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One Sober Kiss

Summary - Agreed rule. What happen's after a night out is forgotten about the next morning. One sober kiss can change the alcohol being blamed.

Not Proof Read!

Word count - 9K+

Pairing - Max Verstappen x Fem driver

"Morning Ladies" You said walking into the kitchen where Lando, Franco and Alex were sat eating breakfast.

"You're in a good mood this morning?" Lando asked, a little nervous by your demeanour.

"I get to see the girls today!" you smiled over to them.

"About time!" Ollie said walking into the kitchen as he over heard the conversation from the living room.

"Now can you stop complaining about needing to see your friends?" Max asked appearing out of what seemed like thin air.

"If it'll make you feel better Max, then no, never" you shot him a sarcastic smile and he rolled his eyes back to you.

Over the years, as drivers you'd all formed a bond. It was to be expected. Since a few of you were all single and sick of living alone and away from your families, you'd all decided to get a house together.

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starset21

Left Turns and Long Distances Masterlist

Pairing: Max Verstappen x NASCAR!Driver Reader

Summery: A reader insert series following Y/N Carter, #95 Spire Motorsports NASCAR driver and Monster Energy athlete, her relationship with Max Verstappen, and her best friend Carson Hocevar.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

Oneshot 1 — New Boyfriend Allegations

Oneshot 2 — Pit Road Loyalty

Oneshot 3 — New Girl

porcenina

fresh out the slammer⠀ㆍ𐑲 ⠀ charles leclerc x f1! driver! reader

summary ⠀ ⚹ ⠀ it was so obvious to others that max verstappen and you will eventually fall in love, it’s been like that since you guys were children. but charles leclerc could swear that there was a moment you look into his eyes like he hung the moon. good thing that he didn’t want anything complicated with you, now he's stuck in that complication.

or: in which, charles leclerc is in denial about falling in love with his rival, or worse, max verstappen's "someone"

wc: 6.2k

warnings ⠀ ⚹ ⠀ teammates to fwb to rivals, platonic! max verstappen x reader, light(?) smut, miscommunication, ANGST, reader has unrequired feelings, jealous charles, charles being oblivious, emotional cheating

author's note ⠀ ⚹ ⠀lewis is retired in this i’m sorry yall, the events are taking place in the barcelona gp 2026, italics are flashbacks from 2025 season

MASTERLIST

charles leclerc has a very organized internal filing system. this is something he considers one of his better qualities, the ability to categorize a thing correctly, put it somewhere it won't interfere and move on. it has served him well for most of his adult life and the entirety of his racing career and he sees no reason why it should stop working now.

the problem is that the file labeled not my business has been getting increasingly difficult to close.

he walks through the paddock on a wednesday morning with his coffee and you're at the ferrari hospitality entrance when he passes, talking to your engineer and you look up, say morning in the easy professional tone you use for everything now. the same tone you'd use with hadjar or the guy who brings the tire blankets or a journalist. charles says morning back and keeps walking.

clean. simple. fine.

you are fine.

you are, by every metric, completely fine with whatever you guys had and seems like you buried whatever the hell that was under ferrari’s headquarters even before the season started.

this is what is making him insane.

and the thing he cannot put down is that you don’t try, you don’t act. you seem genuine, like nothing bothers you when he’s in the same room with you. helmet under one arm, saying something to one of the engineers that makes him laugh loud enough to turn heads. you don't notice the heads turning, you never notice.

charles has been here longer. he knows these people. their kids' names, their coffee orders, the specific silence after a bad debrief and you've just arrived and made yourself at home, which is somehow worse.

it's not that he expected, what, friction? some proof in your moves that last year happened? he doesn't know what he expected. what he knows is that he spent most of the 2025 season in an awareness of whenever you were within twenty metres of him and now you are ‘only’ his teammate, you say morning in that tone and it means absolutely nothing. he keeps looking for something and it isn't there.

the first time was a fight.

not a small one.

suzuka 2025, round three. and it had been building, if you're honest about it, since the first day of testing, since the first day that ferrari announced you as their new driver. and charles leclerc is difficult and it comes from being very good at putting up with ferrari for a very long time, you discovered that very quickly.

the debrief after suzuka ran forty minutes over. the issue was the sector two braking points. both of you had data. both of you had a position. neither of you was wrong, which meant neither of you was going to back down. and the engineers had the specific expressions of people who have decided to become invisible.

"i'm not going to keep arguing about data you haven't looked at," you said.

"i've looked at the data," charles said.

he has opinions about the car that he holds with complete conviction and he is usually right and he doesn't naturally make agrees with someone else being also right, which is the thing that makes it impossible.

"you've looked at your data. with different setups and different approaches to that corner, which is literally what we're arguing about, so-"

"i know what we're arguing about."

you locked eyes with his and saw the fire beginning to ignite behind them. he looked at you as if you couldn't possibly be a part of this team, as if trying to be would only lead to you crashing into him, or as if you needed his approval. like even thinking about a situation you’re being right makes him mad.

"then look at my telemetry, charles. actually look at it."

he looked at it. a long moment. it’s going to be two years of this, you should get used to it. every debrief, every strategy call, every time you find something in the data that he hasn't found first, this. you watched him not say anything. the pause before he accepts it, the moment where charles leclerc decides whether someone else is allowed to be right.

"my line through the apex is faster, yes, which is the point i've been making for forty minutes."

the words blurted out so quickly that for a moment you couldn't be sure whether you were convincing yourself or him. you couldn't help but feel like you were struggling to prove yourself right in the middle of a trial; nobody had told you that teamwork would evolve into this.

another long moment.

