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Heyy could I request something ? I got this idea from a video I saw where the guy said he didn’t want to wear the wedding ring because it felt uncomfortable. Maybe Max tells reader this and the reader gets upset and kinda does the same to provoke him ?
Thank you 🌷
A Matter of Principle
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Max says his wedding ring doesn’t matter in order to symbolise your love, but when yours disappears too Max learns that jealousy has a way of making symbols feel very real.
5.2k words / Masterlist
Max stopped wearing his wedding ring so casually that at first you thought he'd simply forgotten it.
You noticed it over breakfast, his left hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through something on his phone, his thumb moving absently across the screen. The pale band of skin around his finger was still there, a faint outline where the ring usually sat, but the gold itself was missing.
“Where’s your ring?” you asked.
He glanced down at his hand as though he hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.
“Upstairs I think.”
“You think?”
“On the bedside table.” Max took another drink, entirely unconcerned. “I took it off last night.”
You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.
This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.
It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.
“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.
Max looked at the ring, then at you.
“I didn’t forget.”
Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.
“Why not?”
Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.
“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.
“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”
“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”
You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”
“It never seemed to bother you before.”
“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
“I’m not taking it personally.”
“You are.”
“Well you never said anything.”
“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.
“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”
His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s very close.”
“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”
“It represents it.”
“To other people maybe.”
“To me.”
His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.
The fact was that he loved you.
The fact was that he came home to you.
The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.
He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.
“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”
Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.
“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”
“It should help. I love you.”
“I know.” you repeated
“Then trust that.”
You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.
It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.
Still, it hurt.
Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.
It had meant something then.
You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.
“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.
Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve hurt you.”
You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”
He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.
Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.
He simply did it without looking like one.
Other people noticed.
His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.
Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.
He didn’t like jewellery.
The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.
It did not mean anything.
You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.
The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.
You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.
Her smile changed.
She stepped closer.
You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.
Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.
“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.
The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”
Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.
In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re annoyed.”
“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”
“She knew I was married.”
“After you told her.”
Max frowned.
“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”
“And then I told her you were my wife.”
You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”
“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.
The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.
The following morning you removed your wedding ring.
You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.
For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.
He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.
“Who sent these?”
“The foundation.”
“For what?”
“The charity dinner next week.”
He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.
His entire body went still.
You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.
“Where’s your ring?”
The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.
“In my jewellery box.”
“Why?”
“It was uncomfortable.”
He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.
“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”
His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”
“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”
“No you aren’t.”
“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”
“Because you like wearing yours.”
“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”
“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”
You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”
Max stared at you in silence.
Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.
“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.
You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”
“It is personal.”
“Interesting.”
“Put it back on.”
You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”
“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”
“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”
Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.
“You’re my wife.”
“And you’re my husband.”
“I know.”
“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.
“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your eyebrows rose. “No?”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.
You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.
“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The following days became a quiet war.
Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.
At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.
“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”
The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”
You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.
Max did not find any of it amusing.
Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.
It made him restless.
It also made him clingy.
His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.
You knew precisely what he was doing.
He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.
The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.
Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.
The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.
A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.
The speculation began almost immediately.
Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.
Max’s face hardened instantly.
“My marriage is fine,” he answered.
The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.
“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”
When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.
“They’re saying we separated.”
“I saw.”
“We could’ve released something.”
“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”
Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”
“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”
“They don’t know that.”
You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”
The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.
“I did tell them.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”
“Why do you care what they think?”
“I don’t care about them.”
“Then who?”
Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.
“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”
There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.
“You know I’m not.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”
“I know what I said.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”
“But you hate other people not knowing.”
Max didn’t answer.
“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”
“Obviously.”
The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.
“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”
“It’s not the same.”
Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”
“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”
Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.
“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”
“I never said you were shallow.”
“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”
Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.
“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”
He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.
“I need some air,” you murmured.
“It’s late.”
“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“I’d like to go alone.”
Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.
You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.
The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.
You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.
“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”
The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.
“I’m married.”
His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.
“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”
“There isn’t.”
The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”
“We both are.”
“Does he know you’re down here alone?”
You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.
“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”
Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.
The man rose. “We were only talking.”
“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.
“Max,” you warned.
His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.
“She told you she was married.”
“I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Then leaving should be easy.”
The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.
“What were you thinking?”
Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”
“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”
“I told him I was married.”
“He didn’t care.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you angry about?”
“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”
His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.
For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said.
You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.
So you walked past him towards the lifts.
Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.
The lift ride was silent.
The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.
“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.
Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”
“You are.”
“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”
“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”
“I know.”
“You dismissed it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we still having this argument?”
Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.
“Because I was wrong.”
The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.
“You could have said that days ago.”
“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”
“And now?”
Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”
You waited.
“But I hate that they can’t see it.”
There it was, not quite an apology, but close.
You leaned back against the table. “Why?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.
