#bc he's also dutch in that way

[whysye]

I like it when a friend gives you a nickname then someone else tries to use that and they're all "hey wtf only I call them that you bitch" but you're also warmed by them doing that.. anyways I think Dutch would get severely pissed when people try to call Hosea old girl-

[skitskatdacat63]

Fernando Alonso × Unconventional Drinking Implements

[ersatz-introspective]

npd + rdr culture is seeing people call dutch a narcissist and going "YEAA KING he's just like me ong" and then promptly realise they're actually insulting him with the word 'narcissist' & i proceed to backpedal ...

[mchiti]

my brother told me today if I remembered that interview hakim's gave for a local dutch channel literally 8 years ago, he wasn't even at ajax yet. He was an interview following some sort of project he did with local kids in his hometown, an interview that sadly is nowhere to be found online and that I've literally watched one time - when it aired. I'm very sad I have no way to see it again or have you watch it. He addressed the racism he's experienced in his life but stressed on the fact that if he got to professional football later than his peers it's because football agents tended to avoid him. And he said one of them got in contact with him at the age of 14/15 and asked if he could talk to his father but when he got told he wasn't alive anymore he just disappeared. He said many of them would enquire about his family first. They liked him because he was good but first thing they would ask was 1) origins 2) family status. And he said that if you're a kid without parents pushing you through a career it's so hard to make it. It's just makes me so sad overall that his career is not going the way he would have deserved because it got so difficult from the start. It's so much easier to make it when you're not part of the invisibles but try make it when you have nothing to begin with. Racism and classism first victims in football are not even famous footballers - although they have to be protected too, of course - but it's kids. How many of them should be there instead of some very overrated white men right now. The thought drives me crazy for real. And when I think about this shit - like if he doesn't get a good transfer wallahi I won't believe in football ever again. sorry for the rant

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 11: December 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, discussion of allergies.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

EXCLUSIVE: MAX VERSTAPPEN ON LEGACY, LOVE, AND LIFE BEYOND THE TRACK

Max Verstappen has nothing left to prove. At just 26, the Dutch driver has secured his third consecutive Formula 1 World Championship, cementing his place among the sport’s greats.  A record-breaking season. The most dominant year of his career.

Sitting down with us in the aftermath of his 2023 season, Verstappen is more reflective than ever—about racing, his future, and, unexpectedly, love.

“I’m just really happy with where I am,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a rare, easy smile. “It’s been an incredible year, not just on the track but personally too.”

For a driver known for his laser focus and relentless pursuit of perfection, the mention of his personal life is intriguing. Verstappen has always been fiercely private, but for the first time, he opens up—just a little—about the woman who has been by his side through it all.

“She’s been amazing,” he says with a rare softness. “Just always there, supporting me. It makes a difference, having that stability, someone who understands what this life is like but also makes it feel normal. Racing is intense, it takes so much out of you, and having someone who understands that, who knows when to push and when to just be there… it makes a difference.”

There’s a softness in his voice that is unexpected, a rare glimpse into a side of Verstappen few get to see. While he doesn’t reveal her name, it’s clear she holds a special place in his life.

“I’ve been learning French,” he reveals, smiling. “It’s… a work in progress. But I hear it a lot at home now, so I’m trying. I think it’s important to make an effort, to meet someone halfway.”

The mention of home is deliberate—he’s no longer just passing through Monaco, but truly settling in. For a driver who once lived and breathed racing with little room for anything else, that shift is telling.

And when asked about his future outside of F1, his answer is telling: “Marriage with her? Yes, definitely,” he said with the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants. “One day, I want a family. I want kids. I think that’s something really special.”

Still, don’t mistake contentment for complacency. If anything, Verstappen seems more driven than ever. “I love what I do,” he says simply. “And I love coming home after, too.”

As Verstappen looks ahead to 2024, his goals remain the same: keep winning, keep pushing, keep proving that his dominance is no accident. But for the first time, it seems like he’s racing toward something more than just trophies. And perhaps, that’s what truly makes a champion.

Comments: 

@/F1Obsessed: MAX VERSTAPPEN. LEARNING FRENCH. FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND. WE HAVE WON.

@/RedBullRacingUpdates: “I hear it a lot at home now” HOLD ON. HOME?????? HE LIVES WITH HER?????

@/MonacoGossip: So Max has a girlfriend. He’s learning French. He hears it a lot at home. CONCLUSIONS ARE BEING DRAWN.

@/PitLanePrincess: No bc WHO is she. WHO is this woman who has Max Verstappen learning a whole new language.

@/SoftMaxxie: “She makes it feel normal” I’M SORRY BUT THAT’S SO CUTE I NEED A MOMENT

@​​DR3Stan: Max is really out here being domesticated and thriving.

@/CharlesFanatic: French. Girlfriend. Monaco apartment. squints at every French-speaking woman in the paddock

@/TheGridTea: The way he just casually dropped that he’s LEARNING FRENCH for her like that’s a normal thing. Max, sir, you are in love.

@/CheckeredHeart: Not me downloading Duolingo because if Max Verstappen can learn French for love, so can I.

@/OversteerQueen: The fact that he didn’t even realize he was basically confirming he lives with her… Max, babe, you’re so in love.

@/SoftLaunchDetective: I need to go through Max’s entire Instagram with a fine-tooth comb IMMEDIATELY. There must be something.

@/F1Troll: Duolingo about to see a spike in Dutch users trying to figure out what Max is learning.

@/DR3Honeybadger: “I hear it a lot at home” SO YOU’RE SAYING HE GOES HOME TO HER. MAX VERSTAPPEN GOES HOME TO HIS GIRLFRIEND.

@/BoxBoxBox: Max Verstappen being all “oh yeah, my girlfriend this, my girlfriend that” like we KNOW who she is. SIR, WHO??

@/FormulaHeartbreak: I thought I was prepared for soft domestic Max but I WAS NOT.

@/TifosiDrama: Charles Leclerc’s face when he realizes his biggest rival is learning his language for his mystery girlfriend.

@/SidepodShenanigans: Forget the championship, I need an in-depth investigation into WHO this woman is and how she has Max Verstappen willingly studying.

@​​/ChecoFan88: We’re never getting her identity confirmed, are we? Max is just going to keep saying “my girlfriend” like it’s a classified government secret.

@/F1Obsessed: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID “MARRIAGE WITH HER? YES, DEFINITELY.” HELLO??? WHO IS SHE???

@/LandoNorrisFanclub: I need someone to look at me the way Max Verstappen looks at his mystery girlfriend that none of us have ever seen.

@/GridGossip: Max Verstappen, the man who once said all he needed was sim racing and his cats, is out here talking about marriage and kids. Character development.

@/Formula1Fanatic: Max in 2021: “I don’t need friends, I have sim racing.” Max in 2023: “I want kids, a home, and a life beyond the paddock.” What did this woman DO TO HIM???

@​​LightsOutMax: This man used to refuse to even acknowledge personal questions and now he’s out here basically writing wedding vows. Love really changes people.

@/PaddockPrincess: If Max Verstappen, king of emotional repression, is out here openly talking about love and marriage… yeah, she’s the one.

****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Spotted: Pretty sure I just saw Isabelle Leclerc buying baby clothes…??? Is there a Leclerc niece/nephew we don’t know about? 👀

@/F1Updates: oh we’re COOKING today. someone get the conspiracy board out. it’s time.

@/ItsAboutDrive: Charles is gonna be an uncle????? 🍼

@/mclarenny: Wait wait wait Isabelle has a boyfriend??? Did i miss a chapter???

@/verstappensupremacy: me, knowing damn well who her boyfriend is, sipping my tea calmly 😌🍵

@/gridgossip: LECLERC BABY ERA INCOMING??? ISABELLE WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US RIGHT BEFORE THE WINTER BREAK

@/f1blonde: If Isabelle Leclerc is pregnant and we don't even know who the dad is,  i'm going to personally storm the monaco royal palace

@/f1insiderz: to be clear: no confirmation of anything, she was spotted in a boutique, could be a gift, could be for someone else, could be NOTHING (we’re still gonna lose our minds though)

@/chequeredflag: me trying to stay calm: it’s probably just a present also me: ISABELLE LECLERC BABY ERA CONFIRMED 😭

@/charlesincrisis: charles: what a peaceful day

twitter: ur sister might be pregnant

charles: 🧍🏻‍♂️

@/reasonableracer: guys: take a breath. Victoria Verstappen is literally pregnant. And CHRISTMAS IS IN 24 DAYS. Maybe Isabelle is just buying baby clothes for HER FRIEND’S BABY. 

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: SOMEONE EXPLAIN WHY ISABELLE WAS JUST SPOTTED BUYING BABY CLOTHES??

Charles: WHAT???

Arthur: LOOK AT THIS. [attaches screenshot of a Twitter post: “Pretty sure I just saw Isabelle Leclerc buying baby clothes…??? Is there a Leclerc niece/nephew we don’t know about? 👀”]

Lorenzo: Isabelle. Tell me this is a joke.

Isabelle: Calm down. It’s not a big deal.

Arthur: NOT A BIG DEAL??? WHY ARE YOU BUYING BABY CLOTHES???

Isabelle: Because they’re cute?? 

Charles: …What?

Lorenzo: Isabelle, that’s not an answer.

Isabelle: I just like them, okay?

Charles: Wait. Is there something you need to tell us?

Arthur: OH MY GOD. ARE YOU PREGNANT?

Isabelle: No. 

Arthur: Then WHY are you buying baby clothes??

Isabelle: First of all, a friend of mine is pregnant, so I bought some as a gift. Secondly, I like baby clothes! I have a whole box of them at home!

Charles: A WHOLE BOX???

Arthur: ISABELLE. THAT MAKES IT WORSE.

Lorenzo: WHY DO YOU HAVE A BOX OF BABY CLOTHES WITH NO BABY??

Isabelle: Because I’ve been collecting them for years!

Charles: …Years??

Arthur: But… for what?

Isabelle: For when I have a baby one day??

Lorenzo: One day?? Isabelle, you don’t even have a boyfriend.

Charles: Yeah. Who exactly are you planning this baby with?

Isabelle: Excuse me??

Arthur: I mean… it’s a little weird, right? Collecting baby clothes for years when there’s no sign of a baby happening anytime soon?

Charles: It’s just… I don’t know, kind of pointless?

Isabelle: Wow. Okay.

Arthur: We’re just saying—

Isabelle: No, I get it. It’s weird because I have them. If someone else did, it’d be sweet. But because it’s me, it’s just sad and pathetic, right?

Lorenzo: We didn’t say that.

Isabelle: You didn’t have to.

Arthur: Come on, don’t be like that.

Isabelle: No, really. It’s fine. I’ll make sure to run all my future life choices by you three first so I don’t embarrass the Leclerc name.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: So… my brothers are currently having an absolute meltdown.

Emilie: What did you do? Actually, wait—what do they think you did?

Isabelle: Oh, nothing major. Just bought some baby clothes.

Emilie: …Are you pregnant?

Isabelle: NO!

Emilie: Okay, just checking! So why are they freaking out?

Isabelle: Because I told them I have a box of baby clothes at home, and now they think I’m insane.

Emilie: Pffft. That’s not insane. That’s just you.

Isabelle: THANK YOU.

Emilie: Seriously, I don’t know why they’re acting so shocked. You were the girl who had a wedding binder at thirteen and a full baby name list by fifteen.

Isabelle: It was color-coded.

Emilie: Of course it was. Because you plan ahead. It’s not weird—it’s just you being Belle.

Isabelle: It’s just a small box of things I’ve collected over the years…

Emilie: Honestly, I don’t get why they’re so weird about it. Like, I don’t want kids, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s strange that you do.

Isabelle: You don’t?

Emilie: I will personally never deal with sticky fingers or 3 AM crying, but you? You’re gonna be an amazing mom one day. And when that happens, I will spoil your kids rotten.

Isabelle: You’re the best.

Emilie: I know. Now, do you need me to help you pick out more baby clothes? Because I will fully commit to this.

Isabelle: I might have seen a few more things today that were cute.

Emilie: I’m in. 

***

Instagram Story: @/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1Updates: LMAO, not pregnant, just buying Christmas presents for literally anyone with a baby. I can’t.

@/ItsAboutDrive: Sadly Charles is not gonna be an uncle 😭 Isabelle literally went on to Instagram to shut down these rumours

@/mclarenny: It’s honestly insane that we need a full IG story to clear up the rumors. Just let her buy a few baby clothes in peace…

@/verstappensupremacy: The fact she had to make that statement is just... wild. Why do we live in a world where women can't even buy baby clothes without everyone assuming they’re pregnant?

@/leclercslens: Honestly, it’s not even funny. If she was pregnant, it’s her news to share, and people jumping to conclusions is gross. Let her live her life!

@/gridgossip: LECLERC BABY ERA INCOMING??? ISABELLE WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO US RIGHT BEFORE THE WINTER BREAK

@/f1blonde: If Isabelle Leclerc is pregnant and we don't even know who the dad is,  i'm going to personally storm the monaco royal palace

@/chequeredflag: Imagine buying a gift for a baby and then having to do a whole Instagram story just because people have assumptions😭

***

The winter sun slanted low through the living room windows, casting golden stripes across the hardwood floors.

Isabelle sat cross-legged on the carpet, the lid of the old storage box propped up against the coffee table.

 Inside: soft cotton onesies, tiny knitted booties, delicate little cardigans wrapped in tissue paper.

 A tiny quilt she had picked up at a market in Paris three years ago, too lovely to leave behind.

She hadn’t meant to pull it all out today.

It had just... happened.

Maybe because the fight with her brothers was still lingering under her skin, the words they hadn’t said loud enough to name — weird, sad, pathetic — scratching at her confidence like sandpaper.

Isabelle carefully unfolded a tiny pair of socks, brushing her thumb lightly over the soft fabric.

She hadn’t even heard the door open.

"Hey," Max’s voice came, warm and familiar from behind her. "You’re back early."

She turned, startled — and froze.

Max stood just inside the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair tousled, still a little flushed from training.

His eyes dropped to the scene in front of her. The open box. The tiny clothes.

Isabelle’s stomach twisted painfully.

"I—" she stammered, already rushing to shove the lid back on, to stuff the pieces away. "It’s nothing. I was just... cleaning. I should put this away."

But before she could, Max was there, crouching down beside her, one hand gently catching her wrist.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "You don’t have to hide it."

She looked at him helplessly, the shame still hot and heavy in her chest. "I know it’s weird," she muttered. "You don’t have to pretend."

Max just shook his head, slow and certain.

"It’s not weird," he said simply. "It’s you."

He reached into the box without hesitation, pulling out a tiny, soft grey onesie embroidered with a little fox.

He smiled — a small, real smile that made her chest ache.

"This is adorable," he said, running his thumb lightly over the fabric. "You’ve had all this ready. Just waiting."

Isabelle swallowed hard. "It’s stupid," she whispered. "I don’t even know if—when—"

Max set the onesie carefully on her knee, and took her face in his hands.

"You’re going to be an incredible mother someday," he said, steady and sure, like it was a fact written in the stars. "And it’s not stupid to dream about it."

Tears stung behind her eyes, burning hot and fast.

"I’m not in a rush," she said quickly, panicked, because the last thing she wanted was for him to feel trapped. "I’m not—this isn’t pressure, I swear—"

Max’s thumb brushed under her eye, catching the first tear before it could fall.

"I know," he said. "I know you’re not rushing. And I’m not scared."

He smiled again — small, crooked, devastating. "I want that with you. One day. When you’re ready. When we’re ready."

Isabelle let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch.

Max kissed her forehead, lingering there for a long moment, like he could press all his promises into her skin.

“I hope they have your heart,” he murmured.

“I hope they have your eyes,” Isabelle whispered, half-laughing through the emotion that suddenly welled up in her chest.

They stood there for a long moment — Max with his arm around her, Isabelle resting against his shoulder, the box of tiny dreams between them.

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel silly for hoping.

 Didn’t feel foolish for wanting.

She just felt… safe.

 Held.

Seen.

***

The meeting was supposed to be quick.

 Just a light debrief before the holidays — finalize a few schedules, exchange terrible Secret Santa gifts, maybe sneak out early and pretend they were already on break.

It wasn’t supposed to turn into... whatever this was.

GP, casually flipping through his notes, glanced at Max and said, "You sorted your Christmas break yet, mate?"

Max shrugged. "Mostly."

Then, without warning, he pulled a folder from his backpack and slid it across the table like it was nothing.

"Also, this is for you."

GP raised an eyebrow, visibly suspicious. "What's this?"

Max leaned back lazily, arms stretched over the chair next to him. "Kitchen plans," he said. "Merry Christmas."

Checo, half-listening at first, glanced up. Kitchen plans?

GP cracked open the folder, frowning. Max was utterly relaxed, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

"Belle helped draw it up. Should make it easier," Max added, casual as anything.

Checo’s brain stalled on one word.

 Belle.

 Belle?

 Belle?

Across the table, Checo slowly straightened, feeling a weird knot twist in his chest.

 Surely Max didn’t mean—

 No.

 No way.

"Belle," Checo repeated carefully, watching Max’s face.

Max nodded once, calm and easy. "Yeah."

Checo looked at the folder again.

 Then at Max.

 Then back at the folder.

Slow horror dawned in the pit of his stomach.

"Belle like..." Checo said, the words dragging themselves out against his will, "Isabelle Leclerc?"