"fine," he said.

"fine?" you said.

"fine. the thirty metres are there. your approach to the apex is faster in that compound on that tyre age. you’re right." he said it like he was reading a report. "happy?"

something in you went very still. it was as if a cloud of thoughts inside your head was punishing you for being right. maybe it was a cloud shaped charles leclerc, you try not to laugh at that thought.

"you're saying it like it costs you something."

the room had gone very quiet. the engineers left at some point way before that. charles was looking at you and you were looking at him, something had shifted. the argument had stopped being about sector two some time ago and had become something else, something with more edges and you were both standing in it. like you were holding it for so long, start of the season, to be exact.

"i don't know what else you want from me," charles said.

"i want you to look at data that isn't yours without acting like it's a personal attack," you said, your voice is higher than you expected it to be. "i want to be your teammate."

you stayed in the room because you weren't finished with the data.

"you are my teammate."

charles stayed because, you didn't know why the hell charles decided to stay. he just did.

"then fucking act like it."

silence. the lights cycled down and at some point, you looked up and he was closer than you expected. the fight had gone somewhere, burned itself out, left something else in its place. you still feel the heat of whats left running through your veins.

something moved across his face. not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

and then he kissed you. the flame inside you, as if it had been waiting for this, blazed even brighter and your fingers had already found its way to short hair at the nape of his neck. there was nothing gentle in his kiss; it was as if he wanted to make up for the pain of the weekend, of your fight. and you could only be thankful that the room lights were so dim, that you were far from the cameras. that no one can see your back crashing the wall, hard. both of you were so quick to take that kiss to your hotel room.

here is what charles knows about max verstappen, filed under competitor, four world championships, do not underestimate: he is straightforward. not simple, charles learned that the hard way at too many circuits. max wants what he wants, he doesn't do the slow circling thing, the maybe-this-maybe-not. he sees something worth having and he moves to claim it.

charles also knows that you two grew up together, referenced under not my business: your father was a racing driver, well-known enough that your name carried weight before you'd ever sat in an f1 car. max was already in the paddock when you were both still learning what the paddock was. both of you were put in a kart before you could properly argue about it, grew up in the same small specific world. charles has heard the stories. everyone has.

so, max verstappen has always moved for you. max finds you in a crowd without looking like he's looking. your body does something small and involuntary when he's near, like you've been standing slightly off-balance and his presence is the thing that levels you.

charles finds this deeply irritating.

he is not sure why.

they're inevitable, someone said once, in charles's earshot, talking about the two of you at some important dinner charles barely remembers attending. you can just tell.

max finds this baffling, from what charles understands. he's seen max field the questions in press conferences with the particular patience of a man explaining something obvious to people who should know better. we're friends, max says, every time, with the slight edge of someone who means it and is tired of it not landing.

the paddock nods and waits for your wedding anyways. not because you're doing anything, just because the story writes itself too easily. childhood friends, mirror images, of course.

charles doesn’t want to think about why he goes back to this particular gossip more than most things, he has watched this happen from a professional distance for two seasons and has absolutely no feelings about it. he already filed it under things that are not his business.

it’s thursday and charles is walking back from the media pen when he passes the mercedes hospitality, he hears your name. not directed at you, just in the air, a journalist doing a paddock piece, talking to someone whose voice charles doesn't immediately place.

"antonelli told me something last night," they continue, mildly. "apparently max mentioned her in a conversation and went, for his word, different. for four seconds. antonelli has been talking about it since because he's never seen max go different."

charles slows down without meaning to.

"honestly?" the other voice, somewhere off to the left, "i think it's the most interesting thing on the grid that those two aren't together." a pause, searching for the word. "you know when two people just make sense and everyone can see it except them?"

charles walks away before he hears the rest of it. he walks away at a pace that is completely normal and unhurried and does not indicate that he heard anything that required walking away from. antonelli is just nineteen, he thinks. he doesn’t know any better.

files everything under not my business.

the drawer doesn't close properly.

monza.

the plan was clean on paper. charles pits early, undercuts, you hold position, track stays covered. two drivers, two strategies, one team. the kind of thing that works in the simulator and falls apart the moment a safety car comes out at the wrong lap.

charles was in the pit lane when the yellow flags came. you were still out, suddenly with clean air and a lead nobody had planned for you and over the radio your engineer said the right words in the right order because you were leading monza for ferrari and the feeling of it was enormous, larger than you'd imagined it would be, growing larger and larger with every lap you’re getting close to ending.

“you are now a formula 1 race winner, congratulations. enjoy it, brilliant drive.”

you heard you engineer screaming your name, radio filled up with voices, everyone at once and you were doing the slow-down lap with your fist in the air and screaming, actually screaming, because it was ferrari and this was monza. it was yours, you had done this and nothing in the world existed except this. you knew that you were going to remember this feeling all of your life.

you stood on the top step of the podium and looked out at the crowd, a sea of people, the ferrari flags, the red sea that cheering for you and you only. the national anthem played and you didn't bother trying to hold your face or your tears because there was no point, you'd just won your first race for ferrari at italy.

it was only afterwards that you noticed, you weren’t the only one who is making faces. charles had an expression you saw everytime something was not going on his favour with the ferrari, the controlled media face, the acting like how everything was normal. but for once, you think, charles’ face was his problem because this weekend was yours.

