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fuck red bull fuck this but if Nico gets on the podium I will cry that man deserves it

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max max max super maxxxxxxxxx pole number 44 baby🩵🩵🩵

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I’m thinking of doing a dark twisted mafia au forced marriage story but I don’t know who it should be!! let me know if this is something you guys are interested in and who it should be!!!

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hello I’m in need of another Fernando x reader one shot, I’m not fussed about the plot that’s up to you I just need angst to fluff and everything all cute in the end, please and thanks 🤩

sorry this took ages hope the angst to fluff ratio was okay today has been absolutely horrid for me but Fernando and gabi were too sweet to not include!!

“Austrian Skies, Cracked Hearts”

Fernando Alonso x Wife!Reader | Hurt/Angst + Healing Fluff | Austria GP, 2025

The Red Bull Ring shimmered in the late afternoon light, streaks of gold glinting off pit equipment and carbon fiber. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and celebration, but the weight of emotion in your chest was heavier than the mountains surrounding the circuit.

You watched Fernando from across the paddock, arms folded across your chest as a small smile tugged at your lips. He was laughing genuine and wide his arm draped around Gabriel Bortoleto, the younger driver flushed with disbelief.

First F1 points. In Austria, no less.

And your husband? Beaming like a proud older brother. Or maybe something more.

You approached slowly, Gabriel noticing you first. . “Ah, señora Alonso,” he said with reverence, cheeks still pink. “Thank you for lending him to us for a few more years.”

Fernando chuckled, pulling you close with a warm arm around your waist. “She didn’t lend me. I insisted on staying.”

“Clearly,” you murmured, hand brushing against his back as you leaned up to kiss his cheek.

Gabriel wandered off after a few more jokes, chased by mechanics and reporters. The two of you were finally alone for a brief moment. Fernando still looked toward Gabriel, pride glowing in his eyes. “He drove like a lion today. Reminds me of… well, a younger version of me.”

“You mean the version of you that wasn’t limping after long stints and cracking his back like a glow stick?” you teased gently.

He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Cuidado…”

Your fingers slipped around his, squeezing. “He really respects you. They all do. You’re the standard, Fernando.”

He turned his gaze on you, eyes softening. “And you’re my grounding wire. Without you, I’d fly off and burn.”

It should’ve stayed a tender moment.

But something inside you shifted. Maybe it was the way the sun hit his graying temples. Maybe it was the way you’d watched him today, holding his own with kids ten, fifteen years younger. Maybe it was your own clock, ticking quietly in your chest.

You spoke before you thought.

“We should have our own, don’t you think?”

Fernando blinked, confused. “Have our own what?”

You met his eyes. “A baby, Fernando. I’m tired of waiting.”

His smile faltered. “Now?”

Your hands folded over your stomach. “Why not now? We’ve been talking about it for two years. Every time you say, ‘after this season’ and then it’s next season, and the next. What are we even waiting for anymore?”

Fernando stepped back slightly, defensive walls rising fast. “You know why I’ve waited. This life… it’s not exactly compatible with fatherhood.”

You laughed ,short, bitter. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent nights wondering how many birthdays you’d miss because you’re racing in some corner of the world?”

“Then why push now?” he bit back. “You know what this season means.”

“Because I’m tired of putting my whole life on hold so you can keep chasing a dream that’s already behind you!”

It was too harsh. You saw it immediately in the way he froze.

Fernando’s jaw tightened. “So that’s what you really think of me.”

“No, that’s not-” Your voice cracked, your chest already tightening. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is,” he said coldly. “You think I’m some relic clinging to a sport that doesn’t want me.”

“No!” you cried. “God, no-Fernando, I love you. I admire you. But I can’t keep putting this on pause just because you’re scared.”

His breath hitched. “Scared of what?”

“That something might happen. That I’ll miscarry while you’re gone. That the baby will be born and you’ll be in Japan. That I’ll raise them alone while you’re smiling in post-race interviews. You don’t have to say it, Fernando. I know you’re terrified. But I am too. I’ve been terrified for years and you keep asking me to wait like time isn’t ticking inside my body.”

The tears came hot and fast, your voice collapsing into sobs. “And I’m scared that one day… there won’t be time left.”

That broke him.

Every wall in his body crumbled as he stepped forward, voice soft and trembling. “Mi amor-” His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing tears away. “Stop. Please, don’t cry.”

But you couldn’t stop. You had waited so long, holding back this storm, and now it was pouring out of you frustration, fear, love, longing.

Fernando pulled you into his chest, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it was hurting you this much. I thought I was protecting you by waiting.”

You clung to him, fists twisting into his race suit. “I know you were. I know.”

He tilted your chin up gently, his eyes glistening now too. “You’re right. We’ve waited long enough.”

“You mean it?”

“I do.” His voice cracked with emotion. “I want it all with you. And if we’re scared, we’ll be scared together. But I won’t let you face any of it alone. Ever.”

You let out a laugh through your tears. “You’re going to be such a soft dad.”

He grinned, brushing his nose against yours. “Don’t tell the grid. I still have a reputation to uphold.”

“Too late. I already told Gabriel you cried when we got engaged.”

He groaned playfully. “You’re evil.”

You kissed him slow, melting into his lips, into the safety of his arms. “You love me anyway.”

“Te amo más que mi vida,” he murmured. “And if we’re going to bring a little version of you into this world, we better get started before I really am limping all the time.”

You laughed properly now, the first real laugh all day. “Deal. But I get naming rights.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not if it’s something ridiculous.”

“Like Fernando Junior?”

“Okay, fair enough.”

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, holding you as if the world had finally fallen into place.

And maybe, just maybe it had.

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is this what it feels like to be a Ferrari fan?? The pain and disappointment is immense

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Max just got hit i am so done with this race kill me now this is torture

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Ohh I just thought of one actually after watching the Monaco GP, I like the idea of the reader and Charles been enemies on the track like always pushing each other off etc, however reader sees Charles getting a lot of hate for not getting pole in his home race, and in the final few laps reader has managed to over take Lando for the lead and realises how important the race is too Charles so holds Lando up and lets Charles take the lead (we all know that’s what max did too) and at the end he whispers thank you and they all make up and fluffy and kissy and she’s like I don’t know what your talking about,

It’ll never be the same

i am backkkkk and here is a soft small fic to celebrate 🥳

The sun had barely risen over the jewel-toned coast of Monaco, and yet the streets were already echoing with the high-pitched roar of engines. The city was alive electric with anticipation.

But none of it mattered to you. Not the cameras. Not the fans. Not even the podium dreams hanging in the air like saltwater mist.

Only one thing mattered today -: beating Charles Leclerc.

He was Monaco’s prince. The prodigy. The boy raised by the streets that now shaped into curves and chicanes under your tires. And you? You were the problem child of the paddock the one with enough fire in your blood to challenge a golden boy on his home turf. Every race weekend, it was the same. You and Charles locking wheels, hearts racing, always pushing the boundary between rivalry and war.

Last weekend in Imola, he ran you wide in Turn 6. The one before that in Miami, you boxed him in so tight he radioed Ferrari with a full symphony of curse words.

And Monaco? It was meant to be the crescendo

Qualifying was a mess. Charles had been the favourite fastest in all three practice sessions. But in Q3, he clipped the barrier in the swimming pool section. Just enough to kill the lap. The cameras caught his jaw tighten, his gloves clenched. The Monaco crowd went silent for him in a way they never did for anyone else.

And you? You were third on the grid, right behind Lando in P2, and Max in P1.

Charles was stuck in sixth.

You didn’t gloat. Not this time.

Because when you walked past him in the paddock that night and caught the press hounding him like vultures, microphones shoved too close, voices questioning if he’d ever win in Monaco you saw something you weren’t used to seeing in him.

Vulnerability.

And for once, it didn’t make you feel powerful. It made you ache.

Race day.

The air was heavy with heat and tension. The tarmac shimmered, and so did the stakes. As the lights went out, your instincts took over. You were flawless slipping past Max with a lunge into Sainte Devote, a calculated move that left even the commentators breathless.

Then, you hunted Lando lap after lap until, finally, on Lap 68, he braked just a touch too early at Rascasse. You pounced.

P1. You were leading Monaco.

And Charles? By some miracle strategy, brilliance, or sheer Monaco chaos he was now right behind Lando in P3.