“Because you’re mine.”
You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.
“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”
You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You made me feel ridiculous.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”
“And?”
“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”
A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”
“A little.”
He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.
“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”
You gave him a flat look.
“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”
“Then we can find one that isn’t.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”
Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”
“A cereal box?”
“Perhaps not that.”
He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”
“That sounds fair.”
“But you have to put yours back on.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”
“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”
He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”
“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”
“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”
You smiled. “Growth.”
His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.
When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.
“Will you wear it tomorrow?”
“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.
“It’s here.”
You blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I put it in the hotel safe.”
“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“And you brought it with us?”
His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”
The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.
“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”
“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”
“Will you wear yours?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”
Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”
You pretended to consider it.
“Then yes.”
The relief on his face was almost comical.
Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.
He held out his hand.
You took his ring first.
For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.
He picked up yours next.
“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.
“I know.”
“And you don’t need mine.”
“No.”
“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”
You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”
“None of them were innocent.” He growled.
“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.
His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.
The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.
f1 -- how he’d react if you got nails that had his branding, number, team colors, etc.
a/n: just got my nails done and found lando's iconic green yellow at my local nail place so...yeah
summary: how he'd react to your nails.
drivers: lando norris, franco colapinto, oscar piastri, carlos sainz
minors do not interact, all fics are 18+.
ln1:
it’s the weekend after lando wins world champion, and he finally feels relaxed and ready to not think about another car, team, or race.
he’s scrolling on Instagram waiting for you on the couch, and you’ve somehow convinced him once again to watch your favorite movie.
honestly it had become his too because you light up so much while watching it, but he’d never tell you that.
he unlocks his phone to instagram, finding a post from quadrant, a few fan accounts, and racing sponsors, haphazardly liking.
the next photo he sees is from the official f1 account, a recap of a few photos he’s seen from his celebrations.
he mouths an ‘aww’ towards his phone when he sees a picture of you both holding up a 1 with your pointer finger, one of the many photos you two took after he won the championship.
his eyebrows furrow at a small area of that unmistakable neon yellowish green, and zooms in to find his LN4 logo.
on your finger.
he feels his dick twitch in his pants and the air slip from his lungs.
“babe?” he gets up from his spot on the couch, “y/n?”
you peek out of your bedroom, hair still damp from your shower, “yeah?”
he grabs your hand and scans your fingertips.
you figure he hasn’t noticed from all of the excitement, “like them?” you giggle.
“fuck, I love them.”
fc43:
after a long and tiring day, you both headed home where you made franco dinner.
you ask him for your phone laying on the counter and when you grab it from him that's when he sees his initials and number, surrounded by the pink and blue that match his car.
he takes hold of your hand, yanking you backwards. "vida, when did you do this?"
"oh, uh- a few weeks ago."
he hums, thinking to himself for a moment.
he places your sprawled out hand on his chest, giving you your phone back.
"take a picture, want it as my phone background."
he's so excited and smiling so brightly, how could you say no?
after you'd gone to sleep, you wake up in the middle of the night to franco zooming in on the dim screen like a little gremlin.
"babe? y'okay?"
"yeah, sorry vida. just checking something."
turns out that when you went to sleep that night, he posted the photo on your instagram story, tagging himself pink heart next to his name.
op81:
oscar had surprised you with reservations to the new restaurant you’ve been wanting to try, a thank you for being so supportive the last couple of months.
you were holding your fork, taking about a friend you met up with the other day.
he sees the classic mclaren orange with black accents but then notices the subtle ‘8’ and ‘1’ on your middle and ring finger.
your voice feels distant now, and all he can think of is how he wants you to be scratching his back with them while he pounds into you. he’s slightly embarrassed that it’s turning him on as much as it is.
you notice his grip against his water glass is a little tighter.
“osc, you okay?”
“yeah yeah. i just uh, like your nails.”
“oh, thanks. i saw lily’s were blue and she had alex’s number, so-”
“it looks really good, love.”
"yeah?"
"mhmm."
cs55:
it all started with one simple question.
"amor, have you seen my headphones?"
"yeah i put it over there," you point.
and there it is. a 'c' painted so casually yet intentionally on your nail in black with a blue background.
"oh.. uh, okay. thank you."
he has a virtual interview for the next hour and hates that he can't ask you about it. he's practically squirming in his seat, leg bouncing in anticipation, eyes ping-ponging from the time to the interviewer asking the most researchable answers that he certainly doesn't need to be there for.
later, he barges into your room with just so many questions. when did you get them done? where? how'd you pick out the style? when is your next appointment?
you laugh in response, patiently answering his questions as he frantically searches his bag, successfully returning with his credit card and a pleading look on his face.
