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Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didnât need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didnât demand. You didnât sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, âWeâll figure it out.â
You werenât just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace⊠but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didnât need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays werenât a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didnât mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didnât stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didnât ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didnât notice that every time you said, âDonât worry about it,â you were teaching him that he didnât have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Danielâs girlfriendâs birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyoneâs faces printed on them. Max didnât even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Danielâs girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
âYou made it!â Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. âAnd you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.â
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadnât expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Danielâs girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didnât know what he was doing and given up before trying.
âHe surprised me with it this morning,â she said, beaming. âAnd he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.â
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. âRomance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.â
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didnât quite reach your eyes.
You didnât look devastated, you didnât withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Danielâs girlfriendâs wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, âThatâs really sweet.â
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one âdidnât feel like her.â
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadnât rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. Heâd called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didnât matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, âDonât stress, honestly. I had a nice day.â
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said werenât important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. âYou okay?â
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
âYeah,â he said, too quickly. âFine.â
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didnât push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldnât stop watching you.
He watched Danielâs girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Danielâs girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didnât need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldnât feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after youâd done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didnât need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you werenât saying.
âDid you have a good time?â he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. âYeah. It was lovely.â
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. âDaniel did a lot.â
âHe did,â you said, and your voice was warm. âIt was really sweet.â
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Maxâs hands flexed around the steering wheel. âYou like that kind of thing?â
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. âWhat kind of thing?â
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. âAll of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.â
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. âI mean, I donât need all that.â
Maxâs chest tightened.
That wasnât what he had asked.
âI didnât ask if you needed it.â
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
âI just think itâs nice,â you said carefully. âFor her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.â
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didnât need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didnât even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
âI should have done more for your birthday,â he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
âMaxâŠâ
âNo,â he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. âI should have.â
âItâs okay.â
âItâs not.â
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. âI told you it was fine.â
âI know you did.â
âThen why are you bringing it up?â
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, âBecause I think you say things are fine when they're not.â
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You werenât angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldnât ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
âI donât want to be difficult,â you said after a while.
âYou're not difficult,â he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. âI know. I just mean⊠your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.â
âYou are not a thing on the list.â
âArenât I?â you asked softly.
Max didnât answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You werenât crying or making a scene. You werenât asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured youâd be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadnât realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friendâs name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didnât mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
âIâm not upset he did all that for her,â you were saying. âItâs sweet. It is.â
There was a pause.
Maxâs body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
âItâs justâŠâ You exhaled shakily. âHeâs never done anything like that for me.â
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
âI donât ask for much,â you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. âI know I donât. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.â
His throat tightened.
âBut sometimesââ Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. âSometimes I wish heâd do something without me having to ask.â
Maxâs fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didnât care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didnât, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
âMaybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I donât need grand gestures,â you went on, voice wobbling now. âI know thatâs not really him, and I donât want him to be anyone else. I donât want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes⊠to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.â
Maxâs chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldnât move.
âI just want to know he wants to do those things for me,â you whispered. âNot because heâs apologising or because someone else did it first⊠because he loves me enough to notice.â
Max couldnât breathe properly.
He hadnât known.
He really hadnât known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didnât care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadnât heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldnât bring himself to move, couldnât bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
âto feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.â
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadnât asked him for the world. You hadnât asked him to become someone he wasnât. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didnât need them. You didnât want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didnât expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together âSomewhere quiet, just usâ you didnât overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasnât until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasnât flashy, it wasnât the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. âDid you⊠did you set this up?â
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. âMaybe.â
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. âWhatâs going on?â
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
âI listened,â he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didnât look away again.
âI didnât realise how much Iâd taken for granted,â he continued quietly. âHow much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesnât mean I shouldâve stopped trying.â
Your throat tightened.
âMaxâŠâ
âNo, let me say it,â he murmured, taking a small step closer. âYou always said things were fine. That you didnât need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didnât have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldnât feel bad.â
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. IâM GOING TO DO BETTER.
Maxâs face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. âSchatjeâŠâ
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. âI wanted to be cool,â you whispered. âI wanted to be the girlfriend who didnât care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then Iâd just become another pressure for you.â
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
âYou are the most important person in my life,â he murmured. âYou always are.â His voice dropped softer, rougher. âI wish I could give you the world and Iâm sorry it took me this long to show it.â
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
âSo,â you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, âis this a one-time gesture orâŠâ
Maxâs chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. âOh no.â
You tilted your head slightly. âOh no?â
âNo,â he said, tightening his arm around you. âYouâre getting so much romance now itâll annoy you.â
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. âReally?â
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. âReally. Iâm talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.â
âPoetry?â you repeated, laughing already.
âBad poetry,â he corrected. âVery bad. Rhymes way too much.â
âOh, God.â
âAnd a cheesy playlist,â he added, completely serious. âMaybe several. One for the car. One for when Iâm away. One with songs youâll make fun of me for.â
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. âIâm serious,â he murmured, quieter now. âI donât want you wondering anymore.â
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. âWondering what?â
âIf I think about you,â he said. âIf I notice. If I care enough to try.â
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasnât painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. âI do,â he said. âIâll show you better now.â
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
âThat sounds perfect.â you whispered, smiling against his neck.
request: âomg hi i have a request for oscar piastri a social media au something showing their friendship over the years maybe through b'day posts/something else (you decide) basically like childhood friend to lovers social media au pls !â
NOTE: first oscar piece ever!! the format of this is a bit diff but thatâs just bc itâs kind of only insta⊠thank you sm for requesting, i hope that this is what you wanted and enjoy! (this has no faceclaim btw)
APRIL 06, 2019
liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri and 2,687 others
yourusername HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEST FRIEND WHO JUST TURNED 18!!!! cannot believe iâve known you for 12 of those yearsâŠ
view all 40 comments
oscarpiastri Was the last picture really necessaryâŠ
‷ yourusername yes, yes it was đ
oscarpiastri I was a pretty cute kid actually
liked by yourusername
APRIL 06, 2020
liked by arthur_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 3,185 others
yourusername 19 years old and heâs still acting like heâs 10!! oh also, happy birthday đ„ł
view all 56 comments
oscarpiastri Was the happy birthday an afterthought or�
‷ yourusername was i really that obvious?
‷ oscarpiastri I see how it is thenđ
arthur_leclerc Iâm gonna need more of these pictures
‷ yourusername your wish is my command
‷ oscarpiastri Y/N NO
APRIL 06, 2021
liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 6,279 others
yourusername selfie time for the birthday boy! 20 has looked better on others, but youâll get there â€ïž
view all 94 comments
oscarpiastri Wow!
oscarpiastri I send you these pics in confidence and they end up on Instagram⊠Canât trust anybodyđ
‷ yourusername not really private if theyâre in a group chatđ€·ââïž
‷ oscarpiastri Watch your back for your next birthday post⊠You never the content I might get
arthur_leclerc You two look really cozy in that second picture!!
‷ yourusername shut up, frenchie
APRIL 06, 2022
liked by carla.brocker, oscarpiastri and 10,836 others
yourusername happy birthday to this guy đ«¶
view all 162 comments
oscarpiastri đ«¶đ«¶đ«¶
liked by yourusername and 10 others
oscarpiastri Will I ever get some decent photos in these posts?
‷ yourusername hm⊠no!
oscarfan1 who is she??
‷ oscarfan2 sheâs oscarâs childhood best friend i think
‷ oscarfan3 i thought she was his gf, cause sheâs always in the paddock with him
‷ oscarfan2 nope, just friends from what i know
APRIL 06, 2023
liked by landonorris, zhouguanyu24 and 34,091 others
yourusername happy birthday to my boy friend (my best friend whoâs a boy but also my actual boyfriend)!!! youâve done so much in all these years, youâre even in F1 now, and iâm happy to have been through it all đ€ i included some good pics but just because the fans need them đ
view all 512 comments
oscarpiastri Aww⊠Is the beautiful girl single?
‷ yourusername no⊠but youâre pretty cute so call me :)
‷ oscarpiastri đđđ
oscarpiastri21 how i love them
oscarfan22 THE MCLAREN GLOW UP OMG
landonorris There are children on this appâŠ
‷ yourusername WEâRE YOUNGER THAN YOU???
‷ landonorris And yet I have more decorumđ
oscarpiastri23 theyâre so cuteee
JULY 09, 2023
liked by oscarpiastri, yukitsunoda and 51,684 others
yourusername P4! there is so much i could say, but all that matters is that i am incredibly proud of all that you achieved and will achieve
view all 775 comments
landonorris If I speakâŠ
‷ yourusername donâtâ€ïž
oscarfan31 the most unproblematic and cutest couple on the grid
summary: after leaving behind following your dad to every race in order to study at university, you havenât set foot in the formula one paddock in years. your long awaited return was always going to be big news for fans, but your surprising company generates far more attention than even you prepared for.
requested? yes â 'Zak Brown's daughter is new to the paddock, very private and everyone loses their minds when she shows up with Max.'
warnings: swearing, k*lly p*quet pictures (sorry couldn't find an alternative), h*rner mentioned as a joke
main tags: oneshot, social media au, earth shattering f1 gossip, everyone on twitter is emotionally unstable, landoscar propaganda if you squint, zak brown slander, lando is reader's friend, charles and alex special guest cameos
masterlist
ynbrown
â« Miami âą Will Smith
Tagged: alexandrasaintmleux
Liked by maxverstappen1, lando and 15.2K others
ynbrown the type of town i could spend a few days in
View replies...
user1 omg you remembered your password
user2 MIAMI????
user3 are you gonna be at the gp queen?
user4 Ew she's a Brown, who even cares?