The crowd was screaming. Your heart was thundering. You could taste champagne already.

But then

You glanced at the big screen. A replay.

Charles diving down the inside of Oscar a few laps earlier, wheel-to-wheel, sheer audacity. He was driving like a man possessed. But even more than that, the camera caught him in the cockpit silent, focused, jaw tight not angry.

Desperate.

This wasn’t about points for him. This was Monaco. It was family. Legacy. Ghosts he hadn’t laid to rest.

And suddenly, it hit you like a wall of G-force.

This wasn’t your win.

It never was.

You saw the narrowest window open as you exited the tunnel. Lando breathing down your neck, Charles closing in on him. You had the pace to hold both of them off. You should have.

Instead, you eased just slightly enough for your engineer to squawk confusion in your ears.

“Box? Why are you—wait, you’re slowing?”

You blocked Lando just enough. Not dirty. Just enough to give Charles the line he needed. He didn’t hesitate.

Lap 77. Charles overtook both of you in a move so clean, so poetic, the crowd erupted like firecrackers.

And you? You sat back and watched.

Let him take it.

Let Monaco give him back his soul.

Final lap.

You finished third. Lando second.

Charles? He crossed the line with a sob in his throat and a whole nation roaring his name. He did his cool-down lap with tears streaking his cheeks. You’d never seen him cry. Not even when you collided in Austria two seasons ago and he got a DNF because of it.

You waited by parc fermé, helmet still on.

He climbed out of the Ferrari, trembling. The moment his eyes found you through the crowd, something broke open.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He walked up to you slowly, cautiously, like you were something holy and dangerous all at once. His hand curled around your wrist and leaned close, lips brushing the edge of your helmet.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Soft. Raw.

And your voice came through your visor before you could stop it.

A smirk ghosted your lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Later, on the balcony above the harbor, champagne in your hands, the sun melting into the Mediterranean, Charles found you again. No cameras. No crowd. Just sea breeze and silence.

You barely had time to react before his lips found yours gentle at first, then urgent, like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

When you pulled away, breathless and flushed, he laughed against your cheek.

“You’re still insufferable.”

“And you’re still a drama queen,” you replied.

His arms wound around your waist, forehead against yours.

But the rivalry? Still there. You could feel it under your skin, crackling like static.

Only now, it had teeth. And it had tenderness.

Monaco would never be the same again.

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Could you please write something with Lando when you have been dating for nearly 3 years before you broke up with you being an actress and he an F1 driver it was an really public break up and it got quit ugly with Lando not understanding why you broke up with him and of course the whole thing got discussed in length on social media. When you attend the Oscars two weeks after the break up you're plan was too get drunk and dance but when you get sat next to an charming British actor you can't help yourself you laugh so much like you haven't in a very long time and when you two leave the after party early with you wearing his suit jacket and holding onto his arm you know that there are cameras and paparazzi's everywhere and that the pictures will be blastered on every gossip magazine but you don't really care. The next morning you get woken up by you’re phone ringing you ignore it the first four times but when it’s the fifth time you have enough you know exactly that it’s Lando and you know better then too pick up you still do it his first question is if you fucked him and you would like to tell him too go fuck himself that it’s none of his business anymore but yes you did and you know that it will make him even more angry and so you tell him the truth and how good it felt let him get blue from anger and envy maybe he then lets you finally alone.❤️

this is one of my favourites!!!

“Party 4 you”

Lando Norris x Actress!Reader x Matthew Broome

You used to rehearse your smile in the mirror.

Three years of premieres, paddocks, afterparties, and carefully timed Instagram posts every single one a performance. Every step beside Lando Norris was a silent prayer: Notice me. Choose me. Just look at me like I’m enough.

But you never said it out loud.

You played the role of the cool girlfriend. The understanding one. The one who didn’t mind the missed birthdays or the forgotten flights or the phone calls that cut off mid-sentence because he had “media to do.” You were the girl who waited backstage, smiling, silent, perfect.

And the worst part?

You told yourself that was love.

You dressed up for him like a party. You showed up glowing and golden, built from scratch every night. And he’d show up late or not at all. A kiss to the cheek. A distracted hand on your waist. A caption-less photo.

He never asked what dress made you feel beautiful.

He never noticed when your laugh changed.

He never saw you.

But you saw him. God, did you see him.

You saw every tired line in his face after a bad race. Every beat of doubt he never spoke. You loved him quietly. Fiercely. Exhaustingly. Until one day, you were sitting alone in your car outside his Monaco apartment, mascara drying on your cheeks, shaking fingers on your steering wheel, and the silence of your own birthday echoing in your ears and you realized:

You’d thrown every party for him.

And he never once RSVP’d.

The break-up was a war.

Not in person. No, Lando didn’t even come to the conversation. He just said, “You’re seriously ending it? Just like that?”

As if it hadn’t already been ending for months.

As if you hadn’t already mourned him in a hundred hotel rooms, with his voice cutting out mid-“love you.”

Social media devoured it. Gossip accounts speculated.

He stayed quiet, mostly.

Except for that one Twitch stream.

“She ended it out of nowhere. Guess that’s just how it goes.”

And just like that you were cold. Calculating. Heartless.

No one knew you cried so hard you threw up the night before.

No one knew you stopped eating for three days after.

No one knew how long you waited before finally posting a picture of yourself, smiling because your publicist said you had to.

They all thought you moved on.

But you hadn’t even started.

The next three to five months were a haze.

You learned how to breathe again, between broken nights and empty apartments.

You learned how to show up for yourself instead of waiting for someone else.

You learned how to not be a party thrown for one person who never came.

The pain dulled. It didn’t vanish. But you grew stronger, piece by fragile piece.

And then, Matthew Broome walked into your life like a fresh breeze cutting through the stale air of your heartbreak.

It started slowly at the Oscars.

You were hesitant to go.

Your agent had insisted.

“You need to remind the world you’re still here.”

You put on the gold dress the one with the slit high enough to say I’m dangerous now.

You put on the red lipstick the one that never smudged because you needed armor.

You smiled.

And smiled.

And smiled.

But Inside, you felt like a ghost.

And then he was there.

Matthew, charming and easy, sliding into the seat next to you.

You didn’t mean to laugh.

But he whispered something funny about the host’s painfully slow speech, and the sound slipped out of you unfiltered, loud, real.

It startled you.

Because for a moment, something inside cracked.

Not breaking or opening.

“I don’t remember the last time I laughed like that,” you told him.

“Then I’m glad I could be the one,” he smiled.

You danced.

Not for Lando. Not for the cameras.

But For yourself

You drank champagne and spilled stories you hadn’t dared to tell anyone.

You left the afterparty early.

His jacket was warm on your shoulders.

Your hand curled around his arm.

You knew the cameras were waiting.

You let them see.

Because this time, the smile was real.

The next morning, your phone rang five times.

You knew it was Lando.

You ignored the first four.

The fifth time, you answered.

He didn’t say hello.

“Did you fuck him?”

You exhaled, slow and steady.

“You really calling me for that?”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

It was a bomb.

You imagined him, furious, jaw clenched, eyes dark.

“You didn’t waste any time.”

“I wasted three years, Lando.”

He was silent.

“You know what it felt like? To be loved? To be wanted? To finally be seen?”

You didn’t lie.

The silence was different now less angry, more devastated.

“I waited for you. I threw every party for you. And you never came.”

The line went dead.

With Matthew, you didn’t have to be the party.

You just got to be.

Coffee dates that weren’t photographed.

Dinners where you could laugh without a mask.

Texts that didn’t need to be framed or curated.

And you laughed.

Really laughed for the first time in years

Months passed.

You and Matthew grew closer.

Quieter love.

No cameras.

No expectations.

You married on a rainy autumn day.

Laughter came easily.

You were whole.

One night, the phone rang again.

Lando.

You didn’t answer.

But the voicemail played.

It was Matthew’s voice, light and warm.

“Hey, this is Mr. Broome… and Mrs. Broome.”

Your laughter, bright and happy, floated behind his words.

A sound Lando never cared enough to listen to before.

He pressed replay.

That giggle the life he never saw, the joy he never gave.

And for the first time, he felt the weight of every party he’d missed.

He still, he threw parties.

Empty ones.

Chasing shadows.

Chasing a love that had already danced away.

Because the woman who waited for him?