"good race," he said. the words were right. the tone was wrong. you turned around.

the motorhome smells like rubber and cold coffee and someone's spilled energy drink on the carpet by the door and nobody's cleaned it up. the debrief ended eleven minutes ago and you're still in your race suit. you haven't taken it off because you didn’t want to. there's something about still wearing it, the ferrari red, the monza grime on the arms, the sweat, that keeps the afternoon real. first win. your first win for this team, in this car, at this circuit. t's yours and nobody can take it back, not the strategy mess, not the specific atmosphere of a room full of people who didn't know whether to look at you or away from you. you won. the number is in the books.

he looks terrible. not visibly, not in any way a camera would catch but you've sat across from him in enough debriefs to see underneath it and underneath it right now is something ugly.

he nods and looks at the wall to the left of you, then back. his jaw is doing the thing. "good strategy from the team."

"don't," you say, you stop. you can feel the adrenaline from the race still in your system, six hours later, still there and it has nowhere to go now except here, into this room, into this conversation you didn't ask for. "i won. i won my first race for this team today and you walked in here to make me feel bad about it."

"i walked in here," he says, and the control is slipping now, the edges of it fraying, "because i needed somewhere to be that wasn't the garage and this is also my motorhome-"

"then go to the other end of it."

he makes a sound. short, frustrated, runs a hand through his hair. "it was my race too. before the safety car it was my race and the strategy-"

"stop acting like it’s my fault, charles. what the hell is wrong with you?"

the words come out flat and hard that makes charles looks at you. the motorhome is small. outside monza is winding down, the crowd long gone, the circuit going quiet.

"nothing." he turns slightly away, and that does something to the adrenaline in your system, tips it into something else.

you cross the room and shove him hard, you can see that he was not expecting this, the way his back almost touches the wall. your both hands, hard, into his shoulder. the surprise on his face for half a second before something else replaces it, and you shove him again, harder, and this time he steps back into the wall and his hand comes out and grabs your wrist and you pull and he doesn't let go and you're both breathing harder than you should be for people who are just teammates and his grip on your wrist is not gentle and neither is the look on his face.

"it’s not fair." you say.

"stop." he says.

he turns you, fast and your back meets the wall and his forearm is across your collarbone, not hard, just there and you're looking up at him and the race is still in your blood and the win is still in your chest and he's looking at you like there's nothing professional about it.

neither of you makes a move.

then you grab him by his neck and it's not gentle, it's not slow. it’s still a very bad idea and you both know it. but bad ideas never stopped you before and the way his hands doesn’t waste another second to find their place around your waist, how you couldn’t wait to bring your lips together, actually proves it.

you hold onto the the hem of his t-shirt, can’t wait for it to land into the ground, it doesn’t take so much time anyways, his lips on your neck. you remember mumbling not to leave any marks but he won’t listen, you know that. he likes how little reddish blue marks on your skin looks like, how it suits you, because it’s his. you’re his, even if it’s only for the race weekends. he lifts you up so easily that you leave a moan, places you on the table. the table that your trophy rests on.

the wet sounds fills the room, your fingers around his soft hair, his fingers making its way to your burning area.

the trophy falls off the table.

nobody picks it up.

friday evening. press conference, the thursday one, replaying on the monitor in the ferrari engineering suite while charles goes through the setup notes. he's half-listening, half-reading and then he hears his name and looks up.

not his name. vasseur is on the monitor from a recording of an interview from earlier in the week. charles turns up the volume slightly.

"…the verstappen and your driver’s dynamic, this is something to talk about, yeah?"

vasseur gives the careful smile of a man who has been doing this long enough to know which doors to leave closed, especially in front of the media.

"my driver is focused on the championship. there's always a lot of talk." a pause. a smile. "they grew up together. it shows, sometimes, when you watch them. i'll say that much."

it shows, sometimes, when you watch them.

charles sighs and turns the volume back down, stares at the setup notes but the notes does not do any help to the weird feeling growing up in his chest. somehow it feels like he can’t run away from this, he can’t run away from you and the worst part is wherever you go, max verstappen magically appears.

in the evening, charles calls alexandra from the hotel room. she answers on the second ring and she's warm and easy, she asks about practice, listens when he talks about the car and charles lies on the bed looking at the ceiling and tells himself: this is good. this is real. she is good and uncomplicated in the way that he wanted. it’s enough, isn’t it?

but before charles puts the phone down after sharing ‘i love you’s with his girlfriend, he opens his twitter to see bunch of videos full of you and max across a hundred different contexts. a look in a press conference. max finding you in a crowd. you laughing when he says something. the comments section is in different languages and they all say the same thing, something is definitely going on.

one of the videos had five million views.

you drew the line, he thinks. he keeps reminding himself of that. he drew it cleanly and you respected it and that should make him feel like a man who made a reasonable decision.

he stops and puts the phone away, he can’t sleep that night.

it was the first time you see him after your win, after what you had. it’s been just a week after monza and it seems like charles had a silent oath to never talk with you if it’s not about racing because you both realised it always ends in the same way. now you’re stuck in maranello, playing corner tag because you can’t be alone with other’s presence in the room, always busy with something else. the others noticed, vasseur tried to talk subtly about if something was wrong with the two of you but there’s none; let alone, you two acted more proffesional than ever.

now, the small kitchen just down the hall from the simulator room, had a specific kind of quiet at six in the morning, not peaceful, just empty. you got the timing wrong so before everybody else comes with their loudness, you had time to prepare yourself to act like nothing happened with charles.

speak of the devil, you were pouring yourself a coffee when charles walked in. he looked like he hadn't slept, you didn't ask.

he gets a glass of water and stands at the counter and you pour your coffee and at the start the silence you’re sharing was the normal kind until it get longer and longer now you’re hearing his breathe clinging into your ears.