🇧🇪 16.07.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Belgium: Media Day
Stavelot, Belgium, 16 Jul 2026, Oscar Piastri, from Australia competes for McLaren F1. The 2026 Belgian Grand Prix The build up, which takes place in Stavelot, Belgium. Credit: Michael Potts/Alamy Live News
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summary: You naively planned to make it to your morning beauty treatment while Oscar enjoyed a rare day off in bed. But you didn't know yet that your boyfriend would wake up with the dirtiest intentions of dragging you back into bed.
pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem!reader
word count: 2 900+ k
raiting: 18+
genre: established relationship, pwp, smut, morning sex, teasing, a riding, blowjob, swear words, praise
warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (MDNI). This story contains explicit adult content (smut/NSFW), morning sex, and suggestive themes. Read at your own risk and responsibility. Please also keep in mind that English is not my native language, so there may be some grammatical errors or awkwardly phrased sentences. Thank you for your understanding and patience 🙏🏻🧡
author note: I love writing morning sex scenes—isn't that hot? Oscar in his days off is just a whole different person. This idea actually popped into my head out of nowhere, and I just had to write it down. I hope you enjoy this short but pretty intense story 🤭 I’d appreciate any feedback 🥰
Going to bed late, knowing that you need to wake up early in the morning — is definitely not the best idea. When the phone alarm stubbornly rang for the third time that morning, you had to force yourself to open your eyes. They burned unpleasantly from the short, insufficient sleep.
You turned your head and looked at Oscar, who was sleeping soundly next to you. To your surprise, he hadn’t even stirred during any of your three alarms. His steady, deep snoring clearly indicated that the guy was in the realm of the sweetest dreams. You quietly snorted to yourself. This was that same rare, unscheduled day off for Oscar, which in his crazy schedule happened even less often than such quiet mornings as today. He could sleep as much as he wanted. But you had to get up, because an important visit to the hair master was scheduled for today.
Carefully freeing yourself from Oscar’s cozy embrace, you slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The morning routine took at least forty minutes: you took a hot shower, washed your hair, and applied fresh, light makeup. When you glanced at the clock, it showed exactly eight in the morning. You had only thirty minutes left to get dressed and get to the salon.
You quietly entered the bedroom to grab clothes. You were wearing only panties and an oversized T-shirt that barely covered your ass. Not even thinking about how seductive you looked from behind, you approached the large white wardrobe to choose an outfit. You bent down to the lower shelf, and the thin fabric of the T-shirt stretched, completely exposing your slender legs and the curves of your hips.
When you finally found the right clothes and turned around, you suddenly discovered that Oscar was no longer sleeping.
He was lying on his back, with one hand tucked under his head. Oscar slowly raised his eyes from your legs, slid across your waist, and finally stopped his gaze on your face. His brown eyes were half-open, indicating he had just woken up, and a lazy, satisfied smile played on his lips.
“I have to admit, this is one of the best views I’ve ever woken up to,” he drawled in a low, hoarse voice still thick with sleep.
You laughed quietly, hiding your embarrassment. His compliment ran through your body like a real electric current, leaving a pleasant shiver.
“Well, I didn’t plan to please you first thing in the morning, but it turned out that way,” you replied playfully, stepping closer to the bed.
Oscar’s eyes shamelessly scanned you from head to toe. His gaze literally devoured your legs, then moved higher, lingering on your breasts, where your nipples instantly hardened under the fabric of the T-shirt from just his voice.
Oscar lay with his legs casually spread, and the light summer blanket covered only his groin. His abs were tense and sharply defined. In your head, an intrusive image instantly appeared of you slowly running your tongue from his chest down to the very bottom of his stomach. You forced yourself to shake your head and quickly looked away, trying not to think about what you couldn’t allow yourself right now. But your eyes treacherously dropped lower — to where a significant morning erection was clearly visible under the thin blanket.
You involuntarily lingered there with your gaze, clearly imagining how your fingers touched his cock through the fabric, squeezing that incredible hardness. It was just a second of weakness, but it was enough for Oscar to completely read your thoughts. When you finally came to your senses, he was already looking at you with a sly gaze that promised nothing chaste. You ironically raised an eyebrow, as if asking why he was so pleased.
“Don’t you want to please me even more this morning?” he asked with a hint, nodding his gaze toward his groin.
In reality, you wanted it more than anything in the world. Your body reacted so wildly to his dark gaze that you were already wet through your clean underwear. You wanted to jump on the bed right now, straddle your boyfriend, and feel him inside you with your whole body. But the rigid timing held you in a vise.
“Unfortunately, love, no. I’m in a hurry for my appointment with Jade,” you had to refuse.
“Reschedule the appointment,” he suggested.
You turned away to the dresser to get hand cream, trying to distract yourself:
“I can’t do that. Jade’s schedule is booked by the hour, and I can’t wait another week. My hair requires meticulous care. Besides, in a week I won’t be in Monaco at all, because we’ll be with you in Belgium.”
