AMY / AMES . nineteen . she/her . student . a place to write + rant . formula one rpf blog . music enthusiast . writing under the mv69 33 flag .
──── ⋆˚࿔ requests are open !
──── ⋆˚࿔ inbox is always open for rambles + general chatting !
·✶· latest work ·✶· spotify ·✶· masterlist below the cut ! ·✶·
I'm a sure bet of a losing streak ⛐
⛐ - 500+ notes tragedy series masterlist
ꕥ Max Verstappen
✈︎ FICS
winter | max verstappen x neighbour!reader
જ⁀➴ (old fic) modern au , meetcute , strangers to lovers . hurt / comfort . 1.4k words .
winner of what? | max verstappen x rb teammate!reader
જ⁀➴ (old fic) f1 au , rookie!reader , situationship (if you could even call it that) . fluff , angst . 3.7k words .
a strong hand and a sound mind | police!max verstappen x paramedic!reader
જ⁀➴ time loop au , open ending , strangers to ?? . fluff , hurt / comfort . 4.3k words .
the perfectionist | cyrano!max verstappen x roxanne!reader
જ⁀➴ moodboard . based on edmond rostand's cyrano de bergerac ; part of my tragedy series . wartime au , friends to lovers , soldier!max . coming soon...
✈︎ SMAUs
⛐ so easy (to fall in love) part one part two | max verstappen x actress!reader
જ⁀➴ f1 au , strangers to lovers , based around f1 movie / '24 season . fluff , humour .
✈︎ DRABBLES / HEADCANNONS
halloween headcannons | max verstappen x reader
જ⁀➴ a few halloween headcannons to celebrate the last four 2025 championship contenders!
medical intervention | max verstappen x reader
જ⁀➴ a night out , broken skin , stitches , and a drunken confession .
heard in the silence | max verstappen x reader
જ⁀➴ the easy moments of love, when done correctly .
ꕥ Lando Norris
✈︎ FICS
the fool | jack!lando norris x rose!reader
જ⁀➴ moodboard . based on james cameron's titanic ; part of my tragedy series . apocalypse au , strangers to lovers , whirlwind romance . fluff , angst . 15.4k words .
✈︎ SMAUs
⛐ no hard feelings, right? | rookie!lando norris x childhood friend!reader
જ⁀➴ no hard feelings au , best friends to lovers , 2019 season . fluff , sprinkles of angst .
✈︎ DRABBLES / HEADCANNONS
halloween headcannons | lando norris x reader
જ⁀➴ a few halloween headcannons to celebrate the last four 2025 championship contenders!
ꕥ Oscar Piastri
✈︎ FICS
the lovers | orpheus!oscar piastri x eurydice!reader
જ⁀➴ moodboard . based on anaïs mitchell's hadestown ; part of my tragedy series . heist au , partners in crime , underworld themes . coming soon...
✈︎ SMAUs
⛐ game, set, match! | oscar piastri x tennis player!reader
જ⁀➴ tennis x f1 au , meetcute , strangers to lovers . purest fluff .
⛐ superfreak | oscar piastri x popstar!reader
જ⁀➴ crossover au , meetcute , strangers to lovers . fluff and humour .
✈︎ DRABBLES / HEADCANNONS
halloween headcannons | oscar piastri x reader
જ⁀➴ a few halloween headcannons to celebrate the last four 2025 championship contenders!
ꕥ Charles Leclerc
✈︎ FICS
thorn in the roses | charles leclerc x reader x carlos sainz
જ⁀➴ based on arthur hill's man in the middle . modern au , ferrari teammates , love triangle , open ending . fluff , hurt / comfort . 1.9k words .
the stars | romeo!charles leclerc x juliet!reader
જ⁀➴ moodboard . based on shakespeare's romeo and juliet ; part of my tragedy series . formula one au , rival to lovers , brocedes-esque relationship . coming soon...
✈︎ SMAUs
⛐ I had somethin' special with you | charles leclerc x popstar!reader
જ⁀➴ based on zara larsson's never forget you . modern au , rising popstar!reader , established relationship , mutual break up . humour , hurt / comfort . smau .
ꕥ Carlos Sainz
✈︎ FICS
thorn in the roses | charles leclerc x reader x carlos sainz
જ⁀➴ based on arthur hill's man in the middle . modern au , ferrari teammates , love triangle , open ending . fluff , hurt / comfort . 1.9k words
ꕥ George Russell
✈︎ FICS
the empress | lancelot!george russell x guinevere!reader
જ⁀➴ moodboard . based on the medieval fantasy of lancelot and guinevere ; part of my tragedy series . medieval au , strangers to lovers , knight!george , forbidden romance . coming soon...
✈︎ SMAUs
bad to the bone | supervillain!george russell x reporter!reader
જ⁀➴ based on megamind . superhero au , most unserious fic ever , aka12 + aa23 mentions . fluff , humour .
✈︎ DRABBLES / HEADCANNONS
halloween headcannons | george russell x reader
જ⁀➴ a few halloween headcannons to celebrate the last four 2025 championship contenders!
sue me (i wanna be wanted) ⸻ isack hadjar x reader .
featuring isack hadjar, set post-zandvoort 2025, toxic relationship, exes to ???
word count 8.4k
author’s note 18+ mdni !! hi everyone i’m back to writing again fr !! anyway i know i said spidey osc and casa lando were coming first but… too bad, you’re getting this instead because they’re both actually crazy long and still not finished so i want to tide you over until then. the setting should tell you i’ve been kicking the tires on this one for a while (ummmmmm a year………) and i have overthought it to the brink of driving me insane but i hope you all still like it anyway lol. fair warning that reader is a little (a lot) evil in this but we love her (at least i do) !! least healthy relationship i’ve ever written, sorry i put you through all that isack & you’re still my baby goat ! as always please come tell me what you think, i know this is a little different from what i normally do and it helps me so much to get feedback from you all about what you like and don’t like ! title is from sue me by audrey hobert.
You are definitely, completely, one-hundred-percent not supposed to be here.
Liam’s girlfriend had mentioned something in passing about celebrations after Zandvoort, probably forgetting you were in the Future Rookie WAGs!!! Instagram groupchat. You’d filed the information away like you still do with everything involving Isack — against your better judgment. Wishing you didn’t.
The sad thing is you’ve been doing better. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself, anyway, and everyone else who will listen: your mom, your friends, the therapist you stopped seeing after four sessions when she asked you to sit with your feelings about your ex and those feelings turned out to be a dumpster fire you had no interest in warming your hands over. You’ve been doing a lot of Pilates. You downloaded Raya and went on exactly three dates with a footballer who was perfectly nice and fucked you slow and made you want to claw your skin off every time he so much as touched your shoulder. You’re healing. You’re fine.
Then again, you’d always been excellent at ruining good things, and Isack Hadjar was the best thing you’d ever had.
So maybe you bought a Eurostar ticket to Amsterdam after the race. And maybe once you got there you took a cab you couldn’t afford from the city to a hotel room you definitely couldn’t afford by the sea. And maybe now you’re at the club the girls mentioned, wearing a dress you know Isack used to love on you — short, black, silky, with a neckline that dips low enough to be a problem. He’d fucked you in it more often than he ever took it off you, bunching it up around your waist with his fingers digging into your hips. You have a distinct memory of him pushing the straps off your shoulders in the back of an Uber in Paris, his mouth hot on your neck as his other hand slid up the fabric of your skirt, the driver trying very hard not to notice.
That fabric is sticking to your thighs for an entirely different reason now, damp with sweat from the heat of too many bodies in a room that wasn’t designed for this many people. You prop yourself next to the bar closest to the VIP section with a drink you don’t really want, scanning the crowd while you try to pretend you’re not looking for anyone in particular.
You don’t have to lie to yourself for long. You find him instinctively, your heart a compass tuned to the magnetic north that is your ex-boyfriend. He’s with the whole group of them behind the velvet rope, looking so unfairly, devastatingly hot that you have to take a long sip of your drink just to have something to do with your mouth that isn’t biting through your own lip. He’s got a drink in one hand — dark liquid, a Coke and Bacardi, probably, the same thing you know he’s been ordering since he was old enough to get into a club.
The other is around a girl.
She’s tall, tan, beachy waves falling artfully over bare shoulders, leaning in just a little too close to be casual, fingertips trailing along his forearm as she says something that makes him laugh. It’s your favorite laugh, you can tell even from here: low and easy and warm, the one that makes his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. The one that used to belong to you, and is currently being wasted on some girl in a cheap going-out top from Zara who probably thinks pole position is one of the tips to drive your man wild from the latest issue of Cosmo.
You hate her with a violence that surprises you; hate the perfectly done nails, the long wispy eyelashes, the extensions that you genuinely want to rip out of her fucking head. But the thing you hate the most is that Isack looks happy. He looks like someone who’s been doing just fine without you, actually, which is the one outcome you’d somehow failed to plan for, and your stomach twists so badly at the thought of him moving on that you consider running out as fast as your heels will carry you and flying home and blocking him on Instagram like you’ve been promising yourself for months that you would.
That’s when Liam’s girlfriend spots you. You see it immediately: the double-take, the dawning horror that she’s about to be solely responsible for ruining a podium sitter’s night. She grabs Ollie’s girlfriend’s wrist, tugging her into a frantic, whispered conversation. You lift your hand and flutter your fingers in a little wave — hi girls, remember me? — and watch the blood drain from their faces. Ollie’s girlfriend turns and hisses something to him, and then Ollie bumps Kimi and points (completely indiscreetly) right at you, and then Kimi punches Isack in the shoulder and says something urgently into his ear, and then Isack’s gaze drifts sideways until it lands on you and the smile drops off his face so fast it’s like it was never there at all.
The lights in the club keep flashing, painting everything they touch in vivid blue and purple. The bass is pounding so loud in your ears you can barely think. But it’s not the volume that makes the floor feel like it’s shaking, that makes your glass tremble in your hands. It’s the sight of your ex-boyfriend, standing across the room staring like he’s just seen the ghost of girlfriends past.
You don’t go to him, though. You stay exactly where you are, hip cocked against the bar, and wait. Because if there’s one thing you know about Isack Hadjar, it’s that even when it’d be better for him, he has never, not once in his life, been able to leave you alone.
Sure enough, it takes about forty-five seconds before he’s stalking towards you, and you try not to be too satisfied by the annoyingly pretty pout on Beach Waves’ stupid face when he brushes her aside without a second glance. He cuts through the crowd like a knife, shoulders set and laser-focused, the way he gets on track, the way that used to make you weak at the knees.
Up close, his stare is ablaze, dark eyes trained on you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Hello to you too, Isa,” you purr, letting your gaze flick up and down his body. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Don’t,” he snaps, cheeks flushing. His jaw is tight, hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t quite trust what they’ll do if he lets them free. “Don’t call me that. Don’t do this. Don’t act like —”
You blink innocently. “Like what?”
“Like — like you have any right to be here,” he splutters, cheeks flushed.
“It’s not a private club,” you say, shrugging and taking a long sip of your drink. The liquor burns horribly at the back of your throat. “I bought a drink. I’m a paying customer.”
He stares at you for a long moment and you can see the frustration radiating off of him. Let him be angry. Angry Isack is easier to deal with than the alternative — the soft woundedness he seemed to carry around by the end, the kind that made you feel like the worst person alive.
You are the worst person alive when it comes to him. But at least this way, you don’t have to let his face remind you of it.
“Did you at least watch?” he asks flatly.
“Watch what?”
“The race,” he says, a little too quickly for someone who’s trying very hard to pretend he doesn’t care. “Did you watch the race?”
You could tell him the truth. You could tell him you watched every single lap with a pit in your stomach and your heart in your throat. You could tell him you cried when Lando retired and you knew, you just knew he would cross the line in P3. You could tell him that when he lifted the trophy above his head on the podium, you had to press your hand over your mouth to keep from making a very undignified sound. A sob, if you’re being honest with yourself.
But that would be giving Isack Hadjar something you can’t afford to lose.
“No,” you lie airily instead, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “Don’t really follow F1 these days. Why, did something exciting happen?”
Something flashes across his face — raw hurt, quickly buried under the heat of his anger — and you feel a sick little twist of satisfaction. If you came here to stand in front of him and feel like your chest is caving in, you might as well make him feel it too.
“Fuck you,” he says, voice unsteady.
You smile, slow and venomous. “Maybe later. If you’re lucky.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can catch the familiar scent of his cologne, the Tom Ford you bought him for his birthday two years ago that still makes your head turn every time you smell it on the street with some sort of ridiculous hope that it’ll be him. “Why are you here? Really?”
“Let’s say I missed you,” you say, letting your voice drop into something softer, more intimate, so he has to lean in to hear you. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes,” he bites out, but his eyes flick traitorously down to the dark crimson of your mouth. “You broke up with me, remember? In November. The week before —”
“I know when I broke up with you,” you snap. The week before Abu Dhabi last year, is what he was going to say. You’d done it over the phone, too much of a coward to break up with him to his face and too selfish to do it earlier, when it might not have wrecked him right before the most important race of his life. He’d called you seventeen times in a row afterward; you cried on the cold tile of your bathroom floor and let them all go to voicemail, because you knew if you picked up even once you’d take it all back. Six days later, you sat in your hole-in-the-wall apartment in Paris and watched his car stall before it could start, watched the chance of a championship slip right through his fingers. When the cameras found him climbing out of the car afterwards — helmet off, jaw set tight enough to crack a tooth, eyes rimmed red — you’d thrown up in your kitchen sink.
