#rush f1

[sonics-atelier]

Finished Watching Rush ( 2013 ) and omfg it's actually so good, this is probably the only f1 related movie that's actually so amazing, everyone's acting was top notch, I was on the edge of my seat the whole time and omg the gayness ? Max! ( cmon James beating that journalist up because of his stupid asf question to niki ? - I love him ) I've seen some people say it has some flaws but I'm willing to overlook this because I loved it sm. ( 4.8 / 5 stars )

Edit : Also the scene right before the Japan GP 1976 both of them are shirtless ( in hunt's case naked ) and they're looking out towards the sky and that reminded me so much of that scene in ROTS where both anakin and padme are looking towards the sky while they're apart like the amount of FEELS I got oml, this is seriously such good rpf material, hell I might write a fanfic for them myself.

[helcef]

SpiderKimi

Part time student, f1/2 driver, spiderman

Full time busy guy, its why hes always napping

Part of his logo suspiciously looks like the Prema racing logo and his suit is Mercedes fireproofs-esque but no ones connected the dots (yet)

Might make this into a whole au, feel free to leave ideas

[formulanni]

(Podium) class of 2024!

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls @brawngp2009

[postracehair]

gold rush

max verstappen x reader | 2.4k

max verstappen stands across the room from you at someone else's party. he's not yours, but he could be.

cw: cursing, perhaps overly introspective, allusions to sex, kissing, semi-established relationship without commitment, confessions, being desperately in love with max

a/n: this is a little different from my usual style. i...wrote it in two parts while wine drunk and yearny and listening to gold rush by taylor swift on repeat. it's a lethal combo for a girl, let me tell you. posting in honor of today's qatar win. i really like this one. please be nice to me. <3

--

It's torture.

Standing here across the room, glass in hand, watching.

He just looks so fucking good.

"Fuck me," you mutter. Some deep, animalistic urge tells you to bite clean through the rim of your wine glass. Chew on the shards until they're sand and swallow them easy as anything. It would probably be less painful than what you're currently doing.

Watching.

The object of your scrutiny straightens almost imperceptibly. A minuscule lengthening of his spine invisible to anyone who isn't examining his every move. For someone who is watched more often than not, you're surprised he feels your eyes on him.

But he does.

Max Verstappen turns away from his conversation partner slightly, a barely there shift of his chin to glance around the room. Blue eyes like the fucking ocean or some other cliche you can't think of right now. His focus face, you've called it. That got him to laugh, once, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes driving your heart into a frenzy.

Evaluating, cataloging. Looking for the racing line and finding -- you.

Leaning back on the wall not ten yards from him, wine glass in hand.

You're going to heat it up with your palm holding it like that, he'd told you once. You have to hold the stem.

They teach you that in Monaco? you'd teased.

Flirtations. One of a hundred, a thousand. Nothing memorable for him, you tell yourself. Each conversation an axis-shifting event for you.

It's embarrassing, actually. To want someone this much. To be one of millions.

But you know. You know how he looks in an empty room, how he mutters to himself when he folds his laundry, how he straightens his shoes against the wall of every hotel room.

You know him.

Maybe that's why this is dangerous. You've got ammo, you've got evidence. You know that Max Verstappen is like the rest of the world. A boy who wanted desperately turned into a man who has everything. And still wants.

Is that what binds us all together? The depth of our longing?

Max finds your gaze and holds it. The girl he's talking to -- pretty, smart. You know her peripherally -- keeps speaking, hand not holding her drink waving in the air, eyes focusing somewhere above his hairline.

Lots of people make this mistake. It's all in his eyes, if you can stand to look at them. Everything he's feeling. A challange that, once met, melts into an open door. He'll show you everything if you just step over the threshold, invited or not. Sometimes all we want is someone to bang on the door when we're already in bed. Make us get up, come downstairs. There you are. I was waiting for you.

The eyes tell you everything. You take a long sip of your wine and he watches, jaw ticking. He didn't shave today. The light stubble makes him look older, though you know his heart. Fluttering like a boy's, yearning like a child's. He wants just like you do. If only you knew what and just how much.

I don't know what comes next, he said. His head in your lap, hair soft and golden between your fingers. What else is there?

So much, you said. You traced the line of his nose with the pad of your thumb. That's the best thing about it.

About what?

Life.

There is a world in which you came to this party together. Distant, fuzzy. You mussed his hair with your hands after begging him to leave the gel on the shelf. He kissed off your lipstick before you made it out the door. The steady beat of his heart under your palm in the doorway, a sure reminder of the dip he makes in the universe. Your center, always orbiting around him.