“sometimes i wish carlos was still standing in your place, it would be much easier."

at first, he spoke so little that you were about to miss what he said. but you didn’t. you stopped what you're doing, basically frozen. your hand keeps pouring. the coffee goes over the rim of the mug and onto your fingers and you don't move because your brain has stopped doing the thing where it connects to your body. the burning registers somewhere distant, you look at the counter.

"i mean- i meant it as he understood what ferrari stands for, you know? not that he's a better driver, fuck, i mean-"

now it's getting worse, your fingers are red. you yelled “fuck”, or whispered, you’re not sure because what he said caught you off-guard. you don't know what hurts more, actually, his words or your fingers burning. you want to oppose him, to ask him what the hell is he talking about, how rude for someone to say that, how it’s not fair he’s saying that after you brought home a win. but you can’t because for some reason, with your skin burning, you forgot how to talk.

"hey." charles's voice shifts. "your hand-"

you pick up the mug, then put it down. the motion of doing something, anything. the burn is proper now, the kind that gets worse when you think about it and you're thinking about it. either way, you feel like you can't talk or stand here anymore, so that's your plan, but your plans always get ruined by charles leclerc, always. his hand catches your wrist, the burned one. you stop but not because of the grip. he didn’t even check when you flinch at his touch.

"no, no, don't leave. please. i just, i don't know. it's just this." he says and he gestures, vague, at the space between you. "it messes with my head, with my drive, with the team."

you turn around and look at him and his face does a thing, eyes filled with regret somehow, the one you've been seeing in your nightmares for months and you think: don't. don't look at me like that right now.

"i can't give you what this should be. i don't, i'm not in a place to.”

you hold your breath, not because it was a surprise because you knew you had a limited time with him. you knew this talk will come either way, even if you like it or not, even if you like him or not. you knew that you wouldn’t keep charles leclerc for yourself, you agreed the terms between you, no emotions. and you knew that charles leclerc can’t move without emotions, hell, even his job description in ferrari was full of emotions.

neverthless, you couldn’t help but look at his face. oh, you were going to miss how close he stood to you when no one looked, how fearless he was when no one was around, how he wanted you all for himself, how he made love to you, how you let him do all of that.

"there's someone," he says. "i met someone. recently. it's not, it's new, but it's-”

oh.

"okay." it wasn’t okay but you couldn’t find any other words to say. you pull your wrist back gently and he lets go, why did he let go? you pick up the mug again, for something to do with your hands and the burn pulses and you're grateful for it, actually, grateful for the thing that is physical and makes complete sense, wakes you up. "i appreciate you telling me."

"i'm not trying to, i mean, we agreed to keep it clean between us, yes? and-"

"charles." you look at him one more time. his face is doing something complicated, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this easy but you genuinely don't have the energy to read it or push more to it. "it's fine. we're fine."

you leave, the corridor outside is empty. you stand in it for a moment and look at your fingers, properly red now, going to blister probably. you need to go find ice, you need to don't think about it again.

charles leclerc’s weekend had been a disaster from the start, crashing out in q3 and forcing himself to start from tenth on the grid. he’d clawed his way up to sixth only for beaching the car in the gravel with only three laps left. by the time he finished his media rounds, his face was a mask of polite disappointment, standing near the back of the garage barrier when you crossed the finish line to take the victory. you had won. your second win for ferrari, this time in barcelona, and the garage was a chaotic mess of cheering people.

but the cameras was watching max verstappen and charles was watching it with his own eyes. max, who finished fourth. max, who was not looking at his team or any of the things that made sense to look at. max moved through the crowd with a particular hurry and max has apparently always known where you are in any given room and moved toward it like it's the most natural thing.

he found you before you'd even taken your helmet off. he put both hands on either side of it, tilting your head up. he said something charles couldn't hear from where he stood, something that made your shoulders drop and then you laughed while his hands stay on your shoulders for a moment. the real one. the full version, the one charles knew from last year. charles looked away, then looked back, then looked away again with enough intention behind it that this time it stuck. he did not look back a third time.

when he podium and the media were finally over, you were in your driver's room in the back of the ferrari motorhome, suit unzipped to your waist, the sleeves tied around your hips. your hair was still damp and smelled faintly of champagne. you were staring at the screen on your laptop, trying to find some quiet and then the door clicked open.

charles didn't wait for you to tell him to come in. he just stepped inside, shut the door behind him and leaned against it, his arms crossed over his chest.

"congrats on the win," he says, his voice quiet, almost flat. "vasseur is probably going to open three more bottles."

the sudden sound of his voice makes you look up from the screen. your room is usually a sanctuary after a race weekend and his quiet, unannounced entrance catches you completely off guard, you adjust your position slightly.

"thank you, charles," you say softly, a quiet hesitation lingering in the air between you. "i'm sorry about the car. it's unfair after you fought your way up."

"it is what it is." he says, brushing it off with a slight, bitter shrug. you both knew that he doesn’t mean that but neither of you addressed it. you don’t quite catch why is here, though, you’re afraid to ask.

he finally detaches himself from the door, walking slowly over to the small table where your laptop sits. his eyes trace the room, looking for the trophy or just buying time, avoiding your gaze for as long as possible before they finally rise to land on you. there is an intensity in his green eyes that makes your room feel suddenly claustrophobic. for what matters, the room was small. it had always been small, you'd just never felt it this specifically before.