So yes. You know when you broke up with him.
“Really?” he says, voice going harsh and jagged. “Because you’ve done a good fucking job of forgetting everything else for the past nine months.”
“I wish I could forget you,” you blurt, the words slipping out before you can stop them in a way that makes you actually, genuinely hate how pathetic they’ve made you sound. You cover it by taking another sip, longer this time, trying to wash the bitter taste of your own honesty out of your mouth. “I didn’t — that’s not what happened. Isack. You have to know that’s not what this is.”
“Then what? What is it?” he asks, accent thickening. “Because I haven’t heard a thing from you since that night, and —” he exhales shakily, casting his gaze to the ceiling. “I had the best day of my entire life today. I have been dreaming about this day since the first time I got in a kart. I should be celebrating. And instead I am standing here and letting you ruin everything all over again.”
“That’s not fair.”
A laugh punches out of him, but it’s not the one you heard earlier, the one you still know like your favorite song. It’s something darker, something hollowed-out. “Fair?” he echoes derisively. “You want to talk about fair? You dumped me over the phone. You didn’t even block my number, you just — you just stopped answering, like I was too insignificant to even bother cutting me out. Nine months, quiet, and then you show up here like it’s nothing. Like I am nothing to you. So don’t fucking ask me for fair when nothing is fair with you.”
Your voice goes small. “Isa, I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come,” he says, so cold that for a moment you’re right back there on the bathroom tiles listening to your phone ring and ring and ring.
“I came because I —” your voice splinters horribly around the words, and you watch Isack’s face soften. It’s small, barely perceptible unless you know him the way that you do, the twitch at the corners of his mouth, the warmth bleeding into his dark eyes. You hate it. You hate that even now, even after everything you’ve done, his first instinct when you break is to reach for the pieces. “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t, I just —”
His hand flexes at his side like he’s physically stopping himself from touching you. “You just what?” he interrupts. He’s close now, too close, in your space enough that you can see his pulse beating high and insistent in his throat. “Finish the sentence.”
“I don’t know,” you whisper, throat tight, and for once in your miserable life you’re not lying to him. It’s worse than a lie, because it’s the most pitiful truth that you have to offer.
“Conneries.” He steps even closer, hips nearly brushing against yours, mouth curling into a sneer. “You always know what you are doing. That’s the worst part, no? You know exactly how cruel you are to me, and you do it anyway.”
“What, and you’re so innocent?” you snap, sickly grateful for the anger surging to fill the space where your honesty leaked out. “I saw you earlier. Letting a girl in a Shein haul with grown-out acrylics hang all over you. That’s who’s replacing me? Really?”
Isack blinks, caught off-guard, and you can see the surprise written all over his face. “Are you — is this what this is all about? This is why you show up here? You’re fucking jealous?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply coolly, even as you feel your cheeks heat.
“Fuck,” he exhales. “You are — you’re fucking crazy, you know that? Je ne te comprends pas. If you still want me this much, why did you leave? Explain it to me. Make it make sense. Because I have spent nine months trying to understand how someone can look at me the way that you’re looking at me right now and walk away, and I —” he scrubs a hand over his face roughly. “I can’t do it, chérie. I can’t figure you out.”
Because you were going to leave me first, you think and think and think and do not say. Because you were about to be somebody, and I couldn’t stand the idea of becoming the girl you outgrew. Because I can’t let anyone love me without hurting them.
“Does it matter?” you reply instead, keeping your tone carefully level so you don’t do something completely embarrassing like burst into tears. “I left. It’s over. Done.”
He looks at you, really looks, and something flashes in his eyes again, desperation ebbing away and leaving something crueler in its place. “If this was really done,” he says, voice dropping dangerously, “you wouldn’t be standing here wearing this fucking dress.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and the corner of his mouth quirks up the second he hears it, like he knows exactly what it means. Gone is the boy from a minute ago, wounded and angry and unsure. In his place is an Isack you know well, the one who used to pin you against the wall of his driver’s room and tell you exactly what he was going to do to you before he did it, the one who could make you forget your own name with nothing but the sound of his voice in your ear and the heat of his gaze.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, but it comes out a second too late and embarrassingly thin.
“No?” he says, gaze dropping to your neckline, not even bothering to pretend he’s not ogling your tits. “You want a reminder of what happened last time you wore this dress?”
“Isack —”
“My birthday, last year,” he says, tone conversational. “You were fucking desperate. Couldn’t even make it to the bedroom, just begged me for it as soon as we got in the door. I remember the sound you made when I got on my knees for you in the hallway. You pulled my hair so hard I thought you were going to rip it out, told me nobody had ever made you come like that. Remember that?” He leans in, breath warm against your ear. “And you’re telling me you didn’t put this dress on thinking about me taking it off?”
“You’re delusional,” you lie, thighs pressing together involuntarily.
“And you’re wet,” he says, so matter-of-factly that it makes your cheeks burn, lips parting for a fraction of a second before you can regain your composure. He hooks a finger under the thin strap on your shoulder, tugging it a fraction of an inch out of place, knuckle dragging slow across your collarbone. “Dripping, probably, under this slutty little thing. I know you too well for you to think you can get away with a lie like that. So you can tell everyone else whatever you want, chérie, but you and I both know you didn’t come here for a fucking drink.”
“Why am I here, then?” you breathe, heart pounding. “Since you know me so well.”
“Because you still want me,” he says, and the smile curving his lips is so infuriatingly smug that you want to slap him and climb him in equal measure. “Go ahead. Say it.”
“Make me,” you whisper back.
He lets out a growl, low and frayed, pupils blowing so wide his eyes go black. You can see him try to fight it, muscles tensing, the visible effort of a man trying very hard to be rational about the woman who ruined his life. And then you watch him lose in real time, and it’s terrible and exhilarating all at once, knowing that no matter how smart Isack is, no matter how fast he drives, no matter how hard he tries to protect himself, you will always, always be the thing he crashes into.
“Outside,” he mutters finally, jaw ticking. “Now.”
You tilt your head and try not to smile. “Why?”
He presses his lips together. “Because I am about to do something I will regret, and I’d rather not have an audience for it.”
You hum noncommittally, tracing a finger along the edge of your glass. “And if I don’t want to go outside with you?”
His hand closes firm around your wrist, tugging you off the barstool. His thumb presses into your pulse point and you think wildly that he must be able to feel how fast your heart is beating, to feel how much you still want him, laid bare under his fingertips. “I wasn’t asking,” he says, low enough that only you can hear, and the words zip hot up your spine.
“Careful, Isa,” you say, smirking as he pulls you through the crowd. “People are going to think you actually like me.”
“Ta gueule,” he snaps, fingers tightening around your wrist as he weaves you through the crush of bodies on the dance floor. “For once in your life, please, just shut up.”
You catch the faces turning as you pass the VIP section like a lowlights reel, varying degrees of horror and resignation written all over everyone’s expressions. Ollie’s at least had the decency to turn away. Kimi hasn’t, his arms crossed over his chest as he glowers at you like a sullen teenager. Liam’s girlfriend is practically hyperventilating in the corner. Beach Waves is the last to see what’s going on, standing stupid, glossy lips slowly parting as the understanding dawns. You catch her eye over your shoulder as Isack drags you past, letting your gaze travel pointedly down to the hand that was on his arm fifteen minutes ago then back up to her face, slow and deliberate. Then you press two fingers to your lips and blow her a kiss.
Isack doesn’t look back at her. Not even once.
Poor her, you think deliriously, triumphantly. She got the laugh, the charm, the arm around her shoulder, whatever mid conversation she'd been making about whatever mid thing she probably cares about. She got to touch him for one night. Big deal. She’ll never touch the rest of him.
The night air is cool on your flushed skin when Isack shoulders through the fire exit and yanks you into a side alley, a rush of briny salt and stale cigarette smoke filling your nose the second you get outside. You stumble over the threshold onto the uneven ground, door barely swinging shut behind you before he’s crowding you against the opposite wall and bracing a hand on either side of your head. When you get your first proper look at him, no chaos of the club left to distract you, you almost laugh out loud. He’s wearing a plain white shirt and dark jeans, the fucking Amazon Basics of outfits, nothing designer, nothing curated, and he still looks like that. You want to call every luxury brand you know and tell them to shut down the operation; nothing they could put together could ever come close to Isack Hadjar in a plain white shirt looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth being furious about.
“Tu me rends dingue,” he mutters, and then his mouth is on yours.
Isack kisses you how his worst critics say he drives — reckless, aggressive, all instinct and no patience. His hands find your waist, shoving you back against the wall, stucco pricking against your skin. His fingers push into the skin at your hips, hard enough to leave marks, and you’d be lying if the thought didn’t make heat pool dangerously low in your stomach. You kiss him back just as viciously, mouth hot and demanding, because if it’s a fight he’s looking for, you’re going to give it to him. Your teeth clash messily against his, nails raking down the back of his neck as he hisses against your lips. You feel his hand tighten in your hair in retaliation, tugging your head back so he can lick into your mouth at the exact angle he wants, and it’s not a nice kiss but god, it’s so good you feel dizzy with it, the sheer taste of him after nine months, the furious want radiating off both of you like a fever that won’t break.
“I hate you,” he gasps against your lips, every hard plane of his body pressed against yours.
“Apparently not enough to keep your tongue out of my mouth,” you mutter back, fingers reaching up and pulling hard at his close-cropped curls.
His hips grind helplessly into yours at the contact, lashes beating a frenzied rhythm against the top of your cheekbone. “Je te déteste.”
“Saying it in French doesn’t make it truer, Isa.”
He makes a frustrated, animal noise, borne somewhere in the back of his throat. “I said don’t call me that anymore.” He bites your lower lip, hard enough to sting, and swallows the gasp that erupts from your lips. His thigh slots between yours, pressing you harder against the wall, and your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as he drags searing open-mouth kisses down your throat. He sucks a painful little mark there, into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and you hate him for it and push into it at the same time, hand fisting at the front of his stupid fucking t-shirt like you want to claw right through it.
“Hotel,” you manage, breathless.
He pulls back, chest heaving, pupils blown so wide his eyes glitter black. There’s a smear of your lipstick, blood-red at the corner of his mouth. He looks wrecked, staring back at you without a word, and for a moment you think this is it. The end of the road, the moment he realizes he needs to take the last exit before he drives himself off the edge of the earth again.
When he speaks, he sounds like he hates himself for it. “Where?”
You walk the five blocks back to the hotel in silence. There’s nothing safe left to say, walking side by side with nothing but adrenaline crackling in the empty inches between you. You keep your eyes pinned on the sea, pretending he’s not close enough to touch, pretending you’re not desperate, aching, out of your mind with the need to feel his calloused fingertips against your skin. The elevator climbs five floors before the back of his hand brushes the back of yours, accidental and barely-there, and the contact sends an electric thrill straight to your throbbing core.
You barely get the keycard in the door before he’s on you.
His mouth attaches to your neck, kicking the door shut behind the both of you so hard that it knocks the generic art off the wall. Hands slide up your waist, cupping your tits, thumb flicking over your nipple. You gasp at the sensation, back arching, pushing your chest into Isack’s touch, and you hate how you can feel his infuriating, cruel little smile against your neck. He pushes you back against the wall with one hand braced to your hip, the other rolling your nipple between his fingers, friction of silk against the stiffened peak. It sends a sharp jolt straight to your cunt that makes your knees buckle. He shoves his thigh between yours immediately, holding you up, and the pressure of the ropy muscle beneath you drags a moan out of you that you’d genuinely kill to take back.
“Sound so fucking good for me,” he mumbles against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. He’s hard, absurdly so, pressed tight against you. You can feel his cock throbbing against your hip through his jeans, and when he shifts his weight back to tug his t-shirt over his head his hips push into your thigh so deliberately that it makes your head fall back against the wall.
He crowds into you again, one hand sliding up to plant on the wall next to your head, the other wrapping around your thigh and hitching it up around his hip. He grinds against you like that, slow and filthy, the muscles of his stomach tensing every time he rolls forward. He’s harder than he used to be, his shiny new F1 physique on display: broader across the shoulders, thicker through the arms. You can’t stop yourself from mapping the changes with your palms, your fingernails, your teeth against his collarbone, marking all the places that are new and hating every single girl who got to see him become this when you didn’t.
“I hate — putain,” his voice cracks into a whimper when you pull him forward by the belt loops, cock pressed hard against the crease of your thigh as he ruts into you. “I hate that I still want this so much.”
“Then stop,” you gasp, rolling your hips to meet his.
“I can’t.” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, and even in the darkness you can see his eyes are wild, desperate. “That is my problem. I’ve never been able to stop wanting you.”
“Go tell that girl that,” you snap brattily. “Sure she’d love to hear it.”