Max’s answering nod was small but smug. Proud, even.

"Yeah."

Checo stared at him.

 Dead silent.

 The realization hitting him like a slow-motion car crash.

"You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s little sister," Checo said aloud, more for his own sanity than anyone else's.

 Not a question. A statement. A grim acknowledgment.

Max’s smirk widened, barely restrained.

"Yes," he said again, almost cheerfully.

Checo just sat there for a long moment, frozen in place, wondering at what point in life he had taken the wrong turn that led him to this exact situation.

Charles was going to kill him just for knowing this information.

Max might survive because Max was Max. But Checo? Checo had a family to think about.

He valued peace. He valued survival.

Very, very carefully, Checo set his coffee down.

"You know what?" he said, pushing his chair back with slow, deliberate movements. "I don't want to know more."

Max tilted his head, amused. "You sure?"

"Completely sure," Checo said firmly, standing up like he needed physical distance from the absolute disaster this could become. "I value my life. I value my continued existence. I don’t want to be an accessory to whatever crime scene this turns into."

Max just chuckled under his breath, spinning his pen between his fingers like the smug bastard he was.

Meanwhile, GP was still utterly oblivious, flipping through the kitchen plans like he’d been handed the Holy Grail.

 "This is under budget," GP muttered, awed. "How the hell—?"

"She’s good at what she does," Max said simply, stealing a sip of his Red Bull like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

Checo rubbed a hand over his face.

 He needed a drink.

Maybe several.

"You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s little sister," he muttered again, mostly to himself. "And now she’s designing kitchens for your engineer. I’m just... I’m going to mind my own business. Completely. Forever."

Max gave him a bright, insufferable thumbs-up.

"Happy holidays," Checo muttered darkly, clutching his coffee like it might save him from the nightmare he was now complicit in. He turned and walked straight out of the meeting room, not daring to look back.

Some things, he decided grimly, were above his pay grade.

Max Verstappen dating a Leclerc was absolutely one of them.

He didn’t want to know more.

He didn’t want to witness more.

And if anyone asked later, Checo would simply say he had no idea, no involvement, no memory of any of it.

Survival first.

Questions never.

***

The kitchen was filled with the soft clatter of dishes and the hum of the coffee machine.

Belle leaned against the counter, scrolling absently through emails on her phone, half-listening to the quiet patter of the cats chasing each other down the hallway.

She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do next.

Quitting had been the right choice — she didn’t doubt that. But for the first time in years, she felt... unmoored.

No title to hide behind.

No company name to make herself sound important.

Just her.

Her phone buzzed, startling her slightly.

Unknown number.

Frowning, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Isabelle Leclerc?"

The voice was vaguely familiar. Polished. Professional.

"This is Daniel Moreau — you worked with us last year on the Chevalier renovation in Beaulieu?"

Her heart lifted in instant recognition. The Moreau project — one of the few she’d truly loved. A quiet, modern transformation of a historic villa. One where the client had listened. Trusted her.

"Yes, of course," Isabelle said, straightening.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," Daniel said warmly. "I just... I was hoping to get in touch with you directly."

Isabelle blinked. "With me?"

"Yes. I know you were working with Atelier Renard before, but I heard you’ve gone independent?"

She hesitated.

 Independent.

Was that what she was now?

"I—" She cleared her throat. "Yes. I’m no longer with them."

"Good," he said, without missing a beat. "Because between you and me, I wasn’t impressed with the rest of their work. You were the reason we kept moving forward…Frankly, we want to work with you. Not the firm. You were the reason the project went so smoothly last time."

Isabelle felt something flicker in her chest — a cautious, disbelieving warmth.

"We’ve bought another property," Daniel continued. "Another historic site. Needs sensitive handling. We were hoping you might be willing to take it on."

Her heart was hammering now.

They wanted her.

Not the company behind her name.

Not the brand.

Her.

"I—I'd love to hear more," she said, keeping her voice steady somehow.

They talked for a few minutes — broad sketches of timelines, budgets, expectations. Nothing binding yet. But real. Solid. Tangible.

When she finally hung up, she stood there for a long moment, the silence of the apartment pressing in around her.

And then it hit her.

She could do this.

Freelancing wasn’t just a fantasy.

It wasn’t some reckless, impossible dream.

She had clients who trusted her.

She had projects she could be proud of.

She didn’t have to disappear into someone else’s firm again.

She could build something of her own.

The realization settled into her bones, slow and sure and so much bigger than she'd expected.

From down the hall, she heard the cats yowl — something crashing into a wall — and a muttered curse from Max, who was apparently trying (and failing) to play referee.

Isabelle laughed under her breath, feeling something unfurl inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Real, solid hope.

Maybe she didn’t need a title to be important.

Maybe she just needed to bet on herself — finally, properly — and not be afraid of being seen.

***

Max wandered out of the hallway, barefoot, hair still damp from a quick shower after wrestling two hyperactive cats off the curtains. He found Isabelle standing by the kitchen counter, barefoot too, scrolling through her phone with that look he knew well — half-distracted, half-scheming.

She looked up when she heard him.

 And immediately, he knew.

Something had shifted.

Something good.

He crossed the room lazily, leaned one hip against the counter, and stole a sip of her coffee before she could swat him away.

"Alright?" he asked, pretending to be casual.

Isabelle bit her lip — that tiny, telltale smile she couldn't hide when she was excited.

"I got a call," she said.

Max tilted his head, setting down the cup. "Yeah?"

"Daniel Moreau. From the Chevalier project,” she said, voice careful, like she was still half-afraid to jinx it. "You know — the villa renovation project I did this year?"

Max frowned, sorting through his mental archive — and then remembered.

The client she’d actually liked. The one who sent her a handwritten thank you note. The one she had called reasonable, which for Belle was practically sainthood.

She’d talked about that project differently. Like it had meant something.

"He wants me to take on a new property," she said, almost breathless. "Not with the firm. With me. Freelance."

Max’s chest tightened in a way he hadn’t expected.

 Pride.

He grinned, wide and stupid, and grabbed her by the waist, lifting her off the ground for half a second before she squealed and shoved at his shoulders.

"Max!" she laughed, breathless.

He set her down carefully, brushing her hair out of her face.

"You’re a menace," she accused, cheeks pink, smiling anyway.

He just smirked. "And you’re brilliant."

Isabelle ducked her head, embarrassed, but Max didn’t let go. He never would.

"You’re doing it," he said, quieter now. "On your own."

She nodded, biting her lip again.

"It feels... real. Like maybe I can actually do it."

Max dropped a kiss on her forehead, easy and sure.  "You’re going to be brilliant, schatje. You always were."

Then, grinning wickedly, he added, "Although I guess this means you’re quitting your career as my trophy wife after, what, three weeks?"

Isabelle snorted. "You’re the one who said I should be a trophy wife while I figured things out."

"You were terrible at it," Max teased. "No gold digger instincts. No dramatic shopping sprees. You kept refusing to use the black card."

"I bought the cats toys," she said defensively.

"For like two hundred euros," Max deadpanned. "Pathetic effort."

Isabelle laughed properly then, tipping forward to rest her forehead against his chest.

Max wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

"You’re the worst trophy wife," he said affectionately. "But you’re the best everything else."

She hummed quietly against him, the kind of sound that always made something in him settle.

And just like that — without even thinking about it — a plan started forming in his head.

"You’re going to need space," he said, thoughtful.

Belle blinked. "Space?"

"A proper office," Max said casually, already picturing it. "One of the guest bedrooms. We’ll clear it out this week. Desk, shelving, everything you want. Set it up properly."

She stared at him, stunned.

"You—you don’t have to—"

He cut her off with a soft snort. "You're not freelancing from the kitchen table, Belle. You're not hiding your work anymore."

She bit her lip, eyes shining.

"You’re building something," Max said, voice low and certain. "And you’re doing it here. With me."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: EMILIE

Emilie: Oh god.  What did the cats destroy?

Emilie:  Is Max in jail for killing your brothers? Do I need bail money?

Isabelle: No?? Not this time

Isabelle: This is GOOD news!

Emilie: 👀 I’m listening

Isabelle: Do you remember the Chevalier project??

Isabelle: The villa in Beaulieu with the modern restoration?

Isabelle: The client I actually liked??

Emilie: omg yes

Emilie:  The miracle project. 

Emilie:  The one with the client who sent you a thank-you basket instead of screaming about grout. 

Isabelle: YES

Isabelle: He called me. 

Emilie: Wait what??

Isabelle: He called me directly. Me. not the firm. 

Isabelle: He and his husband bought another property

Isabelle: A historic one and they want me to lead it

Isabelle: me-me

Isabelle:  not me-through-someone-else

Isabelle:  not “representing a firm”

Isabelle:  just me

Isabelle:  freelance

Emilie: OH MY GOD BELLE

Emilie: HOLY SHIT

Emilie: YOU’RE DOING IT

Isabelle: I think I am??

Isabelle:  I think I actually am 😭

Emilie: I’m so proud I could throw up

Isabelle: thank you

Isabelle:  I literally hung up the phone and just stood in the kitchen like. blinking. processing.

Isabelle: Max is already planning to convert a guest room into an office

Isabelle:  he was like “you’re not freelancing from the kitchen table, Belle”

Isabelle:  like it wasn’t even a question

Isabelle:  I think I almost cried??

Emilie: you deserve every bit of this

Emilie: the job

Emilie:​​ the space

Emilie: the love

Isabelle: 😭😭😭

Emilie: now

Emilie:  send me photos of this imaginary office

Emilie:  we're making mood boards

Emilie:  this is not a drill

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Belle,  you’re getting the gifts sorted, right?

Arthur: And can you find a tree?

Arthur:  The one last year was kinda sad.

Charles: Maybe get the ornaments too?

Charles:  Some of them broke last year when Arthur dropped the box.

Arthur: NOT MY FAULT

Charles: Was totally your fault.

Arthur: Ok but Belle dropped it first and I just caught it badly.

Arthur:  Not 100% my fault.

Isabelle: I can get a tree.

Isabelle: But I thought we were all doing gifts separately this year?

Lorenzo: It’s easier if you just coordinate it.

Charles: Yeah like last year.

Arthur: You have the spreadsheets.

Charles: Exactly.

Lorenzo: I’ll send you money for my part.

Arthur: Same ***

Max knew Isabelle liked things to be done properly.

He just hadn’t realized how much of Christmas rested entirely on her shoulders—until he saw it for himself.

He leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching as she moved through the room in a practiced, exhausted sort of rhythm. No music playing, no humming, no bright Christmas energy — just quiet determination.

The dining table was buried under piles of wrapping paper, tissue, and scotch tape.

 The counters were cluttered with cookie tins she had baked and labeled herself— and he knew she had stayed up until two in the morning last night finishing them.

"Belle," Max said quietly. "When was the last time you sat down?"

She didn’t answer right away, too busy fiddling with the tags on a stack of presents. Her movements were brisk, mechanical, like she was running on autopilot.

"I’m almost done," she mumbled.

Max pushed off the doorframe, crossing the room to her. "That's not what I asked."

Isabelle finally looked up at him, and he caught it then — the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged under the weight of it all.

"I have to finish," she said, voice soft but firm. "There’s still the place settings for dinner, and I have to make sure the boys’ gifts are packed up, and if I don’t do the grocery shopping today, no one will—"

She cut herself off with a frustrated little breath, pressing her fingers to her temple.

Max felt something sharp and angry twist in his chest — but not at her.

 At them.

 At the way her family didn’t even seem to notice how much she did. How much she gave.

"Why does it all fall on you?" he asked, gentler now.

Isabelle shrugged. A small, defeated motion.

"Because if I don’t do it," she whispered, "nobody will."

And Max realized, all at once, that Christmas wasn’t a magical time for Isabelle.

 It was work. It was duty. It was trying to make sure everyone else felt special, even if it meant breaking herself in the process.

He reached out and tugged the ribbon from her hands, letting it drop onto the table.

"Enough," he said quietly.

"But—"

"Belle." His voice left no room for argument. "Enough."

Her lip wobbled, just a little, and Max swore he felt his heart crack.

He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin, and just held her.

 Held her like he could carry the exhaustion for her, even if only for a moment.

"You don’t have to do everything," he murmured. "You shouldn’t have to."

"I just… I want it to be nice," she whispered into his shirt. "For them."

Max kissed the top of her head, fierce and aching with love, unable to come up with an answer to that.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: You know what’s actually insane?

Emilie: That you’re obsessed with my best friend?

Max: That Isabelle plans EVERYTHING and no one even notices.

Emilie: Oh. That. Yeah, it’s infuriating.

Max: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, their mom— they just assume things magically happen.

Emilie: The best part? If she ever didn’t plan something, they’d all just stand around confused like, “Oh, I thought you handled it.”

Max: And she’d probably still feel bad and fix it for them.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: How has she not quit being the family event planner?

Emilie: Because she’s too nice. And apparently, someone has to be the responsible one.

Max: No, but really. Why is she the one who always has to book everything?

Emilie: Because if she doesn’t, nobody will.

Max: They’d just show up at an airport with no flights booked.

Emilie: Or try to go to a fully booked restaurant like, “Oh, you need reservations?”

Max: It’s actually painful to think about.

Emilie: The best was when Arthur’s girlfriend was like, “It’s so cute how he planned our anniversary dinner.”

Max: No. Don’t tell me—

Emilie: ISABELLE BOOKED IT.

Max: I refuse to believe this.

Emilie: She even picked out the gift.

Max: Arthur better be eternally grateful.

Emilie: Oh, no. He just went, “Oh yeah, great,” and moved on with his life.

Max: …I need a moment.

Emilie: I KNOW.

Max: Does anyone EVER actually thank her??

Emilie: Not really. They just assume she enjoys it.

Max: What if she doesn’t?

Emilie: Then she suffers in silence because if she stops, everything falls apart.

Max: I actually hate this.

Emilie: Welcome to my world.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Pascale: Good afternoon my loves!

Pascale: Isabelle, have you finalized the menu for Christmas Eve yet?

Lorenzo: And did you book the restaurant for Christmas Day lunch?

Arthur: Also, did you grab the tree yet?

Pascale: Don’t forget to wrap the presents nicely this year.

Pascale:  Remember last year? Arthur’s wrapping was a disaster.

Arthur: HEY

Arthur:  you gave me like five minutes and no tape!!

Pascale: Also, Isabelle, can you remind everyone about the dress code for Christmas Eve?

Pascale: I want a nice family photo this year. No jeans.

Pascale: I want it to feel festive, but tasteful.

Arthur: CAN I WEAR A CHRISTMAS SWEATER WITH A DINOSAUR

Charles: Maman will actually murder you. 

Lorenzo: And you’re getting gifts for the cousins, right? Maman said you handled it best last year.

Pascale: And don’t forget to bake some of those little cinnamon cookies your brothers love!

Isabelle: Sure.

Isabelle: I’ll handle it.

***

The smell hit him first.

Warm, rich, spicy — the kind of scent that wrapped around your senses and pulled you straight into childhood memories.

 Max inhaled without thinking… and then frowned.

Cinnamon.

He stepped into the kitchen, fully expecting to find Isabelle humming or maybe sneakily sampling cookies fresh from the oven.

Instead, he found her hunched over the counter, moving carefully as she arranged rows of golden-brown cookies onto a cooling rack. Her sleeves were pushed up, her hair pinned back messily. There was flour on her cheek.

And a deep, angry rash beginning to creep up the side of her wrist.

Max's heart dropped.

"Belle," he said sharply, striding over. "What are you doing?"

She jumped, startled, nearly dropping the spatula.

"Max! You scared me."

He caught her hand before she could hide it behind her back. The rash was worse up close — red and inflamed, already beginning to welt. He knew the signs; Isabelle was allergic to cinnamon. Had been since she was a kid.

"You're having a reaction," he said, keeping his voice steady even as his blood simmered with frustration. "Why are you—?"

She gave a small, guilty shrug, trying to tug her hand back.

"It's just a little," she muttered. "It’s fine. I washed my hands a lot. I’ll take something after."

"Belle."

"They like them," she said, almost defensively. "Arthur, Lorenzo and Charles always ask for them. I didn’t want to disappoint them."

Max stared at her, the cookies cooling between them, the kitchen warm and bright but the air between them unbearably heavy.

"You’re allergic," he said, low and rough. "You're hurting yourself. For cookies."

"For my brothers," she corrected softly. "They don't even realize I can't eat them."

The words slipped out, unguarded, and Max felt them land like a punch to the chest.

They didn't even realize.

She baked them every year anyway.

Because she loved them. Because she thought that was what love meant — giving and giving, even when it cost her.

He closed his eyes, the fury, hot and immediate. 

All the work, all the care, all the quiet sacrifices—things her family didn’t even see unless they went undone.

Max opened his eyes and pulled a bowl away from her, setting it firmly on the counter.

"No," he said.

Isabelle blinked up at him, startled. "No?"

"No more," Max repeated. "You’re not doing this. Not for them. Not when it hurts you."

"But—"

Max cupped her face, ignoring the faint cinnamon dust on her cheek.

"I love how much you care," he said, voice low, steady. "I love how much you want things to be perfect for everyone. But you deserve someone who thinks about you, too."

He saw the way her throat bobbed, the way her lashes fluttered like she was trying not to cry.

"You don’t have to earn their love, Belle," Max whispered. "You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep them warm."

And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

 The oven beeped in the background, forgotten.