She was dancing.

And finally, laughing.

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Could you please write something with Lewis when you’re Ayrtons Senna daughter and didn’t have much to do with F1 you’re whole live you’re only connection being Alain. When Alain one day informed you that Lewis Hamilton wanted to get in contact with you you didn’t know what too think of it but in the end you’re curiousty won and after you reached out to him you soon realized that he was an absolute sweetheart and he soon became one of you’re closest friends you remember sitting at the balcony of you’re apartment with you’re feet on you’re legs being drunk and confessing to him that you don’t remember you’re parents you’re mother died when you where only a few months old from an aneurysm only 24 all you have of her is the story’s you’re aunt and Alain told you how heartbroken Ayrton was how he won the race the day after he got informed of her death and stood on the podium with tears in his eyes reaching his hand up as far in the sky as possible looking up crying and Lewis told you that he remembers the moment when he saw it on the tv as an little kid thinking that he was thanking god to help him win. Lewis told you when he decided to leave Mercedes how Toto reacted when he told him and how his fairytale partnership with Mercedes turned into an nightmare you dont know what rode you when you proposed to go to the Ferrari presentation with him probably the alcohol in you’re blood and the idea of how everyone in the F1 circus would react if the most successful driver of all time turned up with Ayrton Sennas daughter on his arm.❤️

Everything I’ve ever wanted

hii lovies I am so sorry for being mia and for how long this took but I hope you enjoy it!!!

You never belonged to Formula 1.

Not really.

Not the way your father did not the way the world said you should have.

For as long as you could remember, the sport was more myth than memory. A blurred figure in flame-retardant overalls. A helmet. The thunder of an engine you never heard in person. You were born into a story you didn’t choose, one that ended before it ever truly began for you.

Your mother died when you were a baby a cerebral aneurysm, they told you. Twenty-four. Gone in hours.

Your father drove the next day.

Alain told you that he won. That he stood on the podium with tears in his eyes, reaching a hand to the sky like he could touch her. The world thought he was thanking God. But he wasn’t.

He was saying goodbye.

You never met him again after that. He died months later at Imola.

And the myth was sealed.

All your life, you were “his daughter.”

The girl whose name echoed in pit lanes and paddocks despite never setting foot in one. A legacy with no say in how it was carried. Your childhood was quiet, mostly thanks to Alain…Alain Prost, your father’s onetime rival and eventual friend. He made sure you were protected. Raised with dignity, not exposure. No circus. No cameras. No racing.

He was the only one who ever told you stories about the man, not the myth.

How your father smiled. How he hated the cold. How soft his voice was when he held you.

You learned to live in silence.

Until one day, Alain called.

“Lewis Hamilton wants to speak with you.”

You paused. “The driver?”

“Yes. He’s… serious about it. Very respectful. You don’t have to. But I thought you should know.”

At first, you didn’t know what to think. Lewis Hamilton was the modern legend. Seven-time World Champion. The man who tied your father’s records and then surpassed them.

Why would he want to speak to you?

You let it sit for weeks. But your curiosity won.

And that’s how it began.

He wasn’t what you expected.

When you finally reached out, Lewis replied within the hour. His tone was gentle, not performative. Not reverent. He wasn’t trying to connect with “Senna’s daughter.”

He wanted to connect with you.

“I’ve carried a lot of your father in my career,” he wrote.

“But I realize I never asked what that’s like for you. If it’s okay, I’d like to know you not for the story, but for the person.”

It disarmed you.

So you talked. Slowly.

And over time, you stopped feeling like a relic of your father’s past.

Lewis was patient, always. He never pushed. Never used your name for prestige. He listened really listened even when you had nothing to say. You’d speak late into the night sometimes. About music. The ocean. The emptiness fame brings.

He told you what it was like growing up the only Black kid in the paddock. The pressure. The loneliness. The racism.

You told him what it felt like to grow up the child of ghosts.

One night, you were drunk on your balcony, curled up with your knees tucked under you, watching the city below.

“I don’t remember them,” you murmured. “Not my mum. Not him.”

He was quiet on the other end of the call.

You went on. “All I have are stories. Alain told me… after she died, he drove like he was on fire. Won the race. Stood on the podium and reached up to the sky.” Your voice cracked. “I used to think maybe he was reaching for her. But really, I think he just wanted out.”

Lewis didn’t speak right away.

When he did, his voice was softer than ever.

“I remember that day,” he said. “I saw it on TV. I was a kid. I thought he was thanking God for the win. But maybe… maybe he was asking why.”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling quietly.

“I just wish I knew them like the world did,” you whispered. “Or like… they knew me.”

Your connection with Lewis deepened after that. There was no awkwardness. Just ease. Familiarity.

You hugged him like you’d known him your whole life.

And yet, despite the warmth, you could always sense something under the surface with him something unraveling.

Eventually, it came out.

He left Mercedes.

And the story was nothing like the media painted.

“They didn’t even look at me when I walked out,” he said one night, jaw clenched. “I gave them everything. Took their name to the top of the world. And when it stopped being perfect when I started asking questions I became a liability.”

You listened as he told you how the team changed.

The meetings where he was excluded.

The technical decisions made without his input.

The new golden boy groomed behind closed doors.

The subtle racism dressed up as professionalism.

The quiet betrayal of men he once trusted like family.

“It stopped being about racing,” he said bitterly. “It became about protecting an image. And I didn’t fit it anymore.”

You reached for his hand, gripping it tight.

“You were everything to them,” you said. “And they treated you like you were disposable.”

He looked at you then, his eyes glassy. “So did the world.”

That night, you did something impulsive.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe the weight of your shared grief.

But you turned to him and said:

“Come to the Ferrari launch with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

You laughed. “Can you imagine the chaos? You in red. Me on your arm. The ghost of Ayrton Senna walking through Maranello.”

It was reckless. Beautifully so.

And when the day came, you did it.

You wore your mother’s earrings. Lewis wore black and red. And the cameras lost their minds when you walked in together him, the fallen king. You, the child of the original icon.

It was more than spectacle. It was a statement.

The child of the man the sport lost too soon.

And the man the sport betrayed too late.

Together. Unapologetic.

After the launch, you returned to your apartment.

The world outside was still spinning but in here, everything was quiet.

You poured drinks. Sat on the balcony again, legs tucked under you.

And you broke.

“I hated the funeral,” you said, voice shaking. “Everyone crying for a man they never knew. The photographers. The headlines. I stood there with Alain. I was five. And I didn’t understand why everyone else got him except me.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks.

“I never got to call anyone mum. I never got to feel what it was like to be held by a father who didn’t have one foot in death every race. I lived my whole life in the shadow of something I never even touched.”

Lewis moved beside you. Held you gently.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered. “Of being the reminder. The orphan. The legacy.”

And then came his voice low, unwavering.

“You’re not a legacy. You’re you. And I see you.”

You looked at him, breaking entirely.

“Why did you want to meet me, Lewis?”

He held your gaze. “Because you were the only person who’d understand what it feels like to be idolized and invisible at the same time.”

The silence that followed was everything.

And in that moment broken and held, grieving and seen something shifted.

You weren’t just Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

And he wasn’t just Lewis Hamilton.

You were two souls the world had taken from.

And in each other, you were beginning to find what it never gave you back.

Years later

You stood at your father’s grave alone for the first time in years.

This time, with peace.

Not because the grief was gone but because you were no longer carrying it alone.

Lewis stood behind you, a hand on your shoulder.

You’d walked through fire together.

Through betrayal, loss, and rebirth.

You knew your father now not through stats or stories but through how Lewis saw you.

Through every quiet moment, every tear wiped away, every time he reminded you that you were more than a name.

And in him, you had something even your father never had: A love that stayed.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

hiii are you accepting Charles requests!

hii yes i am!! i love writing for him

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MV1 BABYYYY

that was simply lovely that race aged me by so many years hahaha i have work in the morning requests will be open!! i have a few fics coming out!!

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i just think it's so funny how afraid nico used to be of an 18 year old 😭😭

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MAX VERSTAPPEN IS A FATHER WELCOME LILY 🤍

this is the sweetest thing stop

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All the Miles Between Us

Fernando Alonso x Wife!Reader -

A Life in Five Decades

hi babes this is my favourite work I’ve done I am absolutely sorry for the heartbreak hehe!!!