âł user3 stfu and get off her page freak
user5 please tell us you're swinging by the circus in town?
user6 yesss it's been YEARSSS
user7 LITERALLY i've missed her so much
user8 mcl media team fumbled not having her do her bts vlogs officially
user9 QUEEEENNNN
user10 ummm max in the likes????
user11 how random lol
user12 he's trying to psych mclaren out little by little
âł user13 HAHAHAHA
âł user14 everyone's playing checkers while max is playing chess
mclarenf1
Liked by ynbrown and 103.4K others
mclarenf1 Playing some Oscar Bingo
View replies...
user1 please do this for every race lmao
user2 i know yn's media direction when i see it!
user3 HAHAHA REAL
user4 they can't fool us
user5 what a shame she stopped attending races before oscar arrived at the team, she would've gotten us some amazing bts!
âł user6 loss of my life đ
user7 show us yn, we know she's there!
user8 show us our glorious leader!!
user9 i'm sooo glad she's back!
user10 same! lando always has more fun when you can tell it's actually a good idea (aka hers)
user11 yn's landoscar propaganda will save us from the title fight
âł user12 hahaha i hope she's sticking around in the mcl garage this year!
user13 yn has done more for the mclaren brand than her father
user14 kinda crazy kinda true đđđ
alexandrasaintmleux
Tagged: ynbrown
Liked by charles_leclerc, ynbrown and 619K others
alexandrasaintmleux đđ°đïžđđ¶
View repliesâŠ
ynbrown missed you!! liked by creator
user1 omg the girls are back together
user2 LEOOOO
user3 the most gorgeous miami babes
user4 yn is SO BACK
user5 sheâs been so public this weekend iâm not used to this đ
charles_leclerc I donât get photo credit like I used to
user6 LMAOO
user7 is it really credit for you when she trained you up?
âł charles_leclerc No đ
âł user7 OH MY GOD HE REPLIED
ynbrown added to their story!
lando replied to your story: wow this is subtle
âł you: just you wait for tomorrow ;)
mclarenf1
Liked by 206.1K users
mclarenf1 GOOD MORNING, IT'S RACE DAY IN MIAMI đ
View replies...
user1 LET'S GOOO I CAN'T WAIT
user2 b2b lando come on
user3 i'm feeling P1astri today
user4 don't fuck them up mclaren pitwall!
f1.wag.gossip
Liked by 18.9K users
f1.wag.gossip Max Verstappen entered the Miami paddock today, ahead of the race later, with a new girl by his side. YN Brown, daughter of McLaren CEO Zak Brown, walked alongside the four-time champion before they both disappeared into the Red Bull hospitality. This is the first time in 3 years YN has attended a F1 grand prix. What a way to make a return!
View replies...
user1 OH MY?????
user2 max?? with a girl?? that's a sight i never thought i'd see again
user3 She's probably friends with lots of drivers. What's the big deal?
user4 she's NEVER watched from another garage tho
âł user3 So? It's been 3 years đ€·ââïž
user5 this feels so different
user6 are they dating???
user7 real ones saw this coming when he was noticed in her ig likes đ
user8 that hardly means anything tho. lando follows her too
âł user9 yeah but lando has obviously known her for years. max on the other hand...
user10 wait this is CRAZY
user11 surely she's a mclaren spy
user12 omg imagine zak sent her in to get info on max HAHAHA
user13 BRAND NEW SPYGATE
âł user14 and of course mclaren's involved again
user15 NO MAX STAY AWAY FROM THE EVIL ORANGE TEAM
user16 SOMEONE GET THE MCL PR TEAM NOW
user17 why are they actually so cute together
user18 ikr everyone's focusing on the wrong things here
user19 i hope they're dating they're so cute
user20 max was actually laughing on the way in! she's probably great for him
user21 surelyyyy they're together right??
user22 yn did just post 'date night' stories last night đđđ
âł user23 OMG TRUE
mclarenf1
Liked by ynbrown and 693K others
mclarenf1 IT'S A MCLAREN 1-2 WITH OSCAR FINISHING ON TOP đ
View replies...
user1 wait there was a race on today?
user2 nahh fr, i was preoccupied
user3 bigger papaya-related news to focus on
user4 no chance yn brown even noticed that mclaren 1-2
user5 HAHAHAH REAL
user6 she might've known lando for 8 years, but she dgaf anymore
user7 she bleeds navy blue and red now đ
âł user8 good for her honestly, nicer colours than "papaya"
âł user9 FACTS
ynbrown guys i was watching!!!
âł user10 oh now you guys have done it, you've made her mad
user11 the fact that she has to defend herself in the comments is killing me đ LET A GIRL LIVE
ynbrown thank you!
f1.wag.gossip
Liked by 52.8K users
f1.wag.gossip Max Verstappen was greeted by YN Brown after a disappointing Miami GP for him and Red Bull. The pair shared a not-so-private moment of romantic reassurance before Max disappeared for media duties. The kiss has seemingly put an end to the short-lasting speculation around the nature of their relationship, after the pair arrived to the GP together earlier today.
View replies...
user1 ITS REAL??!?!?!
user2 ohhh THEY ARE ACTUALLY DATING
user3 THIS IS SO DAMN CUTE HELLO?????
user4 awwww â€ïžâ€ïž
user5 HOLY HARD LAUNCH OKAYYYYYY
user6 our glorious papaya leader doesn't even care about the 1-2 LMAOO đđđ
user7 i really respect her for fleeing the clutches of being a mclaren supporter... i wanna be like her
user8 She can have a life outside her dad's job guys đ
âł user9 we know we're joking đ good for her in all seriousness
user10 i can't believe this is real
ynbrown
Tagged: maxverstappen1
Liked by lando, kikagomes and 257K others
ynbrown surprise world!
View replies...
maxverstappen1 â€ïž liked by creator
lando I definitely did not know about this! I'm shocked
ynbrown wow great acting, even i almost believed you!
user1 ynlando interaction in the big 25 wow
âł user2 we survived the drought!
user3 the concept of hardlaunching your boyfriend and its MAX VERSTAPPEN
user4 god when is it my turn?
user5 i just died
user6 how does it feel to live my dream?!?!?
ynbrown pretty good tbh
âł user7 LMAO
mclarenf1 We're so happy you found the one (even if he's a bit further down the pit lane than we would've liked) đ§Ą
redbullracing Don't worry, we're fantastic hosts!
oscarpiastri I too am shocked
lando yeah well i was shocked more
âł user8 the fact that you two are in a title fight yet THIS is what you want to argue about. liked by creator
White Horse - Bonus Chapter: Fleur, Daughter of Blanche
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)
Summary:
Blanche once loved a little girl. Fleur grows up on that story â on the memory of small hands and heartbreaking loss. Years later, Fleur met a woman who smelled like apples and sunlight.
Warnings and Notes:Â
Behold! I wrote from Sassy's POV, so I thought why not write from Fleur's?
(Also I cried hysterically while writing it, so maybe don't read it when you aren't ready to cry because it's sort of a tearjerker. I listened to the Spirit soundtrack while writing this. )
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Fleur did not remember her birth the way humans remembered things.
There were no dates. No names. No clear edges.
Only warmth.
Only the steady rhythm of her motherâs breath, the low hum of her voiceânot words, not exactly, but something that settled deep into Fleurâs bones like truth.
Her mother had been white.
Not the pale, delicate kind humans admired in photographs, but strong whiteâlike sunlit stone, like something that had endured storms and still stood.
Blanche.
Fleur did not know that name at first. She only knew the scent of her. Milk and hay and wind. Safety.
Blanche had told her stories.
Not in words. Horses did not use words the way humans did. But in presence. In memory. In the quiet way she would lower her head and breathe against Fleurâs neck, and Fleur would feel things that were not her own.
A field.
Laughter.
Not her own foal.
Not one of their kind.
A human child with careful hands.
Not loud. Not harsh. Not like the others.
This one had been gentle.
Blanche had loved her.
Fleur knew that as surely as she knew the feeling of wind in her mane.
Small. Bright. Soft hands and quiet laughter.Â
Belle smelled like apples, Blanche had told her once, and sunshine, and wildflowers crushed in small hands. She laughed too loudly. She cried with her whole body. She leaned against my neck when she was lonely.
Blanche had loved that girl with a depth that made her chest ache even in memory.
Blanche had carried her once.
Fleur knew that too.
Knew the feeling of smaller weight on a broad back. Knew the pride that came with it. The quiet joy.
Belle had belonged to Blanche.
Not in the way humans thought of belonging.
But in the way a horse chooses.
Blanche had chosen her. And Belle had chosen back.
Fleur did not understand it then. Only felt the longing in her motherâs breath, the way it lingered like a ghost between them.
