#f1+

Your hair was messy, falling across your cheek. Your feet were tucked under his thigh for warmth. You were wearing those ridiculous holiday pajama pants covered in tiny Christmas trees despite the fact that it was April because you claimed they were your comfiest pair.

Max had smiled when you came out wearing them.

He was still smiling now. It was such a small thing, so ordinary, and so painfully normal that it shouldn’t have meant anything at all and yet as he looked at you curled against him, your breathing soft and even, your hand resting loosely on his stomach like even in sleep some part of you can’t be apart from him. The thought came before he could stop it.

I could do this forever.

It settled inside him with a strange kind of weight. Max had never been the sort of man who dreamed about weddings. He had spent his entire life chasing speed, control, precision. His future had always been measured in lap times and contracts, in championships and calendars, in the next race, the next season, the next thing he needed to prove.

Marriage had been something distant and abstract, something other people thought about. Something that might happen one day, maybe, if life ever slowed down enough for him to consider it, but with you asleep in his arms, in Christmas pajamas in the middle of spring, mumbling something unintelligible when you shifted closer, it did not feel distant anymore.

It felt terrifyingly close.

His throat tightened.

Max Verstappen was also not afraid of much. He’d spent his whole life staring fear down at three hundred kilometres an hour, daring it to blink first, he knew pressure and he certainly knew risk. He knew what it was to carry expectation so heavy it could crush someone weaker, but this was different. This was not fear of losing a race. This was fear of wanting something so badly that losing it would break him.

You sighed softly in your sleep, your fingers twitching against him.

“Max,” you murmured, barely audible.

He froze.

Then, slowly, his arm tightened around you. “Yeah,” he whispered, though you were not awake to hear him. He pressed his lips to the top of your head and stared at the TV.

Yeah.

He could do this forever.

The second time the thought came it was less gentle. It was a random Tuesday evening, the kind neither of you would ever remember for any obvious reason. There was no race or event to attend, a quiet weekend just the two of you in his kitchen, music playing quietly in the background and Max stubbornly insisting he actually could cook.

He could not.

That much became clear twenty minutes later when something in the pan began sticking in a way that looked permanently damaging. You stood beside him, arms crossed, watching with open delight as he attempted to scrape whatever he had made from the bottom.

“Max.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s smoking.”

“It’s not smoking.”

“Well it literally is smoking.”

He glanced down at the pan, then back at you. “A little bit.”

You burst out laughing and took the spatula from his hand before he could make it worse. “You're actually useless,” you teased, nudging him aside with your hip. “How do you drive an F1 car but can’t flip a pancake?”

Max leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “The car does not stick to the pan.”

You scraped at the burnt mess, shaking your head. “You’re lucky you’re good at other things.”

He smirked immediately. “Like what?”

You glanced at him, ready to tease him he could see it in your face, you were going to say something smug, something ridiculous, something designed purely to annoy him, but then you paused and your expression shifted. It softened in a way that caught him off guard, your smile fading into something quieter.

“You’re good at making people feel safe,” you said.

It's not what he expected.

Not even close. People had called him a lot of things throughout his life. Fast. Relentless. Arrogant. Aggressive. Brilliant. Difficult. Champion. They had analysed him, criticised him, praised him, turned him into a headline and a debate and a weapon depending on who was talking.

But safe?

That word had never belonged to him. At least he had never thought it did, but you said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like there was no doubt in your mind that when you thought of safety, you thought of him. His fingers twitched against the counter.

“You think that?” he asked, quieter than he meant to.

You looked back at the pan, suddenly shy, as if you had not expected the words to come out so sincerely.

“Yeah,” you said. “Of course I do.”

Of course.

Max didn’t know what to say so he said nothing. He just watched you rescue dinner from his failed attempt, still teasing him under your breath, still moving around his kitchen like you belonged in every corner of his life.

Later that night when you were curled beside him on the sofa, one hand absentmindedly tracing patterns across his arm while the television played in the background he pressed a kiss to your temple and lingered there longer than usual.

You hummed softly. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” he murmured.

But it wasn’t nothing, it was the first time he understood that loving you was not just about wanting you. It was about the version of himself he became around you. A man who could be gentle, who could be trusted and a man who could be someone’s safe place.

The third time there was no escaping it.

Austria had been awful.

The kind of race that left frustration burning under his skin long after he had climbed out of the car. A mechanical issue had thrown everything off instead of fighting where he should have been fighting he had spent the afternoon managing damage, swallowing anger, forcing himself through interviews while every question felt like salt in an open wound.

By the time he got back to the apartment he was exhausted, he was worn down, irritated, and in no mood to talk to anyone… but then there was you.