“Okay, then let’s do it quickly so you make it,” Oscar persisted, still hoping you would break under his pressure.
You glanced at your boyfriend again, and he looked fucking hot. He was fully ready to enter you and give you unforgettable pleasure. The temptation to neglect the procedure was enormous. But the voice of reason reminded you: you could have sex with Oscar anytime, but you had to get to Jade strictly today. You pressed your lips together and forcefully tore your eyes away from him, walking over to your side of the bed where lay the clothes which you chose a several minutes ago.
“No, Oscar. I just took a shower and applied makeup. I can’t sweat right now. I don’t have time to wash again.”
“Too bad,” he replied absolutely calmly, but a seductive fire flashed in his brown eyes, “Then I’ll have to take care of it myself.”
You frowned in surprise, holding the clothes in your hands, when you were about to step away from the bed. When you turned around, you froze in complete shock. Oscar casually slipped his hand under the blanket. Right in front of your eyes, he began openly touching himself, and this spectacular gesture instantly shut off any rational control in your head. A hot wave of arousal hit your lower belly, and you felt yourself become even wetter between your legs than before. Holding back was simply impossible.
“Are you serious, Piastri?” you half-whispered, aroused and indignant.
Throwing the clothes onto the nearest chair, you decisively approached the bed and climbed onto it, ending up above Oscar. A triumphant, wildly sexy smile stretched his lips, but you no longer cared. All you could think about was his hand hidden under the fabric.
With one sharp movement, you threw the blanket aside, and an incredible sight opened before your eyes: his palm was hidden under his home shorts, and his massive erection clearly and prominently protruded through the fabric, demanding immediate release.
Oscar didn’t even think about removing his hand; he just looked up at you from below with his incredibly dark gaze full of passion. He was enjoying his victory. He knew you wouldn’t resist.
“You’re in a hurry, baby,” he reminded you, barely noticeably moving his fingers under the shorts, causing the fabric to stretch again.
You didn’t answer. The sounds of the outside world, time, Jade, and your perfect makeup — all of it instantly lost any meaning. You leaned over him, sliding forward, running your fingers into his messy bed hair, and greedily captured his hot lips in a deep, demanding kiss. Oscar instantly responded, seizing the initiative. His tongue dominantly slid into your mouth, intertwining with yours and turning the kiss into wet madness.
Meanwhile, your free palm slid lower, landing right on top of his hand, which was still inside the shorts. You pressed hard on his crotch with your palm, forcing Oscar to let out a low, satisfied groan straight into your lips.
Without breaking the kiss, you slipped your fingers under the elastic waistband of his shorts, finding his own hand. You roughly pulled his wrist upward, forcing Oscar to remove his palm.
“I’ll do it,” you said, breathing heavily into his lips, looking down at him.
Oscar allowed you to do whatever you wanted without hesitation, but his large palms had already possessively settled on your thighs under the T-shirt, digging his fingers firmly into your tender skin and pressing your wet crotch against his thigh.
After kissing him on the lips, you pulled away a moment later and moved lower, confidently pulling his shorts down. He wasn’t wearing boxers underneath. You freed his erection, which, as expected, was already covered with a network of tense veins.
Your heart pounded somewhere in your throat. You wrapped your fingers around his shaft, feeling how warm and hard it was, and made several slow, firm strokes from base to tip, gathering drops of morning precum.
You leaned down to his cock and touched the sensitive head with your tongue. Oscar sharply inhaled through his nose, his abs tensed like steel, and the fingers that had been possessively on your thighs a few seconds ago now gripped your hair.
You took his length less than halfway, rhythmically moving your lips along his cock. Your saliva mixed with a small amount of his precum. Oscar began moaning a little louder each time your lips moved.
Fuck.
That low groan of his made you so greedy for his cock. You continued sucking him, helping with your hand. Between your legs was a complete mess. You were very wet, and your clit ached from arousal and needed attention.
“Fuck…” Oscar drawled when he lightly pressed on the back of your head so you would take him deeper. You gave in without any resistance. “Fuck yes… this feels so good,” he groaned.
You took him deeper, completely surrendering to his soft but confident pressure. Oscar arched on the mattress, his hips instinctively thrusting toward your lips, catching this sweet, lingering moment. Your saliva generously lubricated the hot flesh, and each of your movements was accompanied by a wet, teasing sound that echoed in the silence of the morning bedroom.
His fingers tangled in your hair, but he wasn’t rough — he only kept control of every centimeter of pleasure you were giving him. Your tongue caressed the sensitive tip of his head while your lips rhythmically slid down, making Oscar moan dully and brokenly again and again. His abs were iron-hard from tension, and his breathing became increasingly heavy and ragged.
