you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
Can someone (with much more writing talent than me) write a fic, A fic where the reader is dating Quinn, but her and Jack are best friends. Like, the type of best friends you can't leave in a room alone together because absolutely chaos will happen. Quinn can't stand them in the same room together. It's funny, but someone either ends up physically injured or something will end up broken.
Y/n, famous pop-star, had a concert in Melbourne, you'll never guess who was there.
this was written in a rush at 2am because the idea came to me in a dream, this not edited, like at all. So please, be nice. also, if it sucks, yeah the tracks. Enjoy!
*everything I write is a work of pure fiction and a result of my overactive imagination*
It was the first Grand Prix of the year. Back on home soil, trying to get that home race win for Oscar. Hattie, his sister, dragged him to my concert that i had that Thursday before race weekend.
My name is Y/n, here is the story of how Oscar Piastri fell in love with me over a song.
Y/n:
I was doing my vocal exercises getting ready to get on stage. I was never that glamour wear 6 different outfits a night type of singer (kudos to Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter, I could never do it). I like to be comfortable when I'm out there. So, I was in my black leggings, oversized t-shirt with the collar cut out, it dipped down off my shoulder. Showing off the straps of the hot pink body suit I wore underneath incase anything was ripped. Very minimal make up, eyebrow pencil, mascara, eyeshadow and some lipgloss. I was performing my normal set list tonight, That’s So True, Touch Me Like a Gangster, Wither on the Vine, Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off, Just Keep Watching, Drink Too Much, Heaven, Build A Bitch, If We Ever Break Up, and many many more. But I was most excited for my new one I am debuting tonight, no one knows it. Ive teased it on TikTok a bit, its been blowing up, but not one person has heard the whole song.
Oscar:
“Hattie, I dont want to go watch some pop star. She is probably like all the rest.” Hattie lifter her brow, “You don’t have a
choice, mum said you would.” I let out a groan because I really wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t even know who this Y/n was. But Hattie want to go, so of course being the best big brother I am, I made sure to get the VIP tent etc. yes, she was very happy with that. We arrived, and everyone was handing out friendship bracelets and the crowed was all dressed in leggings and oversized t-shirts, this seemed more like a group gym session then a concert, of course the shirts were bedazzled, but still. I grabbed a jack and coke from the bartender that was in our tent. I then ran into Max and Kelly. Max spoke, “hey man, I didn’t know you were a Y/n fan” he said while showing me all his bracelets has since collected. I let out a small laugh “I’m not, my sister is so I brought her here.” Max nodded and turned on his heels to Kelly. The lights started going down and the first song started, the loud bass making the place vibrate. She stepped out in black leggings with sheers parts snaking around her legs, an oversized grey shirt that said “Penn State Wrestling” with the neck cut out so it would off the shoulder, a pair of blue low top converse, black nails, rings on both ring fingers and thumb. Very minimal make up, tan skin and jet black straight hair, with Slytherin green highlights poking through. God, she was gorgeous.
Y/n:
“FIVE MINS TIL SHOW TIME”, Brad the stage manager yelled. I smirked, my assistant Nik handed me a quick gulp of wine and a hit of my vape pen (menthol of course) before we did our secret hand shake and I went up on the riser. The beat was going and I was bobbing my head. “Life is good, I cant complain. I mean I could but no one’s listening”. The music was going great, fans cheering. The VIP tent seeming to have a good time. This was my favorite opening song, it got the crowd going and also it gave me the adrenaline rush I needed to really give it my all. Dancing to the choreography was tough, but that was the point of my concert. Into my 5th song of the night, it was a slower one so I could catch my breath after straight singing and dancing for 45 minutes. “Love’s my religion, but he was my faith”. Sitting on a stool I performed my favorite song. It should’ve been the final song, but its not. We can thank Nik for that, she came up with the set list, it was a very good set list, but still. Finishing that song, I usually take time to talk and tell the crowd about my day. “Hello Melbourne. Its so nice to be in the land down under.” The crowd cheered, someone handed me my cup of wine (it was in a soda cup with a straw) and my vape pen. “First thing is first, don’t ever vape it is so bad for your health, just because I am doing it, doesn’t mean you should.” The crowd laughed, “I heard we have some special guests with us tonight. Welcome and I hope you are enjoying the show. Can some one get a mic to them, I have a question”. Not seconds later they had the mic. One of them spoke “Uh, hi, I’m Max Verstappen driver for Oracle RedBull Formula One team”. You laughed “Hello Max, driver for Oracle RedBull Formula One Team, as you can tell we are not very formal here. But please tell me your favorite song so far” Max’s face turned red and he spoke “aint no other man then you” the crowd was pleased. It was the one song that tested my vocal range the most, which is why it is one of my favorites. Nik always knows which ones are my favorite hence why she made the set list. “You know Max Verstappen of RedBull racing, that is one of my favorites too. If you could please hand the mic off to someone else, thank you!” Max nodded and handed the Mic to Oscar. I spoke again, “oh, hello. And you are?” He was cute, very cute my goodness. “Oscar Piastri, driver for McLaren Formula 1 team.” I laughed again, “well Oscar Piastri, driver for McLaren Formula 1 team, your favorite song so far”. Oscar smiled and said “the one you just sang, it was beautiful like you”. Your eyes widened the crowd went wild. “Well if he isn’t the gentleman here. Tell me Oscar, who did you come with tonight?” He smiled and said he came with his sister who is a huge fan. You looked over at your security and winked. “Well Oscar and Hattie, my security team is making their way over to you. I have a few things for you guys. Now, everyone. Lets get on with the show!”
Oscar:
My face went red when I said that, I cant believe I said that. What the hell is wrong with me. After I said that, Hattie and Max elbowed me in the ribs, at the same time. Then her security team did come over and give us tshirts, sweatshirts, and cup and invited us to come back stage after the show.
“Made it out alive, but I think I lost it. Said that I was fine, said it from my coffin. Remember how I died and you started walking? Thats my life, that life. I put up a fight, taking out my earrings. Don’t you know the vibe? Don’t you know the feeling. And she’ll spend the night, catching me on your ceiling. Thats your price, that’s your price” the lyrics were being spoken so fast and she sat on a stool singing this song. Mic in the mic stand making the movements with her hands. The next four songs were more up beat and had choreography with them, she moved so effortlessly. My favorite one she sang and danced to was Just Keep Watching. That was mesmerizing, the fifth song was a duet, she had one of her male dancers, who turned out to be a singer, sing with her. The danced together, like a ballroom dance of sorts. Hattie caught me bobbing my head to the music.
Y/n:
All I was thinking, every time Josh and I do this song is “don’t fall on your face”, which I never do, but its still a silent prayer I send up to whoever is listening. It works out, 99% of the time. ‘All I see is you’ is a song that gets more into my country roots. The beat, the lyrics, the over sound is different from my whole set. Well two songs are like this, “All I see is you” and “you look like you love me”they are more in my country roots. Got those songs down, now I’m down to my penultimate song, which is usually my last song, but I am debuting that new one tonight. “Ladies and gentlemen, usually that is my last song, but tonight, since we have such special guests tonight, and one thinks I’m pretty, it is the best time to debut a new song for you guys. I’m sure you heard some of it on tiktok or whatever social media app you are using. But here goes nothing. This song is called ‘Ordinary, featuring of my favorite people in the world, everyone welcome Luke Combs to the stage!”. Everyone lost their minds and the beat started playing, I didn’t even rehearse this song just incase it got out. “They say the holy waters watered down and this town lost its faith” Luke was singing first, it felt like just the two of us for a second. Then he turned and walked towards the crowd giving it his everything, you followed. “Hopeless Hallelujah, oh this sides of heavens gate. Oh my life how do ya? Breathe and take my breath away. At your alter, I will pray. You’re sculptor, I’m the clay. Oh my, my. You’re taking me out the ordinary.” You looked directly at the VIP tent and stood there with a mic in your hand singing giving it whatever you had left. Oscar and I locked eyes.
Oscar:
We locked eyes, she was singing about something beautiful. Sweat was now visible on her oversized shirt and sticking to her, hair sticking to her forehead. The song was over and she spoke “Thank you so much Luke for coming all the way down under to help me perform this song. Mind you guys, we didn’t even rehearse this because I was scared of someone finding out a posting it, everything was improvised. Thank you again Luke, let's do it again soon.” They hugged and he waved at the crowd and walked off. “And thank you to all of you! I would not be able to live out my dream if it wasn’t for all of you. You all are really the best fans in the world! Thank you and good night!” She bowed and ran off the stage. Right after that security came and got us and took us backstage to see her.
Y/n:
I ran off stage an Nik was waiting with a towel and my cup of wine and vape pen. “Girl that last song was awesome! I knew I picked the right night to have you debut it.” I nodded at her and asked for a bottle of water. I got to my dressing room quickly slipping out of my stage clothes, they were soaked with sweat, and got into the shower. I was done in the shower and dressed in blue camo sweatpants, with a black crop top. My hair was washed so it was curly again. The green highlights still visible. Someone knocked on the door. “Come in!” I was putting my hair up in a top knot. “Hi, please come in! Have a seat, do you want anything to eat or drink? Do you mind if I eat?”. Oscar and his sister Hattie sat down and opted for a beer and a mixed drink. My meal came, steak and frites, my favorite. “are you sure you guys don’t want anything to eat? I feel rude eating in front of you”. “Please eat, you put on an amazing show, don’t mind us, we are just happy to be here!”. I smiled, looking at Oscar “thank you for the compliment. It was appreciated.” Oscar’s cheeks went bright red, and his skin flushed. He sat there and his hand went to the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. well it is true, and I don’t know what took over me, it kind of just came out”. I smiled, “it was the highlight of my night. Really”. He smiled back at me, “So, Hattie, I hear you are one of my biggest fans, and thank you very much. I was going yo have my assistant take you for a tour of the stage and how it all works, I would like to have a moment with Oscar, if you don’t mind”. Hattie nodded and gave Oscar a quick wink. In that time, Nik showed up and took Hattie to show her everything
Oscar:
She had my sister taken on a tour to see how the stage works and it was just me and her in her dressing room. Her hair was still wet from her shower. It was curly this time, but you could still see the green highlights. I finally spoke “how would you like to come to the Grand Prix this weekend as my guest?” She smiled at me, took a big gulp of her wine, and nodded, “I would love to! It sounds like fun”. I smiled, next thing she did was truly amazing. She pulled me into a kiss. I was shocked at first, but I pulled her in close by her waist and deepened the kiss. I pulled back and said these simple words “my hotel isn’t far from here”.
Y/N SET LIST:
Like Woah - Aly & AJ
If We Ever Broke Up - Mae Stephens
Ain’t No Other Man - Christina Aguilera
Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off - Panic! At The Disco
Heaven - Julia Michaels
That’s So True - Gracie Abrams
Heather on the hill - Nathan Evans
Touch me like a gangster - Jessie Murph
Wither on the Vine - Freya Ridings
Just keep watching - Tate McRae
Drink too much - g flip
A bar song - Shaboozey
Highland Girl - Nathan Evans
My stupid heart - Walk off the earth
All I see if you - Shane smith and the saints
No roots - Alice Merton
Ring - Selena Gomez
Hazel Eyes - Sabrina Johnson
Trampoline - SHAED
You look like you love me - Ella Langley and Riley Green
Nancy Mulligan - Ed Sheeran
Potential Break up song - Aly and AJ
Ordinary (live from Lollapalooza) - Alex Warren and Luke Combs
Summary: you’re a pop star who built an empire on audacity. He’s an F1 driver who’s never heard your music. One concert, one spotlight, one pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, and suddenly the man who drives 200 mph for a living can’t form a coherent thought. But the thing about champions? They don’t lose gracefully. And when he shows up in your DMs, you realize you might have just met your match (a story about two people who perform for millions but never expected to be completely undone by an audience of one)
Warnings: 18+ content
The clinking of ice against glass is the most interesting sound in the room.
Max swirls the amber liquid in his Heineken-branded tumbler, the condensation cold against his fingertips. He’s a professional. He can do this. He can stand in a painfully hip, repurposed warehouse in Amsterdam, surrounded by influencers whose entire careers are a mystery to him, and smile. He can nod along to conversations about engagement metrics and brand synergy. He can be the Max Verstappen they pay for: charming, accessible, but with that untouchable edge of a champion.
It’s just … boring. Soul-crushingly boring.
His phone buzzes in the pocket of his trousers. A welcome distraction. He pulls it out, a small, genuine smile finally gracing his lips when he sees his sister’s name. He angles himself away from a man passionately explaining the artistic merit of a filtered selfie and answers.
“Vic,” he says, his voice low. “Are you saving me?”
“Always,” Victoria’s cheerful voice chirps through the speaker. “But tonight, you’re actually the one who’s going to be saving me.”
Max takes a sip of his drink. It’s not actually beer; it’s sparkling water with a slice of lime. “I doubt that. What do you need? Did Luka hide the car keys again?”