His expression shutters, and for a second you think you’ve actually, properly miscalculated; finally pushed him too far, hit the wrong nerve. And then he smiles coldly. It sends a strange thrill through you, knowing there’s something he can do now that you wouldn’t predict. “Get on your knees.”
The words land humiliating, heat flaring between your thighs so fast it makes you dizzy, clenching around nothing. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, flat and almost bored, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and tangling his fingers through it. “You want to run your mouth, no? I can think of something better to do with it.”
You should tell him to go fuck himself. You should walk out that door and never speak to him again and leave him here hard and wanting with the taste of you still on his lips.
Instead, you sink to the carpet.
His hand stays in your hair, loosening just enough to let you tilt your head back and look up at him. The sight of him from this angle — jaw set, chest heaving — makes your cunt throb. He’s already undoing his jeans with his other hand, overeager, zipper tugged down with a sharp metallic hiss. When he frees himself from his Calvins you have to swallow hard, mouth watering in a genuinely humiliating way. He’s bigger than you remembered, weeping at the tip.
His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, almost tenderly, before slipping over your bottom lip into your mouth. “Open,” he says, voice low.
You let your lips part, jaw dropping just slightly. He groans low and guttural, tugging you forward, and you let your tongue flick out to catch the bead of pre-come gathering at the slit. Isack hisses out a breath through his teeth, flush rising high in his cheeks. You take your time, making him wait, pressing slow, open-mouth kisses down his length, tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, feeling him pulse against your lips.
“Don’t be a fucking tease,” he grits out.
You look up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze defiantly before you do exactly as he asked. Stop teasing, and take him in properly.
He whines, stomach muscles tensing and trembling under your fingertips, hips jerking forward involuntarily when you hollow your cheeks around his length. His head tips back, throat bobbing, lower lip caught prettily between his teeth as you pull back, swirling your tongue lightly around the tip before taking him deep again. His hand flies back to your hair, fisting into it, hips rocking into your mouth deep enough to hit the back of your throat and make you gag around his length.
“Come on, take it,” he says, voice rough, fingers crushing tightly into your tangled locks. “This is what your pretty little mouth should be for, no? You wanted it, you came all this way, so take it.”
You moan around him in response and his hips stutter at the vibration, fucking forward in short, brutal thrusts. He sets a rhythm that is nothing like the boy who used to pet your hair and tell you how good you were for him, how pretty you looked. This is mean, has your jaw aching and mascara streaming, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth and drooling down your chin. It sounds fucking obscene, the slick thrust of his cock against your tongue, your choked breathing around him, the low, frayed groans he keeps letting slip like he can’t stop himself. Your hand drifts between your thighs, barely a conscious movement, just needing the friction, but you barely make contact before his hand snaps around your wrist.
“No,” he pants, wrenching your head back by your hair with his other hand until you’re fully off him, a mess of spit and pre-come strung between your swollen lips and the head of his cock. “Did I say you could fucking touch yourself?”
You stare up at him, wordless, overwhelmed, a frisson of want running through you as he tugs both your hands up, placing them on his thighs. “You want to come tonight?” he asks mockingly, eyes dark. “Then you come when I let you.”
You barely have time to breathe before he’s feeding himself back in, faster this time, hips snapping forward until your nose presses against the coarse hair at the base of his length and your nails are digging perfect half-moons into his thighs and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but relax your throat and take all of it. He keeps you there, holds your head until your knees burn against the carpet and your throat aches with it. You can feel him getting close, though, his muscles tensing under your fingers, grip going white-knuckled in your hair, dick throbbing on your tongue, breath coming in quick, desperate bursts until he pulls you off him again.
You make an indignant noise at the loss, jaw still slack while Isack hauls you up by your upper arms hard enough that your stomach flips. He steadies you against his chest before pushing you back through the dim room until you stumble against the mattress, pitching backwards unexpectedly.
The feeling of falling is brief before his hand flies up behind your head, instinctive and tender, palm cradling your skull a half-second before it hits the headboard.
You freeze, blinking up at him, and watch the realization hit — his hand stiffening against your hair when he catches what he’s done, the hot flush of humiliation crawling up his neck. He snatches his hand away too fast, jaw flexing, something furious and mortified in his eyes like you’ve caught him doing something unforgivable.
“Don’t,” he snaps, compensating immediately for it. Overcompensating, really, grabbing the neckline of your dress with both hands and pulling it down your body so roughly the silk catches. You hear something rip, a stitch giving way around your hips. You’d care if you could think straight, but his hands are on your bare skin now, running feverish down your body like he’s trying to burn the gentleness out of his own fingers.
The dress catches around your thighs and he drags it the rest of the way off, tossing it blindly behind him as his face goes blissfully, thrillingly slack. “No panties?” he asks, breath shallow.
You smirk, propping yourself up on your elbows, letting him see exactly how wet you are, pretty and swollen, slick coating the inside of your thighs. “Huh. Must have forgotten to pack them.”
He exhales long and slow through his nose, and you watch his cock twitch, flushed dark and shining with your spit. Then he climbs over you, hand sliding up your legs, tracing delicately around your entrance.
“Fucking soaked,” he groans, more to himself than to you as he drags the pad of his index finger through the dripping mess. “Pathetic. Knew you would be.”
He pushes two fingers inside without warning, and the stretch of it is insane, pulling a high-pitched moan from your lips as your back arches off the mattress. “Fuck,” you whine, hands fisting into the sheets as you let your legs fall open, wider, hips jerking against his hand.
He moves slowly at first, methodically, thumb zeroing in on your clit and pressing down in heavy, deliberate circles until your breathing is coming out in shaky little gasps. He slips a third finger in, your cunt so embarrassingly wet that there’s barely any resistance. The sound of it is filthy, echoing through the room, squelching in and out of your wetness, his breathing going rough and uneven above you like fingering you is doing something to him too. The familiarity of it all, the exact right pressure in the exact right place like the past nine months never happened, makes your nerve endings sing.
Then he twists his wrist, scissors his fingers on the next stroke, hitting a spot that makes your entire body jolt off the bed. You know every move Isack Hadjar has ever made on you by heart, recognize them like your own name, and this one is infuriatingly, stomach-turningly different.
“Stop.” Your hand clamps around his wrist, holding him perfectly still inside you. “What the fuck was that?”
He doesn’t move, just watches you squirm underneath him like you can’t decide whether to pull away or get closer. “What was what?”
“What you just did,” you swallow hard, voice coming out thin. “That — that’s new.”
It’s silent, for a moment, Isack’s face shifting from confusion to guilt to a satisfaction so cruel you can barely look at him. “Yeah,” he agrees finally, crooking his fingers and doing the same move again. “It is.”
The jealousy comes white-hot, visceral and choking as soon as you let yourself think about it: someone else’s thighs around his hand, some other girl’s sounds in his ear, some bitch smart enough to pick up the thing you tossed away. And the absolute worst part is your body doesn’t care, hips still canting against his palm, riding his fingers desperately. You’re writhing, furious, soaking his fucking hand, and you can feel the orgasm coiling in the pit of your stomach, building fast and sharp, thighs shaking, right there on the precipice, so close your vision is starting to white out at the edges, and then he pulls his fingers out.
The noise you make is barely human. “No — fuck, Isa, don’t you dare —”
“Not yet,” he says, and holds up his hand, fingers glistening in the low light down to the knuckle. He grins down at you, cocky, bringing them to his mouth tantalizingly slow. He sucks them clean just like that, tongue flicking around his fingers, eyes locked on yours the entire time, and the sight of it makes you moan high and needy. “Not until I say.”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” you snap, watching him, cunt fluttering around nothing.
He laughs, a real one, surprised out of him, and the sound of it after so long hits you somewhere unbearably soft. “Yeah,” he breathes, staring down at you. “Well. Takes one to know one.”
You look back at him. For one terrible second, you can see it — the boy underneath all of this, the one who laughed like that when you stole his chips at three in the morning, the one who used to fall asleep with his face tucked in your neck — and the tenderness of it is so awful that you have to look away. He doesn’t let you, though, hand finding your jaw, tilting your face back to his. Then he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding slow against yours and making your chest ache worse than the roughness ever could.
He breaks away and shifts over you, settling his weight between your thighs, one hand planted firmly beside your head. You can feel him against your core, hard and heavy, but he doesn’t push in, just holds himself there, jaw tight, watching your face with dark, patient eyes.
“Isack,” you breathe, frustrated. “Please.”
“Please what?” he asks, voice low and almost amused. He rolls his hips forward gently, the head of his cock catching at your entrance, and you bite back a whimper. “Come on. You were so good at using your words earlier.”
“I’m not going to fucking beg you,” you breathe, but your hips are already tilting up, trying to take him in, to take what he won’t give you.
He pins your hip flat to the mattress, thumb caressing against the jut of bone. “Really?” he murmurs, lips brushing the hinge of your jaw. He drags himself through your folds again, grinding the thick line of his dick against your clit, close enough that you can feel exactly how full he’d make you and not nearly close enough to give you what you need. “You sure?”
You last approximately five more seconds before whatever’s left of your pride rolls over and dies. “Fuck. Fine, you win, please,” you choke out. “Please, Isa, I need you to fuck me. Need you inside —”
He pushes into you before you finish the sentence, one long devastating thrust burying himself to the hilt, and it whites out your brain so completely that you forget your own name, forget every reason you ever had for leaving him, forget everything except the feeling of being full after nine months of emptiness that nothing else could touch.
“Jesus,” he rasps, voice wrecked and ragged, heartbeat hammering against your chest. “I forgot — you feel so fucking good, chérie. Still so fucking tight for me, fuck —”
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “Fucking move,” you hiss.
His eyes go black, pulling almost all the way out and fucking back in hard enough to crack the headboard against the wall. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, hips snapping against yours with a force that shoves you up the mattress, hitching your leg higher and opening you up so he can fuck into you at an angle that has you keening, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
“Perfect fucking pussy,” he pants against your neck, driving deep into you. “Taking me so well, like it was made for me.” He pulls back to look at you, hair damp against his forehead. “Better than anyone else. Better than — putain, none of them even came close, you know?”
“Shut up,” you snarl, and sink your teeth into his neck so hard he yelps, hips slamming forward gracelessly, on reflex, making you see stars. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare tell me about them.”
“Fuck,” he gasps, hands shaking next to your head. You think for a second he’s going to push you off, but instead he presses you closer, and the sound he makes when you suck hard against the bite mark, tongue laving over his skin, is something you’ll replay behind your eyelids for another nine months. “I didn’t —”
“I don’t care,” you mewl, voice cracking around the lie. “I don’t care how many girls you fucked, Isa, because none of them are here right now, and none of them are ever going to be here. I’ll never let you get over me,” you breathe, and it’s insane but you can feel his cock throb inside you at the words, feel how he starts fucking you harder, deeper. “Not ever.”
Isack smashes his lips back to yours, furious and bruising, fucking you into the mattress like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like if he just gets deep enough he can reach the part of you that keeps running away.
“Dis-moi que tu es à moi,” he whimpers against your mouth. Begs, really — raw and desperate, still fucking into you ruthlessly — and you hate it, hate him for even asking it of you. As if you could ever belong to anyone else. As if there is a single version of your sorry, fucked-up life where you don’t end up right here, wrapped around him, ruining him all over, loving him so hard and so much that it feels like getting torn completely apart and put back together with your most important piece missing.
“À toi,” you sob, high and keening, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, humiliating if you weren’t too far gone to care about anything but the heavy, thick stretch of his cock inside you and his gaze on yours. “Yours, Isa, fuck, you know I’m yours.”
His hips lose their rhythm for a moment, jerking frantically before he buries himself to the hilt again, grinding in tight, shuddering little circles against you as his thumb works your clit. You’re so close you can feel it everywhere, your walls clenching around him, eyes rolling back, every desperate thrust of his cockhead dragging against your sweet spot, drawing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Look at me,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes are glazed over, fucked-out. “Look at me while you come for me.”
Your eyes focus on his face, and that’s it, really. Your orgasm tears through you, almost violent in its pure sensation — your back arching off the bed, toes curling, body locking up and spasming around him. Isack doesn’t stop for even a second, just keeps fucking you through it, drilling into you with deep unsteady strokes that draw out every aftershock until you’re gasping, feebly clawing at his back and babbling his name like a prayer.
When he follows, spilling into you seconds later, he breathes your name back like a curse.
Isack falls asleep the same way he always used to, a switch flipped quick and absolute, one arm slung heavy around your bare waist like even unconscious he knows you’re liable to bolt at any time. You used to tease him about it: you sleep like someone who’s never done a single bad thing in their life, you’d said once, fingers carding through his hair in the dark. He’d laughed dreamily and pulled you closer, mumbled maybe I haven’t against your skin. In sleep, the hard edges of him soften, furrow between his brow smoothing out, lips parting slightly, breath going slow and even. He looks younger that way, unguarded. More like the boy you once loved.
You trace the sharp line of his jaw with a softness you’d never allow yourself in the light of day. There’s a mark on his neck where you bit him, pink scratches from your nails already raising over his shoulders and the muscles of his back. Bruises on you, blooming purplish-blue over the sharp jut of your hip where his fingers found a hold. You catalogue it all like evidence: proof that you were here, that for a few hours you let yourself have the one thing you want most and are least equipped to keep.