You were on the couch with a blanket over your legs, a cup of tea in your hands, the lamp beside you casting a warm glow across the room. You looked up when he came in and you didn’t flinch at the expression on his face, you didn’t rush toward him with pity and you didn’t launch into some rehearsed speech about how it was okay, how there would be other races, how he had done his best.

You just looked at him.

Knowingly.

Max sighed and dragged a hand over his face, and dropped onto the couch beside you. You set your mug down without a word and shifted closer, tucking yourself into his side, your fingers found his hair threading through loosely.

“Want to talk about it?” you asked.

He stared ahead. “Not really.”

“Okay.”

That was it. No need for him to explain the anger sitting heavy in his chest when he barely understood what to do with it himself. Max closed his eyes and you rested your head against his shoulder, thumb brushing slow, soothing lines over the back of his hand and in the quiet, with the city outside and the race behind him and you beside him it hit him so clearly that he almost couldn’t breathe.

This was forever love.

The kind of love that didn’t demand he become easier to handle before it stayed or the kind that sat beside him in the aftermath. The kind that knew when to speak and when to be quiet and the kind that made forever feel nothing like a trap and more like a promise.

Max turned his head slightly, looking at you. You were still watching the television pretending not to notice the way his emotions had shifted beside you.

I’m going to marry you he thought.

The certainty of it should have scared him.

The truth was it did scare him a little, but not enough to make him run from it.

You glanced up. “You okay?”

Max looked at you for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “More than.”

He bought the ring two weeks later.

That part should've been simple.

It was not.

Max spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at rings online, then decided online was useless because the photos all looked the same, then went to an actual jeweller and immediately regretted not bringing someone with him. His mother would have known what questions to ask. His sister would have told him if he was picking the wrong style. His friends would have been unbearable but probably helpful in the way people were when they were too nosy for their own good.

Instead Max stood in front of a glass display case, staring at diamonds while the jeweller patiently asked what style his partner liked.

Max opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then realised he knew everything and somehow nothing.

He knew how you took your tea. He knew which hoodie of his you stole most often. He knew the exact face you made when you were pretending not to be annoyed. He knew how you liked your toast, which side of the bed you slept on, the films you watched when you were sad, the songs you played when you were getting ready, the way your voice changed when you were trying not to laugh.

But ring style?

He could hear your voice in his head, teasing him.

You should know this Verstappen.

So he tried.

He looked at delicate ones. Bigger ones. Classic ones. Modern ones. Ones that looked too much. Ones that looked too plain. He frowned at every single option until the jeweller must have started to wonder whether he was trying to plan a robbery.

Then he saw it and all the noise stopped, it wasn’t the biggest ring in the shop or the flashiest, but it looked like you. Elegant, warm, unique, quietly impossible to look away from.

Max stared at it.

“That one,” he said.

The jeweller smiled. “Would you like to see it?”

Max nodded, but he already knew.

The moment the box was placed in his hand, the future became more real, not a thought on a sofa or a feeling in a kitchen or a promise made silently after a bad race.

A ring.

A question.

A life.

He kept it in his jacket pocket for three days before he worked up the courage to do anything with it and then, because he was Max and he had overthought it so much he decided he needed more information.

Which was how he ended up suggesting a shopping trip.

You stared at him from across the kitchen like he had announced he wanted to take up ballet.

“You want to go shopping?”

Max kept his expression neutral. “Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

“On a weekend?”

“Yes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you dying?”

He rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“No.”

“Are you about to do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then why are you willingly stepping into a mall?”

Max grabbed his car keys before you could interrogate him further. “I just think we should look around.”

“Look around?”

“See what’s new.”

“You want to see what's new?”

“Maybe get you something nice.”

Your suspicion deepened. “You're being very weird.”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“Are you coming or not?”

Of course you came, you were too curious not to.

Max tried to be subtle once you got there.

He was not good at being subtle. He steered you past clothing shops too quickly, pretended to be interested in shoes for approximately thirty seconds, and then somehow found himself pausing outside every jewellery store you passed, glancing at the displays like a man attempting espionage with no training.

You noticed. Still you played along at first, mostly because watching Max Verstappen attempt at casual behaviour was one of life’s greatest joys.

At the first jewellery store he stopped in front of a display of bracelets.

“These are nice,” he said, too stiffly.

You looked at him. “Are they?”

“Yes.”

“You wear the same three things every day.”

“For my mother,” he said quickly.

“Your mother.”

“Yes.”

“You’re buying your mother a bracelet?”

“Maybe.”

“Max, her birthday was months ago.”