Reality is louder. More crowded, smells like champagne and burnt pastry. It's a room full of people where you can only look at one. Where he's looking back.

You jerk your chin towards the back hallway, the one the leads to the bathroom only the girls go to in pairs. To debrief, to prepare. A secret from the hostess meant for moments of reprieve. At the very least, you'll need one of those.

It you're lucky, one of those will come to you on two legs and stormy eyes.

Could you be imagining it? Wouldn't be the first time you lived in your head a little too long. But -- fuck. The dreams you've had. The way you've looked at your life and slotted him into it. It's almost too easy, a game with no stakes. But the buy in is steep, nonrefundable. How you got here is irrelevant. You have to pay up.

You wind your way through laughing people, velvet dresses and barely buttoned shirts. Sparkly eye shadow and satin bows, well-wishes and chaste kisses. 'Tis the damn season, indeed. 

The hallway is quiet. No one in the bathroom, the door hanging open, light off. You lean back on the wall, glass loose in your fingers. Eyes closed, wondering if you'll wake up somewhere else. Somewhere you want less, somewhere your blood isn't singing, isn't begging you to get closer to him.

"You look nice," Max says. Your lips curve into a smile, a smirk, a grimace. Are they not all the same around him? Teeth showing, muscles out of control. He bypasses all of your sense, worms his way into your bloodstream with just a word.

"Thanks," you manage. Eyes open, now, and fuck, you feel it. Right in the chest, like a punch that digs beneath your ribs and takes its pound of flesh.

Max looks good. You saw it from across the room but here, in front of you, you can see it more clearly.

There's something about him. A boyishness that remains around the eyes, the mouth. Hopeful mischief, maybe. Eternal youth, promise, faith.

God. This would all be so much easier if you weren't in love with him.

He studies you. Takes his time, gaze tracing the lines of your face. Your brows, your lashes. Nose, lips. Lips. His eyes stop there.

"You were staring," he says. Never one to back down from a challenge. Never one to let you off easy. It's a compliment, the way he drags you to the ring. Keep up with me, he's saying. Make it interesting.

"Yeah," you say, slowly. It drips out of your mouth, lingers in the air between you. "You look good."

His eyes flash. You're meeting his expectations. Always hard to live up to those, when the standard he holds himself to is so damn high. He expects you to climb up that mountain, too. If only to show that you're wiling to. That he's worth it. That you want to.

And he does look good. Max values honesty above most things, but his cheeks flush all the same. It's pretty, not that you'd tell him that. Maybe one more glass of wine and you would. It's not an original thought, far from it, but you reach for him all the same, liquid courage loading the barrel and cocking the gun.

You cup his cheek, thumb pressing to the corner of his mouth. Like a marionette with his strings cut, he sighs. You breath with him, leaning in. Everything else fades away, the world turning around the place where his skin touches yours. Palm on his stubbled cheek, eyes locked like you're moored to each other.

This is why you haven't let him go. Because it's like this. It's insane.

And Max knows it.

"What are we doing?" he whispers. His throat bobs and he looks unsure. Not an expression you've seen on him very often, but maybe that's the punchline.

This matters to him. Maybe as much as it matters to you. He leans into your palm and the fingers of one hand curl around your hips, pressing hard enough to bruise. He carefully tugs your wine glass from your grip and sets it on the thin table in the hall before crowding you agains the wall.

"I don't know," you whisper back. You're close enough that he must feel your breath on this lips. It's inexplicable, this feeling -- you should know. You've tried.

He reorients everything, you've said over and over again. It's like I'm seeing the world for the first time, but with him in it.

His breath is hot on your lips. "I need you," he says. "I --" He swallows. Pupils swelling, mouth set. You half expect him to pull on a racing suit and get in the car.

"Max," you manage. It's not a surprise, not really, but it stings the way that only the things you want can. "I--

"Nothing else is like this," he says, sounding more sure than you've ever heard. "No matter what, or who, it's not like this. I'm always thinking of you."

Something inside you crumples. Your very bones, maybe. Your heart, surely. He can't just say these things.

"Don't say if it you don't mean it," you manage. Your throat is thick, tears resting just behind your eyes. It makes sense to no one else, this love. This passion, this soul tie.

"I mean it," he says, voice steady. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask this of you, but I am. I'm asking."

Love me. Stick by me. Tell me you feel it, too.

You close your eyes again, but what appears behind your lids is no less than what's actually happening to you. This is the stuff of dreams, the deepest part of your heart that beats his name.

"I don't know how to do this," you whisper. His lips drag from your pulse point to your ear.

"Me neither," he replies. "But we have to try."