Mine, Blanche would murmur without words. Belle was mine.
Fleur had not understood then. Human foals were strange creatures. Too small. Too loud. Always reaching. Always smelling of things that changed.
But Blancheâs voice changed whenever she spoke of that child. She belonged to me, Blanche had said once, not in the way you belong to me. But still. Belle was mine, for a while.
And then?
Fleur had asked the question the way foals did: with a nudge, an ear flick, a small impatient stomp.
And then she was gone, Blanche had answered.
Gone where?
Blanche had not known.
***
Fleur grew up on those stories.
And then Blanche was gone too.
No warning. No explanation. Just absence.
Horses understood absence the way they understood cold: immediately, bodily, beyond thought. Fleur searched for her scent until her throat went raw with calling. She searched the edges of fields, the stable doors, the wind itself.Â
After that, Fleur learned what it meant to be alone.
Not physically, at first.Â
There were other horses. Other fields. Other hands. But none of it was hers.Â
Fleur was sold young, moved often, handled by humans who liked what she might become more than what she already was.Â
They assessed her legs. Her shoulders. Her breeding. Her temperament. They looked into her mouth and lifted her feet and spoke over her back.Â
She was sold. Taught. Fed, groomed, evaluated.
Useful. Promising. Valuable.
She was moved, handled, assessed.
Fleur learned quickly that humans came and went.
That their voices could be sharp or kind, but rarely meant anything lasting.
Fleur learned to stand still. To move when asked. To lower her head and accept whatever came.
It was easier that way.
***
And then Fleur was bred.
Fleur understood what had happened in the blunt, practical way mares did. Her body changed. Her balance shifted. Something small and hidden grew beneath her ribs. The humans were pleased in that clipped, transactional way they often were. They touched her more. Fed her differently.Â
Still, none of them were hers.
Then came the move.
Fleur knew she was being moved again before the trailer even arrived.
Humans always gave it away.
They walked differently when change was coming â quicker, sharper, voices clipped, hands less patient. The air in the stable shifted. Buckets were filled too early. Doors opened and closed too often.
Fleur stood quietly in her stall, heavy with foal, and waited.
She did not fight the halter when it came.
She did not resist the ramp.
Fighting never changed where you ended up anyway.
The journey was long.
Too long for a body already stretched with new life.
Fleur balanced carefully, legs braced, ears flicking at every unfamiliar sound. The trailer smelled of old journeys, of other horses, of places she would never see again.
She dozed when she could.
Dreamed of her mother.
Of warmth. Of stillness. Of a time when the world had been small and certain.
When the trailer door opened again, the air was different.
Salt. Sun. Something sharp and clean beneath it all.
Fleur stepped down slowly, testing the ground. The stable yard was bright. Too bright. Stone instead of packed earth. Neat. Ordered. Expensive in the way humans valued.
She lifted her head.
And saw him.
The man did not approach immediately.
Fleur flicked an ear toward him, assessing.
He was tall. Solid. Still in that particular way that meant control, not passivity. There was energy in him â fast, coiled, waiting. Not one who belonged to quiet places.
He smelledâ Strange.
Not like stable hands. Not like riders. Not like trainers.
He smelled like heat and metal and something sharp-edged that Fleur could not place. Underneath it, though, was something steadier. Something that did not waver.
He watched her.
Not with the detached calculation of buyers.
Not with the impatience of handlers.
With focus. With intent.
As if Fleur mattered already.
âHey,â he said. His voice was low. Careful. Not soft, exactly â but deliberate.
Fleurâs ears tilted forward. He took a step closer.
Slow. Measured.
âI know you donât know me,â he said, as if that mattered to a horse. âBut youâre going to be okay here.â
Fleur breathed out.
Words meant little. Tone meant everything.Â
He was not lying.
He reached out, stopping just short of touching her, giving her the space to decide.
Fleur stepped forward first. His hand met her forehead.
Warm. Steady. A little unsure â not clumsy, but not practiced. Not the hands of someone who had grown up with horses.
Interesting.
âIâm Max,â he said, as if introductions were necessary. âAnd youââ Max huffed out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. âYouâre going to make someone very happy.â
Fleur blinked. Someone?
He rested his hand between her eyes, thumb brushing the white hair there. âYouâre for a girl named Belle,â he said.
Belle.
âShe doesnât know yet,â he added. âItâs her birthday.â
Fleur flicked an ear. A gift. She understood that. Horses were moved as gifts all the time.
Max shifted his weight, glancing briefly toward the stable behind them, then back at her.
âShe had a horse,â he said. âBefore.â His voice changed then. Lower. Rougher at the edges. âBlanche.â
Fleur stilled. That nameâ
That name lived in her bones.
Max didnât notice. Of course he didnât.
âShe was sold,â Max went on. âYears ago. Family stuff. I triedââ
He stopped. Exhaled sharply.
âI tried to find her. Looked into it. But sheâs gone. And thatâsââ He cut himself off, jaw tightening. âThatâs not something I can fix.â
Fleur breathed slowly.
Blanche had been known. Remembered.
Maxâs hand slid down her neck, steady, grounding.
âBut youââ he said, softer now. âYouâre hers. Blancheâs daughter. So I thought⊠maybe thatâs enough. Maybe itâs not the same, but itâs something. Something Belle can have back.â
Fleurâs breath hitched, just slightly. Yes, I am.
She lowered her head fully then, pressing into his shoulder.
Max froze for a second. Then relaxed. âYeah,â he murmured. âYouâre sweet, arenât you, Fleur?â
Fleur flicked an ear. Of course I am.
Max smiled then, a small, crooked thing.
âSo⊠yeah. No pressure or anything,â he added dryly. âBut youâre basically replacing a childhood horse.â
Fleur blinked at him.
Humans were strange. He stepped back slightly, giving her space again.
âBut youâre not Blanche,â he said, softer now. âYouâre you. Thatâs more than enough.â
***
New stall. Fresh straw. Clean water. Hay that smelled rich and sweet. Hands that moved with purpose, if not always with knowledge.
Max hovered.
He asked questions.
Too many questions.
âWhat does she eat?â
âIs this enough?â
âShould she be lying down more?â
âWhy is she standing like that?â
âIs that normal?â
The humans around him answered with varying degrees of patience.
Fleur watched.
Max did not know horses. That was obvious.
But⊠he cared. That was rare.
The next morning, there were carrots.
Not just carrots. Expensive carrots.
Organic, if Fleur understood the way the humans said it â with importance and unnecessary pride.
Max held one out. âApparently these are better,â he muttered.
Fleur took it.
The carrot was, in fact, excellent.
The days settled.
Max came often. Not always calm. Not always confident. But always present.
He brushed her badly at first. Learned quickly.
He stood by the stall longer than necessary. Talked in low, absent tones about things Fleur did not understand â racing, people, places that smelled like speed and noise.
Sometimes he just leaned on the door and watched her breathe.
Fleur made a decision.
A simple one.
Practical.
This human â Max â was kind.
He brought the best food. The softest bedding. The kindest hands, even when he didnât quite know what he was doing. He made sure the stable was warm when it needed to be, cool when it didnât. He checked things twice. Watched closely. Learned.
He cared.
And the girl â Belle.
Fleur did not know her yet.
But if Max spoke her name like that, if he built all of this for her, if he looked at Fleur like she was something to be given, not takenâ Then Belle would be worth knowing.
Fleur shifted, her sides rounding, her body preparing for what was to come.
She exhaled slowly.
Yes. I will be Belleâs horse.Â
***
Fleur knew before the door opened.
Not because she heard footsteps.
Not because she saw movement.
Because the air changed.
It shifted in that quiet, unmistakable way it did when something important entered a space â like the moment before rain, or the second before a foal took their first breath.
Fleur lifted her head. Listened. Waited.
The stable door creaked open.
And thereâ There.
Belle.
Fleur did not think.
Horses rarely did, not in the way humans imagined.
They knew.
She was smaller. Quieter. She did not rush forward. Did not coo. Did not reach. She only stood there and looked at Fleur as though looking mattered.Â
And Fleur knew.
Not with thought. Not in words.
In bone.
In scent.
In the oldest part of herself, the part made not just of flesh but of lineage.
There you are.
The woman smelled older than the child in Blancheâs stories, of course. Humans changed more visibly than horses. Time marked them strangely. But beneath the soap and wool and cold air and the faint trace of another human on her â the male, Max beside her â there it was.
Apples. Sunlight. Wildflowers crushed in small hands.
Blancheâs girl. Belle.Â
Fleurâs heart gave one enormous, disbelieving thud.
âHer nameâs Fleur. Short for Blanchefleur. Sheâs Blancheâs daughter,â Max said softly. He said more, but Fleur simply looked at Belle.Â
Belle stepped closer then, slowly, still not reaching.
âShe looks like her,â Belle whispered. âHer eyesâGod. MaxâŠâ
The sound of her voice ran through Fleur like a remembered dream.
Not the same. Not exactly. Older now. Lower. Tired at the edges in a way childrenâs voices never were.