“I can buy her things at other times.”

You hummed, looking back at the display. “That is true.”

He relaxed slightly.

Then ruined it immediately by saying, “What about rings?”

You almost laughed.

“Rings for your mother?”

He froze.

You watched the panic flicker across his face and had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“Maybe not for my mother,” he muttered. “Just generally.”

“Generally,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

You let him suffer for another few seconds before smiling sweetly. “Sure. We can look at rings generally.”

Max exhaled like he had just survived a near Q3 miss.

He asked what you liked and tried to sound indifferent. Failed. He asked whether certain shapes were nice. Whether yellow gold was better than white gold. Whether you thought some rings were too much or too simple, at one point he even made you try one on, claiming he was just curious how it looked on a hand.

“A hand,” you said.

“Yes.”

“Any hand?”

His jaw tightened. “Just try the ring.”

So you did and the second it slid onto your finger something changed in his face. His eyes softened, his mouth parting slightly as if the sight had knocked the words out of him. For a moment he forgot to pretend this was casual. Forgot the shop and the weak excuses, the ridiculous cover story about hypothetical jewellery.

He just looked at your hand.

At the ring.

At you.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

Then he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Looks fine,” he said.

Fine.

You nearly kicked him.

By the time you stopped for coffee, Max was tense enough that you were starting to wonder whether he might propose in the middle of the café out of sheer panic.

Instead he got distracted by at a football merch store opposite and wandered over to look at something in the window after leaving his jacket draped over the back of the chair beside you.

His phone buzzed in the pocket. You glanced at it instinctively, more to stop it vibrating off the chair than anything else. You reached for the jacket intending to push it more securely onto the seat. That was when the small velvet box slipped from the pocket and landed in your lap.

For a second you didn’t move.

You stared at it and your whole body went still. There was no mistaking what it was, no possible other explanation or bracelet-for-my-mother lie that could save him now.

A ring box.

Max had a ring box.

Max had bought a ring.

Yes he had been almost blindingly obvious all day but part of you hadn’t truly believed it yet. Max was going to propose to you.

Across the café Max was still looking at the merch display, completely unaware that your entire world had just tilted on its axis. You picked up the box carefully like it might explode.

You didn’t open it. You wanted to. God, you wanted to, every part of you was screaming to see it, to know, but you didn’t, because as much as you wanted to see the ring, you wanted Max to show it to you more. So you slipped it back into his jacket pocket just as he turned around.

He came back to the table, suspiciously pleased with himself for doing absolutely nothing and dropped into the chair opposite you.

“What?” he asked, frowning at your face.

You blinked. “What?”

“You look weird.”

“I look weird?”

“Yes.”

“Really after today?”

His brow deepened. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, lifting your coffee. “Absolutely nothing.”

And so began the longest month of your life.

At first it was funny. Max had a ring. Max was going to propose. Max who could overtake anyone around the outside without blinking apparently could not ask one question without nearly short-circuiting.

You found it sweet… for about three days. After that it became torture, because once you knew you couldn’t unknow it.

Every time his hand brushed his pocket your pulse jumped. Every time he looked at you a little too long you thought, this is it. Every time he suggested dinner, a walk, a drive, a quiet night in, your entire body went on high alert.

And every time he didn’t do it.

At dinner he would reach into his jacket and then freeze when the waiter appeared with the wine list. At home he sat beside you on the sofa, unusually quiet, his knee bouncing, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles as if he was trying to memorise the shape of your hand. You thought he was going to ask then. He looked like he was going to ask then.

Instead, he swallowed and said, “Do you want a tea?”

You stared at him. “Tea?”

“Yeah.”

You wanted to scream.

Then there was the scenic overlook. That one nearly ended you. He drove you out at sunset, which was already suspicious because Max wasn’t one for spontaneous scenic drives unless there was food or a race car involved. The sky was all pink and gold, the air warm, the view beautiful enough to make your chest ache.

He stood beside you, one hand in his pocket looking more nervous than you had ever seen him.

Your heart pounded.

You waited.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

The moment stretched.

Then he said, “Nice view.”

You almost shoved him off the overlook.

By the end of the month you were ready to explode.

He kept checking his pockets like he expected the ring to have vanished. He kept staring at you like he wanted to say something and then stopping himself at the last second. The worst part was that he seemed genuinely distressed by his own inability to do it, like he wanted it to be perfect so badly that every ordinary, lovely, perfect moment became something he could ruin by overthinking.

You understood.

You really did.

But you were also losing your mind.

That night you were sitting on the balcony of your shared apartment, pretending to read while actually watching Max pace back and forth inside through the glass doors. He looked ridiculous. Beautiful, but ridiculous.