Finally, Isabelle sagged into him, her forehead pressing into his chest, her hands fisting lightly in his sweater.

Max wrapped his arms around her, holding her together because he knew she’d spent so long holding everyone else.

****

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Your best friend is insane.

Emilie: I assume this isn’t about the fact she alphabetizes her spice rack?

Max: No.

Max:  She’s baking cinnamon cookies.

Max:  FOR HER BROTHERS.

Max:  SHE’S ALLERGIC TO CINNAMON.

Emilie: Oh god.

Emilie:  Again???

Max: AGAIN???

Max:  THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR???

Emilie: Max, breathe.

Emilie: Yes.

Emilie: She does it every year because Arthur and Charles expect it and she doesn’t want to “ruin Christmas.”

Max: THIS ISN’T FUCKING NORMAL.

Max:  SHE’S HAVING A REACTION.

Max:  FROM COOKIES.

Max:  THAT SHE IS MAKING FOR PEOPLE WHO DON’T EVEN NOTICE.

Emilie: Yeah.

Emilie: Welcome to the Leclerc family dynamic.

Emilie: You’re catching up.

Max: No.

Max:  Absolutely not.

Max:  I’m burning the cinnamon.

Max:  I’m throwing the cookies out the window.

Max:  I’m locking her in a room with antihistamines and telling Arthur to choke on store-bought biscuits.

Max:  How has nobody told her she doesn’t have to kill herself for them?

Emilie: Because she thinks love is earning your place.

Emilie: Not just existing and being enough.

Emilie:She’s never really had anyone who told her otherwise.

Max: She does now.

Emilie: Good.

Emilie: Because she deserves better.

Emilie: And if you ever need backup setting fire to the cinnamon cookies, I’m free.

Max: Might take you up on that.

***

Group Chat: Santa’s Elves

(Members: Max, Victoria, Tom and Sophie) 

Victoria: okay troops

Victoria:  Christmas dinner plan is a GO

Victoria:  assignments incoming

Tom: I’m ready

Tom:  already bought festive beer Tom:  and the good wine Tom:  you’re welcome

Sophie: 😂 Love the enthusiasm, Tom

Max: what’s my job? Max: …please nothing that involves cooking

Victoria: relax Victoria: you’re on babysitting duty Victoria: keep the kids alive while we finish food

Max: Easy Max:  i’m their favorite anyway 😎

Sophie: Confirmed.

Sophie:  The boys like Max better than Tom and me combined.

Tom: 😑 i’m buying more wine to cope

Victoria: Mom is doing the main course (queen)

Victoria:  I’m doing the cheeseboard and table set up

Victoria:  Tom’s on drinks duty

Victoria:  Max is kid-wrangling + ordering dessert from that bakery we like

Max: got it

Max:  will order tomorrow morning

Max:  anything specific?

Sophie: something chocolate. always chocolate.

Victoria: and something pretty for Instagram pls

Victoria:  priorities

Tom: if it looks good but tastes bad that’s your fault, Vic

Victoria:  you’re on thin ice

Max: if you two fight the kids are judging

Sophie: The kids already judge

Sophie:  you should hear the Luka critique Tom’s hot chocolate skills

Tom: As long as Max doesn’t set anything on fire we’re good this christmas

Max: no promises 🔥

***

Max’s suitcase was by the door, neat and ready, like always.

She sat on the edge of the couch, fingers curled around a mug of tea she wasn’t drinking, pretending the ache in her chest was just from the cold — not from the knowledge that he was leaving, and she was staying.

They had never made a big thing out of it. They had agreed months ago: Christmas with their own families.

 She hadn’t wanted to impose. And truthfully, she hadn’t thought she was allowed to want anything else.

Max crossed the room, zipping up his jacket, his steps slow like he didn’t want to leave either.

"You sure you’ll be okay?" he asked softly, crouching in front of her, his hand coming to rest on her knee.

Isabelle smiled, small and careful.

"Yeah," she lied. "It’s just a few days."

Max’s gaze didn’t move from her face. He was too good at reading her now — too good at seeing the spaces between what she said and what she meant.

"You’re dreading it."

It wasn’t a question.

She let out a quiet breath and looked down into her tea.

"They mean well," she said, which wasn’t really true. "They just... expect things. And it’s always a lot. No matter how much I do, it never feels like enough."

Max reached for her hand. He held it carefully, like it might crumble if he wasn’t gentle.

"You don’t have to do it all," he said. "You can say no."

Her throat tightened. "Not with them. You know that."

He didn’t argue.

Just brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"You want me to stay?"

The words were so quiet she almost missed them.

Her eyes shot up to his, wide and startled. "What?"

Max smiled — soft, knowing. "I’d stay. If you asked."

And oh, she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

But she couldn’t be the reason he missed his family.

 The one that actually showed up. The one that divided the work. The one that loved him without conditions.

"You should go," she whispered. "They’ll be waiting."

Max nodded, though his hand didn’t let go of hers right away.

"You text me," he said firmly. "Whenever you need to. If it gets too much. If you just want to vent. Anything."

Isabelle nodded. "I will."

Max leaned in, kissed her forehead — slow and lingering — then pressed his mouth to her temple, like he was trying to pass all his steadiness into her through the skin.

"You come to me the moment you need a break, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

And then he was gone — suitcase in hand, footsteps echoing down the hall, the door clicking shut behind him.

She sat in the quiet, tea still untouched, the weight of the upcoming holiday settling back over her like a too-heavy coat.

A few days.

 She could survive a few days.

Even if it meant smiling through disappointment.

 Even if it meant being everyone’s glue while no one held her together.

She stared at the blinking Christmas lights, silent and still, and braced herself.

***

The pet carrier sat on the passenger seat, tiny but somehow loud, the small bundle inside meowing indignantly every few seconds.

"I know, I know," Isabelle murmured, glancing over as she pulled into the underground parking. "Almost there, little one. Just hold on."

The breeder had handed her the kitten that morning, wrapped up in a soft blanket, small and wriggling and so full of attitude that Isabelle had immediately thought, Yes. You’re perfect for us.

A Bengal — fiery little spirit, spotted coat shining under the winter sun, with eyes so impossibly blue they hardly looked real.

Max was going to lose his mind.

She smiled to herself as she carried the carrier carefully up the elevator to the apartment. The plan was simple: keep the kitten separated from Sassy and Jimmy for a few days. Let her adjust. Let them adjust.

Slow introductions, every guide said. Boundaries.

She set the carrier down in the guest bedroom, heart pounding with excitement.

"You have a few days to settle in before Max gets back," Isabelle whispered, unlocking the carrier door. "Nice and quiet. No stress."

The kitten immediately barreled out of the carrier, straight into her lap, climbing up Isabelle’s chest like she was a mountain to be conquered.

Isabelle laughed, steadying her with gentle hands.

"You’re trouble already," she murmured fondly.

She sat with the kitten for a while, letting her explore the little setup — litter box, toys, cozy blankets. Everything ready.

Then came the problem.

The door.

She had just cracked it open to slip out quietly when two familiar blurs appeared: Jimmy first, then Sassy, both clearly having heard the new sounds and smells.

Sassy sat elegantly just outside the threshold, blinking slowly. Jimmy practically vibrated with excitement, already chirping.

"Not yet," Isabelle whispered. "You’re supposed to meet her later, carefully, slowly—"

The kitten, of course, had other plans.

Before Isabelle could stop her, she wobbled toward the door on still-clumsy legs, let out one fierce little meow, and plopped herself directly in front of Sassy.

For a split second, Isabelle panicked, heart racing.

And then—

Sassy lowered her head slowly, gave the kitten a long, inspecting sniff... and purred.

Isabelle blinked.

 Jimmy, emboldened, bounded forward and nudged the kitten with his nose.

The kitten immediately batted at Jimmy’s ear, clearly delighted, and Jimmy flopped onto his side with a happy trill, inviting her to climb all over him.

Isabelle stood frozen, watching her careful, responsible plan unravel in real time — and somehow turn into magic.

The kitten was already nuzzling into Sassy’s side, purring like a tiny engine.

 Jimmy rolled onto his back, paws waving playfully in the air.

There was no hissing. No swatting. No stress.

Just acceptance.

 Immediate, unquestioning.

A soft lump rose in Isabelle’s throat.

They already loved her.

 No slow introductions needed. No hesitation.

Just home.

Isabelle knelt down carefully, heart full to bursting, and whispered:

"Well. That was easy."

The kitten squeaked and headbutted her hand.

 Jimmy chirped again.

 Sassy blinked at her like, obviously.

Isabelle laughed, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Within minutes, the kitten was curled up between Sassy and Jimmy, purring so loudly her tiny body vibrated.

Belle pressed her hand to her chest, overwhelmed by how right it all felt.

Max was going to lose his mind. In the best way.

She snapped a quick photo — Jimmy snoring, the kitten sprawled across his paw, Sassy watching them both with regal approval — and saved it carefully.

Not sending it yet.

 Wanting Max to be surprised in person.

This — this little chaotic, purring pile of love — was the Christmas she wanted to give him.

Home.

 Family.

 Peace.

Exactly what he deserved.

Exactly what they deserved.

***

The house was warm with the scent of cinnamon and pine, the soft hum of holiday music playing in the background. Wrapping paper littered the floor as Victoria’s two-year-old son toddled between family members, showing off his new toy car, while her boyfriend sat on the couch, trying (and failing) to assemble a playset.

Max sat beside his mother, watching the scene unfold, a rare moment of quiet as the chaos of Christmas morning settled. He reached into the pile of gifts beside him and pulled out a simple, tasteful gift bag.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to Victoria. “This is from Isabelle.”

Victoria looked up from where she was helping her son unwrap another gift. “Isabelle got me something?”

Max shrugged like it was no big deal. “Well, technically for the baby.”

Victoria’s expression softened, and she took the bag, carefully peeling back the tissue paper. Inside was a collection of delicate baby clothes—soft cotton onesies, tiny knitted socks, and an elegant, hand-stitched blanket in muted pastels. She pulled out a small note tucked inside.

For your little girl, with love – Belle.

Victoria stared at it for a long moment before shaking her head with a fond smile. “Max.”

“What?”

She looked up at him, her eyes full of something knowing. “You know I love her, right?”

Max exhaled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I figured.”

“No, I mean it,” Victoria pressed. “She’s… she’s perfect for you.”

Their mother, who had been watching quietly, nodded in agreement. “She is.”

Victoria placed the baby blanket back in the bag, then met Max’s eyes again. “You should marry her.”

Max blinked, feeling his heart stutter for just a second. He didn’t say anything at first, just rolled the thought over in his mind—something he had already done a lot lately.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed. Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “Oh my God. You have been thinking about it.”

Max exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the couch. “I mean… yeah.”

Victoria lit up like a Christmas tree. “Max!”

Their mother smiled knowingly. “You love her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max ran a hand through his hair, a little overwhelmed but not denying it. “I do.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Victoria pressed.

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Nothing, really. I just—I want to do it right.”

Victoria hummed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t want her to feel like it’s rushed. Or that I’m just asking because things are good now, but I haven’t thought about what comes after.” He hesitated. “I know what comes after. And I still want it.”

Victoria’s expression softened even more. “That’s kind of the whole point of marriage, Max.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… I don’t want her to doubt it, even for a second.”

Victoria gave him a long look, then smiled. “She won’t.”

Max exhaled, rubbing at the tension in the back of his neck. “She might. Her family—”

“Is a mess,” Victoria finished for him. “Yeah, I know. But that’s exactly why she’ll believe you. You’re showing her something different. Stability. Love. Someone who actually puts her first.”

Max swallowed, something tight in his throat. “Yeah.”

Victoria smirked. “Also, I’d pay good money to see Charles’ face when you tell him.”

Max let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’ll be… something.”

“You should do it at a race weekend. Really put him on the back foot.”

“Victoria.”

“What? It’d be funny.”

Max rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. His sister had a point, even if she was enjoying the idea of Charles' reaction a little too much.

After a moment, Victoria nudged him with her foot. “So? You gonna do it?”

Max sighed, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

***

Christmas with the Leclercs had always been... complicated.

Isabelle wasn’t naïve enough to expect magic anymore.

 Not after years of being an afterthought.

 Not after years of achievements brushed aside in favor of louder, brighter celebrations for her brothers.

Still— Some small, stubborn part of her had hoped this year would be different.

She had spent days picking out gifts — careful, thoughtful gifts — ones that showed she knew them, that she cared. A rare edition of sneakers from a brand Arthur loved. A custom wine set for Lorenzo. A framed photo restoration for her mother. A new golf carry bag for Charles, with his initials embroidered onto it. 

Things that mattered.

And in return? 

A wall calendar from her mother. (Dogs in silly costumes. Not even horses. Not even cats. Nothing she liked. The tag read simply: "For your office, so you can keep better track of things. Love, Maman.")

A  gift card to a random electronics store she never shopped at from Lorenzo. 

A keychain shaped like a tire from Charles. ("Because you’re a Leclerc too, Isabelle, you’re part of the racing spirit, right?") 

And then from Arthur, the piece de resistance: A crop top. Tight. Neon pink. (“Saw it on sale and thought — this is way more fun than all the beige you wear!”)

Gifts that said: We don’t know you. We didn’t try.

Isabelle kept her smile pinned in place all through the day, all through the polite clinking of glasses and the endless, thoughtless chatter.

She had smiled, folded it carefully, and said thank you.

Because that’s what she always did.

Be the good gril. The grateful quiet sister. Regardless of how much it hurt. 

Still, as soon as she could go…

Belle went home. 

The door clicked shut behind her with a final, hollow sound.

The apartment was silent except for the soft pad of paws across hardwood.

The kitten darted toward her first, meowing indignantly. Jimmy and Sassy followed, blinking sleepily from their place curled up on the couch.

Isabelle dropped her keys on the counter.

Kicked off her shoes.

She made it three steps toward the living room before her legs gave out.

She sank to the floor — cold against the wood — and buried her face in her hands.

The tears came fast. Hot. Helpless.

Not just for today.

For all the Christmases before it.

For all the years spent trying to earn a place she should’ve already had.

She didn't sob.

No messy gasps for air.

Just silent, shaking tears that soaked her palms and blurred the world around her.

The kitten crept onto her lap first, purring loudly, headbutting her arm. Jimmy slunk in next, nudging her side with his nose.

Sassy stretched lazily, then trotted over and curled against her knees.

They didn't ask for anything.

They just stayed.

Isabelle curled into the weight of them — warm and grounding — clutching the kitten to her chest like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his fur. "I'm sorry for expecting anything different."

The cats purred louder, blanketing her in their soft, unbothered love.

Somewhere deep down, she knew Max would be home in a few days. He would take one look at her, see right through her smile, and pull her into his arms without asking any questions.

He always did.

But for now— It was just her. And them.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had to be.

***

The days stretched out, slow and heavy.

Max wouldn’t be home until the 27th.

That left her in the quiet.

No clinking glasses. No forced smiles. No careful pretending.

Just her.

And the kitten, curled against her chest more often than not. And Jimmy, draped dramatically over her lap. And Sassy, perched like a soft guardian nearby.

She didn't even turn on the TV. The blinking Christmas lights stayed unplugged. The gifts — the ugly, hollow things — sat untouched on the kitchen counter, still half-wrapped.

Isabelle moved through the apartment like a ghost.

Feeding the cats. Watering the plants. Existing.

And the thing was... it didn't feel like peace.

It felt like grief.

Grief for the girl who had tried so hard.

Grief for all the years she had believed that if she just did a little more — gave a little more — loved a little louder — she would finally be enough.

She found herself curled on the couch one night, knees to her chest, staring out at the glittering lights of Monaco beyond the glass balcony doors.

The kitten kneaded her sweater, purring obliviously.

Jimmy snored softly against her feet.

And somewhere deep inside, a small, painful thought broke free:

"I can't do this anymore."She whispered it aloud, her voice cracking."I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."

Her chest tightened, her throat closing.

"I can't keep loving people who don't love me back the way I need."

The admission shattered something inside her.

It was terrifying — it felt like giving up.

But it also felt... honest.

Real.

Necessary.

She wiped at her cheeks with shaking hands, breathing hard.

The kitten headbutted her chin, making her laugh — a raw, broken sound.

"I need help," she whispered into the empty apartment. "I need... someone to help me figure out how to stop doing this to myself."

The kitten purred louder.

 Sassy hopped up onto the back of the couch and flopped across her shoulders with a regal little grunt.

 Jimmy rolled onto his back and batted at her ankle.

Not demanding. Not needing her to earn anything.

Just there.

Isabelle closed her eyes, letting the tears fall without fighting them anymore.

And when she opened them again — when she sat up, cradling the kitten against her chest — she wasn’t thinking about the next Christmas, or the next gathering, or the next thing she had to survive.

She was thinking about tomorrow.

One day.

One step.

Maybe she could call a therapist. Maybe she could start small — just talking. Maybe she could start choosing herself for once.

She wasn’t sure yet.

But for the first time, she wasn’t thinking "how do I fix them?" She was thinking "how do I heal me?"

***

The second he opened the door, Max knew something was wrong.

The apartment was dark. Too quiet, except for the soft, broken sounds he couldn't place at first.

He dropped his bag without thinking, heart thudding painfully against his ribs, and moved quickly down the hall.

And there she was.

Isabelle.

Curled up in a tight ball on the couch, knees to her chest, face buried in a pillow.

Crying.

Not loud, racking sobs.

