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rubywillkins · 13 days ago

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First time| Oneshots

Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Arthur Leclerc, Paul Aron, Franco Colapinto, Max Verstappen, Carlos Sainz

Charles Leclerc|

A first time born from tension and emotional jealousy. When Charles loves, it’s never halfway — it’s everything.

“Nothing goes as planned, everything will break. People say goodbye in their own special way.”

“You’re in my veins and I cannot get you out.”

The soft hum of the city beyond the balcony faded into the background, the golden lights of Monaco casting a warm glow across Charles’ apartment. It was late, the kind of hour where time slowed down and everything felt quieter, softer—more honest.

Y/N stood in one of Charles’ shirts, sleeves too long and hem brushing her thighs. Her fingers twisted nervously in the fabric as she stared out at the skyline. She could hear him moving behind her—closing the kitchen cabinet, placing two mugs on the coffee table. His steps were always light, respectful. Like he never wanted to startle her. Like he always thought about how she felt first.

“You okay?” his voice was gentle behind her, low and close.

She nodded but didn’t turn around. “Just… thinking.”

He came up behind her, his hands finding her waist, grounding her. “About?”

She leaned back into him, letting her eyes flutter closed at the feel of his arms around her. “Us.”

Charles didn’t ask more. He waited.

“I’ve never felt this safe with anyone,” she said, voice quiet. “It’s… terrifying.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Why terrifying?”

“Because it feels like if I let go, you’d ruin me in the most beautiful way.”

Charles was silent for a beat. Then, his lips brushed her temple. “Je ne veux que te soigner. I only want to care for you, mon amour.”

Later, the apartment was dim—the only light coming from the faint flicker of the fireplace and the soft glimmer of the stars through the window. They lay on the bed, sheets rumpled, the world outside forgotten.

Charles touched her like she was something rare, something precious—slowly, reverently. He didn’t rush. Not once.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, brushing a piece of hair from her face as he hovered over her, breath warm and sweet.

“I’ve never been more sure,” she said, meeting his eyes. Her voice didn’t shake.

He kissed her like she was air and he’d gone too long without breathing. His hands explored gently, never grabbing, never taking. Just learning her. Worshipping her.

The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing that existed—made her chest ache in the best way.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, between kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. “Inside. Outside. All of it. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want this to feel good for you.”

And it did. Every second with him felt sacred.

He was slow at first, watching her closely, checking in with every motion. She tangled her fingers in his hair and nodded, wordlessly telling him to keep going, that she trusted him with everything she had.

When their bodies finally became one, it wasn’t just about physical pleasure—it was about the emotion spilling from every breath, every movement.

He whispered her name like a prayer. Held her like he never wanted to let go. Their foreheads pressed together as their breaths tangled in the small space between them.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

His eyes fluttered open—glassy, vulnerable. “I love you too. So much it scares me.”

After, he didn’t pull away. He stayed close, arms wrapped around her, hand gently tracing the length of her back. They lay there tangled together, warm and safe beneath the sheets.

“You okay?” he asked, softly, brushing her hair back to see her face.

She smiled sleepily. “More than okay.”

He kissed her again—slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

“Bonne nuit, mon cœur,” he whispered. “Thank you for trusting me.”

And she knew, without a doubt, that there was nowhere safer than in his arms.

Lewis Hamilton|

Mature. Intentional. Worshipful. Lewis doesn’t just take — he gives, and makes you feel like you’re the only one.

“You make it look like it's magic... I love when you're on your knees.”

“You deserve it... the way you work it.”

The first time wasn’t planned.

No grand gesture. No Paris getaway. No dramatic thunderstorm or candlelight cliché.

It happened on a quiet Sunday evening. His apartment was dim and peaceful, the kind of soft that only came after a long week and a shared silence you didn’t need to fill. Rain tapped against the windows, and the vinyl player murmured something low and soulful — Otis Redding, maybe. You were curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, legs pulled into your chest, head on a pillow that smelled like cedarwood and him.

Lewis was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, your hand lazily resting in his hair as he scrolled through an old notebook. It was worn, edges frayed. You could see scribbles of song lyrics, quiet thoughts, maybe prayers — you didn’t ask. He didn’t mind you seeing. That in itself was intimacy.

“Do you believe in timing?” he asked suddenly, closing the notebook and turning so his chin rested on your thigh.

Your fingers slowed in his curls. “I think I used to believe in bad timing. Now I think… the right people make time irrelevant.”

