#mads ocs

[maddiemuu]

clara doodle i started last night!

[abandoned-quiche]

I LOVE ALL OF THESE CHARACTERS BTW. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOUR HATE FOR THEM ON MY POST

[charlotteking27]

The pretty interviewer

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are Max's favorite interviewer...so much that he will not stop flirting with you.

PT2: Pursuing the journalist

Three Races Earlier…

You stand off to the side of the paddock, fiddling with your Sky Sports F1 microphone. As the newest member of the broadcasting team, you typically handle the less significant interviews, while the veteran reporters get to speak with drivers like Max Verstappen. Today, you're set to interview one of the midfield teams.

The buzz in the paddock suddenly grows as Max comes out of the Red Bull garage after his stunning pole position. A crowd of reporters quickly surrounds him, microphones pushed forward, voices overlapping with "Max! Max, a moment, please!"

You watch from your quiet spot while he walks past them, his expression neutral and barely acknowledging them. This scene is familiar. Max is known for being choosy with the media and often speaks only to a select few senior reporters.

That’s why your heart skips a beat when his eyes suddenly turn to you. His face brightens with a smile, and before you realize it, he changes direction and walks confidently toward your corner.

"Sorry," he tells the stunned reporters behind him, not sounding sorry at all. "I'm giving my first interview to her."

You hear your producer’s voice in your earpiece: "Wait, what's happening?"

Max stops right in front of you, that familiar half-smile on his lips. "Hi," he says casually, as if he hasn’t just brushed off every major broadcaster in the paddock.

"I… um…" You struggle to collect your thoughts, acutely aware of the jealous stares from the other reporters. "Hi?"

He laughs softly at your surprise. "You're new, right? I've seen you around. You ask good questions – technical ones. Not just the usual PR stuff."

"I… yes, I started this weekend," you manage to reply, still in shock. "But shouldn't you be talking to—"

"I'm talking to exactly who I want to talk to," he cuts in, his Dutch accent somehow stronger when he speaks softly. "So, would you like to hear about that qualifying lap?"

𐙚

That first interview changed everything. Since then, Max has asked to give you his post-session interviews. Each one became more flirtatious than the last. This brings you to today.

The Red Bull garage looms ahead as you adjust your Sky Sports F1 microphone for the thousandth time. Post-qualifying interviews are routine by now, but nothing about interviewing Max Verstappen has ever felt normal. Especially not since he started doing whatever this is.

"Three minutes," your producer says through your earpiece. You try to focus on your questions, but all you can think of is last week's interview. Max had deliberately held your gaze so long that you forgot the second half of your question.

He emerges from the garage, race suit tied at his waist as usual. Your heart skips a beat as he approaches, wearing that annoying half-smile that makes you forget basic English.

"Max, congratulations on another pole position," you begin professionally.

"Thanks," he interrupts, eyes shining. "I was hoping it would be you interviewing me today."

You feel warmth creeping up your neck. Stay professional, you remind yourself. "That last lap was incredible. How did you find the grip through—"

"The grip was good," he says, leaning slightly closer than necessary. "But you seem a bit nervous today. Everything okay?"

Your producer chuckles in your ear. Traitor.

"I'm perfectly fine," you manage, though your voice comes out higher than you wanted. "About turn three—"

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says quietly, just low enough that the microphone won't catch it. The smirk on his lips tells you he knows exactly what he's doing.

You almost drop your notebook. "I'm trying to conduct an interview here," you whisper back, fighting a smile.

"And I'm trying to ask you out," he counters smoothly before raising his voice back to interview level. "But yes, turn three was tricky today. The crosswind made it challenging."

Your face feels like it's on fire. You're painfully aware of the camera rolling, capturing what must be the most unprofessional blush in F1 broadcasting history.

"Speaking of challenges," Max continues, clearly enjoying himself, "there's this great restaurant in Monaco that's almost impossible to get into. I have a reservation for two tomorrow night if you're interested in discussing race strategy, of course."

You hear your producer choking back laughter. "The interview, Max," you remind him, trying to sound stern despite your racing heart.

"Right, right. The interview." He grins. "But about dinner…"

"Maybe we should finish talking about your qualifying lap first?" You're fighting a losing battle against your smile now.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, then winks. "But just so you know, I'm going to keep flirting with you until you say yes."

