Middle Man — Arthur Leclerc
middle man — arthur leclerc
pairing. arthur leclerc x ferrari driver!fem!reader
summary. you never set out to date your teammate's brother. in fact, it took arthur months just to convince you to go on a single date, but charles' opinion of you hit an all time low after he became aware of your relationship and nothing you did seemed to help mend your previously strong partnership. when charles takes it a step too far, you decide that you’ve had enough of it. 6.7k, 18+
warnings. injury, descriptions of injury, smut, dom/sub dynamic (sub!reader), fingering (fem receiving), impact play, penetrative sex, mirror sex
. . .
The slightest of contact was all it took. That was all it ever took. One second, you were making the overtake for P2, and the next, you were in the wall.
There was barely time to brace. Barely any time to hit the brakes. Reaction time was trained, drilled, conditioned into you until it became second nature. Thank god it was, otherwise, you might not have walked away from this one.
Your ears were ringing when you opened you eyes after impact. Your vision was swimming but you were conscious. You heard the cadence of the question in your ear more than you could actually understand the words being said.
Are you okay? Y/N, are you okay?
You weren't really sure if you were but your mind went to those that were watching the race, your fans, your team, your family, your friends. Arthur. They needed to hear you say that you were okay. The gritty details could come later.
"I'm good. We're good. That was a rough one, huh?"
You're sure that the pain was still evident in your voice. It was unavoidable after however many Gs of force you just withstood in that crash. You turned the engine off, took a moment to center yourself.
You had crashed. You were a Formula One driver. It was the Azerbaijan Grand Prix, the fourth race of your second season with Ferrari after your Haas contract expired two years ago.
Your boyfriend's name was Arthur Leclerc. Privately (and jokingly), you called him Artie because it made him cringe and you thought it was funny. He was your teammate's little brother.
He was the first person to make it to the circuit medical center after you had been loaded into the medical car. He was shaking as he hugged you, not from fear but from restraint, not wanting to hurt you by squeezing you as tightly as he wanted to.
"You are okay? Tell me you are okay."
"I'm fine, baby."
"I could strangle Max Verstappen sometimes. 'Leave the space' must only apply to others."
"Arthur, it's okay. It's just part of the sport."
He looked you over for a moment more before catching your mouth in a searing kiss. It spoke volumes, and you understood exactly what he meant by it.
I deeply respect your love of the sport but I would burn the FIA and the whole world to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.
"I love you," he said when he pulled back.
"Je t'aime," you returned.
That exchange of I love you's in your and Arthur's respective native languages of English and French had been a staple of your relationship since very early on. Your first "I love you" had been in each other's mother tongue. It had stuck ever since.
“Are you sure you are okay?”
“Yes,” you insisted, “A little dizzy, but okay.”
“Dizzy? You did not say you were dizzy.” That was the doctor that had checked you for any signs of a concussion.
You turned to face her. “Yes, but I had—“
You lost your balance as you turned. Your typical coordination escaped you and Arthur had to catch you to stop you from tipping sideways.
The doctor pulled out a phone. “I’m calling an ambulance. You’re going to the hospital.”
“I’m fine—“
“Mon coeur, please sit down,” Arthur urged.
Your calm but obviously worried boyfriend refused to leave your side even when it meant leaving for the hospital before the end of the race. You tried to convince him to stay for his brother but he wasn’t having it.
In the hospital room after you had completed all the precautionary brain scans, Arthur checked his phone.
"Maman is asking about you," he said. "Lorenzo, too."
You both took note of the lack of another of his family member’s text message, but you had grown all too used to it. It was easier not to comment on it.
"Tell them I'm fine."
"I will tell them we are waiting on your test results."
"Don’t worry them. I’m fine, Arthur.”
"We will know that once they have gotten their results."
Arthur had a very convincing poker face but this needless argument showed how concerned he truly was. He kept worrying his bottom lip between his teeth whenever he thought you weren’t looking.
You tugged on your intertwined hands to pull him closer. “Hey. I’ll be fine. It’s probably just a concussion.”
“You cannot know.”
“Then, call it positive thinking.”
Before anything more could be said, the doctor returned with the results of your tests.
You were okay, only a concussion as you had thought. You had a fair amount of bruising and a bit of whiplash to commemorate one of the worst crashes of your career but other than that, you seemed fine.
They still wanted to keep you overnight for observation but you should recover in a timely fashion.
When the doctor left, you only had time to shoot Arthur an “I told you so” look before his phone started ringing. The caller ID showed his second eldest brother’s name.
He answered in French, a language you knew almost fluently after living in Monaco since your rookie season. You had really buckled down to learn the language after beginning to date Arthur.
“Hello? ... I am at the hospital with Y/N. … I know but congratulations on third. Sorry I missed the celebrations.”
You couldn’t hear what Charles was saying, only your boyfriend’s responses. It was now over two hours since the end of the race. Charles must have only just gotten time to call Arthur.
“I know I am, but Y/N was dizzy and the doctor was concerned and I couldn’t just leave her. … She is part of Ferrari, too. I have a duty to both her and the team. … I was not needed at the garage. … And I said I’m sorry I missed your podium but I wasn’t going to leave her alone. What if something happened?”
You sunk back into your hospital bed. They were fighting again. Because of you.
You and Charles had been rookies together back in 2018. You had started your F1 career at Williams before moving through Haas to where you were now, your second year at Ferrari.
You were a handful of years younger than Charles and he had always treated you like a little sister. When you got the Ferrari contract, Charles was over the moon. You remember him going on a half hour tangent about how much fun it would be having you as a teammate, how excited he was for the next two years.
Charles adored you. At least, he used to, before you and Arthur told him you had started seeing each other.
Since then, Ferrari has been a minefield.
Charles was distant and cold. He stopped sending TikToks and stopped laughing at your memes. He unfollowed you on Instagram for about a week before the Ferrari PR team made him follow you again.
The PR department was working well past overtime thanks to you and Charles. You had learned not to try and approach him even when there were cameras around because he would continue to ignore you and it would further fuel the drama mill.
You missed your friend. You missed the fun you two had last year as teammates.
Now, you were with Arthur. And you loved him. And he made you so happy. But you missed being able to talk to Charles without him looking at you like you were the gum on the bottom of his shoe.
Arthur’s voice had gotten sharper the longer he spoke to Charles. “Not that you bothered to ask but Y/N is fine, by the way. We had to go to the hospital to scan her brain and make sure but she would be. Not like you’d care.”
Arthur hung up and tossed his phone onto a table where he couldn’t reach it. You reached out for his hand and he took it, kissing your knuckles and sighing deeply.
“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.
“Do not apologize. This is not your fault.”
“It feels like it is.”
“It is not. It is Charles being impossible for no reason. Before we were dating, he—“
He adored you. He called you mon ange. He praised your driving any time he could. He invited you to dinners with his family, which was how you got to know Arthur outside of racing.
Now, Charles couldn’t stand the sight of you. It hurt, you weren’t going to lie. Charles was your teammate and friend, but more importantly, he was Arthur’s brother.
You didn’t feel it was your place to try and close the gap gouged between you and Charles, not when he was Arthur’s family. You didn’t want to complicate things further, didn’t want to try and repair your friendship before the bond between brothers was mended.
“Maybe…”
You lacked the confidence to continue your thought. You didn’t want to suggest what you were about to, even if it could potentially fix everything.
You were selfish when it came to Arthur. You didn’t like sharing him and you especially didn’t want to let him go.
“What?” Arthur asked.
“Maybe we should take a break.”
“What? No? No. Why? No. Why would you want to—? Have I done something wrong? Why would you say that?”
You were quick to reassure him. “No, no, no, baby, it’s not that. I was just thinking that it might be a good idea to take a bit of time and come back to this in the off season. When Charles can separate me as your girlfriend from me as his teammate.”
“No,” he insisted. “No. I do not want him to ruin this any more than he already has. I do not want to take a break.”
“Okay. That’s okay. It was just a suggestion.” One that you were thankful Arthur objected to so vehemently.
“It is a dumb suggestion. I do not want a break. I will never want a break from you.”
“Okay.”
You let him lean in and kiss you. It seemed that Arthur was selfish with you, as well.
.
You were no stranger to Charles Leclerc’s yacht. You had spent many nights attending parties hosted by your friend on his impressive vessel and even more days lounging around or exploring islands along the Monaco coast.
But ever since Charles found out about you and Arthur, you hadn’t been invited back. Until the weekend between races, a week after your crash.
And you hadn’t exactly been invited, it was more that Charles had been told by his mother that you would be spending the day with the family and there was no getting out of it. Though, as the day stretched on and tensions grew higher, you were really wishing that you were the one who could have gotten out of going.
Your concussion wasn’t as severe as originally feared. Your ribs were still tender and the skin of your torso bruised but you were set to race at Miami next week as long as your checkup in a few days went well.
Arthur sat down beside you on the large daybed you had taken to reading on. It was shaded and secluded enough to be comfortable but not so far from the main seating area that you couldn’t easily rejoin the larger group. It was where you had usually set up camp whenever aboard Charles’ yacht.
Your boyfriend handed you the fizzy, non-alcoholic beverage you had requested. He accepted a kiss as gratuity.
“What are you reading?”
“One of those spicy fantasy novels you make fun of me for.”
“Oh, the porn books.”
“They’re not porn books!”
Arthur just laughed because he liked teasing you. He laid his head in your lap. You, of course, let him because you were not actually upset.
You smoothed the hair off his forehead lovingly.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not hurting?”
“No. I’ve been doing my stretches and using bruise cream. I’ll be right as rain next weekend.”
Arthur seemed pleased with that answer. “Will you read to me?”
You regarded the content on the page you were open to. “I’m not exactly at a publicly appropriate chapter.”
“Am I not a better option than ink on paper?”
“You are not always readily available.”
“You are far more busy than me. You are always away from me.”
“Exactly. I need something to do with all my free time in my hotel room. All alone. Just me. And my hands all over… my latest smutty book.”
“You kill me, woman,” Arthur groaned, sitting up to kiss you.
You let out a peel of laughter when Arthur pushed you onto your back. You two were not in the habit of making your close friends and family uncomfortable with excessive PDA, so Arthur abandoned kissing you to pin you down, gentle and conscientious of your torso.
“Okay! Okay, you’re better!”
Arthur leaned down over you. “Better than what?”
“You’re better than my books.”
“Good.”
He kissed you, then wiggled his fingers against your neck to make you shriek.
“Arthur, Y/N. Come eat!” Pascale called the two of you over to the group.