Youth (Ages 22–30)

Barcelona, 2005

You were scribbling notes in a corner of the paddock, trying to finish your article on tire degradation, when a shadow fell over your notebook.

“Do tires always get that much attention?” a Spanish accent teased.

You looked up, annoyed. “Only when the car’s too fast to blame anything else.”

Fernando grinned, lowering his sunglasses. “Ah. So you’re one of those journalists.”

“I’m not a journalist,” you replied. “Just an intern. So don’t waste your charm on me.”

“Too late,” he said, already leaning against the railing like he had all day. “What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to need something to call you when I win on Sunday.”

You rolled your eyes but smirked. “We’ll see.”

He did win that Sunday. And when he stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in hand, he winked right at your press box.

The next morning, there was a single flower taped to your locker.

It was worth it. – Fernando

⸻

Paris, 2006

It wasn’t fast. You kept it slow. Careful.

You didn’t want to be another name in a long list of weekend flings. And to his credit, Fernando never once treated you like one.

He wrote to you. Real letters. Called when he could, texted when he couldn’t. You still remember one from Istanbul:

Today the car felt like shit but your voice felt like home. I miss you more than I miss sleep. Love you already, I think. Don’t tell me I said that.

⸻

Oviedo, 2007 – The First Fight

The first time you shouted at him was in the kitchen of his family’s house.

“You never stop,” you snapped, slamming a drawer shut. “You don’t eat, you don’t rest, and when you’re not on track you’re still thinking about it!”

“It’s my job!” he fired back. “It’s what I was born to do!”

“And what about us?” Your voice cracked. “Were you born to destroy this, too?”

Silence. Long and awful.

Then, softly, “Do you think I don’t love you?”

“I think you love racing more.”

He walked out that night.

Came back the next morning with a bruised heart and a bouquet of gardenias.

He knelt at your door. “I didn’t sleep. I can’t sleep if we’re not okay.”

You let him in. You always would.

⸻

The Proposal – Oviedo, 2009

It was winter. Snow dusted the rooftops. You’d spent the day trying to assemble Ikea furniture while he read instructions out loud in a horrible British accent.

“I swear I’ll propose before I figure this out,” he grumbled, upside down under a bookshelf.

“God help us both,” you muttered, laughing.

That night, you were in pajamas, wine in hand, fire crackling in the hearth. He looked over at you, completely unguarded.

“You want to marry me?” he asked suddenly, softly.

You blinked. “Is that a serious question?”

He got up, walked over, and slipped his grandmother’s gold chain into your palm. “This is all I have on me. But I swear I’ll give you everything else. Please. Say yes.”

You were already crying when you whispered, “Always, Fernando.”

⸻

The Wedding – Asturias, 2010

The ceremony was on a hill, the wind catching your veil like it had a life of its own. Fernando looked at you like he’d never seen the sun before.

Your vows were whispered but felt louder than any engine.

“I promise to never let you go to sleep angry,” you said.

“And I promise to make you laugh when you least want to,” he added.

You both cried during the first dance. He held your waist like you were made of something ancient and holy.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmured.

“No. I’m just the one who stayed.”

That night, you lay tangled in white sheets, his fingers tracing the lines on your collarbone.

“I’ll spend every day proving I deserve this,” he whispered. “Even the hard ones.”

⸻

The Miscarriage – Rome, 2011

You were nine weeks in. You hadn’t told him yet. You were going to surprise him in person bought a tiny onesie that said papa’s lucky charm and everything.

Then the cramps started. The blood came. And you knew.

You didn’t cry at first. Just stared at the ceiling while the world turned inside out.

When he called from the hotel, you said, “You should come home.”

He knew.

He arrived the next morning, eyes red from the flight, his jacket still smelling like rain.

You collapsed in his arms.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you sobbed. “And now it’s just gone.”

Fernando sank to his knees in front of you, pressing his forehead to your stomach.

“I already loved them,” he whispered. “Even if I never got to meet them.”

That night, he built a fire and held you close, rubbing your back while you shook with silent grief.

“We’ll try again,” he whispered. “When you’re ready. And even if it never happens, we’ll still have us. Always.”

You cried yourself to sleep with your hand over his heart.

⸻

Monaco Crash – 2013

You were watching live, laughing at a silly commentator’s remark when his car veered, slammed the barrier.

Your scream startled everyone in the room.

The headset fell from your ears. Your body moved before your brain could.

You were at the medical center before they could stop you, face pale and hands trembling.

He saw you through the glass, smiled weakly. “You’re more dramatic than the crash, mi vida.”

You shoved the curtain aside, tears in your eyes. “I thought you were dead, Fernando!”

He pulled you close, wincing. “Takes more than a wall to take me away from you.”

“Don’t joke,” you choked out.

“I’m not. I saw your face when they pulled me out… and all I thought was, ‘thank God, I’m still hers.’”

⸻

Final Moments of Youth – Austria, 2015

You were on a hiking trail, breathless from the altitude and the laughter. He had his arm around your shoulders, cheeks flushed.

“I think this is it,” he said, stopping to stare at the valley below.

“What?”

“The moment I stop chasing speed. I’m tired and for the first time, I think I want a slower life.”

You looked up at him, heart softening.

“You sure?”

He nodded. “I’ve been fast long enough. I want to learn how to be still with you.”

You kissed him. He kissed you back like he was anchoring himself to the ground.

⸻

The Middle Years (Ages 30–50)

⸻

Oviedo, 2016 — Slow Living Begins

Your house on the hill became a sanctuary. No roaring engines. No flights every weekend. Just wildflowers and books stacked in uneven towers.

Fernando gardened badly. You teased him relentlessly about the crooked tomato vines and his “tragically overwatered basil.”

“You’re just jealous my plants love me more,” he said with dirt on his cheeks, offering you a squashed-looking tomato like it was a diamond.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you smirked.

He grinned. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

You rolled your eyes. “I married you, didn’t I?”

Evenings became your favorite time. You’d sit on the porch with mugs of tea, listening to the wind and letting your legs touch under the table.

“You know,” he said one night, his voice low, “this is the happiest I’ve ever been. No trophies. No pressure. Just you.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Then you finally understand what I’ve been trying to give you all these years.”

⸻

Barcelona, 2017 — The First Baby

The second time you got pregnant, you were terrified.

Fernando kissed your stomach every night like a prayer. “You’re not alone this time,” he whispered.

He went with you to every appointment. Held your hand when you cried during the heartbeat scan.

At twenty-three weeks, you woke him up at 3 a.m. in a panic.

“I had a dream the baby didn’t make it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I felt so empty, Nando, I couldn’t breathe-”

He sat up immediately, pulling you into his lap.

“Feel this?” he said, placing your hand over your belly. “That’s life, cariño. And this…” He pressed your palm to his chest. “That’s love. I swear on both we’re going to be okay.”

Your daughter, Lucía, was born on a foggy autumn morning in October.

He cried so hard when he first held her you thought he might drop her.

“She’s got your nose,” he sobbed.

“And your stubborn brow,” you said, brushing her downy hair. “We’re doomed.”

⸻

Marbella, 2020 — The Second Baby & Pandemic Isolation

Your second child, Mateo, came during the quiet panic of the pandemic.

You gave birth wearing a mask. Fernando wasn’t allowed in the room for the first hour.

When he finally held him, he whispered, “You came into chaos and still brought peace.”

Those months were strange. Locked indoors with two small children, restless hands, and headlines full of dread.

One day you snapped, tears streaking your face after three straight nights without sleep.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore!” you yelled, cradling a crying Mateo while Lucía smeared crayon across the walls.

Fernando took the baby gently, whispered, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I’m falling apart.”

“So fall,” he said. “I’ll catch you.”

⸻

Oviedo, 2022 — The Cancer Scare

You found the lump in the shower. Firm. Small. But undeniably there.

You didn’t tell Fernando for a week. He was already overwhelmed his mother’s health was declining, the world still uncertain.

When you finally sat him down, you said it fast “I found something in my breast. I have a scan tomorrow.”

The way the color drained from his face nearly broke you.

He reached for you instantly, thumb trembling as he stroked your cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want you to panic until I knew.”

“But you were already panicking,” he said softly. “Weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He pulled you into his chest and held you for so long you lost track of time. The night felt like a never-ending breath you couldn’t release.