"I've wanted you for so long," you gasp. His fingers have snuck under the hem of your shirt, nails scratching up and down your back. "Max--"

Your name is a prayer on his tongue, a blessing, a benediction. A plea. You've never felt so safe as when he is at your altar.

"Let's go," he says. "Let's get out of here."

The where doesn't matter. The how, the why, the when. It doesn't matter.

Sometimes, things just happen the way they are supposed to. Lovers unite, reunite, and love. Is that not enough?

"Bet you say that to all the girls."

Your voice is hoarse, ragged. The opposite of his well-honed determination, his tunnel vision. You wanted this, didn't you? But you're stalling. Having and wanting are different.

"No," Max says. "Hey, look at me."

For all your talk, you keep doing anything he asks. It's so easy. You are so safe in his hands, even if they burn.

He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth and you open your eyes. Despite the drinks you watched him down they're clear. Ablaze with certainty.

"Max," you whisper. His nostrils flare.

"Just you," he says. "You have me. Just you."

He does this thing, when he's away. You bought him a keychain -- a lion, of course -- on a whim. Figured he'd throw it in a drawer somewhere and forget about it. But then he sent you a photo from a country you've never been to, holding up his keys, the lion dangling in the sunlight.

You get photos from all around the world, now.

Maybe...maybe, you can believe him. Maybe you can take. Maybe dreams can bleed into waking.

What else is there to do? His jaw ticks, lips parted as he exhales. You feel it, warm and shaky. That won't do.

The kiss doesn't surprise him. It's inevitable, a corner he's driven in his sleep, the finish line that always waits for him. Max always knows where he is going and maybe he knew you were on the way here, too.

And god, does he know how to kiss you. You're the one who leans in but he takes the wheel quickly, one hand pressing into your lower back under your shirt and the other dragging up your ribs to settle on your jaw. He licks into your mouth like there's a secret to find, like he can peel back your layers and find your heart in his palms, beating in time with his.

Nights in his bed, slow mornings watching him wake. Phone calls just to hear you breathe, texts and gifts and hints that, if you'd just say so, this could be more. This could be it.

But he's waited. You realize he's waited for you.

"You have me," you say, pulling away with a gasp. His lips chase yours, hovering so close that every word makes them brush. Your hands are woven in his hair, noses pressed together. Almost one person. "Max," you breathe. "You have me."

There are a thousand ways this could go wrong. Even if your world orbits around him, even if his heart is magnetized to yours, a star in the sky always pointing north -- reality is not so kind. It will be hard. No one will understand. People will want what you have, what you will hold dear for the rest of your life.

But it doesn't matter. Because Max -- a world champion, a boy who wanted who became a man who had everything -- is holding you. He smiles so wide it spreads to you, two smiles pressed together in the dim light of someone else's party.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, let's go."

He kisses you once more, sloppy, teeth clacking, and grabs your hand. Out of the hall, through the party, barely a word for anyone else. Everybody wants you, you told him once. Hm, he'd said. I don't know about that.

But he gleams. He shines, flushed cheeks and bright eyes as he looks back to check that you're still there. Squeezing your hand in his, a man on a mission. Following that racing line all the way home, all eyes on him. But he knows where he's going.

Out of the party and onto the quiet street, breath floating up and away in excited puffs. Under the streetlight Max looks ethereal. Beautiful, boyish, in love. He's a dream come to life.

Your dream. Looking back at you like he's thinking the same.

He says your name like he's been looking everywhere and finally found you. Reaching the end of the road, throwing the door open and falling to his knees. An answer. The answer.

He kisses you on the empty street. You fall, and fall, and fall.

Together.

[icaruspendragon]

he did. my husband tried. he tried to warn them. he did. he said to them, “i’m not as into this as my wife is. i just like looking at cars, but she’s got all the facts and specs and everything. she’s practically a walking encyclopedia.”

and they didn’t believe him. they laughed. they shrugged it off. they shrugged me off. they were warned. and yet they still decided to try and put me to the test. they were warned. they were warned of what would happen to them. and yet they didn’t listen.

their ambition made them icarian. their folly turned my warmth from brilliant to sweltering.

their hubris led to their humiliation.

they were warned. but ambition makes men bold.

this is all just a very dramatic way of saying that grown men decided to play a game of, “oh you’re a fan? prove it” only to have their asses handed to them by their opponent.

this was the opponent btw:

[kolbalissh]

today i offer girl carcar crumbs :3

[ellearts]

Franco under water with fishies for

Tagging!!!: @isacksteban @finn95o @pancakes-and-pansexuals @ace-race-ace @ray935sworld

[leosxrealm]

ᴍᴄʟᴀʀᴇɴ'ꜱ ᴡᴀɢ

pairing(s): LandOscar x fem! reader

warning(s): smau, poly relationship!! fluff!

a/n: saw a user searching for a poly!landoscar smau so i decided to do it myself!! here you go ml @notturlover hope you like it <3

during stream*

[yn_ln] because SOMEONE (looking at you admin) couldn't keep their mouth shut

I love you boys ❤ thank you for supporting me through everything and always dealing with my bs

mclaren free paddock pass for whole year...?