His hair was messy from how many times he had dragged his hand through it. His mouth was set in that focused line he usually wore before races. His hand kept going to his pocket, then away from it, then back again.

You narrowed your eyes.

No. Not again.

Absolutely not.

You had given him time, you had given him romantic lighting, you had given him silence, privacy, sunsets, dinners, sofas, soft mornings and calm evenings.

You stood up, slid the balcony door open and walked inside.

“Max,” you called.

He froze mid-step.

Then he turned slowly, eyes wide. “Uh. Yeah?”

He watched you approach like you were race control about to hand him a penalty.

You planted yourself in front of him. “Are you going to propose to me or not?”

His mouth fell open. For a second, nothing came out.

“I—”

“Because I know you have a ring,” you continued, throwing your hands up. “I found it in your jacket last month.”

Max looked horrified.

Then betrayed.

Then horrified again.

“You found it?”

“Yes.”

“In my jacket?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. I wanted to be surprised!”

“You wanted to be surprised,” he repeated, incredulous. “So you decided to confront me?”

“I wanted to be surprised when you actually did it,” you laughed. “But you keep not doing it.”

His face flushed. “I was going to.”

“When? When we’re eighty?”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

Your frustration softened slightly, but only slightly.

“Max,” you said, quieter now. “I don’t need perfect.”

He looked at you.

The room went still around you both. You stepped closer, your voice losing its edge.

“I don’t need some huge speech and I don’t need a perfect view or perfect timing or whatever version of this you’ve built up in your head. I just need you.”

All the panic, all the tension, all the overthinking seemed to loosen at once. His shoulders dropped and his eyes softened. Then, before you could say another word, he reached into his pocket.

Max dropped to one knee right there in the middle of the living room.

Just him.

Just you.

Despite all your impatience, despite the fact that you’d known for a weeks, despite the fact that you had literally forced the moment into existence your eyes burned with shock and awe.

Because there it was.

The ring.

The question.

The future you had been waiting for.

Max looked up at you and for once the man who always seemed so sure of himself looked completely undone.

“I had a speech,” he said.

A laugh broke out of you, wet and shaky. “Of course you did.”

“I did,” he insisted. “It was good.”

“I’m sure.”

“I forgot all of it.”

You covered your mouth, smiling so hard it hurt. Max huffed, but his eyes were bright too.

“So I’ll just say this.” He took a breath, his voice roughening. “I love you. I love you when you make me watch shows I don’t understand. I love you when you wear Christmas pajamas in April. I love you when you call me useless in my own kitchen. I love that I make you feel safe. I love you because you make my life feel quiet in the best way. You make me feel like I have somewhere to come home to no matter what happens.”

Your chest tightened. He swallowed.

“You’re my best friend,” he said. “You’re the biggest pain in my ass. You’re the person I look for after every race, good or bad. You’re the person I want beside me when everything is loud and when everything is normal and when nothing important is happening at all.”

Your tears slipped before you could stop them.

Max’s hand tightened around the ring box.

“I don’t know how to make this perfect,” he admitted. “I've tried all month and I kept messing it up because nothing felt good enough, but maybe that’s because it’s not about the place or the timing or the speech.”

His voice softened.

“It is just about you and me and the fact that I want forever with you.”

You pressed a hand to your chest.

“So,” he said, looking up at you with a nervous, crooked little smile. “Will you marry me?”

For one second, you let him wait, only one. Mostly because after the month he had put you through he deserved at least that much.

Then you grinned.

“Yes.”

Max blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, of course Max.”

The relief that crossed his face was so immediate and so overwhelming that you laughed through your tears.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed.

“Very romantic.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

“I noticed.”

He took your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger, the second it settled there both of you looked down. It fit perfectly. Max stared at it for a moment then looked back up at you. “You really found it last month?”

You nodded.

“And you didn’t look?”

“No.”

His brows lifted. “Really?”

“I wanted you to be the one.”

His thumb brushed over your ring finger and his mouth parted slightly before he stood. Then he kissed you, deep and relieved and full of every word he had been too nervous to say before. His hands came to your waist, pulling you close, and you smiled against his mouth because he was still trembling slightly.

“You took so long,” you whispered.

He groaned, dropping his forehead against yours. “Don’t start.”

“You took forever.”

“I was trying to make it special.” He pulled back enough to glare at you, though the effect was ruined by the smile tugging at his mouth. “You're engaged to me for two minutes and already bullying me.”

“I was bullying you before.”

“Yes,” he said, kissing you again. “I know.”