Arthur helped you sit up, then held out a hand to help you down the steps to the deck below because god forbid you take the three stairs on your own. You didn’t mind; you liked that he wanted to help you, even with things you didn’t need him for.
You smiled at Arthur, able to forget about the Leclerc civil war for a moment. Then, you turned toward where everyone else was sitting in the main seating area.
Charles was glaring daggers.
Your stomach dropped. You pulled your hand free from Arthur’s to fix your hair then didn’t take it again when you were done.
Arthur looked at you odd, noticed where you were glancing. He glared back just as hard at his older brother.
“Arthur,” you muttered in reproach.
“If maman was not here, I swear I would smack him across the face.”
“Arthur, please.”
After the race in Azerbaijan was over, after podium celebrations and post-race interviews, Charles had spoken a little too loudly about how it was your fault that you had crashed, that it was what happened when you "still drive like a rookie five years into your career."
The video that some random clubgoer had managed to capture of your teammate badmouthing you while you spent the night in the hospital for observation had gone more than a little viral.
To hear him talk about you like that just made you sad. You didn't have the energy to be mad over it.
Arthur did not share those feelings. When he first saw the video, it was everything you could do to keep Arthur from charging halfway across Monaco to kick his brother's door in. Instead, you anxiously sat on the couch in your living room as he and his brother shouted at each other over the phone.
If it wasn't for Pascale's not at all subtle attempts to get her boys to make up, you and Arthur never would have come today. But she was your boyfriend's mother. She would not accept a refusal of her invitation for today.
You ended up sat beside Arthur and about as far from Charles as possible as sandwiches and chips were passed around. You kept making eye contact with Pascale, awkwardly smiling whenever you did before glancing away.
"Charles, do you have any more wine on this boat?" Pascale asked.
Charles stood. "I'll go get some."
"Arthur, why don't you help your brother?"
You held your breath. You truly admired the balls on that woman, and the unapologetically obvious pursuit of making her sons make up. When you glanced at Arthur, almost hopeful, you saw the dark edge to his gaze as he looked at his brother; he was still too angry to be left alone with Charles.
You didn't believe Arthur would actually slap or physically harm Charles in any way but things would not be made better by Arthur confronting his brother right now.
"I'll help," you said before Arthur had to respond. "Lead the way, Charlie."
You false enthusiasm shriveled into nothingness by the time you reached the stairs down to the bar. You trailed after him below deck, staying several paces behind.
Charles was silent as he began opening cupboards. He hadn't so much as looked at you when you took his younger brother's place in assisting him.
"Charles, I—"
"I do not want to hear it, Y/N."
You swallowed around the nervousness trying to clog up your throat. "Are you ever going to let me explain?"
"There is nothing to explain. You are my teammate. Arthur is my brother. You both go behind my back to start dating each other and do not care of what it will affect."
"Believe me, we've talked about it. At length. We know it's a risk."
"And you do not care," Charles concluded, ducking down below the bar and out of view as he continued his search.
"No, we decided it was worth it." You took a breath. "I don't know how to talk about how in love with your brother I am without making you uncomfortable but if I had to choose between him and racing, I would hesitate."
That statement may not sound all that impressive but Charles had once said to you—after many, many drinks following a successful race weekend for Ferrari—that he would know he truly loved a woman if when he had to choose between her and never racing again, he hesitated.
As a fellow driver, you understood exactly what he meant. That was what you felt for Arthur. That was what the youngest Leclerc meant to you. That was how hopelessly in love you were.
"I love Arthur, I really do. And I know it's messy and complicated and whatever else but I don't care about that. At the end of the day, I am happier with Arthur than I have been in a really long time."
Charles was silent behind the bar. He was still ducked down. It felt like you were monologuing to an empty room. It made it a little easier to continue.
"While I am willing to put a little strain on my career for my relationship, what I have never wanted to put strain on is your relationship with your brother. I never wanted anything like this to happen.
“I never wanted to go behind your back. I never would have pursued my feelings for Arthur if he hadn’t been so persistent but he wore me down and I couldn’t tell him no.
“I am truly sorry for breaking your trust. But I cannot stop loving your brother. I will not let him go just because you cannot accept us, despite all the difficulties it may come with.”
Two bottles of wine appeared on the bar top just before Charles stood upright again. He still would not look at you.
"If you can't forgive me for pursuing a member of your family, that's fine. I understand. But Arthur is your little brother; do not throw that away because of me.
"Hate me. Be mad at me. Ignore me on media days. Unfollow all my socials. Make the entire world think you despise me. I don't care; just don't take it out on Arthur.
"I am not worth you two falling out."
You nearly jumped out of your skin when Charles finally looked you in the eye. You held his gaze, imploring him to listen to what you were saying.
His expression did not change the longer he surveyed you. Then, he took the bottles of wine, walked right past you without another word, and went back above deck.
.
"That is it?" Arthur asked as you recounted the events to him later that night.
He was sat on the lid of the toilet as you washed your face before you two were going to settle in to watch a movie.
"Then, I told him I'm not worth you two falling out over and he walked away. Without a word. Just back up the stairs and that was that."
"You are."
"Are what?"
"Worth falling out over."
You sighed. "Arthur—"
"You are. I am serious."
"Arthur, I'm not going anywhere. You don’t have to choose between me and Charles; I don’t want you to.”
“I am not losing you because of him.”
“I’m not asking you to compromise. I’m not letting you go because of Charles, either, but we have to try and make this work. He’s your brother. That has to mean something to you.”
“He is being unreasonable.”
“Have you even tried to talk to him about it? Or have you just been pretending nothing’s changed?”
“Nothing has changed," he said stubbornly.
“Okay, that's one of the problems."
"It should not matter that we're dating."
"No, it should. And it does. I'm dating my teammate's brother; that is going to change some things. You do recall the HR meeting all of us had to suffer through, don't you?"
Shortly after telling Charles of your relationship, you and Arthur had gone to Ferrari to make them aware as well. There had been no major backlash from the team but there had been a several-hours-long meeting with HR and PR that you, Arthur, and Charles all had to be present for.
Arthur physically shuddered at the memory. "Do not remind me."
"Us being together changes things. You cannot ignore it and hope everything will blow over."
"He hasn't even apologized to you."
"Worry about me later. Fix your relationship with your brother before it's too late."
"Y/N, you are not understanding. I cannot fix my relationship with Charles if he is going to speak of you like he did in that video. If he is going to treat you like he has been, nothing is going to be fixed."
"He's your brother—"
"And you are l'amour de ma vie. I do not care that he is my brother; I will not tolerate anyone speaking of you in such a way. I cannot remove you from the situation. I cannot make up with him until he stops treating you horrible.”
You had not realized Arthur’s view on the whole situation. You supposed it made sense now that you thought about it.
Charles was generally being mean to you, not his brother. When the two youngest Leclercs argued, it was over you. Charles seemed convinced that you would never prioritize Arthur or his career over yourself or your own.
True, you would never give up your seat for Arthur, but you wouldn’t do that for anyone. Should the time ever come where Arthur got an F1 seat, you would never give him anything; he would have to work just as hard as anyone else to race against you. That was racing.
You do not think that Charles meant anything to that extreme of a degree. He perhaps meant that Arthur would seldom be prioritized in place of a career in F1, period, but you and Arthur were on the same page about that.
You had spoken in length about it. You had laid everything on the table a few months into your relationship and spoke about it all until you reached a true and total understanding.
And Charles… Well, Charles would always see Arthur as his baby brother, as someone to protect, as someone who is young and unknowing of the world even if he was snugly into his twenties.
“You need to speak to him. Really speak to him. Talk everything through.”
“He needs to apologize, first. Then, and only then, will I talk things out.”
“You are. So. Stubborn,” you growled at him, jokingly pretending to choke him in your frustration.
“If I was not, how would I keep you in check?”
He slid his hand right up under your oversized sleep shirt to hold your core in his palm. Your freshly washed face went a little pink.
“I don’t need to be kept in check,” you said indignantly.
“Don’t you? You always seem to find some way to misbehave and then I have to punish you for it. You know how I hate to punish you.”
“Don't lie. You love my punishments as much as I do.”
He rubbed his hand over the cloth of your panties, pushed his fingers between your closed thighs to prod over the fabric at where you had already started to ache for him. It took so little to get you worked up, just a few touches and some dirty words and you were ready to melt into any mold Arthur wanted.
“Backtalk.” He clicked his tongue at you. “Already misbehaving.”
“I’m debating my point. That is not misbehaving. You’re just being mean.”
“Keep talking and I can show you how mean I can be.”
“That’s not fair—“
You didn’t get to finish your thought before Arthur stood and pushed you against the bathroom counter. Your thighs dug into the edge of the counter as Arthur pressed against your back, hips nestled into the soft curve of your ass.
“Arthur—"
"Hm?"
He slowly slid your hair out of the way. The collar of your ancient sleep shirt was easily stretched to the side so Arthur could kiss the bare skin of his shoulder. His teeth bit into the curve of your neck just enough to feel but not hurt.
You whined, pushed your hips back into him. "Don't tease."
He slid a hand up to your neck, met your eye in the mirror. "Be patient."
He held you there until you nodded your understanding. Only then did he hitch the back of your shirt up to slip his hand inside your panties from behind.
He grabbed a handful of your ass. You exhaled a soft moan.
You hadn't been intimate since the Monday before the Azerbaijan GP, meaning it was pushing two weeks since Arthur had touched you. You were ready to fall apart and he hadn't even really touched you yet.
"Arthur, s'il te plaît."
In the mirror, you could see him smirk at your French. He had told you before that he liked when you spoke to him in French, that he thought your accent was cute.
You knew it was a totally indulgent way to get what you wanted but you didn't care; it worked. His fingers slid between your folds, feeling how slick and ready you were for him.
He cursed into your shoulder, slipping into French to say, "So wet for me—fuck, Y/N."
"Want you, baby. Please."
"Want me? Want me where?"
"Inside me."
"So lewd, mon coeur," he teased. "You're so needy tonight."
"You started it."
"And I will stop it if you are not grateful for what I am giving you."
He pulled his hand out of your underwear and you whined. You reached back to slide a hand into his hair.
"No, please, I'm sorry. Please, don't stop."
Arthur huffed out a laugh. "I will take care of you. You do not need to beg."
He pulled your panties down until you could kick them off to the side. He gently ran a hand over your stomach and ribs. Arthur was always conscientious of you, especially when you were injured.