“Worse. Much, much worse. Chantal is sick. Like, horribly sick. Food poisoning, I think.”
“Okay? So … you need me to bring you soup?” He’s already mentally calculating the fastest route to her house.
“No, you idiot,” she laughs, and he can picture her rolling her eyes. “I have a concert ticket. A non-refundable, very expensive, very good concert ticket that is now going to waste. Tom’s stuck in a meeting that will probably go until midnight, and I absolutely cannot go alone.”
Max’s brief moment of hope evaporates. “Vic, no.”
“Vic, yes. You’re in Amsterdam. I’m in Amsterdam. It’s perfect.”
“I’m working,” he argues, gesturing vaguely at the curated industrial-chic chaos around him. “I’m at the Heineken thing.”
“That ends in an hour. The concert doesn’t start until nine. Please, Max? I’ve been looking forward to this for months. She never tours in Europe.”
He frowns, the name on the tip of his tongue but not quite there. “She who?”
“Y/N Y/L/N!” Victoria says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s just asked who the current prime minister is. The name rings a bell, but only in the vague way a song he’s heard in a supermarket does. Pop star. American. That’s all he has.
“Never heard of her,” he lies, just to be difficult.
A dramatic sigh crackles down the line. “Max Emilian. Do not do this to me. She’s everywhere. She’s brilliant. You’ll love her.”
“I will not love her,” he says flatly. “I love quiet. I love my sim rig. I love going to bed before ten when I don’t have a race. I do not love … screaming teenagers.”
“It’s not all teenagers!” She protests, a little too quickly. “It’s a very diverse crowd. And you’re not even that old. Stop being such a grandad. It’s one night. For me. Your favorite sister.”
“My only sister.”
“Exactly! So by default, I’m your favorite. Please? I’ll buy you dinner first. Whatever you want.”
Max closes his eyes for a second, the thumping bass of the DJ’s set vibrating through the concrete floor. He pictures his quiet hotel room. The blissfully empty evening he had planned. A movie, maybe some room service. Silence. Then he pictures Victoria’s disappointed face. He’s always been a sucker for that face.
“Fine,” he groans, the word pulled from him like a bad tooth. “Fine. But you owe me. Big time.”
“Yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She squeals, and he has to pull the phone away from his ear. “I’ll send you the address for the restaurant. Meet me there at seven-thirty. Wear something … less corporate.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He asks, looking down at his crisp, dark shirt and trousers.
“Nothing, if you’re trying to sell me a mortgage. See you soon! You won’t regret this!”
The line goes dead.
Max stares at his phone, a deep, weary sigh escaping his lips. He absolutely, one hundred percent, will regret this.
***
Two hours later, he regrets it even more.
The air outside the Ziggo Dome is electric and humid, thick with the scent of perfume, street food, and youthful exuberance. It’s a sea of glitter, denim, and brightly colored crop tops. Max, in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, feels like a mountain that has accidentally wandered into a fairy garden. He towers over almost everyone, a grim statue in a tide of giddy excitement.
“Isn’t this amazing?” Victoria shouts over the din, her eyes sparkling. She’s practically vibrating with energy, clutching a ridiculous light-up-something-or-other she bought from a vendor.
“It’s … loud,” Max replies, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He feels a dozen pairs of eyes on him and knows it’s not because he’s Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion. It’s because he’s a twenty-something-year-old man who looks profoundly miserable at what is clearly the Best Night of Everyone Else’s Life.
“Oh, stop it. You’re just grumpy,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the entrance. “Once the music starts, you’ll get into it.”
They find their spots, which are alarmingly close to the stage. It’s a standing area, and they’re penned in, the press of bodies around them immediate and overwhelming. Max feels a familiar, low-level anxiety prickle at the back of his neck — the kind he gets when he’s in a crowd and not in control. In his world, crowds are behind barriers. He’s the one on the other side. This is different. He’s in it.
“You said good seats,” he mutters to Victoria, who is happily chatting with a girl next to her about your best album.
“They are! We can see everything!” She beams.
The lights suddenly go down.
A roar erupts from the crowd, a physical force that presses in on Max from all sides. It’s deafening. A deep, pulsing bass note vibrates up through the soles of his shoes, shaking his entire skeleton. On the massive screen behind the stage, a pair of cherry-red lips appears. They part, and a voice, your voice, slick and sweet as honey, echoes through the arena.
“Oh, I leave quite an impression …”
And then, you’re there.
You explode onto the stage in a flash of pink light and pure, unadulterated confidence. You’re tiny, a firecracker of a person, all sparkling boots and blonde hair and legs that seem to go on for an impossible length. The crowd loses its collective mind.
Max just … watches.
“Five feet to be exact,” you sing, strutting across the stage, a smirk playing on your lips. “You’re wonderin’ why half his clothes went missin’ … my body’s where they’re at.”
The lyrics hit him like a splash of cold water. They’re brazen, unapologetic. He glances at Victoria, who is screaming the words right back at you, a look of pure adoration on her face. He looks back at the stage. You have the entire arena, thousands of people, cradled in the palm of your hand.
“I heard you’re back together and if that’s true,” you coo, leaning into the microphone stand, one hand on your hip. “You’ll just have to taste me when he’s kissin’ you.”
A guy next to Max yells, “I love you, Y/N!”
Max feels an involuntary twitch in his jaw. The performance is … impressive. He can’t deny it. The choreography is tight, your vocals are flawless, and your stage presence is magnetic. He’s a professional athlete, he recognizes elite-level performance when he sees it. This is your grand prix, your qualifying lap, and you are absolutely nailing it.
But it’s the sheer, unblinking audacity of it all that catches him off guard. The way you sing about sexuality not as some hidden, whispered secret, but as a weapon, a tool, a source of power. It’s so foreign to his world of carefully managed PR and corporate-friendly soundbites.
He spends the next half-hour in a state of detached observation. You move through a handful of songs, each one a different flavour of pop perfection. You’re funny, charming the crowd with little anecdotes between songs. You’re vulnerable, sitting on a stool with just a guitar for a heartbreaking ballad that silences the entire arena. You’re a powerhouse, belting out a high note that seems to shake the building.
Max finds himself leaning forward, his arms crossed over his chest, his earlier grumpiness replaced by a grudging respect. Then, that respect deepens into genuine fascination. He’s not just watching a pop star anymore. He’s watching you. He’s watching the way you wink at the camera, the bead of sweat that trickles down your temple, the genuine, breathtaking smile you give your guitarist after a solo.
“Having fun yet?” Victoria shouts in his ear during a transition, a smug grin on her face.
He just grunts in response, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of admitting that yes, actually, he’s not entirely miserable anymore.
The stage is bathed in a soft, dreamy pink light. A new, slinky synth beat starts to pulse through the speakers. The mood shifts. It’s slower, more intimate, more suggestive.
“Oh my god, it’s ‘Juno’,” Victoria whispers, her voice filled with reverence. “This is my favorite.”
You begin to sing, your voice a playful, seductive purr.
“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing … oh yeah, you just get it.”
You prowl the stage, your movements fluid and feline. The song is a flirtation, a proposition set to music.
“Wanna try out my fuzzy pink handcuffs?” You sing, and a ripple of laughter and screams goes through the crowd. “Oh, I hear you knockin’, baby … come on up.”
Max feels a strange heat creep up his neck. The lyrics are direct, and you deliver them while looking straight into the camera, a look in your eyes that’s both innocent and wildly mischievous. It feels like you’re singing to one person, and one person only. It feels, impossibly, like you’re singing to him.
Victoria nudges him hard in the ribs. “She’s incredible, right?”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s completely, utterly transfixed.
The song builds, the beat getting heavier. You’re dancing with a kind of joyful, sensual freedom that is mesmerizing.
“You make me wanna make you fall in love,” you belt out, and the crowd sings it back to you, a unified chorus of devotion.
Then comes the bridge. The music softens, becoming a spare, pulsing beat. The lights dim until there’s only a single, stark white spotlight on you. You walk to the very front of the stage, right to the edge, your sparkling boots just inches from the precipice.
You look out over the crowd, a sly, knowing smile on your face. You hold the microphone delicately in one hand.
“Wanna try out some freaky positions?” You ask, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries to every corner of the arena.
The crowd holds its breath.
You pause, letting the tension hang in the air for one, two, three beats.
Then you ask, your voice dripping with suggestion, “Have you ever tried … this one?”
And you drop to your knees.
Right there, in front of seventeen thousand people.
You bring the microphone to your lips, tilt your head back, and close your eyes. Your movements are slow, deliberate, and utterly unmistakable. It’s a pantomime of obvious fellatio. It’s shocking. It’s hilarious. It’s the most brazenly confident thing Max has ever seen in his life.
And it completely, unequivocally, resets his brain.
Every thought in his head — the upcoming race weekend, the sponsor obligations, the feeling of being out of place, the simmering annoyance at his sister — vanishes. It’s all gone. Wiped clean. The intricate wiring of his meticulously controlled mind short-circuits, throwing sparks into the darkness. There is only the image of you, on your knees, bathed in a single spotlight.
The arena explodes. It’s a tidal wave of screams, laughter, and whistles. Victoria beside him is shrieking, clutching his arm so hard he’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.
Max doesn’t make a sound. He can’t. His jaw is slack. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm. He feels a primal, electric shock jolt through his entire system, a feeling so potent it almost makes his knees weak.
It’s not just desire. It’s … awe.
You hold the pose for a few seconds longer before pulling the microphone away with a wink, jumping back to your feet as the beat drops back in, and finishing the song as if nothing happened. As if you didn’t just detonate a small bomb in the chest of every person watching.
For the rest of the song, Max is on another planet. He’s disconnected from the noise, the crowd, from his own body. He is just a pair of eyes, locked on you.
After the song finishes, you’re breathing heavily, a triumphant grin on your face. You take a bottle of water from the side of the stage, take a long drink, and then address the crowd.
“Amsterdam!” You yell, and they yell back. “You guys are incredible tonight. So much energy. So much love.” You pause, scanning the faces in the front rows. “But … I’m afraid I have to be the bearer of bad news. There’s a criminal in our midst tonight.”
The crowd plays along with a chorus of dramatic boos and gasps.
“I know, I know,” you say, shaking your head sadly. “It’s a serious offense. This person has committed a crime of the highest order. The crime … of being illegally hot in a public place.”
The audience cheers, everyone hoping they’re about to be chosen.
You place a hand on your hip, your eyes sweeping across the crowd with theatrical seriousness. Your gaze travels over the screaming girls, the couples, the guys trying to look cool. Your eyes move, section by section. Max watches, his heart still beating a little too fast, a strange sense of dread and something else pooling in his stomach.
Then, your eyes stop.
They stop on him.
For a moment, he thinks it must be a mistake. You must be looking at the person behind him, or next to him. But no. Your eyes lock directly onto his. A slow, predatory smile spreads across your face. You lift a finger, pointing right at him.
“You,” you say, your voice ringing through the arena. The spotlight that was just on you swings over, blinding him as it finds its new target. “Yes, you, sir. In the plain black t-shirt. The one who looks like he’d rather be at a dentist appointment.”
The entire crowd around him turns to stare. Victoria lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a cackle.
Max freezes. The world narrows to the blinding white light and your smiling face on the giant screens. He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. This is his worst nightmare. No, his worst nightmare is a DNF due to engine failure. This is a close second.
“Don’t look so scared,” you tease, your voice echoing around him. “Although, you should be. That level of handsome is a public disturbance. It’s distracting me from my job.” You motion to a burly security guard at the side of the stage. “Bring him to me. He needs to be apprehended.”
“Go!” Victoria hisses, pushing him forward. “Oh my god, Max, go!”
He feels like he’s walking through cement. The security guard, a man the size of a small car, gently but firmly guides him towards the barrier. A gap is opened, and he’s being led through the backstage wings and then up a small set of stairs. His ears are ringing.
He steps out onto the stage, and the roar of the crowd is a physical blow. The heat of the lights is intense. He squints, trying to see past the glare.
And then you’re in front of him.
Up close, you’re even smaller than he thought. And infinitely more terrifying. You’re radiating energy, your skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat, your eyes sparkling with mischief. You’re holding a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.
“Hello, criminal,” you say, your voice now soft enough that only he can hear it over the music that has started to play softly in the background. Your microphone is still live, though, broadcasting your words to the entire arena.
“Hi,” Max manages to croak out. His own voice sounds foreign to him.
“What’s your name, handsome?” You ask, circling him like a shark.
“Max.”
“Max,” you repeat, tasting the name. “Well, Max, tonight you’ve been a very, very bad boy. You thought you could just show up here, looking like that, and get away with it? Not on my watch.”
You take his wrist. Your touch is light, but it sends another jolt straight through him. Your fingers are cool against his skin. He watches, mesmerized, as you fasten one of the fuzzy pink cuffs around his wrist. The crowd is going insane.
“I sentence you,” you declare, your voice booming again, “to one song, served right here, where I can keep an eye on you.”