"though, it seems like the media didn't really care about the dnf," he continues, his tone dropping into something not quite casual, "or the actual race standings, for that matter. they're too busy focus-framing the post-race footage."

you keep your fingers resting on the trackpad, the sudden shift from congratulations to whatever this is makes you defensive.

"if you’re talking about the rumours, it's nothing but high-school drama. you need to stop reading what internet says." you reply, keeping your voice even, determined not to let him see how his presence is affecting you. forcing your eyes back down on your screen, desperately trying to look busy, feeling him still standing there.

"can you blame them though?"

you lift your gaze to meet his. you lift your gaze to meet his. since monza, you had built a wall between the two of you, a boundary born from the bitter words he left you with in that kitchen. you had forced yourself to become professional, choosing the peace you could find, the door you closed behind you and had been keeping closed since. and now, just as the dust of what you shared has finally settled, he is trying to tear down the very walls he forced you to build.

"and?" you ask, your voice a calm, steady shield. "people talk and we both know paddock people tend to talk more."

"he had his hands on your face."

“my helmet- wait, what’s going on?”

your indifference is what makes him mad, his chin does something, his jaw tenses, his lips thinning into a hard line as his brow furrows. he hates this, hates how untouched you seem by the things that are clearly tearing him apart from the inside.

"it's not good for the team's image, he's a rival."

a genuine laugh escapes your lips, the irony of his words is almost tragic. with the season max is having, he is hardly a threat on the track, let alone being a rival. if anything, he’s been a silent helper, offering advice and strategy tips behind the scenes to you all season. ferrari knows it, most importantly, charles leclerc knows it.

second of all, the media team is practically having pr a blast with this supposed "secret romance." you’d even been invited to a late-night talk show as a pair, an offer max had shut down with a rant to his press officer about how he would rather die than participate in a public relations circus.

"vasseur seems happy about it, he'd put max on the ferrari christmas card if he could." you say, turning your attention back to the glowing screen of your laptop, dismissing him with a deliberate flick of your fingers.

charles is usually in the room when those strategy meetings happen, when you're talking about what max think about your pace, about ferrari's strategies. he was sitting right there when fred joked that you should take your boyfriend out to a nice dinner to thank him before you had tried to explain that you and max were just friends. you simply stopped trying on saying that after two or three meetings, pretty easily for charles' liking.

"so there is a thing?" charles asks, taking a slow step forward, his shadow graces over your desk.

you looked at him for a moment and you thought about maranello again, the kitchen. his voice, the way you'd held it together until you were out the door, the six months since of being so completely fine. you let out exhausted sigh, the victory of the race suddenly feeling very far away.

"even if there were, charles, what’s up to you?"

you know where you stand with max and max knows where he stands with you. the grid might tease both of you about whatever you guys seem to hide, there is nothing real to hide, so why is charles leclerc out of all the people have a problem with all of this?

"it’s nothing to me," he snaps, his voice cracking slightly as his composure slips. "it's just weird, isn't it? you couldn't be with me, so now you're running straight to my biggest rival?"

he looked at the table, then at you. the words strike a nerve and the cold professional mask you've been wearing instantly shatters. you slam the laptop screen shut, the sharp clack echoing in the small room. you don't care about data anymore. you don't care about the telemetry, the win or the race. you forgot about it the moment charles leclerc opened his mouth anyways.

"you are stepping way over the line, charles. i would suggest you think very carefully about what you say next."

but he is past the point of caution. his green eyes wild and dark, he's not less angry than you are. he looks two steps up in the pissed-up level, if anything else. in that case, he's not stepping down.

"no, i am thinking," he says, stepping directly into your space, towering you until the air feels thin and you start to feel small around him, again.

"what's not careful is how you carry yourself. it’s not a good look when people realize a driver like you just goes from one driver to another."

the words are venomous, low blow. he knows exactly where to hit you and he chose to strike there anyway, doesn’t care about the damage he’s causing. it’s the same cruel words from monza, when he told you that he wished he could replace your presence with someone just to focus on his own career.

"what the actual fuck, charles?"

you stand up, your chair scraping harshly against the floor as you face him head-on. you felt the heat of it, the specific heat of a thing that has been sitting in your chest for six months and just found an exit.

"oh, now you're angry?" he spits, his voice cracking as he steps closer, his breath hot against your face. "imagine how i feel. imagine hearing other drivers whisper about how max fucking verstappen looks at my teammate who locked herself in a professional box, refuses to look at me."

the walls of the motorhome seem to vibrate with both of your anger, what you’ve been carrying inside. he is completely unraveled, his pride burning away to reveal the raw, bleeding frustration he’s been keeping locked in his chest since this season.

"you built that box, charles. you." you spit back as you push him away from you, the built-up pain of the last six months tearing out of your throat. "you looked me in the eye and told me i was a distraction, you wanted this. you asked for this."

the silence that follows is deafening. charles flinches, the truth of your words hitting him like a blow. his shoulders drops slightly, his mouth opening and closing as his anger suddenly dissolves into something else.

"i didn't think you would be like this, okay? i didn't think it would ruin my sleeps while you give him that, i didn't want this."

you stare at him, the sting of his confession cutting deep but the bitter, cold reality of what he did keeps you grounded.

"and now you regret it? because i’m not sulking about it? you are an asshole, leclerc, really. tell me, is alexandra fast asleep next to you, completely oblivious to this fact?"

charles goes entirely still, the blood rushing out of his face until he looks ghostly under the harsh ceiling lights.