[yn_ln] you better

landonorris you're kinda on this ice mate

mclaren 🧡🧡🧡

oscarpiastri love you too ❤❤

liked by author

landonorris yeah yeah you're our mess to deal with <3

landonorris love you both ❤

liked by author

maxverstappen1 congratulations you three

liked by author

carlossainz55 i don't know how you deal with him

[yn_ln] trust me, it's not for the weak-hearted

landonorris oh come on! we're not that bad

oscarpiastri speak about yourself he never said anything about me

landonorris but oscahhhh :(

comments on this post have been limited

a/n: my first f1 smau lesgooo

[stop-that-train]

Merry Christmas!!!

for your gift you can have you guessed it more testposts

[chinese--satellite]

sebastian vettel: yeah, i'm sure you would have waved me past as well.

[padiduys]

Gala date.

[silveryhill]

Alain Prost: Still, even as it turned out, it was a fantastic story, don’t you think? And I think, in a way, we’re missing a little of that today. (Motorsport, 1998.10)

There's a metaphor abt Senna's helmet in the vid. Inspired by an interview from Nuno Cobra(his coach)

it's possible to say that Senna had that kind of split personality. On the one side you had Ayrton, who is sensitive, loving, sweet, poetic, romantic, wise and careful. On the other side, there was Senna, who is explosive. Senna was very nervous, very agitated, stressed, bad tempered. He was often compromised and challenged. I think Ayrton suffered a lot in the hands of Senna.

So Ayrton was the human side of Senna. When he put the helmet on, he turned into a “stranger”, the ruthless Senna.

And before the imola accident, Senna took off his helmet in front of Alain.

On Saturday, after Roland Ratzemberger's fatal accident, that was not the Ayrton I used to know, he was really worried...

On Sunday, at lunch time, he went to see me and simply didn't say anything important. Everybody was watching that in slience. It looks like he just wanted to get close to me. And I really feel that he's so weak. That was the first time I saw him like that...

On that Sunday I thought, that's not Ayrton. He's fragile. He wasted five or ten minutes to come to me and say nothing. And then he went back to the garage.

So I finished my lunch and went to his garage...

Ayrton's ritual was to be completely focused on his thing in the car. He never took off the helmet, it was the first time he took off the helmet(before the races). He was doing some stretching in the garage...

I didn't want to bother him too much but he wanted me to stay, it seems that he just want to share a time with me.

he was happy that I came there to talk to him, and that was the last time.

In their last six months, Alain met the REAL Ayrton.

"There were three Ayrtons for me: the one before F1 when he was looking at my races, at everything I was doing, the way I was doing it; obviously the one when we were together, inside or outside the same team; and then the one when I retired." It was this last version that Prost says he grew to like adding he wouldn't have believed it existed "if I had not known this person myself."

But Ayrton was Senna, Senna was Ayrton. They're the same person after all. So still, he put the helmet on and went to his fate. As Ron Dennis said, "it's his obligation." Like an addiction, and he "can't drop it."

Jackie Stewart once said:

Ayrton Senna was the most dedicated racing driver I have ever met. He was totally immensed in his life of being a driver. It was what he lived for. I would say that in a high 90% range of Ayrton Senna's focus on Motor Racing. Stirling Moss, when he drove, was a man who had other likes in life. Niki Lauda had passions in life, Jackie Stewart had, Juan Manuel Fangio had. Ayrton Senna, I believe, was more focused than any of the names that I've just mentioned.

So I think for Ayrton Senna, life, or love, is seldom enough, and that's why we admire him so much as his pure spirit of racing. It's a beautiful paradox. He's different.

*thank you for reading my way too long thoughts <3

*please don't repost it to any other platforms(like ytb), on tbr is absolutely welcome!

[notafanjustpassionate]

the look of love

[formulanni]

Rush was such a good movie I wish it was real :-/

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls

[overtake]

for @thankyoudanielfest: Daniel and the shoey

"Daniel Ricciardo introduced the [shoey] to Formula One in 2016, when he celebrated a podium finish at the German Grand Prix by performing a champagne shoey."

[blamemma]

daniel ricciardo and his girlfriend, heidi berger, spotted at the disney california adventure park | 15.10.24