You attach the other cuff to the base of the microphone stand, effectively tying him to the center of the stage. You step back to admire your handiwork, a satisfied smirk on your face.
“Don’t go anywhere,” you say, tapping him lightly on the chest before turning your back to him and facing the crowd.
The opening chords of another upbeat, ridiculously catchy song fill the air. And you start to sing.
Max is trapped. He’s standing on stage, handcuffed to a microphone stand, at a pop concert he didn’t want to be at, in front of seventeen thousand people. And all he can do is watch you.
From this vantage point, it’s a completely different universe. He can see the intricate details of your costume, the concentration in your eyes as you hit a complex dance move, the way you connect with individual people in the front row, making each one feel like you’re singing only to them. He sees the consummate professional, the master of your craft, the artist in her element.
You keep glancing back at him, a playful wink here, a little shimmy in his direction there. He knows it’s part of the show, a performance for the crowd, but it feels intensely personal. He feels his blush deepen with every look. He’s acutely aware of how stiff he’s standing, how out of place he must look. He’s Max Verstappen. He’s used to being looked at. But not like this. Never, ever like this.
The song seems to last an eternity and also be over in a flash. As the final note rings out, you spin around and walk back to him, your chest rising and falling with exertion.
“Well?” You say, leaning in close again, your voice a low murmur just for him. “Have you learned your lesson?”
He finds his voice, a little rough. “I think so.”
“Good.” You produce a tiny key from a hidden pocket and unlock the handcuff on his wrist. As you free him, your fingers brush against his again. This time, the touch lingers for a fraction of a second too long. “You’re free to go, Max. For now.”
You give him a final, dazzling smile before turning to the audience. “Let’s hear it for our good sport, Max!”
The crowd cheers as the same security guard leads him back down the stairs and to his spot. He feels like he’s just run a full race distance. His adrenaline is pumping, his palms are sweaty, his mind is a complete blur.
He stumbles back into his spot next to Victoria, who immediately grabs him.
“Oh. My. God,” she says, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and glee. “That just happened. You were handcuffed by Y/N Y/L/N. On stage. I cannot believe that just happened!”
Max just shakes his head, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks back towards the stage. You’re already launching into your next song, a global smash hit that everyone knows the words to.
But he doesn’t hear the music anymore. He doesn’t feel the press of the crowd. He can only see you. He can still feel the ghost of your touch on his wrist, can still hear your whispered “for now” ringing in his ears.
The grumpy, reluctant man who walked into this arena a few hours ago is gone. In his place is someone else. Someone who just had his entire world tilted on its axis by a five-foot pop star in sparkling boots.
He watches the rest of the show in a daze, a strange, small smile he can’t control playing on his lips.
Victoria was right. He didn’t regret it. Not one bit.
***
The ringing in Max’s ears finally subsides somewhere in the taxi back to the hotel, replaced by the relentless, high-pitched ringing of Victoria’s voice.
“I just can’t get over it. The look on your face! It was like a computer that had just been unplugged. Just … blank. Blue screen of death, Max, honestly.”
Max stares out the window, the blurred lights of Amsterdam streaking across the glass. The city is alive, humming with a nocturnal energy he usually appreciates. Tonight, he barely registers it. His mind is a looped video file, playing one specific scene over and over. The spotlight. The smirk. The fuzzy pink handcuffs.
“Are you even listening to me?” Victoria asks, nudging him.
“I’m listening,” he says, his voice quiet. “You’re enjoying my public humiliation. Loud and clear.”
“Oh, it was not humiliation! It was an honor!” She insists. “Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? She chose you. Out of everyone. She thought you were the hottest person there.”
“She thought I was the most miserable-looking person there,” he corrects, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “She said so.”
“Details, details. The point is, you were on stage with Y/N Y/L/N. My very boring, very serious brother who only cares about tire degradation and understeer was just handcuffed by one of the world’s biggest pop stars. This is the best night of my life.”
“Glad I could provide the entertainment,” he says, the sarcasm lacking any real bite. He can’t even summon the energy to be properly annoyed with her. Something else is occupying that space, a low-level hum of … something. He can’t put a name to it. It’s not excitement, not exactly. It’s more like the feeling he gets on the grid just before the five red lights go out. A deep, thrumming anticipation of the unknown.
When they pull up to his hotel, Victoria leans over and gives him a quick, tight hug. “Seriously, though. Thanks for coming with me tonight, Max. I know it wasn't your thing.”
“It was …” he starts, searching for the right word. He settles for, “… not as bad as I thought it would be.”
Victoria pulls back, her eyes shining with laughter. “That’s the most glowing review I’ve ever heard you give anything that doesn’t have four wheels and an engine. I’ll take it. Now go get some sleep. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He hasn’t seen a ghost. He’s seen a goddess, maybe. Or a succubus. He’s not quite sure which.
The hotel room is just as he left it: sterile, quiet, and blessedly empty. The silence is a physical presence after the overwhelming noise of the concert. He toes off his shoes, drops his keys on the console table, and walks over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of the city is panoramic, a glittering tapestry of light and darkness.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, intending to put it on the charger and forget about the world. But the screen is lit up with a relentless barrage of notifications.
Dozens of them.
Lando: mate what the FUCK is this??????
Lando: [Link to Twitter video]
Lando: VERSTAPPEN YOU DOG
Daniel: I leave you alone for five minutes and you get arrested by a pop star? Proud of you.
Charles: Are you okay? I saw a video.
Even a message from his dad: Wat is dit? Bel me.
Max’s thumb hovers over the link Lando sent. He feels a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He presses it.
The Twitter video player opens. It’s shaky, clearly filmed on a phone from somewhere in the crowd, but the audio is surprisingly clear. He watches the whole scene unfold from an outsider’s perspective. He sees you scan the crowd. He sees you point. He sees the spotlight hit him, sees his own deer-in-the-headlights expression magnified on the giant screens. He watches himself walk stiffly to the stage, looking like a man being led to the gallows.
And he watches you. The way you moved, the confidence radiating from you, the playful but utterly dominant energy you exuded. Then he sees the moment you handcuffed him, leaning in to whisper in his ear. From this angle, it looks intimate. Conspiratorial.
He scrolls down. The video has over a million views. It was posted less than an hour ago.
The comments are a chaotic whirlwind.
WHO IS THIS MAN??? HE’S GORGEOUS
Wait … no … that CAN’T be Max Verstappen.
THE F1 AND Y/N Y/L/N CROSSOVER I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED IN MY LIFE
THE WAY SHE LOOKS AT HIM OMG SHIP SHIP SHIP
he looks so flustered i can’t breathe
my man’s brain left the chat during Juno and never came back lmao
His cheeks burn. He clicks off the app, but it’s no use. He opens Instagram. He’s been tagged in hundreds of photos. His follower count is climbing at an alarming rate. He’s trending. #MaxVerstappen, #YNYLN, and #FuzzyPinkHandcuffs are the top three trends in the Netherlands.
He throws the phone onto the bed and runs a hand through his hair, pacing the length of the room. This is a PR nightmare. Or a PR dream, depending on who you ask. His media team is probably having a collective aneurysm. He’s supposed to be in Amsterdam for Heineken, projecting a mature, corporate-friendly image. Not … this. Not being the flustered boy toy in a pop star’s stage show.
But as he paces, another feeling starts to bubble up through the mortification. A slow, undeniable thrill. No one ever saw him like that. He was always in control, always the champion, the ‘Mad Max’ in the car, the cool professional out of it. Tonight, the world saw him completely disarmed. Vulnerable. And it was all because of you.
He stops in front of the window again, staring at his faint reflection in the glass. The corner of his own mouth quirks up into a smile.
“What the hell,” he whispers to the empty room.
***
“I cannot believe you arrested Max Verstappen.”
You’re sitting on a plush couch in your dressing room, a bottle of water in one hand, while your makeup artist gently removes the layers of glitter and eyeliner from your face. The post-show adrenaline is still singing in your veins, a pleasant, fizzy sensation that makes the whole world feel bright and conquerable.
“I arrested a hot guy in a black t-shirt,” you correct, taking a long sip of water. “I didn’t ask for his resume.”
Your tour manager, a perpetually stressed but fiercely loyal woman named Brit, is pacing in front of you, phone pressed to her ear. Your best friend and personal assistant, Laila, is the one who broke the news, and she’s now sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone with a look of manic glee.
“It doesn’t matter! The internet has decided he’s Max Verstappen,” Laila says, not looking up. “And, I mean, they’re not wrong. I’ve cross-referenced. It’s him. Official accounts are posting about it. Sports journalists are posting about it. It’s a thing.”
“Okay, so he’s … a sports guy?” You ask, feigning nonchalance as your makeup artist dabs at your eyelids with a cotton pad.
Laila finally looks up, her expression aghast. “A sports guy? Y/N, he’s a Formula 1 driver. He’s like … the Michael Jordan of driving in circles really, really fast. He’s a four-time world champion. He’s a Dutch national hero. We are in his country. You basically arrested the king.”
The information settles over you. It clicks into place, explaining a few things. The way he held himself, even when he was clearly uncomfortable — there was a coiled, athletic stillness to him. The look in his eyes wasn’t just surprise, it was the analytical gaze of someone constantly processing data, assessing a situation. And it explained the crowd’s slightly more frenzied reaction when the spotlight hit him. You’d assumed it was just for the gag.
“Huh,” is all you say. A slow smile begins to form on your newly cleaned face. “So the king is a fan?”
“I don’t think he was a fan,” Laila snorts. “From the videos of him before you pulled him up, he looked like he was being held at gunpoint. I think he was dragged there.”
This is even better. You didn’t just fluster a fan. You broke through the shell of a world champion who didn’t even want to be there. You got under his skin. The thought is ridiculously satisfying.
“Well, he’s a fan now,” you declare with a wink.
Brit hangs up her phone with a dramatic sigh. “Okay. So, I just spoke with your publicist. Her official take is: this is fantastic. It’s unexpected, it’s organic, it’s getting you in front of a completely new demographic. The sports blogs are eating it up. She says to just lean into it. Be playful. Don’t make it weird.”
You take the final cotton pad from Sarah and wipe the last of the lipstick from your mouth. “When have I ever made things weird?”
Laila and Brit share a look.
“Okay, fine,” you concede. “But this is different. This is … fun.”
You take Laila’s phone and start scrolling. You see the same videos Max saw, but from your perspective. You watch his face, magnified on the giant screens. The initial shock. The slow creep of a blush up his neck. The way his eyes darted around before inevitably locking back onto you. Laila was right. His brain had completely stalled. And you were the one who’d done it.
You click on his Instagram profile. It’s exactly what you’d expect. Polished, professional photos. Him in his race suit, him celebrating on a podium, him in a tailored suit at some gala. Intense. Focused. Untouchable.
Then you scroll to the tagged photos. The most recent ones are all from tonight. A sea of pictures of him on your stage, looking boyish and overwhelmed, a stark contrast to his own curated feed.
You feel a little flutter in your stomach, a spark of something potent and exciting. It’s the thrill of the chase, but with the roles reversed. You’re not used to being the pursuer, but then again, you’re not used to a man who looks at you with such a baffling mixture of terror and utter fascination.
“What are you doing?” Laila asks, noticing the dangerous glint in your eye.
“Conducting some market research,” you say sweetly.
You follow him.
Then you switch back to your own account, navigate to your direct messages, and type his name into the search bar. His profile pops up. The little blue checkmark sits next to his name, a silent confirmation.
Your thumb hovers over the message bar.
What do you say to the king you’ve just publicly dethroned?
Brit’s advice rings in your ears. Be playful. Don’t make it weird. But ‘not weird’ is boring. ‘Not weird’ is for other pop stars. Your entire brand is built on being a little weird, a lot bold. On singing the things most people only dare to think.
You think back to the show. The moment the energy shifted. The moment his carefully constructed composure finally cracked.
You smile. You know exactly what to say.
You type it out quickly, your heart giving a little thud of exhilaration. You read it back once. It’s perfect. It’s audacious. It’s you.
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
***
Max is lying on his back in the king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep is a distant country he has no visa for. His mind is a racetrack, and the memory of you is doing endless hot laps.
He’s analysed it from every angle, the way he would with telemetry data after a qualifying session. The initial moment of eye contact. The walk to the stage. The feel of the fuzzy cuff on his wrist. The sound of your voice up close, stripped of the arena’s reverb. It was lower, huskier than he expected.
He rolls over, punching his pillow into a new shape, as if that will somehow rearrange his thoughts. It doesn’t work. He’s restless, agitated. He feels like he’s full of unspent energy, the phantom limb of an adrenaline crash that never came.
His phone, lying face down on the nightstand, buzzes against the wood.
He groans. It’s probably Lando again, with a newly created meme photoshopped from a picture of the concert. He resolves to ignore it. He needs to shut his brain off.
The phone buzzes again. A persistent, insistent little vibration.