At the hospital, his grip never left yours. The waiting room. The ultrasound. The biopsy. Each click of the machine felt like thunder.

When the doctor finally said it was benign a fibroadenoma, not cancer Fernando laughed and cried at the same time. His head bowed in relief, tears soaking into your shirt.

That night, he held your scarred breast in his hands and kissed it.

“This body… it’s given me everything,” he whispered. “You. Our children. Our life. I’ll never take a single piece of it for granted again.”

You wept into the crook of his neck. The way he looked at you never changed. Not through aging. Not through scars. Not through fear.

Only deeper. Only fuller. Only more.

⸻

Asturias, 2023 — Losing Your Father

He died suddenly. A heart attack in his sleep.

Fernando drove you six hours overnight so you could say goodbye at dawn.

At the funeral, you didn’t speak for three days.

He cooked for you, sat beside you without pushing, held your hand even when you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

On the third night, you finally spoke.

“I didn’t even say ‘I love you’ the last time we spoke. I told him I was too busy to call.”

Fernando pulled you close, your grief soaking into his shirt.

“You were busy. Loving me. Raising our kids. Being the person he was so proud of.”

You sobbed into his chest, the pain blooming like wildfire.

He stayed up with you all night, listening to stories about your dad. Never said a word. Just listened.

⸻

Oviedo, 2028 — The Anniversary

Lucía was fourteen. Mateo was eleven. Your house was loud with hormones and burnt toast.

You’d forgotten it was your anniversary until you came home and found the entire garden lit with string lights, your favorite dinner steaming on the table.

Fernando stood in a button-up shirt that didn’t match his pants, holding a wrinkled card.

“I panicked. The kids helped. Lucía picked the flowers. Mateo made dessert so eat at your own risk.”

You laughed until you cried.

Over dinner, you held his hand and whispered, “You’re still my favorite thing in the world.”

He kissed your knuckles. “I’ve had so many lives… but the only one I ever wanted was the one where I’m yours.”

⸻

The End (Ages 50–70)

⸻

Oviedo, 2040 — The Quiet Years

The house grew quieter with each passing year. Lucía left for university first,political science, all fire and fight like her father. Mateo followed soon after, gentler, more like you, always calling just to hear your voice.

You and Fernando got used to cooking for two. Walking the same forest path behind the house each morning. Picking out tomatoes at the market like it was a grand adventure. Reading in bed with your feet tangled together under the blanket.

“This is the good part,” you whispered one morning, watching the sun spill golden over his lined face. “No rush. No races. Just you.”

Fernando chuckled. “I liked winning. But this—” He reached to brush your hair back. “This is better.”

⸻

Barcelona, 2046 — The Diagnosis

It started with fatigue.

You thought it was just age. Then the headaches came. The weight loss. The vision blurs.

They found the tumor in June. Glioblastoma. Terminal.

You were fifty-nine.

You waited until you knew for sure before you told Fernando. You practiced the words in the mirror a hundred times. Still, nothing prepared you for the way he crumpled in the hospital hallway, clutching the edge of a plastic chair like it might save him.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no don’t say it. We still have time. We always have time.”

You held his face and made him look at you. “We have time to love, Nando. But not forever. And that’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sobbed, voice breaking. “It’s not okay.”

You kissed him. “We were never promised forever. But we earned every second.”

⸻

Oviedo, 2047 — Preparing for Goodbye

The house changed again.

He moved the bed to the sunroom so you could see the trees sway while you rested. He played your favorite records on quiet mornings Piano Concerto No. 2, Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac. You talked about everything and nothing.

You asked him to write to you again. Like he did when you were twenty.

He filled six notebooks.

“I never knew how much I still had to say to you,” he whispered one day, holding your hand like it was made of porcelain. “Even now.”

You cried together, often. But you also laughed about how bad his cooking still was, how Lucía inherited your temper, how Mateo cried at commercials.

You made him promise something, one night when the pain was bad.

“When it’s time… I want one last dance,” you said, voice raw but soft. “Just you and me. Like before.”

“Of course,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Name the song, mi amor.”

You smiled. “Infinity Jaymes Young.”

His voice caught. “That’s our song.”

“It always was.”

⸻

October, 2048 — The Final Dance

You knew it was time. The doctors said days, maybe a week. You didn’t want machines. You just wanted your family.

Lucía and Mateo flew in. They curled beside you in bed like they were little again. Fernando never left your side. Not once.

On a soft October evening, with the windows open and golden light pouring in, he helped you out of bed. Your body trembled. He held you up.

And then he played the song.

“Baby this love I’ll never let it die…”

You danced.

Slow. Barely moving. His arms around you. Your head on his shoulder. Your breath shallow.

“You gave me the best life,” you whispered against his neck. “I wouldn’t trade a second.”

He cried freely, holding you tighter. “I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.”

You smiled, even through the tears. “I’ll wait for you. Wherever the next place is, I’ll be there.”

“Promise?”

You kissed his lips. “I promise.”

⸻

A Week Later

You passed away in your sleep, in the home you built together.

Fernando stayed beside you until the sun rose. He kissed your forehead and whispered the last words you ever said to him: “I’ll wait for you.”

⸻

Years Later — After You Were Gone

He kept your books on the shelf.

Still made tea for two, sometimes forgetting.

Still wrote you letters even when there was no one to read them.

Your children came often. Brought your grandkids. Told stories you’d once told them.

Lucía once asked him, “Do you still miss her, after all these years?”

He smiled, eyes soft with memory. “Every day. But I know she’s just ahead of me. Not gone. Just waiting.”

⸻

The Reunion

There’s a dream Fernando has often.

He’s young again. You’re waiting for him beneath a streetlamp in Florence, wearing the dress you wore the night you told him you loved him for the first time.

Music floats in from an open café window. He reaches for your hand.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

You smile.

“Always.”

And you do.

Dancing with him forever

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Hey! P here!! How are you? Been busy a lot 😔 Can I request fic about James Vowles x wife reader? Since last season, James has been pursuing Carlos to join Williams but to no avail. To extend spending time with his family (I read somewhere about it, which is good I think 🤔) Anyways, she's been saying (jokingly) that he loves Carlos more than her with the amount of attention he's given to him even especially after Carlos joins the team. Compliment his hair, making it look like James had fallen in love with Carlos and now his wife. I can imagine how shocked and baffled James is about her jokes🤣🤣🤣 All these things lead to the F175 event at O2 and chaos happend. You decide how it goes. Add anything you want. Ask me anything. Thanks!! :))

Smooth Operator

James Vowles x Wife!Reader

feat. Carlos Sainz as the Unexpected Third in Your Marriage

hi I’m back after ages I have so many requests im working through I’m sorry it’s taking years but life is horrible rn anyways this one made me laugh hope yalls like it.

You were this close to adding Carlos Sainz to your Christmas card list and not because you liked him. Oh no,because at this point, it felt rude not to.

“Just admit it,” you said one morning, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as your husband stared lovingly oh so lovingly at an image of Carlos on the Williams simulator. “You’re in love with him.” James blinked. “Excuse me?” “With Carlos. Your hair idol. Your strategic soulmate. Your beautiful Spanish muse.”

He turned slowly, expression pained. “We’re not doing this again.”

You leaned on the kitchen island with a smile that spelled chaos. “He’s got thick curls, James. You said he’s a data genius. Yesterday I caught you complimenting his turn-in technique. What’s next? Love poems?”

James pinched the bridge of his nose like a man suffering. “I am the Team Principal of Williams Racing. This is business.”

“This is a crush. You’re emotionally cheating. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

He sighed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you, my dear husband, are flirting with danger. And Carlos.”

It had all started last season, when James became laser-focused on “Project Carlos.” He claimed it was about rebuilding Williams, strengthening the team, reshaping the future.

But all you heard was:

“Carlos is incredibly adaptable.”

“Carlos has unbelievable race awareness.”

“Carlos doesn’t just drive the car. He becomes one with the car.”

At one point, you genuinely wondered if James was going to name your future child Carlos.

When Carlos actually signed with Williams, you half-expected James to cry.

Instead, he opened a bottle of champagne and said, “This is the beginning of a new era.”

“For you and Carlos?” you asked.

“For the team,” he said. But you weren’t convinced.

The true chaos began at the F175 Launch Event at the O2.

You’d promised to be chill. Polished. Supportive.