You looked down at the ring once more, twisting your hand slightly so it caught the light, it was so beautiful, but more than that it was his too. Chosen by him, carried around nervously by him, hidden badly by him, almost offered so many times by him. You loved it more for every failed attempt.

Max watched your face carefully. “You like it?”

“I love it.”

His shoulders relaxed. Then you added, “Almost as much as I love the fact that you tried to pretend you were buying rings for your mother.”

His face dropped. “I panicked.”

Max held your hand, thumb brushing over the ring like he needed to keep checking it was real, you leaned into him resting your cheek against his chest, after a moment he wrapped both arms around you.

“I could do this forever,” he murmured.

You just smiled, because now he would.

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Pushing your sunglasses back up your nose, you squinted against the sun. The light catching in the water and making it glitter like diamonds, the coast line of Monaco always a sight to behold.

Yachts were dotted in the water like ants, bobbing and creating white waves as more approached the harbor. Celebrities and philanthropists with more money than they had reason for flocking to the rocky cliffs and casinos that made up the architecture of Monte-Carlo.

Your eyes then danced down at the roar of an engine, catching sight of the bright red Ferrari below as the pit crew ran through a practice pit stop.

A warm hand met your lower back and you turned to see Michael, who was holding out the drink you’d asked him to get. The champagne bubbles catching in the light.

“It’s quite loud,” Michael said, his voice rising over the sound of engines but his tone still had that softness to it.

“Please, your concerts are louder than this.”

He shrugged a shoulder, taking a sip from a can of coke that you knew had white wine in it. “That’s different.”

You laughed, the sound caught somewhere between a scoff and exhale and you watched as each team rolled their cars back into the garages.

You faintly heard your name, followed by “Mr. Jackson, this way please. It’s time for the pit walk if you’d like to join.”

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You’d barely made it five steps into the Ferrari garage when a crew member lightly tapped you on the shoulder. His grin wide and half hidden behind his helmet as he asked for an autograph from you and Michael. Which the two of you easily obliged, used to the attention. But then he made a comment of how pretty you were and not a moment later you felt Michael’s arm slip around your waist and start to tug you away before you could mutter a thank you.

It didn’t end there. Not that it was unusual or at an imbalance. Given Michael was stopped every few feet.

The main contrast was it was practically all men.

All gaping and staring but the intention in their eyes different once they slid from Michael to you.

You thought it might’ve been the trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his jaw twitch every time someone made a comment. His eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses when someone commented on how good you looked, though it was hard to see. His hand slipping down to hold yours, grip firm.

Michael had been pulled away to do a quick interview, clearly reluctant and he squeezed your hand before stepping away, disappearing into the swath of pit crew, guests, and drivers.

Your eyes danced along all the different luxury logos, heels clicking mutely along the pavement as your ears rang. The track so loud you barely heard your name that had a bit of an accent dancing around it.

Turning, you stopped short at the sight of Aryton Senna walking towards you. Aviators pushed back into his hair and race suit hung low around his hips.

His smile was easy, the kind that promised no good intentions but a good time nonetheless.

“I thought that was you,” he then leaned in a for a hug, something that completely took you off guard but you obliged nonetheless.

“I’m surprised you know who I am,” you admitted. Sure, you were famous, but still relatively new to the environment of obnoxious wealth. Not to mention Senna himself was leagues above you in world recognition.

“Oh, I love your voice. É como um anjo,” the words dripped off his tongue, smooth and like honey. Carrying easily over the engines and you couldn’t help it as you blushed, even though you weren’t entirely sure what he said, you didn’t miss the compliment hidden in a foreign language.

“Would you like a tour of the McLaren garage?” Senna asked, hand already falling to the small of your waist as he started to guide you away.

“Oh, I…” you looked over your shoulder to find Michael, but it was so crowded you could hardly differentiate where one person started and ended. “You know what, I’d love that.” You were sure Michael wouldn’t mind, you could find him later.

Senna walked you through the McLaren section of the pit lane, introducing you to his team and he briefly pointed out Alain Prost to you, but didn’t seem too intent on actually introducing you to his teammate and rival. It was fascinating to watch him talk about what he did and how the car worked, listening intently as he explained how one would operate an F1 car and the best way to go about winning on a track like Monaco.

You had completely lost track of time, laughing at a joke he muttered and smiling wide as he handed you his helmet, offering to take a photo of you wearing it.

You slid the helmet on, not bothered that it was likely going to ruin your hair and Senna came to stand beside you, arm around your waist as you two posed for a photo he’d summoned a photographer over to take.

The flash went off and lights danced behind your vision for a moment, blinking to urge them away and he helped you take his helmet off, his fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes.