With a sigh of resignation, he reaches over and grabs it. Maybe if he just looks at it, the itch of curiosity will be scratched and he can finally sleep.
He squints at the lock screen, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. There are two new notifications. Both from Instagram.
His breath catches in his throat.
It’s not a tag. It’s not a comment. It’s a message request.
@yourusername wants to send you a message.
Max sits bolt upright in bed. The sheet pools around his waist. He stares at the notification, his heart starting a frantic, staccato rhythm against his ribs. This can’t be real. It has to be a fake account, a prank. One of the millions of fan accounts.
But the profile picture is the same one from her official page. And his mind, ever the pragmatist, supplies the logical next step: check.
His thumb, feeling strangely clumsy, slides to open the notification. It takes him to the message request folder. There it is, at the top of the list. Your name, your picture, and the little blue checkmark that means everything in this strange, online world.
It’s real.
He taps on it, his pulse thundering in his ears. The chat opens. There’s only one message from you, sitting there, glowing in the darkness of his hotel room.
He reads it.
Y/N Y/L/N: So. That was fun. But the stage lighting doesn’t really do it justice. Ever wonder what a real demonstration of the Juno position looks like?
Time stops.
The air leaves Max’s lungs in a silent whoosh. He reads the message again. And a third time, just to be sure his sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating.
It’s still there. Bold. Unapologetic. A direct challenge wrapped in a deeply provocative question. It’s the verbal equivalent of you dropping to your knees in that spotlight. It’s designed to shock, to disarm, to get a reaction.
And it works.
A slow, wide grin spreads across Max’s face. The last vestiges of his embarrassment evaporate, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline that’s more potent than winning a race. The mortified man-boy from the concert stage is gone. The champion is back.
You’re playing his game. Or rather, you’re inviting him to play yours. High stakes, high risk, high reward. This, he understands. This is a language he speaks fluently.
His mind races, cycling through a dozen possible replies.
A simple ‘yes’ is too eager, too predictable. He’d be handing her all the power.
‘I might be interested’ is too weak, too corporate.
Ignoring it is an admission of defeat. And Max Verstappen does not lose.
He needs something that matches her energy. Something that acknowledges her move and raises the stakes. He needs a response that is as concise, confident, and just as cocky as her message.
He thinks about the terse, coded language of the racetrack. The call and response between driver and race engineer. Information received. Action required.
He knows what to write.
His thumbs fly across the screen. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess.
Max Verstappen: Copy. Send location.
He hits send.
The single grey tick turns to two. Then, instantly, they turn blue. She’s seen it.
He holds his breath. The ball is back in her court. For a full ten seconds, there is nothing. He wonders if he’s been too bold, if he’s misread the entire situation.
Then, the little bubble with the three dots appears.
She is typing.
***
You stare at his reply, a genuine, delighted laugh bubbling up from your chest.
It’s perfect. It’s not the fawning, overly enthusiastic response you get from most guys, nor is it an attempt to play it cool that just comes off as insecure. It’s direct. It’s efficient. It’s a challenge met with equal force. It’s the most Formula 1-sounding text you could possibly imagine, and you find it ridiculously charming.
He’s not intimidated. He’s ready.
Laila is asleep in the bunk across from you on the tour bus, which is now hurtling down a dark highway toward your next stop. The only light is the glow of your phone. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud and waking her.
Okay, champion. You want to play? Let’s play.
You could send him your hotel address. You could tell him to meet you tomorrow. That would be the easy way. The boring way. You want to draw this out, just a little. You want to see what he’s made of.
Y/N Y/L/N: Not so fast, champion. A proper demonstration requires a proper setting. And I’m not sure you’ve earned it yet.
You hit send. The response comes back almost immediately.
Max Verstappen: What’s the objective?
You grin. Objective. He’s treating this like a race strategy. You can practically hear his engineer in his ear.
Y/N Y/L/N: The objective is for you to convince me you can handle it.
Max Verstappen: I handle 200 mph corners for a living. I think I can handle a pop star.
Oh, he’s cocky. You love it.
Y/N Y/L/N: Driving is easy. You’re just sitting down. This requires stamina. Finesse. An appreciation for the craft.
Max Verstappen: You have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m a fast learner.
Y/N Y/L/N: I’m sure you are. But I have a very busy schedule. My European tour is tightly packed. You might have missed your window of opportunity.
You’re testing him. Seeing if he’ll back down. Seeing if he’ll push.
There’s a longer pause this time. You watch the screen, your heart doing a little tap dance against your ribs. Maybe you pushed too far. Maybe he’s decided it’s not worth the effort.
Then, the three dots appear again.
Max Verstappen: I’m looking at your tour schedule. And my race calendar. You have a day off in two days, after your show in Cologne. I have a simulator session I can move.
You blink at the message. He’s … planning. He’s looking at logistics. This isn’t just a flirtatious game to him anymore, it’s a puzzle to be solved. The seriousness of it, the methodical way he’s approaching this, is the hottest thing you’ve ever encountered.
Y/N Y/L/N: Stalking my tour schedule now? A little desperate, don’t you think?
Max Verstappen: It’s called preparation. You should try it. So. Cologne. You’re at the Hyatt. I can get a room there. We can have dinner. You can … convince me of your craft.
He’s flipped it back on you. Now you’re the one who has to perform. It’s brilliant.
Y/N Y/L/N: Dinner? How charmingly old-fashioned.
Max Verstappen: I am an old man, remember? That’s what you told 17,000 people tonight.
You laugh softly. He’s got a sense of humor buried under all that intensity. This is getting better and better.
Y/N Y/L/N: Fine, Verstappen. Dinner. Two days. Cologne. If you can keep up with the conversation, maybe I’ll consider giving you a private demonstration.
Max Verstappen: I’ll be the one deciding if you get a second date.
The sheer audacity. You have to put the phone down for a second, a wide, incredulous smile on your face. He’s not just playing the game; he’s trying to rewrite the rules.
Y/N Y/L/N: Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just because you have a world title doesn’t mean you’re getting past the first round with me.
Max Verstappen: Good. I like a challenge.
Max Verstappen: Good night, Y/N.
He used your name. Your actual name. It feels surprisingly intimate after the verbal sparring. And he ended the conversation. He won the last word. He’s in control.
You stare at his final message, a giddy, unfamiliar feeling fluttering in your chest. You have a feeling that Max Verstappen is unlike anyone you have ever met before. And you cannot wait to see him again.
You type back one last message.
Y/N Y/L/N: Good night, Max. Don’t get your hopes up.
You turn your phone off and slide it under your pillow. You lie back in the darkness of your bunk, the gentle rocking of the bus a soothing lullaby. But you know you won’t be sleeping for a while. Your mind is already in Cologne, in a hotel restaurant, sitting across from a man who looks at you like you’re the most terrifying and fascinating puzzle he’s ever seen.
And you think, with a thrill of pure, delicious anticipation, that the show is only just getting started.
***
The two days that follow are a strange, suspended reality. A low-frequency hum of anticipation lives just under your skin, a constant companion through your soundcheck in Cologne, the press interviews, the meet-and-greet with fans. You are physically present for all of it, smiling, charming, hitting your notes. But a part of your mind is elsewhere, replaying a text exchange, dissecting the subtext of every concise, infuriatingly confident message from Max.
He doesn’t text often, but when he does, it’s with purpose.
The morning after your initial conversation, a message appears.
Max Verstappen: Good morning. My travel is booked. I will see you tomorrow.
It’s a statement of fact. A confirmation of a logistic. It’s the least romantic text you’ve ever received, and yet it sends a ridiculous thrill through you. There are no emojis, no playful banter. Just the cold, hard fact that he is coming. He is committed to the objective.
You, on the other hand, play your part.
Y/N Y/L/N: Don’t get lost on the way. Big cities can be scary for country boys 😉
His reply takes an hour.
Max Verstappen: I navigate Monaco at 300 kph. I can find the hotel.
You laugh out loud when you read it, earning a strange look from your choreographer.
The day of the date feels like the slow, torturous climb of a rollercoaster. The show that night is electric. You feel alive, every nerve ending tingling with a mixture of performance adrenaline and the knowledge that he is somewhere in the same city, waiting. You pour all of that crackling energy into your set, giving the Cologne audience a performance that feels even more charged, more brazen than the one in Amsterdam. When you get to the Juno position, you hold his imagined gaze, a silent promise hanging in the air of the arena.
Back in your hotel suite, you dismiss your team with breezy assurances that you just want to decompress alone.
“Are you sure?” Laila asks, lingering by the door, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You usually want to order a mountain of fries and dissect the show for at least an hour.”
“I’m sure,” you say, already pulling off your stage-dusted boots. “Just tired tonight. Long day.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, unconvinced. “Well, text me if you need anything. Or if a certain Dutch national hero happens to get lost and wander into your room.”
You throw a pillow at her, and she ducks out of the room, cackling.
Alone, the silence of the suite buzzes around you. You stand under the spray of the shower, the hot water sluicing away the sweat and glitter of the show, but it can’t wash away the thrumming anticipation. This is different from the usual pre-date jitters. This isn’t about impressing someone. This is a game. A high-stakes match against an opponent who is, in his own way, as much of a champion as you are.
You choose your outfit with the care of a general planning a campaign. Nothing too overt. That would be too easy. You settle on a black silk slip dress. It’s simple, elegant, and whispers rather than shouts. It skims your body, hinting at every curve without clinging. It says, I didn’t try too hard, but you’re going to have a very hard time not thinking about what’s underneath this.
You leave your hair slightly damp, letting it wave naturally. Your makeup is minimal — a touch of mascara, a sheer gloss on your lips. This is not the Y/N from the stage. This is the you he hasn’t seen. The you behind the performance. That, you decide, is the most strategic move of all.
At exactly nine o’clock, your phone buzzes.
Max Verstappen: I’m in the lobby bar. In the corner.
No ‘are you ready?’, no ‘let me know when you’re coming down’. Just a statement of his position. He’s in place. He’s waiting.
Your heart gives a single, hard thump.
Showtime.
***
The hotel bar is the kind of place that specializes in expensive brown liquor and hushed conversations. It’s all dark wood, low lighting, and the quiet clinking of heavy glassware. You spot him immediately.
He’s exactly where he said he’d be, in a discreet booth in the far corner, nursing a glass of what looks like sparkling water. He’s not on his phone. He’s just watching the room with a calm, unnerving stillness. He’s wearing a dark grey jumper that makes his shoulders look even broader than they do in a race suit, and his hair is soft and unstyled. The sight of him, so different from the intense, helmeted athlete or the flustered boy on your stage, sends a fresh jolt of electricity through you.
He sees you the moment you step into the room. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, the rest of the bar melts away. He doesn't smile, but you see a flicker of something in his gaze — appreciation, surprise, something else you can’t quite name. He stands up as you approach, a simple, almost formal gesture of courtesy that feels surprisingly charming.
“Hi,” you say, your voice a little softer than you intended.
“Hi,” he replies. His voice is a low rumble that seems to vibrate in the space between you. He gestures to the seat opposite him. “You look … different.”
You slide into the booth, the leather cool against your bare legs. “Different good, or different like I’ve just escaped a glitter factory?”
A small smile finally touches his lips. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp, intense lines. “Different good. Very good.”
A waiter materializes at your elbow. You order a glass of champagne, and Max orders another water.
“No celebration drink?” You ask, arching an eyebrow after the waiter has gone. “I thought you Heineken guys were always on the clock.”
“I’m working tomorrow,” he says simply. “Simulator. Can’t be slow.”
“Ah, yes. The discipline,” you say, leaning your elbows on the table. “Tell me, Max, are you ever not working? Do you ever just … turn it off?”
“Do you?” He counters, his blue eyes sharp and intelligent. He’s not just making conversation; he’s probing, gathering data.
You have to give him a small, impressed smile. “Touché. No, I guess not. Even when I’m ‘off,’ I’m thinking about lyrics, melodies, the next tour …”
“It’s the same,” he nods, seeming to understand completely. “There is always the next race. The next corner. You can’t leave it behind. It’s who you are.”
In that single moment, a bridge forms between your two vastly different worlds. The pop star and the racing driver. On the surface, nothing alike. But underneath, you are both predators, obsessive perfectionists, addicted to the roar of the crowd and the taste of victory. You both live your lives in the unforgiving glare of the public spotlight.
“So,” you say, changing the subject, a playful glint returning to your eyes. “Will you enjoy the show tonight? Or did you need a chaperone to drag you here, too?”
He takes a slow sip of his water, his gaze never leaving yours. “I came on my own this time.” He pauses. “It was good. You are … very good at what you do.”
Coming from him, the simple, unadorned compliment lands with more weight than a thousand gushing reviews. It’s a professional assessment. Champion to champion.
“And you’re very good at what you do,” you reply. “Though I still think it’s mostly just sitting down and turning a wheel.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “You wouldn’t last ten laps.”
“You wouldn’t last one song in my heels.”
