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mrsfancyferrari · 1 day ago

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Not Just Nice PT 2

Summary: Being Max's childhood friend means that you always get to see Max's good side but what happens when you think his true feelings are him just being 'nice'. PT 2

Song: Lost In The Fire · The Weeknd

Taglist: @cassiopeiia24, @jsprien213, @futureh0t4sianm1lf, @grandfancreation, @dtsyoongs

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.5k

MASTERLIST - F1

The cool Monaco night air was a shock, but not enough to dissipate the heat that still bloomed on your cheeks.

You walked home on autopilot, the click of your heels on the polished pavement the only sound in the oppressive silence that followed Max’s confession.

Each step felt heavy, burdened by the unspoken words that now thrummed between you, a silent, vibrating chord that had been struck without warning.

Your apartment felt alien as you unlocked the door. The familiar scent of your favourite candle, the comforting clutter of books and throws – it all seemed to shift and blur, seen through the prism of a newly shattered reality.

You didn’t bother turning on too many lights; the dim glow from the streetlights filtering through the sheer curtains was enough.

Enough to see the ghost of Max’s hand on your arm, to feel the phantom brush of his breath against your ear.

You stripped off your clothes, movements jerky, and pulled on an old, oversized t-shirt. Sleep was a distant, mocking promise.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, every memory of Max – every shared laugh, every late-night phone call, every casual touch – replaying itself, twisted and reinterpreted.

The gentle teasing about your dating choices, the way he always seemed to know when you needed a pick-me-up, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes when someone upset you.

You had rationalized it all, neatly categorizing it under ‘best friend duties’. But now, the pieces didn’t fit. They formed a new, bewildering picture.

I’m so tired of just being your ‘nice’ friend.

The words echoed, a cruel, self-inflicted wound. You rolled over, punching your pillow, a wave of frustrated despair washing over you. How could you have been so oblivious?

So wrapped up in your own comfortable narrative that you had missed the seismic shifts happening right beside you? It wasn’t just obliviousness; it felt like a profound betrayal of his quiet, steadfast affection.

The ‘schatje’ – that tender, intimate Dutch endearment he’d used playfully for years, always with a wink, always with a laugh. Now, it was a brand, burned into your subconscious. A confession.

Hours crawled by. The sky outside began to lighten, a soft grey seeping into the room. You finally drifted into a fitful, shallow sleep, your mind still whirring, grappling with the sheer magnitude of what had transpired.

The insistent, rhythmic knocking on your door startled you awake. You blinked, disoriented, the room still shrouded in the pre-dawn gloom.

The dream you’d been having – a jumbled mess of Max’s hand slipping from yours, of whispered confessions, of dizzying precipices – clung to you, a cold, clammy film. The knocking came again, louder this time, more urgent.

You stumbled out of bed, your legs feeling heavy, your mind still fuzzy with sleep and emotional exhaustion. Who could it possibly be at this hour?

Your heart hammered in your chest, a mixture of annoyance and a strange, premonitory dread.

You padded to the door, peering through the peephole. Your breath caught in your throat.

He stood there, framed by the dim light of the hallway, looking utterly dishevelled.

His usually neat hair was a wild mop, his eyes shadowed, his clothes – the same ones from last night – looked slept-in and creased. He looked… scared.

You fumbled with the locks, the click echoing in the quiet hallway. You pulled the door open, the cool morning air washing over you.

“Max?” you asked, your voice a sleepy, hoarse whisper, the name feeling foreign on your tongue, suddenly laden with so much more than friendship.

He flinched almost imperceptibly at the sound of your voice, his gaze flickering nervously from your face to some indeterminate point over your shoulder.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, and he looked like he hadn't slept either.

The carefree, confident aura he usually carried was completely gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that made your stomach clench.

“Can I come in?” he said, his voice quiet, unsure, a stark contrast to the booming confidence of his usual manner. He wasn’t looking at you directly, avoiding your gaze as if it held the secrets to the universe.

“Of course,” you said, stepping back immediately, pulling the door wider. Your apartment, usually your sanctuary, suddenly felt too small, too intimate, for the conversation that was clearly about to unfold.

He stepped inside, tentative, as if afraid to break something fragile. He didn't move further than a few feet, just stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

The scent of him, lingering from last night, was still faintly present, but now mingled with the crispness of the morning air, and something else – a faint, almost imperceptible smell of anxiety.

You closed the door, the soft click final, sealing you both inside.

“You, uh… you want some coffee?” you offered, the mundane question feeling absurdly out of place. Your mind was still reeling, trying to process his unexpected appearance, the fear etched on his face.

He shook his head slowly, still not meeting your eyes. “No, no, I’m okay. I just… I had to come.” His voice was rough, unpractised.

The silence that followed stretched, taut and uncomfortable. You suddenly felt acutely aware of your messy hair, your bare feet, the oversized t-shirt that barely reached your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if to physically contain the turmoil churning within you.

Finally, he lifted his head, his eyes, usually so vibrant and full of life, now bloodshot and full of a profound dread. “Look,” he started, his voice a strained whisper, “about last night…”

He trailed off, his gaze darting away, landing on a spot on the wall behind you. “I… I was out of line. I was drunk. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

Your heart, which had been doing a frantic drum solo in your chest, now seemed to slow, a cold dread seeping through you.

He was regretting it. He was retracting. The tiny, nascent flicker of hope that had appeared in the depths of your exhaustion began to extinguish itself.

"Max," you began, your voice softer than you intended, "What exactly do you remember?" You needed to know. The uncertainty was agony.

He finally met your gaze, and for a fleeting moment, you saw the raw pain in his eyes. “Enough,” he choked out, the single word laden with a crushing weight. “I remember… I remember the taxi. I remember being angry. And… I remember saying… that I loved you.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “And I remember you saying… you were tired of just being my friend.” He winced, as if the words themselves were physical blows. "God, I was so stupid. So incredibly stupid."

Your breath hitched. He remembered. The important parts, at least. And the fear in his eyes wasn’t just about making a fool of himself; it was about the potential fallout, about the devastation of your friendship.

“Max,” you repeated, moving a step closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You weren’t stupid.”

He shook his head vehemently, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yes, I was. I put you in an impossible position. I jeopardized everything. Our friendship… it’s the most important thing to me. And I went and ruined it. Drunkenly. Like a complete idiot.” His voice cracked on the last word.

You stood there, watching him, a knot tightening in your stomach. He looked so genuinely distraught, so utterly convinced he had shattered something irreplaceable. And you, in that moment, realized the depth of his fear. He was terrified of losing you, not just as a lover, but as a friend.

“Max,” you said again, this time with more firmness, stepping closer, reaching out a tentative hand. You hesitated, then let it drop. The proximity still felt charged, even in the cool, quiet morning. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

His head shot up, his eyes searching yours, a flicker of bewildered hope mixing with the lingering fear. “I didn’t?”

“No,” you said softly. You paused, gathering your thoughts, trying to navigate the treacherous emotional landscape. “You… you said a lot, Max. And yes, it was… a lot to process. But you were honest.”

“Honest and belligerent,” he muttered, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “And drunk.”

“Maybe. But… it was still you. And I… I needed to hear it.” The admission felt like cutting a cord, releasing a pent-up truth that had been gnawing at you for hours.

His brow furrowed. “Needed to hear what? That I’m some pathetic, pining idiot?”

You managed a weak smile. “No. Needed to hear… that you saw me. That you felt something more.” Your voice trembled slightly. “Because I… I was blind, Max. Completely blind. And hearing it… it made me look at everything differently.”

He took a hesitant step towards you, his eyes fixed on yours, searching for a deeper meaning. “Different how?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

This was it. The precipice. You had to be as honest as he had been.

“Different… like, all the times you brought me coffee when I was stressed,” you began, the memories flooding back, each one gaining a new dimension. “I just thought ‘Max is being a good friend’. Or the way you’d always pull me out of a bad date, or distract me after a rejection. I thought ‘he’s just protective’.” You took a deep breath. “The way you’d always know when I was hurting without me saying anything. I just thought… you knew me. Like a brother.”

You saw a flicker of pain cross his face at the mention of ‘brother’, but he remained silent, his gaze unwavering.

“But last night,” you continued, your voice gaining strength, “when you said what you said… and when you called me ‘schatje’… it just… it clicked, Max. It all clicked. And I saw it. I saw you. The real you. The you who’s been quietly standing beside me, protecting me, loving me… and I just… I didn’t see it.” A tear pricked your eye, not of sadness, but of overwhelming understanding. Of shame, even.

He reached out, tentatively, as if testing the air between you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

His hand hovered, then settled on your arm, his thumb stroking gently, just as it had last night. The spark was there again, not of static, but of something far more potent, undeniable.

“So… what does that mean?” he whispered, his eyes wide, vulnerable. “Does that mean… you hate me?”

You shook your head, a soft, mirthless laugh escaping you. “Hate you? Max, no.” You looked down at his hand on your arm, then back up at his expectant face. “It means… I’m terrified. And bewildered. And… I think I might be a little angry at myself for being so oblivious. But not at you.”

“Terrified of what?”

“Of… this,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Our friendship, Max. It’s been everything. My anchor. And now…” You trailed off, searching for the right words. “It’s changed, hasn’t it? It can’t go back to what it was.”

He squeezed your arm gently. “No,” he agreed, his voice barely audible. “It can’t. Not after I laid it all out there. I know that. And that’s what scares me the most. That I’ve destroyed the best thing in my life because I couldn’t keep my stupid mouth shut.”

“But what if it’s not destroyed?” you countered, your gaze firm, searching his. “What if it’s… transformed?”

His eyes widened, a fragile hope blossoming within them. “Transformed?”

“What if,” you continued, your voice growing stronger, the words coming to you now, unbidden, from a place you hadn’t known existed, “what if all those things I thought were ‘friendship’… were actually laying the groundwork for something else? Something more?”

He stared at you, his mouth slightly agape, a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding in his eyes. “Are you… are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

You took a deep breath, and this time, you reached out, placing your free hand over his on your arm. His skin was warm. “I’m saying… maybe I was blind, Max. Maybe I was so comfortable in our friendship that I never allowed myself to see the possibility of anything else. Maybe I never allowed myself to feel anything else.”

Your gaze dropped to your intertwined hands, then back to his face. “But last night… it blew everything open. And a small part of me, a very small, terrified, but also incredibly curious part of me… is wondering what happens next.”

A slow, tentative smile spread across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. It was a fragile smile, but undeniably genuine, chased quickly by a fresh wave of apprehension. “Next?”

“Next,” you confirmed. “We don’t just pretend it didn’t happen, Max. You were brave, even if you were drunk. You told me how you felt. And now… now I need to figure out how I feel. And whether… whether this transformation you’ve started… is something I want to explore.”

He swallowed hard, his thumb stroking your arm, a rhythm that was now profoundly comforting rather than just a source of nervous energy. “And… do you?” he asked, his voice cracking with the sheer weight of the question.

You looked at him, truly looked at him, for a long, silent moment. The man who stood before you, dishevelled and vulnerable, was still your Max.

But he was also a Max redefined. And in that redefinition, you saw something new, something that stirred a strange mix of fear and possibility within you.

The comfortable, familiar anchor of your friendship might be gone, but in its place, a dizzying, exciting new horizon was beckoning.

“I don’t know,” you admitted honestly, your voice a soft whisper. “I truly don’t know. But… I want to find out. Do you?”

His eyes were shining now, a profound relief washing over his face. He nodded, once, slowly, deliberately. “More than anything.”

The heavy silence that followed was different this time. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it was pregnant with possibility.

The morning sun finally pierced through the curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. A new day. A new beginning.

A path neither of you had ever dared to envision, now stretching out before you, uncertain, terrifying, and undeniably, intoxicatingly romantic. . . .

The week that followed was a strange, delicate dance. The air between you and Max, once so transparent and familiar, now shimmered with unspoken possibilities.

You found yourself hyper-aware of him, of the way his eyes lingered on yours a moment too long, of the casual brush of his arm that now sent a jolt through you.

The easy camaraderie was still there, a comfortable blanket woven over years, but underneath, something new and fragile was stirring.

Max, true to his word, didn't push. He respected your need for space, for thought. But he also didn't retreat.

He continued to be Max, in all the ways you knew and loved, yet with an added layer of tenderness you were only just beginning to truly perceive.

He still brought you coffee, but now you noticed the way his fingers curved around the mug you preferred, the faint smile that touched his lips when you took the first sip.

He still knew when you were having a rough day, but instead of just distracting you, he’d find subtle ways to be present, to simply exist in your orbit, a silent, comforting anchor.

Your mind was a whirlwind. Every memory, every shared laugh, every quiet moment, was replayed through this new lens. The times he’d cancelled plans with others to bail you out of a tight spot.

The way he’d championed your dreams, even when they seemed outlandish. The countless evenings spent on your couch, talking until dawn, his unwavering attention fixed on you.

All of it, once categorized as the pinnacle of platonic devotion, now blossomed into something undeniably more profound.

You felt a wave of incredulity, then a flush of warmth, then a deep, aching regret for your own blindness. How could you have been so utterly, completely oblivious?

The fear was still a constant companion. The friendship you cherished, that had been the bedrock of your adult life, felt too precious to risk.

What if this "transformation" that Max had inadvertently kickstarted was a mistake? What if the tentative, bewildered curiosity you felt was merely a temporary fascination, a reaction to the shock of his confession?

But then, other feelings would bubble up – a thrilling anticipation, a longing for his proximity, a quiet hum of excitement whenever his name popped up on your phone.

You had dinner with him on Wednesday, just the two of you, not even calling it a "date," but the intention hung in the air, thick and unspoken. He was careful, almost overly so, to make you comfortable.

You talked about trivial things at first – work, mutual friends, a new movie – but every now and then, his gaze would meet yours across the table, and in that silent communication, you both acknowledged the elephant in the room.

He confessed, again, his anxiety about having disrupted your peace. You confessed, for the first time fully articulating it aloud, the dizzying realization of how much you hadn't seen.

"I still don't know what it means, Max," you'd admitted, tracing the rim of your water glass. "But… it feels like it means something."

He had simply covered your hand with his, a gentle, reassuring gesture that spoke volumes. “That’s enough for now,” he’d said, his voice husky. “Just… let’s see where it takes us.”

And so, here you were, a week later, on a yacht under the scorching Mediterranean sun. It was Max’s idea, a spontaneous trip with a few close friends – Lando, of course, and a couple of other familiar faces.

The setting was idyllic: the vast, shimmering expanse of the sea, the gentle rocking of the boat, the distant coastline a hazy silhouette.

You sat on a plush sun lounger, a book unread in your lap, watching the effortless way Max and Lando cut through the cerulean water. Max, typically, was competitive, splashing Lando, his laughter carrying over the waves.