But hers. Fleur stepped toward the gate, nosing at the wood gently.Â
Belle inhaled sharply, a hand lifting, trembling, as she reached out for Fleur. Fleur held still.Â
âSheâs beautiful,â Belle whispered, and something in her voice cracked open. âSheâs so beautiful.â
Blanche had loved this one.
Fleur understood it instantly.Â
Not because Blanche had described the exact shape of her face, or because horses stored human features the way humans imagined. But because love left traces. It lingered in muscle memory, in the way a mare softens, in the stories she told to her foal while flies hummed through late summer. It survived.
Belle lifted one careful hand.
Fleur let her touch her forehead.
And there â yes.
There.
The hand was older, longer-fingered, steadier than a childâs. But the gentleness was the same. The same reverence. The same unselfconscious affection. Not ownership. Not demand. Recognition.
Belleâs eyes were wet.
Max beside her said something low and quiet. Fleur did not understand the words, only the shape of them. Concern. Wonder.
Belle laughed shakily. Then she pressed her forehead to Fleurâs for one suspended second.
Fleur breathed into her hair.
Yes, she thought.  I am hers. And you are mine too, now.
***
Belle moved through the stable like she belonged there. She found the brushes without asking. Checked Fleurâs legs with careful hands. Noted things Max had missed and corrected them without judgment.
And thenâ
The spoiling began.
It was immediate. Unapologetic. Complete.
Fleur had known good hay before. She had not known hay like this. Soft. Fragrant. Selected with care rather than convenience.
Belle checked every batch. Ran her fingers through it. Rejected what wasnât right without hesitation.
âThis oneâs too dry,â she said once. âShe wonât like it.â
Fleur didnât. Belle knew.
Apples appeared. Better ones than before. Smaller, sweeter, cut into perfect pieces so Fleur wouldnât rush them.
Bananas, sliced just so.
Occasionally, something special â a treat Belle held out with a conspiratorial smile like they were sharing a secret.
Blankets were adjusted.
Straps softened.
The stall was mucked more often, cleaner, warmer.
Belle noticed everything.
The way Fleur shifted her weight. The slight tension in her back. The way she preferred to stand when resting.
âShe likes this side better,â Belle said one afternoon, moving a water bucket without being asked.
And the talkingâ Oh, the talking.
Belle talked to her constantly.
Not in the loud, bright way some humans did. In a low, thoughtful voice that carried meaning even when the words themselves didnât.
She told Fleur about her day. About Max. About things that had nothing to do with horses at all â colors, fabrics, buildings, memories.
Sometimes she didnât talk. She just leaned.
Forehead to neck. Breathing.
Fleur stood still for her. Always.
Belle brushed her until her coat shone like light.
âI missed this,â she would say, resting her forehead against Fleurâs neck. âI didnât realize how much until now.â
***
Belle changed.
It was small at first. So small that the man did not notice. Even the other humans, with all their talking and watching and touching, missed it.
But Fleur did not.
Belle moved differently.
Slower, sometimes. Careful in ways that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with protection. Her scent shifted â richer, warmer, threaded with something new and quiet and alive.
Fleur lifted her head the first time she caught it.
There.
Life.
Not outside. Not in arms or blankets or soft human noise.
Inside.
Belle came to her that day as she always did â with apples in her pocket and that same soft voice, speaking more to the air than to anyone else.
âHi, my girl,â she murmured, pressing her cheek briefly to Fleurâs neck.
Fleur breathed her in.
Yes.
There it was again.
New life, tucked beneath bone and breath.
Fleur lowered her head, resting her nose gently against Belle's stomach.
Belle stilled.
âOh,â she whispered, almost laughing. âWhat is it?â
Fleur did not move.
Mine, she thought, though not in the way humans meant it. Ours.
Belleâs hand came down, instinctively, covering the place Fleur had touched.
Max noticed then.
âWhat?â he asked, stepping closer, eyes flicking between them.
âShe keeps doing that,â Belle said softly. âItâs like she knows.â
Fleur flicked an ear.
Of course I know.
She had known the moment the change began â the moment Belleâs body shifted to make space for something fragile and impossible.
Fleur turned slightly, feeling the answering weight beneath her own ribs.
Her foal.
Still small. But there.
Two heartbeats, carried side by side in different bodies.
Belle laughed then, a little breathless.
As the weeks passed, the changes became clearer.
Belleâs hands lingered longer on her own body.
Maxâs gaze followed her more closely, more carefully.
Fleurâs own body grew heavier.
The foal shifted more often now â small movements at first, then stronger, insistent ones. A stretch. A turn. A quiet reminder: I am here.
Fleur stepped closer, pressing her nose against the Belleâs shoulder, then slowly â gently â down to her stomach again.
Belle inhaled sharply.
âShe does that every time,â she murmured, one hand covering Fleurâs nose. âLike sheâs checking.â
Max stepped up behind her, one hand settling instinctively at her back. âMaybe she is.â
Fleur closed her eyes.
Yes.
Checking.
Counting.
Feeling the quiet rhythm beneath skin and muscle and bone.
Alive.
Safe.
Growing.
Just like Fleurâs foal.Â
***
When the first real pains came for Fleur, the sky was still light.
The air was soft, warm, carrying the distant scent of the sea.
The humans noticed quickly. They always did, in this place. There was no indifference here. No looking away.
And thenâ Her.
Belle
Breathing a little faster than usual, one hand braced at her side, the other already reaching for Fleur.
âIâm here,â she said, voice low and steady. âIâm right here.â
Fleurâs body tightened, then released, then tightened again.
Pain came in waves. Not sharp. Not cruel. But deep. Ancient. Demanding.
She did not fight it.
She knew this.
All mares did.
She turned her head, searching.
Belle was close. Closer than any human had ever been allowed before.
Hands gentle. Voice constant.
âYouâre doing so well,â she murmured. âGood girl. Thatâs it. Iâve got you.â
Fleur leaned into her.
Not fully. Not enough to interfere.
But enough to feel her.
Steady.
Present.
There.
Max hovered nearby, restless, watchful. The scent of his worry sharp in the air, but controlled â always controlled.
Another wave.
Stronger.
Fleurâs legs trembled.
The womanâs hand slid to her neck, fingers pressing lightly into muscle.
âBreathe,â she whispered.
Fleur did.
In.
Out.
Again.
And again.
Untilâ
Release.
A shift. A slipping. A sudden, overwhelming change.
The world held its breath.
And thenâ
Life.
Wet. Fragile. New.
Fleur turned immediately, every instinct pulling her toward the small, trembling form at her feet.
Her foal.
Her son.
He moved weakly at first, then stronger, limbs too long, too unsure, but trying â always trying.
Fleur lowered her head, breathing him in.
Milk.
 Straw.
 Life.
Belle made a soft, broken sound.
âOh,â she whispered. âOh, heâs perfect.â
Fleur flicked an ear. Of course he is.
Belle crouched nearby, slower than usual, careful with her own body. Her hands hovered, waiting, asking permission without words.
Fleur allowed it.
Allowed her to touch the foalâs neck. To steady him when he struggled. To whisper to him the same way she had always whispered to Fleur.
Max exhaled, long and quiet, some of the tension leaving his body.
âBoth of you,â he said softly, looking between them â mare and woman, foal and unborn child â âyouâre both incredible.â
Fleur did not understand the words.
But she understood the feeling.
The symmetry.
Two mothers.
 Two children.
 Two lives, unfolding at the same time.
The woman sat back eventually, one hand resting unconsciously on her own stomach.
Fleur noticed.
Of course she did.
She stepped forward, nudging her gently.
Belle laughed softly through tears. âYes,â she murmured. âHeâs there too.â
Fleur lowered her head.
Pressed her nose once more to the place where life was still hidden, still becoming.
Soon, she thought. Soon.
Later, when Galahad slept in the straw beside her, and the stable had quieted to the soft rhythm of breathing and night insects and distant water against stone, Fleur stood watch.
Her son.
Her body still aching, still adjusting, still learning the shape of motherhood.
Across from her, Belle lingered a little longer than the others, one hand resting against the stall door.
âYou did so well,â she whispered. âIâm so proud of you.â
***
When the small human arrived â the one they called Emilian â Fleur knew him immediately. He smelled like both of them. Like safety. Like continuation.
Belle brought him to the stable bundled in blankets, small and blinking and outrageously delicate. She held him close and said things in that soft voice, introducing him to Fleur as if introductions mattered to horses.
They did, sometimes.
Fleur lowered her head to his carrier.
The little human blinked up at her with impossible blue eyes.
Blanche had told stories of a little girl who belonged to her once.Â
Fleur had found that girl grown into a woman.
Now that woman had brought her own foal.
And suddenly the world, which had so often seemed only a series of losses and trailer rides and strangersâ hands, curved back in on itself and made a shape that felt almost like grace.
Mine, Fleur thought, not in ownership but in recognition.
Mine in the way Blanche had meant it.