“Deal,” he says, his smile widening. “But you have to wear the race suit.”
The waiter arrives with your champagne. You lift the glass, the tiny bubbles catching the light. “To unlikely deals,” you say.
He lifts his water glass. “To keeping up.”
The clink of your glasses hangs in the air. The overture is over. The real match is beginning.
You talk for over an hour. The conversation flows with a surprising ease. He asks you about your songwriting process with a genuine, technical curiosity. You ask him about the psychology of racing, of pushing a machine and your own body to the absolute edge of their limits. You find you are both fluent in the language of pressure.
He’s not what you expected. He’s not arrogant, but he has a deep, unshakable core of self-belief that is more potent than any boast. He’s funny, in a dry, deadpan way. And he’s an intensely focused listener. When you speak, he watches you with an unnerving concentration, as if he’s trying to memorize the very cadence of your voice.
You feel the familiar pull of attraction deepening into something more dangerous. A genuine fascination. You’re enjoying this too much. You’re letting your guard down. Time to retake the offensive.
As he’s explaining the physics of downforce, you stretch your legs out under the table. You let your bare foot brush against his ankle.
He stops talking. Mid-sentence.
It’s just for a second. A tiny, fractional pause. But you see it. A flicker in his eyes. A subtle tightening of his jaw. You’ve breached his defenses.
You pretend it was an accident, pulling your foot back slightly before letting it find his leg again, this time with a little more purpose. You slowly, deliberately, trace the line of his calf with your toes, the silk of your dress whispering against the leather of the booth.
He resumes his explanation of downforce, but his voice is a fraction deeper. He doesn't acknowledge what you're doing. He just keeps talking, his eyes locked on yours, as if he’s daring you to push it further.
Challenge accepted.
You slide your foot higher, your toes finding the rough denim of his jeans at his knee. You press, gently. He continues to speak, his composure on the surface absolute. But you can feel the rigid tension in his leg muscles under your foot. You’re getting to him. The untouchable champion is not so untouchable after all.
You get bolder. You hook your ankle around his, pulling his leg slightly closer to yours. You’re playing a secret, silent game in the middle of a respectable hotel bar, and the illicit thrill of it is intoxicating.
He finishes his point about tyre degradation and then falls silent. He just looks at you, his gaze intense, unreadable. The air between you is thick with unspoken things. Your foot is still hooked around his ankle.
“Are you finished?” He asks, his voice low and steady.
For a second, you think he means with your drink. But the look in his eyes tells you he means something else entirely.
“I’m just getting started,” you whisper.
He holds your gaze for another long moment. Then, he puts his napkin on the table, a gesture of finality.
“I have a suite,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. An instruction. “We should go.”
He’s taking back control. Calling the play. And every cell in your body sings in agreement.
“Lead the way, champion,” you say, your voice a purr.
***
The walk from the bar to the elevator is the longest walk of your life. He doesn’t touch you, but you can feel the heat radiating from him. He walks a half-step ahead of you, a silent, dominant presence clearing a path through the lobby. You feel like a satellite caught in his gravitational pull.
Inside the elevator, the silence is deafening. The mirrored walls reflect the two of you, standing a foot apart, not looking at each other but acutely aware of every tiny movement, every breath. The air is so charged you feel like a spark could set it all on fire. You watch his reflection. His jaw is set, his hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides. He is a picture of forced composure, a volcano putting a lid on itself.
The soft ding of the elevator arriving at his floor makes you both jump.
He leads you down the hallway to his room, his key card beeping softly as he unlocks the door. He pushes it open and stands back, letting you enter first.
The suite is huge and impersonal, the way all expensive hotel rooms are. A sprawling living area, a minibar, and a wall of windows showing the glittering lights of Cologne. But you don’t see any of it. All you see is him as he closes the door behind you, the solid click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
The sound seals you in. The public game is over. The private one is about to begin.
He walks past you towards the minibar. “Do you want a drink?” He asks, his back to you. It’s a last, desperate grasp at normalcy. At control.
You’re not going to let him have it.
You walk up behind him, stopping so close you can feel the warmth of his body. You can smell his cologne, a clean, sharp scent of citrus and something woody.
“I don’t want a drink, Max,” you say, your voice low and husky.
He turns around slowly. You’re so close you have to tilt your head back to look up at him. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide. The cool, collected man from the bar is gone. In his place is someone else. Someone raw and unguarded.
“Then what do you want?” He asks, his voice rough.
You reach up and place a hand flat on his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against your palm, a frantic, wild rhythm that matches your own.
“I want to know if you can still talk a big game up close,” you whisper, letting your fingers trail up his chest to the collar of his jumper. “Still think you can handle me, champion?”
That’s it. That’s the word. The spark.
He snaps.
His control shatters into a million pieces. In one swift, fluid movement, he has you backed against the solid wood of the door, his body caging yours. One of his hands comes up to brace the door next to your head, the other finds your waist, his fingers digging into the silk of your dress, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the hard, undeniable proof of his arousal pressed against your stomach.
His face is inches from yours, his eyes burning with an intensity that steals your breath.
“Handle you?” He growls, his voice a low, guttural sound that vibrates through you. “I have thought about nothing else for two days. Since the moment you put those ridiculous handcuffs on my wrist. I’ve thought about your mouth. I’ve thought about this dress. And I’ve thought about every single word of that fucking song.”
Your mind goes blank. All the witty comebacks, the playful teasing, it all evaporates in the face of this raw, overwhelming honesty. This is what was hiding beneath all that discipline. A ferocious, tightly leashed desire. And you are the one who just snapped the leash.
“Max …” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper.
“Don’t,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Don’t talk. Not yet.”
And then he kisses you.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. It’s desperate and hungry and furious. It’s two days of tension and a lifetime of control being obliterated in a single, devastating moment. His mouth is hot and demanding, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising force that makes you see stars. He tastes of mint and bottled water and pure, unadulterated need.
You kiss him back with equal ferocity, your hands coming up to tangle in his soft hair, pulling him closer, deeper. You open your mouth to him, and his tongue sweeps in, claiming you with a possessive, masterful confidence. It’s a battle, a fight for dominance, and you are both losing, both winning, both surrendering completely.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, along your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. You arch your back, a low sound of pleasure escaping your lips. His hand at your waist slides lower, cupping your ass, lifting you up and grinding you against him.
“Is this … handling it?” He murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin.
“You’re getting warmer,” you pant, your brain struggling to form coherent thoughts.
He lifts his head, his eyes blazing, and kisses you again, hard and deep. He walks you backwards, away from the door, his mouth never leaving yours. You stumble over something, but he holds you steady, his arms like steel bands around you. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. He pushes you down gently, following you, his body covering yours, caging you on the mattress.
He breaks the kiss, his chest heaving, and props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. Your dress is rucked up around your thighs, your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen from his. You probably look like a storm just passed through you.
“Okay,” he says, his voice still rough with passion. “Okay.” It’s like he’s trying to reboot his own brain, to find the control again.
But you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t fulfilled your promise.
You reach up and place your hands on his chest, pushing him gently. “My turn,” you say, your voice breathy.
He looks at you, confused, but allows you to push him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He watches you, his eyes full of questions, as you slide off the bed and onto your knees in front of him. You look up at him from the floor, and you see the exact moment recognition dawns in his eyes. It’s the same look he had at the concert. Shock. Awe. Utter, brain-melting disbelief.
“The stage lighting really doesn’t do it justice,” you whisper, repeating your words from the DM. You give him a slow, wicked smile. “Time for your private demonstration.”
You reach out and unbuckle his belt, the metallic click loud in the silent room. You pull the zipper of his jeans down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. His breath hitches. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, clench into tight fists.
You take him into your hand. He’s hot and hard and heavy, and a fresh wave of desire, of power, washes over you. You lean in, your lips brushing against the tip of him, a teasing, feather-light touch. He lets out a low, strangled groan and his head falls back against the headboard.
“Look at me,” you command softly.
His eyes snap open, locking with yours. They are dark, hazy with lust.
“Do you want to try,” you whisper, “this one?”
And you take him into your mouth.
You put every ounce of your skill, your confidence, your audacity into it. This is a performance, but it’s the most intimate one you’ve ever given. It’s slow and deep and decadent. You use your tongue, your lips, your hands, orchestrating his pleasure with the precision of a conductor. You watch his face the entire time, watch the way his jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck cord, the way his eyes squeeze shut as you push him closer to the edge. You’re in complete control, and the power is a heady, intoxicating drug.
He lasts longer than you expect, his famous discipline fighting a losing battle against the pure, overwhelming sensation. His hands come down to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding on, anchoring himself in the storm you’ve created. His breathing is harsh, ragged.
“Y/N …” he chokes out your name, a plea and a prayer.
You know he’s close, on the brink. And just as he’s about to shatter, you pull away.
He lets out a frustrated growl, his eyes snapping open. They are wild, furious, and filled with a desperate need that makes you weak at the knees.
“What are you doing?” He rasps.
You get to your feet, a triumphant smirk on your lips. “Demonstration over,” you say, your voice a little shaky.
For a second, he just stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, in a movement so fast you don't have time to react, he’s on his feet. He grabs your arm, spins you around, and pushes you face down onto the bed.
“My turn,” he growls in your ear, his voice a low, predatory rumble.
He pushes the silk of your dress up to your waist, his hot breath on the back of your neck. His hands explore your body, not with gentleness, but with a hungry, desperate curiosity. He spans your waist, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back.
“You have no idea what you just started,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your earlobe.
He parts you with his fingers, and you gasp as his thumb finds your clit, pressing down with a firm, knowing pressure. You moan into the pillow, your carefully constructed control completely gone. You are pure sensation, pure need.
Then, his mouth replaces his hand.
And your world ends.
If your performance was a work of art, his is an act of sheer, focused demolition. There is no finesse, no teasing. It is a direct, relentless, overwhelming assault on your senses. His tongue is masterful, merciless. He finds your rhythm instantly and pushes you, harder, faster, deeper. He’s not performing, he’s claiming. He’s not asking, he’s taking. He’s a champion, and he is determined to win.
You lose all sense of time and space. There is only the bedspread clutched in your fists, the sound of your own helpless moans, and the exquisite, unbearable pleasure he is inflicting on you. Your hips buck against his mouth, chasing the feeling, chasing the release.
“Max, please,” you cry out, not even sure what you’re asking for.
He doesn’t stop. He just holds your hips tighter, his mouth becoming even more insistent. He is pushing you over an edge you didn't even know was there. The pleasure builds and builds, a tight, coiling knot in your stomach, until it becomes unbearable.
And then, it snaps.
Your climax rips through you, a violent, soul-shattering wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the pillow as your body convulses, the release so powerful it leaves you trembling and breathless, completely undone.
He doesn't stop until the last aftershock has faded. He stays there for a moment longer before moving up, collapsing onto the bed beside you, his body slick with sweat. He pulls you against his side, his arm wrapping around you, holding you tight.
You lie there in silence for a long time, the only sound the ragged rhythm of your breathing slowly returning to normal. Your body feels boneless, your mind blissfully blank.
He broke through all your defenses. He met your challenge and raised the stakes to a level you never could have imagined. He didn't just handle you. He conquered you.
You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes are closed, but a small, satisfied smile plays on his lips.
“So,” you say, your voice a wrecked, husky whisper. “Second date?”
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you, his eyes clear and bright, and the smile widens into a genuine, breathtaking grin.
“Copy,” he says. “Send location.”
***
The morning light in Cologne is grey and unforgiving, slicing through a gap in the heavy blackout curtains. You wake slowly, your body a warm, heavy tangle of limbs and satisfaction. For a moment, you don't know where you are. Then you feel it — the solid weight of an arm draped possessively over your waist, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against your back.
It all comes rushing back in a dizzying, cinematic flash. The bar. The elevator. The devastating, all-consuming kiss against the door. The demonstration. And his … rebuttal.
A slow smile spreads across your face. You lie still, listening to the sound of his breathing, the quiet hum of the city outside. This is usually the part you hate. The awkward morning-after shuffle, the polite but pointed small talk, the unspoken question of who leaves first. You’re an expert at the clean getaway.
But as you lie there, pinned by the arm of a sleeping world champion, you feel a distinct lack of any desire to escape. You feel … comfortable. Calm. It’s a dangerously unfamiliar sensation.
You carefully, quietly, try to slide out from under his arm. You fail. The arm tightens, and a low, sleepy groan rumbles from his chest. He pulls you back against him, his face nuzzling into the curve of your neck.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
“I was just going to the bathroom,” you whisper, your heart giving a little flutter at the casual intimacy of the gesture.
“Bathroom can wait,” he says, his lips brushing against your skin. “Five more minutes.”
You surrender, letting your body relax back into his. The five minutes stretch into fifteen, a peaceful, silent bubble in the heart of a bustling hotel. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. You just lie there, existing in the same space, and it feels more natural than it has any right to.