He looked utterly at home in the water, strong and graceful, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. You found yourself fixating on him, on the powerful strokes of his arms, the way the sun glinted off his wet skin.

This was the Max you knew – vibrant, confident, full of an infectious energy. But now, you saw him with new eyes, and the sight sent a strange, exhilarating tremor through you.

“He’s practically a merman, isn’t he?” your friend Chloe murmured, nudging you with her elbow. She and Sarah were lounging beside you, sipping iced drinks.

You started, a blush creeping up your neck. “Who?” you feigned innocence, though your gaze remained fixed on the figure in the water.

Sarah giggled. “Oh, please. Don’t even try, love. The way you two have been looking at each other all week, you might as well be wearing ‘I’m in love with Max’ t-shirts.”

“It’s really sweet, actually,” Chloe added, her tone softer. “We always knew he had it bad for you. Took you long enough to catch on.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “It’s not like that! We’re… figuring things out.”

“Uh huh,” Sarah said, clearly unconvinced. “Well, ‘figuring things out’ looks an awful lot like soulmate energy from where I’m sitting.”

Just then, Max emerged from the water, shaking his head like a wet dog, sending droplets flying. His strong frame was glistening, water streaming down his tanned skin, clinging to his swimming shorts.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face, and then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his gaze landed on you.

A slow smile spread across his face, a private, knowing smile that bypassed your friends entirely and went straight to your heart.

He started walking towards your spot on the deck, his bare feet padding softly against the warm planks. Chloe and Sarah exchanged conspiratorial glances, stifling a fresh wave of giggles.

“Right,” Chloe announced, sitting up abruptly. “Think I’ll go see if Leo wants to join us for a game of cards.”

“And I,” Sarah chimed in, equally dramatic, “suddenly have a craving for more of those mini quiches.”

They scrambled to their feet with a speed that defied their earlier languor, shooting you one last, knowing wink before practically sprinting away, leaving you alone on the sun lounger, a silent, tingling void beside you where they’d been.

You watched Max approach, every step bringing him closer, every drop of water on his skin seeming to shimmer with an intoxicating promise.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drum against the calm rhythm of the waves. He reached your side, dripping slightly, and a faint scent of sea salt and his unique, clean scent, reached you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, entirely different from his earlier boisterous tone with Lando.

His eyes, usually so animated, now held a quiet intensity, a question you were only now brave enough to answer.

“Please,” you managed, your voice a little breathy.

He sat down beside you, the bare skin of his thigh brushing against yours, sending a spark through you.

He reached for the large, fluffy towel draped over the back of your lounger, the one you’d instinctively grabbed for him earlier. He began to rub it vigorously over his hair, then his face and shoulders.

Without thinking, your hand reached out, taking the corner of the towel he was using to dry his arm.

You gently, almost reverently, began to blot the water from his bicep, then his shoulder, your fingers brushing against the warm, damp skin.

The simple act felt incredibly intimate, a gesture that transcended decades of platonic friendship. You found yourself mesmerized by the delicate task, by the way the taut muscles flexed beneath your touch.

He stilled, his own movements stopping, his gaze fixed on your face. His eyes, clear and blue like the sea had just deposited him, were open, vulnerable, searching.

The silence stretched, filled only by the distant murmur of voices from other parts of the yacht and the lapping of water against the hull.

This was it. This moment, alone, under the vast sky, with the sun warming your skin and the man who had always been your best friend, now looking at you with a hope so profound it took your breath away.

The fear was still there, a tiny tremor in your stomach, but it was overshadowed by an undeniable current, a pull towards him that was too strong to resist. You couldn't continue to explore this tentatively, to dance around the edges. You had to dive in.

You lifted your gaze from his arm, meeting his eyes. "Max," you began, your voice a soft whisper, almost lost in the vastness. Your hand, still holding the towel, trembled slightly. "About that night… and everything since."

He waited, patiently, his breath held.

"You said you loved me," you continued, drawing a shaky breath. "And I… I remember thinking, 'Oh, Max is just being Max. He’s being over-the-top, or drunk, or just… nice.' Because that’s what you’ve always been. Nice. Good. There. My best friend. My rock."

A ghost of a pained smile touched his lips. "I know. I'm sorry."

You shook your head slowly, your heart swelling with an emotion you were only just learning to name. "No, Max. Don’t be sorry. Because… because I was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot."

You paused, letting the raw honesty settle between you. "All those times you were 'nice,' all those times you were 'protective,' all those times you just knew… I was so blind. So incredibly, utterly blind."

Your eyes welled up, but this time, it was from the overwhelming tide of realization. "When you called me 'schatje'… and when you said you loved me… it was like a dam broke, Max. Everything just flooded in. All the moments, all the gestures, all the quiet ways you’ve been there, not just as a friend. Not just as ‘nice’."

You let go of the towel, your hand reaching for his face, cupping his jaw. His skin was warm, slightly rough from the sea and sun. "It clicked, Max. It all clicked. And I saw it. I saw you. The real you. The you who wasn’t just being a friend, but who was… loving me. Quietly. Patiently. For years."

His eyes were wide, riveted on yours, a dawning comprehension, a blossoming hope so intense it almost physically hurt.

"And," you continued, your voice gaining a fragile strength, the words tumbling out now, "that fear I talked about? Of our friendship changing? It’s still there. But it’s… it’s secondary now. Because something else has grown. Something new. Something big."

You cupped his other cheek, your thumbs brushing over his skin. "Max, I don’t just want to find out what happens next. I need to. Because… because all those things I thought were just you being ‘nice’… they were you being you. And it took me too long, but I finally see it."

A tear slipped from your eye, tracing a path down your cheek. "I don’t know when it happened, or how, or if it was always there, mirroring yours. But Max, I… I think I’m falling in love with you."

The words hung in the sun-drenched air, a confession as vast and limitless as the ocean around you. Max’s eyes widened further, shining with unshed tears.

A profound relief washed over his face, erasing the lingering shadows of doubt and fear. A shaky breath escaped him, a sound of utter astonishment and overwhelming joy.

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands came up, covering yours on his face, his grip firm and warm.

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a fleeting second before opening again, raw with emotion. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, his lips finding yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. It tasted of salt and sun and a lifetime of unspoken affection.

Then, as your lips parted and the kiss deepened, it was everything you had ever unconsciously longed for – a gentle surge of warmth, a profound connection that settled deep in your bones.

It was the culmination of years of quiet devotion, the breaking of a barrier, the beginning of something more beautiful and terrifying than you had ever dared to dream.

You broke apart, breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. His eyes, now bright with unadulterated happiness, searched yours. “Schatje,” he whispered, the word now imbued with a meaning that transcended any language dictionary. “Finally.”

And in that moment, under the endless sky, with the sea as your witness, you knew that your friendship hadn't been destroyed. It had simply found its true, destined form. It had transformed into love. . . .

The days that followed on the yacht were a blur of sun-drenched joy and quiet intimacy. Max’s hand found yours instinctively, his arm wrapping around your waist as you leaned against the railing, watching the sunset paint the sky in fiery hues.

Chloe and Sarah exchanged triumphant glances, their knowing smiles now mixed with genuine happiness for you both. There were no grand declarations to the group, just a subtle shift in dynamic, a quiet confidence in your movements together that spoke volumes.

The others, too, seemed to sense it, their smiles warmer, their questions unspoken. You were no longer just ‘friends.’ You were together.

The transition from the secluded intimacy of the yacht to the public glare of the racing world could have been jarring, but with Max, it felt like a natural progression.

You accompanied Max to the next race, no longer just a supportive friend in the paddock, but his girlfriend.

Hand in hand, you navigated the bustling energy of the F1 circuit, a very different sight to how you used to do when you two were just friends.

Before, you’d walk a respectful distance behind him, or beside him, but with a palpable, unspoken barrier. Now, your fingers were laced, your shoulders brushed, your smiles were just for each other.

Everyone was talking about it. The subtle shift in Max’s demeanor, the way his eyes sought you out even in a crowded garage, the easy, comfortable affection you shared.

The media buzzed, the fans in the grandstands exchanged excited whispers, and even the usually stoic team members offered discreet, congratulatory nods. It was undeniable, and it was beautiful.

It was already a good week for Max. Getting pole position yesterday was a massive boost, the culmination of relentless focus and precision.

The air in the paddock thrummed with anticipation for the race, a hopeful tension that mirrored your own excitement.

You were talking to Alexandra, who you were getting to know, when Max, emerging from his debriefing, approached with a quiet intensity that was suddenly familiar.

You could feel his presence before you even saw him, a warmth radiating towards you.

“Excuse us for a moment, Alexandra,” he said, his voice polite but firm, his hand already on the small of your back, guiding you away even as he spoke.

Alexandra, ever professional, simply smiled, her eyes twinkling knowingly.

He steered you away from the throng, through a narrow corridor, and into the quiet sanctuary of his driver’s room.

The door clicked shut behind you, shutting out the roar of the engines, the chatter of the paddock, the entire world outside. The silence enveloped you, warm and intimate.

“Is everything alright?” you asked, a slight frown creasing your brow as you turned to face him, a touch of concern in your voice. He seemed unusually serious, even for Max before a race.

He stepped closer, a faint, teasing smile playing on his lips, his eyes glinting with a familiar playful mischief that now held a deeper, more personal warmth.

“No, you forgot something,” Max said, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

You automatically patted your pockets, a sudden surge of panic. “What? I have your paddock pass, your watch…”

You trailed off, bewildered, ticking items off a mental checklist. You were caught off guard when, instead of answering, Max leaned down, his hands cupping your face, and kissed you.

It was a quick, firm kiss, full of suppressed energy and fervent affection.

His lips felt warm and soft, tasting faintly of mint and a familiar, comforting sense of home. When he pulled back just slightly, his breath ghosting over your lips, his blue eyes were dancing with amusement and something infinitely tender.

“You forgot to give me a good luck kiss,” Max muttered, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips as he saw the blush rise on your face.

“You could have just said so,” you muttered, the words barely escaping your lips, caught as they were between a soft gasp and a breathless chuckle.

Your cheeks flushed a deeper crimson as Max’s eyes, still so close, danced with pure, unadulterated amusement. His thumbs continued their gentle, rhythmic caress on your cheekbones, a silent reassurance in the intimate space of the driver’s room.

“And spoil the surprise?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest.

The playful glint in his eyes softened, giving way to a warmth that made your heart skip. He leaned in again, not for another quick peck, but a slower, more deliberate approach that stole the air from your lungs.

This time, his hands slid from your face to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape, drawing you closer until your bodies were almost flush.

His lips met yours again, not with the playful urgency of before, but with a lingering tenderness that spoke volumes. It was a kiss that promised, that cherished, that celebrated.

His touch was firm yet gentle, his lips soft and yielding, moving against yours with a practiced ease that made your knees weak. You instinctively deepened the kiss, your hands finding their way to his waist, gripping the fabric of his race suit.

The world outside, the roaring engines, the chattering crowd, the immense pressure of the coming race – all of it faded into a distant hum.

There was only Max, the soft press of his lips, the faint scent of his cologne, and the familiar rhythm of your beating heart against his.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction, his forehead still resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours. His eyes, the startling blue of a clear summer sky, gazed into yours, a depth of emotion swirling within them that was almost overwhelming.

“Needed that,” he whispered, his voice rough with an unspoken intensity. His thumb stroked your cheek once more, a silent testament to the moment. “It’s not just about luck, you know. It’s about… grounding me. Reminding me what I’m fighting for, out there.”

You swallowed, your throat tight with emotion. “I know,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

You understood. The world of F1 was relentless, a maelstrom of pressure, speed, and calculated risk.

For Max, who lived and breathed that high-octane existence, these quiet moments, these anchors, were vital. You were no longer just a spectator; you were a part of his calm, a silent reassurance amidst the storm.

He straightened, but didn’t release you, his hands still on your waist. “Pole position yesterday was good,” he said, a familiar spark of competitive drive returning to his eyes, “but the race… the race is everything. And I need all the good energy I can get.” He gave you a soft squeeze, a knowing smile gracing his lips. “Especially yours.”

A soft laugh bubbled up from your chest. “Always,” you promised, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick, reassuring kiss to his jawline.

His skin felt warm against your lips, a subtle stubble prickling faintly. “I’ll be watching. Every single lap.”

A brief silence settled between you, heavy with the unspoken knowledge that his precious moments of quiet intimacy were fleeting. The outside world was already calling. He glanced at the clock on the wall, a sigh escaping him.

“I have to go,” he said, a touch of regret in his voice. He squeezed your waist once more, then gently detached himself, the warmth of his hands lingering even as they left.

You stepped back, your heart a strange mix of exhilaration and a familiar pre-race anxiety. “Go win it,” you told him, offering a brave smile.

He winked, a flash of his usual confident charm. “You know I will.”

And with a quick, final glance that held a universe of meaning, he turned and was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, once again leaving you alone in the quiet sanctuary.

The silence that followed felt vast, almost deafening, after the intensity of his presence.

You stood there for a moment, absorbing the lingering warmth, the faint scent of him in the air. Your fingers instinctively rose to touch your lips, still tingling from his kiss. This was your life now.

These stolen moments, brimming with raw affection and silent promises, nestled within the deafening roar of a global sport. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly, wonderfully real.

Taking a deep breath, you straightened your shoulders and walked out of the driver’s room, stepping back into the maelstrom of the paddock.

The noise hit you immediately – the distant whine of engines, the murmur of conversations, the hurried footsteps of team personnel.

Alexandra spotted you instantly, her smile widening knowingly, an unspoken question in her eyes. You simply offered a small, shy smile in return, a blush still warming your cheeks.

The atmosphere in the paddock was electric, a palpable hum of anticipation that vibrated through the air. Max’s pole position yesterday had injected a potent dose of hope and tension into the team.

You found your usual spot in the garage, a small monitor in front of you, a headset clutched in your hand. The pre-race rituals unfolded with practiced precision: the last-minute adjustments, the tire warmers coming off, the drivers being strapped into their cockpits.

You watched Max on the screen, a solitary figure in his car, helmeted, a blur of focused intensity. It was hard to reconcile the formidable, almost alien-like presence in that cockpit with the man who had just kissed you senseless moments ago.

Yet, you knew they were one and the same: the fiercely determined competitor and the tender, affectionate man who sought solace in your presence.

The grid walk was a sea of flashing cameras and jostling bodies, but your eyes found him every time. You watched him from afar as he walked towards his car, a quick word with his engineers, a nod to his team principal.

He was locked in, his gaze fixed forward, the world outside his own bubble of concentration. You knew he wouldn’t seek you out now, nor would you expect him to. This was his space, his moment of preparation.

The national anthem played, its solemn notes momentarily quieting the bustling energy. Then, the tension ratcheted up another notch.

Cars were lowered, engines roared to life, a symphony of raw power. You felt your heart pound in your chest, a nervous rhythm that mirrored the collective heartbeat of the thousands gathered here.