Your producer is practically cackling now. "Best. Interview. Ever," she whispers in your ear.

"The qualifying lap, Max," you insist, but you’re grinning too.

"The qualifying lap," he agrees, finally sitting up straight and attempting to look serious. "But I should warn you, I'm very persistent. Almost as persistent as I am on track."

You shake your head, trying to remember your questions through the butterfly storm in your stomach. One thing's for sure—this interview is definitely going viral on F1 Twitter.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll say yes to that dinner in Monaco.

𐙚

You barely remember how you finished that interview. Your mind is still spinning from Max's dinner invitation. But the real chaos is just starting.

Your notifications have not stopped buzzing since that interview aired. #MaxAndTheReporter is trending on Twitter, and F1 TikTok is having a field day with edited clips of every moment you and Max shared during the past three races.

"OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER," says one viral tweet, featuring a slow-motion clip of Max's eyes softening when he sees you in the paddock.

"Remember when Max used to HATE interviews? Now he’s literally running to them. #MaxAndTheReporter." This tweet includes a side-by-side comparison of his usual stern media face and his smile when he approaches you.

Your producer sends you a link to a fan-made compilation video titled "Every time Max Verstappen has flirted with the Sky Sports reporter (so far)." It has already gathered 2 million views.

Not everyone is convinced. "She's just another reporter," one skeptic tweets. "Max is probably just being nice."

That theory gets blown away during the next race weekend. You're interviewing Carlos Sainz when Max casually walks by. He does such an obvious double-take that Carlos starts laughing mid-answer.

"I think someone wants to interrupt this interview," Carlos teases, watching Max hover nearby with barely hidden impatience.

"He can wait his turn," you respond professionally, though your cheeks warm when you hear Max chuckle behind you.

"Can I?" Max calls out. "Because I'm pretty sure my dinner reservation is in an hour, and someone still hasn't given me an answer."

Carlos raises his eyebrows and grins. "Ah, so the rumors are true?"

Your producer's voice crackles through your earpiece: "The social media is going absolutely crazy right now. This is better than Drive to Survive!"

Later that evening, a photo appears of you and Max at a hard-to-get-into restaurant in Monaco. He is looking at you instead of the camera, with that soft smile on his face that F1 Twitter has named the "reporter smile." Fan theories start to explode:

"HE REALLY TOOK HER TO DINNER, I'M SCREAMING." "The way he only smiles like that for her.❤️" "Remember when we thought Max would never date someone in the F1 media? This man really said 'Watch me."

Your phone buzzes with a text from Max: "Have you seen we’re trending again?"

You reply with an eye roll, trying to ignore the butterflies that haven't settled since that first interview.

"Good," he responds. "Maybe now everyone knows why I only want interviews with you."

Your producer sends you a message: "Just wait until they see tomorrow's pre-race interview. The internet might actually break."

You smile, thinking about how a simple paddock interview three races ago changed everything. From a reluctant interviewee to whatever this is becoming, Max Verstappen has definitely kept his promise about being persistent.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

[zorangezest]

rafael the 12 year old of all time. he should’ve been on hypixel bedwars

soundwave was not in fact hacking

[psin314]

please never shave your local bearded humans please.

[anbaisai]

AU where Mostro Lounge launches it as an official sporting event, because Azul smelled the business opportunity (featuring @raven-at-the-writing-desk's Miss Raven with Jade)

(Continuation of the book 4 mystery)

Bonus of the nefarious opportunistic octopus:

[may12324]

shes brat, if brat was a killer fairy princess

[lilaira]

Say Hi to Dr. Morphine, my newest OC I am losing my mind over.

[magavont]

Anhedonia 11/04/2025

Linktree

[sabellart]

i completely forgot to share my destiel kid oc here

her name’s aubrey :)

[maddiemuu]

finished that nicole piece from yesterday!

[sonzies]

bday dooldes for my buddies :J

[itsscaredycat]

disclaimer they are not actually angel and demon but i love a good ~motif~ with ocs

[charlotteking27]

Practice Makes Perfect

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: Max is teaching you how to sim race, but you are so bad, so when Max is gone to races, you are practicing and getting better, and one day you surprise Max by showing the improvement.