Eventually, the silence is broken by the insistent buzz of a phone on the nightstand. Max groans again, a sound of pure protest this time. He reluctantly untangles himself from you, the loss of his warmth immediate, and leans over to grab the offending device.
He squints at the screen, running a hand through his already messy hair. “It’s my race engineer,” he says, his voice still gravelly. He clears his throat. “I have to … I have a session.”
“The famous simulator,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows, the sheet pooling around your waist.
He looks at you, and for the first time in the clear morning light, you see him without the mask of intensity or the haze of lust. He just looks like a guy who’s been woken up too early. A handsome guy, yes, but a normal one. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. It’s ridiculously endearing.
“Yeah,” he says, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He seems suddenly, uncharacteristically awkward. “I, uh, I have to go.”
Here it is. The pivot. The moment the magic of the night gives way to the harsh reality of the morning.
“Okay,” you say, keeping your voice light and breezy. You start to get out of bed, ready to gather your dress from the floor and perform your signature vanishing act.
“Wait,” he says, and his voice is sharp enough to make you pause.
You turn to look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his phone in one hand, looking at you with that intense, analytical gaze you’re coming to recognize. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by a focused seriousness.
“What?” You ask.
He seems to be weighing his words carefully. “This wasn’t … I don’t do this.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Do what? Have spectacularly hot, mutually satisfying sex with international pop stars? I’m sure it’s a rare occurrence.”
A small smile tugs at his lips, but his eyes remain serious. “No. This. A … one-night thing. It’s not my style.”
“Relax, champion,” you say, a little too quickly. “You don’t have to give me the ‘it’s not you, it’s my demanding career’ speech. I get it. I wrote the platinum-selling album on the subject. No strings, no expectations. It was a great demonstration. End of story.”
You’re protecting yourself, throwing up your usual walls of wit and nonchalance. But the words feel hollow even as you say them.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” he says, his gaze unwavering. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping just in front of you. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, and you have to actively force your brain to focus on his face. “I’m saying this isn’t the end of the story. For me.”
Your breath catches in your throat. “What are you saying, Max?”
“I’m saying I want to see you again,” he says, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Not for a game. Not for a challenge. I just … want to see you.”
The raw, unvarnished honesty of it knocks the air out of your lungs. There are no clever lines, no carefully constructed moves. Just a simple, direct statement of intent. It’s terrifying. And it’s thrilling.
“My schedule is insane,” you hear yourself say, the old excuses coming automatically. “I’m in a different city every other day. And you’re …”
“I know what my schedule is,” he cuts in. “I know what yours is. I looked it up again this morning.” Of course he did. “It’s difficult. It’s not impossible.” He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I want to try.”
You look into his eyes, and you see no games, no pretense. You see the same focus and determination he probably has when he’s hunting down a rival on the last lap of a race. And it’s all directed at you.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across your face. “Okay, Verstappen,” you say softly. “Let’s try.”
***
Trying, it turns out, is a logistical nightmare that feels like the easiest thing in the world.
Your life becomes a chaotic puzzle of time zones, flight paths, and encrypted text messages. It’s a relationship built in the stolen moments between soundchecks and simulator sessions, in quiet hotel rooms in cities you barely have time to see.
It’s a study in contradictions.
You are loud, he is quiet. Your life is a curated performance of joyful chaos, his is a monastic devotion to the millimeter, the microsecond. You thrive on the energy of thousands of screaming fans, he finds his peace in the solitary focus of the cockpit.
And somehow, it works. He becomes your anchor in the whirlwind of your life. You become his escape from the crushing pressure of his.
The first time you go to a race, it’s Monaco. Of course it’s Monaco. You step into the paddock, and it’s like entering another planet. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and expensive perfume, the sound a constant, high-strung symphony of screaming engines and a dozen different languages. It’s the only place on earth where your sequined jumpsuit doesn't even warrant a second glance.
Max meets you by the Red Bull hospitality suite, a rare, genuine smile on his face as he watches you take it all in.
“A bit much, isn’t it?” He says, his hand finding the small of your back.
“Honey, ‘a bit much’ is my brand,” you reply, grinning up at him. “I feel right at home.”
He gets a jealous look from another driver and Max’s hand on your back becomes just a little more possessive. He introduces you to his race engineer, GP, a man with a perpetually amused glint in his eye.
“So you’re the one,” GP says, shaking your hand. “The one who finally managed to knock him off his focus.”
“Oh, I think his focus is perfectly intact,” you say, giving Max a sly wink. “I’m just … recalibrating his suspension.”
GP lets out a bark of laughter. “I like her, Max. Don’t mess this one up.”
You spend the race in the garage, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over your ears. You don’t understand ninety percent of what’s happening, but you understand the tension. You watch the data on the screens, the focused ballet of the pit crew, the raw, primal emotion when Max makes a daring overtake. You see him in his element, a modern-day gladiator in a carbon fibre chariot, and your fascination with him deepens into a profound respect.
He starts showing up to your shows whenever his calendar has a twenty-four-hour gap. He’ll fly from Spa to London, from Monza to Paris, just to stand at the side of the stage and watch you. He never says much. He just stands there, his arms crossed, a small, proud smile on his face as you command the adoration of thousands. He’s your quiet island in the middle of the screaming ocean of your life.
One night, after a show in New York, you’re back in the hotel, exhausted and high on adrenaline. He’s sitting on the couch, watching you pace around the room as you dissect the performance.
“The bridge in ‘Tornado Warning’ was a little pitchy, and I missed my mark on the final chorus choreography …”
He just watches you, his expression calm and steady. “It was amazing,” he says when you finally pause for breath.
“You always say that,” you say, flopping down onto the couch next to him.
“Because it’s always true,” he replies simply. He reaches over and pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. You sigh, your body melting into his, the frantic energy of the show finally draining away.
“How do you do it?” You whisper into his neck. “How do you stay so … calm?”
“It’s easy,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re loud enough for both of us.”
***
For his birthday, you decide to give him a gift only you can.
“I’m writing a song for you,” you announce one evening over a crackly FaceTime call. He’s in Singapore, you’re in L.A.
He groans, but he’s smiling. “Please don’t. My team already gives me enough shit for dating you. And Lando will be insufferable.”
“Oh, it’s too late,” you say sweetly. “The hook is already written. It’s very … aerodynamic.”
The song, titled ‘Pole Position’, drops two weeks later. It’s a pulsing, synth-heavy, ridiculously sexy track. It’s also the most explicit thing you’ve ever written. It’s filled with barely-veiled metaphors about G-forces, chicanes, and finishing first. The bridge is a breathy, spoken-word masterpiece that contains the line, “They say you’re the master of the late-breaking … I can attest to your stamina.”
It’s an instant, scandalous, global smash hit.
Max texts you the day it’s released.
Maxie ❤️: You are going to be the death of me.
You text back: You love it.
There’s a long pause.
Maxie ❤️: The car is on its way to your video shoot.
You had somehow, through a combination of dazzling charm, irrefutable brand synergy logic, and possibly a little light blackmail, convinced the Red Bull marketing team to let you use one of their F1 cars for the music video.
The video is a masterpiece of high-gloss camp. You, writhing on the chassis of an RB19 in a leather catsuit. You, licking champagne off a winner’s trophy. You, sitting in the cockpit, running your hands over the steering wheel with a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face.
The video breaks the internet. Red Bull’s social media engagement goes up by 500 percent. Red Bull sends you a case of champagne with a note that says, “Well played.”
Max’s response is more succinct.
He wins the next race in Austin in a dominant, lights-to-flag victory. As he crosses the finish line, GP’s voice crackles over the radio.
“Okay, Max, that is P1. A brilliant, brilliant drive, mate. Absolutely flawless.”
There’s a pause, filled only with the sound of Max’s heavy breathing and the whine of the downshifting engine.
Then, his voice comes over the global broadcast, clear and steady.
“Yeah, that was a good one,” he says. “That one was for you, Y/N.”
You’re watching from the green room of a talk show in New York, and you burst into tears. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.
***
Time blurs, the way it does when you’re happy. Seasons pass in a flurry of checkered flags and sold-out stadiums. Your love story becomes a strange, accepted part of the cultural landscape. The scandalous pop star and the stoic racing champion. The odd couple who, against all odds, make perfect sense.
You are there in the suffocating humidity of Singapore, the glamour of Las Vegas, the historic grandeur of Silverstone. He is there in the wings of Madison Square Garden, the front row of the O2 Arena, the chaotic backstage of Glastonbury.
Then comes the race in Abu Dhabi.
It’s the culmination of a long, brutal season. He’s been fighting tooth and nail, a relentless battle for every point. It all comes down to this one race, under the desert lights. If he wins, he secures his fifth World Championship.
You’re in the garage, a nervous wreck. You’re twisting the strap of your paddock pass, your heart hammering in time with the screaming engines. You watch the race unfold on the monitors, your stomach in knots. It’s a tense, strategic affair. He doesn’t put a wheel wrong. He is a machine, a perfect fusion of man and carbon fiber.
He crosses the line. He wins.
The garage explodes. A tidal wave of joy and relief washes over everyone. Engineers are hugging, mechanics are crying. You are just standing there, tears streaming down your face, a sob of pure pride caught in your throat.
Later, after the podium, the interviews, the whirlwind of celebration, you find him in his driver’s room. He’s sitting on a bench, his head in his hands, the emotion of the day finally catching up to him.
You walk over and sit next to him, placing a hand on his back.
He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed. He gives you a watery, exhausted smile. “We did it.”
“You did it,” you say softly, wiping a tear from his cheek. “You’re incredible.”
He leans in and rests his forehead against yours. “Couldn’t do it without you,” he whispers. “My lucky charm.”
A few days later, you’re on stage in London. It’s the first show of your new world tour, a bigger, more ambitious production than ever before. The “arrest” segment with the fuzzy handcuffs has long been retired, replaced by new, even more elaborate gags.
Halfway through the set, as you’re catching your breath between songs, you scan the crowd. And you see him.
He’s not at the side of the stage. He’s in the audience, standing in the middle of the crowd with Victoria and some of his friends. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, but you’d recognize him anywhere. He looks happy, relaxed, the weight of the championship finally lifted. He’s just a guy at a concert, watching his girlfriend.
He catches your eye. He smiles and gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod.
And an idea, a crazy, perfect, full-circle idea, sparks in your mind.
You grin at your band, a silent, mischievous signal that you’re going off-script. They look confused but nod along, ever the professionals.
You turn back to the microphone, a dramatic, serious expression on your face.
“London,” you say, and the arena quiets down, sensing a shift in the show. “I’m afraid I have to interrupt this evening’s proceedings for a very serious matter.”
A confused murmur ripples through the crowd.
“It has come to my attention,” you continue, your voice ringing with theatrical gravity, “that there is a criminal in our midst. A repeat offender.”
The crowd starts to buzz, a mixture of confusion and excitement.
“This man is guilty of multiple offenses,” you declare, starting to pace the stage. “Disturbing the peace. Driving too fast. Stealing way, way too many trophies. And, most egregiously … he stole my heart.”
A collective “aww” rises from the audience as they start to understand.
You look directly at Max, a spotlight operator catching your cue and swinging a beam of light onto him. The crowd around him erupts as they realize who it is. He buries his face in his hands for a second, a mixture of embarrassment and laughter, before looking back up at you, his eyes shining.
“Yeah, you,” you say, pointing at him, your voice softening. “In the stupid baseball cap. The five-time World Champion who looks like he just won the lottery.”
You motion to your stage manager in the wings. He whispers into his headset. A moment later, your prop master runs out and hands you something.
Fuzzy. Pink.
The arena explodes. The sound is deafening. It’s a roar of recognition, of joy, of love for the public, ridiculous story that has become yours.
“Security,” you say into the microphone, your voice thick with emotion but a wide, triumphant grin on your face. “Bring him to me. He’s got a life sentence to serve.”
They part the crowd for him, and he makes his way to the stage, a look of pure love on his face. He’s not the flustered, overwhelmed man he was all those years ago. He’s a king, walking onto a stage that is as much his as it is yours.
He bounds up the stairs, and you meet him in the center of the stage. The roar of the crowd fades into a distant hum.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, his voice for your ears only.
“You started it,” you whisper back, your eyes sparkling with happy tears.
You take his wrist, the familiar fuzzy cuff soft against his skin. “Max Emilian Verstappen,” you declare to the cheering arena, “for the crime of being illegally handsome, impossibly talented, and for loving a chaotic pop star with your whole heart …”
You click the other cuff onto your own wrist, linking you together.
“… I sentence you to a lifetime with me.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just leans in, cups your face in his free hand, and kisses you. It’s a kiss filled with years of history, of stolen moments and public declarations, of quiet mornings and screaming crowds. It’s a kiss that says home.
The crowd is a roaring, beautiful, joyful blur. But in the center of the stage, in the middle of the storm you’ve created together, there is only the two of you. Linked together. Finally and forever apprehended.