“Lights out and away we go!” the commentator’s voice boomed through your headset, instantly jarring you from your reverie.

The red lights illuminated one by one, then extinguished in unison. A deafening roar erupted as twenty cars surged forward, a blur of color and speed.

You gripped the headset, your knuckles white. Max had a clean start, holding his line, defending his pole position masterfully. You watched, mesmerized, as he navigated the first corner, then the second, already pulling a slight lead.

The garage was a hive of controlled chaos, engineers barking updates, data scrolling across screens. You tried to focus on the numbers, the lap times, but your eyes kept gravitating to the main screen, tracing Max’s car as it sliced through the air.

Every overtake, every close call, sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. You found yourself leaning forward, whispering encouragement under your breath as if he could hear you.

You remembered the quiet intimacy of the yacht, the days spent drifting, the sun on your skin, the easy laughter. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet it was the foundation of everything now.

The Max you knew then, relaxed and carefree, was still there, but here, on the track, he was a different being – a predator, precise and relentless.

The race unfolded in a thrilling blur of strategy and raw speed. Pit stops were executed flawlessly, tires changed in a dizzying ballet of motion. Max maintained his lead, occasionally challenged but always holding supreme.

You watched him from the garage, witnessing the immense skill and mental fortitude it took to command that machine, lap after grueling lap.

Your admiration for him grew with every passing moment. He was truly exceptional.

As the final laps began, the tension in the garage became almost unbearable. Every turn, every braking zone, felt like a life-or-death decision. You held your breath as he navigated the final sector, his car a streak of vibrant color against the asphalt.

And then, it happened.

He crossed the finish line. First.

A triumphant roar erupted from the garage, a cacophony of shouts, cheers, and back-slaps. You felt a wave of relief so profound it brought tears to your eyes. The headset clattered to the floor, forgotten.

You were on your feet, your hands clutched to your chest, a wide, joyful smile splitting your face. This wasn’t just a win for the team; it was his win. A culmination of relentless effort, sacrifice, and pure, unadulterated talent.

Everyone was cheering and his race engineer, GP turned to you. “Do you want to speak to him?” he asked, his eyes alight with the victory they’d all just shared.

You nodded, unable to find your voice, and took the headset he offered. Max’s voice, breathless and exhilarated, filled your ears.

"Hey," you greeted him in Dutch, your voice shaky but proud, "Dat was… indrukwekkend." That was… impressive.

The word 'indrukwekkend' hung in the air, a declaration of awe that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the garage.Max's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and delight flashing across his face as he processed your sudden shift in language.

"Schatje!" he exclaimed, his voice crackling with emotion through the headset, the Dutch endearment rolling off his tongue with ease. "I told you that you were my lucky charm!"

"I knew you had it in you," you murmured back in Dutch, the words flowing more easily now. "You were incredible out there."

Max's grin grew wider, the joy in his voice palpable. "Dank je," he said, his tone warm with affection. "Couldn't have done it without you." Thank you.

You felt a warmth spread through you, a peculiar blend of pride and love that was uniquely his doing. "You did it," you whispered back, the rush of the victory still resonating in your chest. "All on your own."

Max's laugh was a low, delighted rumble. "Not entirely," he said, his eyes holding yours through the screen, his Dutch thick with satisfaction. "You were with me every corner, every straight."

You felt a warmth spread through you, his words a balm to your nerves. "See you soon," you said, the promise in your voice clear as day.

It was a simple phrase, yet it carried the weight of all the moments you'd shared, all the moments yet to come. The race was over, but the race for each other's hearts was just beginning.

The garage was a blur of activity as the cars returned, the sweet scent of burning rubber and hot metal permeating the air.

You watched as Max climbed from his car, his movements precise and economical, a clear indication of his focus.

He took off his helmet, shaking his sweat-drenched hair out, and scanned the garage, his eyes immediately finding yours. The grin that lit his face was like the sun breaking through the clouds, making everything brighter.

He walked over to you, the adrenaline of the victory still coursing through his veins. He was a study in contrasts – the fierce warrior who had just conquered the race track now looking at you with the softness of a man who had found his home.

And when he reached you, he didn’t just kiss you – he claimed you. His mouth crushed against yours, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you into him, his race suit sticky with the sweat of victory.

You tasted the salt on his skin, felt the racing beat of his heart against your chest, and knew that this was where you were meant to be.

This was Max, not just the charming prince that everyone knew, but the complex, multifaceted man who had laid himself bare for you. The Max who could be tender and fierce, vulnerable and unyielding, all at once.

His kiss was a declaration of possession, a promise that he would never let you go. You melted into him, your arms winding around his neck, your legs threatening to buckle at the intensity of his embrace.

The world around you faded away, the cheers of the team and the bustle of the garage a distant echo. . . .

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

@maxverstappen1

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toasterpancakes · 3 days ago

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Heels & Sneakers

Summary: Max picks you from the club at 2am to walk you home; he brings Lando and sneakers. A follow on blurb from The 6 + 1 Times Max Verstappen Tells You That He is Going to Marry You (but can be read as a standalone)

Pairing: Max Verstappen x (female) reader (established relationship, childhood best friends to lovers) ft. platonic!Lando Norris

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, PDA, mentions of going out, suggestive themes, not proof-read.

Word count: Again, I’m sorry but i wrote this on the tumblr app so I have no clue

A/N: Childhood best friends to lovers with Max really gets me. If you send me a Max (or Lando, or George, or Alex) request, I would 10/10 do it - just saying.

DISCLAIMER while the work on this tumblr may involve subjects who are actual celebrities - the work here is merely fantasy and purely for fun. Any and all fan fiction / imagines / written work set out herein is entirely a figment of my imagination and should not in anyway whatsoever be conflated with reality. Nothing on this tumblr is meant to serve as an accurate representation of any person.

“I gotta to go,” you yell out towards your friends, body leaning forward, in an attempt to be heard over the loud booming bass of the music around you. You gesture to the phone which you have in hand, the screen lit up with a message from Max: Just got here. Come out when you’re ready? Your friends nod, a group of five girls with arms outstretched, each ready with a squeal and a goodbye hug of their own who smother you as a collective, each yelling a different farewell of “love you” / “see you at brunch” / “this was fun” / “get home safe” / “we need to do this again soon”.

You grin, throwing one last wave towards the group as you start to weave your way through the crowd on the dance floor. The extended weekend, courtesy of the bank holiday on Friday had the club more crowded than usual for a Thursday night. It was a night you and your friends, a motley crew that had amassed over your 2 years of being in the city, had planned on an impromptu whim. Max had asked if your group had wanted a table, but you had rejected his offer, preferring instead to be in the middle of the dance floor - the risk of you getting mobbed by the crowd without Max was low. You free yourself of the throng of people and duck through the doors, slipping by a group who had just stepped into the venue, their eyes bright and cheeks flushed from an alcohol induced glow.

The scene outside the club is hardly what you would call quiet, chatter punctuated by the occasional whoop of excitement, unbridled laughter and the faint thump of the bass reverberating from the inside of the building’s walls. But the difference in the noise level is sharp, as you step outside into the cool of the evening. You wander to the edge of the sidewalk, eyes combing the opposite sidewalk for the man you are looking for. Your face breaks into a smile, eyes recognising him before your mind, not drunk but running on a measured amount of alcohol registers him. Max, standing beside Lando, the two men holding a conversation beside a familiar looking car parked roadside - Lando with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth in the balls of his feet and Max with his legs squared, one hand in his pocket, and the other holding onto a pair of sneakers by the laces. You had gone to the club, and Lando over to Max’s (and now yours) for Fifa.

Lando spots you first and it earns you a friendly, familiar grin and wave of his hand. His greeting has Max whipping his head around, eyes already scanning his surroundings for you. His gaze lands on you and it softens, visibly, as a smile breaks out on his features. You raise a hand in a small wave back before flicking your head from left to right, checking for a clear road before crossing towards the two men.

Max has his hand out of his pocket and arm open before your feet even hit the ground of the sidewalk he and Lando are standing on. It allows you to tuck yourself into his side, Max’s arm winding around your shoulder, securing you against him like two pieces of a puzzle that fit together.

“Hi,” you greet both men, as Max greets you, a squeeze to your shoulder, lips connecting with the side of your temple.

“I brought you sneakers,” Max says, lips still against the side of your head, “figured your feet would be tired.”

“My knight in shining armour,” you joke, your words light and teasing but the smile on your face real. You move to reach for the sneakers, only for Max to move his hand out of reach. You raise a brow at him but Max only shakes his head lightly. You glance at Lando who looks just as mystified as you.

Max answers your questions with actions, he bends, one knee at a ninety degree angle and the other on the ground.

“Hand on my shoulder and foot up,” he instructs with his words and you listen, thanking yourself for your choice to wear jeans. Max’s hands move, deftly, gently prying off your heel before slipping your foot into a sneaker which he tugs in with a finish. He repeats the motions with your other foot.

“You guys are so cute, it’s actually disgusting,” Lando’s voice floats over, and you meet the glance of the curly haired Brit. His words, despite his choice, are fond. You had come to know him well enough over the course of Max’s friendship with him on and off track, and even better since you had moved to Monaco.

“He’s cute,” you say with a grin to which Lando fake grimaces.

“Not as cute as you,” is what Max says without an ounce of shame as he straightens back to his full height, sneakers on your feet, your heels dangling from his fingers. He slips his free hand into yours, palm warm.

“Am I cute too?” Is Lando’s reply, as he pushes his bottom lip out in an exaggerated fake pout, his arms turning palms up and up in a questioning manner.

The reaction is mixed: a “no” paired with a scowl from Max and a “yes” supplemented with a giggle from you. It has Lando both grinning and clutching his hands at his chest.

“Max, you wound me, but I’ll take a yes from her anytime.”

“You’re lucky she likes you,” Max says, faux threateningly.

“You’re my favourite WAG,” Lando stage whispers at you, “am your favourite driver.”

“Lando,” Max cuts in, only for you to shake your head.

“Second favourite after Ollie,” you say in an equally dramatic stage whisper which has Max squeezing your hand in protest, his brow twitching upwards. He doesn’t comment, because he knows it’s in jest; Max would happily cede the title of favourite driver as long as he was your number one in life.

“I’m telling Carlos,” Lando grins almost devilishly as he whips out his phone. He flicks on the camera, capturing him, and you in frame, both grinning wildly, and half of Max’s face, watching on in a strange mixture of entertainment and exasperation.

“Go home Lando,” Max says as he raises the hand holding your heels towards Lando’s car.

“Would my favourite WAG and her butler like a lift?” Lando eyes the shoes in Max’s hand which the Dutchman had flapped semi aggressively at him.

“It’s alright, we’ll walk off the alcohol,” you shake your head lightly.

Lando nods in understanding as he holds his hand out to Max. You feel a temporary loss of warmth as Max lets go of your hand to clasps Lando’s in a farewell shake. Lando extends rhe same hand to you and you offer a similar goodbye.

“We’ll do brunch, you me and Ollie,” he calls out, head turning slightly back as he slips into his car.

“Can’t wait,” you call back, raising your free hand which isn’t grasped in Max’s.

You both watch as Lando pulls away, car speeding into the distance.

“You know he’s probably planning that brunch already,” Max says as he tugs your hand gently, leading you down the street in the direction of your apartment.

“Probably, but I don’t mind,” you shrug as Max brings your intertwined hands up to his mouth, letting his lips brush the back of your hand.

“Did you have fun?” He asks, as you pass an excited group who you are sure are heading for the very club you had come from.

“Yes,” you hum a response.

“More fun than when you go out with me?”

“Competitive,” you comment with a soft laugh, as you lean slightly into Max’s side.

“Me?” Max feigns innocences as he welcomes the slight intrusion into his personal space, choosing to let go of your hand and instead to envelop you within his reach and pull you even closer “never.” He punctuates his sentence with a tiny grin as both your steps slow.

You come to a complete stop, and turn your body so that you are standing, your front facing Max. You lean towards his ear, and Max, ever facilitative, ducks down slightly while his free hand, without your heels, grips your side over your top. You slide our hands along the band of Max’s jeans, fingers slipping to dance along the skin of his abdomen beneath his shirt.

“I like frat boy Max,” you say, letting your lips trail along the shell of his ear before you plant a kiss, soft, featherlight on the skin right below. It has Max’s fingers pressing against your body more firmly.

“We can turn back, get back in the club with your friends,” he says, fingers running their way up your side, wrapping themselves round the side of your ribs.

“Or we can continue home, and to bed,” you take a step forward to press a kiss on the underside of Max’s jaw, before pressing another to his lips, soft, but lingering. It is innocent enough to any bystanders, but you pull away to catch a glimpse of bright blues that have darkened with a hint of something more primal.

“You’re a menace” Max mutters as he eyes you. His gaze doesn’t leave your face but you feel his hand shift, thumb idly sliding along the fabric of your top, hans still wrapped around the side of your body.

“Yes, but your menace,” you pull away from Max, and his hand drop from your body but finds your fingers immediately, “take me home Verstappen.”

“C’mon,” Max squeezes your fingers with his as he takes the lead, tugging you in the direction of home.

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formulafanfics13 · 2 hours ago

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Watch Her Learn - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: You’re a brat, and Max fucking loves it. Loves the challenge, the eye-rolls, the way you test him in front of the other drivers and team principals like you’ve forgotten exactly who owns you. So today, in the quiet corner of the Red Bull motorhome during a private paddock strategy meeting, Max decides it’s time to remind everyone — and especially you — who’s really in control. Warnings: smut, dom!Max, bratty reader, public setting (semi-public sex kinda), exhibitionism, spanking, rough dom/sub dynamics, face grabbing, degradation ("brat", "my toy", "filthy girl"), power play, use of fingers, choking (light), overstimulation, orgasm control, Max talks down to her in front of the others, team principals + drivers witnessing it but not intervening

It started with the gum. You knew it would push him over the edge. Because you were already testing him from the second you stepped into the Red Bull strategy room, chewing lazily, popping bubbles while the drivers and team principals settled into seats and the screens flicked on behind them. Max had warned you once already, 'no gum when I’m talking business, schat', but you’d shown up in his team colours anyway, popped a fresh strip of minty rebellion onto your tongue, and made damn sure he could see it from across the table.

Lando clocked it first. Gave you a side-eye and a half-smirk, already bracing for what was coming. Charles just sighed, like a man too deep in denial to admit he was invested. Christian Horner was too busy arguing with Guenther about fuel regs. But Max? Max didn’t even flinch. And that was worse.

You kept chewing. Louder. You let your foot find his under the table. Brushed your knee against his. Blew a bubble. Popped it.

He still didn’t look up. Fine. You waited until the second the Pirelli rep switched to tire strategy. Boring. Christian was rambling. Stefano looked like he wanted to fake a stroke to get out of the meeting. You leaned closer to Max, lifted your hand beneath the table, and popped your gum directly in his ear.