Requested: yes

Warning: none

"No, not like that! You're braking way too late again," Max sighed, running a hand through his hair as he watched you spin out for what felt like the hundredth time. His gaming setup was pristine, with three monitors, a professional racing wheel clamped to a custom rig, and pedals that had just the right amount of resistance. It looked like a mini Formula 1 cockpit in your living room.

The virtual car crashed violently into the barrier, parts flying across the screen as the red "DNF" flashed mockingly. This was your fifth crash in less than fifteen minutes.

"I don't get it," you groaned, releasing the wheel in frustration. "I swear I'm following the racing line exactly like you showed me."

Max leaned over your shoulder, and his cologne distracted you momentarily from your embarrassment. The warmth of his breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine as he spoke. "You're looking at the wrong thing. You're focusing on where you are now, not where you need to be in two seconds."

"That makes no sense," you huffed.

"Let me show you again." He gently moved you aside and took your place, his hands confidently gripping the wheel. "See how I'm looking ahead? I'm already planning for this corner while coming out of the previous one."

You watched, mesmerized, as he effortlessly guided the car through a series of complex corners. He made it look so natural and easy.

The next day's lesson wasn't any better. You managed to lock up the brakes on a straight section of track—something Max claimed he'd never even seen before.

"How is that even possible?" he laughed, not unkindly. "You weren't even turning!"

"I panicked," you admitted, feeling your cheeks burn. "I thought I was going too fast."

On day three, you somehow drove the wrong way around the track after a spin. "At least you're being creative," Max teased as you narrowly avoided a head-on collision with an AI car.

By the end of the first week, you'd discovered at least twenty different ways to crash a virtual race car. You'd flipped it over a barrier, beached it in a gravel trap, and once even managed to get it stuck between two tire walls in a way that Max had to take a photo of for posterity.

"Maybe I should just stick to watching you race," you suggested after a particularly spectacular crash that had Max doubled over with laughter.

"No way," he insisted, wiping tears from his eyes. "You're getting better."

"At crashing maybe!"

"Everyone crashes at first," he said, suddenly serious. "I crashed constantly when I was starting out. The difference is, I didn't have anyone watching me fail repeatedly."

You slumped back in the seat. "I'm hopeless at this."

Max's expression softened immediately. He leaned over, his arm brushing against yours as he reset the sim. "You're not hopeless. Nobody gets it right away." His voice had that gentle, patient tone he reserved just for you, a stark contrast to his competitive spirit on real tracks.

"Easy for you to say, Mr. World Champion," you teased, trying to mask your frustration.

He laughed, the sound warming you from the inside. "I've been doing this since I was a kid. Trust me, I was terrible at first, too." He placed his hands over yours on the wheel, his fingers gently interlacing with yours. The tender touch made your heart race faster than any virtual car. "Like this, okay? Feel the way the car moves. It's a conversation between you and the track."

The next attempt ended with your car upside down in a ditch. The one after that saw you spin out three times in a single lap.

Two days before he was scheduled to leave, you finally managed to complete a full lap without crashing, though your time was nearly double his. Max celebrated as if you'd just won a championship, picking you up and spinning you around the living room. When he set you down, his hands lingered at your waist, his eyes dropped to your lips before kissing you.

"See? Progress!" he exclaimed proudly, his voice slightly lower than before.

You tried a few more laps, still slow but at least keeping the car on the track. It felt like a minor miracle.

"I've got to head out tomorrow for the race weekend," he reminded you. "Three weeks on the road."

"I know," you said, forcing enthusiasm into your voice. "I'll be cheering you on from here."

Later that night, as Max packed his things, you caught him looking at you with that half-smile that always made your heart skip. His gaze held something deeper than just amusement—something that made your cheeks flush with warmth.

"What?" you asked, your voice softer than intended.

"Nothing," he replied, setting down the shirt he was folding and crossing the room to where you stood. "Just thinking how cute you look when you're concentrating on not crashing." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.

You threw a pillow at him, which he caught effortlessly. "I'll have you know, I'm going to be amazing by the time you get back."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Maybe," you said with mock confidence.

He kissed you goodbye the next morning, lingering longer than usual. His hands cupped your face tenderly as he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm going to miss this," he whispered. "Miss you."

"It's only three weeks," you reminded him, though your heart was already aching at the thought of him leaving.