May the Great Bobby Allen rest in peace. 81 years young, I never had the chance of meeting him, but, he left his mark on the dirt track world. Give them hell Scruffy.
SO, I wrote this last night. It has some sprinkles of what has happened to me in the past, and what is going on with me currently. I have been dealing with self-esteem issues at the moment and this fic kinda reflects that. Very loosely I guess. When I wrote this, I was listening to "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra. I highly recommend listening to it. But Uh, here it is! This is very, very poorly proof read. So, please be nice!
A/N: some triggers, I couldn't tell you what they are. but they are there. Reader is Daniel Riccardo's sister. Takes place during and after Singapore 2024. I miss you everyday Daniel!!!!
Singapore, 2024.
Your older brother, Daniel looked at you, and pulled you into a hug and kissed you on top of the head. He looked at you as if you are his best friend and greatest accomplishment. He smiled, and spoke. “Remember what I told you when I was at McLaren? To enjoy the butterflies?”. You just nodded, he spoke again, “Good, now, I am not supposed to tell anyone this, but the reason why I wanted you here, not just because this is my favorite race. But it's my last in Formula 1. You have been there for all the ups and downs. You have been my rock, my best friend. I couldn’t have asked for a better sister. Remember when we were kids, and we planted those seeds? There are trees as old as us now. Growing together, intertwining and fighting to grow the biggest no doubt. Those trees will never stop growing and neither will we. Don’t be sad that this is my last race, just be happy we went on this journey together. Mum and Dad are excited for what the next chapter brings.” The tears starting rolling down your face. You pulled your big brother into the biggest hug you could muster. “Dani, I am so proud of you, for you. Everything you have done. You are my best friend, my person. You will always have my support. But now it's time to leave and turn this world to dust. We can build a house out of stone in Texas and have a ranch. We can be proper cowboys. We can have wooden floors and window sills, a place where we don’t feel alone.” Daniel just smiled and nodded his head. He was trying not to cry, “Yes, we can have Heidi and Max or whoever come with us. We can have a house with those wooden floors and window sills. Plant new trees that will be there forever.” You hugged your brother again, “go get them and show them what they gave up on.” He nodded as he got into the car. 62 laps later. Daniel got the fastest lap, all you heard on the radio was GP saying “and thanks to your old mate Daniel for picking up the fastest lap point.” You smiled and a tear came down your face. Max then came on the radio and said “Thank you Daniel!”. Your heart smiled. The post race happened. Next thing you knew it was 3 am and you walked out of the paddock for the last time, with your brother. All smiles and jokes happening. He smiled at you, “How many rooms is our house going to be? We obviously need separate wings. But we need horses. Lots of horses.” You just smiled and agreed.
OCOTBER 2025:
It was gearing up to race week at COTA. Since Singapore you have had your string of romances. From Shane to Tyler, to Shanes brother Anthony. Daniel was getting tired of them sneaking in and out at ungodly hours. He finally sat you down. “Peach, do you know what you are doing to yourself? The drinking? The men that come in here night after night? Your self esteem? You haven’t been riding horses in months? You just sit in your room watching the same four shows? It as gotten to the point I can tell what your mood is by the shows I hear? I know when you are watching Chicago Fire you are in an ok mood. But when I hear Game of Thrones, I know the wine will be gone by the end of the night. What the fuck is going on with you?”. You finally look at him, you’ve lost weight, your face is thin and it looks like the light has left your eyes, “Dani, I don’t know what is happening to me. I dont know what is going on. I really don’t. I want help, I want to be better. I dont know how to ask you for help. I want to be better, I want to be the sister you deserve. Right now, I am a shell of what I used to be. I dont know why, I don’t know what happened to me. I want help.” At this point you are both on the floor crying sitting across from each other. Daniel has never seen you like this. He doesn’t know what to do other than cry and look at the shell of what was once his sister. At that point, Max Verstappen walks in, he is witnessing you and Daniel just looking at each other crying on the floor of the stone house you and Daniel built. Max is just looking at the both of you, tear stained faces with a bottle of open wine sitting between you. You grab the bottle and take a swig. Not even noticing that Max walked in. “Daniel, I want to be better for you. I dont even know when this whole thing started with Shane, Tyler and Anthony. I have no idea. I just want to be better for you. I want to get back to being that sister you loved. Right now, I don’t feel anything. I feel like more of a burden than a sister. I want to better for you. For everyone.” That is when Max cleared his throat, “Im sorry, for interrupting, but uh, where should I put my bags?”. You stood up, wiping your face, taking a sip from that wine bottle, “Hi, Max. Uh, Daniel will show you.” As soon as you finished that sentence, Anthony walked in the house as if he owned the place. He kissed you on the cheek and gave Daniel a nod, “I’ll meet you in your room babe.” You smiled at Anthony as if giving him permission. Max looked at you and walked over and gave you a hug, he whispered into your ear “you are so much more than a hook up. But ill see you in the morning”. You hugged him back and grabbed another bottle of wine, and in no time, the Game of Thrones theme song was playing the drown out the sounds of you and Anthony.
The next morning you are cooking breakfast for you and Anthony. He is just sitting there looking at his phone while you cook eggs and bacon. Max comes walking in, “Good Morning Peach”, he walks over and kisses you on the head and gets orange juice out of the fridge. You look up at Max, face still tear stained, “Good morning Max, sorry about last night, I was having a moment.” Max looked at you as if he was seeing a ghost of a loved one. “Its okay, I understand what you are going through.” He looked over at Anthony. “Hi, I am Max Verstappen. Nice to meet you.” Anthony just looked at him. “Uh, I gotta go to work, text me if you want me to come by later.” He was gone, like a puff of smoke. That is when Max looked at you. “You deserve better than that. He didn’t even say hello to anyone who was here.” You smiled at Max and spoke “We accept the love we think we deserve. I guess thats it.” You went back to making breakfast. Made a plate for Daniel and put it in the food warmer. Walked back to your room, and finally put on those riding clothes that you haven’t worn in months. They hung big over your frame. Daniel and Max were sitting in the kitchen eating when they saw you walk out to the barn. “Max, I haven’t seen her in months. I mean, I have seen her. But I haven’t seen HER. I dont know what happened. After Singapore, we built this house, got the horses. Then something happened, a switch flipped and she wasn’t my sister anymore. She was a shell of her.”
They looked out the window and saw you walking over to the barn. Head held high and trying not to fight back the tears. You walked up to your horse, pat him on the face. “Hey there old guy. Its been a while, lets do some easy riding today.” That you did, got the horse all tacked up and walked out of the barn. Daniel and Max are still talking over the breakfast you made. They looked out the window again and saw you on top of your tan Halflinger horse named Warrior. Walking, trotting and galloping around the riding ring. They finally saw you smiling again. Not a forced smile, but a real smile. Daniel hasn’t seen that in months. Max looked at him, “How bad has it been mate?” Daniel looked at him with sadness in his eyes. “Max, I don’t even know. We built this house. We got the horses, and it was great. Then she started bringing around this guy Shane. It seemed good, then she stopped doing the things she loved. She stopped reading her books, she stopped going with me on my trips, she just stopped. I didn’t think anything of it at first. I thought she wanted to stay in the home we built. But then, Shane stopped coming around that is when her drinking really started. I didn’t say anything because it was only on the weekends. Then I saw bottles going missing on a Monday. Then this Tyler guy showed up. Reeked of weed and cigarettes, yeah she vaped, whatever. Then Tyler ended it. That is when she engulfed herself into game of thrones. It was a good distraction for her. It was something she had to research to understand it. That was when she started getting a little better. Then the brother showed up. Anthony, then the same patterns she had with Shane started again. Drinking, whatever. Dude, I just want my sister back. The sister that gave us shit.” Max looked at his friend, he knew that he had to help. “Maybe getting her back to the paddock, and seeing her old friends again will help. Say the word and ill get you guys the passes for Austin.” Daniel smiled at his friend and then looked out the window and saw his sister riding that tan horse with a smile on her face. “Yeah, lets do it.”
You came in and was smiling ear to ear. The boys still in the kitchen. “Daniel, I needed that so much. I am starting to feel like me again, little by little.” Max smiled at the girl, “Good, I am glad. Daniel said about going to the paddock for the race. How would you feel about being around your old friends again? Bring Anthony. Maybe he can get a glimpse of who you were before.” You smiled and said yes. That night you texted Anthony and told him about the paddock passes and he agreed to go with you. Which was all part of Max’s plan. His plan was once Anthony sees you back in the element you were in for so long. He will let you go, he will see that you are not that small depressed girl anymore.
Max’s plan went exactly the way he wanted too. Anthony saw you in your element, chatting with some of the engineers, and the other drivers. Anthony stayed by your side as if he was a lost puppy. Your smile grew bigger and bigger each person you talked too. That is exactly what Max was going for. Then Lando walked up to you. “Peach! We haven’t seen you in ages. From your instagram you look like you have been living large in Texas! I even reached out a few times, but never heard back? What is going on?” That is when Anthony cleared his throat. Just smiling at Lando, “you’re right, I haven’t talked to anyone lately actually. But, uh, this is my friend Anthony. I met him a few months back.” Anthony nodded at Lando and wrapped his arm around your waist as if claiming his property. Lando looked him up and down, “Nice to meet you Mate. You should have seen our girl back in the day. Man, she was and still is so beautiful and just made the room feel better when she walked in. Of course you know that. Did she ever make you those little cupcakes? Man, those are my favorite!” Anthony just pulled you in closer to him, “No, she hasn’t. She does make a good breakfast though.” Lando just smirked, “well, yeah she does make a good breakfast, I have had many of those.” Lando was making a joke, but is did rub Anthony the wrong way, he walked away. You hit Lando on the shoulder “Lando! Only time I have made you breakfast is when you and Daniel were too hung over the next morning!” Lando smiled and hugged you, “Yeah but he doesn’t know that.”
Later on, the race went perfectly, for you. Max won, Lando in second and Yuki finally got his podium. So that meant one thing in Daniels mind, party at that stone house with window sills. In the car ride back to the house, Anthony finally spoke up. “Seeing you today, in that world. Was something, I have never seen you so happy and smile so much. What is the deal with that Lando douche. He was all over you.” You smiled to yourself, “Lando is just a friend. I have known him since 2019.” Anthony moved around in his seat. When you got to the house so many people and so many cars, it was Ferraris, McLarens, Aston Martins, and Porches parked in the drive way. You walked in the door with Anthony trailing behind you. Each person looked at you and got the biggest smiles on their faces. You chatted with everyone and no one seemed to pay any attention to him.
A few hours into the party, everyone was drunk and sharing stories about how you used to be while living in Monaco with Daniel. That is when Anthony quick texted his brother Shane and told him everything. How you are friends with all these F1 drivers and who your brother actually is. You never let on that you are from that world so few people get to experience. That is when Max walked up to you, “Hey Peach, I am really happy I got to see you this weekend. It just feels like an eternity since I have actually seen you, and see you in your element.” You smiled at the handsome Dutchman. “Thank you, Max. You always knew exactly what I need.” He pulled you into a hug, and kissed you on the cheek. “You deserve all the love and happiness in the world. Anthony, Shane, or Tyler are not giving that to you. They don’t know how special you are.” You smiled back at him and spoke “Thank you Max. You are right. I do need to be done with them, but they were there when I needed the comfort.” Max just looked at you, “you could have always called me. I would have been here in a second for you.” Not know what to say to him, you just smiled, and nodded. “You’re right, I should have called you.” That is when Anthony walked up to you. “Hey babe, I think, I am gonna call it a night. Shane is here to pick me up.” Before you could get any words out, Max spoke up “Dude, bring him in here! We all deserve a party!”, Daniel went out and got Shane and convinced him to come inside and enjoy the party, which again was going exactly according to Max’s plan.
Max’s plan was to get you away from them, the people who made you feel less than. He wanted them to see you, the real you. Shane and Anthony just looked uncomfortable, standing there stiff as boards while people were talking to them about tire degradation and racing lines. Shane just looked at his brother and they saw you laughing and connecting with Max. “Dude, she never let on that she knew any of these people. Or had a fucking McLaren in the garage of her house. What the fuck are we doing here” Shane said to his brother. Anthony looked at him, “We are here to prove a point. We are to show them that she is bound to fall again.” Daniel heard them say that and decided it was time for them to go. He pulled them aside, and started talking. “Both of you. The both of you unmade my sister. You didn’t know her before. She was the light of all these peoples eyes. She was the reason why we all wanted to be better. You will never know what it is like to be actually loved and cared for by her.” His eyes went to Shane, “yeah, you. Ive seen the bruises on her. Ive seen the black and blue ribs, the marks on her legs. You’re lucky, I knew it was happening. I didn’t say anything, but I fucking should have. You are no longer welcome in my home. Get out.” That is when Lando, Oscar, Yuki, and Lewis crowded around them. Lewis spoke up “you hit her? You seriously put hands on her? You have got to be fucking kidding me? This isn’t my house, but I will be happy to kick you the fuck out. Get out, we all have the means to make your lives hell.” That is when the scrambled out of the house.