Mine because love, once given, did not vanish. It changed shape. It endured. It waited. It returned.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
yâall i just found out that they (temporarily) banned tumblr in the philippines bcs itâs apparently a âgambling siteâ đ« like there arenât a shit ton of gambling ads literally EVERYWHERE
OO NGAAAAAA đđđ i opened tumblr yesterday to find out that my fyp apparently wasn't loading + checked the website too, said my connection wasn't private
yâall i just found out that they (temporarily) banned tumblr in the philippines bcs itâs apparently a âgambling siteâ đ« like there arenât a shit ton of gambling ads literally EVERYWHERE
haiii, are you up to writing smut? I couldnât find your request petitions đ. if youâre up to, I would love Alex having a little mommy kink moment all of a sudden. thankiuiuuuuuu!!!!!
HAIII BABY đ«¶đŒ iâm so sorry for the late response
to answer your question though, i have never written smut in my life đ„Č i have never even attempted to do so lol buttt i MIGHT try
i cannot promise anything though bcs uni is kicking my ass sb đ« thank you sm for reaching out tho!! i hope you are having a great time đ«¶đŒ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
summary: your boyfriend, quinn hughes, sees you perform thunderstruck for the first time as a dcc!
word count: 1.5k
im so sorry this took so long! i hope you enjoy <3
quinnđȘïžđ: Good luck today baby!
truthfully, you were a little disappointed when your boyfriend of three years couldnât make it to your first home game of the season. you had had to spend roughly half of your summer away from each other due to the cowboys training camp in texas, and now that you had officially made the team quinn was gearing up for his own training back in vancouver. in short, you both were going to have to get used to the distance.
âare you nervous?â your new roommate and fellow rookie sister zoe asks as you stumble into your quaint kitchen. she was already fully glammed for the long day ahead - a symptom of being a habitual early riser - and preparing her green smoothie.
you shake your head before dropping onto the stool in front of her. ânoâ yes â i donât know,â you mumble, trying your hardest to fight off sleep. "how are you always so happy in the morning?"
zoe rolls her eyes playfully and tosses a stray sugar packet at your head. "i'm excited!" she gushes, and you couldn't deny that zoes smile was infectious. "its a big day,"
after the long summer full of painful goodbyes, your college graduation, and then training camp... today was the beginning of your dreams coming true.
while you make your breakfast zoe runs the music for your dances and you both mark the moves. you text quinn back, a simple: thank you! i love you <3 and wait for him to respond while you do your makeup.
his response doesn't come until later when youre on the team bus with your teammates, which isn't surprising to you because hes deep into his training.
quinnđȘïžđ: All set to watch you! Cheering for you always
attached to the message is a picture of his and his brothers' messy living room. the coffee table littered with mugs and waterbottles, blankets strewn across the floor... but what catches your attention is the television screen. the screen is already playing the news channel for the cowboys game, and the still image caught three reporters in the midst of discussing the upcoming season.
happiness courses through you as you sink against your seat. quinn is watching, and although he didn't have the best view of the sideline performance from the broadcast, he'd catch glimpses of you nonetheless.
"what are you smiling at?" your seat mate meghan asks as she lightly pushes her shoulder against yours. meghan was a third year vet and a second leader in your group.
you glance up at her, "my boyfriends watching the game from home," you explain with a soft smile before showing meghan your phone.
meghan turns to the girl across the aisle and grins knowingly. to you, she turns and says, "thats so sweet!"
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
"five minutes until thunder!" your coach kelli finglass announces to the group two hours later. you quickly brush through your fresh curls before getting in line with the rest of your teammates.
outside, the energy was electric. although the cheerleaders weren't the main event the cowboys fans made you feel like you were a star as the crowd roared for your second dance of the day. earlier, you had performed baby i'm a star! at the miller lite pregame and had been quick to send quinn a video of the performance as soon as it ended.
thunderstruck however, is when things fall into perspective. your dream of being a dallas cowboy cheerleader is now a reality, and while the meet the team event and training camp initiated you into the team, performing the iconic dance makes everything feel so much more real.
in the tunnel you step in line with the rest of the girls on the squad while you wait for the music that begins the dance to start.
the whole thing is a blur... strutting out onto the field and hitting your yard lines for the first time in front of a sea of fans. you didnt expect the hit of adrenaline that courses through you as you whip your hair and shake your poms with the choreography.
"one..two..three...four.." you and your teammates count quietly to each other as you begin the kick line, effectively making sure that you are all on time and that everyone stays safe. linking arms with your teammates, you kick as high and graciously as possible.
going into the jump split, you cannot contain your face-splitting smile as you hit your final pose. "oh my gosh," you breathe heavily, waiting for the timing to drop your hands and stand up.
once standing, you wave a silver and blue pom to the crowd. with the sun shining in your face, you squint towards the stand that is reserved for family.
its when you step into line leaving the stadium that you realize it - quinn hughes standing and cheering with the rest of the boyfriends. his dark hair ie messy from the wind and his teeth are showing as he smiles your favourite wide smile. "he's here!" you gasp, waving to him wildly with your pom.
quinns already looking at you when you spot him, and so he eagerly waves back to you. "who's here?" zoe asks as soon as you both get back into the tunnel.
"quinn!" your voice comes out breathless, half due to shock and half due to the gruelling performance you just finished. you kneel over and catch your breath, "he - he surprised me," you finish, as your fellow rookie sisters each stop their stride to catch their breaths as well.
a senior vet laughs at the sight, "it never gets any easier,"
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
throughout the rest of the game it was hard to keep focus on the crowd when quinn was right there. he hadn't been able to attend the teams meet the team event, so today was the first time he was seeing you in your uniform in person. it had been weeks since the two of you saw each other face to face, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't performing for him today.
while you were still projecting to the stands, you were definitely tossing your hair and exaggerating your hip movements when you knew quinns eyes were on you... which was almost always.
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
as you head back to the team bus after the game you quickly send quinn a text: "meet u at the the star in frisco?"
when you finally get back to the cowboys practice facility, you easily spot quinn leaning against your car in the team parking lot... an access pass hanging from his neck.
he waves at you as soon as you step off the bus and waits eagerly as you unload all of the luggage off of the bus per rookie tradition.
with sore arms you run across the lot and fling yourself into quinns arms. "i cant believe you!" you shout happily, throwing your arms around his neck. quinn leans into you as he wraps his arms around you.
"'was a surprise," he mumbles against your lips.
"how did you get here?" you ask, tugging lightly on his family pass.
quinn kisses you again, "i know your teammate meghans boyfriend through hockey." he pecks your cheek, "and he helped me plan everything,"
"and what about that picture you sent earlier?" you ask lightly. you could not believe he was actually in front of you.
"i made jack take it," comes quinns reply as he leans against your neck and you immediately feel something hit into you. you pull back to discover an embroidered baseball cap. you squint your eyes to try to decipher the words, "what does that say?"
quinn slowly leans away from you to pull his hat off. he holds it to you and reads the delicate words scrawled across the hat, "only here for the cheerleaders." heat rises to your face and he continues, "but i made a special request," he turns the back of the hat over and shows you the back. quinn had gotten your name embroidered in navy lettering.
"you know, since you wear my name on your back i thought i could do the same," you were going to cry.
"thank you," you mumble, opting to wrap your arms around his back instead of over his shoulders. you couldn't put into words how much quinns support over the last few months had been. he had known since the two of you got together years ago that being a DCC was a huge dream of yours, but living it was completely different. the distance was going to be a lot, and depending how long you stayed on the team... it could be years since you would be living with each other on the daily again.
you pull quinn closer, "i love you,"
"i love you too," he says, pulling you impossibly closer to him. after a few seconds he cuts into the silence, "can i kiss you again?"
you giggle as you pull yourself away from him. you tilt your head towards him and a soft smile immediately graces his lips as he leans down to connect to yours.
when you both finally pull away for air quinn takes the opportunity to shower you with compliments.
"you were so good!"
"like, the dancing was insane"
"baby, the jump split?? youre so talented"
· · â ·â¶Â· â · ·
yourusername just posted !
Love Is A Wild Thing - Kacey Musgraves
liked by _quinnhughes, dcc_zoe, dallascowboycheerleaders, and 1 037 others
yourusername flowers in the concrete đđ
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_quinnhughes I had the best weekend with you â€ïž
_quinnhughes I love you
yourusername i love you alwaysđ„č
dcc_maddy my new favourite couple
dcc_zoe shout out to me for the photos
yourusername shoutout to zoe !!
dcc_zoe hahahaha love you
dcc_meghan i still cant believe that my boyfriend and i managed to keep this a secret for so long
yourusername literally so insane.. i had no idea that the two of them played hockey together and kept in contact
dcc_meghan no because as soon as he got a text about wanting to surprise you we knew we had to figure it out
yourusername ugghhh meg i love you guys so much
dcc_lainey i love love
user07 he surprised herđđđ
user22 this and the first game day of the season >>>
Summary: You're pregnant and you try and hide it because you're scared how he'll react
Song: My Love · Justin Timberlake
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 3.3k
MASTERLIST - F1
You glance over your shoulder, halfâexpecting to see Charles Leclerc slipping through the crowd, his dark eyes searching for you. Heâs late, as usual, caught up in a sea of photographers, fans, and the endless choreography of a Grand Prix weekend.
You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, smooth the fabric of your dress, and sip the cold water that tastes faintly of citrus.
The last time you saw Charles, his smile had been unguarded, his hand warm around yours as you walked handâinâhand through the narrow streets of Monte Carlo.