"Three weeks too long," he replied with a sigh, stealing one more quick kiss before reluctantly heading out the door, leaving you with his spare key and the sim racing setup all to yourself.

𐙚

The first day alone, you just stared at the equipment. It was intimidating without Max there to guide you. But after scrolling through social media and seeing posts about his qualifying session, determination filled you. You sat down and turned everything on.

"Okay," you whispered to yourself. "Let's do this."

The first week was disastrous. You crashed constantly, forgot brake points, and once even forgot how to shift gears properly. But you kept at it, setting an alarm to practice two hours every day.

You started watching YouTube tutorials while eating breakfast. During lunch breaks, you studied track maps. Before bed, you watched Max's old races, noting his racing lines.

By the second week, something clicked. You weren't good—not by any stretch—but you were finishing laps. Your times were improving by fractions of seconds each day.

The third week, you became obsessed with Spa. You drove it over and over, memorizing every curve and every elevation change. You knew where the shadows fell across the track at different times of day, where puddles would form in the rain simulation.

Max called every night, usually exhausted from his race weekend.

"How's everything at home?" he'd ask, his voice softening when your face appeared on his screen.

"Perfect," you'd reply, carefully hiding the racing gloves you'd bought yourself behind your back. "Just missing you." The words weren't just part of the deception—you meant them, counting down the days until he'd return.

"Miss you too," he'd say, his eyes reflecting the hotel room's dim lighting. "The bed feels too empty without you." His voice would often drop to a whisper on those words, as though sharing a precious secret. "Haven't touched the sim setup, have you?"

You laughed nervously. "Why would I do that? You know I'm terrible."

The day before Max was due home, you set your personal best—still nowhere near his times, but respectable. More importantly, you completed twenty consecutive laps without a single crash.

You heard his key in the lock the next afternoon and jumped up from the couch, heart pounding with excitement.

"Welcome home!" you called, throwing your arms around him.

Max hugged you tight, his face buried in your neck. "God, I missed you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes drinking you in as though memorizing every detail of your face. Then he kissed you deeply, backing you against the wall, three weeks of separation dissolving in an instant.

After dinner and catching up, he glanced at his sim setup. "I think I need to blow off some steam. Want to watch me do a few laps?"

You bit your lip, trying to contain your smile. "Actually… I was thinking maybe we could race together?"

He looked surprised but pleased. "Really? You want to try again?"

"Something like that," you said mysteriously.

You sat down at the rig, and you let him choose the track. Your heart leapt when he selected Spa.

"You go first," you insisted.

Max shrugged and proceeded to drive a nearly perfect lap. When he finished, he handed you the wheel with an encouraging smile. "Your turn. Remember what I taught you about the bus stop chicane?"

"I think so," you said innocently.

You settled in, adjusted your position, and started your lap. You hit the first corner perfectly, feeling Max's surprise beside you. By the time you navigated Eau Rouge flawlessly, he was leaning forward, completely focused on your driving.

"How are you—" he began, but stopped himself as you nailed the next series of corners.

When you crossed the finish line with a time only five seconds slower than his, Max's jaw literally dropped. You turned to him with the biggest grin.

"Surprise?"

"When did you—how did you—" he stammered.

"Every day while you were gone," you admitted. "I wanted to impress you."

His stunned expression melted into something incredibly tender. He pulled you into his lap, nearly knocking over the wheel. His arms encircled your waist as he gazed up at you with adoration. "You practiced all that time for me?"

You nodded, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of his gaze. "I know how much you love this, and I wanted to share it with you properly."

Max cupped your face in his hands, thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me." He kissed you softly, then more deeply, one hand sliding into your hair to draw you closer. When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. "But you know what this means, right?"

"What?"

A competitive glint appeared in his eyes. "Now we can race against each other for real."

You laughed. "I'm still not going to beat you."

"No," he agreed with a mischievous smile. "But it'll be fun to watch you try."

He pulled you closer, your bodies fitting perfectly together. "Best welcome home ever," he whispered against your lips before kissing you again, slow and deep, the race forgotten for now. His hand traced lazy patterns along your back as you melted against him, feeling as though you'd won something far more valuable than any virtual race.

The next morning, you woke to find Max already at the sim rig, setting something up. Sunlight streamed through the window, gilding his profile as he worked, and you took a moment to admire him—the concentration in his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" you asked sleepily, hugging the blanket around you as you padded over to him.