"Can you bend over for me?"
You did so immediately, elbows coming to rest on the sink counter. Your shirt slid up off your hips to hang loosely around your waist. You felt your arousal hit the air in the bathroom, the chill making you shift your hips.
"So good for me. My good girl."
You could cry from the praise and the fact that his fingers still were not inside of you that exact second. You were embarrassingly worked up.
Arthur seemed to take pity on you, circling his thumb on your clit a few times before slipping a finger into you. Just one was nowhere near enough to fill you up but you dropped your head onto your arms and moaned.
He kissed your backside, knelt down behind you. "So noisy, amour."
Any snarky response you may have had died in your throat when he pressed a second finger into you. That was enough for a bit of a stretch that had you pushing your hips back against his hand.
"Stay still," Arthur warned.
You really did try to listen to him but after slowly scissoring you open with two fingers, he introduced a third and started really finger fucking you. You pressed your forehead against the counter, not able to stop yourself from pushing back into him again, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, searching for something that would stretch you further, reach deeper into you.
He pulled his fingers out of you. Your whine was cut short when he slapped your bared cunt with the same soaked fingers that were just inside of you.
"You are so fucking impatient."
"Just want you."
"Yeah? You want me so bad you cannot even stay still and let me stretch you out? You want to be torn open by my cock?"
You whimpered. That was exactly what you wanted.
He slapped your pussy again. "Huh? Is that what you want?"
You raised your head just enough to be able to watch as Arthur pushed his shorts down. You couldn't see as he pulled his cock free with him stood behind you but you definitely felt it when he pressed his tip against your prepped entrance.
"Oh, fuck—"
He entered you in a swift motion. You choked around a moan.
He was gentle with his arms as he pulled you back against him but ruthless with his hips as he fucked into you without relent. He didn’t press on your bruised torso but he did get a hand around your throat to make you watch yourself in the mirror.
Your dynamic was like this. He was in charge and you loved that. He could hit you, fuck you hard, have you screaming, begging, crying, but where it truly mattered, he would always be gentle with you. His dominance was not just for him; he was always cognizant of your current state and how you were feeling in the moment.
“Arthur.” You breathed his name like a moan, like a prayer.
He kissed your neck, then your cheek. “So good for me.”
Arthur set the pace slow and deep. You could feel him nudging your cervix, stretching you open, the tug of your walls against his cock making you ache for him even more. You were a moaning mess for him in mere moments.
He coaxed you through your first orgasm like that, fucking you slowly from behind as you watched yourselves in the bathroom mirror, his hand between your thighs to push you along. Your legs shook and Arthur held you upright as he kept the torturous pace all the way through your climax.
“You have a bit more in you, amour. Yes?” he asked, still moving his hips as the continued stimulation was making you squirm.
You felt you could barely catch your breath but you nodded anyway. “Yes.”
Arthur hummed, pleased. “Good girl. Bend over.”
If your first orgasm was for you, the second was surely for Arthur. Sex was always a game of give and take with him. Though, even when he was taking, you were always being given so much.
As soon as he had you bent over again, he gripped your hips, adjusted his own, then started fucking into you fast and hard. You grabbed onto the counter to steady yourself, let your head drop onto the quartz as you went pliant and easy.
You were shaking from the overstimulation, from not getting a break between your first high and the second that Arthur was making you chase.
“Come on, amour. Come on.”
His pace was just uneven enough for you to become aware that he was definitely close. He was waiting for you.
His fingers found your clit again, rubbing out another wave of pleasure that had you trembling against the counter. Your head felt light, legs literally giving out and you would have fallen to your knees if Arthur wasn’t still gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, strong arming you into staying on your feet.
You cried his name and your body went slack. Arthur fucked you through your second high and past it, stroked himself out with your body and buried himself deep inside of you as he came.
You mewled at the feeling, at the depth and the spurting warmth. Arthur smoothed a hand up your spine to soothe you. He whispered praises and pressed kisses into your skin until you came back to Earth, getting your legs back underneath you.
"Welcome back, mon coeur."
You could hear the proud grin in his words but could only give a weak groan in response as you pushed yourself upright. Arthur helped you up, then sat you on the bathroom counter and kissed you sweetly before setting to cleaning you up.
He scooped you up into his arms once you were clean and dressed to carry you out to the living room.
"I can still walk," you told him but still happily wrapped your arms around his neck anyway, leaning against his chest.
"I'll have to do better next time, then."
Arthur set you on the couch. He told you to stay as he bustled around getting popcorn and drinks ready.
"What do you want to watch?" you asked.
"Whatever you want."
"Don't give me that kind of power," you mumbled to yourself.
You didn't giving in to the temptation to queue up some cringeworthy romcom you know Arthur would hate. He had given you enough tonight. You could be nice about the movie choice.
You made it through maybe half of the movie (some new Netflix film you thought looked decent) when there was a knock at the door. It was a soft noise, almost hesitant.
You shared a look with your boyfriend before you both checked your phones to make sure you hadn't missed a text from someone letting you know they were on their way over. You both came up blank.
Despite it being your apartment, Arthur pushed you down when you went to stand and ran to answer the door himself. You couldn't quite see the door from the couch, so you strained your ears to listen.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, not quite unkindly but certainly not happy.
"I went to maman's. You were not there."
Charles. Why had he showed up at your door unannounced this late in the evening?
"I've been staying with Y/N most of the time."
Silence followed. It was painful just eavesdropping on the two brothers. You nearly got to your feet to approach them and attempt to mediate but Arthur beat you to it.
"What do you want, Charles?"
More silence. You don't think you were breathing, scared if you made yourself known it would ruin whatever was about to happen.
"I wanted to apologize," Charles eventually said.
"Apologize?"
You bit your cheek to stop from screeching with joy. Finally—finally! You were so ready for this whole thing to be over with. Even if it took some subtle guilt tripping on your part, you were more than pleased at the outcome.
"For how I've been treating you since you told me about you and Y/N. Is she here?"
"Yes."
"Yes, well, it is her apartment, no?" Charles tried for a weak laugh but Arthur did not take mercy and join him. "Er, well... I—I shouldn't have been so quick to judge you two. I was upset, at first, that you had hidden it from me.
"I forget that you are an adult and you have pursued your own career and you do not need protecting from people who might try to take advantage of you—not that I believe Y/N would do such a thing!"
You cringed. This could go downhill really fast considering Arthur's protective streak over you.
"Yes, I am an adult. How you feel will not dictate my relationship. But how you treat Y/N will dictate my relationship with you. How can you speak of her like you have? She has been your friend for so long."
"I know what it has been like for you to constantly be compared to me. I know it has been difficult for you and I have become paranoid in my fame that someone will use the people I care about to get to me."
"That is ridiculous. Y/N is just as well-known as you, if not more. And she knew you before she knew me—how does any of this make sense, Charles?"
Arthur had a point but you could understand where Charles was coming from. It was always a fear in your own mind that something may happen to or someone might try to take advantage of your family or your friends because they were in connection with you.
"It doesn't," Charles admitted. "It doesn't make any sense. I was being stupid. I assumed the worst—thought Y/N was using you to mess with my head—and refused to see it any other way and I never should have treated Y/N as I have been or said what I have about her.
"She is one of the most talented drivers I have ever driven alongside. She is the kindest person I know. She has been my friend for years longer than she has been dating you. I should not have let my judgement be so clouded by my own fear.
"I am sorry, Arthur. And if Y/N is here, I would like to apologize to her, as well."
It was quiet for several moments. You waited in silence, still holding your breath. Had you breathed at all since Charles started apologizing? Was Arthur going to say anything? Was he just standing there?
There was the rustle of fabric followed by the telltale sighs of relief that accompanied a much needed hug. You exhaled and slumped back against the couch. Thank God.
It was long overdue that the youngest Leclercs made up. Thankfully, Charles knew his brother well enough to know that you must also be apologized to if things were ever going to get better.
"Y/N?" Arthur called.
You suddenly remembered that you had been eavesdropping the whole time. Charles had no idea you were just around the corner in your living room. You had heard the entirety of Charles' apology, even the things not meant for your ears.
You cleared your throat. "Yes?"
"Do you think Charles should be forgiven?"
You laughed and went to join the brothers in the foyer. "I absolutely do. Do I get a hug, too?"
Charles' face was red but he seemed to find the humor in the situation, too. He opened his arms for you and wrapped you in a tight embrace.
"I am sorry, Y/N. I know you would never purposefully try to hurt me or my brother. I was rash in my understanding of the situation."
"It's okay, Charlie. I just missed my friend."
"I'm sorry." Charles squeezed you tight once more before letting you go.
When you stepped back into Arthur, he let his arm slip around your waist. He kissed the side of your head. You leaned into him, too pleased with the outcome of tonight to fret much over PDA in front of Charles.
For the first time, Charles didn't seem deeply disturbed by your affection. However, he did sigh faux irritably.
"You two are way too cute together. It was so difficult to be mad at you sometimes."
You and Arthur laughed.
"I am serious! You should see yourselves."
Despite knowing it was an inappropriate train of thought to entertain in front of your boyfriend's brother, you couldn't help but think back to just about an hour ago and how you had watched yourselves through the bathroom mirror.
"Oh, we have," Arthur said, innuendo lost on his brother but not on you.
You smacked him in the chest. Arthur just laughed. Luckily, Charles seemed none the wiser.
More Posts from Abudhabby29-blog and Others
Little Miss Wingwoman - LN4
With baby Verstappen-Piquet on the way, Penelope's nanny needs a place to move into as she becomes an almost full time employee of the family. No better place than Lando's spare bedroom, only a few floors down from her job, right?
warnings/notes: none particularly? this might be like five parts or two parts, im not sure yet :D!
Penelope's plan to get her two favorite people to fall in love begins to fall into place.
See, Penelope was smart. Kelly made sure she was creative and book smart while Max made sure she had the confidence to speak her mind. Penelope got all she wanted, within reason, spoiled just enough, worked for what she had to. Danced, played, sang, baked... she was kid, but she was smart. She could do it all herself if she wasn't a huge momma and daddy's girl. (Bonus-daddy's girl? She hadn't worked out the wording on that one yet.)
But, on the busy days, you visited.
Taking a summer gig to nanny in your last years of school, you didn't expect to be placed within the Verstappen-Piquet household. Two days in, you never wanted to leave, and Penelope--so so young back then, had refused to let you go. Now, a few years later, you traveled around with the family when needed. Most of the time, staying back to look over the apartment and the cats while they went around.