"there is no alexandra."

your heart stutters, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. "what?"

"i ended it," he says, his voice was quieter now. "before the race."

"why would you do that?"

"because she was safe," charles says, taking the final step that eliminates the remaining distance between you. his hands hover near yours. "she was good, she tried to give me something calm, something i could see forward in."

he stops, his jaw does a thing.

“she wasn’t you.”

the confession hangs between you, heavy and you looked at him for a long moment.

"you don't get to say that," you whisper, your voice trembling as you press your back against the edge of the desk. "you don't get to run back to me the moment i figure out how to be okay."

he can see the cracks in the wall you built, he can see the pain of monza lingering in your eyes, proving that you still care, that he still has the power to undo you. he was a coward back then, scared of how deeply he was falling, scared of how much of himself he was losing to you but looking at you now, he realises he’d rather lose everything than lose you again.

"i know i ruined it but let me make it right. please, because i don't know what else to do.”

he reaches out, his hands wrapping around yours, his green eyes are glassy and for a split second, the familiar warmth of his skin makes you want to surrender, to tear down the wall, the professionalism and fall back into the warmness of his chest.

but then, the ghost of maranello returns. you can still smell the bitter, burnt scent of the coffee machine in that kitchen, you can still feel the moment your heart broke when he told you that you were holding him back and some wounds don't heal just because the person who caused them says they're sorry.

slowly, deliberately, you pull your hands out of his grip. charles went still.

"no," this word costing you everything. "charles, i'm sorry. i can't do this."

he looks down at his empty hands, his fingers curling into his palms as if trying to hold onto the lingering warmth of your skin. his jaw tightens, a defensive shadow crossing his face as he desperately tries to find a reason, any reason, to save himself from the rejection.

"is it max?"

"no, no, of course not," you say, shaking your head with a bitter laugh. "it has nothing to do with max. there is no one else, charles. you still don't get it, do you?"

and he almost smiled, it was the worst possible moment for him to almost smile and you felt it land somewhere it shouldn't.

"i know you still feel it, i know you liked me back then."

you look at him, letting him to see the exhaustion in your eyes, see the weight of a love that didn't die but had nowhere left to go.

"that doesn't change anything. i can't trust you with myself again."

you take a step backward, your fingers finding the cold, solid metal of the door handle. you look at him one last time, watching the boyish hope in his eyes slowly fade as you pull the professional mask back over your face.

"besides, you were right. a driver like me really shouldn't have a reputation for kissing other drivers."

you turn the handle, step out into the quiet corridor of the motorhome, let the door click shut behind you, once again leaving him alone in the quiet.

@ PORCENINA !

i hated this so much because this was in my drafts for weeks, maybe more than a month and i've been writing it there and there, always on a different week so feels like the chapter as a whole is independent of each other (?????) so it feels soulless but i've been thinking about it too much so i NEEDED to post it. so here y'all go. i hope you liked it, please share your comments!!!! i desperately need it!!!!

rosierecs13

𝜗𝜚 Max Verstappen Recs 2

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 06/07/2026

⭒ Formula 1 ⭒ Motorsports

⭒ Part 01

checkeredflagggs

To Paint a Picture

y/n webber swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

Palimpsest — An object or image that reveals its history, just as a chalkboard sometimes allows us to see partially erased marks

Patch — A small piece of fabric used to mend a tear or puncture through application to the rear of the canvas.

Paradigm Shift — When one era shifts into another, the habits of the earlier one are disrupted by new ones which eventually settle into a familiar routine.

Patronage — the physical or emotional support of a patron

Pentimenti — a reappearance in a painting of an original drawn or painted element which was eventually painted over by the artist

Provenance — An artwork's complete history of the ownership, especially when documented or authenticated

Part 1

Part 2

Prototype — An original form that serves as a model on which later stages are based or judged

Panel — A firm support, usually wood, board or metal, it is used as a painting surface. Many artists prefer to use panels because they are stronger and more rigid than canvas

Parameter — A factor that is one of a set of measurable agents (such as temperature, volume, color, or acidity) that define a system and determine its behavior.

•18+ Adults Only

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rosierecs13

𝜗𝜚 Max Verstappen Recs 2

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 06/07/2026

⭒ Formula 1 ⭒ Motorsports

⭒ Part 01

swirledyouintoallmypoems

☆ — you are in love a spider-man!steve harrington x fem!reader social media au

you run the biggest spider-man fan page on twitter, unaware that the masked superhero is actually your best friend, steve harrington. but he’s not exactly aware that you’re running the fan page either.

!! this au is separate from my main spidey!steve au !!

spidey!steve masterlist spidey!steve smau twt version

fanfiction isn’t enough, i need it injected into my veins.

#supernatural #dean winchester #that 70s show #steven hyde (not the actor just the character)

ravynnwritestrash

I've Loved You Since Eighth Grade (rewrite) Chapter Eight/ Ending

Chapter eight

Word Count: 816

Description: Last chapter!!! I finally finished this thing. I don’t know why it kicked my ass so hard but thank you for sticking with me through this crazy journey.

A/N:

I spent most of the day lounging around my house. Watching whatever is on TV letting the hours tick by. I called Donna and let her know I talked to Jackie and that I wasn’t running away just yet. Now that the sun had just about set I was sitting on my window sill smoking a joint I found tucked away in a stack of old books.