Isack shifts closer to you, face pressed against your hair. “Reste, chérie,” he mumbles, barely conscious. Even in sleep his hand gravitates to yours, fingers intertwining. “S’il te plaît.”
You don’t answer. Can’t answer, really. You don’t trust yourself to speak, not when you can already feel your throat closing dangerously with emotion. So you close your eyes and don’t sleep. You just lay in his arms and let him hold you, let yourself pretend you’re the kind of person who knows how to stay.
When the sun rises, pale morning light flooding through the curtains, you know you can’t lie to yourself much longer. You slip out from under Isack’s arm inch by inch; he stirs, making a confused, half-asleep sound that feels like a knife shoved directly into your stomach, but he doesn’t wake up. You pull yourself back together quietly, slowly, like completing the steps of a checklist you don’t really want to reach the end of. Dress: crumpled on the carpet, slipped over your head and smoothed into semi-presentability. Heels: kicked off somewhere between the door and the bed, buckled back on despite half-formed blisters because you deserve the pain, at least a little bit. Dignity: lost too long ago to even bother looking for it.
You order the Uber from the lobby, put the pick-up point a block away from the hotel because you don’t want the engine sound to wake him. You’re already halfway back to Amsterdam Centraal by the time your phone buzzes in your lap.
isack [ 4:47 AM ] : Of course
isack [ 4:47 AM ] : Of course you left
You stare down at the messages, chest going tight. Thumbs hover hesitantly over the keyboard, typing and deleting and rewriting until you settle on the only honest thing you can say.
you [ 4:51 AM ] : you knew i would
isack [ 4:52 AM ] : I guess I did
isack [ 4:52 AM ] : Doesn’t make me feel any better though
you [ 4:53 AM ] : i’m sorry
isack [ 4:54 AM ] : No you’re not
isack [ 4:54 AM ] : Don’t lie
isack [ 4:55 AM ] : You would do it again tomorrow
you [ 4:56 AM ] : and you would let me
you [ 4:56 AM ] : so what does that say about both of us
isack [ 4:56 AM ] : I don’t know
isack [ 4:56 AM ] : That we are both stupid? That we have never learned?
isack [ 4:57 AM ] : You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me
you [ 4:59 AM ] : i know
isack [ 5:00 AM ] : And I still love you anyway
isack [ 5:00 AM ] : That’s the stupidest thing
Some sick, horrible part of you lights up when you see the messages. He still loves you. After all of it, after nine months of hurt, after you walked out on him again. You want to press your phone to your chest like a girl in a silly rom-com. You want to screenshot the message and frame it so you can look at it forever and remember what it felt like to know that even though you’d done your worst, he still wanted you.
you [ 5:01 AM ] : please don’t say it if you don’t mean it [ unsent! ]
you [ 5:01 AM ] : i still love you too [ unsent! ]
you [ 5:02 AM ] : it’s not stupid, isa
you [ 5:02 AM ] : it’s just not enough
The early-morning light catches on the water as you speed past, coloring the sea golden as you stare down at the three dots, disappearing and reappearing over and over again. You hold your breath and count the seconds, wondering if this is it, if this is the time he finally wises up and stops replying to you for good. You wonder, too, if it’s not all you deserve from him.
isack [ 5:05 AM ] : Maybe someday it will be
isack [ 5:05 AM ] : À bientôt chérie
You stare at your screen until the words blur together, until all that’s left is the smudges of blue and grey through the tears you steadfastly refuse to let fall.
Not goodbye. Because it never will be, with you, and you both know it. You’ll stay away for weeks, maybe even months if you’re feeling particularly strong, and then something will happen — another podium, maybe a win someday when he makes it to Red Bull like you know he will, some other sick excuse you’ll manufacture when the real reason is that you just want to be wanted again — and you’ll show up in another city, in another dress, and he’ll let you in because he can’t help himself.
And then you’ll leave again, because you can’t help yourself either.
à bientôt, isa, you type back, smile curling the edge of your mouth.
it's too hard to describe this in a way that feels honest, but even when i'm quiet / i love you, baby, i promise. (or: you, oscar, and the years that have come and gone.)
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x childhood best friend!reader.
ꔮ mixed media au.
ꔮ includes: fluff, friendship, romance. suspended disbelief on timelines & flat wasps. inspired by olivia rodrigo's honeybee.
ꔮ commentary box: let's get this show back on the road, baby. did all of this in one deranged sitting. thank you for always indulging me, @cinnamorussell.
featuring . the easy moments of love, when done correctly . (inspired by you are in love, by taylor swift .) 1.2k words
my masterlist ·✶·
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Loving Max Verstappen has always come easy for you.
First as a friend, platonically, from a distance.
Now, as more.
You think back to the time in Cannes, were you weren’t officially anything just yet, but friends felt too dismissive of a title to keep. In fleeting touches, midnight drives, small talk meant just for you, brushed off eye contact that neither of you were strong enough to break; you knew there was something more.
At the time, your hands were full of bags and food and things that were irrelevant. You remember fussing over your jacket, and how no matter how hard you tried, the buttons would never stay put.
Before you could complain again, Max steps close, like the proximity was mere muscle memory for him. You aren’t proud of the flurry of butterflies that erupt in your chest, heart in your throat as his hands brush against your coat. He sticks his tongue between his teeth, deep in concentration, and you have to stop yourself from doing something that you know you’d regret.
Max fixes the last button, hands dropping to his side as he realises just how close he is to you. How, if he had the guts, he could just lean in and kiss you and get everything he’s ever wanted.
“Thanks,” you say, breathier than you are prepared to admit.
“Yeah,” he says, looking as disheveled as you feel. “Any time.”
You don’t want to step back. To move away and break the moment, shattering whatever is so blaringly obvious between you. His eyes flick down to your lips, holding for just a fraction longer than a friend would. You hold your breath, praying for this to finally be it.
It wasn’t.
The real first kiss came on a Sunday, a few weeks later. Post race, which he had convinced you to attend. A stellar win, so far clear of second place that Max felt like he was in his own category. He claims that it was the adrenaline that dragged you into the first private spot he could find, kissing you so truly and deeply as if he would break into pieces if he waited any longer.
You returned the kiss with so much gusto it surprised him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, his around your waist, moving impossibly closer. You clung to each other, pulling apart and desperate for air you were sure only the other could supply.
You laughed then, so full of affection and passion and something else you couldn’t quite name. He laughed too, burying his head in the crevice of your neck like you were his lifeline. You were.
Max was never one for talking much. It wasn’t his love language, words of affirmation. But you could hear it in his silence.
How he would be mid-sentence, before pausing momentarily, and when you would look up, he would be watching you, at a complete loss for words. When he would have to leave for a race, opting for a quiet goodbye with so much left unsaid, understanding becoming a second language you had learned to interpret. How he would always search for you in a crowded room; on the podium, at a gala, across the paddock – you didn’t have to hear him say to know just how much he loved you.
The room was dark, the mild evening retiring into a clear night outside your window. But that didn’t matter now. Not when Max was on the other side of the phone, bone-tired from a race that didn’t quite go his way.
“M’sorry I couldn’t be there, Max,” you mumble, curling up under your shared bedsheets. They never felt colder than they did when he was away.
He sighs, though you know it’s not out of anger, or annoyance at you. Just a general, I've had a shit weekend and just want to be held sigh. “Don’t apologise, sweetheart. You can only control what you can control.”
You hum, and the call falls quiet. Not in awkward silence that you feel obligated to fill, but the comfortable kind that relaxes the tension in your shoulders. Max swears that just existing with you is enough to lower his stress levels. Not that they are very high in the first place.
His breathing is short and shallow on the other side. You want to ask, but you know he doesn’t want to talk about it. Why would he waste precious time with you on ranting about poor tire strategies and missed pit opportunities?
He says your name, soft in his mouth, like it's a delicate subject he never wants to break. His expression is strange, like he is so deep in thought and committed to the bit that he can’t back out now. “You’re my best friend, you know?”
You smile, unconsciously reaching to fiddle with your necklace. The one he got you in Portugal, right before he asked you if he could officially be yours.
“The feeling is mutual, Max,” you grin, cheeks pink with warmth and love.
He cracks a smile, too. Even on the other side of the world, you find a way to make him giddy. He would never admit it, but seeing your smile is like seeing the sun rise over a new day – it manages to crack his chest open every time.
Just breathing with you was enough to distract him from the horrific set of events he had experienced 48 hours prior. God, he missed you. And he knew you missed him.
On his birthday, he woke up to an empty bed. Still slightly warm, but vacated long enough that the frost of the morning had started to creep in on the sheets.
He could hear you humming along to whatever song you’d had on repeat for the last few days, cooking away like you had no worries in the world. Like all you wanted to do was spoil Max, make him feel even a fraction of how loved and adored you felt on a daily basis.
His knees cracked as he got out of bed, his smile as soft as the morning sun. The smell of burnt toast wafted in lazily as he stretched out a kink in his back, and he knew we was in for a rollercoaster.
Coated in careful sunlight, you stood with your back turned to him, a shirt of his you had stolen weeks ago landing mid-thigh, socks light against the wooden floors. The sight was so domestic it almost sent Max into cardiac arrest.
“What could you possibly be doing at this hour?” He asks, sneaking up behind you before wrapping around you completely. As he breathes you in, you laugh, and he swears it's the best thing he’s ever heard.
You turn in his hold, grinning like a fool in love.
“Happy birthday!” you giggle, peppering his face with kisses, before pressing the softest, most tender to his lips, melting into his hold. The pan begins to smoke behind you, but Max can’t bring himself to care.
For once, he lets go of everything. He forgets the stress of contracts, the media breathing down his neck, the millions of obligations he has to attend to.
For now, it's just the two of you, bathed in a golden glow, dancing around the kitchen like it's the easiest thing on Earth.
And maybe, he figures, that’s how love is supposed to be.
featuring . night out , broken skin , stitches , and a drunken confession . tw for needles !! short drabble (1k words)
my masterlist ·✶·
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
When the glass first shattered in your hand, you thought nothing of it. Yes, the blood slowly dripped down your palm where it had pierced skin. And yeah, you were probably going to need stitches, but in your drunken haze the only thing you could focus on was Max.
The same Max who had been a close friend for a while now. The same Max that sent you memes across time zones, that you text and called nonstop, that reminds you of how nice it is to be surrounded by people who care. The same Max who is now blindly escorting you out of the bar, insisting on getting you medical attention.
You want to whine, to say no, to tell him its fine I’ll be fine. But his gentle grip on your arm, the warmth from his fingers, makes any decent thought scramble in seconds.
You think he might’ve had more drinks than you but is somehow much more sober of than you are. You plan to ask him about that later, if you remember.
When Max messaged you at midday earlier, asking if you wanted to join some friends for a drink tonight, you agreed without thought. Max had this way of making it practically impossible to say no to him. With his charisma and witty charm, he had everyone wrapped around his finger.
You knew this. You saw how often people would throw themselves at him, feeling special that he made eye contact with them. You heard stories, witnessed stolen kisses, remembered how desired he was.
And yet.
It just... felt different with you. His gaze would linger. The smiles last longer, laughs a little louder. He drove you to the nearest emergency room and sat with you in the quiet hours of the morning.
But you couldn’t tell if you were hallucinating it, or if it was real. What you did know, was that he didn’t do that for everyone.
Even when the room was spinning, your palm throbbing under the makeshift shirt-gauze Max had wrapped it with, you could feel his steady presence beside yours. Unrelenting in his softness, solid and whole and real.
You took a deep breath, remembering what an old sports coach had once told you; focus on a specific detail to find balance. Focus on breathing to balance the mind.
You noticed Max’s leg. “Your knee is bouncing.”
“Is it?” he says, and it stops. “Sorry.”
You ignore that. Hard to come up with a reasonable response when its well past midnight and you can barely see straight. “Are you nervous?”
He pauses for a moment, before replying, “No, I don’t think so. Just don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“Aww, Max. That was almost sweet,” you grin, laying your head on his shoulder. You can hear the smile on his face.
Even under the bright glow of the hospital lights, your mind was scrambled. It was hard enough to think when sober, let alone drunk and in pain and so utterly head over heels for the man sitting beside you.
The triage nurse calls your name and escorts you to an empty room, promising the doctor would be with you in just a moment.
You sit on the bed, the paper sheet wrinkling loudly beneath you. It's the only sound in a quiet room, echoing gently off the walls and in your mind.
When the doctor comes in with her fancy equipment and sterile gloves, examining the wound without disturbing it, you keep your eyes on Max the whole time. He answered all of the questions they asked on your behalf, clearly the more coherent of the two of you.
You heard them discuss using a local anaesthetic and needing six or so stitches. The conversation came in parts – you were too busy staring at Max and how concerned he looked, with his perfect hair and sparkly eyes. It wasn’t fair that he could just sit there and look this good whilst making you feel how you did.