You were more so an extra set of hands for Kelly, someone who could run and get groceries before dinner, run Penelope to and from practices or accompany her to weekends with her father (the Kyvat's adored you as well), or someone who could stay back with Penelope for date nights or take her out for nights in.
After a few years of steady rhythm, everything was shaken up with baby Verstappen-Piquet on the horizon. A lot of changes needing to be made to prepare for the child, especially the further along Kelly was getting--appointments and classes and errands. A set of helping hands, especially when Max had to go off for work, was almost necessary.
But it was impossible to find apartments in Monaco on your budget. And with the spare room you had been using turning to a nursery for the little bugger coming along, you didn't have the luxury of sleeping in your employers home much longer.
And so, the hunt began.
Penelope had heard the news from Max, offhandedly mentioning it to Daniel during a padel game. The Australian didn't have space for you, as much as he'd grown to love your presence. A week later, he'd run into Charles while out getting dinner with P, and asked if he or Alexandra knew anywhere while Penelope pretended to be distracted by Leo. A week after that, Kelly had gone out to lunch with a bunch of her friends in the and discussed it openly.
A month in, Lando visited to watch Penelope while Kelly and Max went off to a doctor's appointment. Usually, you would stop by, but you were off on an early holiday vacation with family. The way Lando joked with Max, the easy smile on his lips, the awkward stumbles and laughter through his words... it was just like you could be.
Then, when Max asks, Lando mentions having a spare room he'd have to clean out. And the way Lando smiles when Penelope makes her way over to give him a hug, promising Max he'll keep her in line while the two of them are gone makes an idea flare in Penelope's head.
Lando needed a roommate, and you needed a place to stay. So, obviously, you were an absolutely perfect pair, right? It wasn't a new idea to her, you and Lando had met a few times over the course of the years you'd watched her. Mainly for short moments at whatever grand prix she'd begged you to come to, and the two of you seemed to get along...
And, she thinks you're both single. So, Penelope enacted stage one of her master wing(wo)man plan: getting you to move in with Lando.
While Penelope was scheming, browsing through YouTube for videos full of cutesy RomCom ideas, Lando was saying goodbye to Max and Kelly--wishing them luck, and then shutting the door behind him. He made quick work of sneaking a popcorn bag out of his backpack, popping it in the microwave while he scrolled through the countless movies on their smart TV--finding the perfect one for Penelope to watch.
The girl was engrossed, headphones shoved over her ears, watching a 'my top ten romantic moments in movies' compilation, but the smell of buttery goodness made her lift her head.
Lando smiles, holding out a bowl for her, "Too busy watching that for some old fashioned Disney?"
Glancing to the screen, Frozen 2 was paused on the opening screen, and Penelope tutted, "This came out in 2019."
"But thats like forever ago. Were you even born yet?" Lando smirks and Penelope takes the bowl from him with a scowl, but obliges to sit next to him on the couch, putting her iPad away for now, as Lando started the movie up.
But as Elsa is working to tame the Nøkk, Penelope lets out a soft sigh. Popcorn gone, and interest ruined. She wants to get back to studying. She has all winter break to make this love story happen, and with Lando and Max possibly going back for testing as early as January 3rd, she needs to act fast.
Lando glances over from where he's been idly answering emails between watching the movie, his own bowl empty. Penelope pouts while watching the movie, and he hums, looking at her.
"You're not even watching the coolest scene," Lando chimed softly, remembering the countless times little Mila would screech at the TV when she was really young. Penelope just huffed again, and he found himself curiously laying his head on his palm, "isn't this your favorite part?"
"No." Penelope deadpans, sighing again and dramatically slides off the couch onto her back and groans. She knows its a bit overkill, but its also Lando. He was a bit dramatic too. Penelope ends up closing her eyes for more drama as Sassy jumps off the couch and sniffs her head before trying to sneak a bite of corn kernels.
Lando reaches out and waves Sassy away, earning him a hiss and a sulk from the bengal as she stalks off to a far corner in the room. He slides the rest of his way out of the chair, hovering by Penelope's side before asking softly,
"What'sa matter, P?"
Penelope blinks open one eye at his approach, muttering, "The horse thing is Yn's favorite part of the movie."
"Yn?" Lando pops down on the floor next to her, pausing the movie on the TV, "is she one of your friends from dance?
"No, Yn is my nanny." Penelope sits up, a mischievous thought entering her mind, "but she doesn't have a place to live, so she's not my nanny now. Because she can't live in Monaco."
"Oh, that's a shame. D'ya miss her?" Lando asks softly and Penelope nods, leaning over to grab her iPad, pulling up a photo of the two of them squished together into the camera. Lando's smile tells Penelope all she needs to know, obviously he's totally in love with her, that's why he's grinning like that.
"That's a cute photo, P." Lando says. Jackpot. Shifting to lay on his stomach, Lando shuts his laptop on the couch and Penelope spends the rest of their three hour time talking non-stop about you to Lando. Practically making you sound like a damn angel rebirthed onto this Earth, shoving photos of you in his face, giggling like a mad man whenever he asks a question.
Penelope makes sure to have him follow your Instagram, grinning like a madwoman when he agrees to do so. When Max and Kelly come back, Lando stays for dinner, where Kelly informs Penelope you'll be visiting for a few days to do some apartment hunting.
Max seems to remember Lando lives alone and asks once more.
"I could clean the room out if she needs it," Lando says a bit more enthusiastically now. Penelope pats herself on the back as he says, "When Yn gets here, she can come over and take a look--just, just--just remind me to clean up. It's a bit messy."
"Wouldn't expect anything less from you, mate." Max grins and Lando sheepishly tries to defend himself while Kelly watches with a small smile, looking over to where Penelope eagerly grins.
A few days later, you fly in to Monaco. When the Verstappen-Piquet family stops by to visit, you greet them with tight hugs. Maneuvering around your big suitcase laying on the floor, you surprise Max and Kelly with a gift of a few baby items as well as some other much needed items for the couple. Namely, a gift card to Penelope's favorite store, which Max prompty hands back to you with the words, "she'd prefer shopping with her older 'sister'" tossed over his shoulder. The two don't stay long, having a flight to catch to the FIA Awards ceremony. So, Penelope stays in your hotel room while Max and Kelly go off, and you give her free reign to do whatever she wishes.
It only takes about ten minutes into you two being alone for Penelope to ask about the apartment search, almost bursting at the seams with a sense of excitement thats rare--even for her.
"Who told you that?" You spin around to poke your head out of the doorway, hands on your hips. You've spent the last twenty minutes trying to organize the tiny bathroom counter to fit most of your cosmetics and other items for the next few weeks you'd be staying here.
"I heard Maxie talking about it." Penelope looks up with big eyes, emphasizing her sad tone, "You aren't gonna live with us anymore?"
Sighing softly, you make your way across the room, sitting down next to a pouting Penelope on the bed, snatching her bottom lip between your fingers and lightly pulling it to make her giggle and roll away as you call, "keep your mouth like that and your face will freeze there forever!"
"It's gonna stay like this because I'm mad!" She groans, forcing back her smile and giggles, and sitting up and crossing her arms. Now overkill pouting to get her point across, "You aren't gonna live with me!"
"P, I don't fit in your place anymore." You sigh softly, laying across the bed and holding out an arm so the child can crawl over to lay against your side, "we gotta make room for the baby."
"We have to change everything for the baby!" Comes the sharp reply you were expecting. Max had warned you Penelope seemed a little snippy recently. While excited to have a little brother or sister, it was obvious Penelope was also feeling left out.
"Penelope," You soothe, rolling onto your side to prop your head up on a hand, "babies are a big change and unlike you and me, they can't take care of themselves. That's why your Momma and Max have to do all these classes, and appointments and everything. They've gotta make sure they're ready for the little thing."
"But the baby isn't even here yet and it's ruining everything!" Penelope laments, curling into your side, "Momma doesn't play anymore, Max is always busy moving stuff around, we haven't even had a movie night recently because Momma's been so tired!"
"I'm sorry, baby." You sigh. Totally unknowingly feeding right into Penelope's carefully laid trap, "you're allowed to be upset, but you have to also understand this is what has to happen."
"Will it go back to normal when the baby gets here?" Penelope looks up and you give her a little shrug, running a hand through her hair,
"Not for a while, baby."
"Can we go back to normal? Even if you don't live with us anymore?" Penelope sits up now, dragging you to join her and you smile, lifting her up to sit right on your lap as you fix up her unruly hair--another sign of Kelly's growing baby bump, the lack of Penelope hair-dos.
"We'll always be the same, and I'm looking at staying nearby. It'll be an adjustment but it won't be awful." You smile, tucking her hair up into a braid, securing it with a little bow at the end, "Wanna go get something to eat? Max gave me back the babysitting allowance card..."
Hook. Line. Sinker.
"Please!" Penelope gasps, standing up off your lap and jumping off the bed to grab her bag. A little stuffed cat Jelly Cat bag you think hearing Lando had snagged on a trip recently for the little girl. It's cute, and Penelope smiles when she sees you eyeing it.
"Lando got me this!" She proudly exclaims, holding it up as you slip on your shoes.
"Yeah?" You ask, walking to the door as Penelope bounces behind you, grinning wide enough her cheeks puff up, "you two seem to get along."
"He's really cool! You guys could be friends," Penelope laments, dragging you out of the hotel room once you have your shoes, jacket, and purse securely fastened for her little rollercoaster of a personality, "He thinks you're pretty."
Which, isn't exactly true, but it makes your face warm enough for Penelope as you step into the chilly air.
"Well, thats very kind of him," is your reply as you turn towards the coastline, hosting Penelope up into your arms so you don't have to worry about the curious five year old scurrying off.
You end up at one of Penelope's favorites, Costadoro Social. The place is downright adorable, and you manage to snag a window table. While you order, Penelope gets out only the best pages from her sticker book for the both of you to put together. Once you're both settled in, sandwiches and drinks (yours a coffee and hers a hot chocolate), the crowd mills out of the building. Leaving you and a somewhat familiar couple off in a corner, a third chair at their table yanked out like it's expecting someone to swing by.
As you two start on some winter scene in this very exact ticker book, Penelope rattles off countless stories to you about the weekend in Abu Dhabi. When she gasps, asking to show you the stickers she gave to Lando, you notice the curly headed man at the other table peeks over before turning to his girlfriend to ask something.
She shrugs, and the bell dings on the entry door. The woman behind the counter cheerily greeting the newcomer as you look down to where Penelope proudly shows you a picture Kelly had taken with her and Lando, showing off his stickers.