The weed was old and gross. It burned my tongue with each hit but I needed my anxiety to go down. I needed to stop thinking about Hyde and how the longer I stay away the harder it becomes to go back. The phone behind me once again started ringing and I thanked my lucky stars I could Reach it from where I was perched.

“Hello?” I asked watching my joint burn down.

“How long are you planning on staying gone?” it was Hyde any thought I ever had left my brain and I was left there staring at the ground below me as though he was just going to appear there if I didn’t answer right now. “If you don’t start talking I’m coming over.” Fuck. say something. Say anything. “Fine be there in ten.” I heard the click of him hanging p the phone and just let it drop causing it to swing on the cord.

If I was a smarter person I might get out of my dirty PJs and start thinking about what I was going to say. Instead, I slid down from my first-story window, joint still in hand, and walked over to my old swing at the edge of my yard.

As I waited I convinced myself it’s best to have your heart broken in your pjs because you don’t have to worry about heartbreak ruining your favorite shoes or shirt or whatever. Yeah, not getting dressed was a good call. Sleep shorts can’t be ruined and this is Hyde’s sweater anyway so he will probably want it back. I peek inside the sweater to make sure I had some sort of shirt on for my walk of shame back into my house.

“What are you doing?” Hyde’s voice cut through my thoughts causing me to almost fall of the small wooden swing.

“Jesus Hyde! Are you trying to kill me? you have to warn a girl,” he smirked for a second before it was gone again. He started walking behind the swing.

“Says the girl who disappeared for two days after I found out she might actually like me,” he took the joint from my hand and dropped to the ground crushing it under his boot before giving the swing gentle pushes not letting me get too far away.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what to do or how to handle that, I just froze,” I said looking back at him. He sighed twisting the swing so that I was facing him.

“You’re telling me you want to let Jackie ruin our friendship?” He looked mad. I felt myself starting to panic.

“No. I’m telling you that… I’m scared my feelings for you are going to ruin our friendship.” I couldn’t look at him.

“So, she was telling the truth?” all I could do was nod as I finally looked up at him. He started to laugh and let go of the swing. I stood up ready to walk back to my house.

“You don’t have to laugh at me. Just say you don’t feel the same and leave,” I said backing away. In a second his hands were on my face, gently holding me in place.

“For how long?”

“It’s like she sai-”

“No. I want you to say it” I took a deep breath.

“Hyde, I’ve been in love with you since we were in the eighth grade.” his eyes were searching mine and they must have found whatever they were looking for because in the blink of an eye his lips were on mine and I was melting into his slightly chapped lips.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you out since that stupid eighth-grade writing contest”

“So do it,” I said looking up at him.

“Was kissing you not enough?” his thumb ran across my jaw and I shook my head “Fine. (Y/N), will you please go out with me so I can stop trying to find friendly ways to touch you?” I couldnt help the laugh that escaped me as I nodded. He pulled me into him kissing me one more time, his tongue ran across my bottom lip and he pulled away. “I can taste how shit that weed was,” he joked causing me to smack him in the chest.

“Is that really all you are thinking of when you kiss me?” I joke holding on to the shoulders of his jacket

“No, I was also thinking about how sexy you look in that sweater”

never-stop-dreaming30

The Things You Give

That 70′s Show

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 12

Part 11

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

Part 27

Part 28

Part 29

Part 30

Part 31

Part 32

Part 33

Part 34

Part 35

Part 36

Part 37

Part 38

Part 39

Part 40: Epilogue

•18+ Adults Only

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coquitokisses

Back to You | Dean Winchester - Masterlist

Pairings: dad!Dean Winchester x mom!reader (childhood friends-to-lovers)

Summary: you and Dean are broken up but still bound by your three kids, the holidays, and the feelings you can’t quite bury.

Warnings: 18+, co-parenting struggles, angst, hurt/comfort, allusions to infidelity/cheating while on a break, mild language, explicit sexual scenes mdni (each part will have their own warnings depending on its content)

A/n: hiiii! Me again with another Dean Winchester series lol this time, this is from an actual fanfic I have on wattpad, but I only chose the breakup part since it’s like one of my favorites parts lol and come on, who doesn’t like this kind of drama?

*This series is an AU where the Winchesters are not hunters*

coquitokisses

Oh, baby! | Masterlist

Pairings: Dean Winchester x female!reader

Warnings: fluff & smut (mostly fluff) each fic will have their own warnings, however, I will be classifying each fic with the emojis I use in my main masterlist

❕Also I don’t mind spam likes! If you find this series whenever you find it and decide to read the parts that are published, I don’t mind spam likes <3

🍒 - smut | 🍰 - fluff | 🥀 - angst | 🍯 - suggestive

» Chapters

1. Messy hunt, beers and bad decisions 🍒

2. Oh, baby! 🥀🍰

3. Love at first kick 🍰

4. From fear to forever 🥀🍰

5. Apple pie life 🍰

6. Kisses after bedtime 🍰🍯

» Drabbles 🍰

— First steps

— Preschool

— School fight

— There’s a boy..

— Another sassy Winchester

» Extras (au)

— Oh, baby! Again?

main masterlist

aetherialmuse

Don't Ruin Her Rhythm

Main Masterlist Supernatural Masterlist

My Wattpad📖

Buy Me a Coffee!☕

Want to be added to my taglist? Just a few clicks away! -> Taglist Form

Pairings; Dean Winchester x reader

Genre/Warnings; Romance, fluff, humor, language, loud music, mild alcohol mentions

Summary: On a cross-country road trip, Dean Winchester can’t bring himself to care that his chaotic, party-girl girlfriend breaks every one of his rules—especially with Sam stuck in the backseat, completely baffled by it all.