You only looked away when the needle came out, gently poking it around the cut, before the doctor and nurse disappeared for a few minutes to let the area become numb.
“Max,” you say, though it comes out more of a whisper.
He hums. “Yeah?”
“I’m really tired right now.”
Max laughs. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s the alcohol and the drugs. Let's just get you stitched up and then I promise you can go to sleep.”
Sweetheart. You sigh. If only he knew. “Can we get something to eat too? I think I'm going to starve to death.”
“Of course we can. How about that souvlaki you always get after a night out?”
You practically drool at the thought. Max grins.
“I really like having you around, Max.”
Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone too quick for you to have even noticed.
“...yeah?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
Pink creeps up his neck and cheeks, a shy smile on his face that you had never seen before.
“I really like having you around, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You giggle like a girl in love. Full-body giggles, embarrassed and smitten all at once.
“I like your hair,” you say, reaching over to brush it out of his face. You don’t notice how still he gets. “And I like your eyes. And your beard that you shave but grows back in an hour.”
He laughs, grinning like a fool. “Oh really?”
“I like everything about you, Max. It’d be hard not to.”
He rubs the back of his neck, breaking eye contact to give him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“I like you. As a friend, as more. I really like you, Max.”
The doctor enters the room before you realise what you had said. You watch her stand over you, reassuring that this would be quick and painless. You nod, looking back over at Max whose expression had dropped.
He didn’t look happy, or sad. He didn’t look anything.
to know how it ends and still begin to sing it again, as if it might turn out this time. it’s a sad song. it’s an old song. we sing it again, and again, and again. (or: you and max are haunted by the myth of orpheus and eurydice.)
ꔮ starring: max verstappen x reader.
ꔮ word count: 5k.
ꔮ includes: romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of blood, injuries, death; mentions of food, alcohol. reincarnation, past lives, themes of memoy/myth. title references hadestown’s wait for me (reprise).
ꔮ commentary box: my first ever max fic!!! a dual dedication: for @amyelevenn, whose innocent question about the greek myth had me locking tf in, and @hello-car-fandom, who is literally the matching max discord icon to my yuki one 🥀 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
The first time you see him, he is bent over a crate of pomegranates.
His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, sunlight catching on the fair hairs along his forearms. He lifts one fruit, turns it in his hand like he’s weighing something older than weight itself, and sets it down again with a gentleness you don’t expect from a man whose boots are dust-worn and whose voice, you imagine, is made for bartering.
You’re not supposed to be there, of course. Your governess has already turned twice from the apothecary window, searching for your figure in the crowd, but you’ve stepped behind the stall of dyes and silks. Curiosity, as always, tugging at your hem like a child.
And there he is.
He doesn’t see you yet. But something in your chest tugs loose anyway. Like a string pulled taut through lifetimes, plucked just once.
You step forward. Slowly. The sun drips gold over the rooftops and the awnings flutter like wings. You’re in your softest slippers, and they make no sound on the stone.
You reach the edge of his stall and touch a fig, more out of hesitation than interest. He looks up.
His eyes are the color of river-washed stone, something clear and steady. He is not beautiful in the way you’ve been taught to admire—too sharp, too still—but he holds himself like someone who knows how to listen.
When he does speak, it is not a question or a price, but a simple, quiet thing: “You’re not from here.”
Your lips part. There is a pause. A breath. And then you say, "No."
It is the beginning. It is always the beginning.
You come back the next day. Then the day after that. You learn his name—Maxim, though the others call him Max. He was born on a salt-swept coast and followed trade routes inward, carting spices and stories in equal measure.
You tell him little of your life, though he sees the quality of your shoes and the tremble of your hand when you offer coin. He never asks why someone like you lingers by someone like him. He simply lets you.
He has a way of speaking that feels like music with the notes stripped out.
Cadence and breath, patterns that curl behind your ribs. You catch yourself memorizing them the way you once memorized prayer.
One evening, as the sky bruises into dusk, he hands you a sprig of lavender wrapped in linen. “For your hair,” he says, almost shy. As shy as a man like him can be. “If you like.”
You take it. It will dry in a drawer you never open again.
Your governess scolds you, of course. Your father suspects. There are words like suitable and propriety whispered behind closed doors, and you pretend not to hear them. The truth is, it was never about rebellion.
It was about the sound of his hands sorting citrus. The way he’d walk you past the river without ever trying to touch your hand. How, once, you said you liked a song drifting from a tavern door and the next day he hummed it under his breath as he packed his cart.
You see him. He sees you. That, somehow, feels like the first true thing you’ve ever known.
You don’t know, not yet, that there is a myth unraveling around you. That you have stepped once more into the same story with different names.
The night before your wedding, it rains.
Not the soft kind, not the kind that you romanticize through glass windows and poems. Instead, the kind that soaks through silks and silences gardens, that makes the world feel like it's holding its breath.
Somewhere in the city, candles gutter low in brass holders. Somewhere, the servants are heating stones for your bath. Somewhere, you are curled on the velvet seat of your window, forehead to the glass, thinking of Max instead of your arranged betrothed.
Your dress is already hanging by the door. Cream and gold. Woven pearls. A neckline stitched for royalty. It looks nothing like you, and yet it will become your name by morning.
The knock comes just before midnight.
You don’t startle. You knew, somehow, that he would come.
When you open the door to the back garden, he is drenched. Water tracks down his jaw, his collarbone. He looks at you like someone might if they’d come to steal back something precious. “Run away with me,” Max says.
No preamble. No please. Just the impossible, unspoken thing now spoken aloud.
You hesitate.
Not because you don’t want to. God, you do. Your heart has been aching in the shape of him for weeks now. You’ve pressed your palms to it, tried to soothe it with reason, with tradition, with duty. None of it worked. And still—
Still.
Beyond the garden walls lie marble corridors and firelit banquets. A life of carriages, of curated affection, of everything laid out in gold leaf and ledger. A life prepared for you before you could spell your own name.
He takes your hand anyway. Warm, rough, trembling just slightly. In your head, you tell yourself, this will be enough.
You run.
The streets are slick with rain. Your slippers catch on cobblestones. He laughs once, breathless, the sound breaking something inside you. You laugh too, not because anything is funny, but because it’s all so alive. For the first time, you are not someone’s daughter or someone’s bride. You are just someone his.
At the crest of the hill where the town ends and the road begins—where roofs shrink into chimney smoke and trees sigh toward open field—you stop.
The wind has teeth. The rain softens. Your heart is so loud you think it might echo.
He turns to you. He sees you, as he always has. He sees how the doubt comes in.
You want to say yes. You truly do.
But behind your ribs, something curls inward. You think of your mother’s hands, worn smooth by luxury. You think of how your name is threaded into debts and alliances like silk through a loom. You think of everything you've been taught to want, and how none of it fits you. But still, it is yours. The life you never chose but cannot let go.
You hear him exhale. A small, steady thing. Like the sound of a song’s last note.
He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t follow. He just steps forward and presses his forehead to yours. “I’ll find you again,” he murmurs, and his voice is steadier than it should be. “Another life. Another road. I’ll try again.”
You nod, and it feels like both a promise and a prayer. In some ways, it is a curse. It sets your fate into stone.
This is how the myth remembers you both: Not for the running, but for the turning back.
This is your first life. The not-quite. The almost. The root before the bloom.
And he—
He is the music you carry with you, even in silence.
Even as you marry.
Even as you forget.
Even as you don’t.
The second time he meets you, it’s under a buzzing fluorescent light in a room that smells faintly of antiseptic and old sweat.
You’re crouched beside him, gloved hands pressed to the bloom of blood just under his ribs. Your touch is steady, efficient. Your voice is steadier than the rest of the world, like something made of wool and warm air.
“Stay still,” you say, without looking up. “You’ll make it worse.”
Max doesn’t speak. Not because he can’t—his lip is split, not his tongue—but because there’s something reverent about the way you work. Like a ritual. Like you’ve done this a thousand times before and hated it every time.
He watches you instead. The furrow in your brow. The way you brace your wrist just before the thread tugs tight. The way you move as if you’ve forgotten how to flinch.
It is not love yet. But it is the shape of it. The beat before a song.
The underground circuit is brutal. Max has been fighting since he was seventeen, not for the thrill of it, but for the change he swears is coming.
“They need someone better than the worst of them,” he tells you once, after a match that leaves him breathing smoke and limping on one leg. “Someone who doesn’t just take, but builds something after.”
You don’t answer. You just hand him a bottle of water and a fresh compress. That night, though, you leave the lights on longer in the med tent.
He notices.
You never ask him to stop. Not once.
Instead, you touch his wrists like they are more than tools. You memorize the patterns of his bruises like constellations, like they could map him back to something softer. You don’t say much, but when you do, it stays with him.
“If it ever gets too dark,” you say once, stitching the arch of his brow, “promise you’ll remember where the light was.”
He thinks of that for days. The light. The where. He starts counting all the places you’ve left it. On his shoulder in passing, in the curve of your tired smile, in the way you once fell asleep sitting up, arms crossed, waiting for him.
You keep a record of every wound, even the ones he doesn’t remember. He finds your notes once. Tucked into the back of a field book, written in your neat hand: Laceration, left temple. Minor fracture, 3rd metacarpal. Patient says he’s fine. He is not fine.
He doesn’t say anything when he sees it. Just folds the paper back into place and holds it like scripture.
One night, he loses badly. Too badly.
You’re already waiting in the alley behind the arena, jaw clenched, bag slung across your back as if you knew this was coming. You don’t yell. You don’t cry. You just kneel beside him in the dirt and whisper, “You said you were done with fights like this.”
Max laughs hoarsely. It tastes like copper. “I said I was trying.”
You pause. Your hands hover over his ribs. Your eyes close. “You’re not Orpheus,” you murmur. “You don’t have to follow every ghost back into the dark.”
He doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t even know who the fuck this Orpheus bloke us. But your hands tremble when they press the gauze down, and he understands, in some unspoken, sacred way, that you’re scared.
Not of him. For him.
Love, when it comes, is just above the surface.
It’s in the way he holds his breath when you stand too close. The way you let him linger longer each night before sending him off with bandages and warnings. The way your eyes search his face like they’re looking for proof that he made it back.
It’s in the time you tuck a small white flower behind his ear and say, “To remind you you’re still alive.”
It’s in the way he forgets he ever fought for glory, and instead starts fighting for after.
This is your second life. Another sowing. A softer myth. The roots beneath the ruin.
Though he doesn’t know it yet, though he never quite says it, he’s already started loving you. Not in the way that demands. In the way that stays.
But the myth persists.
Max tries to forget it. He tries to press it down beneath split knuckles and calloused palms, beneath routines and repetitions, beneath the lull of training drills and the clean ache of exhaustion. It still clings. It lives in the space between who he is and who he wants to become.
Some nights, he dreams of singing. Not with his voice, but with his fists. As if every hit might carry a melody only he can hear.
He tells himself he fights for change. For something better. For the boys watching from shadows and chain-link fences who don’t yet know how to leave. Sometimes, it feels like he’s chasing something older. A story he can’t quite rewrite. A descent he doesn’t know how not to make.
And then—
You.
You, with your steely eyes and your hands that remember every bruise. You, who never flinches, never lectures, only looks at him like he’s already worthy of softness. You, who tracks his ribs and not just the damage done to them but the way they rise and fall when he breathes. The way he forgets to exhale when you’re near.
He thinks he can separate the two: the fight and the feeling. He thinks the ring can stay its own kind of church. But then one night, you follow him.
He doesn’t see you until after the first bell. You’re standing by the ropes, your coat pulled tight around your shoulders. The look in your eyes is not disapproval, not even fear—just sorrow.
It unspools him.
The match begins. He tries to focus. He plants his feet, calculates timing. But your presence clings to him like heat. Every time he moves, he wonders if you’re still watching. Every time he swings, he wonders what you think of this version of him. The one who still hasn’t learned.
You are the ghost in his periphery. The light at the mouth of a cave he was never meant to leave.
He catches a blow too late. His jaw reels left. His shoulder crumples next.
He hears his name. Not from the crowd, but from memory. From your voice, precise like a metronome in his bloodstream. It is a voice from this life, but from some other past life, too.
He turns.
Just once.
Just to be sure you’re still there.
He shouldn’t. He knows that. He turns anyway. And in the breath it takes to find you—your hand half-raised, your mouth parted in some unsaid warning—
He is struck.
Hard. Clean. Below the ribs, where the body folds in on itself.
He falls.
He does not rise.
The lights above blur. He tries to blink, but the room tilts. The shouts fade. The ring disappears. And then: your hands.
Your voice, breaking. A sob caught in velvet. “Max. Hey, Max, stay with me,” you’re saying. “Stay here.”
He wants to. More than anything. He wants to stay. But the dark comes softly, like a curtain.
The last thing he sees is you.
Crying, yes. But still holding him like something precious.
Still loving him like a vow.
This is your second life: the tragedy planted deep. The seed that will bloom in mourning.
He follows you into the light, and hopes, next time, he’ll know better.
In this third life, you are always just a half-step behind him.
On planes, on paddocks, in glassy press rooms where the air smells like cold coffee and microphones. He is the sun every camera turns toward, and you are the shadow following the arc.