His head turned so fast it should’ve dislocated. He stared at you, deadpan. The silence that followed was so sharp, it sliced through the chatter like a knife. Everyone noticed. Every single person in the room, Lewis, Carlos, Fred, even Laurent and Jonathan, all looked up.

And that’s when Max smiled. The slow, evil, I’m-going-to-fuck-you-into-the-ground smile. He didn’t speak. Just grabbed your wrist and stood, chair scraping against the floor like a threat. “Up,” he said.

You blinked. “What-”

He tugged. Hard. “Now.”

Your whole body shivered. He didn’t drag you far. Just to the far end of the motorhome meeting room, behind the dividing screen, where equipment cases were stacked. Still visible. Still open. No doors. No real privacy.

He pushed you against one of the crates with both hands on your hips, bent you over slightly, and pressed in close behind you. You could feel every hard inch of him through his jeans.

“You wanna act like a brat in front of everyone?” he growled, voice low in your ear. “You wanna humiliate me in front of the whole grid?”

“I wasn’t-”

“Shut up.” He grabbed your jaw, yanked your head back so you’d look at him. “You wanted this. Don’t lie.”

You swallowed hard. You could still see them, across the room, glancing, pretending not to watch. Toto trying not to smirk. Lando shifting in his seat. Lewis pretending to read the slides but very much not focused. And Max didn’t care. Not one bit. He hiked your skirt up with one hand. Slid the other between your thighs.

“You’re wet already,” he hissed. “You like being punished where they can see.”

You whimpered. “Max-”

Two fingers shoved inside, ruthless and deep, knuckles pressing against your walls as he fucked them in hard.

“You don’t get to say my name like that,” he spat. “Not when you’ve been nothing but a filthy little distraction all day. I should bend you over that table and make you watch the others eat while I use your mouth, is that what you want?”

You gasped, legs trembling. “Yes- fuck- yes-”

He pushed deeper. Curled his fingers just right. “And you know what the worst part is?” he said, voice still that low, venomous growl. “None of them are gonna stop me. Not one. They all know what you are.”

Your thighs buckled.

“My toy,” he snarled. “My brat. My pretty little hole to ruin. You think any of them are gonna save you from me?”

You shook your head.

“That’s right. They’ll just sit there and watch.”

His fingers moved faster, wetter, knuckles slapping against your cunt in slick rhythm. Your body rocked forward with every thrust. You could feel the blush climbing your chest, the shame and heat and want mingling into one messy, desperate thing.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse past the screen. Lando was frozen, legs wide, arms crossed, clearly hard under the table. Lewis was biting his lip. Carlos looked like he was about to die. Fred didn’t even blink, just sipped his espresso like he’d seen it all before.

And Max? Max loved it. He pressed his other hand to your throat, not tight, just enough to ground you. “You gonna come on my fingers like a good girl?” he whispered. “Let them all hear how wet and pathetic you get for me?”

You whimpered. “Please, Max- please, I’m so close-”

“Then come,” he said. “Let them see what happens when you misbehave.”

You came hard. Back arching, thighs twitching, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He didn’t stop. Not even when your body went limp. Not even when your moans turned to broken, overstimmed sobs. He pulled his fingers out slowly. Dragged them up your spine. Smeared your slick across your lower back.

Then he grabbed you by the jaw, turned your head, and made you look. At all of them. Staring. “Say thank you,” he ordered.

Your voice trembled. “Thank you.”

“Louder.”

“Thank you, Max.”

He kissed your cheek. Soft, smug, victorious. Then turned to the room and said, completely deadpan, “She won’t interrupt again.”

#max verstappen fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 smut #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #mv1 #mv1 x reader #mv1 fic #mv1 imagine #mv33

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bm571158 · 2 days ago

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Burnout- MV1

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen🔥

Part Fourteen🔥 Part Fifteen

Tag list: @littlewhiterose @dontsupressthejess @idontknow0704 @vinylphwoar @katyniss

'After Midnight'

It was nearly 1.30am when Max and Talia finally arrived at the club. The party was well and truly in full swing, even without the man they were supposed to be celebrating. The music was vibrating through the place, the lights dim and everyone keen to congratulate Max as he made his way through the crowd, a tight grip on Talia's hand, towards the booth at the back where Lando and some of the others were waiting for him.

"About fucking time mate!" Lando yelled as the two of them approached the booth. "Where have you been?!"

"I don't think you want to know." Charles laughed, and the way Talia blushed and hid behind Max a little only made it worse. "We thought maybe you two had got swept up in the vegas mayhem and were getting married by Elvis or something."

"Just enjoying the moment." Max smirked.

"Oh I mean... fair play I guess." Lando laughed. "Let me get you both a drink."

As Lando got up to head to the bar, swaying a little unsteadily as he went, Talia realised that he was only wearing one shoe.

"Do I even want to ask what happened to his other shoe?" She turned back to Charles.

The Ferrari driver shrugged. "I don't even know if I can remember to be honest. We've been here a long time, had a lot of drinks while we were waiting for you two to finish... you know."

Talia blushed again, Max just laughed. A few minutes later Lando reappeared with a collection of colourful looking shots on a tray, which he very nearly dropped all over them.

"Alright everyone, drink up!" Lando cheered.

🎥.

A couple of shots later, Lando was dragging them all on to the dance floor, having discarded his other shoe somewhere in the process.

The music was loud, the dance floor crowded, and Max dragged her along with him with a hand on her waist and a crooked smile on her face.

"I think you owe me a dance. To celebrate." He shouted over the music.

"I seem to remember you getting your celebration earlier." She pointed out, and he just laughed. Hands falling onto her hips, body moving with hers as she started to dance.

There was a heat between them, half her mind still lost back in the way his hands felt on her body in the hotel room earlier, that seemed to make the outside world disappear. Her arms looped around his neck, his hands low on her hips.

If she was sober, she probably would have been a bit more conscious of quite how many eyes and cameras were on the two of them as they danced like they were the only two people on the room.

His lips found his way onto her neck again, teeth nipping at the marks that he'd left earlier and she'd tried so hard to cover up. The was thankful that the lighting in the club was low enough that no one really seemed to have noticed.

"Stop it." She laughed, swatting him away. "You're going to get us in trouble."

"It's my party. I can do what I want." She grinned.

"Behave yourself and maybe you'll get a reward later." She suggested. The way he was looking at her was like he might actually just rip her clothes off in the middle of the dance floor for all to see, and she was now where near drunk enough for that.

He leaned in close, lips against her ear. "Now that, I like the sound of."

She laughed, face tipping toward his like gravity was pulling them together. It was like the win, the champagne and the low lights in the club had blurred all the rules between what was real and what was for the cameras. He leaned in, lips brushing over hers and she kissed him back, bodies still swaying in time to the music.

"We need more drinks." He declared as he broke away.

She laughed, the look of offence on his face as he seemed to suddenly realise that he didn't actually have a drink in his hand.

"I'm going to go to the toilet. I'll meet you there in a sec." She told him, placing a kiss on his cheek and starting to weave her way through the packed dance floor.

It was quieter once she stepped in to the hallway where the bathrooms were. The door slammed shut behind her and blocked out some of the pounding bass line.

The brighter lighting in the bathroom though showed off quite how poor the attempt she'd made to cover all the marks he'd left on her neck were. Thank god that it was dark in the club and the others all seemed too drunk to notice.

As she opened the door to step back out, she was knocked off balance by someone forcing their way in to the bathroom, the door clicking locked behind him as he stood in front of her.

"Leo?" She asked uncertainly. "What are you doing here?"

"Watching you making a fucking fool out of yourself." He hissed, hand still encircling her wrist as she tried uselessly to pulls way from him.

Her breath caught as she looked at him. He'd been drinking, not enough to make him clumsy, but perhaps enough to lower his inhibitions and for him to start speaking his mind.

"Let go of me." She said firmly, pulling her arm again but he didn't budge.

"He's got his hands on you in front of the whole world. You think that's cute?" He hissed. "God look at the state of you. You're really just out there letting him treat you like the desperate little slut you are?"

"Leo, let me go." She said firmly, but her voice trembled as she said it and it was nowhere near as forceful as she had intended it to be. "Max is going to be looking for me."

"You think he really gives a shit about you?" Leo asked, taking another step towards her. The resulting step backwards that she took left her trapped between him and the wall. "I know this is all just some bullshit that you came up with to get out of spending more time with me. I'm not an idiot."

"Leo, you need to let go of me." She tried again.

"This wasn't the plan." Leo frowned. "Was supposed to be me and you... not you and him. I had this whole thing planned out and you just fucking ruined it."

"Me and you was never going to happen, Leo." She told him.

"Yeah because you and him fucking ruined it all." Leo hissed. He dropped her wrist, but before she could make a run for it he had hold of her waist instead. "Maybe I should show you what you've been missing while you've been fucking around with him."

"It's not going to happen, Leo." She repeated. "If you let me go now, I won't tell anyone about this. We'll finish the movie, go our separate ways and you won't ruin your whole career because you can't cope with being rejected."

It happened quickly, the way his fingers tightened around the material of her dress, the sound of the delicate material ripping under his touch. The gap that it left was only a couple of inches, mostly hidden by her arm because of where the seam was but it was there.

"Told you that you needed to lay off the food a bit. Christ, you can't even fit in your fucking dress." He sneered. "You're right, you're not worth it after all."

The second he let go of her she ran. Kept running all the way back out onto the crowded dance floor. She paused for a second, in the crowded safety of the dance floor, fixing her hair and tugging at her dress to try and hide the rip in it. She wiped her eye, and then forced a smile, walking back over to the booth where everyone was sitting.

She approached the booth just as Max was getting up to come and look for her.

"There you are." He breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted her walking towards him. "You okay?"

She nodded, forced a smile. "Just need another drink I think." She flashed him a smile like it's nothing, like her skin wasn't crawling from the feeling of Leo's hands on her. She slid into the booth beside him, close enough that she was almost sitting on his lap. His arm wrapped around her waist and she relaxed against him, knowing she was safe from Leo while she was with him.

"You sure you're alright, darling?" Max asked quietly in her ear. He'd been chatting away to the others, but it hadn't escaped his notice that she'd gone quiet. Sipping on her drink and staring blankly ahead.

🎥.

It was nearly 5am when everyone eventually started to drift out of the club. Lando complaining bitterly about his lack of shoes and repeatedly asking everyone what had happened to them, but no one seemed to know.

Max and Talia had headed off their separate way to get back to their hotel, waving goodbye to the others. Max was absolutely hammered, the celebration definitely worthy of having claimed his fourth title, and he kept his arm wrapped firmly around her as they walked to keep himself upright.

He'd been laughing to himself as he fumbled with the key to the hotel room, three attempts in and repeatedly missing the slot for it to go in, when Talia took it off him and finally opened the door.

"Thanks, darling." He grinned, stumbling through the door in to their shared hotel room. "What a fucking day!"

He stumbled off into the bedroom already half undressed before he's even rounded the corner. A huge grin on his face, drunk enough that all he could think about now was getting some sleep.

As she watched him go she assumed he was going to be passed out asleep, and probably snoring, before she even got as far as removing her make up. So it made her jump when he suddenly appeared behind her in the bathroom mirror, catching her inspecting the rip in her dress.

"What happened to your dress?" He frowned, taking a step closer to get a better look at it.

"It's fine, I must've caught it on something." She mumbled dismissively.

He looked at the rip and then back at her. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm just tired, Max." She reassured him. "It's been a really long day. A good day, but exhausting."

She finished taking her make up off, walked back out of the bathroom leaving him brushing his teeth. She stripped out of the dress, burying it in the bottom of her suitcase as though it might bury the memory of what Leo had said to her in that bathroom along with it. She pulled the first shirt she came to over her head to sleep in, releasing as she smelled his cologne on it that it was actually Max's.

She didn't take it off. It was comforting.

He came out of the bathroom a few moments later, when she was already curled up in bed, the sound of his feet padding across the carpet filling the room. Then the bed dipped beside her as he settled in.

He flicked the lights off and there was a pause, a moment of in decision on his part. Then he turned onto his side, tucked his head in against her neck and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

🎥.

Max woke long before Talia did, the daylight streaming in through the curtains that they'd forgotten to close getting him. She had her head buried so far in the pillows the sunlight still hadn't got to her, and he smiled softly at how cosy she looked, pulling her back a bit closer into his chest.

And then she'd moved and the smile was wiped off his face.

Because as her wrist peeked out from under the covers there was a dark, angry hand print shaped bruise wrapped around it. He peeled back the duvet a little more as she slept to get a better look at it and yeah, it was definitely hand print shaped.

His mind immediately wandered back to her ripped dress, to the way she'd sat so quietly beside him for the rest of the night when she came back from the bathroom.

Something had obviously happened. The worst part was that she obviously hadn't felt like she could tell him.

He was still staring at it when she woke up, couldn't take his eyes off it even though he knew she was going to catch him staring at it.

"Morning, champ." She said softly, twisting in his arms to face him. "How's the hangover?"

"I feel surprisingly okay." He admitted. "What about you?"

"Just tired." She yawned. "Was a good night though."

"And your wrist?" He asked.

She looked down at her arm in confusion at his words, then her eyes locked on the colourful bruise Leo had left behind. She poked it carefully, relieved to find it was nowhere near as painful as it looked

"It doesn't hurt." She reassured him.

"What happened?" Max demanded.

She hesitated, just for a second. "Just a drunk guy in the club, that's all. I handled it."

"The same one that ripped your dress?" Max asked, and she could feel the way he'd gone rigid just thinking about it. It absolutely confirmed in her mind that she'd been right not to tell him Leo was there. She could only imagine the fight that would've broken out.

"I handled it." She said firmly. "I'm okay. Don't let it spoil your day."

"Why didn't you tell me at the time?" Max pressed.

"Because you'd have overreacted and got yourself in trouble." She told him honestly. "It's fine, no harm done. We got to enjoy your big night, that's all that matters."

"I'd have enjoyed my night a lot more if I got to punch that asshole in the face." Max muttered.

She put her hand on his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin. "It's all fine, and I didn't want you getting yourself in trouble. Just let it go, Max. He's not worth it."

Max was quiet for a minute, then his body relaxed a little. "You're sure you're okay?" He asked quietly, brushing her hair out of her face.

She nodded. "Perfect, actually."

He tightened his arms around her, pulling him in closer.

"Did you enjoy your party?" She asked him after a moment of silence.

"Think I enjoyed the pre-party hotel celebrations with you a lot more." He smirked, and she blushed.

"Oh really?" She raised an eyebrow.

He nodded. "Was thinking we could just stay in bed all day?" He asked hopefully. "Our flight isn't until tonight."

"And what would we be doing in bed all day?" She asked innocently.