"They made him go fast and win," Penelope happily says, settling back in her seat. You nod, of course it was the stickers. Not because Lando was a professional, but Penelope looks smug like she'd been the reason for the McLaren WCC, so you let it slide. It's cute.
A Laufey cover of 'I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm' begins to play as you pull out your phone to show Penelope your mothers cats back home, as well as some other photos of the short trip back home.
The man at the table stands, walking over, and the motion catches Penelope's watchful eye as the two men give a short hug to one another--wishing happy holidays. You set your phone down, looking over as you sip your drink, and the dimpled smile of one of the men catches your eye.
He's cute.
He turns, as if feeling your gaze, and before you can jerk back he grins widely, "Hey Pen!"
"Lando!" Penelope squeaks, wiggling out of her chair and bounding over to give him a hug. The two share quick pleasantries and an introduction to Lando's friends--Max and Pietra, before Penelope gasps and runs over to you, "Lando, it's Yn!"
You stand at the mention of your name, hustling over with a sheepish smile as Penelope grabs your hand and drags you over like she'll die if she doesn't get the chance to.
"Hi," you squeak, shaking his awaiting hand, "It's nice to meet you, Penelope talks about you a lot."
His cheeks are rosy as you shake his hand, and a tiny grin pokes at Lando's lips as he nods, "she talks about you a lot, too."
"I told you she was pretty!" Penelope chimes, making Max nearly snort out his coffee while Pietra laughs softly. You and Lando are a bit closer to mortified at Penelope's insistence, and you manage to get her to say goodbye so the group can enjoy their lunch together since she does have dance rehearsal soon.
About two hours or so later, you get back to Max and Kelly's post rehearsal. And while Penelope curls up all about tuckered out from running amuck down the shopping districts, learning new ballet moves, and endlessly mentioning Lando like a lovesick teenager, you pull up your phone and scroll through your feed as Penelope fights off a nap.
It's due time for an Instagram post anyways.
liked by maxverstappen, kellypiquet, landonorris, and others...
yourusername: back home for the holidays <3
kellypiquet: the absolute best!
user: YESS YN AND PENELOPE CONTENT WILL RETURN
user2: omg that DRESS i need
⤷ yourusername: its an innika choo dress but im not sure if they're even open anymore :( kelly got it for me for my birthday last yr!!
⤷ user2: OMG THANK U ill keep an eye out!!!
maxverstappen: so thats why theres beads all over the carpet?
⤷ yourusername: i wasnt the cat who decided to try and eat them (jimmy)
⤷ maxverstappen: unsurprising
lilymhe: omg !!! we need to meet up! alex and i have been dying to update you on The Lore
⤷ yourusername: please!! ive been dying to see you guys again :(!!
user3: SO CUTE!!
user4: i would die to be living ur life yn
landonorris: penelope seems to keep you busy
⤷ yourusername: you saw her shenanigans today, it only gets worse
⤷ alexalbon: lando what r u doing
⤷ landonorris: ???????
⤷ maxverstappen: 👁️
⤷ landonorris: ???!!!!
You're halfway through helping Penelope with wrapping a christmas present for her dance teacher when Max knocks on the doorway. You turn around, standing when he beckons you over.
"How's Kelly?" You ask softly, knowing she's trying to sleep off a bout of morning sickness. Max shrugs, sipping his Red Bull.
"A bit ill, but she seems to be getting better. Penelope's fine?"
You nod, looking back as Penelope crosses her arms and scowls at all the options for the bow she could put on the bag.
"Lando's cleaned his apartment, finally," Max watches Penelope with a soft look, before turning to you and leaning on the wall with a tired yawn. He's still adjusting from the season, and the early sun dipping behind the buildings wasn't helping his sleep cycle.
"You should go over, take a little tour." Max hums, "You deserve a break from watching P all day."
"It's quite literally what you pay me to do, Max." You laugh softly, but with a few more pushes of insistence you finally agree. He shoots Lando a text to let him know you're on your way down as you grab a pair of Uggs you wear indoors, and your keys so you don't get locked out.
The elevator ride down is short, and you walk into the warm hallway to see Lando down the hall peeking out. He smiles at your approach and holds open the door for you.
"Nice to see you again," He chimes as you enter. It's been about a week since you've seen him, now teetering close to Christmas, and you smile at him.
"Nice to see you too, Lando." You hum, and he brings you to the spare room. It's spacious, with a big window that looks over the entire Monaco bay. You're drawn to it like a moth to a flame, it's perfect. Everything you could've dreamed of and more. Lando makes sure to show you the ensuite bathroom and large closet.
Everything feels too good to be true, so you quickly ask, "How much would you want me to pay you in rent?"
"Rent?" Lando pauses in the kitchen where he'd offered to get you a soda from his sparse fridge. He shakes his head, leaning on the counter and taking a sip of his water bottle, "Max told me your budgets quite small. I figured I could pay rent and you could pay like... utility?"
"That's gotta be like a quarter of what you pay for this place, Lando. I have a good amount saved up!" You protest and he shakes his head, a tiny smile on his lips.
"Listen, you're honestly doing me a favor. You probably know how to make a house a proper functioning home. I barely know how to not burn leftovers when I reheat them." He chides himself and you break into a tiny laugh, missing the way his face gets rosy at your giggles, "I need a bit of help making this place look... homey. And Max told me you'd be good at that."
"So I'm helping you learn to adult to pay my rent?" You ask and your bluntness makes Lando flush as he rubs the back of his neck and looks down with a shrug.
"If that's okay..?"
"I mean... I'd like to pay, but if you wanna do it this way, fine... But if I end up staying here for a long time, you have to let me help with rent." You hold a hand out like this will seal the deal and Lando grins, his embarrassment forgotten as he darts over to happily shake your hand. You try to ignore how warm his hands are against your cold ones.
"Welcome home, then--oh! I have a spare key for you!" He tries to flash you a charming smile, but the excited expression taking over just makes his face go through far too many expressions in a row. You can't help but laugh, looking around the bare but clearly well loved apartment.
It could use some work, sure, but thats your job now... you suppose.
general tag (open!)
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series specific tag (open!)
@nikfigueiredo
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𝓵𝓮𝔁𝓲𝓮 | 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘢, 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴
about me. hello! my name is lexie, a 21 years old teenage girl far too obsessed with formula 1 and taylor swift. i’m a half filipino, half kiwi struggling dental student. i have far too much time in my hands yet somehow never enough.
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© lxclerc 2024. all rights reserved. do not steal, copy, translate, repost and/or claim these works as yours. plagiarism is a crime.
look me in the eye | pt.1
pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader
summary: the rb21 seems unfixable but that might not be the only reason max verstappen wants you around.
a/n: kind of angsty? think this will be two parts. 2k-ish words!
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The paddock is full of wind and empty promises. Bahrain's desert nights hold no warmth for those who find themselves at war with machines. Under the harsh lights of the Red Bull garage, your hands are stained with grease, burnt rubber and fuel having become your signature scent. The RB21 sits before you so still, like a child being yelled at. It's internals are exposed, betraying the effort you have poured into it. Another night. Another battle against the unworkable.
You wipe your forehead and the action leaves a dark trail.
"It's not you," Max's voice is acute in comparison to the exhausted engineers around you. "It's the car."
You sigh and rub your hand across your face again, leaving a another streak of oil on your cheek. "I've been through every possible variation of the floor. I've checked the suspension settings, even the cooling package. Nothing sticks. It’s like-"
"-like trying to control a wild animal?" he offers, a small smirk at the corner of his lips.
You huff. It could be a laugh, on some other day, but right now there is no humor in the situation. "More like taming a hurricane with duct tape."
Max leans against the workbench. His arms are crossed over his chest. Even under the brutal garage lights, even with this stupid car that no one but him can drive with some semblance of control, he's certain. "Well, you're still making it work."
That earns a scoff from you. "You make it work, Max. I just throw everything at the wall and hope something sticks."
His gaze sharpens, and it seems to pierce right through you. You, not just an engineer, but as a person who's given up everything to this job, to this team, to him.
"That's not true," he says quietly. "You don't just try. You build. You fix. You see what no one else does. And I-" He catches himself here, unsure how appropriate it'll sound. "I trust you."
The words, from him of all people, settle in your chest like an anchor. Trust is not given freely in Formula One; it is earned, lap by agonizing lap, through victories and through failures. You are not his race engineer. You're just another member of his team. There, hardly noticeable.
You doubt anyone outside RBR, outside the engineering teams, knows your name. Max Verstappen does, though, and that counts for something.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Australia is supposed to be a fresh start.
A new track, a chance to see if anything has changed. But as you watch Lando Norris cross the line in first place, with Max trailing behind in P2, your stomach sinks. The celebrations begin almost immediately. Confetti, cheers, McLaren mechanics embracing as if they had won the championship itself. You want to slap someone. In it feels like they have. They have proof that their car is faster, that their work is paying off in a way yours isn't.
Still, you push it down. Max fought for this podium, and you owe it to him to be happy.
When he walks into the garage, you're already there, waiting with the rest of the team. He’s drenched in sweat, his fireproofs clinging to his skin. He should be tired, but the familiar sharp focus is in his eyes, even now. He's always noticing things.
You force a smile and clasp his shoulder.
"P2, Max. You dragged that car through hell for it."
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't easy." Max gives you a small smile. The way it doesn't fully turn up at the ends of his mouth betrays how tired he really is, despite playing it off. "You gave me something to fight with."
You nod. Your smile doesn't reach your eyes either. The noise of celebration around you turning to static. He sees it. Of course he does.
Max opens his mouth to say something else, but he's getting pulled away again for some interviews.
Later, when the festivities have died down, he finds you outside the garage. Away from the crowd. You sit on a stack of worn-out Pirelli tire blankets, staring at the ground. The sound of approaching footsteps doesn't startle you.
"What are you doing out here? No alcohol?" he asks. He always speaks sharply, concisely, reassured. Not anymore-Max is asking you now as he would a frightened animal. Don't run, it's as if he's saying, please stay.
You let out a breath. The weight of the race, the season, all of it pressing against your ribs. And then, before you can stop yourself-
"You're right," you murmur. "The McLaren is faster. We lack the pace."
The answer doesn't come right away. He's standing there, watching you with what might be regret. Because those are his words from mere hours ago, right after the race. A loose admission in the media pen, thrown out without a second thought. Max was happy with his race, not elated but he did things and the car was in the way and he forgot momentarily about all the work. He likes to be truthful with his words but he's slipped up.