Your badge says Press Officer. Your inbox holds a hundred questions no one wants honest answers to. But your world shrinks to the shape of his name, repeated over headsets and hotel keys, on embargoed articles and race day briefings.
Max Verstappen.
He walks like the world owes him nothing and still chooses to give him everything. You, more than anyone, know the cost of that kind of glory.
You learn the language of his silences before you ever learn the full weight of his voice. You learn when not to knock on his door. When to bring coffee instead of advice. When to pull him away from a camera just before the mask slips.
You learn that winning does not make it easier.
Still, you stay. Because he is not just Red Bull’s golden boy. Because sometimes, after a race, when the adrenaline fades and the noise dies down, he looks at you like you’re the only thing still holding.
“You should sleep,” you tell him once, after Japan. He’s slouched in a chair, still in his suit, eyes bleary with exhaustion.
“I will,” he says. Then: “Only if you do too.”
It’s not flirtation. It’s care. It’s knowing you’d both work yourselves past the point of reason if left unchecked.
You fall in love with him in pieces. In the way he unlaces his gloves with reverence for the sport. In the way he listens when you brief him, even when he’s barely slept. In the way he thanks you—softly, always sincerely—when you deflect a question with a smile and an effortless pivot.
He falls in love with you in silence.
You know because he starts looking for you first in a room. You know because after Monaco, when he climbs out of the car and into champagne and shouts, he finds your hand without looking. Just a brush of his fingers against yours, nothing more. It lingers all the same.
The harvest in this life is not loud. It is not fireworks or flowers.
It is a shared umbrella during a downpour in Spa. It is his voice, groggy with sleep, calling your name across the hallway in Bahrain. It is you, leaning against a barrier wall as his car screams past, thinking, not for the first time, that you are both chasing something that only exists in motion.
At some point, he starts waiting for you before press briefings. Hands in his pockets, gaze low, like it’s the most natural thing. Like he’s always known how to wait on you.
At some point, you stop correcting reporters when they assume you’re together. You’re not, not exactly. But there is something there. A closeness that breathes.
One night—after a win that feels more like survival—you find yourselves alone in the garage. Everyone else has gone. The track is silent. He’s sitting on the tire stack, still in his fireproofs, head bowed. You hand him a bottle of water. He takes it, but doesn’t drink.
“It never feels like enough,” he croaks.
“What doesn’t?”
“All of this. The wins. The noise. The… everything.”
You sit beside him. The air smells like rubber and rain. “It’s enough for me.”
He looks at you, searching for proof that you mean it. And you do. It’s not a confession. It’s not a kiss.
It’s heavier than that.
It’s the way he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. It’s the breath you share between you. “I think I loved you before I knew how to name it,” he confesses, and it’s every unraveling, happening all at once.
You don’t answer. You just stay, hold the moment like something delicate.
This is your third life: the yield.
And for once, you don’t have to run. You don’t have to turn back. You just stand beside him, steady. As you always have.
As you always thought you will.
It doesn’t end in a crash or a scandal. It’s a subtle shift. The kind that happens in rooms you’re not invited to. The kind that starts with a look held too long and ends with your name removed from an itinerary.
You notice the change before Max does.
At first, it’s just that the briefings come later. Then someone else is asked to escort him to media. Then your access code stops working at the paddock gate.
Max doesn’t see it. Not at first. He’s still winning. Still locked in the momentum of it all. That’s the cruel thing about glory—it moves so fast, it doesn’t notice what it leaves behind.
You try not to resent it. You try not to resent him.
He finds you one night outside the motorhome. The air smells like burnt fuel and celebration. He’s flushed with victory, his hands still twitching from the wheel. He says your name like a question and a relief.
“You weren’t at the presser,” he says.
“No,” you reply, managing a smile. “I was… needed elsewhere.”
He frowns. He’s always been sharper than he pretends to be. “Are they moving you?”
You don’t answer. You look past him to where the sky bruises against the floodlights.
“Hey,” he says gently. “If something’s going on, you can tell me.”
For a second, you want to. God, you want to.
You want to tell him how they watched you too closely. How someone at Red Bull asked you if your loyalties were getting personal. How the look he gave you after Brazil—tired, joyful, yours—became the beginning of the end.
You know Max would do something about it, if you asked. He’d raise hell. He’d demand concessions. There would be space for you, at his expense.
This is your third life. The life of the yield. And sometimes, harvest means knowing what to leave behind.
So you smile again. Softer this time. “Maybe I’m just tired,” you say.
Max nods, but you see it—the way his shoulders set, the worry he can’t quite hide. He reaches for you, stopping short at the last minute. His hand lingers, useless, fingers aborted in a half-hold. “You’ll tell me if you go, right?”
You nod. It’s a lie.
He turns back toward the celebration, and you feel it in your chest. The echo. The myth and its reprise.
This is the moment Orpheus looks back.
It isn’t deliberate. He just wants to make sure you’re still there.
Max glances behind him. Just once. Just to see.
And that’s all it takes.
A week later, your name is gone from the roster. Your replacement is efficient, polite. Max doesn’t ask for you. Not right away. He’s still midseason. Still running.
When he does, they say you left of your own accord. He believes it. Because he has to.
You disappear without a sound. No goodbye. No forwarding address. But you keep the voicemail he left that first night you didn’t answer.
“Hey. I—just checking in,” he says, polite as always. Not pressing. Not demanding. “Let me know you’re alright, yeah?”
You play it sometimes, in cities where no one knows your face. It sounds like a life you almost got to keep.
This is still the third life. And even here, even in the season of plenty, the myth curdles.
You were almost his.
Almost.
But Orpheus turned around, and you could not follow.
In this fourth life, Max is no one special.
No headlines, no cameras, no circuit carved into the year like a second spine. He lives in a modest apartment above a bakery in Hasselt. The floors creak in the mornings. The radiator hums like a secret in winter. His world is small in a way that feels, for the first time, bearable.
He works at the auto shop three blocks down, comes home with oil on his fingers, the sleeves of his jumper rolled to his elbows. It’s a life of repetition. Ordinary, honest, good.
He thinks he has seen all there is to see.
Then, one afternoon in late March, just as the frost begins to loosen its hold, he hears it. Singing.
Soft. Barely above a murmur. It drifts through the alley like something half-remembered. Warm and clean, the kind of voice that doesn’t ask to be heard, only happens to be. He pauses mid-step on his balcony, one hand on the railing, head tilted like a man listening for thunder.
Across from him, a second-floor window is cracked open. The lace curtain flutters like breath.
He doesn’t see you that day. Just the echo of your voice and a flicker of movement. But something inside him stirs. An ache with no name. Like spring breaking.
It happens again. And again.
You sing in the early evenings, when the sky goes lilac. He never means to listen. But he never quite manages not to. He leans on the railing, cigarette unlit between his fingers, letting your voice turn the bricks golden.
One day, you catch him.
You’re hanging laundry on the line between buildings, humming something old and mournful. You glance up—and there he is. Half-frozen, guilty, like a boy caught trespassing. Your eyes meet. You don’t look away.
“You’re not subtle,” you say, but you’re smiling.
He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry. You’re just... really good.”
You laugh, and it’s a sound brighter than the song. “Apology accepted.”
From then on, there are conversations over the balconies. Nothing grand. Just shared hours in the in-between.
You ask what he does. He tells you about busted engines and brake fluid, about the satisfaction of fixing something with your hands. He asks about your music. You shrug. You don’t call yourself a singer. Just someone who likes sound more than silence.
Sometimes, you play guitar, barely audible beneath the city’s breathing. Sometimes, you sing him old folk songs in languages he doesn’t know.
“They’re all so sad,” he tells you once.
“Most songs worth singing are,” you reply.
He smiles. Something in his chest folds.
He doesn't realize it yet, but he’s already begun orbiting you. In small ways. He times his balcony breaks with yours. He lingers by the windowsill longer than he should. He finds himself searching for your silhouette behind the curtain, like a lighthouse.
You don’t meet in person for weeks. You don’t need to. The space between your balconies becomes sacred. Liminal, alive. A string stretched taut with every look, every shared breath.
In this life, he does not chase fate. He doesn’t need to. He simply waits. Watches. Listens.
When you sing, he thinks—for the first time in a long time—of staying.
This is your fourth life.
There are no monsters to fight. No mountains to climb. Just the long, slow miracle of two people finding their way back.
Max, who once raced toward gods and ruin, learns the forgotten art of holding still.
He doesn’t ask for a month, though.
Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he does, so badly, it frightens him. There’s something too holy about the space you share. This careful, suspended thing made of glances and song. A fragile ritual of half-smiles and half-started sentences. He’s terrified that naming it might dissolve it, that reaching out might break the spell.
But one evening, after a long day of oil and windchill, he hears you humming again on the balcony and thinks: Now or never.
He crosses the street with his heart thudding like footsteps, knocks once on the door that has never belonged to him, and when you answer—barefoot, tea mug in hand, eyes wide and curious—he says, “Do you want to get a drink sometime?”
You smile like dawn breaking through overcast. A small, surprised thing. The kind of smile that reshapes the air.
“It took you long enough,” you tease, and he finds himself inclined to agree.
Days later, you find yourself in the pub down the street. The place is warm and low-lit, all scratched wood and the smell of hops and comfort. There’s an old dog sleeping beneath a radiator. A jukebox that plays 70s ballads with too much echo. You sit in a booth tucked beneath a crooked old clock, your knees nearly bumping under the table.
Max talks more than he usually does. So do you.
You tell him about the songs your grandmother taught you, the ones you always forget the words to but hum anyway. How they remind you of windows open in summer, of clothespins and sun-warmed tile. He tells you about the first car he ever fixed, how the engine stuttered like a heartbeat and how he still misses it. He admits he sometimes dreams in throttle. You admit you sometimes dream in melody.
You drink too much, but not enough to forget.
When you leave, the night is gentle.
Cobblestones echo beneath your steps as you wind your way home, giggling like teenagers with nowhere to be. Your hands brush once, twice. Then linger. The silence between you softens into something intimate.
You stop just before your street and turn to him, eyes bright with mischief and something older, something deeper.
“Let’s play something,” you say.
He raises a brow. “At midnight?”
“M-hm. Close your eyes. I’ll guide you.”
He laughs, hiccuping incredulity. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“It’s not,” you protest, lips already forming a slight frown. “Come on, Verstappen. Trust me.”
He does. Of course he does.
You place your hands on his shoulders, warm and steady. He closes his eyes.
He walks.
The street stretches out like a story. The world narrows to your breath behind him, your touch steering him past loose stone and memory. Your voice floats behind him like music. Telling him to turn left. Straighten up. Mind the puddle.
He grins, eyes shut, trusting. His entire life becomes the sound of your footsteps, the lightness in your tone, the gentle pull of your fingers against his coat.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, something hums. Something old. Something like myth.
He has walked blind for you before.
In another life, maybe it was a stairwell. Or a descent. Or a dream. He doesn’t remember it, not in any tangible way, but it lives in his bones. That echo of trust. Of following.
And maybe that’s why he does it.
Maybe he hears you stumble, just slightly. Maybe a car door slams in the distance and he remembers reality. Maybe he doubts. Or maybe—maybe—he just loves you. Loves you so much, and has loved you across lifetimes, across wars and ballrooms and broken ribs, that it makes him ache.
Whatever the reason, he turns.
He opens his eyes.
And there you are.
Not gone. Not fading.
Just you. Laughing softly, flushed from beer and wind and something truer. Looking at him like you’ve known him forever. Like he’s finally found the place he’s been running toward his whole life.
He exhales. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath.
You step closer, your grin softening into something breathtakingly tender.
“You weren’t supposed to look,” you say, mock-scolding.
“I had to make sure you were still there,” he murmurs.
Your gaze softens. “And am I?”
He reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours with the ease of inevitability.
“You are,” he says. “You are.”
This is your fourth life.
There is no disappearing act. No vanishing into mist. No punishment from gods. Just the streetlight gold, the hush between heartbeats, the miracle of two people choosing to stay. Max dares to lean in, and he tastes the curve of your lips against his.
Max turned. And this time, nothing was lost.
Only found. ⛐
FOOTNOTES:
“Humans have four lives. A life of planting seeds, a life of watering seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of enjoying those harvests.” — Guardian: The Lonely and Great God (2016)
“"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious” — u/aaronstveit
featuring you and Oscar as partners in crime, keeping each other on your toes when between heists. after a mission gone wrong, you are left to navigate through levels of security with Oscar as your guidance. Can you make it back, or will there be an unpredictable twist of fate?
yes this is a repost, okay? sue me! I wasn't happy with it, and my boy orpheus / oscar deserves to be done well. i'm just under 2k words now, so hopefully I can keep it up!! love you all x
Listening to doubt comes in and I feel deeply ill for Orpheus. He may have not made the best decisions but that boy was bringing his girl home at all costs.
summary: duke max verstappen is the hottest bachelor on the ton, who wants nothing more than NOT to get married, and you've been forced into a courtship with zak brown and want nothing more than NOT to marry him.
naturally, you decide to marry each other instead. (a fake marriage regency au series!)
wc: 2.9 k
warnings: mentions of alcohol, gambling, period based mysogyny
➤ MASTERLIST
It was hot, almost suffocatingly so, and Max wasn't sure if he could blame it on the Monaco heat or how many people his family had managed to cram into their ballroom. It was a maze of mothers desperate to catch him and fathers eager to say hello, while his actual friends were nowhere to be seen. It was the sort of night Max aimed to avoid, but there was only so much bad manners and forgotten invitations before his reputation was at stake, and as much as he didn't care about it, his family did.