"Well..." he said slowly, hands sliding under her shirt. "I was thinking it might go something a little like this..."

🔥.

His hands dragged up her sides, savouring the moment. She arched into his touch needily. There was something so much softer about the way he touched her this time, like he'd got all the time in the world and absolutely nowhere else to be.

His lips met hers, the feeling of his mouth on hers clearing almost every other thought from her head. He pulled away just long enough to look at her, eyes flicking over her face like he was really, properly looking at her for the first time.

"So pretty." He murmured, leaning in to kiss her again. "Meant it when I said I was the luckiest guy in Vegas having you with me. Could wake up like this every morning and die happy."

"Max." She groaned as he continued his lazy trail of kisses down her neck. Taking his time, no urgency to anything that he was doing at all, despite the fact that she wanted him so badly she was clawing at his skin trying to get closer to him.

"What's the hurry?" He grinned. "We've got all day, remember? Wanna take my time, enjoy you properly now we don't have to hurry."

He shifted his position slightly, rolling on top of her so his hard length was pressing directly against her crotch. The material of her panties sliding over his boxers as she squirmed.

"You should wear my shirts more often." He mumbled. "You look so good like this."

His hips found a slow, agonising rhythm. His eyes never once leaving her face as he pressed himself against her in a way that made her head spin. He just carried on slowly rutting against her, rhythm never faltering as he peppered lazy kisses across her skin and his hands explored her body under his shirt.

The length of him dragged through her now embracing wet panties, bumping against her clit in a way that made her gasp, and left him with a smug grin on his face. Her hips stuttered, eyes snapping open to find him watching her like his favourite show.

"You going to cum just like this?" He asked. "Before I've even undressed you or touched you properly."

"Max." She gasped, arching up in to his touch.

"What do you want, darling?" He asked. "Tell me and I'll give it to you."

It took her a minute. Every single bit of her brain was focused on the feeling of him slowly grinding against her, his hips never faltering even for a second.

"Need you inside me." She moaned out eventually, breath catching her in throat as he ground against just the right spot again. "Need you so bad."

He let out a content sounding nose, hooking a finger into her panties and dragging them down her legs quickly. He kicked his own boxers off, then settled back into the position he was in.

"Gonna leave the shirt on. Like seeing you wear my number." He murmured against her skin, lips back on her neck. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was thinking about the fact that it was going to be 30 degrees in Qatar and if he didn't stop she was going to be reduced to wearing a turtle neck to cover all the marks, but she also made no attempt to stop him.

When he eventually gave a lazy thrust into her a moan left her mouth, only to be muffled by another kiss from him. He sunk into her slowly, the stretch delicious and then stopped, just paused and looked at her. The way her hair splayed out on the pillow, the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips were parted and swollen from kissing him.

"God you feel so fucking good." He told her, slowly rolling his hips. It was similar to the lazy pace he'd set through their clothes earlier. Incredible but no where near enough at exactly the same time.

"That's it baby." He breathed, picking up his pace a little. She moaned, nails scratching down his back and her legs locking around his waist to keep him there.

"Gonna stay here all day and celebrate with you." He breathed against her neck. "Gonna make you feel so good you won't be able to think about anything else for weeks."

"God, please Max." She moaned out. "I need... faster..."

He ignored her though, carrying on with the lazy rhythm he'd set. Determined to make this last, and savour every last second of it.

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #formula 1 #formula one #romance #fanfic #angst with a happy ending #lando norris #angst #mv1 smut #max verstappen #mv33 rb #mv1 fic #mv1 imagine #mv1 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #max verstappen smut #max

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beeegone3 · 7 hours ago

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15 with MV 🫶✨

Childhood Rivals, Adult Problems MV 1

Max Verstappen x y/n- 15★ Enemies to Lovers. Slow Burn. Childhood Rivals. Team Strategist (Reader). Angst and Fluff. Smut

You never imagined your childhood rivalry with Max Verstappen would follow you all the way to Formula 1.

It started on the karting circuits, muddy and wild, where you were both just kids with raw talent and bigger egos. You were sharp a strategist even then always planning your moves like a grandmaster. Max was fearless, wild, and reckless, crashing through the pack with pure adrenaline. You hated him instantly; he thought you were a cocky know-it-all who ruined his races. You battled hard crashes, insults, stolen trophies, and sleepless nights filled with revenge plots. But underneath the fire, there was a grudging respect neither of you wanted to admit.

Years later, the past hadn’t softened. You were now a lead strategist for a rival F1 team, tasked with one goal: beat Max. And Max? The unbeatable champion, untouchable, his arrogance sharpening every time you outwitted him.

The paddock was familiar but suffocating. You hated the sight of him his smug grin, the confident stride that said he owned the world. You hated how well you knew him, how instinctively you anticipated his every move on track. And he hated you for being the icy shadow that always stood in his way.

Race weekends were war. Every radio call, every pit stop, every split-second decision was a battle of minds. You called out his reckless braking; he mocked your cautious strategy. But the tension beneath was something else something neither of you dared name.

Then, one stormy night at Silverstone, everything changed.

The rain came down in sheets, relentless, forcing the track to close early. Hours passed, the storm trapping you both in the cramped hospitality suite. The air was thick with the stale scent of coffee and sweat, multiple screens glowing with telemetry data that seemed cold and clinical. Max paced restlessly, frustration etched deep into his features, jaw clenched tight. You were bent over the data, trying to ignore the pull his presence exerted on your nerves.

Suddenly, he stopped mid-step and turned to face you, eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“Why do you know me so well?” His voice was low, fierce raw with something you couldn’t quite place.

You met his gaze, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

“Because I’ve always been watching. I never stopped.”

He took a step closer, the air between you crackling with a tension so thick it was almost physical.

“I need to tell you something,” he said, voice breaking just slightly.

You held your breath, waiting.

Then, without warning, his lips crashed onto yours tentative at first, then fierce, hungry, desperate. The kiss ignited every nerve ending, years of fire, frustration, and hidden desire exploding all at once in one fierce, urgent collision.

His hands slid beneath your jacket, exploring the heat beneath your clothes, memorizing every inch of your skin. You shivered, arching into him as his lips trailed down your neck, biting gently, sending shivers through your spine.

Outside, the storm raged harder, thunder shaking the windows, mirroring the tempest inside you. You collapsed onto the floor, tangled and breathless, every touch stoking the fire hotter and hotter.

Max moved with a demanding tenderness, worshipping your skin, pulling you apart and pressing you close all at once. You responded with equal fervor, nails digging into his back, voice catching in gasps as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

“Max,” you gasped, his name a prayer on your lips as you tumbled over the edge in a cascade of release.

His climax was deep and raw a growl vibrating through your body as he held you close, grounding you in the aftershocks.

Afterward, his forehead rested gently against yours.

“You’re not just my rival,” he murmured, voice husky and soft. “You’re the only one who’s ever truly seen me.”

You smiled, your heart aching with a new, fragile hope.

“Then don’t ever let me go.”

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katelovesit · 20 hours ago

Text

“after every race, i dream of coming back to you”

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jeonstellate · 2 days ago

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divine thing

you and max defy stereotypes while simultaneously proving them right.

★ᝰ max verstappen x gender neutral!reader

★ᝰ demigod!au, greek mythology-inspired!au, percy jackson-inspired!au

★ᝰ paragraph format — 1.1K words

masterlist

[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]

★ᝰ title from fly by midnight’s divine thing!

★ᝰ inspo tmi: took this percy jackson quiz to find out my greek godly parent && got hephaestus. can’t say i expected it since i had no expectations, but i was so amazed ‘cause it makes so much sense?? i wanted to commemorate it somehow, so i opened a new doc, lol.

In the grand scheme of the Fates, you and Max are each other’s antitheses.

You, a child of Hephaestus—god of meticulous craftsmanship; a personification of creation, artistry, and the painstaking effort to mend what’s broken.

Max, a son of Ares—god of violently untamed war; a personification of brutality, wrath, and the inevitable destruction that follows.

One forges masterpieces; the other revels in ruins. You’re never supposed to be together.

And, yet, sometimes, the greatest art emerges from what remains.

You find it incomprehensible: A child of Poseidon shouldn't drown. A child of Zeus shouldn't be struck by lightning. And a child of Hephaestus—a sibling—should certainly not be consumed by fire.

But there you stand: Ready to offer yourself to the flames, all in the name of no longer being a disappointing child of Hephaestus.

For a month, nothing of value has come from your hands, while your paternal siblings churn out project after project. Sebastian, for instance, is literally about to christen his fourth masterwork this month.

Perhaps, once engulfed by fire, you'll finally have worth—if not to warm your thriving siblings, then at least to others. Perhaps then you’ll finally bring some honor to your name. Maybe this will grant you a place in the Fields of Asphodel, if not the Elysian Fields—anything, really, but Tartarus.

Your workstation is a physical manifestation of your internal chaos. Scrapped projects litter every corner, and not a soul knows what they’re supposed to be—not even you. It’s a graveyard, essentially, of your mistakes, failures, and regrets.

You just need one paragon, and you can finally—hopefully—escape the fiery pit of a slump. But, alas, every new project you start never lives up to your expectations.

And you can already tell this new one is not any better.

Max strides into the Forge with the kind of arrogance only children of Ares pull off. His presence doesn’t immediately command the room like the children of Zeus, but it still has a certain je ne sais quoi that claims ownership of wherever he walks into.

Had he been any other child of Ares, he would’ve been barred from entering the children of Hephaestus’ sacred fortress. But Max has proven he is of fire like the rest of them, with his passion—and affection for you—burning as bright as the Forge.

"[First name]." He stops in front of your workstation. "Can I have—" he pauses to look around— "that?"

He utters no real greeting. You don’t point it out, nor do you mind. You’ve known each other long enough to not be bothered by such trivial matters. Besides, it’s part of who Max is as a son of Ares: Always brutal, straight to the point.

You follow where he gestured with your head and see an arrow made of celestial bronze. You return your attention to Max, one eyebrow raised. "If you wanted an arrow, you could’ve just taken one from the Armory."

Max merely shrugs. "Yeah, well, I wanted the one you made." He takes the arrow in question to inspect in closer, not bothering to ask for permission. "So what does it do?"

You scoff lightly, somehow finding humor in his actions. "I think, that’s the one that’s supposed to be a hand gesture-controlled weapon? Like, whoever’s wearing the partner ring is supposed to be able to control the arrow with their hand . . . or something. I don’t really remember."

"Cool," he nods slowly with an impressed hum. "Where’s the ring?"

"I never made it."

"What? Why?"

You look down, suddenly losing the strength to meet his eyes. "I realized halfway no one would want a controllable arrow when there are much better weapons out there."

"You can’t know that for sure," your boyfriend counters without missing a beat. "This can literally be someone’s dream weapon and you just didn’t know."

You are understandably unconvinced. "That’s a shit dream weapon."

"And they say I’m the bad one in this relationship," he shakes his head in mock disbelief. "You can’t shit on people’s dreams. That’s rude."

It’s your turn to shake your head. You continue tinkering with your newest failed project almost unconsciously and without real reason for every movement. "You know it’s true."

In lieu of replying, Max merely holds up the celestial bronze arrow higher and lets it catch more light. It glistens under the new angle, manifesting the promise of danger it conceals. "Not everyone fights like us. There are kids out there who prefer a longer range; for their weapon to be an extension of them, not just of their arm. This— this can give them that."

You recognize his point. A demigod’s choice for personal long-range weapons is limited to bow and arrow, longbow, and crossbow. Short-range weapons have a little more variety: sword, dagger, knife, spear, escrima sticks, scimitar, scythe. Another addition to the limited options wouldn’t hurt.

But to be the one to add to that collection? You’re not the right person for that. Especially not now, and maybe even never. You’re not worthy.

The sigh you let out a moment after is heavy with the unsaid. "I don’t know, Max."

Max takes one last look at the arrow before lifting your head to meet his eyes. Despite the slight delay, he moves and talks with no hesitation. "It just needs to exist, lieve. It’s the wielder who takes it to greater heights." He then flashes an encouraging smile. "Finish it. For me."

You and Max are never supposed to be together. You’re supposed to be like oil and water. You’re on opposite ends of the spectrum—you create, he destroys.

And, yet, your polarity is also why you two work well together. You balance each other. You ground each other—you consider, he charges; you feel, he fights.

You help each other see another side to manifest a bigger picture. Above all, you give each other a reason: To craft, to come back alive.

For the first time in weeks, the Forge feels like home again; your father’s symbol that appeared over you then carries no weight. "You want me to make you a ring?"

Your boyfriend’s smile widens. "Style it like a wedding ring with our initials."

You chuckle, ignoring the sudden heat on your face. "Better pray none of my siblings heard that."

"The ‘F’ in ‘Forge’ stands for ‘no flirting’!" You both hear one of your siblings comment from somewhere in the room before he can respond.

Your shared laughter rings.

("Forge it tomorrow," Max replies after you try to shoo him away so you can concentrate. "Daniel wants us to attend the party the Apollo cabin is throwing for the new kid."

You halt your actions, understandably intrigued. "New kid’s been claimed?"

To your surprise, his response starts with a "no." "He’s manifesting siblinghood because new kid’s apparently also from Australia."

"That’s a jinx waiting to happen."

"I know. It’ll be great.")

★ᝰ tmi, part 2: out of all the fandoms i write for, max is literally the only one that i can see pass as a son of ares?? or at least to the degree i’m looking for. but lowk, if not ares, i feel like he’d be great as a son of athena, too. he seems very knowledgeable to me.

★ᝰ tmi, part 3: i completely forgot about the whole hephaestus-aphrodite-ares drama while writing, so i didn’t get to incorporate it </3 so all i can say with that in mind now is this max and yn definitely started as enemies :D

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suliigwp · 26 days ago

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Controversially Young Girlfriend

Max Verstappen x Reader | age gap, written+smau

Inspired by my follower @maxswhore33 's blog title (I got permission)

SULI: Hey so.....🫦 I'm sorry this is my guilty pleasure— I tried to keep everything in check though I promise it's not too much🙏 the girls that get it, get it �� short and sweet

SUMMARY: max and his young girlfriend have a hard time navigating what everyone has to say about their age gap

Warnings: age gap (duh) 27-20

“Anyone sitting here?”

He gestures to the empty spot beside her.

She doesn’t even glance at him.

“Is anyone ever sitting anywhere at these things, or do you just like the idea of asking?”

He blinks, then laughs. “Fair enough.”

She finally looks up—dead in the eyes. Calm. Amused, maybe. “You’re Max Verstappen, right?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She shrugs. “Just a thing.”

Max sits. Sips his drink. There’s a pause. “You here alone?” he asks.

“My father’s here. Somewhere between the scotch and the politicians pretending to care about art.”

She tilts her glass toward the display on the far wall. “This is his idea of bonding.”