He turned with that boyish excitement you loved so much, his face lighting up at the sight of you. "Setting up a two-player race." He reached for your hand, pulling you onto his lap and nuzzling his face into your neck. "I've got a week off, and we're going to make you even better."

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him from behind. "I like the sound of that."

"Plus," he said, turning to face you with a grin, "now I finally have someone who gets why I'm always talking about apex angles at dinner."

"I created a monster, didn't I?"

"Absolutely," he nodded, pulling you down for a quick kiss. "And I couldn't be happier about it."

As you sat side by side, racing in comfortable silence, sometimes interrupted by his tips or your victorious shouts when you nailed a corner, you realized that the best surprises were those that brought you closer together, one lap at a time.

𐙚

A few days later, Max walked into the living room with a mischievous look on his face.

"I have an idea," he announced, placing his phone on the coffee table.

You looked up from your book. "That look makes me nervous. What are you planning?"

"How would you feel about racing with me on my live stream tonight?"

Your eyes widened. "Your stream? With all your fans watching?" Max's sim racing streams had hundreds of thousands of viewers—mostly racing fans and his F1 followers.

"They'd love it," he insisted, already setting up the webcam. "Everyone asks about my personal life anyway. It would be fun to show them what we've been up to."

Your stomach fluttered with nerves. "But I'm not anywhere near your level."

Max sat beside you, taking your hands in his. "That's not the point. It's about sharing something we both enjoy." His eyes softened. "Plus, I'm proud of how far you've come. Is that weird to say?"

You felt your cheeks warm. "Not weird at all."

"So?" he asked hopefully.

How could you say no to that face? "Okay, fine. But don’t blame me when I crash and embarrass you in front of everyone."

He kissed your forehead. "You won't embarrass me."

That evening, Max set everything up—the cameras positioned to capture both your faces and the screens, while the chat window was minimized but still visible for him to catch questions.

"Going live in three, two, one…" Max clicked the button and shifted into his stream persona. "Hey everyone! I've got something special for tonight's stream." He glanced at you with a warm smile. "Many of you have asked about what I do when I'm not racing, so I thought I'd introduce you to someone who's become my favorite racing partner."

You awkwardly waved to the camera as the chat filled with messages.

"We're doing something a bit different," Max continued. "A few weeks ago, I started teaching her how to sim race, and today, we're going head-to-head on Spa. It's one of my favorite circuits, as you all know."

The chat scrolled by too quickly to read, but you caught glimpses of excitement and surprise.

Max guided you through setting up the race, occasionally answering viewer questions. "Yes, she's been practicing while I was away at races. No, this isn't staged—I genuinely had no idea she was getting this good."

When the race started, your nerves faded away as you focused on the track. Max took an early lead, but you kept your lines clean, remembering everything you had practiced.

"She is actually keeping pace!" Max commented on the stream, sounding amazed. "Look at that line through Eau Rouge—perfect!"

You bit your lip, concentrating as you navigated the trickiest sections. The chat was buzzing, and Max expertly narrated both his driving and yours.

On the final lap, Max was still ahead, but you were much closer than either of you had expected. As you crossed the finish line just seconds behind him, he let out a cheer.

"Did you all see that?" he exclaimed to the camera. "That was impressive!" He turned to you with pride. "You're getting dangerous, you know that?"

You couldn't help but grin at his enthusiasm. The chat overflowed with supportive messages and requests for you to join regularly.

"What do you think?" Max asked, nodding toward the comments. "The fans seem to like you."

You leaned against his shoulder, no longer caring about the camera. "I could be convinced to come back."

"Good," he said, wrapping an arm around you while still addressing the stream. "Because I think I just found my new favorite racing rival."

As the stream continued, with Max answering fan questions and the two of you racing on different tracks, you marveled at how something that started as his passion became a shared joy—one that even his fans enjoyed.

And when Max looked at you between races with that special smile that made your heart race faster than any sim car, his fingers intertwined with yours under the desk where the camera couldn't see, you knew you'd found something more valuable than improved lap times. In that moment, with his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand and his eyes filled with admiration, you realized you hadn't just learned to master virtual corners—you'd found your way deeper into his heart.