“It’s always so good…” he groaned lowly, and in his usually calm voice now rang pure wild passion. He barely managed to lift himself to look at you. And when he saw you between his legs, he wanted to feel your pussy.
Oscar stopped you, forcing you to release his cock from your mouth. He pulled you toward him, and you found yourself face to face with him, breathing heavily, with lips wet from arousal. His brown eyes had completely darkened, turning into two deep whirlpools.
Oscar slipped his large palms under your T-shirt. His slightly rough fingers slid up your ribs, immediately finding your tense breasts. He squeezed them, rolling the hard nipples between his fingertips, causing you to moan loudly and helplessly right into his neck. Your completely wet and pulsating pussy rubbed against his firm thigh, seeking at least some relief.
“Look at yourself,” Oscar said, propping himself up on his elbows and making you straighten your back. He pulled the T-shirt off you and threw it somewhere on the floor. “So greedy for me that you even forgot you’re running late.”
His palm unceremoniously found the edge of your thin panties. With one confident movement, he pulled them down your thighs and got rid of them the same way as the T-shirt. Your panties landed near your T-shirt somewhere on the floor. Your pussy was now completely exposed before his heavy, burning gaze. Oscar slowly ran his middle finger along your folds, collecting abundant, clear wetness, and immediately pressed the pad of his finger to your swollen, burning clit.
“Ah… ah,” was all you could squeeze out of yourself. Everything inside clenched from such sharp, concentrated caress.
“You’re so wet, baby. Just dripping for me,” Oscar smiled, continuing to rhythmically and tenderly rub your most sensitive spot, making you tremble and literally melt on his fingers. Then his long middle and ring fingers smoothly slid into your tight depth, checking how ready you were. You were ready more than completely — your muscles greedily clenched around his fingers, pushing out even more moisture.
Pulling his hand out, Oscar didn’t let you catch your breath. He grabbed your waist, lifting you slightly higher, and authoritatively spread your knees to the sides, placing them on either side of his hips. You were now directly above his erection, which was pressing like a spear between your buttocks.
“We don’t have much time, you still have to make it,” his low voice seemed to mock. You didn’t care anymore. You were no longer in a hurry. You would apologize to Jade and survive the fact that you’d have to deal with untreated hair for a few weeks. This Oscar right now beneath you was worth forgetting everything in the world. You needed him right now.
It was as if he read your thoughts and directed the head of his cock straight to your wet entrance. His palms firmly fixed your thighs, giving no chance to retreat.
He thrust his hips upward while simultaneously pulling your thighs down, and with one powerful, smooth thrust, he entered you to his full considerable length.
Your loud cry from his penetration drowned in his new, greedy kiss. Oscar filled you so deeply that your vision darkened for a moment from pure, concentrated pleasure. Your hot pussy tightly, without any gap, embraced his thick shaft, taking every centimeter. Oscar froze for a few seconds, breathing heavily into your lips, giving your body time to adjust to his size, and then his hands guided you and you began to move.
You moved up and down, setting your first, still somewhat cautious rhythm. However, maintaining this pace on your own turned out to be a real challenge. Oscar filled you so tightly and deeply that with every movement, powerful bursts of pleasure shot through your body. Your inner muscles clenched his thick shaft like hot vises, and each thrust was accompanied by an open, wet squelching sound that echoed throughout the bedroom.
“Oscar…” you exhaled raggedly, throwing your head back. Strands of your freshly washed hair chaotically scattered over your shoulders, tickling your back.
Oscar grabbed your breasts with one hand and massaged them, heightening your sensations. He knew that breasts were one of your strong erogenous zones. He wanted you to feel maximum pleasure.
Piastri no longer wanted to just lie there and passively receive your caress. Oscar’s large palms authoritatively moved higher, gripping your waist and completely taking over the initiative. He began thrusting his hips upward — sharply, strongly, with hungry and merciless force, which made you completely lose your footing.
Each of his powerful thrusts drove his cock to the hilt, hitting your most sensitive spot inside. The rhythm became frantic and relentless. Your clit rubbed perfectly and tightly against his pubic bone with every movement. A hot wave of concentrated ecstasy began to rapidly coil into a tight, aching knot in the very bottom of your belly. You helplessly gasped for air, clutching his shoulders tightly with your fingers, leaving pale marks from your nails.
“Look at me,” Oscar said hoarsely, almost commandingly.
You opened your eyes, hazy with arousal, and met his gaze. His honey eyes had darkened so much that his pupils had completely swallowed the irises, reflecting pure passion. He looked straight into your eyes, breathing heavily and frequently, while his hips continued relentlessly and deeply driving his cock into your exhausted depths. This eye contact finally finished off your endurance.
“Oscar, I’m about to… I can’t anymore…” you moaned helplessly, feeling the walls of your pussy begin to convulse in small, spasmodic pulses around his flesh.