You even wore your Nice Wife at PR Events dress. The red one. Very “I’m fine, my husband’s not cheating on me with a race car driver.”

But then someone on the panel asked James what it was like to sign Carlos.

And your darling husband turned to the mic with the serenity of a monk and said,

“Carlos brings something really rare. He’s sharp, strategic. He reads the car like a language only he understands. Honestly, watching him drive is like art. It’s… elegant.”

You turned your head slowly. “Elegant?” you mouthed. Elegant?

Then, like a woman possessed, you strode onto the stage.

“Hi, yes, sorry to interrupt,” you said sweetly, grabbing a mic. “I just wanted to confirm that I’m still married to James Vowles, even though he appears to be in a deeply committed emotional relationship with Carlos Sainz.”

Carlos, sipping water off-stage, choked.

The crowd erupted.

James looked like he’d aged fifteen years in fifteen seconds.

“Darling,” he said, his voice that calm, brittle tone you only hear when someone is internally screaming, “this is not the time.”

“No, James,” you said, planting your hand dramatically on your hip. “This is exactly the time. I just want to know if I’m going to be replaced by someone who has better curls and a smoother overtake.”

“I can explain-”

“Oh, no need. We’ll work out a custody schedule with Toto and Fred. Maybe alternating grands prix?”

“YOU’RE BEING RIDICULOUS,” James hissed.

Someone in the audience shouted, “LET HER COOK!”

Carlos was now hiding behind a curtain.

The next morning, your phone exploded.

Sky Sports: “Carlos Sainz Caught in Love Triangle?”

F1 Twitter: #VowlesVibes

CarlosFan69: “Why is this woman funnier than every man on the grid?”

James stood in the kitchen, scrolling grimly through the headlines.

“I’m a Team Principal, not a Bachelor contestant,” he muttered.

You, in your robe, sipping tea: “Maybe you shouldn’t flirt with Spaniards on live TV.”

“It wasn’t flirting,” he snapped. “I said his driving was elegant.”

You raised a brow. “You’ve never called me elegant.”

“Because you walked on stage and accused me of strategic adultery!”

“I was brave,” you said. “A woman in love. Defending her man from another man.”

His face dropped into his hands. “I’m married to a gremlin.”

You leaned in, grinning. “But I’m your gremlin.”

Later that day, Carlos sent James a text:

Carlos: Hey… everything okay? Do I need to issue a public apology? I didn’t mean to come between you two.

James: It’s fine. My wife just thinks I’m in love with your hair.

Carlos: …Are you?

James: I’m blocking you.

That night, James curled up beside you on the sofa, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You know I love you, right?” he mumbled into your shirt.

You smiled, stroking his hair. “Of course. But if Carlos ever invites you to a shampoo commercial…”

He groaned. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“I’ll understand,” you said sweetly. “I’ll pack your conditioner myself.”

After The Incident at the F175 launch the one where you jokingly accused your husband of being emotionally married to Carlos Sainz in front of God and every Sky Sports mic things had settled.

Barely.

The memes were still circulating. Your phone was still getting tagged in Twitter/X posts captioned “Me third-wheeling my parents’ divorce like #VowlesVibes.” And people were still calling James “a loyal yet emotionally confused king.”

But James? He was trying to carry on like everything was normal.

Which is why, when Carlos invited both of you to dinner, James said yes without hesitation.

You, however, stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Dinner?” you repeated. “With the man you abandoned me for?”

James groaned. “I did not abandon you. You stormed the stage like a Real Housewife of Monaco.”

“You called his driving elegant, James. That’s practically foreplay.”

“You’re lucky I love you.” “You’re lucky I didn’t bring a slideshow.”

The dinner was at some trendy, overpriced Italian place in London that clearly catered to rich people who wanted to pretend they were casual. You sat down at a three-person table tucked in a corner, candlelight flickering between bread baskets and sparkling water.

Carlos arrived ten minutes late, curls bouncing, smile too charming for someone who’d accidentally become the center of your marriage drama.

He hugged James. He hugged you.

You tried not to squint suspiciously at the way your husband’s hand lingered on Carlos’s shoulder.

“This place is nice,” Carlos said, settling in. “I’m glad we’re doing this. I was worried I caused some tension?”

You sipped your wine. “Carlos, you did nothing wrong. You just exist. With your hair. And your tactical driving style. And your surgeon hands.”

James choked on his water.

Carlos blinked. “Sorry??my what?”

James cleared his throat. “She thinks I talk about you too much.”

“You do,” you and Carlos said at the same time.

James raised a hand. “Okay, betrayal.”

The waiter came by, and just as you were ordering pasta, someone at the table next to you gasped—loudly.

“Oh my GOD,” a girl whispered, clutching her friend’s arm. “It’s them.”

You raised a brow.

“The… Williams love triangle!”

Carlos blinked. “What?”

“They went viral,” the friend whispered back. “The guy, the wife, and the other guy with the perfect hair this is them!”

You stared at James. “You see what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t ask to be in a tabloid throuple,” he hissed.

Suddenly, the girl leaned over, clutching her phone. “Can I get a picture of all three of you? You’re like, iconic. Like PolyF1Goals.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?? what?”

She beamed. “You know, like a throuple! You, your husband, and Carlos!”

Carlos blinked. James looked like he’d swallowed a fork.

You?

You smiled sweetly and said, “Of course.”

So yes, there is now a photo floating online of James in the middle, looking like he’s questioning every life decision, you smiling like the chaos demon wife you are, and Carlos doing a confused peace sign like he’d just stumbled into a cult.

The caption?

“Williams going for podiums and polyamory in 2026. #ThroupleTrouble #VowlesSainzWife”

Later that night, back at home, you flopped onto the bed and checked your phone.

Another headline.

“Carlos Sainz Caught in Unexpected Romantic Dynamic With Williams Boss and Wife”

Experts weigh in: Is this the future of F1?

James walked into the room and faceplanted on the bed beside you.

“I’m going to be buried with this story on my tombstone, aren’t I?”

You stroked his back lovingly. “Right next to a bouquet of Carlos’s curls.”

James groaned into the pillow. “I hate you.”

You kissed his temple. “No you don’t. You love me more than Carlos.”

He hesitated. “…Yes. But only slightly.”

That caused another wave of the endless storm of “ you love Carlos more” rant from you.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Hi! I happened to read your Bustamante reader fic, and I kinda fell in love with it, so I was wondering if there was going to be an Oscar ending too?

It's not like I didn't like the Landos's one, but I honestly felt like he didn't "deserved" the happy ending after how mean he was.

It would be interesting also an ending where the reader get to stand on on her own, without having to end with Lando or Oscar, because she learned to be happy and love herself regardless of the others opinion.( you're under no obbligation to actually do this, I was just blabbering my thoughs)

Anyway, thank you for reading this, and keep on writings such good stuff ✨️

thank you so much loviee!!!

originally the reader was not going to end up with anyone she was going to find peace and rebuild herself that’s what I wanted but a lot of the comments wanted a happy ending with Lando!! personally I would have preferred for her to end up with Oscar just felt like they made the most sense.

I will be making a part for Oscar and a final part for the reader herself.

I am however on a slight hiatus due to mean anons here!! this will be my priority after i come back. :)

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Hellooooo i love your writing so so much and i wanted to see if i could request something :3

Max being completely in love with reader since he first saw her when he joined F1, she is besties with an F1 driver (if possible Checo, because i love him so) so she constantly attends races. And when Checo joins redbull Max is losing his mind because reader spends a lot of time with the team and is always cheering for RB. But when he finally gathers the courage to ask her out it turns out that reader has been in a relationship for quite a while with another driver (Lewis?). You can choose if this has a happy ending or not (hehe i know you love some angst). Anyways, thank u in advance!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Haven’t I given enough

you said angst and the ending being up to me?? 3940 words buckle up this is intense. if you are ever in a situation like this please don’t hesitate to reach out and get help and always remember you are enough!!

tw-: emotional abuse, suicidal thoughts, suicide, abusive relationship

Max Verstappen had always kept his feelings for you hidden, tucked away deep inside where no one could see them. His focus was always on racing, on winning, on being the best. But that didn’t mean his feelings for you were any less real. Every time he saw you, whether you were laughing with Checo in the garage or talking to the crew, it felt like his heart beat a little faster.