In that time, you and Max where outside just talking on the patio. Catching up, you did tell Max about the abuse from Shane, he was so appalled. He looked at you and saw tears coming down his face, he couldn’t find words to say. All he could do was pull you into a hug, he didn’t want to let go because he knew if you were in his arms you were safe.
Then Daniel cleared his throat, “they are gone. Lewis scared them, but they are gone, and will not be coming back.” You looked up at Daniel and smiled, “Thank you. I didn’t know I needed this, but you both always knew exactly what I needed.”
That stone house with wooden floors and window sills, was something you and Daniel built together. But after that night, that party. That stone house with wooden floors and window sills, became a home to your new partner, Max. Since that night, Max made it point to show you how you should be treated. With respect and love, nothing you have ever experience before. Max finally admitted to you, he fell in love with you the first time he met you, and he knew that day he would do anything to protect you, and make you not only his. But his partner, his equal.
Guys, I have my period (tmi, i know, and im sorry) but please, send me the most gut wrenching, painful, heartbreaking fics you can. I need to cry myself to sleep. I thank you in advance ❤️💕
you've been dating max verstappen for a while except not a single person in either of your lives know. why? because your big brother just happens to be his long-time race engineer and while max may talk a big game on the radio during races, he's actually terrified of Gianpiero Lambiase (and you just really like fucking with your brother's head).
aka 5 times you soft launched your racing driver boyfriend and the one time max did the hard launching.
yn.lambiase posted
yn.lambiase saturdays are for book stores and long naps (bonus points if he buys you whatever books you ask for)
gp.lambiase wait. who is 'he'??? whose hands are those. EXPLAIN. NOW.
>>>yn.lambiase wouldn't you like to know, big brother? ☺️
>>>user039 TIL GP is actually very over protective over his little sister. For some reason, this doesn't surprise me.
>>>user200 she's so unhinged. i love it.
yourbff ok lut like, don't you have several full bookshelves of unread books at home?
>>>yn.lambiase listen. i don't need this kind of negativity in my life.
lando what kind of loser actaully reads books anymore?
>>>yn.lambiase the kind of loser that doesn't have the intelligence of a guppy
>>>lando are you calling me a guppy?
>>>yn.lambiase i mean, i'm not NOT calling you a guppy.
>>>maxverstappen1 lando, be nice
>>>lando SHE called ME dumb and I'm the one being mean???
yn.lambiase posted
yn.lambiase carbs and caffiene. he gets me.
gp.lambiase day 242 of me asking WHO IS HE. i don't like the idea of someone i don't know dating my little sister
>>>yn.lambiase i never said you didn't know him, GP 😉
>>>gp.lambiase excuse me, what?
>>>user001 WAIT she's dating someone GP knows?! What if its a driver???
>>>user848 she WAS hardcore flirting with lando on that bookstore post
>>>user382 my money's on someone at RB. an engineer or something.
yourbff i'm surprised you got him to read a book
>>>yn.lambiase he sais i coerced him and that he hated every second of it (he did not, i caught him crying when he finished the book)
>>>gp.lambiase what @/yourbff you know who she's dating? who is it???
>>>yourbff my lips are sealed, GP. Sorry boo
yn.lambiase posted
yn.lambiase not pictured: the 2 dozen tulips he insisted we buy even though they didn't fit in my basket (he carried them home)
yourbff king behavior, tbh
>>>yn.lambiase ikr?
user495 ok but does anyone else think that looks like the farmer's market in Nice???
>>>user100 the theory of her dating a driver is looking more and more like factsss
>>>user833 my money's on lando
maxverstappen1 those plums look really good...
>>>yn.lambiase i'll share them with you if you want. all you have to do is ask 😌
>>>user322 ummm HELLO???
>>>yn.lambiase @/user322 shhhhhhhhh
gp.lambiase well, at least i know he's treating you right
>>>yn.lambiase he is very good to me, big brother :)
>>>gp.lambiase then why won't you tell me who it is?!
>>>yn.lambiase because it's more fun watching you spiral out of control trying to figure it out 😃
>>>user111 oh she's mean. i love it
yn.lambiase posted
yn.lambiase he even lets me pick the movie
maxverstappen what a gentleman!
>>>yn.lambiase i am a spoiled girl
>>>yourbff you can say that again
>>>yn.lambiase don't be mean!
user9288 okay call me crazy but doesn't that look like max's shadow?
>>>usesr928 you're crazy
gp.lambiase stop screening my calls and pick up the phone! i know you're with him rn!
>>>yn.lambiase we're sorry, but the little sister you're trying to reach is currently unavalibale, please leave a message after the beep. BEEP.
>>>user939 atp i think she's just doing this to piss GP off (liked by yn.lambiase)
yn.lambiase posted
4,201 likes
liked by kikagomes, charlesleclerc, maxverstappen1, and others
yn.lambiase i will literally never recover from tonight 🫶🏻
kikagomes we had so much fun with you and mystery man, pretty girl!!!
>>>yn.lambiase please come visit me when you're in london!!
alexandrasaintmleux gorgeous gorgeous girl!!! lets get lunch next time you're in monaco
>>>yn.lambiase i'll be there next week!
gp.lambiase so let me get this straight. kika, alexandra and presumably charles and pierre know who mystery man is BUT I STILL DO NOT???
>>>yn.lambiase god, you're so fun to rile up!!!
user928 i'm dying. she's just toying with GP's emotions now
user029 put poor GP out is his misery @/yn.lambiase! (and the rest of us. WHO IS MYSTERY MAN???)
maxverstappen1 posted
1,203,191 likes
liked by yn.lambiase, kikagomes, yourbff, and others
maxverstappen1 finally convinced her to stop messing with @/gp.lambiase and come clean. love you sweet girl @/yn.lambiase
yn.lambiase ugh. always gotta be the mature one and ruin my fun. love you too, maxie
gp.lambiase i'm going to need 4-6 weeks to recover from this
>>>yn.lambiase you'll survive, old man
>>>maxverstappen1 @/yn.lambiase be nice or else he's going to make me come up with my own tire stratgey next race
>>>yn.lambiase don't you already do that though? all i ever hear in those on boards is yap yap yap yap from him
>>>gp.lambiase i'm telling mom
>>>yn.lambiase do it. i'm the favorite child and we both know it.
>>>user101 she's so messy. never change! (liked by yn.lambiase)
user991 i fucking KNEW IT
user121 the games she's been playing with GP are my Roman Empire.
summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events
based on this request (by my favorite ever)
liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others
f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE
Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀
Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.
view all comments:
lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest
charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please
yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.
mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.
redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂↔️
fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed
alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭
user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?
user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…
user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something
user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀
user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩
user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue
user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭
user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay
user charles i expected more from you
user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet
user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.
> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost
> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch
Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story
"Great read 👍"
liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others
SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:
“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”
View all comments:
user not me googling “how to become a historian”
user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor
user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭
user that household must be insufferable
user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast
user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak
user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??
user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?
user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too
user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is
user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.
lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?
> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar
> yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors
> lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME
alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep
> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint.
> yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate.
> user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film
> user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn
georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.
danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀
> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable.
> danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad
mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.
user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE
> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it
> user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD
>user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time
charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺
> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa
> charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄
user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?
> user omg what would she even do there?
> user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc
liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others
oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.
view all comments
lando i want her to quiz me
charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you
georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me
alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source
danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format
maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it
user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹
user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead
user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one
liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others
yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚💋
view all comments
oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe
georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way
> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE.
> georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅
charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔
lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets
> oscarpiastri are you 2??
user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS
user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range
user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle
user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen
hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story
kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????
> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?
user is this a kink thing?
user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.
maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?
> yourusername sure thing!!
> oscarpiastri NO
liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others
mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚
view all comments
oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”
> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling”
> oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble
> user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME
lando does this mean i can’t cheat???
> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes
> lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.
yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.
> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak
alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast
> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.
charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.
> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe
> fernandoalo_oficial finally.
user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture
user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire
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😇
↳ 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!
—
view 185,090 other comments.
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.
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.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ yourusername : idek what that means but okay my little ducky.
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : im betrayed but overjoyed
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francolapinto : mama y papa
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olliebearman : we scheduled dates. we made color-coded spreadsheets. we googled how to flirt respectfully. AND YOU WERE ALREADY KISSING.
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↳ isackhadjar : i was ready to flatten pierre with my car for this woman. AND THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME???
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↳ jackdoohan : we booked a RESTAURANT. i WORE A COLLARED SHIRT. i told a waiter “it’s her big day.” for WHAT.
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↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : i was her emotional support water bottle holder. do you know how much responsibility that is???
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↳ kimi.antonelli : i knew. i always knew. but i let the others spiral because it was funny.
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↳ olliebearman : don’t even talk. i wrote her a DATING PROFILE. with bullet points.
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↳ isackhadjar : they KISSED ON THE DATE I WAS HIDING BEHIND A PLANT FOR. i need financial compensation.
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↳ olliebearman : HEY. i wore that itchy ass mustache four dates in a ROW.
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↳ yourusername : i would trust you all with my life. just not my love life ❤️
—
bonus scene!
The checkered flag waves. You don’t even hear the roar of the crowd at first — not over the static-crackling voice of your race engineer, screaming so loud he’s probably broken something in the garage.
“P1! YN, that’s P1 — you did it! YOU BLOODY DID IT!”
You’re not breathing. Your hands are shaking around the wheel, your visor fogged slightly with heat and adrenaline. You let out a noise — somewhere between a yell and a laugh and a sob — and punch the air so hard you might’ve dislocated something. And then another voice cuts in. Kimi. Completely unprofessional. Totally euphoric. “GRID MOM WINS. THE GRID MOM WON!!!”
You let out a laugh, heart racing, vision blurring. Your car rolls over the finish line and onto the cooldown lap, your fingers white-knuckled around the wheel.
By the time you’re climbing out of the car, the world is already screaming. Fans at the fence chant your name. The Mercedes crew is piling over the pit wall like lunatics.
You tear your helmet off and throw your arms in the air. You’ve barely taken a full breath when you’re tackled from the side — Kimi, jumping on you like a golden retriever with too much kinetic energy.
“I’M SO PROUD OF YOU,” he yells, muffled by your shoulder.
“You got your first podium!” you laugh, hugging him just as tightly.
“And YOU WON. So, respectfully — I will get in line, this is your moment.”
He lets you go with one last enthusiastic pat on the back, and that’s when you see him.
Max. Standing a few paces away, helmet off, hair messy, eyes only on you.
The way he looks at you? Like you painted the sky.
He doesn’t rush you. Just walks forward with that calm, smug patience he always has — but when you meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around his neck and laughing into his shoulder, he lifts you slightly off the ground without hesitation.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says softly into your hair.
You pull back just enough to see his face. “Still think you let me win?”
He grins. “Only because you’re hot.”
The champagne sprays. The flashbulbs explode. The crowd is still roaring when Max steps off his podium block, strides across to you — and kisses you. It's not subtle. It's not quiet. It's a hard launch in high definition. He pulls back only slightly, curls his arm around your waist. Your eyes go wide, but you're already smiling. Laughing, even. You press your forehead to his and exhale one word through your grin.
“Dramatic.”
“Correct.”
But before either of you can bask in it for too long— CHAOS.
Suddenly, there’s yelling. Sprinting. A commotion behind the barriers. And then— A ROOKIE STAMPEDE.
Ollie is first. He launches himself up the side of the podium steps like it’s the final stage of Ninja Warrior. Franco and Gabriel follow, scaling like climbers on caffeine.
Jack does a running leap. Isack vaults the barrier with no regard for ankle safety. And Kimi, of course, simply walks up — nods at the FIA official like this is normal, and joins the crowd. They pile onto the podium. No one stops them. Security gives up. Fans are shrieking.
Franco hugs your waist and yells, “MY MOM WON!!”
Jack flings an arm around Max and shouts, “DAD HARD LAUNCHED! HISTORY HAS BEEN MADE!”
Ollie collapses onto the floor of the podium and moans, “I feel so emotionally unsafe right now, but I’m also so proud.”
Gabriel is taking selfies mid-hug.Isack is clinging to your arm like it’s the last flotation device on the Titanic.
Kimi sighed happily. “It was time. The people needed to know.”
And in the middle of it all, Max just throws an arm around your shoulders and says with a completely straight face. “These are our children now.”
—
Later that night, Max throws his phone on the hotel bed and flops down beside you, still smiling.
“I think we broke the Internet,” you murmur.
“I think we adopted six grown men.”
You laugh. “Worth it.”
He turns his head, grinning. “They love you, you know.”
“I know.”
You pause. “They love us.”
He kisses you again — soft this time, slow — and the world outside fades. For now, it’s just the two of you. And the six rookies already planning family brunch in the group chat.
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