And now, you're here, breaking yourself apart over them.
Max crouches down in front of you. His elbows rest on his knees. "That doesn't mean you failed."
You shake your head. "Feels like it."
He doesn't know what to tell you. Sorry? I'm sorry I said that. I was mad at the car. It wasn't about you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out and rests a hand against your forearm.
"You don't give up," he says. "I don't. We adapt. We adapt."
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Shanghai is a lesson in patience.
The RB21 struggles on the mediums and the first stint is agony. You were worried about the lack of pace, the way the tires degrade faster than they should be. "We set out to do our pace, which was a fair bit slower than the cars around us," he later tells the reports, frustration just beneath the surface. "I'm trying not to destroy the tires."
Your stomach knots as you watch the sector times, the data painting a bleak picture. But when the switch to hards comes, something shifts.
There, the grip. There, a chance.
Lap by lap, the car becomes drivable. Not perfect, not dominant, but workable. And Max, as always, wrings everything out of it.
It's not a podium but after the disqualifications, it becomes P4. A bittersweet relief.
You find him outside your hotel room. The soft, golden glow of the hallway lights casts shadows across his features, sharp angles of exhaustion softened by something else.
"You know," you say as you close the door behind you. "For a man who just got handed an almost-podium, you're not looking very victorious."
His mouth twitches. "Doesn't feel like one, does it? I didn't earn it."
You tilt your head, considering. "Maybe not. Still, you can't count yourself out. Drinks?" You drum your fingers against the already-open minibar.
Max turns his head to look at you. "You always say things like that."
"I actually don't encourage you to drink that much," you defend.
"No. I mean, like you actually believe in all this." He gestures vaguely around as if the world of Formula One is something that can be captured in a single movement. "In the fight. Things turning around."
You shrug and take out a bottle. "Sure I do."
He studies you for longer than necessary, then shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "Crazy talk."
You feign offense and hold the drink close to your chest. "I am an engineer, Max. I deal in hard data and numbers. You're the intuitive one."
"Right." He eyes you, ever the skeptic. "Yet here you are, like a motivational quote board."
You grin. "Maybe I'm just trying to keep you from spiraling."
Max exhales through his nose, amused. "And here I thought I was keeping you from losing hope."
"Guess we're just stuck with each other then."
“Could be worse." His voice is lower now, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter.
The banter fades and here's a chance for you to do something. To let it sink in, to grasp the awful rawness of the moment. You don't know how.
"'least it's not Russell," you tell him. He flinches. It's small but doesn't slip your sight and you feel bad for making fun when he's trying to have a serious discussion. "Sorry. Feelings, hard. You know," you continue, "I think you actually had fun today."
His lips press together as if he's about to deny it. Instead, he relents. "Maybe a little."
"A miracle," you murmur.
"Don’t tell anyone."
You smirk. "Your secret's safe with me. Maybe we should hold off on the alcohol. Tipsy me isn't as trustworthy."
"I don't know about that." Max pretends to think. "Why don't we find out?"
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
When the sun wakes you up, Max has already managed to stumble back to his own room. Not entirely true. You just know he's no longer piss-drunk in yours.
Truth be told, you aren't as reluctant to spend time with him as you once were. His arrogant nature has softened with time. He's funny sometimes. But that isn't the only reason.
Red Bull was a hot mess the end of 2024. It is still one. You aren't out of options. You are friends with a friend who is friends with a head at McLaren and the offer sounds pretty good right now.
It's just a question of Max or Lando or Oscar. Or maybe there isn't a question at all.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Suzuka's next on your bucket list.
Red Bull's struggles have been the focal point of every media outlet, every discussion framed around whether the once-dominant team can claw its way back to the top.
You're in the motorhome, scrolling through your laptop, catching up on the latest coverage. A celsius-sorry, RB, but they just taste better- is by your side, half-finished. Then you see it. An interview, Max's face filling the screen, his expression as sharp and serious as ever. The reporter has just finished asking a question, pushing for insight into the difficulties he's been facing.
"It’s not easy," Max admits with his arms crossed. His Red Bull cap is pulled low over his eyes. "The car is… not where we want it to be. It's difficult to drive, unpredictable in certain corners, and sometimes it feels like I'm fighting it more than driving it."
You frown slightly, fingers tightening around the device. You've heard this before. You know all about his frustration, his honesty. It's a good trait that helps you know what to work on, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
Then his tone shifts.
"But," he continues, "we're making progress. My engineer...she's putting everything into this car, finding solutions where it seems like there are none. Every race, every session, we're understanding it better. I have hope for the next races. Still very tough, but I trust her-sorry, them. We'll get there."
Oh, what a slip-up. Your breath catches. Max's face is slightly flushed. He definitely knows what he said.
You do too. Trust. He said it so simply.
You replay the clip, once, twice, and with every repeat, something warm coils in your stomach. The world hears his frustration, but you hear something else: recognition, appreciation. He sees what you do, what you give.
The corners of your lips curl into a smirk as you set the laptop down.
"Well," you say to yourself. "That was certainly something."
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You don't know why you bring it up now, in the middle of the hospitality lounge, of all places. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the way Max looked at you after the interview aired-like you were the only thing holding this team together. Like you were holding him together.
So you say it.
"I think I'm leaving next year."
Max, halfway through sipping his water, freezes. His fingers tighten around the bottle, knuckles turning white.
"No."
It’s not a question. Not even a reaction. Just a flat-out refusal.
You exhale, bracing yourself. "Max-"
"No," he repeats, louder this time. He sets the bottle down with a sharp thud, standing up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor. "You’re not leaving."
You stare at him, startled by the sheer force behind his words. "It's not up to you."
His jaw clenches, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looks like he's physically holding himself back, like if he doesn't control it, he might actually go berserk. At any other time you would be aware of the other engineers in the room, pretending not to notice whatever's going on, but he's taking up all of your attention right now. Subtlety is pushed to the back of your mind. "You can't leave," he says, voice rough. "Not after everything."
You swallow and your voice is still not steady. "Max, you know how bad this year has been. The car is-"
"I know how bad it is," he snaps. He steps closer. "I know better than anyone, because I'm the one driving it. But you-" Max exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "You're the only one who makes it better."
Your heart stutters.
He’s staring at you now, eyes burning. You can't read what's behind them. "Every time I think this car is undriveable, you fix it. Every time I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle, you find a way to make it work." Max shakes his head, almost laughing. But it's humorless, frustrated. "And now you're telling me you want to leave? What am I supposed to do with that?"
You take a shaky breath. "Max, I-"
"You can't," he says again, and this time, his voice cracks. "Not you."
Max Verstappen has never been what people call a sentimental man. Right now, he looks as if tears are no longer foreign to him.
You should tell him it's just a thought, that nothing is decided yet. But the way he's looking at you-desperate, almost pleading-makes it impossible to lie.
So you say nothing. You give him that.
And Max? Max steps even closer, until there's barely any space between you. His gaze flickers down-to your lips, to the unsteady rise and fall of your chest-before meeting your eyes again.
"Stay," he murmurs. "Please."
And God help you, you don't know if you can say no.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
a/n: going back to my true roots as a narrative writer don't let this flop please xx
── ˙ ̟ 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 !!
🎙️ how heavy is the weight of a legacy, and what would you do to protect it?
to you, legacy means the formula one team bearing your family name. as a child, you eagerly tagged along with your mother to races, sharing laughs with the engineers and mechanics, and being lifted into the air in triumph after every win. yet as time passed, those moments became fewer and farther between, and before you knew it, the once-legendary team was now scraping by at the back of the pack.
in your final visit with your grandfather before he passed away, you made a promise to him: you would drive for the team that he and your grandmother poured their blood, sweat, and tears into, and you would restore glory to the williams surname, whatever it takes.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬) :: 2024!f1 grid x williams driver!reader. | specific pairing to be revealed.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 :: cursing, sexual themes, mention of death, mental health, sexism. will be updated if necessary.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 :: if this is the first work you see on my page, hello and welcome! hope you enjoy bring home the glory. if you have already read my other serie, the echo, i feel that is necessary to comment that this serie is written and released in a different style — while my first one is full of separated one shots and a barely there plot line, bhtg is plot heavy, with a determined beginning, middle, and end. hope you still enjoy it <3 | as always, english is not my first language so i apologize for any mistakes in the writing, and if you want to be added to the taglist, just say so!
˒ ⌕ — CHAPTERS
ᯓ★ :: prologue
ᯓ★ :: chapter one "what is a legacy? it's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. i wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me". | a victorious journey always begins with a death and an offer.
©️ oofthwoods — 2024.
inspired by my fav @piastrification thank you for being in my walls 🫶🫶 hope you enjoy!!
Streets ♥️
Max Verstappen x PR Manager!Reader
we play our fantasies out in real life ways, and no final fantasy, can we end these games, though?
6 months ago, F1 champion Max Verstappen traded in his status as "serious cat dad with road rage issues" for "Genius. Playboy. Millionaire. Philanthropist". Since then you've been fighting absolute demons as his PR manager to keep his reputation clean in the media. After you tell him you've had enough, he proposes a very interactive solution to your problem.
Content includes: Humour, crackfic, fluff, so much sexual tension, 18+ MDNI, smut, playboy!max, exasperated manager! reader, a very well rounded fic for once?!
If someone asked you where it’d all gone downhill, you’d have to say it started because of that goddamn greedy paparrazi rat Henri - photographer at the MonacoDaily, otherwise known as every PR manager’s sleep paralysis demon. Because this particular paparazzo had a nasty knack for capturing celebrities just as they made the most atrocious decisions known to mankind. And he had an even nastier knack for threatening to sell said photos to the highest bidder. Truly, it was a dark day for any media team when they were forced to bargain with such a foul demon, who’d be able to go toe to toe with the likes of Satan himself.
So when your phone dinged at 5am on a peaceful Sunday morning, only to reveal the 7th (7th!!) message this month from the very same greedy little rat, you threw it across the room. Only to then remember you devastatingly had not been born into a Dubai oil family and you needed this job to pay Monaco rent. The text turns out to be a photo of your aggravating client - Max Verstappen, F1 champion driver, loving father to two cats, and more recently, certified manwhoreTM. He’s living upto your nickname for him, pictured in some nightclub with a half naked blonde sitting on his lap. Alright, alright, not as bad as you were expecting, you could even photoshop the girl’s hair colour to match his current girlfriend’s one maybe? Well, except the brunette woman glaring behind him is his current model girlfriend of the month. You hear a ding, another text from Henri - this time with just a 😈 and 💸👀. You throw the phone back against wall.