Lewis smiled faintly, his eyes staying on yours a little longer. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to put into words.”

A beat passed.

Then he said, softer, “I want you tonight. Not just physically. I want all of you. But only if it’s what you want too.”

You sat up a little, pulse fluttering for reasons deeper than nerves. His honesty — the way he always asked, never assumed — grounded you.

“I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you,” you said. “I want this. But only if it feels like us.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. And when your lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth. Steady, aching, real.

You moved to the bedroom together like a slow unraveling. His hand rested on the small of your back as he led you in, and then he paused, brushing his fingers over your jaw.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he whispered. “You owe me nothing, alright?”

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “Same goes for you.”

Lewis kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, more searching. It was as if he needed to memorize every breath, every shift of your body. His hands moved over you like he was trying to learn your language by touch. Reverent. Focused. Gentle.

When he undressed you, it wasn’t just undressing — it was unveiling. He looked at you like you were art. Like being known was something sacred.

“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, brushing a kiss just beneath your breast. “Not because of how you look, but because I get to see you like this.”

He took his time. Made sure you were the center of everything. Every kiss, every stroke of his fingers, every press of his body was for you. No rushing. No demands. Just presence.

There was no need for dirty talk — not tonight. Instead, he whispered things like:

“You don’t have to hide any part of yourself with me.”

“Let go. I’ve got you.”

“You're doing so well, baby.”

And the way he looked at you while you came undone beneath him? Like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed.

After, Lewis didn’t move away. He stayed tangled with you under the sheets, one arm snug around your waist, his lips brushing your shoulder every now and then.

You were still catching your breath when he spoke.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this. Like something bigger than us was in the room.”

You turned to face him, eyes soft. “Because it’s not just sex. It’s trust.”

Lewis smiled — slow, tired, completely in love.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “And I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you.”

He pulled you close again, wrapping your leg over his. “Sleep here. Don’t go. Not just tonight — I mean… all the nights. Stay with me.”

And with your heart pressed to his, your body wrapped in the safest arms you’d ever known, you knew: this wasn’t just a first time.

It was the beginning of everything.

Arthur Leclerc|

A first time after a fight, when passion collides with care. Arthur doesn’t just want you — he needs you.

“Nobody loves you, baby, the way I do.”

“I think I’m gonna lose my mind, something deep inside me I can’t give up.”

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the pale orange glow of a late afternoon sun slipping past the curtains. Arthur’s hoodie hung off your frame as you leaned against the kitchen counter, barefoot, holding a half-finished cup of tea. He sat on the couch across from you, legs splayed out, hair a little messy, watching you like you were his favorite song playing softly in the background.

You’d spent the day doing nothing — watching half a movie, sharing popcorn, falling asleep on his chest — but something hung in the air now. Something unspoken. Something that felt like a question.

He tilted his head, eyes following the shape of your mouth as you smiled at something you didn’t say out loud.

“You’re doing it again,” you said, voice playful.

“Doing what?” he smirked, like he already knew.

“Looking at me like that.”

Arthur got up slowly, padding across the living room until he stood in front of you. His fingers brushed your hips gently. He always touched you like he was making sure you were real.

“Can I be honest?” he asked, voice soft, almost too soft.

You nodded. He exhaled a little.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Us. Like… taking that step.”

You blinked, heart skipping. Not because you didn’t want it — you did. But hearing it from him, spoken with such sincerity, made your stomach flutter.

He continued, rubbing a thumb gently across your side. “I don’t want it to be just a moment. I want it to be ours. Like, something we’ll remember when we’re old and grey and annoying.”

You laughed, but it cracked a little.

“You’re not nervous?” you asked.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he admitted. “But it’s not because I don’t want it. I just— I want to do this right. For you. With you.”

You kissed him first. And it wasn’t perfect — your teeth bumped, your noses awkwardly collided — but you both laughed into it, and that somehow made it better. It was you and Arthur. Real and a little messy and completely full of love.

When he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. His hands were shaky. His breath uneven. He kissed your shoulders. Your stomach. The inside of your wrist.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whispered, as if reading his mind. “I just want you.”

His eyes met yours — wide, brown, and glassy — and he kissed you again, deeper this time, less hesitant. He took his time undressing you, making sure to look at you after every step, asking without asking: Still okay? Still want this?

And when it finally happened — when he pressed into you, forehead against yours, your hands clutching the fabric of his shirt — it was slow. Careful. Bare.