“Nossa, que mulher linda,” he said, lips tugged to the side by an invisible string.

“I’m sorry?”

He laughed lightly and rested his helmet under his arm, “Very pretty woman,” he then gently took hold of your hand and lifted it up, inspecting it almost clinically. “And single too?”

“She’s not.”

You both turned, seeing Michael approach, his own glasses lowered down the bridge of his nose and you’d never seen him look so annoyed.

Senna turned, brow raised. “You are?”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you saw Michael’s jaw twitch because there was no way in hell Senna didn’t know who he was.

“Her boyfriend.”

The driver hummed, clearly unbothered by this information. “Shame.” He then leaned forward, placing a brief kiss to your cheek and his voice was low in your ear. “You let me know when you’re finished with him.” And with a wink, he walked off, slipping his arms back into his suit to start getting ready for the race.

You turned slowly, internally wincing as you caught the expression on his face. Though subtle and hidden beneath the fissure lines that made him up, Michael was clearly agitated. Possibly even angry. Jealous, maybe. But you didn’t know why he would be, no man could ever compete with him and you were just about to tell him that, but he took hold of your hand and practically dragged you back towards the hospitality section of Ferrari.

“I was looking all over for you,” he muttered once you two found somewhere to sit and watch the the race. His jaw rolling and his smile tight as some people waved at him or asked for a photo.

“And then imagine my surprise when I walk past the McLaren garage and see you cozying up with another guy.”

You tried not to roll your eyes. “I was not cozying up to him—“

“You had his helmet on.”

“For a photo.”

“He kissed you.”

Admittedly, that was pushing it. You’d be annoyed too if you saw another woman doing that to Michael. But, you were stubborn. “It was just on the cheek.”

Michael scoffed and waved down a waiter for a drink.

It was about to be a long race.

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Michael’s irrigation doubled by about a thousand when the checkered flag waved, Senna’s car whipping past as he won the grand prix. Winning the whole thing with a fifty second gap even though he had a mechanical failure.

Bill clapped and leaned down, “he’s really good, huh?”

“He’s great.” Michael said flatly.

And when Senna stepped up on the top step of the podium, smiling with a trophy in hand and medal around his neck, you were sure Michael popped a fuse because the race car driver blew a kiss and winked at you.

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The car ride back to the hotel was painfully silent. He didn’t look at you once.

Didn’t say a damn thing as you two rode up the elevator.

Jaw tight and quiet as he unlocked the door to the room and gestured for you to walk in with the nod of his head.

He couldn’t possibly be that upset.

You yourself started to get annoyed, given how much grace you gave him with all the female attention he received. Biting your tongue each time he let a fan come up on stage or god forbid— when Tatiana had kissed him on stage during the Bad Tour, you had only made him grovel for a week even though that hadn’t been his fault and she was fired shortly after that show.

You heard the door shut softly behind you and you kicked off your heels.

“Listen, Michael I don’t want to spend the rest of this trip with you in a bad—“ as you turned around, you hardly had time to comprehend what was happening but his mouth was on yours. One hand buried in your hair as the other gripped the back of one of your thighs, lifting you up easily and like muscle memory, you wrapped around him as he carried you.

You were half expecting the bed to meet your back, mind still too caught up in the sudden shift of energy but instead you felt yourself being sat down on the counter. His tongue sliding past your lips and exploring your mouth, the action messy and borderline violent as teeth clinked against each other and his grip in your hair tightened, making you wince.

His other arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you closer and your hips settled against his, feeling his hard on grind right up against you and you shuddered. Both from the sensation and the way he groaned into your mouth.

A heartbeat passed before you watched him slowly lower himself to his knees. His large hands rested on your thighs as he pushed them apart gently, his eyes remained on you all the while half hidden behind the glasses he was still wearing. 

Your hands were rested uselessly on his shoulders, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as you stared at him wide eyed. Part of your mind was still anticipating a fight.

“Lift up for me.”

You didn’t know if you were just hormonal or if it was the tone of his voice but you did as told almost immediately. 

Your pants button and zipper were undone before you could blink and he was tugging them down your legs with your underwear. 

“Michael… are you not still mad?”

He was trailing kisses up your leg, his large hands caressing your skin before he took hold of your left thigh and hiked it over his shoulder. 

A sort of guttural sound rumbling up his throat when he finally let his eyes fall between your legs. 

“God, look at you.” He pressed a kiss directly above your clit, his next words muttered lowly against your skin. “And yes, I’m still angry.”

His fingers dug lightly into your thighs which made your muscles twitch. “Perfect,” he mumbled before pressing a kiss directly to your clit now, and that sent your hips jolting upward and your hands flying to his hair. 