“Wait just a little longer,” he asked gently, in dissonance with how he was looking at you. But you could no longer hold back this reaction.
“I… can’t…” you moaned while Oscar fucked you senseless. He made a few more deep, strong thrusts, then pulled you toward him. He breathed right into your lips, catching your mouth in a kiss and making several final, hardest and deepest thrusts.
You were overwhelmed by a blinding, devastating wave of orgasm. You moaned loudly and protractedly into his lips, clenching tightly around his cock with spasms and pushing out even more wetness. Feeling your contractions, Oscar let out a low groan. He made two final, quick thrusts, then lifted you off himself, spilling his cum onto your stomach and his own. His abs hardened, and a noticeable shiver ran through his body.
You both limply collapsed onto the bed. You fell onto his chest, breathing heavily and listening to Oscar’s heart beating wildly and loudly. His strong arms smoothly moved to your back, firmly pressing you to him and soothingly stroking your hot skin. Your light makeup was slightly smudged from sweat, but it didn’t matter at all right now.
Several minutes passed in complete, relaxed silence until your breathing finally evened out. Oscar slightly turned his head and left a soft kiss on the top of your head. In his hoarse, still deep voice, a familiar, slightly sly smile broke through:
trying to read a f1 fic all of a sudden BOOM white faceclaim BOOM you’re sabrina carptenter five times in a row now i’m gracie abrams now i’m tate mcrae BOOM white woman central
Could you do an f1 grid text x reader where the reader is feeling very insecure and just misses their boyfriend and they make her feel better?
ACCIDENTALLY TELLING YOUR F1!BOYFRIEND YOU THINK HE LIKES SOMEONE ELSE
( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request )
★ : summary :: texting your boyfriend while sharing your insecurities with your bestfriend(s)
★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri
★ : genre :: hurt/comfort; heavy "insecurity" discussions
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HELLO omg I got this idea and IMMEDIATELY thought of your f1 drivers react series.
So I was reading a book where the mc (the girl) was at a bar and she was like suuuuper drunk so her bf was called by someone to come get her and when he got there she was like "i have a boyfriend" in like a really drunk way while pushing his chest away as he was tryna help her up to get her home. And he was just so happy and giggly because she'd say to a stranger that she's with him when she's drunk. (Even though she's drunk enough to not realise it's him for a moment.) And I thought it was just such a cute moment, and I'd love to see this with f1 drivers react.
If you do choose to do it could you please do it with KA12, MV33, CL16, LN4, OP81, and any other drivers you wish!!
Thank you!!! 🧡🧡🧡
F1 DRIVERS REACT TO
⪩⪨ featuring: kimi antonelli, max verstappen, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri, lewis hamilton
⪩⪨ synopsis: f1 drivers react to you saying you have a boyfriend to them while drunk.
⪩⪨ genre: fluff
➜ kimi antonelli
kimi freezes for a second when you push his chest, brows drawn together.
“i— it’s me,” he says softly, trying not to laugh.
you squint at him suspiciously. “i have. a. boyfriend.”
his lips twitch into a cheeky smile. he looks way too pleased.
“really?” he hums. “what’s he like?”
you nod seriously, mouth turning into a pout as you try to look serious. “he’s… nice. and very very handsome.”
that’s it. he’s smiling like an idiot now, cheeks pink as he gently pulls you back toward him.
“okay,” he laughs quietly, wrapping an arm around you. “i’ll take you home. your handsome boyfriend would want that.”
the entire ride back he’s replaying it in his head, heart full, thinking how you still choose him even when drunk.
➜ max verstappen
max watches you shove him with surprising strength and blink up at him like he’s a stranger.
“no,” you slur. “don’t touch me. i have a boyfriend.”
he bursts out laughing.
“wow,” he grins, holding his hands up. “good for you.”
you cross your arms, proud. “he’s very protective.”
max leans down to your level, eyes dark. “yeah? does he look like me, perhaps?”
the grin softens instantly as he pulls you into his chest, kissing the top of your head.
you squint, pause, then—
“…oh.”
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “even if you don’t recognize me.”
➜ charles leclerc
charles is immediately gentle, hands hovering so you don’t feel cornered.
“chérie, it’s me,” he says softly.
you gasp, offended. “don't call me that! i have a boyfriend!”
his heart actually melts.
“oh?” he smiles, playing along. “is he nice to you?”
you nod enthusiastically. “he loves me very much.”
charles swallows back a laugh, eyes shining.
he will think about this moment for the rest of his life.
“i do,” he says quietly, pulling you into a careful hug once you finally let him.
“very very much.”
➜ lando norris
you push his chest and nearly lose your balance.
“i’m TAKEN,” you announce loudly.
lando snorts. “yeah, love. by me.”
you gasp. “that’s exactly what he would say!”
he’s laughing so hard he has to wipe his eyes, but he still catches you before you fall.