Neither of you spoke much, except for the soft, breathless murmurs:

“You feel so good, baby…”

“Am I hurting you?”

“You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You both trembled a little when it ended. He didn’t pull away — just curled into your side, legs tangled, nose nuzzling your neck.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “Like… I don’t think I’ll ever forget how this felt.”

You smiled into his hair. “Me either.”

And when he looked up at you, cheeks flushed and eyes warm, you knew it wasn’t just the first time. It was the start of something—safe, deep, and entirely yours.

Lando Norris|

Playful on the outside. Intense underneath. Lando wants to make it special — even if he pretends he doesn’t care.

“You don't have to say nothing, ’cause your eyes do the talking.”

“I can't imagine what I'd do without you.”

You’d been dating for months — the kind of relationship that started with teasing and laughter and slowly bloomed into something neither of you saw coming.

Lando had kissed you with Red Bull on his lips. Held your hand under the table at team dinners. Called you “trouble” every time you wore his hoodie and looked better in it than he did. But you knew — underneath the jokes, the flirting, the cocky one-liners — was a boy who didn’t give his heart away easily.

And yet… somehow, he gave it to you.

It happened after a long day. You were both curled up on his sofa in Monaco, the storm outside soft and rhythmic against the windows. A movie played in the background, but neither of you was watching it. Lando’s hand was under your shirt — not in a way that demanded anything, just resting on your waist, fingertips tracing your skin absentmindedly.

You shifted, resting your head against his chest. His heart was beating fast. You felt it. Heard it.

“What’s going on in that curly-haired head of yours?” you teased gently.

Lando hesitated. You could feel his body tense, just slightly. That wasn’t like him. Usually, he'd hit you with a sarcastic quip. Instead, he spoke quietly, into your hair.

“I’ve never done this the right way,” he said.

You lifted your head. “Done what?”

“This,” he gestured softly between you. “Us. Loving someone and meaning it.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he continued. “But I want you. All of you. Just when you’re ready.”

You cupped his face. “What if I already am?”

His eyes darkened for a second — not with lust, but with something softer. Emotion. Like he didn’t quite believe you could feel the same depth that he did.

“Then I’ll be careful with you,” he whispered.

In the bedroom, the air shifted. The jokes stopped. His hands trembled slightly as they slid under your shirt. He kissed you like it was his first time too — even though it wasn’t. Because it was you. That made it different.

Lando’s usual cockiness faded the moment you were beneath him. “Tell me if you don’t want to,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses down your chest. “I’ll stop. Seriously. No jokes. Just say the word.”

You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you. “Lando,” you said against his lips, “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He took his time. Every motion was slow, deliberate. He traced his fingers over your stomach, your thighs, your cheeks — as if trying to memorize you, not just touch you.

“Still okay?” he asked, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered. “So damn good to me.”

When he finally eased into you, he cursed under his breath, but not out of pleasure — out of awe. His hands clenched the sheets beside your head, like he needed to keep himself grounded.

“You feel like home,” he breathed. “That’s insane, right?”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “No. It’s not.”

He moved slow. Gave you everything. Held you like he was afraid you’d vanish. Whispered things in your ear like:

“I never thought I’d have this with someone.”

“You’re mine. Only mine.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And when it was over, he didn’t move away. Just pulled you tighter into his chest, nose pressed to your neck, his curls damp with sweat and emotion.

“Was I okay?” he asked, barely audible.

“You were everything.”

Lando chuckled, voice low. “Good. Because I’m definitely in love with you now.”

“You weren’t before?”

He kissed your cheek. “No, I was. I’m just screwed now.”

Oscar Piastri|

Quiet, but emotionally devastating. Oscar doesn’t need to say it — you feel how much he loves you in every single touch.

“I don't want to be your friend, I want to kiss your neck.”

“I’m falling for you, I’m falling for you… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You didn’t plan for tonight to be the night.

There was no candlelit dinner. No roses. No dramatic declarations. Just the two of you in his apartment, music playing low from a playlist he made you months ago — songs that didn’t have lyrics, just instrumentals. He said it made space for thoughts. Yours. His.

Oscar sat cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, in a worn hoodie. You were curled up next to him in your favorite blanket. You’d been quiet for a while, but not in a bad way. Just… soft.

“I missed you this week,” he said quietly, eyes focused on your fingers playing with the seam of the blanket.

“I was still talking to you every day,” you replied with a soft smile.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “but not like this.”