So, he did the next best thing when attending was forced upon him:
He hid.
You see, when Max joined the military, it was not to gain some title or rank - the Verstappens were mighty enough - but to escape his damned house and family, to get on a horse, and to do something with his life.
Afterwards, he would return to his fellow men, continue racing horses, and live a perfectly content life as a single man.
But, unfortunately, he was quite good in the military, and following his brief reprieve home filled with gambling, drinking, and general debauchery, he was gifted the title of Duke.
So, now every damned mother in Monaco wanted him to marry their daughter, and his family was more than happy to drag him along to every ball and outing to get him to settle down, or to host their own. At least, at his own estate, Max knew how to avoid the crowds.
Slipping out into the back garden was easy enough, with a small band playing on the grass, the soft music mixing with the spring breeze. Someone called for him, but he did his best to pretend that he did not hear and headed straight for the hedge maze. It had been a safe haven since his childhood, as few had managed to figure out the path to the little garden that lay in the centre, and few were willing to take the time on a night like tonight to do so.
After all, every unmarried person was too busy trying to find a partner, and every married person was trying to help the unmarried in their life. That left children, who were not allowed at events this late, and the elderly, who did not care to attend events this late. So, if Max's calculations were correct, it would be only him, in his little garden, and if his father demanded to know where he was, he would just say the yard, and he wouldn't be lying.
Only, as Max rounds the final corner to get to his little paradise, he finds that his calculations were not correct, because someone stands in his little garden, staring up at the carved statue some poor gardener had to drag in here years ago. You did not hear his approach, or if you did, you did your best to pretend that you did not hear. From the back of your head, Max cannot match you to anyone he knows, but then again, who knows others by the back of their heads?
Before he can make his leave, or try to stay, you turn, glancing over your shoulder as you startle, frozen in his gaze. You were not anyone he knew from the front of your head, either, and in your silence, he realized how wrong it was for you to be here, alone, and for him to be here with you. The last thing he needed was gossip to spread about your virtue and his role in defiling it. "My apologies, your grace." You say softly, offering a little curtesy. Despite him not knowing you, you obviously knew him.
Then again, every damned woman in this city seemed to.
"What for?" He asks, and watches your head rise in confusion.
"For the intrusion? Of your garden?" Oh, that.
Max sets himself down on the bench with a shrug. "It's a garden, it's meant to be enjoyed. Besides, you actually managed to find your way to the centre, so you have every right to be here."
"I take it not many do?" Oh, it was an unfortunately long list, the amount of people who got lost in this hedge maze. Staggering, really.
"No, no, not many do." He lets himself examine you, eyes slowly dragging over your figure, to try and determine who you are. "I don't believe we've met."
"No, your grace." Polite, for starters. But then again, most people use his title when they try to suck up to him. "I'm from the Southern Alps."
"Southern Alps?" He questions before he can help himself. "You're a far way from home."
You were likely sent here to find a match, maybe drag yourself into a house of somewhat higher standing. You were dressed the part, though not to the same standard as some. Your dress was a season or two old, a drab sort of purple colour that did absolutely nothing for you. His eyes finally return to your face, and you take his outburst in stride with a soft smile. "I'm being hosted for the season by my uncle, and Sir Zak Brown."
"You must be a Brown, then." Zak didn't really talk about family, but then again, Max couldn't really stand the man. No wonder he didn't know you, and no wonder you'd never been introduced.
"Ah, no." You state somewhat awkwardly, looking at him as if desperate for him to understand something unsaid.
You were hosted by Zak, but you weren't a familial relation? Then, something strange clicks into his mind. Zak is a bachelor this season, and as an American, a man of new wealth, he held no power besides his money. Marrying someone young from a somewhat statused family would help in that regard, and he cannot help the horror that dawns over his face. "You are-Surely not!"
"I'm afraid so." You let slip, before clenching your fists and letting out a soft sigh. "That was impolite of me. I am very lucky for Sir Brown's support for my family."
"Lucky? He's old enough to be your father. Grandfather, maybe." It's a disgusting thought, the two of you together. "How much is he paying for you?"
It's an improper thing to ask, but it's the truth. Zak was paying for a nice, young bride, and you were suffering the consequences. You chew on your lip for a moment, as if considering telling him the actual number, before you steel yourself again. "Enough." Max leans back slowly, hoping that by seeming uninterested, he could learn more. After a beat, you look to the sky and let out a soft breath. "Considerably less than what he charges for some of his steeds, or so I've heard."
"Sounds like him," Max answers with a snort. You might as well be another horse for the man. "So you are betrothed?"
"No." Oh. That Zak could be patient surprised him. "Sir Brown wants to do things traditionally, for me."
"How kind." Max deadpans. "And what about you?"
"What about me?" This cannot be your first choice.
Zak is no one's first choice. "What do you want?"
"A good match, who can provide for me and my family. I could not ask for more." Oh, so they trained you.
Max rises from his bench, and you startle again, and he wonders if that was a common thing with you. You stare up at him, and Max is struck by the thought that you were so utterly plain. Not in any bad way, but he was so used to the splendour and chaos of high society that you, haloed by moonlight and in a dress that probably cost less than one of his nice ties, were a new thing to behold. "That's a lie."
"It's a truth." Well, you got him there.
"And if money were not a concern? Or your family?" He watches the thought immediately rise in you, and you turn away as if to force the thought away. "What would you want?"
"If I may speak freely?" Max snorts, wandering over to the statue to look up at it, as you once had.
"If I may speak freely, there is no need for formality. I'd much prefer honesty." People stopped being honest when they wanted something from you, and it seemed like everyone did nowadays.
He turns to look back at you, and finds you still not looking at him, staring down into the dirt. "I would live in a cottage." Admittedly, not where he was expecting this to go. "It would be on the water, surrounded by nature." Your head rises, but your eyes close, as if slipping away into a fantasy you'd had for quite some time. "And I would have a maid, to take care of the cleaning, and a cook, to prepare me food, but that would be it. I would spend my days by the water or reading by a window, and if I got bored I could talk to my maid, or play chess against my cook, and perhaps befriend a dog or a bear or something if I were truly bored."
It was the sort of fantasy he didn't expect from you, or from anyone in this sort of society. They wanted riches and servants and respect, but you wanted a little house on a lake with a dog, or he supposes a bear, and nothing more. Your eyes finally open, turning to look at him, and he finds that he can see right through you. Every emotion, every thought is plain to see.
This is not the life you want, but it's the life you're supposed to. "I think I'd just like to be left alone." You finally settle on, and Max can't help but offer a smile in return.
"You and I are similar, in that regard." God, what he wouldn't give for solitude. "A nice house in the country with a nice farm for my horses." That sparks something in you, a little smile that pulls at your lips. If there was anything Max was known for, it was racing. Where he didn't connect with people, he connected with horses on the racetrack or on the battlefield. The whole reason he was a Duke was because of it, anyway. "I would spend my afternoon at the race tracks, or gambling, or doing whatever I please without a gaggle of mothers and daughters chasing after my hand in marriage. I would drink what I want and say what I want and do what I want. What a shame," He says, flopping back down onto the bench, "That despite status or money, we cannot have what we want."
"I am sure we will find solitudes in our lives." You say, but Max didn't really register it, because a rather cruel thought came to mind.
You both want to be left alone. That would make a good match for a marriage. After all, Max could find a beach house to fulfill your wishes, hell, he could give you his family's, and with you on the coast, he would be left to do what he wants. He could give your family whatever funds they need, and he could fuck with Zak, which really is just a highlight on top of all this. "However," Max says, fully cutting you off as he sits up, "I have a lake house."
"Excuse me?" He looks up at you, and decides that marrying you would be agreeable. You are the only person who hasn't thrown themselves at him, you've made good conversation, you solved his maze, you've been honest. Sure, he made rash decisions, but this one he thinks has merit.
"Our wants in life are to be left alone, yet marriage forbids it. What if we were to marry each other?" Slowly, you turn to look down at him, true befuddlement written across your face.
"Have you gone mad?" You whisper harshly, and Max can only shrug in response.
It's not the first time someone has asked him that, and he's sure not the last. All that being said, there's logic to his plan, and he knows you can see it too. "I always have been."
"You are a duke. I-I am not remotely close to your status," You begin, walking away from him and then back toward him somewhat frantically, as if trying to convince yourself to marry him. Or, perhaps, you're trying to convince yourself not to. "What would people think?"
"My family would be thrilled I found anyone at all, actually." Sure, it's not the status match anyone would expect, but they would think you're lucky and he's stupid, which they already think, so not much would change on his end.
"I could not be a duchess." Max tilts his head to study you and decides you are exactly the type of person who should be a duchess. Not in it for the title and money, but...well, not love, but like, for the right reasons. Well, if getting married to leave each other alone can be considered a 'right' reason.
"You'd only be adopting the title, but I see this as a business agreement. We marry, and live the rest of our lives in peace, separate from each other. We can work out the finer details later." If you wanted children, you could just take a lover, and he'd do the same. Sure, you might have to make occasional appearances, but it was the best future Max had pictured for himself in a while. It was far better than forcing some poor girl to marry him, who might throw themselves at him and get hurt trying, or forsaking his family to keep himself sane. For you, it saved you from Zak, from being a spinster, or whatever life might await back home. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer Zak?"
"Oh, Zak." It seems you had entirely forgotten the man, and Max doesn't blame you. "He would be furious."
"It would be fantastic. And I can assure you, any anger from Zak would come to me, not you."
Slowly, you extend a hand, and Max shakes it, sealing a deal no one could ever expect to be made. "You promise you're being serious?"
"I told you, I prefer being honest." He rises from the bench, dusts off his jacket, and begins to outline the plan to make this believable. "Now, my beloved, we should be getting back to the festivities."
-
You had heard from enough sources how mad Duke Verstappen was, but tonight proves it. This has to be some joke, that he's messing with you, but for some bizarre reason, you believe him. Maybe it's his own proclaimed desire for honesty, or the way you made easy conversation like lifelong friends and not strangers. Either way, you can't contain the thrill the future brings, eyes flickering around the crowd to try to spot him.
He had sent you ahead to avoid any rumours spreading about your time together in the garden, so you're left to make conversation with Zak without meeting his eye, doing everything you can think of to keep off his advances for once. "Perhaps I should get us something to drink?" He says, gesturing towards the tower of champagne flutes, and you're not sure you could stomach the alcohol, or at least keep your evening wth the Duke from spilling out of you.
"Perhaps the punch?" You say instead, trying to feign illness and not excitement. "I feel off, tonight."
"I could tell. I'll be right back." Zak is quick to the table, but in the gap he leaves, the Duke takes his chance to fill, appearing at the balcony doors and immediately drawing attention to himself. He is masterful in his way of dodging people and requests to dance, and you force yourself to look away, not sure if you could stand this ruse. You were a terrible liar, anyway, and your mind fills with whatever the Duke might have planned, and you're stuck with your heart pounding in your chest.
Zak returns with the punch as you peel off your gloves, needing to feel the cold glass in hand to keep you from sinking. However, one of the gloves tumbles to the floor, and the Duke materializes before you, bending down to pick it up, and the whole world stills.
It's not your heart deceiving you either; the whole room genuinely freezes, watching with bated breath as the Duke picks up the glove and gently extends it. "You dropped this." He says in a baritone that would make half the ladies in here swoon, but, dumbfounded, you simply take the glove from him with your best, practiced smile.
"Thank you, your grace." You answer, and the Duke smiles down at you, and then promptly walks out of the ballroom.
The moment he's gone, the room explodes into movement and chatter and, most of all, eyes on you. The Duke was a man who was hard to tie down, who had a reputation for vulgarity and a disregard for social life, so one simple act, of him bending to pick up your glove, and god forbid, smiling?
He might've already proposed. "That was...unlike Max."
Max.
His name was Max. "How so?" You say, pretending like it was news to you. "He was just being polite."
"Exactly." Zak answers, voice tight as he thrusts the punch into your hand. It was a good deal, you think, marrying each other for your own freedom, but if it messed with Zak in the process?
Then you were all the more for it.
a/n: I had some time off this summer and it turned into a full blown regency max series, so I hope y'all enjoy!!
isack’s crush on you would be a lot more subtle if his chat and his friends weren’t constantly calling him out on it.
pairing: streamer!isack hadjar x streamer!reader
contents: streamer au [non-f1], fluff/romance, humor/crack, mutual pining, suggestive, 2025 rookies but they’re all twitch streamers, gabriel and franco try wingmanning (goes as you’d expect), casual use of french/spanish/portuguese, you can rip physics major!isack from my cold dead hands
word count: 3.9k
eve’s notes: can you tell i used to watch twitch streamers during the pandemic? the twitch to f1 pipeline is real actually
In his years since becoming a Twitch streamer, Isack Hadjar (former Physics major, current college dropout) has grown accustomed to many things.