 Not the kind of tears she could hide behind a tight smile and a polite "I'm fine."

The real ones. The ones she never let anyone else see.

Max's chest cracked wide open.

He crossed the room in two strides, crouching beside her without hesitation.

"Belle," he said, voice breaking. "I'm here. I'm here, Schatje."

She lifted her head slowly, her face blotchy and pale, her eyes swollen from crying.

And then, hoarse and desperate, she whispered:

"I need therapy."

Max swallowed hard.

"I need a therapist," she said again, voice trembling. "I can't—I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt."

Max didn’t say anything.

 He just gathered her into his arms, pulling her against his chest like she was something breakable, precious.

She clutched at his hoodie like a drowning girl grabbing a lifeline.

"I can’t fix it," she whispered against him. "No matter how good I try to be, it’s never enough. I’m so tired, Max. I’m so tired."

Max kissed her hair, his hands moving gently up and down her back, trying to soothe, to anchor.

"You don't have to fix anything," he murmured. "Not for them. Not for anyone. I'm so proud of you for saying it out loud, Belle. I'm so proud of you."

She sobbed then — real, gasping sobs — and he just held her tighter, rocking her gently like she was something he could shelter from the whole fucking world.

It was minutes, maybe longer, before the crying started to ease, the shaking in her body slowing to small, exhausted tremors.

Only then did he notice the movement out of the corner of his eye.

A tiny, curious kitten stood perched on the arm of the couch, blinking at him with wide, impossibly blue eyes.

 Spotted, fierce-looking, all attitude in a body that barely fit in his hand.

She meowed loudly, clearly offended at being ignored.

Max blinked, stunned.

"Belle," he said softly, half-laughing through the ache in his chest. "Is that—?"

Isabelle sniffled, curling closer into him.

"Your Christmas present," she whispered. "I got her for you."

Max smiled, the kind of smile that hurt because it was too full, too much.

The kitten — tiny menace that she was — marched straight onto his lap without hesitation, climbed up his arm, and flopped against his chest like she belonged there.

Jimmy and Sassy appeared a second later, trotting over with soft chirps, their tails high and proud. Like they were presenting the newest member of the family for inspection.

Max pressed another kiss to Isabelle’s hair and looked down at the kitten sprawled across him.

"She’s perfect," he said simply.

Isabelle let out a broken little laugh — the smallest flicker of something lighter — and Max kissed her again, over and over, soft and steady.

"You’re not alone anymore," he whispered against her temple. "You don't have to carry it by yourself. We’ll find you someone good. We’ll do it together."

She nodded against him, the tiniest, exhausted nod.

And Max stayed right there — one arm around Isabelle, one hand cradling the tiny, fierce little kitten — anchoring them both.

Because they were his family.

 And he was never letting them go.

***

The world slowed down after Christmas.

Not in the way it had when she was alone — heavy, suffocating — but in a quieter, gentler way.

Because Max stayed.

He didn’t try to fix her with grand gestures.

 He didn’t try to force her to smile or pretend she was okay.

He just took care of her.

Small, steady things.

Waking up early to make coffee before she even stumbled out of bed.

Filling the fridge with all her favorite food without asking.

Curling up with her on the couch, half-watching bad movies while the new kitten climbed all over them, fearless and bright.

They spent an entire afternoon sprawled on the living room floor, arguing over names.

"Sassy and Jimmy are named after Monaco clubs," Max pointed out, gently prying the kitten off his sleeve for the tenth time. "It’s tradition now."

Isabelle smiled — a real one, small and unsteady but there.

"Lilly, then," she said after a while, watching the kitten attack Jimmy’s tail with wild enthusiasm. "After Lilly’s."

Max grinned, reaching out to scratch behind the kitten’s ear.

She immediately tried to bite his finger.

"Perfect," he said. "A little chaos queen."

"Lilly it is," Isabelle said softly, scooping the tiny, purring bundle into her arms.

Lilly. Sassy.  Jimmy.

Home.

***

Four days after Christmas, Emilie showed up.

She barely made it two steps inside the apartment before pulling Isabelle into a hug so fierce it knocked the breath out of her.

"You should’ve called me," Emilie muttered into her hair.

"I’m okay," Isabelle said, though it came out thin.

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes sharp. "You shouldn’t have to be."

Max gave them space, drifting into the kitchen with Jimmy and Lilly trailing at his heels. (Sassy remained queenly on the back of the couch, surveying her kingdom.)

Emilie spotted the pile of gifts Isabelle had dropped on the counter — the ridiculous calendar, the generic gift card, the keychain, the pink crop top — and went still.

She picked up the crop top between two fingers, like it might bite her.

"This," Emilie said slowly, "is an insult."

Isabelle laughed, but it cracked around the edges.

Emilie turned, her eyes blazing now.

"They don't deserve you."

The words landed harder than Isabelle expected.

Not because they were cruel.

 Because they were true.

She opened her mouth to deflect — to say it wasn’t that bad, that they didn’t mean to hurt her — but Emilie just shook her head.

"No. None of that. You gave them everything, Belle. Thoughtful gifts. Time. Care. And they couldn’t even be bothered to see you."

Isabelle felt her throat tighten painfully.

"You’re not asking for too much," Emilie said fiercely. "You’ve never asked for too much. You just wanted to matter."

The tears came fast and hot, blurring the kitchen into light and shadow.

Emilie stepped closer, squeezing her shoulders.

"You do matter," she said. "Just not to people who only know how to take."

Behind them, Max hovered silently, a plate of cookies in his hand, his eyes soft and steady.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t add anything.

He just stayed.

Exactly what she needed.

Exactly what she deserved.

Later, after Emilie left with promises of vengeance and an ominous "Just say the word and I will rain hellfire on all of them," Isabelle curled up on the couch with Max, Jimmy, Sassy, and little Lilly wriggling between them.

Max pulled a blanket over both of them, tucking her into his side without a word.

Isabelle let herself lean into him, breathing him in — warmth and safety and home.

Maybe the family she was born into would never see her the way she wished.

But the one she was building?

The one that showed up — not because they had to, but because they wanted to?

That family was hers.

 And she was enough for them.

 Exactly as she was.

***

[dutchs-paisley-vest]

You ever just write something so gas but also so revolting

Is “The deification of Dutch Van der Linde” a tag on ao3??? Hold on. Let me check something.

Okay cool, so can I propose something then-

[little-cereal-draws]

I can feel myself slipping into a hyper fixation on Vincent Van Gough????

I saw one exhibit on his work and now every single thing reminds me of him,,,, I want to learn everything I can abt him,,,,, it’s only a matter of time until I want to start creating things based off his work/life 😭😭

I’ve had hyper fixations on cultures, time periods, and historical events but never a solitary real life person??? Like that is not the blorbo from my shows, that is an actual person who existed!!!!! 😭😭😭😭

[eveninggstar]

victory lap ⊹ ࣪ ˖

lando norris x rival!Mercedes!reader

26.08.24

୨ৎLando proposes a bet that if he gets pole and wins from pole in Zandvoort then he gets to not use a condom next time you and him have sex.

୨ৎ back one page ୨ৎ back two pages

smut

unprotected p in v sex, kinda bratty reader, lando smacks readers ass twice, sex on the floor, lando is controlling but in a good way, probs more

ngl this is prob the best smut ive ever written so far lol kinda like this one bc i love lando two wins!!! Also this is pretty long i dont know how many words

The tension between you and Lando had been building up for years. The two of you were rivals on the track, always pushing each other to the limit, but beneath that fierce competition lay something neither of you could ignore—an undeniable sexual tension that everyone seemed to notice. The paddock was rife with rumours, and even your respective teams had exchanged knowing glances whenever the two of you were around each other.

It all came to a head one balmy summer evening at Zandvoort. The Dutch Grand Prix was notorious for its challenging circuit and passionate fans, and both of you were ready to put on a show.

You were lounging in your driver room, going over your strategy for the weekend when Lando sauntered in, a cocky grin plastered on his face. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, his McLaren race suit unzipped just enough to give a glimpse of his undershirt. He was clearly up to something.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice dripping with that signature mix of charm and mischief. “How confident are you feeling about this weekend?”

You looked up from your notes, meeting his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Confident enough to wipe that smug look off your face, Norris. Why do you ask?”

Lando chuckled, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking over to you. “Well, I was thinking... How about we make things a little more interesting this weekend?”

Your curiosity was piqued. “Oh? And what exactly did you have in mind?”

He leaned in close, his arms draped around your shoulder and his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Let’s make a bet. If I get pole position and win from pole, then the next time we have sex i don't wear a condom." He stayed silent for a few seconds, then leaning his face closer to your ear so his nose flattened, "Let me finish inside of you, baby."

A shiver ran down your spine at his bold proposition. You knew Lando liked to push boundaries, but this was a whole new level. Still, you weren’t one to back down from a challenge, especially not from him.

“And what do I get if you don’t?” you asked, your voice steady despite the way your heart was pounding in your chest.

“If I don’t win from pole, you get to call the shots next time,” Lando replied, his eyes darkening with the unspoken promises laced in his words.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to consider it, even though you already knew your answer. “Alright, Norris. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Saturday came around, and the atmosphere at Zandvoort was electric. The roar of the crowd, the smell of burning rubber, and the thrill of competition all combined to create an intoxicating environment. Qualifying was intense, with both you and Lando pushing your cars to the absolute limit.

“Lando Norris takes pole position!” the announcer’s voice boomed across the circuit.

You clenched your fists, a mix of frustration and anticipation bubbling within you. Lando had done it—step one of the bet was complete. But there was still the race to come, and you were determined to give him a run for his money.

Race day dawned bright and clear, the sun shining down on the packed grandstands. You could feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you strapped into your Mercedes, your focus narrowing down to the task at hand. The lights went out, and the race began with a flurry of motion.

Lando held his position at the front, but you were right on his tail, refusing to give him an inch. Lap after lap, you pressed him, looking for any opportunity to overtake, but he defended fiercely, his car perfectly placed at every turn. The tension between you both was palpable, each of you pushing the other to the brink.

As the race neared its conclusion, you realized that Lando was going to pull it off. He had driven impeccably, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t find a way past him. At this point you were nowhere near him. He had a 20 second lead and had lapped over half the grid.

Your heart sank as the reality of the situation set in. Lando had won the bet. As you pulled into the pit lane, you saw him celebrating with his team, his face lit up with triumph. But when he caught your eye, his smile turned into something more—something darker, filled with desire.

Later that evening, after all the interviews and celebrations, you found yourself in Lando’s motorhome. The air between you crackled with anticipation as he closed the door behind him, shutting out the world.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and rough, “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed winning a race this much.”

You swallowed hard, your body already responding to the heat in his gaze. “You got lucky, Norris.”

He smirked, stepping closer until you were backed up against the wall. “I think we both know it wasn’t just luck, Y/N. Now, are you ready to pay up?”

Your breath hitched as he pressed his body against yours, his hands sliding up your sides. You could feel his heart pounding in time with your own, the intensity between you both reaching a fever pitch.

“You won fair and square,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anticipation.

Lando’s eyes darkened, and he leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. It was fierce, filled with all the pent-up desire that had been simmering between you for so long. His hands roamed over your body, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss.

Lando didn't waste anytime before he urged you backwards towards the sofa. Your mouths slotted together and his hands groped and explored your body, going from your chest to your thighs. His hands manoeuvred the remains of your race suit to the floor, only leaving you in your fireproofs. With the reduced barrier, he could easily press against you causing you to let out many gasps and a few tugs to his hair.

Pulling away slightly, you mumbled into his mouth, “Lan, hurry up.”

He paused, eyes scattering over your features. His face was no longer the happy winner everyone outside saw. He was now drunk with a lust filled haze. He lifted himself up off of you slightly, bringing a hand to your face and caressing it with the utmost care. His breath felt warm against your face, causing your eyes to flutter shut. The calmness you were experiencing was cut short by the strong grip Lando had on your face, squeezing your cheeks and puckering your lips.

"You're the one needing to be faster." He practically growled, looking deep into your eyes. "Remind me who came first." He paused, awaiting your answer. "Who won the bet?" His voice sent shivers down your spine.

"You," you mumbled, then began to smile as his hand drifted to your neck. He returned the smile and slowly moved his face to the underside on your jaw. He kissed it sweetly, then tightened his grip.

"Louder, baby." He commanded, his words dark but mixed with the feather light kisses sent your head into another dimension.

"You!" You spoke up, earning a nip to your neck. He then came back to your face to then deepen the kiss you had earlier.

He moved your lower body so he could fit more comfortably between your legs. Your hands desperately gripped at his damp hair, needing to hold anything to ground yourself.

You felt the hand around your neck slowly trail down the length of your body before settling at your groin. Your legs attempted to close shut, although his waist was preventing you from doing that. He began to work at your clothed clit, his thumb easily circling over the smooth fabric.

"Uh-" your voice cut off as he pressed on the dampening fabric harder.

"There you go, you're speeding up. Getting wet so quickly," He spoke condescendingly as he nuzzled his nose in your cheek. "Why cant you be like this on track?" He began to mouth at your neck, causing you to let out a breathy moan. As much as you hated Lando's cockiness, god was it hot.

“Shush.” You moaned, an audible show of your composure.

You could barely speak, Lando's thumb never faltering on your soaking clit. His body was overwhelming you, and you started to squirm. However, that same thumb stopped giving pleasure. Before you could protest, he was hastily ripping your fireproofs off. This left you bare and flushed below him. Your chest heaving up and down as his eyes scanned over our body.

He leaned up to nip at your ear, surely leaving a mark this time, as you expelled a breath of pleasure as his fingers worked their way into your slit.

Your words were lost on you, wanting to ask when he was going to get to the real reason of your bet. But in all honestly, you didn't care if he would carry on pleasuring you. However, you did want his fingers to enter you, to leave you wanting more of a stretch for days after.

His fingers left your aching cunt, leaving it to pulsate rhythmically. You reached out to hold his hand, an iron bruising grip you're sure of it. His race suit clad crotch bumped against your bare one, giving a shock of unexpected pleasure.

"Lan!" you practically yelled, your squeal bouncing off of the surrounding walls.

He shushed you, then ordered you to not touch yourself. He slowly slinked up off of the sofa, eyes solely focused of your slightly twitching body. The rest of his race suit joined yours on the floor, in addition to his fireproofs.

His cock sprung free, the tip beat red and dripping at the sight of you. Lando stood proud for what felt like forever. His left thumb was stroking his lip as he shook his head in the opposite direction. That's when he uttered-

"Get on the floor."

You submissive sex haze briefly broke, thinking you heard him wrong.

"The floor?" You pushed your body up, looking at him like he just asked you to get on the floor like an animal. Oh wait-

"I won the bet, baby." He smirked, eyes still raking over your nude body. "Floor, there's not enough space on the sofa for us."

With a sigh and a reluctant nod, you melted your way off of the sofa. You knew the position he wanted you in, he rarely fucked you when not in it. You laid on the floor for a few seconds, collecting yourself. Lando saw you laying there, not having you be a pillow princess he ordered you to-

"Flip around, ass up. I know!" You rolled your eyes, then did it. What you didn't expect was a harsh smack to your ass. You let out a mixture of a moan and a sound on pain.

"Enough of the bratty attitude," He smacked your ass lighter this time then gripping the plump, reddening flesh.

Finally, you thought, the head of his cock began to notch at your entrance. His fingers had intertwined with the nodded strands of your hair and he pulled up as his dick pushed into your cunt in a swift motion.

You both let out a groan of pleasure. Lando held himself there, letting you and himself adjust to the jaw dropping pleasure. This was the first time the pair of you were having sex without a condom, and god did it already feel a million times better. The pair of you had to focus to not cum straight away.

No words were needed between the four walls of you sex filled haven, as Lando thrusted into you. His palms splayed on your hips controlled your movements as his relentlessly bullied his cock further and further into you. You hands struggled to hold onto something, eventually finding solace in Lando's fireproofs.

His name was chanted like a prayer from you, in return you got delicious sounding moans and groans from behind you. You were sure his face didn't look all that different to yours in the moment. Pleasure filled, and only focused on the other.

His repetitive ruts and the bruising grip on your hips rendered you speechless. You wanted to say keep going, feels so good. But that was the problem, since the pleasure was that unbelievable you couldn't say. The loud sounds of sex echoed as your skin slapped in a fast tempo, each smack more pleasureful than the last.

Lando leaned closer to you, chest flat of you back. At every thrust you could feel the tense of his abs and the perspiration drip onto your equally sweaty skin. He began to mouth at your neck, settling for small thrusts whilst he was buried at the hilt. One on his hands slithered away from your hips and found solace on your breast.

His hot breath spread across your neck and down your spine as you shivered. His moans had turned to grunts and pants.

"Like it when you can feel me this good?" He grinned into your hair, leaving small kisses in his wake. "Like it when your this full?"

You wanted to nod, only giving a weak, stuttered head movement. The remaining hand on your hip drifted to your swollen clit. He helped ease you to completion.

"Aren't you glad I got pole." He teased you. "That I won. You wouldn't feel this good if I didn't."

You whimpered at his words, too turned on to be annoyed that he won and you didn't. But yeah, you were happy he won. He doesn't have to know that though.

You wanted to tease him, give him payback to what you were feeling, what you always felt with him, however none of that would be happening. He knew you like he knew the tracks the pair of you frequented, and knew that you were actual putty in his hands this very moment.