His hand reached for yours, tugging it gently from the blanket and resting it in his lap. His thumb traced over your knuckles with care — like he’d been doing it for years.

You studied him. The way he was always so sure in the most unspoken ways. He never said too much, but everything he did say felt real. Like he only ever spoke when it mattered.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He looked up, eyebrows raised slightly. “Yeah?”

“About us. About… going further.”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t smirk or shift closer. He just stayed still, eyes locked on yours, processing it completely before responding.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Not because it feels like it’s time. But because you want to. Not just physically. Here—” He reached out, gently pressing two fingers to your chest, right over your heart. “—and here.” He tapped your temple next.

You swallowed thickly. “I’m sure.”

And that’s when he moved.

Not urgently. Not like it was something he was owed. Just slow. Intentional. A hand brushing your cheek. A kiss on your forehead. Then one on your lips — firmer this time. Closer.

He led you to his room like he was inviting you into a piece of his world no one else had ever been inside. The air was still. Soft light filtered in from the hallway. No rush. No noise.

Oscar undressed you carefully — not like he was unwrapping something delicate, but like he was being trusted with something sacred. His hands never rushed. He kissed your shoulder. Your chest. Your jaw. He looked you in the eyes through all of it.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “But I think I loved you before I even knew what you looked like like this.”

Your heart clenched.

When he moved above you, he paused again. His breath was shaky now, eyes flickering to your expression.

“I need you to tell me again,” he said. “Tell me this is okay.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek. “This is more than okay. This is what I want.”

He kissed you as he entered you — slow, deep, and quiet.

The pace never quickened too much. Oscar stayed locked on you, whispering things only meant for you to hear:

“I’ve never done this like this before.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like… this much.”

“You make me feel like I’m home.”

You held his face the entire time — your forehead to his, your fingers in his hair. You didn’t need fast or wild or loud. You needed him. The man who made you feel safe in silence. The boy who remembered what side of the bed you liked. The driver who still got nervous when you kissed his neck.

And when it was over, he didn’t let you go.

He pulled the blanket up over both of you, his arm wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your hair. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

But after a few minutes, you heard him murmur into the space between you:

“I think that was the moment I realized I can’t imagine doing life without you.”

You smiled, still facing away, eyes drifting closed.

“You don’t have to.”

Franco Colapinto|

Nervous. Hopeful. Honest. Franco’s first time with you is everything he’s never said, finally spoken through touch.

“I left my mind with you… I only feel half full.”

“I was all over her… I don’t think I can live without her.”

You’d spent the entire day teasing each other.

It started with breakfast — where he stole bites from your plate, just to see you glare. Then it was lazy back-and-forth sarcasm while cleaning his place, a playful wrestling match on his couch, and finally… the moment he pinned you to the bed with his hands on either side of your waist, hovering over you with that stupid smirk.

“Say you give up,” Franco grinned, curls falling into his eyes.

“Never.”

He leaned down, his nose brushing yours, breath warm. “You sure?”

Your hands rested on his bare shoulders now — he’d lost his hoodie in the chaos, leaving only his undershirt that had ridden up on his toned stomach.

His voice dipped, lower, softer. “Because if you keep looking at me like that…”

You blinked up at him, heart pounding.

The teasing stopped.

It wasn’t a game anymore.

You both felt it — the air had shifted. Slowed.

His thumb brushed your cheek like he was memorizing something. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” you whispered. “You’re the only thing that feels right.”

He kissed you slowly, not like a boy who had been flirting all day, but like someone realizing this wasn’t just a moment — this was it. His hands stayed soft on your skin, exploring without rushing, careful with every inch of you like he wanted to savor every breath.

“You okay?” he asked when your shirt came off, voice quieter now, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, pulling him back to you. “I trust you, Franco.”

He swallowed hard — like that meant more to him than anything else you could’ve said.

You helped him undress. Both of you were clumsy at first — socks half-on, him muttering “Shit, sorry” when his arm hit the nightstand — but it made you laugh, and he laughed too, until you were both smiling into each other’s mouths, flushed, hearts racing, bodies warm.

When he finally moved above you, everything slowed again.

His forehead pressed to yours. His hand slid under your lower back, lifting you just enough. “Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmured, breathless.

“You’ll know,” you whispered. “Just stay with me.”

He was gentle. So gentle it almost broke you.

He took his time, pressing into you with careful rhythm, watching every reaction, brushing his lips over your skin like he was tracing your soul with his mouth.