“Then why are you—,” you gasped in a half moan as his tongue began to work against you. 

He hummed and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot up your spine, rocking against his face with embarrassment you were sure you’d feel in the morning. 

“You taste like heaven,” he panted, glasses fogged up as he ate you like a man starved. His lips closed over you and you yelped when two fingers sank inside.

Calloused. Larger than yours. Delicious. 

His rhythm was even, curling up slightly and your back arched. 

“More,” you gasped. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “Please.”

“I was planning on it,” Michael laughed lightly, looking up at you to gauge your reaction as he added another finger. His smile lazy as he watched your mouth drop open at the sensation of being stretched. Filled. 

The slow drag of his fingers was torture and your face flushed red with the whine that left your lips. 

It felt like a day dream, watching him between your thighs. Knealt down as if you were an altar he came to for worship. 

“And I’d rather make you come than argue over a guy who doesn’t matter,” Michael said, picking up his pace and silencing your mind effectively as he then sucked your clit. 

His fingers curled as he dragged them out and you felt the crash of an orgasm slam into you all at once. Nails digging into his curls to hold him close, his tongue and fingers not stopping as he worked you through it. Smiling against you as you moaned his name. 

Only and ever only his. That’s all that mattered.

You were panting heavily, hands falling from his hair to his shoulders as he slowly stood, his hands dragging up your legs as he did so. Your eyes heavy as they fell on his mouth and chin which was glistening slightly. 

Your rationality was cut off your shoulders, you were sure of it. 

“Michael?”

“Hm?”

You slid off the counter, chest pressed against him and you reached up and hooked a finger on the collar of his shirt. His hair was a mess and it made him look unkempt and terribly romantic. 

You yanked him closer, lowering his face to yours.

“Bedroom.” 

He nodded, his enthusiasm nearly laughable if you weren’t so turned on. You stepped back, walking towards the too m and dragging him along by his shirt.

Michael followed like a love sick puppy as he stumbled over his feet trying to kick off his shoes and he threw his glasses somewhere blindly over his shoulder.

You barely made it through the doorway of the room before you felt his hands take hold of your waist from behind and lift you, a laugh of surprise leaving you before he gently put you on the bed. 

You were engulfed by him. Feeling him kiss up your back as he lifted your shirt, his fingers hot and searing against your skin. Turning underneath him, your hands pulled his face to yours, his mouth addicting and the smell of his cologne was everywhere. The sheets soft beneath you as you felt his fingers work your bra off. 

The moment the fabric was discarded his mouth lowered, lips latching onto one your nipples and his other hand lowered his boxers, his hips settling between yours and not a moment later he was thrusting into you.

Your mouth falling open in an O at the brute force of it, his cock dragging in and out in a delirious rhythm and his mouth danced back up to your own.

Everything about him was electric. Powerful. 

His other arm reached down and hooked beneath your knee, pulling it up so he could get deeper and the new angle made your head spin as you threw your head back and practically screamed his name. 

Michael muttered praises into your skin as he fucked you with an evenings worth of restraint snapping.

“You’re taking me so well.”

His fingers slid between your bodies and began rubbing circles into your clit, completely making you unfurl.

“God, look at you.”

You cried out his name, the sound caught between a moan and a breathy exhale.

“You sound so pretty.”

His lips latched onto the space beneath your jaw, biting and sucking and his voice was low in your ear.

“All mine.”

You didn’t realize you were crying till you felt his thumb scrape along your cheek. 

“Fuck, you okay?”

You were crying from pleasure and if the sound of his swearing wasn’t enough to drive you over the edge, it was definitely the dazed look to his eyes that did it. 

“Michael, I’m…“ you came with a cry, unknowingly biting his shoulder but he didn’t seem to mind as he all but picked up his pace again. Working you through it and he moaned as he felt you clench around him. 

“This is gonna sound so messed up, but you’re gorgeous when you’re crying. You know that, right?” 

You weren’t sure if you answered him, not even sure if the things leaving your mouth were even an existing language. And when you felt Michael start to falter in his pace, his thrusts getting harsher and more erratic, you knew he was close. 

“One more for me, baby. Please.” He kissed you again and took hold of your other knee, bending you up and out. “Together.”

Your back arched and you seemed to come on his command. Seeing the muscles in Michael’s stomach clench and tighten as he came inside you, your name a moan on his lips as he continued to thrust, not being able to stop himself chasing the high and when his eyes flicked down to where his cock was sliding in and out of your pussy, both his cum and yours dripping out and making an absolute mess, you could’ve sworn you heard him whine. 