[redlinespeedster]

how about teammate reader 👀

Like taking out frustration on the teammate!reader after today's race

DOWNFORCE !!

mad max 𝒙 teammate!fem reader ⡡

[summary] the spanish grand prix couldn’t have gone any worse—at least not for Max. After losing his podium and receiving a well-deserved penalty, an uncontrollable rage begins to build inside him. But there’s one outlet for all that anger: his teammate.

[warnings] smut !! rough sex, degrading dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, choking, spitting, hair pulling, oral sex (male receiving) & face fucking, max is mean. Just a heads up, this fic might have some language mistakes. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] I’ll admit it, Mad Max is my not-so-guilty pleasure. 🤭 The angrier he gets, the more I just want him to fuck me senseless. By the way, I’m a huge fan of Max x teammate reader!! How about we turn it into an au? Drop your naughty ideas for the next parts.

It had been a tough race week for Red Bull… Well, for everyone—except you.

You spent all sixty-six laps fighting for the lead, going wheel-to-wheel with Oscar Piastri, who never stopped challenging for first place. The cars overtook each other several times until the safety car was deployed. From that moment on, your job was to hold position, right behind Oscar.

Throughout the entire weekend, you did everything perfectly. Flawless qualifying, flawless overtakes. You even took home a nice little trophy for pole position, adding another one to your growing collection. Winning was inevitable; you were the favorite to fight for the race, and by the final laps, you had already been voted Driver of the Day. The race was going well—truly great, actually… at least, until the very end.

The drama began as soon as the green flag was waved again in the final laps. Max, your teammate who was running in third place, was forced to make a risky move that allowed Charles Leclerc to overtake him. As if that wasn’t enough, Max unfairly took the position from George Russell, which led the team to pressure him into giving it back. Amid protests and frustration, the Dutchman intentionally caused a minor collision with the Mercedes driver, effectively ruining his race. He received a ten-second penalty that dropped him to the last spot within the points.

Max couldn’t have been angrier. A large part of his fury stemmed from the unbearable envy that rose from deep within him as he watched his teammate get far luckier than he had.

You didn’t even see him storm out of his car—you were too busy celebrating a back-to-back victory that bumped you up in the standings, now nearly tied with Max in points.

He would never be happy for you. Never. His only desire is to defeat you, no matter the cost. He can’t stand having to compete with you. He knows he’s better than you, and he makes sure you know it every time you’re alone — even when you’re disoriented — because his hands between your legs silence any attempt at protest.

And that’s how it’s been since you joined the team, unfortunately. For him, it was easy to throw hurtful words at you, wait for your protest, and then break you down for reacting “rudely.” You had to settle for anything less than what he had—because otherwise, he’d use you until you couldn’t even stand. You’d be lying if you said you haven’t stolen positions from him on purpose at least once, just to piss him off. His irritating side scared you, but at the same time, it attracted you in a strange way.

You’d lie with shameless ease if you said you weren’t fascinated by him.

He stormed into the team’s motorhome with indescribable rage. Deep down, you expected it. You were sipping from your bottle when the door slammed shut with force, leaving you stunned… just like so many other times. You wished you could say you’d never seen him like this, but this scene had played out more times than you’d like to admit.

But before you could complain or tell him to calm down, he grabbed your arm with a grip that burned against your skin. In one swift movement, he pushed you against the wall, his body practically pinning yours. With his height, build, and weight, he looked imposing… even intimidating, especially to your eyes that shone like those of a cornered puppy.

“Don’t you got anything to say to me?” he asked, and your mind filled with questions. Did you have to say something? Offer your condolences, maybe? But it hadn’t even been your fault. You were just faster, and that’s why you ended up in first place.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked, your face serious, almost like you were spitting it out. “That you screwed up your own race ’cause of your fucking selfish ass? That now you’ve got the noose around your neck ’cause you’re just one point away from getting banned and not being able to race?”

And you almost let out a moan when he tangled a hand in your hair and pulled it with little delicacy, tearing a whimper of pain from you. Max had many flaws, and one of the most obvious was that he couldn’t stand being told things as they were.

Another of his problems — and no less serious — was his inability to control how irritable he could get. He was like a harmless matchstick until it fell on four gasoline tanks. Because when he got angry, he exploded in ways you had never witnessed before. It was almost as if he completely lost control, as if something inside him was unleashed without restraint.

