudly.”

Max grinned and pulled her closer. “See? She gets it.”

Pierre chuckled. “Alright, alright. You win. I’m off to steal snacks from hospitality.”

As he left, Max looked at Yn. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊

Hello my lovely reader. I hope you all enjoyed this piece of work. Let me know what you think and send some requests.

-Cami🐦🧊⛲️🌊

hmm Max x leclerc!reader who maybe has had a crush on him since the inchident days and they’re rly cute together

Something Like a Crush

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: Twelve years after the infamous 'inchident', you’re still trying (and failing) to pretend you don’t have a crush on Max Verstappen.

2.4k words / Masterlist

You were ten years old when you first saw him roll his eyes on camera.

Max Verstappen, just fourteen at the time, sitting beside your brother in that now-infamous press conference after “the inchident.” He looked small at the table, short legs barely brushing the floor, arms crossed too tightly over his chest, but his expression was all sharp defiance and unfiltered frustration. His hair was messy, his cheeks still a little round with childhood, but his eyes? His eyes were furious.

Charles had been irritated too, he always was when someone dared to challenge him on track, especially during those high-stakes junior karting weekends. But where your brother was learning to smooth the edges, to answer with careful diplomacy, Max hadn’t figured out how to bite his tongue yet.

He spoke with his whole body, fidgeting in his seat, hands moving wildly as he gestured through his explanation if it could be called that. More like a defence. A barely-contained storm. He interrupted. He scoffed. He looked like he wanted to launch himself out of the chair and straight back into the kart just to prove a point.

And you? You were completely, hopelessly captivated.

Not that you understood what it all meant at ten years old, but you watched every race, every replay, every interview that came after, and that press conference had something different. Something that made your skin prickle with attention.

All you knew was that this Dutch boy with the sharp voice and restless hands had the exact same look on his face your brother got when someone touched his kart without asking. That fierce, simmering expression that meant: This is mine. Don’t mess with it.

You liked that. A lot.

You didn’t even know the weight of his name then, not really. Just Max, muttered under Charles’s breath when he was in a bad mood. “Max this” and “Max that” and “bloody Verstappen.”

You were too young to call it a crush, but years later when you did understand what it meant to feel butterflies, when you found yourself staring a little too long across the paddock, you’d trace the feeling back to that grainy video, to the boy with fire in his chest and rage in his hands, defending himself against your brother like he had nothing to lose.

You’d watched that press conference more times than you’d ever admit.

And maybe, in a way that only ten-year-old girls with scraped knees and delusions of future karting glory can, you’d decided then and there that Max Verstappen was yours.

You’d only met him in passing back then. Dragged along to circuits while Charles went off to race. But one moment stuck in your memory, warm and a little fuzzy at the edges, like something pulled out of an old scrapbook.

You’d been in Spain, if you remembered right. One of those endless karting weekends that all blurred together, heat shimmering off the track, the smell of petrol and tire rubber, your mother fussing with your sunhat, Charles already stomping away helmet in hand.

You’d wandered toward the drivers' area, trailing a melting ice cream, and found Max sitting alone on a stack of tires behind one of the garages, elbows on his knees, brows furrowed in concentration as he picked at a busted glove.

You recognised him immediately, though you pretended not to.

He looked up as you approached and you stopped a few feet away, unsure if you were allowed to be there.

“Your brother’s mad at me,” he said, without preamble.

You blinked, surprised he even knew who you were. “He’s always mad at someone.”

Max grinned at that, a quick flash of teeth. “Usually me.”

There was a beat of quiet. You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of the ice cream dripping down your wrist.

“Want some?” you offered, a little shy. “It’s strawberry.”

He eyed it like you’d handed him a ticking bomb. “It’s pink.”

“So?”

“I don’t eat pink things.”

You frowned. “That’s stupid.”

He laughed then, really laughed and took the cone from you anyway, wiping the side with the edge of his sleeve before taking a bite. You watched him swallow like he was trying to decide if this had been a mistake.

“It’s not bad,” he admitted eventually.