The sound made you clench again and he shuddered before falling limp on top of you, panting heavily and you felt his cock twitch inside of you.

You were covered in sweat and panting so heavily that you felt light headed.

“Anytime we argue, remind me how much better this is,” you muttered and he laughed, the sound sharp and you felt his chest rattle against yours.

He then fell quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with your own and you raised a brow at him. “What’s on your mind?”

A beat passed.

“I wanna get married.”

You blinked, watching in what must’ve been slow motion as he lifted his head up to look at you. His pupils blown and looking fucked out and so lovely.

“To me?”

A smile broke out on his face and he lifted up to kiss you. Your lips. Your nose. Your eyelids. All over. “Yes, you.”

“I… this isnt just because of what happened with Senna today, is it?”

He paused, looking down at you since he had lifted himself up on his arms, his expression falling into something more open. Serious. The playfulness from moments ago melting away.

“I’ve had the ring for a while now, today was just the push I needed, I think.”

He’s had a ring. For a while.

Christ.

You started crying again but his worry fell away as he watched your lips slip into a smile.

“So? Will you marry me?”

You nodded, grabbing hold of his face to lower his mouth to yours.

“Yes. A thousand times yes.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

michael jackson masterlist

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It starts the way it always does — quietly, almost politely. That familiar restlessness tugging at the edges of your mind, the heaviness behind your eyes refusing to turn into actual sleep. You lie there beside Lando, listening to the soft, exhausted rhythm of his breathing after a brutal day of training, and you tell yourself you’ll fall asleep any minute.

You don’t.

You try shifting. You try stillness. You try counting breaths, tracing circles on the duvet, focusing on the warmth of his arm around your waist.

Nothing.

And the last thing you want is to wake him. He’d dragged himself into bed hours earlier, muscles aching, voice hoarse, eyelids barely staying open long enough to kiss your forehead. He needed this sleep.

So you slip out from under his arm with the kind of care usually reserved for bomb defusal, tiptoe across the room, and pad into the living room. The sofa is cold, but at least you’re not disturbing him. You curl up with a blanket, knees tucked to your chest, staring at the dim glow of the streetlights through the curtains.

It’s been months since your insomnia last crept in like this. You’d hoped it was gone for good.

---

Lando Wakes Up Alone

It doesn’t take long.

He wakes up with that instinctive reach — the one he always does, half-asleep, searching for you. His hand meets empty sheets, still faintly warm but undeniably missing you. His eyes blink open, confusion first, then a flicker of worry.

He sits up, hair a mess, voice rough as he calls your name softly into the dark.

No answer.

That’s all it takes for the worry to sharpen. He swings his legs out of bed, rubbing his face, and starts checking the apartment — bedroom, bathroom, kitchen — until he finally sees the faint silhouette of you curled up on the sofa.

His shoulders drop in relief.

But then he sees your expression — tired, distant, the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful — and the relief melts into something softer, more protective.

---

Why Didn’t You Wake Me?

He kneels beside the sofa first, not wanting to startle you. His hand finds your knee, warm and gentle.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “What’re you doing out here?”

You shrug, trying to smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to wake you.”

He frowns — not angry, just hurt in that tender way he gets when he thinks you’ve suffered alone.

“Baby… you can always wake me.” He climbs onto the sofa behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. “I don’t care how tired I am. I want to be there.”

You exhale, leaning into him despite the guilt. “You had such a long day.”

“And you’re having a long night,” he counters softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That matters too.”

---

He Holds You Until Your Breathing Slows

He shifts you so you’re tucked fully into him, your back against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hands slide under the blanket to find yours, fingers intertwining.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You tell him the truth — that you’re tired but wired, that your thoughts won’t settle, that you didn’t want to be a burden.

He squeezes your hand. “You’re never a burden. Not to me.”

He starts rubbing slow circles on your arm, the kind that always calm you, his breath warm against your neck. He hums a little — not a song, just a soft, soothing sound — and you feel your body finally begin to loosen.

“Let me help you sleep,” he murmurs. “That’s my favourite job.”

You laugh quietly, and he smiles against your skin.

---

Back To Bed

When your eyes start to droop, he shifts carefully.

“Come on, princess,” he whispers. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Before you can protest, he scoops you up — sleepy, messy-haired, still in his pyjamas — and carries you bridal-style down the hallway. You cling to him instinctively, and he kisses your forehead as he sets you gently onto the mattress.

He climbs in behind you, pulling you into his chest again, wrapping you up like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his hold.

“Right here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, with his heartbeat steady against your back and his arms around you, sleep finally comes.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.