“What did we say about being cheeky?” he says seriously, barely opening his eyes, a spark of annoyance burning in his gaze. His other hand slowly descends, tracing your torso over the fireproof suit. The tips of his fingers barely brush your navel, and just the thought that he might keep going down makes you shiver uncontrollably.

With the same hand that just caressed you moments ago, he roughly squeezes your cheeks, enough to make your face ache.

“I’m gettin’ tired of havin’ to shut that little bitchy mouth of yours,” he spits out, and you could swear you hear his teeth grinding as he speaks.

He watches your face, how your pupils dilate, and for a moment, his anger fades away. But it’s just that: a moment. Then it returns, dragging him like a relentless wave, and it seems like he can only unleash it on you.

Suddenly, he’s kissing you. He does it with intensity, with force, even with an almost rough, dirty edge. There’s no trace of tenderness on his lips, only unrestrained desire as they move over yours. As always, you try to keep up with his pace. Your breath catches, your heart pounds violently against your chest, and a pleasurable sensation spreads through your whole body as he melts his mouth with yours.

According to him, it was the best way to let off steam. Every time a race didn’t go as he expected, he came back to you: to your lips, the way your body fit perfectly against his, and how well you welcomed him. You were almost like a drug, an addiction he always ended up relapsing into.

His tongue invades your mouth with an almost arrogant confidence, moving with a rhythm that leaves you breathless. You barely manage to keep up, softly gasping against his lips as he dominates you with every touch. If his tongue is already hard to bear, you don’t know how you’ll handle something much bigger pushing inside you. The thought makes you tremble, just as his tongue curls around yours—wet, firm, caressing it as if already rehearsing for something much deeper.

You feel your pussy throbbing. Well… actually, it wasn’t unexpected at all. The way he kissed you, how he grabbed your hair roughly and let slip degrading comments, without a doubt, triggered an immediate reaction between your legs. Your skin burned. You unconsciously squeeze your thighs as you hyperventilate, and yet you keep kissing him, even when it’s already hard to breathe.

Suddenly, he breaks the kiss that had you completely dazed and grabs your hair firmly again, while strands of saliva still hang from your lips. It was no longer just pain you felt: now it was rough, almost cruel. You softly moan, squinting your eyes from the discomfort.

“Get on your knees, liefje.” He orders, with an almost annihilating look, one of those that don’t need words to warn: do what I say or face the consequences.

And who were you to contradict one of his orders?

You can feel how hard he is beneath his clothes. He knew you would always be there to satisfy his desires, and he wasn’t wrong. Because you always were. Your hands slowly trace the edge of his fireproof pants, as if you were drawing a map you already knew by heart. His cock drips pre-cum, clearly visible through the thin fabric of his clothing.

However, his impatience betrays him, and he hates to see you make him wait, especially when he is consumed by desperation. As soon as his cock is free, you choke as you feel him push it all the way down your throat. For a moment, a gag reflex threatens to escape, but you manage to control it.

Max pants softly. He feels overwhelmed with pleasure from the simple touch of your lips wrapping around him. But it’s not enough, not even when he sees you choke, your eyes full of tears from not being able to take it. He shamelessly mocks you while guiding your movements with his hands, practically fucking your mouth. Your tongue precisely reaches every sensitive spot it traces on his cock, igniting every nerve along the way.

You could feel the pre-cum sliding and dripping over your tongue. Its taste was strange, but not unpleasant to you. His grip on your hair grows firmer as your head moves in a constant sway. He can feel your tongue in every corner, a wet mess of saliva and desire, but he melts when he notices your gaze fixed on his. Then, he pulls away from you for a moment.

He doesn't want to cum until he's inside you. That’s something he never says out loud, but you know it. He likes it—especially when there’s time to spare.

Your racing suit is almost on the floor now, sliding down around your ankles. Your cheeks flush; you’re not sure if it’s from the heat or if shyness suddenly crept in. He, however, only seems to care just enough to tease you about it.

"Really, you get shy after sucking my cock like a complete slut?" He says it with a dry laugh as he lifts you up and sits you on the table. His hand runs along the inside of your thighs until he spreads your legs, making you feel exposed. “Oh, look at that little pussy. Hard to believe I’ve filled it more times than you can count on your fingers.”