He picked up his pace, resulting you to let out loud moans and sexual noises of the like. The speed of his thrusts felt as if his dick was going to come out, luckily it didn't and you got the full pleasure.

His fingers at your clit sped up, he sensed how close you were solely on how your body tensed up.

"Come on, you can cum for me. I know you can-"

His hand came up as fast as his reflexes allowed, as you came. He slowly reduced the pleasure he was giving to your clit and eventually reached his own high. Your neck vibrated at the animalistic groan he let out into it.

Needless to say, the pair of you would be having more bets like this.

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

taglist: (comment if you wanna be added)

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

[cheftsunoda]

secrets are no fun (unless shared with everyone)

part three

lewis hamilton x !sister reader

hamilton reader x max verstappen

ayana hamilton, the younger sister of seven-time world champion lewis hamilton, has seemingly achieved everything she could ever desire— a successful career as a music producer and artist, been all around the world, has a supportive family and a loving husband—however, that’s a secret that no one, not even her brother, knows about—her husband is also an f1 driver. lewis has always made it his mission to prevent ayana from dating a driver— but is it technically considered dating if they are married? ;)

part one here:)

part two here:)

fc : tyla

warning : j*s verstappen mentioned.

a/n : hello loves! i stayed up a majority of the night to get this written for you bc i will be busy this weekend as i am attending the miami gp! i have part 4 already saved in my drafts as well and will have that posted whenever i can! thanks love bugs 🐞

hope you like <3

(side note : congratulations to max on becoming a girl dad!! so excited for him and kelly)

—

ayanaaa

netherlands 📍

liked by sza, kikagomes, lando & 7,254,478 others.

ayanaaa : ik wil nooit meer weg 🇳🇱❤️

translation : i never want to leave

sza : pls come back to me i miss you and your beautiful creative energy 💌💋

liked by author

ayanaaa : you need to come here and we can just hide away for years

sza : deal

username : ladies can we have the album and the tour first please?

liked by author and sza

sza : oh yeah I guess so

lando : speaking dutch, are we? aren’t you from stevenage?

ayanaaa: yes lando i am

lando : interesting…just vacationing? learned some lingo along the way?

ayanaaa : i will not be taking any further questions from the press at this time

liked by lando

username : what does lando know that we don’t

ayanaaa : not much, he is very uneducated

lando : lewis tell your sister to stop bullying

lewishamilton : she isn’t wrong mate

lando : smh

kikagomes : prettiest girl on the planet

liked by author

ayanaaa: that’s all you my love

username : hmmm there is a man…in the netherlands…who do we know?

username2 : stop reaching they don’t even follow each other

username5 : she said a while ago that her man is not famous

username : guys let me be delusional stop dragging me

username3 : I fully ship them so hard and will feed into all delusions

username10 : wasn’t k**ly just seen at a race with max?

username12 : she was invited by another brand and max barely acknowledged her

lewishamilton : Love and hugs from Roscoe and I! We miss you❤️

liked by author

ayanaaa : love and miss you both! see you soon

danielricciardo : where was my invite?😔

liked by author

ayanaaa : lost in the post maybe danny 😣

liked by danielricciardo

—

I didn’t expect the countryside to feel this much like breathing.

The drive out of Amsterdam had been quiet — Max’s hand on the gear shift, his other laced with mine. It wasn’t our first time here, but it was the first time I wasn’t pretending to be just a friend, just a guest, just a visitor. This time, I wasn’t here for a show or a weekend stopover. I was here as his wife — quietly, secretly, entirely.

And Max’s world was much quieter than mine.

Birdsong, not bass. Windmills instead of spotlights. Wildflowers growing along the roads that curved like something out of a painting.

When we pulled up to his mother’s house, I felt that flutter of nerves I only ever got before performing — that rush of adrenaline and ache, wondering if I’d be understood.

But Sophie greeted me with a warm hug and a “You’re finally back,” like I was returning home, not arriving for the first time as family.

I never had any interest in meeting Max’s father. He had threatened to expose our relationship to the media because he genuinely disapproved of us. He was unaware that we were married at the time. Max had made the decision to keep him as far away from me as possible. His mother on the other hand had been a godsend, she is quite literally sweet as pie. I could not have asked for a better mother in law.

I followed Max to the back bedroom as he lugged our suitcases down the hallway. I admired all the artwork and family moments his mom had hung on the wall, smiling when greeted by baby max’s face. Max swung the door open and set our luggage to the side. He reached for my hand and dramatically pulled us both down on the bed, I landed on top of him, our faces inches apart.

“Thank you.” He mumbled.

“For what?” I said giving him a questionable look.

“For being here. For making me fall for you. For letting me marry you. Just for you being you.” He said making my heart melt.

“Always, Maxie. You’re mine forever.” I muttered pressing my lips to his. His grip around my waist tightened and he deepened the kiss.

“I love you, schat.” He said as we pulled away.

“Love you more.” I said with a small smile.

—

Later, over mint tea and buttery apple cake Sophie had insisted on baking herself, I found myself laughing more than I expected.

“She was like this even when Max was a kid,” Victoria said, nodding toward her mother. “If you had a cough, you got tea and ten questions. If you had a secret, she already knew it.”

“Still do,” Sophie added, raising an eyebrow at both of us.

Max groaned from the other room. “Stop telling Ayana horror stories about me.”

“I’m not,” I said, teasing. “I like hearing about Max the Kid. Especially the one who used to name his Hot Wheels cars.”

Victoria cackled. “Don’t forget he used to cry when she beat him at Mario Kart.”

“I let her win,” Max called back.

“Sure you did,” Sophie and Victoria said in unison.

—

Later that night, when Victoria headed out to meet friends and Max had gone for a run, I found myself helping Sophie tidy up the garden. The sun was dipping low, all honey and gold.

“You know,” she said gently, snipping dead leaves from a potted basil, “he’s different with you.”

I froze for a second. “Different how?”

She smiled without looking at me. “Lighter. Not just happy —but a different kind of calm. That’s new for him.”

I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, heart thudding. “He makes me feel safe. Even when everything else is loud.”

Sophie finally looked at me. “Then I’m glad you found each other. Even if it’s quiet. Especially because it’s quiet.”

“He has needed someone like you for quite sometime now. You bring out a side of my son that I have never really seen until now and for that I owe you everything.” She said with a smile. I felt my heart grow.

“I just do what he does for me. You raised one hell of a boy.” I said and she chuckled to herself.

“I am so glad to finally have another daughter. I wouldn’t have picked anyone else for him.” She scooted over and wrapped me in her arms.

“I missed being here with you guys. You all mean so much to me.” I muttered into her shoulder.

“And you mean the same to us, Liefde.”

—

F1gossipgirls posted!

25,289 likes.

F1gossipgirls: Max Verstappen was spotted by fans on a run around his home in the Netherlands!

username : wanna know who is also in the Netherlands? Ayana Hamilton.

liked by author

username2 : I really doubt they’d ever be a couple…let alone be able to keep it on the low this much

username5 : exactly..think about how famous they are and how hard it would be to keep that under wraps

username10 : say what you want yall I still believe it

username7 : absolutely no way lewis lets this happen

username : why else would she be there?

username11 : I believe there is some kind of music conference being held near by this week tbh

username : hush I don’t want to hear reason

—

That night, curled up in bed with Max, the windows cracked open to the breeze and distant crickets, I whispered, “Your mom’s incredible.”

He kissed my bare shoulder and said, “So are you.”

I smiled into the dark, fingers brushing over his arm where it curled around my waist. “You don’t think she suspects anything… do you?”

There was a beat — just the wind rustling through the trees outside and the soft exhale of his breath against my neck.

“She might,” he said honestly. “She knows me too well not to.”

“Is that bad?” I asked, quieter now.

“No,” Max murmured, pulling me just a little closer. “If she knows, it’s because she sees how different I am with you. And that’s not something I want to hide.”

I twisted slightly so I could see his face in the moonlight, silver edges tracing his jaw, his lashes soft against his cheeks. “Sometimes I forget how real this all is. Like it happened so fast, but somehow… it still feels right.”

“It is right,” he said, firm in the way only Max could be when he really meant something. “Even if we’re keeping it to ourselves. You and me — we don’t need a spotlight for it to matter.”

My heart clenched, full and warm. “I don’t need the world to know. Just you.”

He smiled, tired and tender, brushing his thumb along the curve of my hip beneath the blanket. “It’s funny. Everyone’s always watching us — timing laps, tracking stats, writing headlines. But the best part of my life… it’s this. This quiet. You.”

I buried my face into his chest then, letting the thud of his heartbeat ground me.

“I think your mom knew the second she saw the way I looked at you,” I whispered.

He laughed softly. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “I caught her watching me when you weren’t looking. Like she was piecing it together.”

“Well,” he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead, “if she did figure it out… she didn’t seem mad.”

“No,” I agreed, smiling into the dark. “She just seemed… proud.”

A comfortable silence settled between us again, the kind that only existed between two people who didn’t need to fill every space. Just being was enough.

And for the first time in a long time, the secrecy didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like something sacred.

—

The smell of fresh bread hit me before I even opened my eyes.

I stretched under the covers, blinking against the warm slant of morning sun cutting through the sheer curtains. From the kitchen below came the soft clatter of pans, the low hum of a radio playing some old Dutch jazz station, and Sophie’s humming — off-key and sweet.

Max was already up, of course. The spot beside me was empty but warm. My chest fluttered as I slipped out of bed, threw on his hoodie, and padded downstairs barefoot.

Sophie was at the stove, flipping something in a skillet. She glanced over her shoulder when she heard me.

“Goedemorgen, lieverd,” she said, smiling. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” I replied, grinning. “It smells amazing.”

Max was already at the little breakfast table, barefoot in sweatpants, hair a mess. He looked over at me, and that soft kind of private smile passed between us — the one that made my knees a little weak even now.

I settled next to him, and he nudged a mug of coffee toward me. “Made it how you like it.”

“Thanks, husband,” I whispered, lips quirking.

He smirked.

Sophie turned with a plate of eggs, cheese, and rolls and set it down in front of us. “You two are whispering like teenagers.”

I froze just a beat too long. So did Max.

She noticed. Of course she did.

She arched a brow, hands on her hips. “Alright. What’s going on?”

Max glanced at me. I gave the smallest nod. My pulse thundered.

He reached for my hand under the table.

“Mam,” he started, steady but soft. “We’ve been meaning to tell you something. Something important.”

Sophie’s eyes flicked between us. She sat down slowly, like she already knew but was letting us get there.

“We got married,” I said, voice quiet but certain. “Last year. In Vegas. After the Grand Prix.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t speak.

“It was just us. No press. No big moment. Just… something that felt like ours,” Max added, eyes on his mother.

Sophie was quiet for a long moment, just watching us. Then, without a word, she reached out and placed her hand over both of ours.

“I knew there was something different,” she said finally, her voice thick. “But I didn’t want to assume. You two… you’ve always had a rhythm only you understand.”

I felt the lump rise in my throat.

She smiled then — watery and warm and full of so much love.

“I’m not upset. Just a little shocked. But I’m happy. Truly. If you make each other better — and I can see that you do — then that’s all I could ever ask for.”

Max squeezed my hand tightly, and I blinked fast, willing myself not to cry into my eggs.

Sophie stood and moved around the table, pulling me into a hug first, then Max. She kissed his cheek, then mine.

“When you’re ready to tell the rest of the world,” she said gently, “you’ll have me in your corner.”

And somehow, in that tiny kitchen filled with warm bread, mismatched mugs, and morning sunlight — it felt like a second kind of vow had been made.

—

We’d just finished hanging laundry on the line in the garden behind Sophie’s house. The sky was that pale, perfect Dutch blue, and the air smelled like basil and sunlight. Max had stolen another kiss while we folded bedsheets — laughing, relaxed, nothing but warmth between us.

Then we heard the car.

It wasn’t Sophie’s.

The rumble was too aggressive. Too familiar.

Max’s shoulders stiffened almost instantly. My smile faded as he turned toward the driveway, jaw clenching.

“Wait here,” he muttered, and before I could say anything, he was already striding toward the front of the house.

I followed anyway — heart thudding as I peeked around the corner.

Jos Verstappen was standing in the driveway, arms crossed, eyes already hard.

“Didn’t expect you to be here,” Max said flatly.

“Clearly,” Jos replied, glancing around. “You’ve been dodging my calls. Again.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With her?” Jos didn’t even try to lower his voice.

My stomach dropped as his eyes landed on me.

“That’s why you’re hiding out here? With Hamilton’s sister?” he scoffed, stepping forward. “You think this is what your focus should be on? This— whatever this is?”

Max moved so fast it made me jump — stepping in front of me like a shield, voice sharp.

“Watch your tone.”

Jos raised a brow. “I’m concerned. You’ve changed. You’re distracted. You don’t think people are talking?”

“I don’t care what people are talking about,” Max said coldly. “My life, my choices. You don’t get a say.”

“And her?” Jos gestured at me like I was something fragile. Dismissible. “This is serious now? You think this is the right match for someone in your position?”

That’s when I felt it — the shift in Max.

His spine straightened. His fists unclenched, not with calm, but with control.

And his voice dropped, low and deadly calm.

“We’re married.”

Jos froze.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Max said, stepping even closer. “Vegas. Last year. No media. No drama. Just us.”

Jos’ mouth opened, but Max cut him off.

“You don’t have to approve. You don’t even have to like it. But what you will do is show her respect. Because she’s not going anywhere.”

I blinked fast, throat tight. Jos looked from Max to me — and for a second, something almost like disbelief cracked his face.

Then he scoffed. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“No,” Max said, his voice full of certainty. “For once, I found something real. And I’m not letting you ruin it.”

Silence fell — thick and loaded.

Jos shook his head, muttered something in Dutch under his breath, and walked back toward his car. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t look back.

When the engine finally disappeared down the road, I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath the whole time.

Max turned, immediately coming to me, his hands cupping my face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, brow creased. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“You didn’t either,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes — not from fear, but from the way he’d stood in front of me like the whole world could break and he’d still protect what we had.

He pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re my wife. That means something to me — no matter who tries to question it.”

And in that moment, I knew nothing — not legacy, not headlines, not even blood — could shake the ground we’d built together.

—

The house was quiet again.

Max hadn’t let go of my hand since Jos left — not while we sat on the back steps, not while I leaned against his shoulder in silence, not even now as the hum of a car came up the drive again.

We both knew it was Sophie.

Her familiar old hatchback pulled up slowly, the back seat full of fresh produce and wildflowers she’d picked from the Saturday market. She climbed out, calling cheerfully toward the garden.

“Are you two hiding from the sun or plotting something?”

I tried to stand, but Max gently pulled me back down. “I’ve got it.”

He met her halfway, kissed her cheek, and helped unload the bags. But Sophie’s mom-radar was instant. The moment her eyes landed on him — on the tension around his jaw, on the way his shoulders were still tight — she paused.

“What happened?” she asked, quiet now.

Max glanced at me, then looked back at her.

“Jos came by.”

Sophie’s whole face shifted.

“And?”

“He saw Ayana.”

Sophie’s gaze flicked to me where I still sat on the steps. “And what exactly did he say to her?”

Max exhaled slowly, jaw clenching again. “Nothing I’m going to repeat. But I told him. About us. Everything.”

Sophie closed her eyes for a moment. Not dramatically — just like she was centering herself.

She placed the bag of tomatoes on the kitchen table, then walked outside toward me. I stood automatically, trying to hold it together.

“I’m fine,” I started to say, voice cracking slightly. “I just—”

She wrapped her arms around me before I could finish.

Not a polite hug. Not a casual gesture.

A mother’s hug.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “He’s not an easy man. He never was. But you don’t deserve to be made to feel small in this family. And I won’t let it happen again.”

I let out a slow, shaky breath into her shoulder. “I didn’t want to be the reason there’s tension.”

She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. “You’re not. He is. And if he can’t see how good you are for my son — how happy he is with you — that’s his own blindness.”

Max came up behind me, resting a hand on my back, his other laced with mine again. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Sophie said firmly. Then she turned and walked back inside, already muttering, “Well, now we need something stronger than tea.”

Max laughed under his breath, his thumb brushing the back of my hand.

“She’s on our side,” he whispered.

And somehow, the weight of the day felt a little lighter with Sophie in the room. Family, after all, wasn’t always about blood. Sometimes, it was about who stayed when things got loud.

—

It was tucked away off a narrow country road — the kind of restaurant you’d miss if you weren’t looking. No sign, no streetlights. Just an iron gate, ivy-covered walls, and a menu you had to be invited to see.

Max had made the reservation days ago. Just the two of us. No press, no fans, no distractions. Just husband and wife.

He reached across the table, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “You look beautiful.”

I raised an eyebrow, smiling. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“And I meant it all three times.”

We ate under soft golden light, the windows cracked open to let in the summer breeze. The staff treated us like old friends — discreet, warm, and silent where it counted. The food was decadent: hand-rolled pasta, wine neither of us could pronounce, and a chocolate mousse I nearly cried over.

“It’s kind of perfect,” I whispered after the second glass of wine. “Almost too perfect.”

Max leaned in, eyes sparkling. “You waiting for the plot twist?”

I laughed. “Always.”

But the twist wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even loud.

It came in a quiet wave of nausea on the drive home.

I said nothing at first — just tightened my grip on the door handle, hoping it would pass.