You were always there for the team, always cheering them on with that infectious smile of yours. But Max couldn’t shake the way you made him feel. You made him feel something more, something that wasn’t just about racing, something raw, real. The problem was, Max had kept his distance. He didn’t want to complicate things. You were Checo’s best friend.

You were also with Lewis, the man everyone thought you were happy with.

And so, Max kept it buried.

Max Verstappen had always buried his emotions deep inside. He was used to shutting them out, focusing solely on racing, on winning. But there was something about you that changed him, even when he didn’t want to admit it.

Every glance you shot him, every smile you gave him, tore at his heart. You were the kind of person that made everything feel brighter, even when the world around you was dark. But you were with Lewis. TheLewis Hamilton. The man who had everything. The man who seemed perfect in every way.

You were his.

Max watched helplessly, unable to do anything but be on the sidelines as you lost pieces of yourself to the toxic relationship you had with Lewis. He could see it in the way you shrank under his harsh words, the way your smile faded, how you walked on eggshells, always trying to please him, trying to live up to an impossible standard.

But it was never enough.

Each time Max saw you with Lewis, it was like watching a light slowly die. You were no longer the radiant person he had met. You were broken piece by piece under the weight of Lewis’s cruel words. Max could see it. He could feel it in the air. But nothing could stop the train wreck of your relationship. You were in too deep.

One night, after a disastrous race, Max overheard a conversation between you and Lewis. He wasn’t supposed to hear it, but the words cut through the air like knives.

Lewis stood in front of you in the hotel suite, his posture tense, his jaw clenched with anger. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” he spat, his voice venomous. “I work my ass off to keep us on top, and what do I get from you? Nothing.”

You recoiled, shrinking back from him, eyes wide with fear. “I—I’m sorry, Lewis. I’ve been trying, I promise. I just—”

“No,” Lewis interrupted, his voice rising. “You’re trying to get his attention, aren’t you? Max’s? You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what’s going on when you look at him like that?” He sneered, his hands balling into fists. “You’ll never be good enough for me. You’re just a distraction. You always have been. You’ll never live up to the woman I need by my side. You can’t even keep up.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t say anything.

“Get out of my sight,” Lewis snapped. “You’re lucky I even tolerate you. You make me look weak with your useless, pathetic attempts. I need someone who’s perfect. Not some broken little girl who can’t even handle the pressure.”

The words stung, not just because they were cruel, but because they were true in Lewis’s eyes. You were nothing but a disappointment to him, and he made sure you felt it every damn day.

Max stood there, frozen, his heart breaking with every word that Lewis spat. He had always known that something was wrong, but hearing it laid bare was another level of pain altogether. He wanted to run to you, to pull you away from that toxic environment, but you were already too far gone and went willing to accept any help. You were so deep in it that you couldn’t even see the damage it was doing.

In the following weeks, things got worse. You became a shadow of yourself, constantly apologizing for things you didn’t do, shrinking whenever Lewis looked at you with that cold, disappointed gaze. It was clear to Max that your mental health was deteriorating. You barely smiled anymore, and when you did, it was a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

One night, after a particularly heated argument with Lewis, Max found you sitting alone in the garage. The chaos of the race weekend had faded, but you were still there, staring blankly at the empty cars.

“Hey,” Max said softly, sitting beside you. He wanted to reach out, to comfort you, but the words felt like they would fail him. He knew the damage was already done.

You didn’t respond at first. You just stared straight ahead, your arms wrapped around yourself in a protective posture. After a long silence, you spoke, your voice barely audible.

“Why does he hate me, Max? Why does he always make me feel like I’m not enough?” You choked on the words, tears streaming down your face as your shoulders shook with quiet sobs. “I try so hard. I give him everything, and it’s still never enough. I’m just a failure.”

Max’s heart shattered. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t a failure, that you were enough, but the words felt hollow. You wouldn’t believe them. He could see that. He had no power to fix the broken pieces of you. But he couldn’t leave you like this.

“You’re more than enough,” Max snapped, his voice suddenly raw with emotion. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. The frustration, the anger, the ache he had been hiding it all came flooding out. “You’re everything, okay? You’ve always been enough. You’ve always been enough for me.”

But you just shook your head, the tears falling faster now, as though they had been dammed up for too long. “I don’t know how to be strong anymore. I don’t know who I am. I’ve lost myself trying to be someone I’m not, and I can’t go back.”

Max felt his throat tighten. He wanted to kiss away the pain, to hold you and promise you that things would get better, but he knew deep down that there was nothing he could do. You were already lost in your fight with yourself.

The relationship with Lewis continued to deteriorate. Every interaction with him was more toxic than the last. He belittled you, criticized you, and made you feel worthless. Every fight, every cruel comment chipped away at your self-worth. You were drowning.

Max watched it all, powerless. He tried to be there for you, but you were retreating further into yourself. And then, one day, it happened.

It was after another argument with Lewis, one that had been particularly vicious. Max had seen the way Lewis had grabbed your wrist, the way he shoved you against a wall in a fit of anger. You looked smaller and smaller every day. Max tried to intervene, but Lewis was quick to shut him down.

“Stay out of it, Max. You don’t know her like I do,” Lewis sneered.

That night, you couldn’t take it anymore. The weight of the years of verbal and emotional abuse finally broke you. Alone in the dark, the suffocating pressure, the fear, and the pain it all became too much to bear.

You were dead the following morning.

Max arrived at the hotel for a race weekend, excited to see you. But when he knocked on your door, no one answered. He knocked again, growing more worried. Something felt off. Max didn’t wait. He used the spare key and entered.

What he saw shattered him beyond words.

You were lying on the floor, cold, your lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The pain in your face was enough to crush anyone’s soul. Max’s breath caught in his throat as he rushed to you, shaking you gently, but there was nothing.

He knew. He knew it was too late.

The investigation that followed confirmed what Max had already feared. You had taken your own life. The toxic relationship, the pressure to be perfect, the constant emotional abuse it had all been too much. And it was Lewis’s cruel words that had driven you to this point.

Max was shattered. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t understand how the person he loved had been taken away so cruelly, so senselessly. He blamed himself. He blamed Lewis. And he hated himself for not doing more, for not getting through to you sooner.

The news of your death hit the F1 world hard. It sent shockwaves through the paddock, and everyone knew what had happened and how toxic and abusive Lewis had been toward you. The whispers of his cruelty filled the air, but it was too late. You were gone, and Max was left with nothing but the crushing weight of his love for you and the guilt that would haunt him forever.

He would never forgive himself for not saving you. And as for Lewis? He was left isolated. No one in the F1 community could look at him the same way again. His toxic words, his control, and his manipulation had all led to your death, and there was no coming back from that. He was consumed with guilt, but it didn’t matter. You were gone. And no apology, no regret, could change that.

Max left the F1 world, unable to continue racing knowing that you were no longer there. His heart had been shattered, and he had lost the one person who had ever made him feel anything more than just a driver.

In the end, Max’s love for you was never enough. And the world would never be the same without you.

The months following your death felt like a never-ending cycle of pain for Max. He could feel the weight of your absence in every corner of his life. Every victory, every race, every moment of fame he had ever dreamed of, it all felt hollow. You had been his constant, the one person who made him feel alive beyond the racetrack. And now, you were gone.

But what cut him the deepest was the indifference from the one person who should have felt your loss just as deeply. it was Lewis Hamilton.

Lewis was the man you had been with before, the one who had gotten under your skin, the one who had promised you things he never intended to keep. But instead of showing any kind of remorse after your death, Lewis had moved on like nothing had happened. He continued racing, continued his life as if he didn’t just lose the person who had once meant everything to him.

Max couldn’t understand it. He saw the way Lewis spoke about you behind closed doors, how he belittled you, how he acted like you were nothing but a distraction. But after your passing? Lewis never took responsibility for the toxic environment he had created for you. In fact, he kept going, acting like it was you who had been the problem all along.

Max was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He had stayed quiet for months, biting his tongue, letting the pain consume him. But the anger? That was building slowly, steadily. Every time he saw Lewis’s smug face, every time he heard him laugh with the same confidence, as if he were a footnote in his life, it made Max’s blood boil.

The tipping point came one night, during a private event in the paddock. Max had been watching from a distance as Lewis interacted with the media and the crowd, and it was as though nothing had changed. Max’s hands were clenched at his sides as he stood there, his chest tight. He had to confront Lewis. He had to say something. For you. For him.