“Told you.”

He handed it back without looking at you, but his smile lingered. “You’re cool.”

You’d gone red to your ears. You remembered that part especially well.

It wasn’t a long interaction. A few minutes, maybe. But it had been the first time you saw him not as Max Verstappen, the boy your brother fought with, but as just Max. A kid. A little proud. A little weird. Surprisingly sweet.

And maybe that was the worst part, how vividly it stayed with you. How that one stupid, sticky, sunburnt afternoon lived rent-free in your memory even now.

Sometimes you wondered if he remembered it too. Sometimes you hoped he didn’t, because that would mean he’d seen your flushed cheeks, your clumsy hands, your starry-eyed crush forming in real time.

And you’d never quite shaken it. Not even now. Not even when Max Verstappen stood across the paddock, a four-time world champion in Red Bull colours, watching you with a smirk like he already knew every single thing you were trying not to feel.

Twelve years later, yours had turned into something far more inconvenient. What had started as a childhood fascination, an innocent, fleeting curiosity about the boy with too much fire in his chest had rooted itself somewhere deeper.

You were no longer the little sister trailing behind Charles in the paddock, clutching your pass with sticky fingers and swinging your legs under folding chairs during debriefs. You didn’t just belong in the paddock anymore.

You were paddock royalty in your own right.

F2 Champion. The youngest in years. Newly announced reserve driver for Ferrari. The slightly younger, slightly less temperamental Leclerc sibling, still smiling for the cameras, still fluent in three languages, still polished enough to carry the family name, but fierce enough to make it your own.

People didn’t just ask about your brother anymore. They asked about you.

And yet, somehow despite all of it you were still, hopelessly, a little bit in love with Max Verstappen.

Which was a problem. A very stupid, very complicated, Charles-shaped problem.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Especially not with your brother still lurking in every corner of the paddock, always watching, always listening, still very capable of murder.

He had threatened Max once. Not outright. Not in a way that would ever make it into the press. Just a quiet, offhand comment delivered over a shared drink in the lounge after a chaotic sprint race in Austria.

“Don’t even think about it, I'll break your wrist.” Charles had said, calm as anything, not even looking up from his phone.

Max, to his credit, had just laughed, but you’d been there. You’d heard the edge in Charles’s voice. You’d seen the way Max’s smile twitched, like he knew exactly what was being said and exactly what would happen if he pushed it.

You remembered it very clearly.

Apparently, so did Max, because even now, years later, there was something deliberate about the way he looked at you. The way his gaze slid sideways instead of head-on. The way his jokes stopped just short of flirtation. Like he was holding himself back, not because he didn’t want to say the words, but because he didn’t trust the consequences if he did.

You weren’t sure if it made you want to strangle him or kiss him.

Sometimes both.

And the worst part? You didn’t know if the tension between you was real or just a shared, unspoken game that neither of you had the guts to end.

Because despite all the wins, the interviews, the champagne, you were still the girl who once gave him her half-eaten ice cream behind the garages in Spain. And he was still the boy who made your heart stutter when he smiled like he knew every version of you that had ever existed.

You stood at the edge of the hospitality suite now, your eyes flicking again to the Red Bull garage across the way. Max leaned against the wall like he hadn’t a care in the world, race suit unzipped to his waist, white fireproof clinging to him in a way that made your brain short-circuit.

He laughed at something his race engineer said, and your chest squeezed tight.

Beside you, Carlos didn’t even bother looking up from his phone. “You’re staring.”

You scoffed. “I’m not.”

“You’ve been staring at him since we walked in,” he muttered. “Since... 2011 really.”

You elbowed him, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

Carlos grinned. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to do something about it. Preferably when Charles is in another time zone.”

“I don’t have a thing to do something about.”

“Mmhmm.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, but your eyes still flicked back toward the garage, like they had a mind of their own. And of course that’s when Max looked up. Of course.

His gaze caught yours. Held it.

Your stomach dropped.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen you watching. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like he was amused and gave you a lazy, knowing half-smile that made your breath catch.