Three hours later you’ve cleaned up the PR nightmare and are banging on Max’s apartment door. He blearily lets you in, shirtless and still looking half drunk, but you don’t hesitate to yank him by his beltloops and drag him to the dining table (after quickly checking out that broad chest of his, though, cause goddamn. You’re just a girl.)
Ow, ow, what the hell, Max groans as he’s shoved into a chair. Please. As if you could do any real damage in your 5 foot frame to the 6 foot driver. Slamming your hands on the table for some dramatic flourish (you’re never beating the theatre kid allegations) you give the Dutchman a piece of your mind, demanding to know what his problem is, does he know how many people you’ve had to bribe this month to stop #SluttyMaxEra trending on twitter?? And yes, you know he broke up with Kelly 10 months ago but can’t he just process this healthily and go to therapy instead of having a hoe phase and hooking up with every third woman in Monaco?
Max looks insulted at this slight to his honor. He retaliates by accusing you of buying into the patriarchy and slut shaming him (-That’s not how that works but pop off king, is your deadpan response), and telling you he’s very much over Kelly, okay, it was an amicable breakup (-Sure, Verstappen, that’s why you’d only played Lana Del Ray for a whole month afterwards, huh?) and well, what’s the issue, he’s a hot and rich guy in Monaco, it’s not his fault women just want him? Would it not be #misogynistic of him to deny women the opportunity to explore their sexuality?! He smirks, pleased with his defence.
You groan, slumping down on a chair and burying your face in your hands, muffling your groan of wholesome cat dad Max comeback whennn. Max rolls his eyes at your theatrics, asking if you’d finally lost the plot.
You try cleaning up the PR messes you’ve been making, Max Emilian, you hiss furiously, remember Ibiza? Santorini? The goddamn yacht party over summer break when he got with the captain and her deputy?! (Even now, thinking of that leaking online gives you heartburn.)
Which yacht, Max says cockily, the one where he got with them one after another or at the same time?
Your jaw drops. You hadn’t even known about the threesome, so you suppose you should be grateful that wasn’t another mess to clean up. But a deeper, insecure part of you can’t help but wonder why the only woman Max doesn’t seem to want is you.
And sometimes you can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to be one of his girls, under his strong body for once instead of on the other side of his hotel wall, having to drown out the very satisfied female moans and headboard bangs with noise cancelling headphones. Like always, you push that thought down quickly.
You, good sir, are for the streets, you announce, standing up and deciding it was time to leave before your delulu, jealous thoughts decided to resurface. Seriously, you mutter under your breath, you didn’t care if his current side quest was to fuck 10 times a week, but could he at least stick to one person for a bit and not make more work for you-
Max’s hand slams the front door back closed as you started to open it. You freeze, turning back to look at him cockily smirking down at you. You hadn’t expected him to follow you down the hallway and you gulp nervously for the safety of your job - you might have taken the roasting a bit too far.
Instead, you get a sly, Oh, so I can do whatever I want, wherever I want, just with one person?
At your awkward nod, because yes, that would significantly ease your workload, he continues, enjoying teasing his uptight, pretty manager - then were you gonna offer yourself up? After all, there’s no PR messes to find out about if it’s you, right?
You blink at Max, completely stunned by the 180 this conversation has taken. Your expression is so adorable that he couldn’t resist a you’re so cute when you’re acting all jealous, you could’ve just asked if you wanted him to fuck you, ya know?
That promptly reminds you what an absolute cocky manwhore you’re dealing with. RIP celibacy era Max, you’ll always be famous.
Um, absolutely fucking not, keep your STDs to yourself, you hiss, flushing head to toe, and furious at the desire in you to give into the devilish proposal. He encourages you to think about it, still smirking, relaxing his grip so you can mercifully flee far away from his intense gaze. Jesus, when did he learn to rizz a girl up like that?!
You don’t take his proposal seriously at all, ignoring his cocky looks at you over meetings all week (also, he’d texted you his clean STD result to assure you he was a #SafeSexKing.) But that weekend, your refusal comes back to haunt you when you’re on a well deserved night out with your girlfriends and your PR manager senses start going off. You narrow your eyes as you spot Max in the dark corner of the nightclub, hands all over a mystery redhead. She’s not going to be a mystery much longer though - if you’d spotted them it was a matter of time before fan’s phones did and then you’d wake up to another goddamn text from your sleep paralysis demon, Henri.
You don’t even have to think about it twice. Saying goodbye to your friends, you’re at Max’s side at a very impressive speed given your 6 inch stilettos and tight sparkly minidress, and once again dragging him off by the beltloops and into an open bathroom.
He lets you yank him away, smirking when he sees you lock the door for good measure. Sweetheart, he greets. So good to see you. Finally realised you couldn’t resist me?
You practically climb him like a tree while telling him to shut the fuck up and pay attention at media training day next time, because what kind of PR crisis did he have unfolding out there? And just this once you’ll help him out, you say breathlessly in between deep kisses, but this isn’t a regular thing -
There’s not much more talking from you because he has you moaning up against the wall next, fingers buried inside your tight little pussy as he talks you through an orgasm, and then another when he splits you in half on his cock. (Once again, manwhore, who carries a condom in their jean pockets?!)
Unfortunately for your self control but very fortunately for your sex life, it is not in fact, a “one time thing”. Your trusty rose vibrator is glad for the break as you’d been taking your year long frustrations at your dry spell out on her. Especially when coming home after staying in hotels where you’d had to book out rooms neighbouring Max’s, so no one else overheard the raunchy vocals of different women every night.
Like Max said, with you, there were no more illicit PR messes to find out about in the middle of the night. You’d redirect him everytime he gave you bedroom eyes (At the pre race debrief. Post race debrief. Weekly team plan meeting. Over zoom calls? Seriously?) - gently taking his large hand and guiding him to a much more hidden, PR crisis-friendly area. To your surprise, Max actually sticks to his word and only hooks up with you - admittedly, multiple times a week (Not that you’re complaining. Turns out he was just as good in bed as he was on the track. Except this time he was definitely not finishing first...)
And for a while, everything is going well. There are no more weekly scandals scattered across trashy celeb magazines about Max. Your boss is gushing with praise, so impressed that you’ve finally managed to talk some sense into Redbull’s problem child (ah, if only she knew, but she never would, because the goddamn CIA couldn’t torture this info out of you) and best of all, you haven’t gotten a text from papparazzi rat Henri in weeks!
So of course, Max Verstappen decides that things are getting just a little bit too quiet for his liking, you had to earn your generous PR manager salary, that he paid for, right? His new, numerous tactics to stir the pot had included:
Going to clubs with no private bathrooms so you’d had to sit on his lap in the VIP lounge as he pulled your panties to the side to slide into you, barely hidden under your flimsy dress. You’d held back your moans and prayed the bass was too loud for anyone to hear
Sitting right next to you at every team dinner or business meeting so that he could sneak a large hand up your thigh and tease your pussy for fucking hours, often just as you were about to speak. And when you’re clenching the table so hard your fingers were white, he’s bending under the table to pick up a pen or something but instead left teasing licks and kisses on your aching core. You'd learnt very quickly not to wear a skirt.
Picking you up in his 2 seater Aston Martin instead of the much more appropriate discreet, spacious, 5 seater Audi he owned - so when he was too pent up after a bad practise session to wait till he got home, he'd get you to go down on him right there in the car, sometimes even as he drove, instead of parking in some hidden backstreet. It was so dirty, that he needed you so desperately that he didn't care about being caught by anyone peeking in through the half tinted windows. Because if they did look, they’d find his head thrown back in pleasure as he moans, his fingers tangled in your curls as he moved your drooling, pink lips up and down his wide cock-
Anyways, you get the picture. And he’d escalated this all the way to the paddock, which was insane because there were always multiple cameras trained on the current F1 champion. It’s the one place you two couldn’t sneak off without a very high risk of being caught, as evidenced by the one and only time he'd managed to get under your skin in the garage. He'd had you pinned up against the wall in some narrow side hallway as he whispered how fucking sexy you’d looked today, wearing his hoodie to cover up the hickies you hadn’t realized you’d woken up with and paired with some tiny denim shorts. Having the 6 foot champion huskily groan that he couldn’t focus on his free practise everytime you bent over to pet a passing dog, or when you innocently sucked on the Redbull flavoured lollipops and then the goddamn ice cream from the truck they’d brought in - was quite the power trip, you admit. So you guided his lips from your neck as he tries to add to the growing bruises on your neck and redirected him to your waiting lips instead, steamily making out as his large hands squeezed your thick ass like he’d been thinking about all day-
Max?!?
You instantly pull back from the driver and turned to see a flabbergasted looking GP - Max’s race engineer. His jaw is wide open as he looked at you two with round eyes. You’re fumbling to explain, trying and failing to push Max back - who looks rather annoyed at the intrusion and semi-glares at GP with narrow eyes. You hiss at the younger man to stop being rude and slip underneath his arms, going over to guiltily apologise to GP only to be met with You too?! How did he get you in his bed, you hated how much of a slut he was! Seriously, does he have a magical dick or something? Now you stare at GP in shock, unsure of how to respond to his question while Max starts snorting and laughing behind you. You make him join you as you promise to GP that he will never have to witness such a scandalous site again, because there will be no unprofessional behaviour of any sort on the paddock after "BootyShorts Gate" as you thereafter dub the incident. Regardless, GP still shoots you both wary glances and begins the habit of announcing his arrival and waiting 10 seconds before turning a corner in the garage, earning him many an odd look. Dramatic, really, was this where Max gets it from?
Max, of course, was very displeased with this new “professionalism” rule you'd set down - on the paddock was when he'd get the most tense, the most horny and desperate to have you underneath him, after all - and he made sure you knew it. You deliberately ignored his heated gaze on you as you interviewed him, or his lingering touches when he helped you hold your microphone up to his much taller frame, large hand wrapped around your small ones clutching the mic. Or his recent favourite, which involved standing next to you to help pick out the insta pics post-race (something he'd notoriously always hated to do) - except now, he conveniently happened to be shirtless, his toned abs and broad shoulders on display, running a hand through his sweaty tousled hair.
This last seduction tactic had sent you fleeing to Checo's garage to seek out the other Redbull driver's PR manager and beg on your knees for a client swap, surely, the sponsor benefits are legendary for whoever Max's PR manager is -
Nope. Nuh uh, no way, Checo is the breeziest driver ever to look after. The other manager pauses. Well, except for the occasional political military coup scandal in Mexico. But still, I'd take that any day over El Manwhore.