By the time we stepped through the front door of Sophie’s house, the world was spinning just slightly. I kicked off my shoes too fast and stumbled toward the bathroom without saying a word.

“Yana?” Max called after me.

I closed the door gently behind me and gripped the sink, willing the dizziness to stop. My stomach flipped, sharp and fast.

Not food poisoning. Not nerves. Just… off.

I rinsed my face with cold water, trying to breathe.

Outside, Max hovered.

“I’m fine,” I called, not quite sure if it was true.

He was waiting when I opened the door, worry carved into every line of his face.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, half-laughing. “Probably just rich food and wine. You know I don’t eat like that often.”

Before he could argue, Sophie’s soft voice floated from the hallway.

“Everything alright?”

She was in her robe, arms crossed gently, not alarmed — but watching.

I nodded, pasting on a tired smile. “Just a little queasy. We had this insane truffle risotto—”

Sophie raised a brow, said nothing.

Max put an arm around my waist. “She just needs sleep.”

“I’ll make some mint tea,” Sophie said, already turning toward the kitchen. “It’ll help.”

But as she filled the kettle, her eyes drifted back toward the staircase. Her fingers paused just slightly on the stove dial.

She didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t press.

Didn’t ask the question already blooming in the back of her mind.

But as Max helped me up to bed and kissed my forehead goodnight, Sophie stood quietly in the kitchen, tea steaming in her hand, a far-off look in her eyes.

It wasn’t the food.

She knew that.

It was something else.

Something beginning.

—

p3 complete! requests always open:)

tag list : tag list : @klauslovemepls , @omgsuperstarg @msliz @samanthaofanarchy , @mayax2o07 @goldenstrawberryx , @hannahmotors10 , @alireads27 , @1800-love-me , @htpssgavi @cmgmikealson , @babygirl-4986 , @star73807-blog , @glow-ish , @just-tingz-virgo , @majapapaya4 @lina505 , @hc-dutch , @lost4lyrics

[yauchfilms]

so american ✢ max verstappen

pairing: max verstappen x singer!reader

warnings: none; just some silly shit, some swearing, google translate dutch, max's home race is belgium and not the netherlands for timeline related reasons

summary: y/n is teasing way too many things at once…..can the fans keep up? 

author's note: this is NOT an original concept i am aware of this. but this hasn’t left my brain in days. i’ve got a very specific vision so let me cook. i know i haven't posted on here in over a year but i've returned an f1 fan. enjoy!

yourname added to their story! 

liked by delwatergap, maxverstappen1, and 3,491,842 others

yourname: i think i'm in love with montreal. sorry i’ve been so off the grid but i am Loving Life so hard. so much inspo in my life rn. will talk soon i promise. love u all bunches 🫶🏼🌷

ynsbestfriend: hey queen you have done it again!

-> yourname: ugh i love you so bad

user1: UM BAE WHOS THAT IN THE LAST SLIDE?

-> yourname: beats me! 

-> user1: i do not trust you. 

lilymhe: hiiiii pretty girl

-> yourname: stop im blushinggggg

user2: i fear she’s in her lover girl era 

-> user3: girl help im so fucking scared right now what’s happening

user4: so does any of this have to do with your story from yesterday??????

*liked by yourname.*

maxverstappen1 added to their story! 

yourname added to their story! 

liked by honeymoon, danielricciardo, and 3,572,679 others

yourname: life's been a beach lately. clearly i've been loathing my time in spain ://///

user5: IS THAT MAX

-> user6: no bc it HAS to be

heidiberger_: Loved spending the week with you! 🤍

-> yourname: same!!!!!! let's do it again sometime 🥰

-> user6: NOT DANNY RIC'S GF COMMENTING?????? AND LILY MUNI HE ON HER LAST POST???????

user6: no bc even if her and max were dating and she's been traveling with him why have we not seen her in the paddock

-> user7: to throw us off our rhythm????

-> user8: what if they debut at his home race in spa ijbol

liked by landonorris, taylorswift, and 4,683,892 others.

tagged: maxverstappen1, redbullracing, and ynsbestfriend

yourname: hahaha felt like dropping 2 things at once on u guys LOLLLLLLLL. thank u to redbullracing, spagrandprix, and the city of spa for letting me and my friends crash the race the other week to film the “so american” music video, and to maxie for winning in ur home country. it was so fucking special to be there supporting u. i love u baby!

ps. another thank u to max for thinking i'm the funniest person in the world and making fun of my americanness for as long as i've known him (which is quite a while).

enjoy this tune guys. it's urs forever and i hope u love it as much as i love the person it's about 🫶🏼 🇧🇪 🇳🇱 TU DU DU DU!!!!!

user9: OH NMY GOD I FUCKING KNEW I SAW U IN THE GARAGE

ynsbestfriend: thanks for letting me third wheel mommy

-> yourname: no one else i'd rather drag along!!!

danielricciardo: Welcome to the family! Song's a banger although I can't believe it's actually about Max of all people 🤢 GROSS!!

-> yourname: jealousy is a disease danny.

user10: i actually cannot fathom this this is so me core

alexandramalsaintmleux: I am so glad to know you! Your happiness is everything 🩷

liked by sabrinacarpenter, carlossainz55, and 4,783,522 others. 

tagged: yourname and ynsfriend

maxverstappen1: Spent a week away in New England with my talented, gorgeous girl. Loved getting away and experiencing America through her eyes! Consider me an honorary American now! Also, stream “So American” wherever you choose. It's about me 😉 

yourname: does this mean i can stop hiding in the garage now???

landonorris: Happy for you mate! Love the song as well yourname 🤍

-> yourname: awe thank u lando 🥺 i got more to show u when i see u next!!!!!!

redbullracing: ❤️💙

user11: MAX IS IN HIS LOVER BOY ERA

danielricciardo: How many more times can you say American?

liked by charles_leclerc, chappellroan, and 3,694,849 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourname: nothing like celebrating the best 2 weeks of my life than showing my boy around ye olde stomping grounds #soamerican

liamlawson30: This is so American of him

-> yourname: like he fits in so well!

lydianight: u'll have him in the american flag board shorts in no time

-> yourname: baby steps :///

user11: she really is in her lover girl era 🥺

clairo: did you take him to the chipotle that is also a historic landmark downtown??

-> yourname: dude of COURSE i did. he said it was "interesting"

yourname added to their story! 

[milessunflowers]

This came to me in a dream but imagine.

Max Verstappen x MotoGP!male!reader. They're very similar, both started very young, they both have four championships and they're both Dutch. But Max is well, Max and reader is an absolute sweetheart and cinnamon roll.

Thank you!

just read all abt motogp and didn't realize how fucking cool it was until now so ty for that! gonna start watching it this season!

max verstappen x motogp!male!reader

synopsis: two racers, both alike in dignity, in fair motorsports, where we lay our scene- you and max are very similar in a lot of ways yet so different that you guys just make it work

author's note: motogp, i was not familiar with your game. but srsly i have to start watching bc just reading and researching on it had me so pumped up at 11:45 last night bc i forgot to rest up 😅 worth it bc AHAHAHAJDLLWWN <- that's how im feeling abt motogp. hope you like it!

you guys are so similar before you even knew each other

you both started around the same time, being the youngests to ever race in your respective sports

fans were quick to point out the parallels between the two of you

you won a good set of races (even if it's hard to do) and max was dominating the f1 world

plus you guys were both dutch

so everyone's all like "what the hell do they feed those motosports kids in the netherlands?"

you guys meet in like some random gp, maybe yours maybe his but either way a random gp

im thinking cota lowkey before daniel was booted (rip king)

so like daniel sets you guys up practically

turns out you got along amazingly, followed each other on instagram and like added each other on whatsapp and stuff

like you guys really hit off

you talk and get to know each/build a stable friendship for like a year and half before you ask him out

he says yes of course, claiming he was just about to do it and you stole his spotlight

you don't care because you are just happy to have date with someone you've come to care a lot about

you go on this date, probably to the beach because you still aren't sure what he wants to eat and when

you guys start being official shortly after

skip forward and you have won your second championship and max as one so far so you guys are out celebrating and stuff

fans spot you, ask for some pictures and notice how drastically different your personalities are

like you seem all cheery and happy all the time while max only seems to enjoy himself when he's with you or other people he likes

but they also realize how perfect you guys are and how much you counter balance each other

like one gets too overwhelmed the other is taking them home and obviously vice versa

and you guys are so so supportive

like if your bike decides not to work and you have to quit mid-race, max is there to support whether actually at the circuit or over facetime

if max has a particularly bad race, you are supporting him in anyway you can to make sure he knows how talented and amazing he is

you guys don't fight a lot, but when you do you guys are both lowkey overdramatic and realize like ten minutes later how stupid the argument was and then make up/make out over it

anyways

anytime you guys can, you support each other

like if there just happens to be the races on the same day, you make sure to tell max before and after your race how amazing and proud of him you are and max makes sure everyone knows what an amazing boyfriend you are

also championship celebrations are insane

like drunk asf, waking up sire the next day

you guys are just happy you got to celebrate them together

even if max is a little overprotective

not as much as you though, because some guy looked at max the wrong way at a bar one time and you just about punched out his lights

look, you're sweet and all but you love max and don't want people to judge that

plus you are a max defender til the day you die

you tried getting max to ride your bike that you have a home, but he almost broke his arm and you almost got berated by horner

but horner's opinion doesn't matter to you because he's horner—pretty self explanatory i think

you guys will sometimes go karting together but max always wins (you jokingly accuse him of cheating to win but he just has a cheeky smile)

its always fun because you guys really just like to battle on track

though you are less aggressive both in your motogp driving and on the kart

max, well, you guys know how max's driving is

also i feel like you would drive him around, if that makes any sense

like he screams passenger princess to me and i don't really understand it but you know what, fuck it we ball

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[lumi-nescentt]

Heaven Is A Place On Earth With You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Warnings: slight sexual joke at some point

Words: 1.8k

Summary: The Max everyone knows is a lot different from the Max he is behind closed doors. That's even truer when he hasn't seen you in a while and all he wants is to spend time doing nothing with his girl.

A/N: I'm procrastinating for my finals so I'm going to try to finish all the WIP I currently have :) hope you like max being hopelessly in love bc that's what you're getting here

Max was known for being blunt, sometimes rough which on track made him almost unstoppable. However, the Max you knew was way different. He treated you with such care and delicacy, it was sickeningly sweet. From the moment you two had started dating, he had done his best to show you that he wasn't what the rest of the world portrayed him to be. That he was worthy of the affection you felt for him.

Slow mornings with Max were your favourite moments. He always woke up before you but he never dared to leave the bed before you wanted to. He didn’t particularly liked laying around but there was something about being close to you that made him want to stay there forever. You looked so peaceful cuddled up against him, he wouldn’t have dared to wake you up anyway. He much preferred admiring you until you woke up and he could finally talk to you.

When your eyes started fluttering awake, the first thing you were aware of was the arm around your waist. Max's hand was on your naked back, keeping you as close to him as possible. The weight of it was comforting and it was always the first thing you noticed when he came back late at night while you were already asleep, from races you couldn’t have gone to. You liked knowing that even when he was exhausted from all the travelling, he still took the time to nestle your body against his before falling asleep with you between his arms. 

As soon as he realised you were awake, Max started peppering the side of your face with kisses which made you giggle and look up at him. There was something really special about the look you gave your boyfriend when you were slowly coming back to reality that he loved. It always looked as if you were falling back in love with him all over again in a matter of seconds. You had the softest look on your face and as far as heart eyes went, yours were probably the most intense someone ever had until Max looked at you with the same intensity and his entire face lit up, his eyes twinkling with pure adoration before he broke the silence and finally spoke.

-" Good morning schatje" he greeted you with a kiss on your forehead

-" Hi Maxie" you mumbled, still sleepy

-" Did you sleep well ?"

-" I alway sleep well when you're here so yes. How about you ?"

-" Great, I had the best human heater next to me."

-" Do you have anything planned today ?"

-" Nope, I'm all yours. Did you want to do anything special ?"

-" Just wanted to stay with you."

-" Do you want me to make breakfast and then we can go walk on the beach ?"

-" That sounds good."

-" Lets go then." Max said, trying to stand up from the bed but you had moved your body half on top of him

-" Schatje, if you want breakfast you're gonna have to get off me."

-" I thought you liked me on top ?" you winked, making the Dutch man blush

-" I do but I also like you alive and well fed so hop off please."

With a groan, you turned on your side, liberating Max who stood up. He tried to convince you to follow him in the kitchen but you needed a few more minutes so after kissing your forehead, Max went to cook breakfast alone. He didn’t mind doing it on his own. Taking care of you when he was here was one of his favourite things to do just to see you smile at him and have you kiss his cheek as a thank you. It was all worth it for your reaction alone. 

Five minutes later, Max felt a pair of arms snake around his waist and your face pressing against his back. He still hadn’t put a shirt back on after sleeping in boxers all night. He never wore much to bed since you were always warm enough for him to sleep almost naked and not freeze. So when you pressed small kisses against his shoulder blades, he almost let go of the coffee cup he was holding, your breath tickling his skin. 

-“ Behave please, schatje.” Max smiled, patting your hands that were resting on his stomach

-“ ‘m not doing anything.” you answered, tightening your grip around him

-“ Not yet but I know you might try something so if you want to eat decent food please wait until I set everything on the table.” 

-“ Can’t promise anything.” Max laughed at your answer before going back to what he was doing. 

Since you had moved in with him, Max found out that he actually didn’t hate slowing down for a bit and enjoying the little things. He just never had someone he loved to do it with until you came along. Now, he loved just hanging around in the apartment, bodies dancing around each other in the kitchen when you were both doing your own thing but still enjoying each other’s presence. He found solace in doing the most mundane things with you. He wouldn’t dare to say it out loud but as long as you were together, everything felt like an adventure. 

Enjoying breakfast together while looking out the balcony was a great way to start the day according to him, maybe even his favourite. You were apparently in a good mood too judging by how playful you were being, stealing bits from his plate with a grin and teasingly nudging his shoulder with yours. If it had been anyone else, Max would have protested a little but there was not much he would get angry at you for so he let it slide, stealing something back for good measure. 

He could have completely forgotten about the walk on the beach he had promised if you hadn’t rushed to get ready as soon as you had finished eating. He followed you with a laugh, trying not to blush at the sight of you in a pretty sundress with your hair falling down your shoulders. You looked radiant with joy and it suited you all too well. Max was glad his actions made you feel this way. In fact, he wasn’t just glad, no. Max was proud to be able to make you happy in a way no one else did because if at first he hadn’t thought himself capable of fully giving you the love he thought you deserved, he now knew that you wanted whatever he was willing and capable of giving you. 

You were more than content with the amount of love you received from your boyfriend and you made sure to make it known and to return the attention because despite his tough exterior, you had been around the Dutchman for long enough to know that there was nothing that touched him more than being loved openly and freely, without conditions. 

The car ride to the beach was spent in comfortable silence, Max’s hand on your thigh as you looked out the window, feeling the wind caress your face. Max tried to steal a few glances your way while he drove but his eyes never stayed long. He was way too careful when he was the one responsible for your well-being. You had tried teasing him about it to make him relax but he was adamant that as your boyfriend, he had to make sure you were as safe as possible. 

You couldn’t really argue with that so you let him be, knowing that as soon as he’d be done driving, you’d be able to play around again. So the moment the car was finally parked, you were bolting out the door, screaming that the last one in the water would be a terrible loser. It didn’t take long for Max’s brain to compute but by the time he started running, you already had a good lead.

However, you hadn’t considered the fact your boyfriend was a literal athlete and that his cardio was considerably better than yours. Before you could even reach the water, Max had catched up to you and effortlessly picked you up, still going towards the sea with a grin on his face. 

-“ Please Max, put me down. Don’t throw me in.” you screeched as he kept jogging lightly

-“ You should have thought about that when you cheated, you little minx.” Max responded, poking your side with his finger as you laughed 

-“ But I had to, otherwise I had no chance of winning. You’re too quick for me, Mr. World Champion” 

-“ Flattery won’t get you anywhere now, schatje. It’s too late”. Max smirked before dropping you in the water, jumping right behind you as you swam further away, your boyfriend close behind

-“ I hate you so much.” you lied, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying your best to swim at the same time before Max wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing you even closer

-“ For the record, I might have let you win if you hadn’t cheated or made me watch you undress and run at the same time.” the Dutchman smiled, pecking your lips 

-“ Who said I lost ?” 

-“ You were the first one in the water, baby. That makes you the loser of your own game.” 

-“ Maybe it was my plan all along…”

-“ y/n, you’re the sorest loser I know. There’s no way you’d plan to lose.”

-“ Well, I don’t care. I’m in your arms right now and we’re at this beautiful empty beach. I intend to make the most of this situation I definitely planned for and kiss you until you get sick of it.”

-“ Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Max chuckled, his whole face lighting up “ We’re going to be here for a while then because I don’t think I could ever get tired of kissing you.”  

-“ Alright then, the first one to stop is a terrible loser.” you smiled with a toothy grin

-“ Schat… Are you sure you can handle another loss today ?” 

-“ Bring it on, lover boy. Less talking, more kissing.”

-“ You don’t have to ask me twice.” he mumbled before pressing his lips against yours, brushing your wet hair away from your face

Maybe you lost the first game but when a family arrived at the beach and their little boy somehow recognised your boyfriend from afar and practically screamed that Max Verstappen was here, Max had to let you go. He wasn’t a fan of PDA, even less when it was around fans but in that moment, he wished he was just to erase the smug grin on your face when he lost the stupid challenge you had set. 