“this is amazing,” he giggles. “you’re absolutely hammered and still loyal.”
he presses a kiss to your temple as you finally cling to him.
“i hope you know i’m never letting you live this down.”
➜ oscar piastri
oscar freezes when you pull away from him.
“i have a boyfriend,” you say firmly, finger poking his chest.
his brain short circuits a little.
“oh— uh— yeah?” he asks, voice soft, amused. “is he… good at least?”
you nod, leaning forward. “he makes me feel safe.”
that’s it. he’s done. GONER.
oscar smiles so gently it almost hurts, carefully guiding you into his arms.
“okay,” he murmurs. “i’ll take you home where you're safe.”
he’s glowing the entire drive.
➜ lewis hamilton
lewis raises his hands immediately when you glare at him.
“hey, hey— all good,” he laughs. “you’re safe.”
you frown. “i have a boyfriend.”
he beams. “lucky guy.”
when you finally recognize him, you melt against his chest, mumbling apologies.
lewis just hugs you tighter.
“no need. i love that you protect us like that.”
☆ ⠀⠀⠀ ⑅ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ♩ ⠀⠀⠀⠀◌ ⠀⠀⠀ ꕤ
my f1 drivers react to series might have been the best and worst things to ever happen to me cause they make me SO. DELULU. im just a girl
ⓘ the moment you realized they were the one for you.
feat. lando norris, oscar piastri, charles leclerc, max verstappen ⨾ fluff, 1.2k words ノ 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
LANDO NORRIS . ˚ You almost didn’t tell him.
Not because it wasn’t important.
It was.
You’d worked for it for months. Late nights, stressful meetings, moments where you genuinely wondered if you were good enough.
But when it finally happened, it didn’t feel as big as you expected.
It was just an email.
A promotion. A new title.
A few words confirming that all your hard work had paid off.
When you finally got home, you mentioned it casually.
“Oh, by the way, I got promoted today.”
There was a pause.
A very long pause.
“Wait. What?”
You laughed. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Lando sat up straighter from the couch, his whole expression changing.
“Y/n, you got promoted.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No. Don’t ‘but’ this.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Because suddenly he sounded more excited about it than you were.
“You worked so hard for this,” he continued. “Do you even understand how cool this is?”
“It’s just work.”
“It’s not just work. It’s something you wanted. Something you earned.”
You went quiet.
Because Lando wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better.
He genuinely meant it.
Lando was celebrating you in a way you never thought to celebrate yourself.
“It’s nothing, really,” you shrugged. “Just a small thing. I’d honestly be kind of mad at myself if I didn’t get it.”
His eyebrows immediately pulled together.
“Would you say the same thing to me?”
You looked at him. He didn’t let you speak.
“If I won another championship, would you tell me, ‘It’s basically nothing, Lan. You should’ve expected it’?”
The second he said it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because no.
Never.
The thought alone felt wrong.
“That’s different,” you argued quietly. “Your work is not the same as mine. My work is not that serious.”
“Why?”
“Because, Lan… you’re literally a Formula One driver.”
“And?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“It is serious, baby,” he said, softer this time. “Your work matters. Your goals matter!”
And somehow, that was the moment.
Not when you got the promotion.
Not when you saw the email.
But when Lando looked at something you had already dismissed and made you see it the way he did.
Yeah.
You knew you chose right.
OSCAR PIASTRI . ˚ You knew Oscar hated shopping.
He had never tried to hide it.
The first time you dragged him along, he made it very clear that he didn’t understand how anyone could spend hours walking around stores just to “look.”
And yet, somehow, he kept coming with you.
Even today.
You were already in the third shop, holding up another outfit in front of him while he stood there with your bags, giving surprisingly honest opinions.
“Okay, what about this one?”
Oscar looked up from his phone.
“It’s nice.”
“You said that about the last one.”
“Because it was also nice.”
You laughed. “That’s not helpful!”
He shrugged. “You asked if it looked good. It does.”
You looked at him for a moment.
Oscar Piastri, who hated long shopping trips. Oscar Piastri, who would rather be doing almost anything else.
And yet he was still there.
“Isn’t this boring to you?” you asked.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Very.”
You blinked.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
You laughed. “Then why are you here?”
Oscar looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you wanted to go shopping.”
“But you didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He looked at you for a second, like the answer was obvious.
“I like spending time with you.”
And somehow, that was it.
Not some huge romantic gesture.
Just Oscar willingly spending hours doing something he hated because he liked being around you.
That was the moment you realized.
Oscar wasn’t the type to say a lot.
He just showed up.
CHARLES LECLERC . ˚ You didn’t think Charles was the kind of person who remembered small things.
Not because he didn’t care.
Actually, it was the opposite.
He cared about so many things that you assumed the little details would get lost somewhere between everything else.