“Right.” He chuckles. “So you’re not into any of this either.”

“I like the environment,” she says simply. “Not the company.”

Another pause. Then—

“You here alone?”

Max scratches his jaw. “No. My girlfriend’s somewhere upstairs. Talking to someone about those paintings upstairs, I think.”

“Ah,” she says, and something shifts. Her tone is lighter, but her eyes? Sharp.

“Those are mine, I'll get her on the guest list if she meets the age requirements. How old is she?”

He frowns a little, caught off guard. “Uh… thirty-five.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“That’s… a bit weird, isn’t it?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says, as if it’s obvious, “you’re what—twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six,” he says.

“Still. That’s like dating your older cousin.”

A tiny sip. “Emotionally speaking.”

Max stares at her. “That’s a reach.”

She hums, unconvinced. “No judgment. Just interesting.”

She leans forward, a sly smirk curling.

“So… how old were you when you two got together?”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “Uh… nineteen, I think?”

She nearly chokes on her drink.

“Dude. Really?”

Max shrugs, uncomfortable.

“Yeah. It just... happened.”

She laughs softly. “Wow. So she’s basically been your age for a minute. That’s wild.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with that?” she asks, voice teasing but sharp.

Max looks away. “I guess.”

“And how old are you?” she asks, shifting back, deadly serious again.

“Twenty,” she says flatly. “Still know how to use a microwave. You?”

He laughs again, out of confusion or disbelief, he’s not sure.

“You really don’t care who I am, do you?”

She tilts her head. “Should I?”

“No. It’s… refreshing, actually.”

She finishes her drink and stands up, pulling her phone from her coat pocket.

“Give me your number,” she says.

He hesitates. “You didn’t even tell me your name.”

“You can earn that later.”

She holds the phone out. He taps in the number. Watches her save it.

She shows the screen before she tucks it away:

“Dutch.”

He chokes on his laugh. “Seriously?”

“It’s either that or ‘older cousin dater.’ Your pick.”

She walks off, coat slipping over her shoulder, not even glancing back.

...

They didn’t become friends so much as they kept… happening to each other.

It started with the texts.

She wasn’t exactly warm. Her replies came in lowercase, sometimes hours later, never with an emoji. But they always had bite.

Artiste: you drive like you’re trying to kill the car

Dutch: you watch?

Artiste: first five minutes, I fell asleep

Dutch: harsh

Artiste: honest

He liked it. She didn’t ask for selfies or gossip. She never brought up his girlfriend, either. She asked about silence, about books, about whether he thought fame was real or just a side effect of boredom.

And then there were the encounters.

Always random, always surprising.

At a Monaco rooftop party in May, she appeared at his side just after midnight, arms crossed, gaze heavy-lidded. He offered her a drink. She stole the lemon slice from his instead.

“Still dating the older cousin?” she asked dryly.

He almost choked.

She smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting like a secret.

In Silverstone, she was in the VIP section with someone Important and Very Tired Looking. She caught his eye from across the paddock and lifted her hand—not to wave, just to show him a book.

When he squinted, she mouthed, “Camus.”

That night, he texted her:

Dutch: Why are you reading The Stranger during qualifying?

Her reply: existential dread pairs well with overpriced hospitality passes

By summer, he looked for her. At afterparties. At brand dinners. In the background of other people’s photos.

She always showed up unexpectedly—leaning against a balcony, sipping red wine, disappearing before anyone else even realized she’d been there. Her laugh was rare, but when he got it? It echoed in his head longer than his podium anthems.

Then came September.

A lowkey watch event in Milan. Nothing serious. He spotted her standing near a sculpture, arms folded like she didn’t trust the marble.

They talked for nearly an hour. Not about racing. Not even about art.

He told her about his childhood in karting. How sometimes, when the adrenaline was gone, the silence after a win scared him more than any crash.

She listened without interrupting, head tilted, eyes like glass.

...

Few Months Of Meeting Later

The walls are covered in stark, minimalist paintings and photos — cold, evocative, unapologetic. The kind of place where silence feels loud.

Max steps inside, slightly out of place but trying not to show it. She’s already there, arms folded, eyes scanning the newest exhibit.

She looks up and smirks.

“Well, if it isn’t Dutch.”

Max grins, running a hand through his hair.

“Hey. Figured I’d finally see where all your mysterious gallery talk was about.”

She nods toward a black-and-white detailed painting of a lone tree in winter.

“Cold, right? I like to think it’s honest.”

He shrugs.

“Kind of like you.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Maybe. So, how’s life? Still hanging with the older cousin?”

Max’s smile fades for a second.

“Actually... we broke up a few months ago.”

She studies him quietly.

“Really? What happened?”

He sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Guess the age gap wasn’t just a headline. Things got complicated.”

She folds her arms tighter.

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet.”

Max smirks.

“Maybe. Or maybe I just traded one complication for another.”

She tilts her head.

“Oh?”

He shrugs.

“Let’s just say… I’m still figuring out what I want.”

She smiles softly, but there’s steel beneath it.

“Well, if you ever want a crash course in complicated, you know where to find me.”

He looks at her, eyes sharper now.

“Yeah. I do.”

...

May, 2024

They were careful.

No holding hands. No public eye contact that lingered. She always walked two steps ahead, and Max never looked at her for too long when there were phones nearby.

But that night in Madrid — some dim-lit restaurant tucked into a quiet street after a sponsor event — someone caught them slipping.

It wasn’t even dramatic.

Just a blurry photo.

She’s leaving the restaurant first, coat draped over her shoulders, head turned slightly toward the car. Only the lower half of her face is visible — but it’s enough. The shape of her jaw. The curve of her mouth. The unmistakably young silhouette.

Behind her, Max walks out.

Not too close. But closer than friends.

He’s smiling.

Not the “for-press” kind of smile — the kind no one had really seen before.

...

F1GossipNow.com

🗞️ “Mystery Woman Spotted with Verstappen in Madrid — New Flame or Just Dinner?”

> Sources spotted Max Verstappen leaving a private dinner Tuesday night with a mystery woman. Dressed casually, the two exited separately but entered the same vehicle minutes later. Her identity is still unknown — but fans are already buzzing about how young she appears...

F1 Twitter

@/F1Spill: there’s no way max is out here with a girl who looks FRESHLY 19… bro this better be a niece or something 😭😭

@/wagwatcher: not to be that person but that’s not his girlfriend. his girlfriend is literally 36 and this girl has a side part and ballet flats. do the math.

@/verstappen_stan88: people age differently??? y’all always jump to conclusions 🙄

@/pitlanequeen: it’s the way he’s smiling. I’ve never seen him look like that. I’m scared.

REDDIT THREAD: “Max’s New Girl???” [RUMOR]

> u/f1deepsleuth

I reverse image searched and I think she was at that Monaco rooftop party in April — I posted about it then. She’s always in black, always quiet, and someone said she might be the daughter of that EU guy who owns like five galleries.

> u/softlaunchalert

She's always ahead of him. Never with him. This is the first time we’ve seen them in the same frame. Trust — something’s going on.

Max says nothing.

She says even less.

But that weekend, she’s not seen at the race. And Max?

Max crashes in Q2. For the first time all season.

Coincidence?

The fans don’t think so.

...

Her name was supposed to stay out of it.

That was the unspoken rule.

The one she didn’t write, but enforced — with private profiles, no tagged photos, a digital footprint cleaner than most politicians.

She never posted. She never smiled for cameras. She wasn’t Max’s girlfriend; not officially, not loudly.

But it took one cousin.

One private school girl with too much free time.

One blurry paparazzi photo from Madrid where she was stepping into a car and Max was just a few paces behind, smiling in a way that no man does for “just a friend.”

That was all it took.

11:07

Her phone buzzes. Then again. And again. And again.

By the twelfth vibration, she doesn’t bother turning it over.

She knows what this is.

Online, it unfolds like a murder scene

“Her name is y/n”

“She’s 20. Twenty. Let that sink in.”

“She was 10 when Max started f1.”

“Is no one gonna talk about how WEIRD this is?”

There are edits. Screen-recorded TikToks.

A quote from The Stranger overlays a video of her walking silently in heels.

There’s a photo from when she was sixteen.

One from a yearbook.

A repost of her standing next to a man in a tux—her father—but the comments assume otherwise.

“oh so she’s been groomed to orbit rich men”

“this is giving succession x pretty little liars”

“she’s not even hot, she just looks expensive”

She scrolls once. Then stops.

Opens a bag of grapes and eats one slowly.

11:26

Dutch: They found you. Don’t post anything just ignore it all

Dutch: I’m sorry.

Artista: don't be silly, focus on the race, good luck🫶

By the next race weekend, her name is being whispered louder than lap times.

At the press conference, the question is polite on the surface.

“Max, given the increase in media attention surrounding your private life, how are you staying focused this season?”

He blinks. The PR girl to his left stiffens.

He leans forward slightly, jaw tight.

“I drive.”

A pause.

“So you’re not addressing the rumors about—”

He cuts them off with a glance that could kill.

“I said what I said.”

He leaves two questions early.

Her Father’s Villa, Côte d’Azur

She’s on the terrace, curled into a corner of the outdoor sofa. Her black hoodie swallows her whole. The wind off the sea is cold but welcome.

Her phone is still buzzing.

She hasn’t checked it all day.

She eats another grape, slow, thoughtful.

Her father steps outside, hovering like smoke.

“Do you want me to call someone? I can—”

“No.”

“We can release something if it’s hurting your reputation.”

She doesn’t look up.

Just shifts her legs beneath her and murmurs, "It's not, I don't care about it."

It’s past midnight when she finally calls him.

No warning. No text. No “you up?”

Just his name on her screen.

Just the silence stretching between them like a red string pulled too tight.

He picks up after two rings.

His voice is quieter than usual — less cocky, more… careful.

“Hey.”

She doesn’t speak at first.

She just listens. To the way he breathes. To the way he says nothing, waiting for her to go first.

Then—

“They found me.”

Max exhales like he’s been holding it since Madrid.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, even though he can’t see it.

Her voice is even, calm, cold in that way only she can be — like a girl narrating her own biography from outside her body.

“They found my name, my school, a photo of me at sixteen in a Christmas concert.”

A pause.

“I think I’ve officially become an archetype.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know.”

“Are you okay?”

That’s what makes her pause.

Not the press. Not the edits. Not the death threats in her DMs from strangers calling her everything from manipulative to brainwashed.

But that. Are you okay?

“I am now.”

Max is quiet again. And then—

“I shouldn’t have smiled in that photo.”

That makes her laugh. Just a breath.

“You were doomed the moment you did. You smiled like I was yours.”

He doesn’t argue.

“You are,” he says.

Silence again.

But this time it’s warm.

“My father wants to issue a statement,” she murmurs. “Some PR girl sent me a suggested apology. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be sorry for.”

“Existing,” Max mutters.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he tells her.

“You don’t owe anyone that.”

“I know,” she says softly.

“But I owe me something. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

There’s a long pause. Neither of them fill it. Neither of them need to.

Then—

“I’m coming to see you,” he says.

“Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you want.”

“You’ll be seen.”

“Let them look.”

She closes her eyes.

Lets herself smile, just a little.

“Okay,” she says.

“Come tomorrow.”

“Tell me where.”

“You already know where.”

...

He’s been holding it together for three weeks.

Three long weeks of whispered questions disguised as “racing talk.”

Three weeks of edits and threads and sick little opinion pieces calling her everything but a person.

At first, he brushed it off.

Then he ignored it.

Then he started flinching whenever someone mentioned the word age.

But today?

Today, he snaps.

The room is packed. The lights are hot. Someone in the second row is already typing before he’s said a word. He can hear the click of nails on a phone screen.

He doesn’t want to be here.

The first few questions are fine. Tires. Conditions. Something about tire deg. He answers robotically.

Then a hand goes up in the back. A reporter from one of the tabloids. The kind who always smiles with her eyes when she's about to ruin you.

“Max, there’s been a lot of discourse lately about your personal life. People are concerned about the age difference with your alleged girlfriend—”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“—do you think that criticism is fair?”

And that’s it. The chair shifts. He leans forward.

“Are people also concerned when it’s a 27-year-old woman dating a 19-year-old guy? Because I didn’t see headlines when that was my situation nine years ago.”

A beat of silence.

The room freezes.

“Or is it only weird when I’m the older one now?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.

“You’re all suddenly experts on morality when it suits you. When it trends. When there’s a girl you don’t recognize and a headline you can stretch into outrage.”

Another breath. Controlled. Measured. Dangerous.

“She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t post anything. She hasn’t said a word. But people are treating her like she committed a crime by breathing near me."

"So no—I don’t think the criticism is fair. I think it’s pathetic.”

The PR girl next to him reaches out gently, warningly. He doesn’t stop.

“Next question.”

He gets up before anyone can ask one.

Walks out.

Doesn’t wait for his handler. Doesn’t look back.

Behind him, the room erupts into camera flashes and urgent whispers.

He doesn’t care.

Dutch: I snapped at them. Sorry.

I couldn’t just sit there and let them talk about you like that.

...

comments.

feralforf1: the way he said “she didn’t say a word” like he knows she’s been silently watching everything… I’m unwell

f1lawyerwannabe: let’s be real. the press has never known what to do when max goes full ice mode. he’s scary when he’s mad in defense not just competition.

mcloveme:.the “pathetic” was delivered with chest 😭😭 he’s in his protective boyfriend arc and I support him

maxsupremacy: not him standing up for her harder than he ever defended red bull strategy 😭

paddockpookie: max saying “is it only weird when I’m the older one now?” is the media accountability moment of the year.

wagscentral: she didn’t ask for this. she didn’t post anything. she hasn’t said a word ← go ahead and tattoo that on my spine

scuderiashawty:.this man said “next question” and the whole press room collectively peed a little. we love to see it

teammaxxx33: he didn’t flinch. he didn’t yell. he didn’t look at PR. he looked dead in their eyes. king behavior only.

maxwellgirl1999: I love how he didn’t say her name. Didn’t try to “own” her. He just defended her right to exist in peace. That’s real respect.

racerxqueen: notice how the room went silent after he said “you’re all suddenly experts on morality” — he read them for filth

noodlebrainf1: clock em king

...

It was late — past 1 a.m.

Max was asleep beside her, one arm slung across her hip like he was afraid she’d vanish in her sleep.

She stared at the screen in the dark, thumb hovering.

The photo was already in her drafts.

She stared at it for another second. Then hit “Post.”

The likes came in fast. Faster than she’d expected. The comments even faster.

She locked the phone, rolled over, and tugged the blanket higher over Max’s bare shoulder.

His breathing didn’t change, but his arm tightened around her.

“You posted something?” he murmured, half-asleep.

She raised a brow at the man, "what- how do you know?"

"My phones blowing up."