You wailed at whatever Gods had decided to curse you and took matters into your own hands, furiously plotting up social media campaign idea after idea that were exactly the kind of thing Max hated with a burning passion - hoping it would get him to back off on his tactics and wave a white flag. From viral TikTok challenges, to making him read all his cringe 2008 tweets, and even making him play fuck, marry, kill with the drivers of the grid. You'd admit, that last one had been rather funny to watch, making you chuckle as you scrolled through the comments, liking "Can't believe we got Max Verstappen saying he would fuck Lewis, kill Pierre and marry Charles before GTA 6" and "does Redbull admin know she posted this on main?!"
But despite your best efforts, it didn't seem to deter Max. If anything, he'd begrudgingly do the task and end up laughing excitedly at you - who was holding the camera - about some joke or the other and make your stupid heart flutter. You knew you definitely should not be catching feelings for your client - who'd made it very clear his interest in you was only physical. But no one needed to know that sometimes you’d log into your fake account to like the "Who got max giggling and kickin his feet and shit?" comments.
Meanwhile, Max had caught wind of your desperation for an escape attempt with Checo’s manager and had upped the ante, slyly mentioning to Christian Horner than you were doing such a great job as his PR manager, could he pretty please have you promoted to his general manager for his non racing publicity too?
And that's how you found yourself scowling at a Dior Sauvage photoshoot, despite your adamant protests to Horner. You were putting your Masters of Business Adminstration, first class honours, to fantastic use by babysitting a 26 year old child who liked fast cars that went vroom vroom. The only redeeming factor is that you can leave the unflattering Redbull shirt at home since this wasn't for F1 publicity and instead wear a nice outfit for once. Still, you thought it was odd that Max had so easily accepted this campaign, as he wasn't normally one to enjoy doing PR.
A few minutes later you've figured out exactly why your favourite manwhore had agreed to this campaign, because he's smirking at you while posed shirtless, toned abs and broad shoulders all on display as some pretty, busty model is draped over him. The photographer is making this even more painful for you by dragging out the shoot, making Max and the model reposition herself multiple times. You roll your eyes at the scene, because obviously they're two very good looking people who will look good together no matter what, did the photographer really need to be so extra? You stalk off at some point to make yourself a hot chocolate in the hopes it'll sooth the flames of jealousy that are threatening to consume you right now. Max approaches you when a break is called, running a teasing hand along your waist from the back and whispering you looked so fucking hot in this tight maxi dress, making you nervously look around to see if anyone noticed. Luckily, all the staff appeared busy and didn’t look in the dim corner you'd settled into to do paperwork. You hiss at him to keep your hands to yourself, Verstappen making him grin and inform you that's not what you’d said last night, in fact, you were practically begging for him to do the exact opposite-
You're glaring up at him, seriously contemplating if it’s worth breaking your contract clause to "act in the client's best interests" and mauling him with your laptop when the photographer comes up to you both with narrowed eyes. You guiltily step back, thinking he overhead Max's suggestive comments, but instead he just looks back and forth between you two contemplatively. Then, just as you were about to ask him what the issue was, he announces that you'd be replacing the model as the female for the shoot. No questions asked! he announces as you try to protest and snaps his fingers at the makeup and wardrobe artists to demand they sort you out (he gestures rather dramatically to your whole figure when he says this, making you scowl).
So that's how you find yourself dressed in a silky gold minidress with a sultry eye look, pressed up against Max's broad chest and trying not to focus on the intimate position you two are in. Max, however, has no such qualms about the position, using it to tease you further. You've been looking extra tense lately, sweetheart, he breathes, those devilish lips brushing past your ear. I know a great way to make you relax? You growl at him to shut the fuck up because oh my god, did he know how many cameras are pointed at you both right now? Besides, you mutter under your breath, it seemed like he was very interested in relaxing with that blonde model earlier.
Fighting to keep the smug look of his face, Max whispers back that there was No need to be jealous, schatje, you were the only one getting access to his magical dick. So caught up in the game you two are playing, you don't even register the photographer excitedly snapping up pictures, proclaiming that he knew it, the chemistry between these two is unbelievable!
Afterwards, as you're walking off the photoshoot, feeling all hot and bothered from Max's hands running across your exposed skin, shamelessly looking you up and down, the blonde Dutchman catches up to you. He teases you that you were going to get wrinkles at 25 if you didn't stop scowling all the time. I'm older than you, you scoff back, by a whole 6 months, in fact, so maybe you should actually listen to me for once instead of pissing me off? No problem, Max agrees, after all, he's always had a thing for MILFs. You can't help snort at his retort and then start laughing when he tries to maintain an innocent look. At least you were away from the cameras in case someone heard this, you mused.
Unfortunately, you both don't notice MonacoDaily's ratbag paparrazo, Henri, hiding in nearby shrubbery with his camera. It had been far too long without a Verstappen news scandal, he thought with a satisfied smirk as he clicked away.
And later than night, after you'd eaten the chicken stir fry he'd cooked and rewatched Cars 2 (a surpassingly more regular occurrence, these days, to unwind with him at the end of the day instead of immediately being mauled the second you stepped foot in his apartment) you made sure he followed your orders for once. Sitting him back, telling him just how bad he'd been today with all his teasing (-well, it worked, didn't it, sweetheart?) you showed him just how good you were at playing the game, too. And soon, he was breathlessly moaning underneath you as you rode him for the first time, gripping his cock like you were going to milk every last drop, teasing him with just enough pace to get him worked up but not enough to send him over the edge. And you only let him cum inside you when he begged you sweetly, making you go fuzzy at the sight of the infamous Redbull playboy being so desperate for you, and only you.
Afterwards, once you've shampooed each other's hair in the shower while gossiping about how catty that makeup artist had been, really, to imply that your pretty curls had been the problem and not her shitty styling? and Max has got you spooned against him, warm in an old hoodie of his, pressing a goodnight kiss to your forehead, you can't control the warmth blossoming in your chest any longer. And as a content sleep takes a hold of you, you can't help but wonder if Max's affections went beyond physical attraction, just like yours’ were now doing.
It turned out the opportunity to find out this answer would come the very next day, when the ding of your phone wakes you up in the early hours of the morning. It’s a very specific sound that you've set for a certain ratbag - and you get war flashbacks, hearing it now after so long. Scrambling off the bed, ignoring Max's muffled groans as you shove his heavy arm of you, you unlock your phone and gasp in horror as your suspicions are confirmed. Henri has arisen from the ashes and this time it's to deliver his sauciest scandal yet. Because a picture tells a 1000 words, sure, but he has the two of you on a goddamn video, flirting and giggling at each other as you exited the studio yesterday. There's no chance of you talking your way out of this one, as Max's large palm wanders to give your thick ass a firm squeeze as he guides you into his passenger seat. Goddamn, you knew you shouldn't have worn that tempting skims maxi dress - Max was an ass (and tits) man who couldn't be trusted to control himself in public. BTW already sold this 🥸 Henri texts. Just a courtesy FYI cuz I brought a boat with the bag from this one ✌️
You contemplate if it would be better to disappear off the face of the planet, or get plastic surgery to become unrecognisable as you chug your morning Redbull while moodily looking over the Monaco sunrise. Max joins you after a few minutes, looking extremely cute as he rubs the sleep out of his baby blue eyes and asks you what's wrong, schatje.
Taking a deep sigh (like you said, #DramaKid), you break the news. I’m going to hold your hand while I say this (- that’s really not necessary, Max interrupts) - but you know celibacy exists, right? As does having sex in a private location without the risk of being arrested for public indecency?
True, Max agrees, but what was the fun in that? Besides, you were just too hot to resist. Ignoring the butterflies at his cheesy flirting, you hold up the incriminating video on your phone as proof that it was not all fun and games, as Henri had already sold this to multiple news outlets this morning, you inform glumly. Max is strangely silent, looking intently at the video and even replaying it a few times, his eyes crinkling as a soft smile appears on his face when he hears the sound of you two laughing. Then - in a truly unbelievable redemption arc plotline from the Monaco playboy - he asks if it would be so terrible, to have this made public, to let the world know that you were together?
Well, I - you stumble over your words, - I dunno, I thought you liked that? Keeping it secret cause you just wanted a convenient hook up?
Max is silent again. Then, looking uncharacteristically nervous, he says that's not what he wants, not really, not anymore - not since he'd fallen in love with you, somewhere along the 6 months of the friends with benefits/PR manager and her problematic client situationship you’d had. And like at the very start, you don’t even need to think about it twice. This time when you beam and gently kiss him, you make sure he can feel your love through it and know that you wanted more, too.
So you two walk into work that morning, holding hands in open defiance, ready for the world to see. You’re rather confused when no one seems to be paying much attention, instead frantically trying to get the set up ready for the pre race testing. Maybe you two had not been as indiscreet as you thought and people already suspected? Or maybe you two had a penchant for drama and thought you were the main characters when you clearly were not?
You look at each other, shrug, and you give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him you’ll see him for lunch at the kebab shop on the corner, before he wanders off to the garage. Maybe Henri had a change of heart and decided not to exploit innocents for fame and money, you ponder hopefully. Maybe there truly was good in the world, after all.
And then you hear your name being called and turn to see your boss standing behind you menacingly, hands on hips. Care to explain why #MaxLovesMILFS is trending right now?
Somewhere along the Monaco waterfront, a paparazzi rat skulking in the bushes sneezes.
—————————————————————————
A/N: again thank you so much to @piastrification for inspiring this piece!! So sorry for the delay and I hope you enjoy my attempt at branching out to other fics xx tysm to you all for the requests, I am working them into my upcoming fics!! 💖
Formula 1 fic recs
(I try to update regularly, some more than others)
Charles Leclerc¹⁶
Lando Norris⁴
Oscar Piastri⁸¹
Carlos Sainz⁵⁵
Max verstappen³³
Fernando Alonso¹⁴
Logan Sargeant²
Daniel Ricciardo³
Lewis Hamiltons⁴⁴
Kevin Magnussen²⁰
Toto wolff
Lance stroll¹⁸
Others soon...
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A 22 year old girl, fan of stackiemight write some fanfictions (marvel, chicago pd, chicago fire, chicago med), short angsty essays about life, update on my journey towards a better mental and physical heatlh. drop questions! fandom related or just you want to talk to somebody.
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