His voice was a whisper in your ear:

“You feel so good, baby…”

“Can’t believe I get to love you like this.”

“You’re everything I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

He never looked away. Held your gaze like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And when he came, it wasn’t with a groan or a moan — it was with your name, softly broken across his lips like a prayer.

After, Franco collapsed beside you, panting softly, still holding your hand. He pulled you onto his chest, kissing your hair, his heart thudding beneath your ear.

“You okay?” you asked after a moment of quiet.

“I’m…” He exhaled. “I’m in trouble.”

You lifted your head, blinking. “Why?”

He looked at you, eyes glassy. “Because that didn’t just mean a lot. It meant everything.”

You smiled. Kissed the tip of his nose. “Then we’re both in trouble.”

Franco pulled the blanket over both of you and mumbled against your neck, “Good. I like being in trouble if it’s with you.

Paul Aron|

A quiet unraveling. Paul’s usually all control — until you, until now, until he learns that vulnerability is strength too.

“Your love is a symphony, all around me, running through me.”

“I give it all to you.”

It was almost 1 a.m. when you realized neither of you had touched the TV remote in an hour.

You were on Paul’s couch, legs over his lap, head resting against the armrest, and his hand was tracing slow lines over your shin — so soft you could barely feel it. The room was silent except for the hum of city life outside the windows.

You shifted to look at him. He was already watching you.

“What?” you whispered.

Paul tilted his head, eyes thoughtful. “Nothing.”

He said it like it was everything.

You sat up a little, pulling your knees close to your chest. “You’re quiet.”

“I always am.”

“Not like this.”

He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your ankle. “You make me think in full sentences instead of fragments. That’s rare.”

The way he looked at you then — it wasn’t intense or lustful. It was… anchored. Like you were the only still point in the entire world.

“You’ve been looking at me like you want to say something all night,” you said.

Paul hesitated for a second, then leaned forward. “I want you.”

Three words. Spoken like a vow.

Not rushed. Not expectant. Just real.

You swallowed. “Now?”

“Only if you want me too. Not just tonight. Not just for this. But really.”

There was no heat in his voice — not yet. Just a quiet certainty that made your whole body warm.

“I want you,” you said softly. “All of you.”

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for years. Slow. Steady. His fingers cradled the back of your neck while yours fisted into the fabric of his hoodie. When he pulled back, you were already breathless.

The walk to his bedroom wasn’t clumsy or fast — it was paced like every step mattered.

When he laid you down, Paul took his time.

He undressed you with complete reverence, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me if I go too fast,” he murmured, sliding your shirt over your head. “Or if you just need a minute.”

“I need you,” you whispered.

“Then I’m yours.”

He moved like a man who wasn’t trying to take, but to give. Every touch asked a silent question. Every kiss was an answer.

You felt his control — the way he held himself back, always making sure you were okay.

When he finally pressed into you, he paused, his forehead resting against yours. “Still good?”

“More than good.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time.

“You feel like everything I’ve ever needed,” he whispered, voice trembling just slightly. “Like I waited for you without knowing.”

You held him tighter, letting your body answer for you.

The rhythm stayed slow. Intimate. Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your name slipped from his lips like it was holy. He didn’t say much — just quiet praises in between his breaths:

“You’re perfect.”

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Don’t let go.”

You didn’t.

After, Paul didn’t roll away. He pulled you onto his chest, his hand rubbing lazy circles over your back.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m home,” you said.

Paul smiled — that rare, real smile only you ever got to see. He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered,

“I think I fell in love with you a long time ago. Tonight just made it permanent.”

Carlos Sainz|

Safe. Intentional. The kind of love that doesn’t have to be loud to last forever.

“In all of the stillness, I still feel your touch”

It wasn’t supposed to happen that night.

You weren’t dressed up. There were no candles. No heavy kisses. No bold words. Just a quiet Friday night in Madrid, tangled on Carlos’ couch after a home-cooked dinner and two glasses of wine — the good kind he reserves only for nights when it’s just the two of you.

You were curled into his side, your legs across his lap, your hand under his shirt. Just resting there, flat against his stomach. His skin was warm. Solid.

Carlos had been quieter than usual.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” you asked, tracing your thumb across his skin.

He paused. Then looked at you with that quiet, steady intensity that only he had — like he didn’t rush words because he never said them unless they mattered.

“I’ve never done this slow before,” he said. “Never… waited.”