That night, after the race, the city seemed to belong to you both, lit by lanterns and the soft glow of the sea.
You had thought that the night would be the start of something simple, something that could be added to the list of âfirstsâ you already keptâfirst kiss in a French bakery, first time youâd dared to let yourself be vulnerable with a man whose life seemed to orbit around the sound of an engine.
But the list had grown longer, and one entry you hadnât been prepared for had slipped between the lines:Â pregnant.
It started with a missed period, a subtle shift in your body that you brushed off as stress. The grueling training schedules, the lateânight meetings, the endless travel took a toll. You thought maybe you were just tired, that your mind was playing tricks on you.
Then the nausea arrived, a tide that rose with the scent of coffee and the taste of fresh croissants. When you finally sat down with a doctor in a quiet office in Geneva, the words came out in hushed tonesâpositiveâand the world tipped on its axis.
You left the clinic with a crumpled piece of paper, a list of appointments, and a secret that pressed against your ribs like a fragile, new life.
You didnât tell Charles. You couldnât. The thought of his reaction flooded your mind: would his eyes widen in surprise, or would his smile crumble into something you didnât recognize? Would his racing instinctâalways about control, about precisionâ try to steer you away from this unknown curve?
You thought about the headlines, the paparazzi, the way a single photo could shatter the delicate bubble you had built around this private joy.
You spent the next few days moving in a careful dance. You changed the way you smiled, the way you shifted your weight when you walked, the way you swore under your breath when the world got too loud.
The first time you felt the baby kick, it was as if a tiny, mischievous engine had ignited inside you. You laughed, a private, breathless sound, and pressed a hand to your womb as if you were cradling a new kind of trophy, one you didnât want to showcase.
But you were still in the public eye. The paparazzi followed you wherever you went, lenses glinting like hungry moths. You learned to shield yourself, to conceal the blossoming curve beneath loose fabrics and strategic poses.
You told him you had a tour of a new sponsorâs facility in London, and you left the phone at the hotel to avoid the buzzing messages that might betray a confession.
One evening, after a race in Singaporeârain slashing through the night, headlights carving out the slick trackâyou found yourself alone in the dimly lit hotel room you shared for a night.
Charles had gone out to celebrate with his team, a bottle of champagne clinking against a celebration that felt surreal when you were alone with a secret in your chest.
You stood at the window, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. The thought that you were carrying a future, a tiny heart beating in sync with yours, made you feel both fragile and fierce.
You pressed your hand to the small, swollen curve and whispered to the night:Â Iâm scared, Charles. Iâm scared of what this will make you think of me.
You remembered the first time you had walked into his garage, the polished Ferrari that seemed to hum beneath your feet. You had held his hand, felt the heat of his skin, and heard his voiceâsoft, confidentâpromise that he would protect her, protect you. âIâll always be there,â he had said.
At the time, that promise had been about races, about his future in FormulaâŻOne. Now those words swirled like a promise to protect something that was yours, his, and theirs.
Your phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number, a rumor that a picture from the Monaco pit lane showing you with a larger belly had leaked. Your heart slammed into your throat.
The thought of the world seeing you in this vulnerable stateâit was too much. In the panic, you pushed the phone away and slipped into the bed that was too large, too cold without Charlesâs presence.
The next morning, the race in Barcelona was a whirlwind. Charlesâs car roared out of the garage, the crowdâs cheers a thunderous chorus. You sat in the stands, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tightly around a coffee cup that felt less like caffeine and more like a lifeline.
As the laps ticked by, you caught glimpses of Charlesâs faceâdetermined, focused, his jaw set. He was a man in his element, each turn a dance with destiny. In that moment, you felt an ache in your chest that had nothing to do with the pregnancy.
It was the longing for his reassurance, for the way heâd hold you in his arms and say everything would be okay.
After the race, as Charlesâs car crossed the finish line in first place, the crowd erupted, the stadium shimmering with confetti and flashing lights. He raised his hand in victory, a triumphant grin splitting his face.
Your eyes met his from a distance. For a split second, the world seemed to narrow to that exchange, and you felt a flicker of hopeâperhaps heâd notice something, perhaps his gaze lingered a little longer, perhaps heâd see you with new eyes.
Instead, he jogged past the pit lane with his team, his hair slicked back, his smile bright for the cameras. He caught sight of you, but the moment was fleeting.
He nodded, gave a quick wave that was meant for the crowd, and disappeared into the sea of journalists. The sound of engines still thrummed in your ears, but the silence that followed was deafening.
You left the stadium with a heavy heart, your steps echoing on the empty streets. The cityâs old stone seemed to whisper, âYou canât hide forever.â
The words struck a chord. The secret was no longer a whisper; it was a drumbeat growing louder with each passing day.
Days turned into weeks. You were on a whirlwind of appointmentsâdoctors, nutritionists, ultrasounds. Each visit was a secret dance, the staff aware but bound by confidentiality, the hospital corridor a sanctuary where you could breathe without the weight of a thousand eyes. You watched the little heart on the screen, a flicker of light that seemed to pulse in time with your own.
As you stared out at the water, you saw a figure strolling toward you, his silhouette familiar, his stride confident. Charles stopped a few steps away, his eyes widening not because of the crowd but because of something elseâperhaps curiosity, perhaps concern.
He took a seat opposite you without asking, the motion smooth, as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times.
âHey,â he said, his voice softer than the roar of an engine, âYou look⊠different.â
You forced a smile, the corner of your mouth twitching. âJust trying to hide from the paparazzi,â you replied, trying to keep your tone light. Inside, however, you felt the tremor of a secret waiting to burst.
He ordered a coffee, then leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. âWhatâs really going on, âyou?â he asked, his eyes narrowing not in accusation but in the kind of concern that makes you feel seen. âYouâve been distant. Iâve tried calling, texting. I thought youâd be at the sponsorâs eventâ"
Your throat tightened. âI⊠Iâve been busy,â you said, the words tasting like sand. âA lot of meetings, a lot of travel. Itâs⊠exhausting.â
He let out a breath that seemed to carry a thousand unasked questions. âYou know you can tell me anything, right? I mean, weâve been together for two years now. Weâve shared so much. Iâm here for the⊠for what ever you need.â
Your heart pounded louder than any engine youâd ever heard. You could feel the babyâs movementsâsoft kicks that seemed to echo the rhythm of his words.
You imagined the little oneâs tiny hands feeling his touch, his voice swirling around them long before they ever met his skin.
You swallowed, trying to find the right words, the precise phrasing that would protect the fragile new world you had cultivated. âCharles, thereâs something I need to tell you, something⊠important.â
He nodded, eyes never leaving yours. âOkay.â
You took a deep breath, feeling the life inside you rise and fall like a wave. âIâm pregnant.â The words left your mouth as if they had been waiting for a moment, a pause, a breath. The sentence hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freezeâjust as the cameras freeze a car at a corner. Charles blinked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, his mouth opening a fraction. âPregnant?â he repeated, the word tasting foreign in his mouth. âYou⊠youâreâŠâ
Your voice trembled, âIâm scared. I didnât know how to tell you. I didnât want the world to⊠to turn us into something weâre not.â
Silence settled for a second, and then, slowly, a smile began to form at the edge of his lips. Not a congratulatory grin, not a laugh, but a soft, genuine curve that spoke of relief and joy and an unexpected tenderness.
He reached across the table, his hand brushing yours, fingers intertwining like a racecarâs chassis and engine, perfect and inseparable.
âYouâre scared,â he said, his voice low, âand I get that. Iâve spent my whole life trying to control the track, the speed, the outcomes. I never imagined a moment where Iâd have to let go of that control, where Iâd have to trust something⊠something that was entirely beyond my hand.â
He paused, his eyes searching yours, the depth of his gaze like the night sky over Monaco. âBut I want to be there, for you⊠for us⊠for this little one. I want to be the kind of partner whoâs there at the start line and at the finish line, not just for the races but for every moment that comes after.â
You felt tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, unbidden, but not from fear. It was reliefâa tide that rose and washed away the heaviness you had carried alone for weeks.
You laughed, a sound that seemed to echo the cheers of a crowd, but this time the applause was internal, intimate.
âI thought youâd be upset,â you whispered, âthat youâd think this⊠this changes everything.â
He squeezed your hand. âNo,â he said, his voice firm yet gentle, âIt changes everything, but in a good way. It shows us what weâre capable of, together. Itâs not a detour; itâs a new circuit.â
You told him about your ultrasound, about the way the tiny heart fluttered to the rhythm of his voice when you sang a lullaby (a ridiculous thing youâd never dared to try before). He listened, his eyes never wavering, his hand never loosening its grip.
âYou know,â Charles said after a moment, âIâve always loved the rush of the track. The way the crowd roars when I cross the finish line. But⊠thisâthis is a different kind of finish line for me. One I want to cross with you, every single day.â
You felt the world tilt, not with fear, but with an exhilarating sense of possibility. The secret that had once weighed you down now felt like a light that illuminated a new path.
You realized that the biggest risk youâd ever taken was not a daring overtake on a hairpin turn, but sharing your vulnerability. And it had paid off.
The weeks that followed became a blur of preparation and new rhythms. Charles, ever the professional, adjusted his schedule, fitting prenatal appointments into his training regime.