His fingers gently trace the line of your folds, and you are so sensitive that the wet, sticky sound of his fingers touching you makes you shiver. You’re already worked up just thinking he might bring his mouth closer; eyes locked on his, you’re practically begging for it.

But it was all just a cruel tease. After getting you all riled up, close enough to make you believe he was finally gonna devour you—he doesn’t. Instead, he spits on you. No warning. Just lets his saliva drip onto your throbbing clit… and that alone pulls a broken, desperate moan from your lips—messy and completely involuntary.

“Max, fuck…” you arch your back, unable to hold in the sound that escapes you. “That’s so unfair…” But before you can complain again, his hand wraps firmly around your neck—dominant, unforgiving—cutting your breath just enough to make you shiver. And the heat between your legs only gets worse, burning under the weight of his dark, hungry gaze.

“Life ain’t fair, mijn kleine hoer.” He says it with a smug little grin, tightening his grip around your neck. His body’s already damn near on top of yours, pinning you to the table. For a second, you actually thought he might stay like that, enjoying having all the power…

But then—rough, almost wild—he flips you over and slams you down against the cold wood, your cheek pressed flat to the surface as the air rushes out of your lungs.

He’s got a perfect view of your half-naked body now, all exposed for him. He doesn’t even bother looking at your face—he’s still mad. Seeing you won’t calm him down. But maybe, just maybe, being deep inside you will take the edge off that rage burning in him.

“You’re dripping, liefje. Missed me that bad, huh?” With his fingers, he spreads open your ass cheeks, so that your wetness is staining your thighs. "Wanna fuck you?”

You nod desperately, again and again, while your whole body trembles with need; you had been waiting for this the last half hour, and the anticipation was devouring you from the inside, like fire under your skin. But since not a single word escapes your mouth, he punishes you mercilessly: the blow echoes against the skin of your ass, leaving it burning, red. Then you can’t hold back anymore, and you moan loudly: “Yes, fuck!”

He gently slides his cock through your wet folds, almost effortlessly driving you wild. His tip slams against your clit, causing you to arch your back and moan, begging for more. Your legs tremble; he has to hold you up so you don’t fall sitting to the floor.

"I’m gonna fuck your fucking pussy until you’re so obsessed you can’t even focus on racing ‘cause you’re thinking about my cock.” He murmurs aggressively. Your hole tightens around nothing just from hearing him speak like that.

He slides inside you without the courtesy of warning. The force of his thrusts borders on brutal, striking with precision that sensitive spot inside you that makes you see stars.

Your hands grasp the edge of the table, trying to find something to hold onto. His large, firm hand grips your head, pressing your cheek against the surface. You’re overflowing with pleasure, not even bothering to hold back your moans. The sound of your bodies colliding echoes inside the small room.

“Fuck… you’re so damn tight, schat,” he groans, head falling back as he keeps pounding into you, each thrust deeper than the last. The way you’re gripping him is driving him absolutely crazy—nothing else feels like this. You’re addictive. Hypnotic. “You take me so fucking good.”

By squeezing it harder than necessary, your hole manages to squeeze out every last drop of his thick, sticky cum. The semen drips out of your pussy in sticky strands, creating a complete mess all over.

You have an orgasm just seconds later. The sensation crashes over you mercilessly, tearing through everything in its path. It hits you in the stomach with such force that the pleasure consumes you from the inside out. You want to moan, scream his name, give in completely… but you can’t. He presses his hand over your mouth, muffling your sounds. Only a few desperate whimpers manage to escape through his fingers, laced with lust and surrender.

Max withdraws from inside you, fully satisfied. But you remain there, collapsed over that wooden table, while a wave of intense pleasure slowly drains every last drop of your energy. Exhaustion wraps around you completely.

He laughs at you with that dry, mocking chuckle he always uses to ridicule you. This time? He’s amused, as always, by how shattered you look when he’s done using you. His hand tangles in your hair again, pulling until your torso arches and your back is pressed against his chest. You’re still so shaken from what just happened that when he scatters kisses and bites along your neck, you can barely breathe.

“You’re so good, mijn sletje. Doesn’t matter if I win or lose—only thing I ever think about is how I’m gonna ruin you the second I get off that podium.”