You blinked. “Waited for what?”

Carlos gently took your hand in his, held it tight. “For someone I didn’t want to lose.”

You didn’t speak for a long time after that.

The TV hummed quietly. Your fingers played with his. And then you leaned in — slow, deliberate — and kissed him.

Not hungrily. Not teasingly.

Just honestly.

And when he kissed you back, it was like something inside him gave in.

Not to lust. To love.

He didn’t rush to the bedroom. He didn’t strip you down like it was instinct. He undressed you like he’d been waiting for the right moment to deserve it.

Carlos made sure you were okay with every step — with his eyes, his hands, his words.

“Do you want this?” he asked, holding your face in his hands like you were something sacred.

“I want you,” you whispered.

He nodded — slowly, reverently — and guided you to his bed like you were something to protect.

He made love to you with complete presence.

His touch never left your skin. His kisses never strayed too far from your mouth. Every movement was intentional — not out of hunger, but out of care. Every time your breath hitched or your fingers tightened, he responded with a soft whisper of your name.

His forehead rested against yours.

His voice low:

“You’re safe with me.”

“You feel so good, cariño.”

“I’ll never forget this.”

When he reached the edge, he didn’t chase it. He held you tighter. Slowed down. Breathed with you. You felt it — the moment it stopped being physical, and became something so much more.

After, he didn’t roll away. Didn’t say anything dramatic. He just pulled you on top of him, running his hand down your back, over and over like it grounded him.

“You okay?” you whispered into his chest.

“I’m…” Carlos paused. Then kissed the top of your head. “I’m really glad we waited.”

“So am I.”

Silence again — the good kind.

Then he whispered, half asleep:

“Now I’m yours in every way.”

Max Verstappen|

A quiet unraveling. Max doesn’t give his heart easily — but when he does, it’s deep, intense, and unforgettable.

“Some day someone will like me like I like you…”

“Some day I’ll stop falling in love with you…”

“But I can’t, and that’s why I let you break my heart again.”

You’d been dating Max for six months before he let you into his world fully — not the glitzy, fast-paced F1 world. The real one.

The quiet, guarded part. The one behind locked hotel doors, in dimly lit apartments, where he could finally breathe. You weren’t surprised that when it finally happened — when he let you touch all of him — it wasn’t after a party or a romantic dinner.

It was after a long day. His worst qualifying session in months. Cameras in his face. Team stress high. Everything felt like it was slipping.

Except you.

That night, you found him in the kitchen of his Monaco apartment, hunched over the counter, still in his Red Bull hoodie, jaw clenched.

“Talk to me,” you said gently.

He looked at you, and something in his expression just broke.

Not anger. Not tears. Just… surrender.

“I don’t want to talk,” he murmured.

You walked over and slid your hands under his hoodie, resting them on his waist. “Then don’t.”

For the first time, Max kissed you like he needed you.

Like it wasn’t just affection — it was a lifeline.

He carried you to the bedroom in silence.

The kind of silence that said more than words ever could.

Max took his time — not because he was unsure, but because this mattered to him. Every piece of clothing he peeled off felt like a layer of armor falling away. His hands were steady. His eyes never left yours.

“You okay?” you asked as you lay back on the sheets, your bare legs wrapped around his waist.

His voice was low. Rough. Honest. “I don’t do this halfway.”

You reached up, cupping his face. “I never asked you to.”

He was intense in the way he touched you — every movement deliberate, his control evident even when his breathing started to stutter.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

And when he finally sank into you, his forehead pressed to yours, he let out a broken breath like he’d been holding it for years.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’ve wanted this. You. For so long.”

You arched into him, gripping his shoulders. “Then take it.”

Max moved slowly. Like every second with you was something he needed to memorize. His hands gripped your thighs, your waist, your hips — not hard, just tight enough to say mine.

He wasn’t vocal. But you heard everything in the way he whispered your name under his breath, over and over, like a grounding point.

And when he came, it wasn’t with a shout — it was with a kiss. One that lasted through the shudder, the stillness, the after.

After, Max didn’t move for a long time.

His arm was around you, hand on your stomach, his face tucked into your neck like he never wanted to be anywhere else.

“You didn’t have to be perfect,” you whispered.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he said softly. “I just wanted to be real with you.”

And in the soft light of the room, wrapped up in his warmth and the weight of what had just happened, you knew the truth:

Max didn’t just let you in.

He chose you.

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