He showed up at the hospital in his casual attireâa simple white shirt and jeansâhanding you a bouquet of wildflowers from his garden in Monaco, his smile brighter than any trophy heâd ever won.
Together, you painted the nursery in soft pastel colors, hanging a mural of a racing car with a babyâs cradle beside it. You laughed as Charles tried to assemble the crib, his hands more accustomed to fineâtuning a pit stop than tightening bolts.
âWho knew my biggest challenge would be a flat-pack,â he joked, and you couldnât help but pull him close, your kiss tasting of espresso and new beginnings.
There were moments when the media caught wind of your news. The first headline read, âCharles Leclerc Announces Expectant FatherhoodâA New Chapter Begins.â
The world swarmed, cameras flashing, journalists probing for details. You held onto each other in the eye of the storm, refusing to let the noise drown out the private joy you both felt.
The day Charles raced in Singapore for the second time after the news broke, you stood in the grandstand, your hand pressed to your belly, feeling the babyâs gentle kicks as if urging his father on.
The track glittered under the night lights, the roar of engines a distant thunder to the whispered promise in your hearts. Charlesâs car lined up on the grid, his eyes catching yours for a split second.
He gave you a thumbs upâan unspoken message that he felt every lap with you, that the speed of his heart matched the beat of the tiny life within you.
He won that race too. The crowd erupted, the champagne sprayed, and this time when he lifted his trophy, he held it higher, as if dedicating it to the future person who would one day sit in those stands cheering for him.
Months later, the day came when you finally felt the world tilt in a different way. The labor was a fierce, beautiful battleâone where you werenât the only one fighting for the finish line.
Charles was at your side, his hands gripping yours, his voice a steady murmur:Â âYouâve got this. In me, youâve always had a team. Now you have a whole new crew.â
As the baby entered the world, the first cry echoed louder than any engine rev youâd ever heard.
You held your childâsoft skin, a mop of dark hair, eyes that seemed to hold a universe of possibilities. Charles stared, tears spilling down his cheeks, his own heartbeat syncopated with yours. He whispered, âWelcome to the world, little one. Youâre already a champion.â
You realized then that the secret you had tried so hard to hide had become the most powerful thing about youâsomething that brought you closer to the man you loved, an event that turned a private fear into a shared triumph.
Your relationship with Charles evolved, shifting from the intensity of a highâspeed romance to the steady cadence of partnership. You found joy in the mundane: lateânight diaper changes, shared breakfast while the sun rose over the Mediterranean, and quiet evenings where Charles would play a piano, his voice low, singing lullabies that echoed the rhythm of the track he once dominated.
There were still moments when the world intrudedâphotos, interviews, the occasional intrusive question about how he balanced fatherhood and racing.
Charles handled them with the same poise heâd shown on the track, deflecting with humor, redirecting focus to his family, and always, always looking at you with a love that was both fierce and gentle.
One night, after a successful race where he had secured pole position, Charles returned home to find you already asleep, a tiny hand curled around his own, his baby resting against his chest.
He hovered there, looking at the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the gentle smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. He whispered,
âWeâve come a long way,â and brushed a kiss on your forehead.
You opened your eyes, the moonlight sliding over the room, framing the silhouettes of both men you lovedâthe driver and the father, the same person wearing different helmets.
You smiled, feeling the rhythm of your own heart sync with the two you cherished. âYes,â you said softly. âAnd weâll keep racing, in our own way.â
In the weeks that followed, you found a new kind of balance. The track was still there, but your home became the place where the most meaningful victories were celebratedâfirst steps, first words, the quiet moments of connection that made all the applause of the world seem distant.
You learned that love, like a race, was not just about speed, but about endurance, strategy, and the willingness to take chances when the odds seemed impossible.
You had once hidden a secret out of fear, but now you wore it like a badge, a mark of the journey you took togetherâthrough the roar of engines, the hush of a hospital, the bright lights of the podium, and the soft glow of a nightlight.
And as you tucked your child into a crib painted with little racing cars, you glanced at Charles, who was already dozing, a faint smile pulling at his lips.
He woke, leaned over, and whispered, âDo you ever think about the first time we met, how we were so sure of everything?â
You laughed, a sound warm and full. âI didnât know how uncertain I could be,â you replied, âbut Iâm glad we both learned to trust the unknown.â
He pulled you close, your bodies fitting together like two perfectly tuned parts of a machine. The world outside might continue to spin, the race track might continue to roar, but in that small room filled with love, the only sound you needed to hear was the steady beating of two heartsâyours, his, and the tiny promise that floated between them.
And as the night deepened, you felt a gentle, steady breath against your cheekâa whisper from the future, a reminder that the greatest victories are not measured in trophies or lap times, but in the quiet, unyielding love that carries you forward, no matter how fast the world tries to move.
You lean back, eyes closing, the rhythm of your childâs tiny heart matching yours, and you realize that the secret you once tried to hide was never a burden at all, but a giftâa new circuit to navigate hand in hand with Charles, a race that will never end, and a love that will always find its finish line. . . .
Summary: Lando's love language is touch which is something you've never been used to before
Song: Constellations · Jade LeMac
Authorâs note: Please like, reblog and share this! đ«¶
Word count: 2.1k
MASTERLIST - F1
The first time you realize Lando Norris communicates in a language you don't speak, itâs with the simple act of asking you to be his girlfriend.
Youâre not a stranger to affection, not really. Youâve had relationships before, held hands, exchanged kisses. But it was always a conscious act, a series of deliberate steps on a dance floor.
You led, or you followed, but it was always a choice, a movement you were aware of. With Lando, everything seems to happen in the margins, in the unconscious spaces between thoughts.
Your romance with him has been a whirlwind of stolen moments, a secret blooming in the high-octane world of Formula 1. It started with a chance meeting, a flirty exchange of DMs that turned into late-night calls, which then blossomed into a first date that felt less like a first date and more like coming home to a place youâd never been.
He was funny, impossibly charming, and behind the relentless, playful energy, there was a warmth that drew you in like a moth to a flame.
Tonight, heâs driven you to the top of a winding hill overlooking the glittering sprawl of Monaco. The engine of his McLaren is silent, the city below a carpet of scattered diamonds. The air is cool, carrying the distant scent of jasmine and sea salt.
Youâre sitting side-by-side on the hood of his car, not quite touching, but the space between you thrums with a nervous, electric energy.
Youâve been talking for hours, about everything and nothing. His race simulation, the book youâre reading, a ridiculous video he showed you of a cat trying to fit into a box that was clearly too small.
But the conversation has lulled, and the silence that has fallen is comfortable, thick with unspoken things.
He turns to you, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, making them sparkle. The usual playful smirk is gone, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.
âSo,â he starts, and his voice is a little lower than usual. âUs. I really like⊠us.â
Your heart does a funny little flutter against your ribs. âI like us too, Lando.â
He takes a breath, and you can see him rehearsing the words in his head. This is Lando Norris, a man who can command a car at 200 miles an hour, who can face down a global press pack without breaking a sweat, and right now, he looks almost nervous.
âI donât want to⊠mess this up,â he says, his gaze fixed on yours. âAnd I know this is fast, but it feels right. It feels the most right anything has felt in a long time. I want you to be my girlfriend. Officially. Properly. My girlfriend.â
The words hang in the night air, stark and beautiful. A laugh bubbles up inside you, not from amusement, but from pure, unadulterated joy. Itâs a ridiculous question, really, because in your heart, youâve been his for weeks.
âYes,â you say, and the word is clear, steady, sure. âOf course, yes.â
The transformation on his face is instantaneous and breathtaking. The tension melts away, replaced by a grin so wide and brilliant it could outshine the entire city below.
And then he moves. Itâs not a thought, itâs an impulse. He slides closer, wraps his arms around you, and pulls you into a hug.
This is the moment.
In your world, hugs are reserved for hellos, goodbyes, and moments of deep, solemn comfort. They are an event. This is different. This is a celebration.
His arms encircle you, one around your shoulders, the other around your waist, and he pulls you flush against his chest. His chin rests on the top of your head, and you are completely engulfed by him.
For a split second, your body freezes. Itâs an instinct you didnât know you had, a primal reflex against this sudden, all-encompassing contact. Your hands hover awkwardly in the air.
You can feel the steady, rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek, can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the unique smell of his car.
Heâs warm and solid and real, and heâs holding you like youâre the most precious thing in the world.
Slowly, tentatively, you let your hands settle, one on his back, the other on his shoulder. You feel the lean muscle beneath his thin jacket.
He gives a little squeeze, a silent punctuation mark to his joy. And something inside you, a tightly wound coil of reserve you didnât even know was there, begins to loosen. This isnât an invasion. Itâs an invitation.
You lean into him, just a fraction, and rest your head more fully against his chest. The hug lasts maybe ten seconds, but it feels like an eternity.
When he finally pulls back, his hands linger on your arms, and his smile is still there, softer now.
âOkay,â he breathes, his eyes shining. âOkay. Good.â
Youâre still processing the sensation, the warmth that seems to have seeped through your clothes and into your very bones. Youâve never been hugged just because someone was happy to have you. Itâs a new language, and youâve only just learned the first word.