681 words

The Impala’s engine purred low against the stretch of asphalt, and the sun was setting in ribbons of orange and pink across the horizon. Dean Winchester had one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against it in time with the beat of the music blasting through the speakers. Not his usual music, not the Zeppelin or Metallica that usually bled from Baby’s speakers—this was pop, bright and sugary, every chorus meant to be shouted, every verse an anthem. It wasn’t his, not really. It was hers.

Y/N had her legs kicked up on the dashboard, denim skirt riding up a little higher than it should’ve, a thin strap of her top sliding off her shoulder. Her hair was messy in the way that looked intentional, tousled like she’d just come home from a night out, but it only made her look hotter, especially with her lip gloss shining under the glow of the sunset. She was singing—no, screaming—along to the track, her whole body moving with it. She drummed her fingers against the window, banged her fist against the dashboard, head tipped back as the chorus hit. Dean swore her throat had to hurt with how loud she went, but it didn’t matter. It was her, and goddamn, she was something to watch.

From the backseat, Sam was less impressed. He sat slouched against the leather, laptop balanced on his knees, his jaw tight as Y/N’s voice cracked gloriously through another chorus. The music was so loud he could feel it rattling in his ribs. He glanced up from his screen to see her whipping her hair in time with the beat, glossed lips forming every word like she was on stage at Madison Square Garden. Dean was grinning like an idiot. Sam wasn’t sure which part was worse.

Finally, Sam leaned forward, reaching past her swinging arm to jab at the pause button on the stereo. The car went dead quiet, the sudden silence ringing in their ears. Y/N froze mid-dance move, turning slowly to glare at him, mouth falling open in theatrical horror.

Before she could even speak, Dean’s head whipped toward Sam. The look he gave his brother was sharp, unimpressed, the kind of look that carried years of older-brother weight. A silent don’t you dare.

Sam frowned. “Dean, I can’t even think back here—”

Dean didn’t say a word. He just raised his eyebrows, daring Sam to try again, then reached out and unpaused the music without breaking eye contact. The chorus picked up exactly where it had left off, blasting back to life. Y/N let out a victorious shriek, immediately resuming her seat-dancing, heels drumming against the dash. She leaned across the seat, kissed Dean on the cheek with a smack loud enough to compete with the bass, leaving a glossy print on his skin.

Dean’s grin widened, smug, as if he’d just won something.

Sam blinked. “Seriously?” he muttered, but neither of them heard him over the music.

Because Y/N wasn’t stopping there—she rolled the window down, popped her upper body halfway out into the wind, hair flying everywhere as she screamed the lyrics into the night. Dean hated that. He hated people putting their feet on the dash, hated smudges on his baby’s leather, hated when anyone leaned too close to the open window like they didn’t care about safety. And yet here she was doing all of it—feet kicked up, halfway out the damn window, gloss marks on his cheek—and he didn’t care. He didn’t even twitch.

In fact, he looked like he loved it.

Sam stared at his brother, utterly confused. Dean Winchester—the man who would snap at Sam for leaving crumbs in the car—was just… letting it happen. No, not just letting it happen. Smiling about it. Encouraging it.

When Y/N pulled herself back in, laughing with the kind of unfiltered joy Sam hadn’t seen in years, Dean looked at her like she’d hung the stars. Like the chaos was worth every scratch, every smudge, every broken rule.

Sam sat back, shaking his head in disbelief. He’d never understand it.

Taglist -> @globetrotter28 @adrienneleclerc @yoyok-era @deansbbyx @eagerlycyberchaos @star-yawnznn @mar-munteanu06 @barnes70stark @soggysocc @madelinessss @wishesofficial @kittenlittle24

pieandflannel

⋆˚𖤐｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ sweeter than candy

pairing: mark meachum x younger fem!reader

summary: mark surprises you with an unexpected gift that makes you fall for him even more

cw: fluff.ᐟ domestic.ᐟ age gap.ᐟ two mistreated souls in love trope.ᐟ mark is a sweetheart.ᐟ

word count: 877

“no peaking!” you heard mark’s deep voice, your hands were covering your eyes just like he asked you to do. he had a surprise for you – or at least that’s what he told you.

“okayyy” you giggled, “you’re making me nervous!” you cutely tapped your feet on the carpet.

it’s been a longer while now since you started dating mark, yes he was a little older than you, but that didn’t stop the two of you having romantic feelings for each other. he genuinely was the first older guy that didn’t see you as a kid due to your age gap, and you didn’t see him as an old man, like some of your peers would.

you were sitting patiently on the couch, the coffee table right in front of you.

you heard a bit of rustling around as mark clearly was putting something on the table in front of you, but you couldn’t quite guess what it was just from the sound alone.

lila-lou

Mark Meachum - Series (3+ Parts)

Ghost - Masterlist

•18+ Adults Only

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lila-lou

Jensen Ackles - Series (3+ Parts)

Needy - Materlist 18+ only!

His true fate - Masterlist 18+ only!

Beyond his true fate - Masterlist 18+ only!

Rise and Shine, Darling - Masterlist 18+ only!

Turning Heads - Masterlist 18+ only!

Played - Masterlist 18+ only!

Twenty-One - Masterlist 18+ only!

Cherry red - Masterlist 18+ only!

Coming Home - Masterlist 18+ only!

lila-lou

Beau Arlen - Series (3+ Parts)

A good one - Masterlist 18+ only!

Rookie - Masterlist 18+ only!

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