Before heading over to see the boy, Max made sure to peck your lips. He bit your lower lip slightly, not missing the way your face flushed when he did before asking for a rematch when you were back home. You already loved how the day had started but now you were sure that the rest of it would be just as good, if not better. This was just another thing to add to the list of why being home together was your favourite place to be.

[moonshapedbox]

swan shaped heart — part two

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter

a/n: OMG where do i begin…first off thank u all sm for all love chapter one received i’m truly so touched!!! this is the first fanfic i’ve ever posted in my life so it means a lot!!! also sorry it took so long to complete part 2, college has been beating my ass as of lately. trying to update semi regularly but we’ll see!! its still extremely self indulgent though once again bc i’m working lots of things out in my life rn that i think arthur can fix. you can read chapter one here <3

tags: lots of fluff and romantic tension :D hint of age gap, kissing, no smut but fairly suggestive, arthur is kind of mischievous, angsty in some parts if u squint, religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 reader is in her twenties. read at ur own risk.

wc: 5.9k

part two – peaches

“You still coming to the picnic?”

Her words reverberated in his ears like tinnitus. He arrived back at his lodging to grab a few things he forgot, throwing and shoving items into his saddlebags. Was he going to the picnic? That’s all she had to say? He looked up at the sky again, the sun barely cracking up the pale blue sky, humidity in the air from the previous day's rain was suffocating.

Truly, he hadn’t decided yet if he was going to change his mind about it all. It was no mistake, the preacher’s daughter stirred up things in him he hadn’t felt for years. It was foolish to attend, he kept reminding himself of that. He needed to get back to camp, there was his own folks to take care of and business to attend to. Dutch was probably in the middle of some half baked scheme that he concocted to have Arthur lead in, John and Abigail were most likely arguing and needed a mediator, and there was the other women, Hosea, and little Jack.

So was he going to the picnic? It was something he would have to ponder on his way back to camp.

For the preacher’s daughter, things were shifting. Big changes and waves of emotion had shaped her irrevocably since that morning. She sat in the pews, front row like always, but for once she wasn’t really listening to her father’s sermon. She wouldn’t nod along to what he was saying, or open her Bible to turn to the verse and chapter he referred to. Instead, her eyes found a place to gaze over and bore a hole into it with her vision, mind wandering off to Arthur. The only times she was brought back was by her mother, who would gently yet lovingly tap her on the knee, to get her attention, silently gesturing to listen to her father. She would continue her days like normal, but completely enamored by Arthur, what he said, what he did–or lack thereof.

A couple of days later– the annual town picnic had finally reared its vague and complicated head. Typically, the picnic was always an event that she had always been enamored with. She looked forward to it every spring– her hand would be the first to raise when asked about volunteers or who should be in charge of planning the event, but now; the idea of going made uneasiness twist in her stomach. The thought of Arthur being there is all that mattered to her, although with their awkward and incomplete farewell, she didn’t know where she stood in his eyes.

The picnic was a lively affair, with almost the whole town participating in the activities. The crowd gathered outside the church where it was being held, enjoying the food and each other’s company. The warm spring breeze picked up the light atmosphere and covered everyone’s spirits with joy. There was music and dancing and lots of laughter. While the preacher’s daughter was usually the one to be in the crowd, socializing with fellow townsfolk– she found herself dismayed, as she sat on the steps of the church, knees pressed to her chest and a weary look staining her face.

“You gonna eat something dear?” her father’s voice broke her out of her trance, “Your mama made that chicken salad you like.” She sees him getting closer and shakes her head, “I’m not very hungry Papa.” she lays her head on her knees. The preacher walks up to her and observes his daughter, before sighing and sitting next to her. “Want to tell me what’s going on? You barely spoke a word all day, hardly participated on Sunday..”

She sighs and hesitates to say anything before continuing, “Remember how I told you Mr. Morgan stopped by the house the other morning? He found my necklace.”

“Yes, it was kind of him,” Her father blinks and nods, “Is this somehow relevant as to why you've been such a sourpuss lately?”

She opened her mouth but then stopped before she could start her sentence. She realized that if she were to tell him exactly what happened—it meant that she would have to tell him everything that took place in the kitchen that morning—the touching, the lewd remarks, and worst of all— she had her innocent and dainty fingers in some strange man’s mouth. This would most certainly kill her father, so she finds a way around it.

“Well, I feel like I might have offended him and I feel bad about it…that’s all.” she explains, it technically wasn’t a lie, a small pang of relief hitting her chest.

“What could you have possibly said that could offend him, dear?” her father asks, sincere in his words, genuinely wanting to make his daughter feel better. For her, this was the tricky part, trying to find the words without saying anything at all, “I told him he needed to leave…because I had things to do that day.”

Technically a lie, technically the truth. It was a moral dilemma she’d contemplate later.

“Aw, is that it?” he gives her a sympathetic smile, “Oh don’t even fret about it I’m sure he’s alright. Honestly, it says more about him if he took offense to a sweet ol’ thing like you.” He lovingly pinches her cheek and plants a kiss on top of her head, before rising to his feet, “You’ve always had a problem being in your own head too much sweetheart.” She nods in agreement, wanting the conversation to end, “I guess so. Thank you papa.”

A voice calls out to her father, interrupting their conversation. He looks over to the source of where the voice came from. He pats her on the back before walking off to greet more of his congregation that decided to stop by. Maybe her father was right, perhaps she was in her head too much. Of course, her father did not have the context like she did, but this false sense of reassurance passed the time well.

She continues to think about what Arthur said.

“Ever think about a man lovin’ on you baby?”

She is now. Arthur planted the seeds of desire in her, and the roots that grew traveled up her veins and made her heart race. She couldn’t get him out of her head no matter how hard she tried. She looks to the farthest distance she can, wondering what he was doing right now– what he was wearing and what path he was travelling. Far out, she notices a brown figure moving at a rapid pace, her eyes narrow. It’s just a horse– a beautiful one at that; a deep chestnut brown. Her gaze softened as it got closer in view, she noticed the horse had a splash of white on its nose– with a man mounted on top.

Her head lifts from her lap, was that him? It couldn’t be–or it could. She squints a bit harder, waiting for the man to come closer. She leans forward in her lap, eventually standing on the steps. She could recognize that gambler’s hat from anywhere.

It was him, Arthur had come back.

“Mr. Morgan!” she runs to him and looks up at him on his horse, “You made it.” she smiles. He gets off his horse and secures it, “Of course. Why would I not be here? You invited me.” he responds flatly, not caring to make eye contact with her.

She looks down and back up again, “I know but that was before…” she reads his face, pausing an explanation to feel out if he knew what she was implying, “Listen, Mr. Morgan, about the other morning, I–”

“No need darlin’,” he puts his hand out before dropping it to his side, “I understand,” He puts his weight on one hip. “I was planning on headin’ back, and I–uh made it halfway, then I got to thinkin’…” he pauses while scanning her features for a moment, “And I came off a little strong. I realize that now. Didn’t mean to frighten you if I did.” he looks down at his boots, still caked with mud from the rainstorm days ago.

She gingerly touched his hand, “All is forgiven, Mr. Morgan.” He looks up at her under the brim of his hat, and she swears she can see a hint of a smile and a smudge of red grace on his cheek.

So can her horrified father, who had been watching the interaction between the potential lovebirds from a distance the whole time. A worrisome dread sunk in him as he decided to make his presence known. He hurries toward them before calling out,

“Mr. Morgan! That you, son?”

Arthur whips his head back around, “Father! —uh reverend—shit”

“Wrong denomination son” he chuckles, loosening his tie. “I also would appreciate you to refrain from using profanity around my daughter. She’s a impressionable young lady y’know”

“Of course. Sorry, sir.” Arthur flashed a sheepish grin, before realizing he hadn’t shook the preacher’s hand yet. Out of respect he extends his hand, and they lock into a strong handshake. A pang of guilt hit Arthur, here he was shaking the man of the Lord’s hand when not even two days ago he was all over this man’s only daughter, in his own kitchen nonetheless.

“I invited Mr. Morgan to the picnic, figured he might want to visit a little more before he leaves.” she explains, innocently swaying her hips, giving her skirt a little movement as she rocked side to side.

“I can see that dear,” The preacher smiles at his daughter before shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to make friendly conversation. Anything to try and keep Arthur from sweeping his daughter off her feet, “So, how’s that cattle ranch of yours, son?”

Cattle ranch? Oh right, that was the story he pitched the town initially. It was the perfect small lie given the circumstance. The cattle rancher to save the town from cattle thieves, you couldn’t write a better story. “Just fine. Hard work. You know how it is. Cattle can be…temperamental.”

Stupid stupid stupid. He was bombing this and he knew it was over the second the words left his mouth. He grimaced in his mind at the interaction.

“Right,” the preacher drawls the word, trying to detect any honesty in Arthur’s claim, “Well regardless of your business, we’re glad you could join us,” he says, tone friendly but his words having an edge to them.

She smiles, “We got plenty of food why don’t we eat–”

“I thought you weren’t hungry?” her father whips his head to look at her.

She flashes a half smile, “Well I am now, ‘sides I don’t want to be rude and not eat in front of our guest, papa.”

Her father looked between two, he knew exactly what was happening and he didn’t like it one bit. He had no reason to be distrustful of Arthur, after all he did save his town from that reckless gang, but something wasn’t right. Although, to save his beloved daughter from embarrassment, he decided to play along– for now.

The eating and socializing made time fly by, Arthur enjoyed the peaceful and innocent fun with everyone, it made him forget about all his stress and worries for a couple of hours. He smiled along to a song played on a mandolin, he listened to her fill him in on all the local happenings that occurred while he was away, she clung onto his bicep as he won a couple games of dominoes against the shopkeeper, and before either of them knew it– the sun was starting to set. Arthur sat next to her at the picnic table, enjoying the sounds of soft conversations in the distance, but mostly he enjoyed her company. He exhaled deeply and looked over at her, “Let’s take a quick stroll, whaddya say?” She looked back at him, “That sounds lovely, but the sun is setting…I don’t know…”

“And?” He stands up and stretches up as tall as he can, she looks over his huge, broad frame growing taller as he pulls upward, her heart skips a beat at the sight of his muscles moving under his shirt as he shifts around. “You’ll be safe with me, let’s go girl.” he motions with his head and grabs his satchel. His sudden firm tone made her pulse quicken, not fully understanding why she liked it as much as she did.

Eventually, she and Arthur wander off into the path into a nearby trail, enough daylight to see where they were going as well as the beauty of the mountainous region, she looks up at him, his face concentrated on where they were headed.

“So where you takin’ me?” she asks.

“Nowhere in particular, unless you got somethin’ in mind,” he responds as he adjusts the weight of his satchel. She thinks for a moment and a bright smile spreads across her face, “I got an idea, there’s a lake nearby, it’s so beautiful. You’ll love it I promise.”

“Okay, the lake it is then,” he nods. Despite not speaking a word to each other, she smiled to herself that she was finally getting to spend more time with him like she always dreamed of. “Whatcha smilin’ ‘bout?” Arthur’s voice broke the prolonged silence. She shook her head, “Nothin’. Just having fun that’s all.” Arthur smiles back at her, “That reminds me, I almost forgot somethin’,” he stops in his tracks and she follows his lead.

“I know you’re supposed to bring somethin’ for a picnic and I didn’t know what to bring but–,” he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a can, “hope you like it.”

She grins with playful confusion, “A can of….” she tries to examine the can further, the text on the label rubbed off almost completely, “...peaches?” She walks slowly alongside him, still looking down at the can.

He nods, “You like peaches, hon?” strolling in tandem alongside her.

“Yeah, I like ‘em even better in pies though,” she responds.

“Peach pie?” He raises a brow, “I ain’t ever had that before…apple, yes. But peach? That’s a new one.”

“Oh I gotta make you one then. They’re real easy.” she says before letting a beat of silence encompass them.

She exhales an airy chuckle, “Reminds me of the time when Papa took me to a preacher’s convention in Saint Denis – well more like I begged him to take me– but anyway while I was there I had a peach pie with ice cream. Ice cream of all things, can you believe it?” she grins brightly, “They call it peach a la mode, isn’t that brilliant? Makes me feel sophisticated” she rambles, her hands gesticulating for emphasis.

He scoffs, “So that’s what rich folks are eatin’ huh? They can’t be ok with pie itself they gotta go add ice cream on it too.” he muttered, gesturing broadly as they strolled down the path together. She laughs loudly, “You’re a silly man Mr. Morgan… Ain’t seen a person upset with ice cream before.” He shook his head, he wasn’t trying to make her laugh, but it was like a symphony to his ears.

“Was it good?” His question broke the beat of silence.

“Hm?”

“The peach el mood?” he motions.

She bursts out laughing again, “A la mode? Definitely, it was divine.”

There it was again–he smiles lovingly at the sound of her laugh.

“You might have to make that for me too,” he grins and shoves his hands in his pockets.

The sound of both them walking down to the lake absorbed any beat of silence that could have been there. The crunching of gravel beneath their feet and sound of birds chirping accompanied their walk. Arthur picked up rocks he thought were compelling enough to shove into his jacket pocket. He picks up another rock and fidgets with it, and glances over at her for a second, eyes trailing down to her slightly exposed sternum which cradled that heavenly swan pendant necklace.

“You like swans, huh?” he inquired, throwing the rock like a skipping stone. “Why swans? And not like– I don't know a dove or somethin’.”

“A dove? That’s awfully cliche don’t you think?” she smirks. They finally make it to the lake. Seeing a big tree log that somehow found itself at the base of the lake, they both take a seat there. Arthur shrugs at her previous comment and adjusts next to her.

“I just like ‘em that’s all. Y’know it’s said that swans represent beauty, grace, wisdom. I think it’s a good symbol to look upon. It’s always been quite reassuring to me.” she places the can of peaches she had been holding down onto the ground.

“Ah, so it’s your lucky charm?” he grinned.

She waves him off, “Oh Mr. Morgan, I don’t believe in luck,” she looks out into the lake, “To tell you the truth, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to see a swan in the wild. I’m holdin’ out for hope I’ll get see one.”

“You will someday, I’m sure.” He looked over at her peaceful demeanor, his heart felt so warm just by being in her presence. The realization that all he wanted was to be with her overcame him. As it came, a familiar thick and oily guilt suddenly swallowed him upon the thought that he hadn't been exactly truthful with her. Quite frankly, he was a liar– lied about what he did for a living, lied about the true nature of his arrival 4 years ago, the lies started to collapse on his throat. If he was even to consider a life with her in it, he had to tell her everything– there was no cattle ranch, the only money he had technically didn’t belong to him, he was originally going to rob her town– that he is an outlaw.

He wanted to make this work, he lost so much in his life already that he knew she was an opportunity of genuine love and care. Surely enough, someone so loving and forgiving like her would be able to handle his baggage, right? If not, he was willing to put it all on the line anyway. He rubs his jaw and exhales a breath before speaking.

“Look darlin’, there’s something I need to tell you–”

“--You gotta girl ain’t you?” she interrupts flatly.

He exhales a laugh, “No, I ain’t got a girl. Not for a long time at least,” taken aback by her boldness, he continues to chuckle to himself.

“Why are you laughin’? It’s not that much of an odd assumption to make. You’re handsome and smart and you got that big cattle ranch so it’s not crazy to assume gals wouldn’t be all over you–”

“You think I’m handsome?” he whipped his head to look at her, his cheeks warmed at the compliment, trying to hide the surprise in his voice as he never truly felt comfortable or confident with himself.

“Stop it, you know what I meant,” she blushes, “I’m just sayin’ you’re a catch, that’s all.” He continues to smile at her bashful ramblings, shaking his head at her behavior. A sense of mischief creeps up in his mind, and he couldn’t help but entertain it, “Anyways, why ain’t you married yet? I’d figure some young buck would come sniffin’ ‘round after you as soon as you got to marryin’ age.” he asks, watching her put a hand over her face.

“Very classy Mr. Morgan, you’re a real gentleman,” she groans, resting her head in her hand, “I don’t know. I don’t like any of the men at my church. They’re…stupid.”

“How so? Despite the obvious,” he inquires.

She exhales and tries to think of the words to articulate how she feels, “It seems they want me barefoot and pregnant and that life–” she pauses, “I don’t believe that’s what God intended for me. It’s not my path." She picked up a stick and started tracing patterns on the dirt.

“What’s your path then?” His heart softens at the conviction in her tone.

She hesitates for a moment, scared that he would judge her for passions. He nods at her, “You know you can tell me anythin’ darlin’” he says softly, wanting to know what was in that beautiful mind of hers.

She exhales again, “If I may be so bold– I want to preach,” the tension leaving her body after she confessed, “and I want real love– but I don’t know if I’m the marryin’ kind… I think if I met the right man, I’d marry. But only a man that would let me be free…I don’t think I’ll ever find that Mr. Morgan.”

I could be that. If you allowed me to. He thought to himself, but he was not brave enough to voice it. Instead, he gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Ah.” he said softly, before crossing his shin over his thigh.

“You don’t think I can do it huh?” she murmurs, kicking her feet mindlessly against the stump of the tree. His brows furrowed at her accusation, “No I do, I think you can. Hell I met a lot gals who fight for stuff like that,” he gesticulates, “I could picture you doin’ it.” he smiles.