...

painted.by.y/n

Liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, landonorris and 4.3M others.

painted.by.y/n stay mad

305k comments.

dutchdefenseunit: WHAAAAAAT

prettylittlerogue: she said “here’s the mouth you’re all talking about” 😭😭😭

suliiwgp: “stay mad” is what i’m going to whisper before i die

maxverstappen1: 💜 ♥️105.4k likes.

↳ painted.by.y/n: stop stealing my likes old man

↳ maxverstappen1: 😔

redbullconfessions: YOU DIDN’T JUST POST THAT. YOU NUKED THE GRID.

pitlaneprincess: soft launch? babe this is a declaration of war

lonelyferrarifan: how does it feel to wake up and choose violence and victory

mclarenfangirl33: ma’am some of us were TRYING to sleep

maxstappenlove: i’m scared. i’m impressed. i’m making this my phone wallpaper.

padDOCKedup: PR teams are on the FLOOR. sponsors are CRYING. she is DRINKING CHAMPAGNE.

exposethegrid: casually kissing the reigning champion

deadeyefem: i want to be her. i want to be kissed like that. i want to make the world mad by existing.

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

4K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 1 month ago

Text

grid kids or cupids?— mv1

smau + written blurbs

max verstappen x !driver reader

2025 rookies x !platonic driver reader

your ex cheated. you dumped him. simple, clean, no tears—just a block, a race win, and an innocent instagram post. you are over it. but your rookies? not so much.

somehow, they’ve formed a secret matchmaking club and are now trying to set you up with half the grid. you know. max knows. (he’s your very smitten, very amused boyfriend.) but neither of you say a word.

because watching them try? is way too entertaining.

fc : luvstruck on ig (love a tattooed baddie as a face claim)

original request is here.

(a/n) : this was so much fun for me. i hope you all enjoy! love youuuu

—

yourusername

liked by kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, isackhadjar and 4,550,700 others.

yourusername : his loss.

—

view 285,003 other comments.

username000 : did she finally leave that ugly demonic man?????

liked by yourusername

↳ username1 : oh thank god. we got our baddie back🙏🏻

liked by yourusername

yourbff : man just couldn’t handle having a baddie. the funny thing is he can’t watch the race without seeing your name or face 😏

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : he shall never know peace.

liked by yourbff

yoursister : i can hear the streets callin’🧏‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : call me pluto cuz im alr in them

liked by yoursister

↳ yoursister : where are your children? its rare i make it here before they do.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : oh they will be here within like the next 10 seconds

liked by yoursister

↳ olliebearman : heyyyy so what’s his address? so i can send a hitman.

liked by yoursister, yourbff and yourusername

isackhadjar : if i see that man IT IS ON SIGHT.

liked by yourusername

lando : if i were him id never leave the house ever again, not just because of the 6 angry children at my door but just out of sheer embarrassment from what i fumbled.

liked by yourusername

kimi.antonelli : im small but i can bite ankles. he is a dead man. im going to kill him

liked by yourusername

gabrielbortoleto_ : yn i cannot handle these vague captions. pls answer the group chat. im spiraling and about to hire someone to do horrible things.

liked by yourusername

↳ isackhadjar : i feel sick to my stomach.

liked by yourusername

↳ olliebearman : i just threw up

liked by yourusername

↳ kimi.antonelli : i am pacing

liked by yourusername

↳ jackdoohan : just threw my phone across the room

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : guys, im fine. truly. it was for the best. i will call you all later!

↳ kimi.antonelli : yn did he hurt you?? i destroy his entire bloodline

↳ isackhadjar : stop lying. you are ignoring our texts. you never do.

↳ olliebearman : ok well he hurt you so we will just find him and kill him. its all taken care of

↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : cannot believe you are just ghosting your six emotionally unstable children.

username07 : the rookies falling apart in the comments while yn is unfazed is taking me OUT.

alex_albon : he peaked in high school and drives a toyota 💀 and now fumbled an f1 driver…him being him is punishment enough

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : i can’t with you 💀

oscarpiastri : absolutely no clue what happened but i instantly take your side. he is a dick.

liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux : he fumbled so i could have you😇

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mmm yes gimme (making grabby hands at you)

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

olliebearman : yn we are coming over

↳ kimi.antonelli : you let us in or we break the door down

↳ yourusername : im sure that breaking and entering is already somewhere on oliver’s crime list so lets not add to it. come on over kids.

↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : YAYYYYYYYY

↳ jackdoohan : on my way! (already outside of your apartment)

↳ isackhadjar : i have been sitting in the hallway since this was posted.

↳ yourusername : get in here🙄

username15 : these kids love their grid mum 🤧

—

flashback

You hadn’t expected the night to end in a breakup. But maybe you should’ve.

It started with his phone—left unlocked, screen facing up, buzzing like a warning. You hadn’t meant to look. But you did. A message preview lit up like a punch to the chest.

last night was the best;) miss you already xx

You didn’t open it. You didn’t need to. The way your stomach dropped told you everything you weren’t ready to admit.

You sat there for a few seconds, staring at the screen. His voice filtered in from the bathroom—some off-key humming, clueless and careless. It made you feel numb. Or maybe free. You weren’t sure which yet.

When he walked back in, grinning like he still had you, you held the phone up.

“You should really be more careful with your passwords,” you said calmly.

His expression dropped. “Babe, it’s not what it looks like—”

“It looks like you’re sleeping with someone who isn’t me.”

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even let him finish his half-assed explanation. You just grabbed your heels, your pride, and your keys, and walked out the door like it owed you nothing.

You texted your girls on the way out.

club. now. i finally left the bum.

By midnight, you were wrapped in black mesh and revenge-red lipstick.

The bass vibrated through your bones, and the margarita in your hand burned in the best way. Your friends were already dancing like the world was ending, and for the first time in months, you felt alive.

And then you saw him. Max.

Standing at the bar with a half-finished drink and that usual unreadable expression—until he looked up and saw you.

His eyes flicked over you once, slow and deliberate, before his lips curled into the smallest smirk. He lifted his drink in silent acknowledgment, and you raised your brow like, Don’t test me. But he didn’t walk away.

No, he walked toward you—unhurried, completely sure of himself, like he’d been waiting for you to show up all night.

“You good?” he asked, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music.

You shrugged, grinning. “Better than ever.”

He studied you for a second longer. “You look free. Like you finally let go of that one thing that was dragging you down.”

You met his gaze head-on. “Maybe I did. But I don’t regret it.”

Something about your voice—clear, certain, maybe a little dangerous—made him nod slowly. Like he knew that version of you. Like he’d met her before in himself.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just offered his hand. “Come dance with me.”

And God help you, you said yes. One song bled into another, and suddenly you were dancing like your skin was on fire, like the world couldn’t touch you anymore. Max wasn’t just keeping up—he matched you. Step for step, stare for stare, like the two of you spoke the same language in a rhythm only you could hear.

You didn’t remember leaning in. You didn’t remember whose hand touched whose waist first.

But you do remember the way his lips brushed yours, soft and warm and slow at first—like he was asking a question. And how you answered with a kiss that tasted like tequila and freedom.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, Max just looked at you with that same amused smirk and said, “Definitely his loss.”

You laughed. You weren’t just fine. You were starting over.

—

The sunlight hit your face before the memory did. Warm. Gentle. Relentless.

You blinked a few times, groggy and still wrapped in that heavy limbed softness that comes from too many drinks and not enough regrets. The room smelled faintly of something distinctly Max—clean, expensive, and just a little smug.

You rolled over. He was already awake.

Lying there, one arm folded behind his head, chest bare, the sheets dangerously low on his hips. His other hand held his phone, which he casually tossed aside when he noticed you looking.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough, sleepy.

You groaned into the pillow. “Tell me we didn’t do something stupid.”

Max tilted his head. “Define stupid.”

Your eyes narrowed. He smiled.

“We danced,” he said. “You kissed me. Twice. And then you tried to start a debate about tire compounds in the elevator.”

You winced. “Sounds like me.”

He laughed under his breath, that low rumble sending a shiver down your spine.

“But no,” he added, softer this time. “You were upset. So I brought you back here. You changed into my shirt, stole all the covers, and fell asleep with your face in my shoulder.”

You blinked. “I didn’t kiss you again?”

He hesitated. “You almost did. Then you said something about how ‘this doesn’t count when you’re drunk’ and knocked out cold.”

You groaned again. “God. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, without missing a beat. “It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “You sure? I was kind of a mess.”

Max shrugged. “You were real. That’s what I want to see.”

For a second, the air stilled between you. No jokes. No tension. Just quiet understanding. You’d kissed him the night before thinking it was a one time thing—sparked by adrenaline, tequila, and heartbreak. But lying here now, in his bed, wearing his shirt and breathing in his space.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. “So… breakfast?”

You blinked. “You’re offering to feed me now?”

“I’m offering to bribe you with pancakes so you don’t ghost me later.”

You smirked, climbing out of bed and grabbing your phone.

“I don’t ghost,” you said, pausing by the door. “But fair warning—once I post a thirst trap, our children are going to lose their minds.”

Max grinned, already reaching for his shirt. “Perfect. Let them panic.”

And as you headed to the bathroom, still wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a smirk, you realized something—You really, really didn’t miss your ex.

—

present day

It’s been a few weeks since that night. Since tequila and heartbreak and Max Verstappen.

You’ve seen him a few times since then—quiet dinners in hotel rooms, lingering handholds between debriefs, shared glances across the paddock that made your stomach flip like a rookie on their debut lap. It’s easy, exciting, safe in the strangest way. No pressure, no labels.

And somehow, for once, no noise. Just the two of you, figuring it out behind closed doors. Which is exactly why you should’ve known that post would send the entire grid into DEFCON 1. Because you barely have time to finish brushing your teeth when it sounds like your whole front door is being broken down.

You freeze, toothbrush halfway to your mouth. Then—

DING DING DING DING.

“YN OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW.”

You peek through the peephole. And there they are. All six of them. Kimi. Ollie. Isack. Jack. Franco. Gabriel.

Every last one of them in complete disarray. Jack’s hair is still wet. Gabriel’s holding a box of oreo’s, one stuffed into his mouth. Franco has absolutely no shoes on.

You blink. “Good morning?”

“You can’t just post that and disappear,” Ollie blurts.

“Disrespectful,” Franco agrees. “Honestly rude.”

“You owe us answers,” Jack adds, pushing inside like this is a crime scene. “Did he cheat? Did you dump him? Do I need to start training for violence?”

“I’m already in shape for violence,” Isack mutters.

“I brought Oreo’s,” Gabriel says, holding them up as a gift of peace.

Kimi just crosses his arms and stares you down. “What happened.”

You close the door behind them and sigh.

“Nothing crazy,” you say, voice steady. “I found out he wasn’t who I thought he was. So I ended it.”

You head to the kitchen and start making coffee. Like this isn’t the opening scene of a Netflix special where the 2025 F1 Rookies begin a manhunt.

“But… are you okay?” Franco asks gently.

You turn and smile. “Honestly? I’m great. It’s probably the healthiest decision I’ve made in years.”

Kimi leans against the counter. “You don’t have to be fine right now, you know.”

You sip your coffee and shrug. “I am fine. Genuinely. I don’t miss him. There’s nothing to cry over.”

There’s a beat of silence. Six sets of eyes narrow, exchanging looks like they’ve rehearsed this. You can feel the shift in the air. The whisper of an unspoken plan forming. But no one says it. No one says “we’re going to find you someone better.” No one says “we’ve already made a list.”

Instead, Gabriel sits beside you. “Okay. Well, if you’re fine… we’re still staying for brunch.”

“Obviously,” Franco says.

“Non-negotiable,” Isack adds.

Ollie leans forward, fake-casual. “So… no one new in the picture yet?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you taking attendance for my love life now?”

He shrugs. “Just making conversation.”

You laugh. “Well, no. There’s nothing to report. I’m enjoying being single.”

Half-true. You take another sip of coffee and hide your smirk. They all nod slowly. Quiet. Suspicious. Too quiet.

Gabriel’s already texting someone under the table. Jack’s typing into his Notes app. Franco looks like he’s trying to remember every eligible man on the grid. Kimi is definitely plotting a background check. You say nothing.

Because letting them believe you’re freshly single, emotionally vulnerable, and in need of saving? Is way too fun to correct.

—

The brunch was meant to be a quick thing. A little comfort, a little check-in, maybe a pastry or two.

But somewhere between the third round of pancakes and Kimi yelling at Jack for putting ketchup on eggs, it turned into something else.

You knew you were doomed the moment Ollie declared, mouth full of toast.

“You’re not allowed to be alone today. We’re going with you.”

You’d laughed. Thought it was a joke. But now it’s two hours later, and they’re all still here. You walk into the training facility like usual, hoodie up, bag slung over your shoulder, calm and collected. Behind you? Six men trailing in a chaotic single file like toddlers on a leash.

Gabriel’s rapidly texting on his phone. Franco’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Jack’s humming. Isack is trying to arm wrestle Kimi mid walk. Ollie keeps speed walking ahead of you, then backpedaling like a mall cop on edge.

“You guys don’t actually have to stay,” you say for the fifth time, mildly exasperated.

“Yes, we do,” Ollie insists. “What if your ex tries to talk to you again?”

“I blocked him.”

“What if he makes a burner account?”

“I blocked five burner accounts.”

Kimi snorts. “I told you she’s too smart for him.”

Isack stretches like he’s preparing for a UFC match. “Still. You’re emotionally delicate right now.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m emotionally fine.”

“She’s in denial,” Jack whispers. “Classic phase two.”

You groan, swiping your pass at the entrance and holding the door open for your band of feral ducklings.

—

You’re halfway through your warm-up laps when it happens. You jog around the corner of the facility and pass by a small group of guys—some local trainers and junior athletes. You nod politely at them, earbuds in, barely noticing.

But they notice you. One of them—tall, maybe twenty-five—stares for a second too long. Not creepy. Just curious. And apparently, that’s enough to start World War III. Because from across the room, you hear a voice yell.

“HEY. EYES UP, BRO. THAT’S MY MOM.”

You stop in your tracks. Spin around. Ollie is storming toward the guy with a hand on his chest like he’s about to deliver the sermon of the year.

The poor guy looks so confused. “I—what?”

“She’s a national treasure,” Ollie says, dead serious. “You don’t ogle national treasures.”

You jog back over, cheeks already burning from embarrassment. “Ollie. He just wanted an autograph.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Yes. He’s holding a pen.”

The guy timidly raises his hand. “I just wanted to say hi. I’m a fan.”

Ollie glares. You sigh and pat the fan on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I appreciate it.”

Behind you, Isack leans toward Franco. “Should we start screening everyone she interacts with?”

“Already doing it,” Franco says, typing something into his phone. “I have a form.”

—

By mid-afternoon, they’ve followed you to recovery. Then to the simulator. Then back to your place, where they claim they’re “just checking your locks.” Kimi installs a door camera. Jack offers to sleep on your couch. Gabriel keeps offering to cook for you.