Max found Lewis standing alone by his car, looking at his phone. He looked up and smiled when he saw Max approach. “Oh, Max, what’s up?” Lewis asked, too casually, like the world was still spinning normally.

Max could feel his patience wearing thin. He took a deep breath, pushing down the urge to lash out immediately. But then Lewis said something that pushed him to the edge.

“I don’t know why people are still talking about her, honestly,” Lewis said with a shrug, his voice tinged with annoyance. “She was just too… fragile. I told her the pressure was too much. She couldn’t handle it, and she never would have.”

Max’s eyes narrowed, his stomach twisting with disgust. It was the same tone, the same arrogance, as if you had been nothing but an inconvenience to him. And now that you were gone, he was still blaming you.

Max took one step forward, his jaw clenched. “You are unbelievable, you know that?”

Lewis cocked his head, still looking unfazed. “What? You’re still upset about her? Man, get over it. She couldn’t handle the life. She wasn’t cut out for it. You saw that, didn’t you?”

Max’s hands trembled with rage. “She was the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he spat. “She was more than you ever deserved. You used her, Lewis. You manipulated her and made her feel like she was never enough. And now that she’s gone, you still have the nerve to act like it’s her fault?”

Lewis laughed, shaking his head. “You’re really blaming me for this? Maybe if she had been a little stronger, she would still be here.”

Max felt a wave of fury wash over him, but it wasn’t just anger anymore. It was sadness, deep and painful. The words you had heard from him, the things he had said to you that had crushed your spirit, were all coming back. Max’s heart ached, but more than that, it broke for you. You had never deserved this. And now, even in your absence, Lewis was still tearing you down.

“I can’t stand it,” Max muttered, his voice barely audible but full of raw emotion. “You really think you can just walk away, act like she was nothing? You’re still doing it, even now.”

Lewis looked at him, unfazed. “She wasn’t good enough for me, Max. You know that. I’m sorry if you’ve got a soft spot for her, but it’s the truth. She was just a chapter that didn’t work out.” He gave Max a smirk. “It’s a shame. But hey, life goes on.”

Max took a few steps forward, his face tight with anger. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to keep doing this. She was good enough. And you will never be able to erase her memory like that.”

The frustration and hurt finally bubbled to the surface. Max, exhausted from the anger, took a deep breath. “You never cared about her. She was always just a trophy to you. You never cared enough to be the man she needed.”

Max’s eyes were filled with a fierce intensity as he stood there, glaring at Lewis. “You didn’t deserve her, and you’ll never understand just how much you ruined her.” His voice dropped into a low whisper. “You broke her, and now you act like none of it matters.”

Lewis didn’t respond. He simply rolled his eyes and gave Max a dismissive wave. “Get over it, Max. She’s gone, and it’s not my fault.”

That was the moment. Max snapped. The anger that had been simmering for months, the deep ache of knowing that the person he had loved had been destroyed, came to a head. He couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

Max grabbed Lewis by the collar, pushing him hard against the car. His breath was shallow, and his heart pounded in his chest. “You’re a coward, Lewis,” he growled. “You killed her, and you won’t even own up to it. You couldn’t handle her, and you never even tried. You’ll never know how lucky you were to have had someone like her in your life.”

Lewis’s expression didn’t change. His smug smile remained, even as Max held him against the car. “Let go of me, Verstappen. You’re making a scene. You think she was some saint? She wasn’t. She was weak. You think you’re any better for her than I was?”

Max’s face turned crimson with anger. “You never understood her. You never saw her the way I did. You were always too busy with yourself to see what you had.”

Max’s anger simmered, but as he stepped back, he realized that there was no point in pushing Lewis any further. The man in front of him was still the same self-absorbed, indifferent, and too proud to see the damage he had done. Max had always tried to understand him, always thought there was some honor there. But now, with everything laid bare, Max saw just how deep the selfishness ran.

“You’ll never get it, will you?” Max asked quietly, his voice thick with sorrow. “You’ll never understand just how much she gave, how much she sacrificed for you.”

Lewis smirked, unfazed. “She made her choices. She wasn’t perfect, and neither was I. You think you’re better than me now? You think you have the right to judge?”

Max clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out. His heart was breaking, not just for the woman he had loved, but for the realization that some people, no matter how much they wished they would change, never would.

“I’m done, Lewis,” Max said, his voice almost a whisper, as if he was speaking to himself. “I’m done with all of this. Done with racing. Done with trying to make sense of any of it.”

He turned away, not even waiting for Lewis’s response. There was nothing left to say. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all that had been lost.

It was a decision Max had been avoiding, but now there was no denying it. The pain was too much. The sport he had once loved, the life that had once filled him with purpose, no longer mattered. Your death had shattered something inside him, and he couldn’t continue to race in a world where your memory was constantly being tainted by people like Lewis. The excitement of the track, the cheers from the fans, the trophies it all felt hollow now.

Max officially announced his retirement from Formula 1 shortly after that night. The news sent shockwaves through the racing world. Fans were stunned, media outlets speculated endlessly, but no one could truly understand the weight of Max’s decision.

Behind the cameras and the flashing lights, Max found himself living in a numb state, haunted by your absence. Every time he walked past the places where you had laughed, where you had cheered him on, it felt like he was being suffocated. The memories were both his comfort and his torment. He could still hear your voice in his mind, feel your touch, and see your smile. But you were gone

He distanced himself from everyone. The thought of facing the world without you by his side was unbearable. Racing had been his entire life, and now it had been stripped away. He wasn’t the same person. How could he be?

Weeks passed, and the press buzzed about Max’s sudden exit from Formula 1. Some speculated about his mental state; others assumed it was a temporary break. But Max knew deep down that he would never go back. Racing didn’t feel right without you.

Lewis, on the other hand, had gone on with his life as if nothing had changed. He continued his career, continued his public image, and continued to race with the same smugness that had always followed him. But Max saw through it now. The facade was crumbling, and it was clear that Lewis had never cared.

Max didn’t reach out to anyone in the racing community. He isolated himself, letting the grief consume him. The pain of losing you was overwhelming, but even worse was the realization that the man who had once been so important to you had turned his back on everything you had given him. The man who had pushed you down when you needed support was still running the race, living the life he had always wanted, pretending as though you had never mattered.

Max couldn’t let that happen. He would not let Lewis continue as though he had done nothing wrong. He would make sure everyone knew the truth.

Max sought out the media one last time. He didn’t want the attention, but he knew that this was the only way to truly honor you and make sure your story was heard the way it should have been. In a small press conference, he spoke with an intensity that had never been seen before. The reporters, stunned by his emotional state, were silent as he spoke.

“Everyone wants to know why I left the sport,” Max began, his voice steady but full of raw emotion. “The truth is, I’m not here for the glory anymore. I’m not here for the trophies. I’m not here for the fame or the fans. I’m here because we lost someone who was more important than any of that. I left because the sport, the world it wasn’t the same without her.”

He paused, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “She was kind and loving, and she gave everything she had for the people she loved. But most of all, she deserved better than what she got from some people. You know who you are.”

Max’s eyes burned with the intensity of his words as he stared straight into the cameras.

“I’m not going to let anyone forget who she was. I won’t let her be erased. And I won’t let people like Lewis Hamilton pretend they didn’t play a part in how she ended up. You all should’ve seen it. I saw it. She wasn’t perfect, but she was real. And she deserved so much better.”

The reporters were silent, stunned by the rawness of his confession. Max’s words hung in the air, his pain visible to everyone who was listening. He was finally letting the world know the truth: you were more than just a casualty in a toxic relationship. You were a person, a human being who deserved love, who deserved to be seen, and who had been taken too soon.

Max’s voice wavered as he finished, “I’m not doing this for her anymore. I’m doing it for me. And I won’t stop until people know who she really was.”

With that, Max turned and walked away, leaving behind a world that had never truly understood him, but more importantly, a world that had never understood you.

Max never returned to racing. His heart had left the sport the moment you had left his life. And with every passing day, the grief didn’t get easier. It just became something he had to carry with him, a weight that he would never be able to shed.

But he would never let your memory fade. Even in the silence of his own life, Max would always carry your spirit with him. And while he may have lost everything, one thing was certain: he would always love you, no matter what.