So when you mentioned it once, you didn’t think anything of it.
You were sitting together after dinner, looking through the dessert menu, when you pointed at one of the options.
“Oh, I love that one,” you said casually. “But they never have it anywhere.”
Charles looked up from his menu.
“You like that?”
You shrugged. “Yeah. It’s probably my favorite.”
And then the conversation moved on.
You forgot about it.
Completely.
Weeks passed.
Life got busy. Schedules changed. You had a hundred other things to think about.
Until one evening, Charles showed up at your door with a small box in his hands and a smile on his face.
“I brought you something.”
You looked at the box, then back at him.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside was the dessert.
The exact one you had mentioned weeks ago.
For a second, you just stared.
“Charles…”
He looked slightly confused by your reaction.
“What?”
“You remembered this?”
A small smile appeared on his face.
“Of course I remembered, chérie.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“You know I only mentioned it once, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you still remembered?”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You liked it.”
That was his entire explanation.
You looked at him for a moment, realizing something.
Charles wasn’t remembering things because he was trying to impress you.
He remembered because when you spoke, he actually listened.
MAX VERSTAPPEN . ˚ You knew Max loved padel.
Everyone knew Max loved padel.
It was one of those things that made him genuinely happy. A few hours where he could forget about everything else, joke around with his friends, and just enjoy himself.
So when you texted him about your IKEA disaster, you weren’t expecting much.
I think I bought a wardrobe that’s too complicated for me.
His reply came almost immediately.
I have padel tonight.
You smiled.
I know. I’m not asking you to come.
A few minutes passed.
Good.
You laughed at his very Max-like response and put your phone down.
You weren’t expecting him to show up.
Which was why you were completely shocked when someone knocked on your door an hour later.
You opened it.
Max stood there.
With a toolbox in one hand.
You blinked.
“Max?”
“Hey, schat.”
“What are you doing here?”
He looked past you, directly at the half-built wardrobe taking over your apartment.
“I’m fixing that.”
You stared at him.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at padel?”
“I was.”
“And?”
“I cancelled.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
He shrugged, already walking inside.
“I can’t risk that thing falling on you.”
You looked at the wardrobe, then back at him.
“That’s your reason?”
“Yes.”
“You cancelled padel because you’re worried my wardrobe might attack me?”
“It looks unstable.”
You tried not to laugh.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
He picked up the instructions from the floor.
“But I’m also right.”
And annoyingly, he was.
You watched him sit down on the floor, completely focused on building something he had no responsibility for fixing.
“You know you didn’t have to come, right?”
Max looked up at you.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
For a second, he looked genuinely confused by the question.
“Because you needed help.”
Simple. No dramatic explanation. No making it a big deal.
Just Max showing up because, in his mind, that was the obvious thing to do.
And as you watched him fight with IKEA instructions instead of playing padel with his friends, you realized something.
AHHH I LOVE YOUR PAGE!!! sooooo how would we feel about writing- walk with me now- the top 3 munches on the grid??
EEEK this is so sweet i might cry!!! thank you so much baby <3 also my first ever request so you can have a special gold star ⭐️
i'm certainly walking with you, in fact, i'm running with this idea so hey! let's talk the biggest munches on the grid (in my sweet humble opinion as a newbie to the sport i'm still learning all the guys so bare with)
oscar piastri
this has already been established on my page - this man lives and breathes for tasting you. at any given moment this man is whining and tugging at what ever bottoms you have on because my god he needed you right now. pawing at your chest as he'd shift all his weight to between your legs, hovering his mouth just over the mound of your pussy whilst he'd wait for you to practically beg him to do something, fucking anything. and he would take you straight to heaven and back just from his tongue - a concoction of your shyness and the sheer pleasure forcing your legs to close around oscar's head as he'd hum impatiently against you, the sensation thrumming through your veins. it'd be game over not long after it had started.
george russell
a man with a face like that knows better than to put it to good use. he'd love nothing more than being beneath you as you'd ride his face, his tongue lapping at you in a manner that could only be described as disgustingly sexy. and the noises that would be muffled against you was nothing short of filthy, constant praises humming against your clit as he'd kiss and make-out, sloppily, with your pussy. george would be so into it, his hands either side of your thighs as he practically rocked you against him, your head hung back as you'd chant his name like some sort of prayer.
max vertsappen
hear me out on this one: this man destresses by eating you out. usually with either leg over his shoulder, the sofa being your usual spot as he'd whine about how his day was really bad and this is what he really wanted right now. he'd savour the taste of you on his tongue, swallowing it thickly before dipping his head further down, his own hips jutting into the base of the sofa because my god you always tasted amazing. and he didn't care about him, in that moment making you cum was his only intention; one hand slithering between where your bodies connected, teasing your hole as he nosed your clit.
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