Every time you so much as look at your phone, someone leans over your shoulder.

Ollie squints, head on my shoulder. “Who’s that?”

You sigh and chuckle. “My nutritionist.”

Franco looks up at you. “Okay. What’s his intention?”

”My nutrition.”

Eventually, you collapse onto the couch, arms folded, finally fed up.

“Guys,” you say flatly, “I’m not a baby deer in a storm. I am fine. No one needs to be screened. I don’t need a 24-hour security team. And I definitely don’t need—”

Ding. Your phone lights up. A message from Max.

You alive or are they still holding you hostage?

You smile at the screen—just a little. Just enough for Isack to notice.

He leans forward. “Who was that.”

“Just… a friend.”

Six heads whip around.

“WHO.”

You roll your eyes and stand. “I’m going to shower. Please, for the love of god, do not follow me.”

They groan like they’re being abandoned on a battlefield. And as you shut the bathroom door behind you, you hear Jack whisper.

“We need to escalate. Operation Boyfriend starts now.”

—

f1gossipgirls

785,090 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Mercedes driver YN LN made her first paddock appearance since her rumored breakup — and if anyone’s heartbroken, it’s definitely not her. Looking radiant and unbothered, she was welcomed with a big hug from teammate Kimi Antonelli and closely tailed by Isack Hadjar, who appeared glued to her side all day.

The real kicker? Her full squad of rookie ducklings followed her everywhere — from the garage to the grid walk to the drivers parade, forming what can only be described as a personal security detail (or cult? unclear). But we love this new and radiant Grid Mum!

—

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username000 : kimi hugging her like a baby koala was not on my 2025 bingo card but i’ll take it

username00 : ollie: “she doesn’t need us” also ollie: breathing down the neck of anyone who looks at her for more than 0.2 seconds 😭

username0 : franco, gabriel, jack, ollie, kimi, and isack acting like sons to a woman only a few years older than them… peak formula 1 content

username1 : Grid Mum is such an accurate title like they would all FOLLOW HER INTO BATTLE 😭

username5 : i’ve never been more proud of a woman i’ve never met in my LIFE. she won. she’s glowing. she has six rookies as her army. iconic behavior only.

—

The date with Carlos was scheduled with precision.

Ollie booked the restaurant himself, despite forgetting to ask whether you were allergic to seafood. Isack made a shared Google Doc of outfit suggestions. Franco literally coached Carlos on what not to say during the car ride there. Gabriel told you to “just act natural,” which was rich coming from someone who panics ordering coffee.

Carlos, for his part, handled it like a champ.

“You know they sent me a PDF,” he tells you, raising an eyebrow as the waiter pours wine.

You blink. “A PDF?”

He nods, fighting a smile. “Title was ‘So You Think You Can Date YN.’”

You nearly choke on your water. “I swear to God.”

He grins. “Very detailed. They had a whole section on things not to mention. Like your ex. Or 2019 qualifying in Monaco.”

“Fair,” you say, smirking.

To his credit, Carlos is very good at this. Charming, confident, a little teasing, but never pushy. He asks about your training, your favorite circuits, the meaning behind the small tattoo on your wrist. He compliments your eyes like he means it.

And for a second, you let yourself lean into it. Until you spot them. Behind Carlos, tucked into a booth near the corner?

The Ducklings.

Poorly disguised in sunglasses, hoodies, and baseball caps—like a weird boyband on the run.

Jack has a menu held upside down. Gabriel is clearly filming on his phone. Ollie is wearing a fake moustache. Franco waves when you make eye contact. Kimi sits with his arms crossed like a bodyguard. And Isack’s just… staring at Carlos. Like he wants to wrestle him across the table.

You bite back a laugh. Carlos follows your gaze, glancing over his shoulder. He turns back, grinning.

“Should we tell them I saw them an hour ago?”

“No,” you say, sipping your wine. “Let them have their fun.”

He raises his glass. “To the worst spies in F1 history.”

—

You don’t know how they convinced Pierre to do this. Maybe it was Franco’s charm. Maybe it was the rookie group chat descending into madness after “Carlos Date Day.” Or maybe Pierre’s just here for the chaos, as always.

Either way, here you are. Dress. Dinner. Dim lighting. And Pierre, in an offensively good shirt, holding out a chair like he was born for this.

“I must say,” he smirks, “the moment they approached me with the idea, I said finally. Someone’s letting me take the prettiest driver on the grid out.”

You snort. “Do you use that line often?”

He grins, absolutely unapologetic. “Only when it’s true.”

You sit, trying not to smile too much. The restaurant is all low lighting and flickering candles—Pierre’s choice, obviously. He orders a bottle of wine in French, and the waiter actually blushes. You already regret letting Franco be in charge of the location.

“So,” you say, narrowing your eyes playfully, “what did the Ducklings promise you?”

“Ah,” he leans back dramatically, “they said if I sweep you off your feet, I get Kimi’s sim time for the month.”

You blink. “That’s… weirdly generous.”

“I know.” He raises his glass. “They’re getting desperate.”

You clink. “They are insane.”

“Insanely devoted to you,” he corrects.

You pause. Let that sit. Because he’s not wrong. And that’s when you spot them. The Ducklings. At it again.

Ollie and Isack behind the wine rack. Kimi pretending to be a server with an apron and a scowl. Jack crouching behind a decorative plant that is way too small. Gabriel and Franco sitting two tables over with fake menus covering their faces, whispering like spies.

You sigh into your wine. “They are so bad at hiding.”

Pierre glances over, raises an eyebrow, and smirks. “Should we give them something to talk about?”

You lean forward, amused. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just raises a brow and slowly reaches across the table to take your hand, smooth and steady. In the background, someone gasps audibly. Definitely Isack. Pierre doesn’t flinch.

“They need to believe I’m a threat,” he says lowly, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Otherwise, what’s the fun?”

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’m French,” he says with a wink. “Same thing.”

—

over with the rookies…

“HE’S HOLDING HER HAND. HE’S HOLDING HER HAND.” Ollie panics into his little earpiece.

Isack sighs. “Deploying emotional damage protocol. Permission to interfere?”

Kimi sets the glass of water down at the table he is pretending to serve. “Negative. We observe. We do not assassinate.”

Gabriel smiles from behind the menu. “She just looks so pretty. I wouldn’t be able to let go either.”

Franco starts panicking and fanning himself with said menu. “Guys. She’s smiling.”

Jack puts his head down. “It’s Carlos all over again. This is a spiral.”

Ollie face palms. “I told you we should’ve gone with Alex first. He would’ve been soft. Safe. Pierre has an agenda.”

—

Pierre’s still holding your hand when you laugh—genuine and loud and a little tipsy. The date has been fun, even if it feels like an elaborate school play. He’s charming, flirty, just the right amount of dangerous. But still…

Not the one who sent you a photo of your coffee order this morning. Not the one who smirks every time the rookies panic. Not the one who hasn’t stopped texting you versions of “good luck surviving them” all day.

You finish dessert—chocolate tart and rookie glares—and stand with Pierre as the waiter brings the bill. He leans close, lips brushing your cheek.

“Merci, chérie,” he murmurs, warm and quiet. “This was fun.”

And it was. But the second you step outside and the rookies swarm you, dramatic as ever—

Ollie checks you over quickly, holding your arms. “ARE YOU OKAY? DID HE POISON YOU WITH COMPLIMENTS?”

Isack rushes over, out of breath. “DO YOU HAVE EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH??”

Gabriel reaches up and brushes your hair. “Did he touch your hair???”

You just laugh, shrugging them off as you walk to the car. Because even though Pierre was perfect on paper— He wasn’t Max. And maybe the rookies haven’t figured it out yet.

—

You were promised a casual night.

“Low pressure,” Gabriel said.

“Light-hearted,” Jack promised.

“Just Alex,” Franco winked. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Famous last words. Because ten minutes into sitting across from Alex Albon at a cozy Thai restaurant — one he picked himself — you clock all six rookies sitting in a booth across the room in matching black hoodies like they’re in a rogue choir.

Alex leans in, smiling wide as he watches you clock them. “So. We’re ignoring the Secret Service detail?”

“Apparently,” you deadpan. “Their idea of ‘stealth’ is coordinated outfits and Jack holding a menu upside down.”

Alex chuckles, offering you a piece of spring roll with his chopsticks. “I’ll admit, I kind of love the chaos. Makes me feel like I’m in a sitcom.”

You grin, accepting it. “Is this their idea of soft-launching us?”

“Please,” Alex says, mock offended. “If I was soft-launching you, it’d be on a boat, golden hour lighting, maybe a quirky caption.”

You laugh out loud. Truth be told, this is the most normal of the “dates” so far. Alex is sweet, calm, and effortlessly funny. He talks to you like you’ve known each other for years. No pressure, no forced charm. Just vibing over pad see ew and Thai iced teas. Still, something’s… off. Not with him, exactly. Just… something.

—

duckling commentary…

Ollie whispers lowly. “Why is she laughing that hard? What did he say? I need a transcript.”

Isack squints. “She looks relaxed. TOO relaxed.”

Kimi shrugs. “He’s got soft energy. I’m not threatened.”

Franco sighs. “But what if she likes soft energy.”

Gabriel with a mouth full. “I like Alex. He’s soft. Like tofu.”

Jack moves the menu from his face. “I will literally flip this table if he touches her hand.”

—

back to you and mr. albon…

“You know,” Alex says, mid-bite, “I told them this was ridiculous. I said, ‘She’s not looking for someone. She’s got that look in her eye like she already found someone and hasn’t told them yet.’”

You go still.

He looks up at you. “Sorry—was that too much?”

You stare at him for a second.

And then: “No. That was… very on point.”

Alex smiles, a little softer now. “It’s not me, is it?”

You shake your head slowly. “No.”

He sits back, letting out a small breath. “Didn’t think so. Just wanted to be sure before I told Isack to stop plotting date number four.”

You laugh. Like full body laugh.

“God, they’re so intense.”

“They’re obsessed with you,” Alex says easily. “I get it. You’re kind of their mum. But also their queen. Their general. Their—”

“Duck wrangler.”

“Exactly.”

You sip your drink. “You’re handling this well.”

“I like being a decoy,” Alex shrugs. “Gives me a front row seat to the Max Verstappen Situation.”

You choke. “The what?”

He smirks. “Oh, come on. You don’t think we all saw him volunteer for the draft room? He showed up like he’d already won.”

You press your lips together. “It’s… complicated.”

“Is it?” Alex grins. “Because I think the only people who haven’t figured it out are the rookies. And honestly? I’m not telling them. Watching this slow unraveling is the best thing to happen to the paddock since Pierre got stuck in that bathroom in Baku.”

—

You and Alex step out of the restaurant into the night air, the six rookies immediately materializing from inside.

Isack approaches quickly. “Rate the date. Out of 10. Be honest.”

Ollie checks you over, again. “Did he hold you?”

Kimi crosses his arms. “I brought pepper spray in case things got weird.”

Gabriel sighs dramatically. “Alex, are you in love with her?”

Jack stares at you. “Was it mid?? Be real.”

Franco stares down Alex. “You better not hurt her or I’ll flatten you on the sidewalk.”

Alex just throws his hands up. “Guys. I’m literally the safe option. You picked me for vibe control.”

—

The place is quiet. Max picked a rooftop bar just outside the city — warm lights, open air, panoramic views, and most importantly—no cameras. Well. Except the ones hidden behind a concrete planter across the deck. You glance toward it and spot the very obvious outline of Ollie’s curly hair. You don’t even say anything. Max sees it too. He smirks.

“They really don’t know how to blend in, huh?”

“Nope.”

“I think he is wearing the fake mustache again.”

“I give them points for commitment.”

You clink your glasses together — you with a ginger beer, Max with something dark and still half-ignored — and settle into the kind of silence that feels earned, not awkward. The breeze lifts your hair slightly. His eyes follow the movement, just for a second.

“You’ve been humoring them,” he says after a while.

You glance at him. “You’ve been letting them spiral.”

He grins. “I don’t intervene in things I already won.”

Your heart does a thing. You sip your drink to cover it.

—

meanwhile at the rookie watchtower…

Jack smiles, looking satisfied. “Okay, we’re officially in the final boss round.”

Isack eyes the both of you. “Do we think he’s actually playing the game or just… winning by default?”

Gabriel shrugs. “He’s not even trying to flirt and it’s working. I hate it here.”

Ollie squints at Max. “He’s got that smug ‘I already kissed her’ look—”

Franco shrieks. “Wait. Has he???”

Kimi eyes all of the boys. “Do we interfere if tongues happen.”

All of them erupt. “YES.”

—

back with you and maxie…

Back at the table, Max leans forward slightly, eyes on you like he’s choosing every word carefully.

“I’m glad you let them do this.”

“Yeah?”

“Gave me a front-row seat to your smile. And their chaos. Win-win.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So what’s your plan? You know they’re watching.”

He shrugs. “Not here to impress them.”

“Oh?”

Max sets his drink down.

“I’m here to kiss you in front of them and end this game.”

You go still. Heart? Racing.

“You’re serious.”

He stands. Offers his hand. You take it. And then he pulls you in gently, tilting your chin up just enough, and kisses you like it’s not even a question anymore. Like it never was. Warm. Certain. Slow. Soft. And behind you—

“OH MY GOD.”

“THAT’S ILLEGAL.”

“THAT’S AGAINST THE RULES.”

You don’t even break the kiss until Max pulls back with a laugh, turning just slightly toward the human pile of rookies currently losing their minds behind a planter.

His arm stays looped around your waist.

“That’s against the rules!” Ollie yells again, hands flailing.

Max smirks. Shrugs.

“I don’t follow rules,” he says simply, “when she’s already mine.”

Jack screams into a napkin.

Franco blinks in disbelief. “HE SAID WHAT—”

Isack looks like he is going to faint. “I NEED TO SIT DOWN.”

Gabriel clutching his chest. “I think I just blacked out.”

Kimi smirked. “I knew it. I KNEW IT.”

Ollie crumbles quickly. “They made us schedule a date with Alex when she was already WITH HIM—”

You turn toward Max, cheeks warm, heart light, still half-shocked and entirely melted.

“That was… dramatic.”

“Worth it.”

“You really planned to one-up the rookies?”

He grins. “No. I planned to end the game before they tried to match you with Lando.”

You laugh and kiss him again — brief, bright, completely yours. Alongside the two of you, six ducklings begin planning a joint wedding speech.

—

maxverstappen1

liked by gabrielbortoleto_, olliebearman, kimi.antonelli and 5,505,023 others.

maxverstappen1 : grid mom and dad making it official. love you, schat❤️

tagged : yourusername

—

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gabrielbortoleto_ : i feel like i found out santa isn’t real but also found out my parents are canceling the divorce on the same day.