Damn it.

“He’s walking over,” Carlos said, not even pretending to hide his amusement.

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

Carlos stood abruptly, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Should I give you two some privacy? Or just text Charles now and save everyone the trouble?”

“I swear to God—”

But it was too late. You turned and Max was already close, just a few feet away, walking like he had all the time in the world, like he didn’t also look unfairly good under fluorescent lighting.

He smiled at you and Carlos, easy and warm, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long.

“Afternoon, Leclerc” he greeted smoothly, voice low and a little smug. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurted too fast.

Carlos grinned. “Her crush.”

You were going to kill him.

Max raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

You shot Carlos a glare so deadly he actually stood up, clearly deciding to spare himself. “I’ll leave you two,” he said casually. “Good luck with the… crush.”

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Max turned back to you slowly, arms folding across his chest, amusement dancing in his eyes. “So…”

You crossed your arms. “He’s an idiot.”

“Maybe,” Max agreed, then paused. “Is it true?”

You blinked. “Is what true?”

He tilted his head. “That you have a crush.”

“I—” You swallowed. “That depends.”

Max’s eyes twinkled. “On what?”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

He stepped closer, just enough to make your breath catch. “Of course not”

There was a beat of silence. Your heart was doing gymnastics.

“Then maybe,” you said softly, voice barely above the noise of the paddock, eyes locked with his. “Maybe it’s true.”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. Not really. You watched something flicker behind his eyes, surprise, maybe.

He didn’t speak right away just studied your face like he was trying to memorise it. Then, finally.

“You know Charles threatened to kill me once,” he murmured. “Told me not to look at you for more than five seconds at a time.”

You laughed nervously. “I remember.”

“I think I timed myself for a year after that,” he said with a soft smile. “Four seconds, look away. Four seconds, look away.”

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

His smile faded just a little, the teasing slipping from his features until only something soft remained, something honest. His eyes gentled, tone dropping into something more careful. “I’ve liked you since before I knew how to handle it. Since before it was allowed to be anything.”

Your breath caught.

He looked away briefly, then back at you, and there was something achingly sincere in the way he said it. “And then you started racing. Kicking ass. Winning everything. Being smarter than half the grid and not even pretending to downplay it. And you grew up, and I started seeing you for you, and then it was just…” He shook his head with a helpless little shrug. “Game over.”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your voice was quiet, uneven. “Seriously?”

Max nodded, almost shy now. “Inchident days.”

You blinked, dazed. “I was like… ten.”

“And you were already cooler than me,” he said, eyes crinkling a little, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious.

You laughed, sudden and bright, because what else could you do when the ground was shifting under your feet?

But it was short-lived, because your chest was suddenly too tight, your thoughts tripping over themselves, years of doubt trying to catch up to reality.

“I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted, and your voice cracked, just slightly. “I’ve felt like the idiot for so long, like it was just me stuck in some schoolgirl fantasy I never grew out of. You’d look at me and I’d feel it and then you’d blink and it was gone, and I’d spend hours convincing myself I made it all up.”

Max’s expression softened even further, and he stepped closer not enough to touch, not yet, but enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“It wasn’t just you,” he said again, firmer this time. “It was never just you.”

It felt like a mirage. Like something your brain had conjured in the haze of too many years and too many unspoken moments. You half expected it to vanish if you reached for it.

But it didn’t. Because Max was still looking at you like that with the quiet weight of someone who’d been holding this just as tightly, just as secretly, all this time. Your heart couldn’t tell the difference between disbelief and something dangerously close to joy.

He nodded. “Been wanting to ask for years, I think I've finally realised I’d rather risk getting punched in the face than keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel every time I look at you."

Your heart twisted, painfully fond.

“Okay,” you said, heart hammering. “So what now?”

Max shrugged. “Now I ask if maybe, hypothetically, you’d want to grab a drink. Or a walk. Or maybe let me kiss you in a place where your brother definitely can’t see us.”

You smiled, cheeks burning. “All of the above?”

His grin was slow, devastating. “Good choice.”