The second lesson comes a few weeks later, on a race Sunday in Silverstone. The air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber and anticipation.
The roar of the crowd is a physical force, a living, breathing beast that echoes in your chest. Being Landoâs girlfriend, even a semi-secret one, means access, but it also means navigating a sea of humanity.
Youâre trying to make your way from the hospitality area to the garage, a simple enough task that has become a Herculean effort. People swarm around you, a blur of team shirts, camera lenses, and frantic gestures.
Youâre jostled from side to side, your personal space shrinking until itâs non-existent. You crane your neck, trying to spot a familiar face, a landmark, anything, but itâs just a wall of people. A ribbon of anxiety starts to tighten in your stomach.
Youâre not claustrophobic, but this is overwhelming. You feel small, lost, and utterly alone in the chaos.
And then, it happens.
A hand slips into yours.
Itâs so sudden, so unexpected, that you jump. Your first instinct is to pull away, to question who is grabbing you. But then your fingers register the familiar landscape of his handâthe calluses on his palm, the way his thumb fits perfectly in the space between your own.
You donât even need to look. You know itâs Lando.
You turn your head, and there he is, a look of intense concentration on his face. Heâs not looking at you, but forward, navigating the path ahead. He doesnât say a word.
He just interlaces his fingers with yours, his grip firm and secure, and begins to pull you gently but purposefully through the crowd.
Itâs like a parting of the Red Sea. People see him, see the determined set of his jaw, and move aside. But for you, the rest of the world has faded away. All you can focus on is the point of contact, the warmth of his hand in yours.
His thumb begins to move, stroking slow, lazy circles on the back of your hand. Itâs an absent-minded gesture, something heâs probably not even aware heâs doing, but itâs infinitely calming.
The anxiety in your chest dissolves, replaced by a profound sense of safety. This isnât a hug born of joy; itâs a lifeline. Itâs a silent promise that says, Iâm here. Iâve got you. Youâre not lost.
Youâre not just an accessory heâs towing along; youâre his priority, and this small, simple act of holding your hand is his way of creating a bubble of safety for you in the middle of a storm.
You find yourself squeezing his hand back, a small, silent âthank youâ that you know heâll understand. He glances down at you then, a quick, reassuring smile gracing his lips before his attention returns to the path.
Youâre no longer fighting the current. Youâre flowing with him, an anchor in his hand, a partner in the journey. Youâve realized his touch isnât always a grand statement.
Sometimes, itâs a quiet, practical, and utterly necessary form of communication. And youâre starting to learn how to listen.
A disastrous triple header follows. Three weeks, three races, and a mountain of bad luck. A technical failure in Spa, a first-lap collision in Monza, and a strategic miscalculation in Singapore that leaves him finishing outside the points.
Youâve watched it all unfold, seen the frustration build with each passing weekend, the light in his eyes dimming a little more each time.
Youâre in his Monaco apartment now, the final evening before the autumn break begins. The city lights are the same as they were on the night he asked you to be his, but the mood is a world away. Itâs heavy, thick with unspoken disappointment.
Lando hasnât said much since he got back from a long, draining debrief with the team. Heâs just moving around the apartment like a ghost, his usual vibrant energy replaced by a weary stillness.
Youâre curled up on the sofa, pretending to read a book, but really youâre just watching him. Heâs staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection a pale, tired version of the man you know. Heâs not angry, not this time.
Heâs just⊠hollowed out. Defeated. You know he needs space, but every instinct you have screams at you to do something. You just donât know what.
Finally, he turns from the window and walks over to the sofa. He doesnât sit on the other end, respecting your space. He doesnât even sit next to you.
He collapses on top of you, his head landing heavily in your lap as his body drapes across the length of the sofa. His eyes are closed, his face buried against your stomach.
Your entire body tenses. This is more invasive than the hug, more intimate than the hand-hold. This is a complete and total surrender.
Heâs putting all his weight, all his frustration, all his exhaustion onto you. Your hands freeze in mid-air, the book forgotten on the cushion beside you.
What do you do? Do you talk? Do you just lie here? Do you pat his back awkwardly?
You look down at him. The lines of stress are etched around his eyes, his brow furrowed even in sleep-like surrender. You can feel the deep, even breaths heâs taking, trying to calm himself.
And in that moment, your awkwardness melts away, replaced by a wave of such fierce, overwhelming tenderness it almost hurts.
Slowly, you bring one hand down and rest it on his head, your fingers sinking into the soft, slightly curly hair. The other hand you place on his back, between his shoulder blades.
You start to move them, not with any real purpose, just a gentle, rhythmic motion. You stroke his hair, trace the line of his jaw with your thumb, rub slow circles on the fabric of his t-shirt.
Youâre not just touching him anymore. Youâre comforting him. Youâre absorbing some of his pain, offering a silent refuge with your own body.
A long, shuddering sigh escapes him, and he shifts, burrowing deeper into you. His arm wraps around your waist, holding on. This isnât about joy or safety. This is about solace.
His touch is asking for something he canât put into words: Hold me. Tell me itâs okay, just for a minute. Let me fall apart here, with you.
And you find yourself responding, not with words, but with your body. You hold him tighter, letting him know youâre not going anywhere.
You press a soft kiss to the crown of his head, a gesture so natural it surprises you. You realize youâve learned a new dialect of his language. Itâs not always loud and happy.
Sometimes itâs a whisper, a plea. And you, who were once so hesitant to be touched, are now offering it freely, without a second thought.
You are his anchor, and he, in turn, has taught you how to be strong enough to hold him.
Months pass. The season ebbs and flows, a relentless tsunami of data, debriefs, and G-forces. You become fluent in his language. The quick squeeze of your knee under a table during a tense dinner.
The way heâll rest his hand on the small of your back as you walk into a room. The way heâll loop his arm around your shoulders and pull you into his side while youâre watching a film on the sofa, just because.
Youâve stopped flinching. Youâve stopped overthinking. Youâve started to anticipate it, to crave it. Youâve even started initiating itâa hand on his arm as you talk, a kiss on the cheek as you pass by. His touch has become your comfort, your signal, your home.
And it all culminates in Abu Dhabi.
The championship has come down to this. The final race of the season. The tension is so thick you could taste it. Lando is in with a shot, a long shot, but a shot nonetheless. You watch from the paddock, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, as the lights go out.
The race is a blur of strategy, overtakes, and barely-contained panic. Every lap feels like a lifetime. You stand with the team, a sea of orange, your eyes glued to the screen, your hand clasped so tightly in his engineerâs that your knuckles are white. You barely notice. Your entire being is focused on the car with number 4 on the front.
The final lap. The final corner. He crosses the line.
Pandemonium.
The world erupts in a symphony of screaming and shouting. For a split second, your brain canât process it. Heâs done it. Against all odds, heâs done it. Heâs the World Champion.
Tears are streaming down your face before you even realize it. Youâre being hugged from all sides, slapped on the back, people are screaming in your ear, but all you can see is the slow-down lap, the orange car glimmering under the lights.
Heâs mobbed by his team, his mechanics, his principal. Theyâre lifting him onto their shoulders. Heâs laughing, crying, a beautiful, chaotic mess.
Youâre standing on the edge of the chaos, trying to get to him, but the crowd is too thick. You can see him looking, his head swiveling as he searches the sea of faces. And then his eyes find yours.
Everything else disappears. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras. Itâs just you and him, across a crowded space, the same way it was in Silverstone, but this time, youâre not lost. Youâre his destination.
He extricates himself from the crowd, practically fighting his way toward you. You can see the grin in his eyes.
He reaches you, and without a word, he grabs your face in his gloved hands and kisses you.
This is not a gentle kiss. This is not a celebratory peck. This is a kiss that speaks volumes. Itâs a kiss that says, I did it. I did it for us. I couldnât have done it without you.
Itâs filled with the elation of victory, the relief of the finish line, and a depth of love so profound it steals the air from your lungs.
Your arms fly up, your hands tangling in his hair, still damp with sweat. You pull him closer, kissing him back with everything you have. You donât care about the cameras. You donât care about the world watching.
All you care about is the feel of his lips on yours, the solid reality of him in your arms. This is the final word in his language, the ultimate declaration. Itâs a kiss that seals a promise, that marks a new beginning.
He finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
His face is flushed, his hair is a mess, and his eyes are shining brighter than all the stars in the desert sky.
âWe did it,â he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
You cup his face in your hands, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones, a gesture that is now as natural to you as breathing. âYou did it,â you correct, but youâre smiling through your tears.
He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving yours. âNo. We did it.â
He leans in and kisses you again, a softer, deeper kiss this time. A kiss for the future. And as you stand there, wrapped in his arms, in the middle of a world he has just conquered, you think back to that night on the hill, to that first, awkward hug.
You remember the surprise, the hesitation, the feeling of being in unfamiliar territory.
Now, there is no hesitation. There is only this. The solid weight of his arms around you, the warmth of his body, the taste of victory on his lips.
His touch was once a foreign language, but youâve learned it, spoken it, and now, itâs as much a part of you as your own breath. Itâs no longer just his love language. Itâs yours, too. . . .
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