She suddenly remembers what he said at breakfast the other morning: “If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.”

She grins to herself at the thought, “Hey, if I preach does that means you’ll start comin’ to church.”

Arthur scoffs playfully, “Is that so? Who said anythin’ ‘bout that?”

“You said it yourself at breakfast!” she lets out an airy chuckle.

Arthur shakes his head before leaning in closer to her, “Well…that ain't what I meant by that, so we’re just gon’ have to see. Aren’t we?” he smirks. She looks over his face, blush reddening her ears. The moment was so perfect, he wanted to bask in its tranquility. The opportunity to tell her the truth about his livelihood was fleeting and before he knew it, it was gone. He couldn’t get it back and he hoped that soon he could find another opening. An opening that was perfect and would hurt her the least.

She breaks her gaze and looks down at the can of peaches beside her, “Well, I don’t know about you but I could go for a little sweet.” She leans over to pick up the can. He gazes her over body while she wasn’t looking, staring at the soft curves of her body and before stealing a prolonged glance of her rear, “Yep–somethin’ sweet would be real good right about now,” he hums, trying to hide the growl in the back of his throat. She sits back up again and hands him the can of peaches for him to open. The act of him stabbing the top with his knife and prying it open made her feel warm. He passes the can back to her, letting her have the first bite. She scoops a piece up and crams it into her mouth before the juice drips on her dress.

“Mmph, really good!” she exclaims while still chewing, “Where did you get these–” his hand cuts off her sentence as he wipes away a small droplet of juice from the corner of her mouth. She stops immediately, gazing back at him. A pang of excitement reverberates in the pit of her stomach. It was biscuits and gravy on Sunday all over again.

He smiles softly back at her without a second thought, before taking a piece of the fruit out for himself. She watches him eat the slice of peach, briefly sucking the excess juice off his fingers. So messy and desperate–something about watching him eat like a feral animal sparked a need in her so deep that she abruptly whips her head away just to attempt to hide it.

Although, these were not new feelings she was having: not before he filled her imagination with salacious ideas, not before he lovingly stroked her chin or accompanied her to the picnic– it started just before breakfast on Sunday morning, with her finger in his mouth. Although Arthur was no fool–oh the contrary, he could hone in on this like a falcon. The memory of her fingers in his mouth would plague him at all times. He decides it was ultimately time to break the tension.

“Honey you can’t tell me that having your fingers in my mouth ain’t done something to you. You haven’t been able to look at me the same since,” a growl in his voice reverberates in him, trying to keep his urges in line.

“What?” she swallows thickly. “I-I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Yes you do. Don’t be coy.” He places the can next to him and turns his body toward her, “I know that’s how you was raised– to be ashamed of it. But you can’t go denyin’ these feelings forever.”

“It’s not like that…I’m not ashamed. I-I’m not.” she stammers. Arthur frowns, he can see right through her walls.

“Then why’re you always shakin’ like a damn near leaf whenever I get ‘round you?” he questions.

“I don’t know.” She murmurs, her shoulders going limp in defeat. He gazes back at her wilted expression before reaching out and gently cradling her hand, “Y’know darlin...people lovin’ on each other, ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” softly tracing patterns on the back of her palm, “It’s beautiful, really.” She gazes up into his eyes, her heart rate picking up at the sight of him being so close to her. He scans her face before glancing down at her slightly parted lips.

“Mr. Morgan?” she whispers.

“Mhm?”

“Are you gonna kiss me?”

“Do you want me to, baby?” He whispers back.

She stares up into his eyes and nods ever so softly. A genuine and loving smile spreads across his face. He inhales gently, before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. As he gently cups her jaw in his right hand, he leans down, and before he realizes, she instinctively turns her head away. “I’m scared” her voice barely above a murmur, “ain’t never done this before.”

He couldn’t deny that the idea of being her first kiss made his pulse quicken, and as guilty as he felt, he also couldn’t deny her naivety turned him on beyond belief. Of course, part of him also felt bad for being her first kiss. He thought to himself that she deserved a better man, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted this just as bad as she did.

“Well what do you know ‘bout it?” He strokes her hair gently.

“Nothin’ much…just what I've read in those dime store romance novels.” she murmurs, somewhat embarrassed at her inexperience. He tenderly strokes her cheek with his thumb, “Shh it’s okay sweetheart. Just relax and let me lead– can you do that for me?” he whispers lovingly.

She nods and instinctively closes her eyes, he tilts her head up and leans in to press a warm and tender kiss on her lips– even softer than he ever imagined them to be. He kisses her again, and again, before pausing and gazing lovingly into her eyes. He wishes he could live in this moment forever, “You okay so far?” He murmurs against her lips, softly nodding at her, she nods back. The mix of her orange and vanilla perfume catching in the slightly smoky and chill dusk air is intoxicating to him.

He leans back down he kisses her again, but this one was different. It was longer and deeper than the one from before, he deepened the kiss even further for a moment, working his fingers through her hair. Both of their heartbeats rise in tandem, she leans against his chest and places a hand on his thick thigh, trying to find balance against him. Something that could be acquainted with electricity pulses in her stomach, never truly realizing a sensation could feel so good. His tongue grazes her lip and she softly gasps at the feeling. Surely the taste of his lips would sear into her mouth for eternity, smoky and something that was attributed to only him. His lips still sweetened from the nectar of the peaches they consumed together, now all she wanted was to consume him.

He pulls away and rests his forehead against hers, panting softly. “Arthur,” she exhales gently, her breath fanning his neck. The ease of his first name leaving her tongue made goosebumps rise on the back of his neck and arms. His hands still tangled in her hair, making their way down to rest on her shoulders, “My sweet babydoll, so so perfect.” he whispers.

He plants a soft yet firm kiss on her cheek and back to her lips again. She sinks into his arms. She feels so safe yet, a sensation akin to lead creeps in and weighs her soul, an anchor of remorse that makes her stomach drop. Without second thought, she pulls away from the kiss and cries. Fear spikes in Arthur’s chest at the sight of tears rolling off her supple cheeks, “Oh no no no baby, what happened? Did I do something wrong?” he panics, terrified he hurt her or crossed a boundary he wasn’t aware of.

It truly wasn’t anything he did, she really didn’t know why she was crying. Truthfully, she was overwhelmed with feelings and emotions that she didn’t know how or what to do with. The way he gently cared for comfort and boundaries touched her beyond words or actions, she never felt so loved by another man before. Was this love that she was feeling? She didn’t know what to make of it all– and it scared the hell out of her.

“No…I don’t think so…W-we shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry,” her lip continues to quiver and tears roll down and drop into her lap. His heart twists in chest at her words, his mouth partly open from bewilderment, “Stop it. You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, “Tell me what’s going on darlin’.”

She cries again and the sight chisels away at his heart, “I-I don’t know…you did nothin wrong. I just ain’t ever felt like this before,” she reaches up to fidget with her swan pendant necklace once more. He knew exactly what was going on. She was touch starved-- it was years of pent up and repressed romantic desire that was finally boiling over– for the first time in her life, she was finally starting to learn how to love romantically.

He gives her another sympathetic smile and pulls her into his big arms, “S’okay angel, ain’t no shame in what we did,” he breathes. “It’s all new, I got it. We’ll go slower.” After a moment, she stops crying and pulls away, feeling a bit embarrassed. He can see the crimson spread across her cheeks, “I’m sorry Arthur. I don’t know what came over me.” 

He shakes his head and strokes her hair, “Don’t worry ‘bout it baby, I was just scared I did somethin’ wrong,” he pauses, “or you didn’t like it.” Her eyes widen in realization, “Oh, no not at all! I liked it a lot…maybe too much.” she softly responds, her words carry an edge of caution.

“Yeah?” he smiles, tongue darting out just enough to wet his bottom lip. She nods in return, whispering a ‘thank you’ before giving him small kiss on the cheek to reinforce it.

She looks up at the sky, the sun finally tucking itself behind the mountain, “We need to get back to the picnic now. My parents are probably waitin’ for me,” she stands and fixes her dress.

Arthur nods and rises to his feet. “I’ll walk you back, hm?”

She nods and waits for him, "Arthur?"

He perks up at his name as he starts to walk with her, she looks down at her feet, "Once again, I'm really sorry I cried.” she replies softly, feeling humiliated by her reaction, "I really do like your company."

“No need to apologize, I got you girl," his big hand cradles the small of her back as they walk back to the church together, " 'Sides, we got plenty time to practice anyway. Get you more comfortable." He grins. She smiles at the thought, deciding to fill the silence again with small talk.

“Wasn’t the lake beautiful?” she asks.

“Y’know I couldn’t see it too well. Got distracted by somethin’ else.” he smiles to himself.

The sun had set by the time they got back, the picnic had been over for a while now, and there was no one in the church. So Arthur decided to walk her back to her house. He didn’t realize that they were gone for that long– his stomach dropped when they finally arrived at her home, seeing the preacher, sitting on his porch whilst rocking back and forth in his rocking chair. He and Arthur share a look, before he springs up at the sight of the two. He makes his way down the porch steps.

“Papa we–”

“Get in the house young lady.” he ordered firmly yet calmly.

“Papa please don’t be mad we were just walking around and–”

“I’m not…mad...just do what I say and go inside.”

She looks up at Arthur and nods before scurrying away, mouthing a goodbye to him as her boots clunked against the porch steps. Arthur’s blood pressure rises as he tries to de-escalate the situation, “I ain’t mean no harm sir– we really was just walkin’ and talkin’.”

The preacher shook his head in disapproval, “Y’know, I’m really disappointed in you son. See, I gave you the benefit of the doubt that you had pure intentions here– especially with my only daughter around, but I guess I was a fool.” Arthur glares under the brim of his gambler’s hat, narrowing his eyes at the preacher, “What you mean by that exactly?”

“Don’t play dumb, boy…I see the way you been lookin’ at her.” he says with an accusatory tone. Arthur cocks his head to the side, “And what way is that?” he responds, feigning innocence.

The preacher shakes his head and breathes a humorless chuckle in disbelief of Arthur’s pretend innocence, “--Like a dog licking its chops for a bite of somethin’ he shouldn’t have.”

Ah. Of course…

Arthur exhales a chuckle, “Well sir– If I was, I would have already taken a bite by now, if that’s what you’re implyin’.” he smirks and pats him on the shoulder twice, before walking off. The statement makes the preacher’s blood boil, “I ain’t stupid! I been your age before! You stay away from her, you hear me boy?!” he calls out to Arthur.

He whips his head around and saunters back to the preacher, “Y’know your lil girl ain’t gonna be yours forever. She’s a beautiful young woman and men are lookin’ at her different now,” he leans in closer, “Now you got a decision to make. ‘Cause one of these days some man is gon’ come along for her, and I can bet you anythin’ he’s gon’ be worse than me,” there’s an edge to Arthur’s voice that alerts the preacher, but he would never give Arthur the satisfaction of seeing him buckle. He stares blankly back at him.

Arthur nods slowly, “You can think about that when you say your prayers tonight,” he turns to walk away, looking to the right of him to catch a glimpse of her bedroom window, hoping to see her one last time. He chuckles to himself, before calling back to her father.

“'Night, preacher man.”

thank u for reading thus far !!! once again thank u for all the support it means the world. taglist is currently open so lemme know if u wanna be added <3

taglist 🏷️ @dilf-luvr-4evr @joelsprettyprincess @i-will-give-you-love @necktattooed

[2demondogs]

Some HC abt what kind of texters RDR2 characters (you choose who) would be?

Would they be dry, dynamic, overly sensitive about Grammer, no Grammer at all??? I know this is kinda of silly. I hope you don't mind, lol

Omg no this is fun love it. I have a modern AU (IDK if I'll ever write anything for it bc I tried and felt silly) so I already have some ideas cooked up.

I accidentally wrote too many and had to restrain myself because it's 1:30am and I need to sleep.

Charles has autocorrect on and will not elaborate on typos. He texts in a tone that sounds like he wants you dead. He won't open a single link, song, etc. he is sent unless it's from Arthur or John because he dgaf otherwise.

Hosea uses speech to text not because he's old but because he cannot be bothered. Refuses audio messages. He has do not disturb on 24/7 and the only person on the exceptions list is Arthur. He has Dutch's number blocked. He'll respond instantly if it looks like you sent him gossip.

Sean texts every thought he has to whoever is online at the moment, gets into phases where he sends a thousand audio messages. He answers in 4 seconds flat, day or night. Lowercase and usually brainrot infested.

Dutch uses no punctuation unless it's an exclamation mark, which indicates he's yelling at you. He sends people recipes and news articles with no context. Uses capitals one day, lowercase the next. Will text you questions like "How was your relationship with your father?" at ten in the morning. At least he actually wants to know, I guess?

John uses :3 and >:3 as his only emoticons and texts in lowercase. But like, in the way where you get the feeling that at any moment the next message might be your full address. Answers in minutes unless someone's seeking emotional support, which he will ignore until he feels bad enough to answer.

Sadie also texts in all lowercase with old-school emoticons like :-) and :P, in a way where you suspect the next message might be your social security number. One time it was, but she was deadass telling the truth about guessing it on the first try. Insane aura.

Arthur doesn't reply for so long you genuinely have to search the local obits for his name. He has everyone except the one person not annoying him that week muted (usually Hosea). He hates using his phone unless it's watching reels. He texts while he drives. He types with one pointer finger.

Javier types fast but sends an audio message if he's really angry or happy. He will text on one platform while spamming reels or whatever on another. Oh and then once that four hours of constant texting is over, he doesn't respond again for four business days. Sometimes he doesn't even answer calls. Like dude... where the fuck are you?

Micah only sends audio messages. Especially to Dutch, who loves it and only sends audio messages back. The only actual text messages he's sent are extremely pointed songs he tells people reminded him of them and then when you listen to it it's clearly not a compliment. Only texts via number because his texts got him banned off most social media.

[orengejoshi]

Hey! I was wondering since you said that English isn’t your first language and all and the translation thing (Which is totally fine btw! I’m the same way) …

What is your first language? Sorry if this is like too personal, but I’m genuinely really curious!

Ich spreche normalerweise deutsch

Berliner/Sächsischer dialekt mix

my brain also gets confused bc I can speak a little bit of many languages. spanish namely, also simple french, dutch and japanese

paperhat in german would be eons better than in english, bc Flug has to use the formal "you" for Black Hat. and he would. he would (have to) continue even once they are together bc he probably demands it. Black Hat could use it for Flug (should, under normal circumstances of the rule) but most likely doesn't respect him enough for that. it strengthens the power imbalance soo much bc it is ALWAYS mutual irl.

this is indescribably ancient so it's really bad [the text is NSFWish]

commonly, only the older one can offer the informal "you" to another person. it would be high praise and trust to get the offer from your boss.

if your language doesn't have that layer of politeness you don't understand how much tension and power there is behind even a simple casual conversation, it's so appealing ughh (if you use it in a ship. bc you never use it in your private life, not even when you meet someone you date for the first time. it's just strange to use for a partner whether long-term or one-night. paperhat would be a quite unique case.)

[lonesomedovescry]

do you think arthur would like to bake?

like hear me out a second. obviously he's a pretty great artist, and that's one hobby that (in a perfect world with a happy ending, shhh) he could probably pursue at home with paints and notebooks and whatnot... wouldn't it be something to do something that simple with him? bread, at first. y'know, all that kneading. could really use some help with the physical labor, mr morgan... and then quick breads, the kind that use fruits and baking powders. little introductions of luxuries that never really occurred to him to create, because why would they? he wasn't made to make things— only oops, he's an artist. he has it in him.

also the idea of him braiding little bread accents for scored loaves is knocking me out. also also, tell me he wouldn't be the type to think about building one of those bigger bakers ovens. he strikes me as the type to always need a task, even if you technically have a perfectly good cast iron oven *right there.*

give the man a constructive hobby, that's what i mean. because (after he builds the house, bc if that was in john's nature it's definitely in his) he needs one.

your brain… your brain…. i have so many thoughts about this and this will be more of a thought drop rather than full blurb because hello??? oh em gee….

—

arthur, who after slipping the noose promised by micah and dutch with his sweetheart at his side, finds comfort and joy in building her a house with his blood and sweat. with a desire to build a small homestead in the grizzlies, he purchased a plot of land blooming with wildflowers and painted with lines of a flowing creek, where he spent hours resurrecting his monument to his love. a place where you could sleep without fear. a place where he could finally be free.

sweat slick and sore, he not only built the house itself (with the help of his friends of course) but he also built the fence that surrounded the property. and after that, he built a barn and a couple of pens. in his mind, the labor purified him. the sins of his past bled out from his pores through acts of pure devotion. he’d come in to the meal you prepared for him with a kiss and a mumbled thanks and quickly fall asleep the moment he had your warm body next to him.

with the labor born of devotion and bred for purification, his pure love of creation for the sake of creation helped keep him to himself. more detailed sketches in his journal, widdling wooden keepsakes. the love of creation never died within him, so as he watches you one fine morning delicately cutting flower shaped slices into a dough of bread before baking, the gears in his head begins grinding.

eventually, when the chores have been done and he ensures you have nothing to do but what you please, you find him in the kitchen. he’s covered in flour in a way that makes your heart clench with how endearing he is. he focuses as he carves out floral shapes into the bread the same as you did, blade hand steady and unwavering.

it seems that gunslinging steadiness has finally paid off.