Screaming into his microphone during unreasonable hours of the night because someone told him to try out a new horror indie game. Having a shitty, beyond fucked-up sleep schedule (he can blame his friends and their timezones from hell, thank you). The blue light of his monitor that has undoubtedly costed him what used to be great vision.
Isack Hadjar has grown used to many bizarre things. Being recognized on the street, waking up and appearing in Twitter controversies, having childhood friends sending him thirst trap edits of himself. Ever since he started out on Twitch in the early months of the pandemic, it’s become his new reality. A steady drumbeat of everyday existence.
He didn’t expect that the one thing to catch him off-guard would be meeting with his online friends in real life.
“I think Isack should take us on a tour of Paris after TwitchCon,” Franco says, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet groan.
The five of you sit on whatever chairs and chaises you’ve managed to scrounge together from the Airbnb you’ve rented together. The second monitor of the stream scrolls by with a flurry of rapid-fire messages from the chat.
Isack isn’t exactly sure what time it is—all he knows is that it’s late, and timezones apparently don’t mean shit, because he’s still staying up and awake at some ungodly hours even when they’re all in France.
Arvid, Doriane and Kimi have each long since left to sleep in their bedrooms—a smarter choice. Though from the way Ollie’s eyes are starting to droop, Isack would be willing to bet that he’ll be the next one to duck out of the stream.
“I’d be down for that,” you say, sitting next to Isack on the chaise lounge. “We could make a whole video out of it.” You lean closer to the second monitor, trying to catch any half-legible sentence from the chat. “A lot of people are here ‘cause of TwitchCon though,” you hum, thinking out loud. “Maybe it’s not the best idea—reckon we’d get recognized at every other place we visit.”
“Ellaaaa, la famosa,” Franco teases. It sparks a few responses in Spanish from the chat.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” Gabi replies easily.
You roll your eyes, throwing a can you believe this guy? look at the camera. Isack matches your expression, leaning his head back. “Of course you wouldn’t,” he says.
“Olha só quem fala!” Gabriel exclaims, leaning up from his slouched position on his chair. At Isack’s raised brow, he repeats, “Look who’s talking, Mr. I’ve-done-like-ten-shirtless-streams.”
Isack’s cheeks turn pink. He hopes it’s at least somewhat hidden by the shitty illumination of the room. “It wasn’t ten times! It was, like, barely twice,” he defends, voice cracking at the end, which promptly earns a laugh from Franco. “And it was a subgoal, asshole.”
“I’ve had subgoals,” Gabriel deadpans, though the amused curl of his lip gives him away easily. “I’ve never been shirtless on stream.”
“Fuck you,” Isack says, with no real bite.
“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Gabi shoots back.
“Get a room you two, jeez,” you call out, holding back a laugh as you bite down the inside of your cheek. “And no one in chat’s complaining about Isack’s shirtless streams, by the way.” You tilt your head, typing something down that is obscured to the rest. “Maybe we should make it this stream’s subgoal.”
“If you want him to get naked just say so,” Franco quips, which earns him a swift smack with one of the cushions. Gabi watches Franco topple back from his chair and cackles loudly—which quickly pries the attention away from you.
“É, você devia ter previsto isso,” Gabi tells Franco in a mocking tone. Franco flips him off from his spot sprawled against the floor.
Isack glances at the chat, unsurprised by the comments he manages to catch.
hadjarfan theyre both blushing AGAIN fork found in kitchen
francosqt he should invite her to the next subgoal stream
ynlove francosqt lmao they are not surviving that
bearmanfan pool stream w all of them WHO SAID THAT
borboletobortoleto franco said CLOCK ITT
idestroyedzecar HES SOOO BLUSHING
He averts his eyes just as quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he clenches and unclenches his hands uneasily. His face still feels embarrassingly hot.
Ollie yawns, unusually quiet for a group stream. “I reckon if we’re gonna be taking a tour around Paris we should know at least a little French.” He shrugs, ignoring Franco and Gabi bickering off by his side. “We can’t rely on Isack and Dori for everything.”
“Fair,” you say, nudging your knee against Isack’s. You tilt your head towards him, lips curved up into a smile. “Are you up to teaching us a little French?”
Isack feels keenly aware of your knee against his—frustratingly so. Still, he can feel his lips mirroring your smile before he can help himself.
He hums, a low sound at the back of his throat. “I would consider it.”
“Yeah, teach us French, Hadjar,” Franco says, straightening his chair and taking a seat. There’s something about his tone that feels pointedly dragged, like he’s making fun of him. He rolls his eyes.
“C’mon. Say something in French,” Gabriel adds.
Isack scoffs. “That is such a bad—like, what would I even say?”
You nudge his leg again, and his eyes are already on you before he can help it. “Say something to me,” you say, and he wonders whether the microphone even manages to pick it up. “I like hearing you speaking it.”
Well. He’s definitely blushing now.
“Ah, I…” He clears his throat. Considers it for a beat, then shakes his head before he can convince himself otherwise. “Je passe un moment vraiment incroyable depuis que vous êtes arrivés,” he starts, words smooth and well-rounded, “C’était trop beau de t’avoir—de vous avoir ici.” As soon as he stumbles, Isack bites down his tongue and cuts himself off before he can ramble and give himself away.
He looks back to find all four of you staring at him. Blinking slowly.
“Was that attractive or what?” Franco asks. Isack’s eyes widen unexpectedly. “Decímelo al oído y soy todo tuyo,” he says, earning a laugh and a shove from Gabriel.
You tilt your head at the boy sitting alongside you. “What did you say?”
Ollie shrugs with another yawn, ready to end the stream. He sighs tiredly. “He said he wants to eat your face.”
“I did not!” Isack sputters. “I did not say that,” he says, his voice bleeding with more panic than he would’ve liked. “I didn’t,” he repeats helplessly.
But Franco and Gabi are cackling like hyenas now, the former nearly slipping from his chair again.
His ears feel burning hot now, and in an effort to avoid your gaze, he catches a glimpse of the chat once again.
kimitagliatelle CRYING
isacklewisfan as a french person i can confirm isack wants to eat her face yep
arvidlawson i was gonna go to sleep but my show is on!!!!!!
gabibubbles isackyn? in this economy????
francopintacola ollie is their number shipper istg
doripocketrocket u dont have to be french to know that he wants her BADDD
unfortunatelyyn not to be parasocial but the way she looks at him thoughhhhh
He should’ve gone to sleep and avoided all this. ‘All this’ of course, being his supposed friends.
“You can find your way around Paris yourselves,” Isack says, earning a combination of amused looks and pouts from the room. “I’m not showing you shit.”
It’s still late at night—or early in the morning, depending on who you’re asking—when the group decides to end the stream and get some rest. Ollie disappears at some point before the stream truly devolves into chaos, leaving just you, Gabriel, Franco, and Isack.
It’s around four in the morning when Franco suggests doing a drinking game before going to bed, though the cabinet filled to the brim with beer, wine, gin and vodka seems far too convenient to be a spur of the moment idea.
“Verdad o reto. What is that in English? Truth or… challenge. Or something,” Franco says distractedly, trying to open the bottle of gin with a bit of a struggle.
“Truth or dare?” you supply.
“Yeah. But you drink instead. So, y’know. Truth or drink.”
It’s how the four of you wind up inside Gabi’s room, sprawled between the floor and the foot of his king-sized bed.
You spin one of the empty gin bottles. It lands squarely on Franco, who gives you a sideways grin from his spot on Gabriel’s bed.
You drum your fingers against your knees, thinking. Franco rolls his eyes, curls muzzed against the navy bedspread. “Okay—Have you ever found another streamer from our circle attractive?”
Franco huffs disappointedly. “That is so… like a livestream question. It’s late enough that you could ask me anything.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. “So boring.”
“Answer the question, coward.”
“Easy.” Franco shrugs. “Antonelli.”
“Kimi?” Isack repeats, brows raised.
Franco twists his body around to look at Isack. “Don’t act so surprised. Es re lindo, boludo.” He waves his hand, like the choice is obvious. “We all know he is pretty. And Italian.”
“I’m telling him you said that.”
Franco rolls his eyes again, unbothered by the thought. “Is it my turn now?” At the groups’ nods, Franco reaches out for the gin bottle and spins it. As soon as it lands back on you, his amused smile stretches into a grin. “Oh, finally.”
The Argentinian shares a brief look with Gabriel, and something uneasy curls in Isack’s gut. Because he’s grown all too familiar with those dumb-shit expressions on their faces.
Ever so casually, Franco props his chin against his open palm. “Be honest. Did you watch one of Isack’s shirtless streams?”
Isack watches as your face heats up, the tips of your ears reddened as your jaw goes completely slack. You reach across from you to slap Franco’s arm, who starts laughing. “Fuck you, I told you that in confidence!”
“You should be glad I didn’t expose you on stream,” Franco says, finally capturing your wrist. “Thought about it, too.”
“Asshole.”
Gabriel glances at Isack, amused smile spreading across his lips. Knowing. “You have to answer or drink. Rules are rules,” Gabi says solemnly. “Though you’ve basically given it away, so…”
You hit Franco’s forearm one last time for good measure. Begrudgingly, you settle back into your spot, and this time Isack doesn’t miss you averting his eyes. He perks up at that, heart beating unsteadily inside his ribcage.
“Yeah, fine, sue me,” you mutter, hiding your face behind your palm. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about!”
He blinks once. Twice. Watches as you stammer your way out of this hole you’ve dug for yourself. His throat feels dry when he swallows. “You—what?”
Because Isack is many things—a little loud, a little short-tempered, but he’s not an idiot. He did two shirtless streams—technically three if you count that pool one he was invited on.
(They were all for charity, by the way! Not that anyone ever seems to remember that.)
He’s read the comments. Seen the edits. Scrolled through posts of him until late at night from his private spam account. He’s not been shy about doing sports. He’s mentioned it offhandedly during different streams; enjoying boxing, being a brown belt in judo. Then again, people in his line of work are not exactly known for being physically fit.
It wasn’t a secret that he worked out. It still took his fans by surprise that he was quote, ‘reaaally fucking ripped’. And it’s not like he’s not aware of it—he knows he’s fit. He’s even been cocky about it in the locker rooms after last year’s Twitch charity football match.
He just hadn’t considered the possibility that you’d been paying attention. That maybe you enjoyed watching.
You finally meet his gaze, and his heart flips and jumps inside his chest.
Gabriel leans in. “Did you like what you saw?”
You stammer, shaking your head. “That’s two questions, Bortoleto.”
“Fine,” the Brazilian shrugs. He reaches for the bottle and, without spinning it, points it at you. “Did you like watching our dear, innocent friend Isack here get naked for money?”
“You’re making him sound like a whore, dumb shit.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Isack nudges the bottle away with his knee, shooting a glare at the two of them. “Stop it,” he says, accent thicker now with a combination of lack of sleep, alcohol and whatever the hell these two idiots think they’re pulling. “You’re being pushy.”
Franco groans. “No puede ser. Have you ever heard of wingmanning?”
But Isack simply glares at him, eyes narrowed. “Ça suffit. Enough.” Franco arches a brow in response, but raises his hands innocently.
“You’re no fun.”
There’s a loud knock at the door followed by Doriane opening the door with squinted eyes. All four of you peer at her as she rubs her hand over her face. “Si j’entends encore un seul cri dans cette pièce, je commets un crime,” she says, voice rough with sleep. “Allez au pieu, bordel.”
She closes the door behind her with an annoyed yawn. Franco tilts his head at the rest of you.
“Did you guys catch any of that?”
“Yeah,” Isack says, already on his feet. “Bedtime.”
It’s eleven in the morning when you wake up. Unsurprisingly, for a house full of streamers, you’re the only one awake—other than Arvid and Doriane, who have apparently gone out early.
Your head feels like lead—a French hangover, if you try to find the nonexistent silverlining. It gets worse when last night’s game debacle finally resurfaces in your head.
Fucking Colapinto. Fucking Bortoleto. You’re not trusting either of them ever again.
It was ages ago—a year, maybe more, when you went to Argentina for a week with Franco. It was a slip of tongue, a mistake. A horribly-timed edit of your mutual friend on your For You page, followed by a clumsy explanation from you. The jig was up, and Franco was endlessly amused.
“So, you think he’s hot,” he’d told you, and you hadn’t admitted it. Not verbally, but in every other way that mattered.
And here’s the thing: Isack is attractive. Objectively speaking. That’s a fact that sort of sneaked up on you somewhere along the line. You can’t pinpoint when, exactly—not when you’ve known him for over six years. Six years where, at some point, he went from an awkward teenager to… well.
You’ve seen the videos of him— or more like they’ve found you. Slow-motion frames that repeat over and over as you sink deeper into the covers of your bed, unable to look away. And when your job consists of being in front of a camera, none of your fans ever make it easier.
Somedays, it feels like Isack Hadjar is trying to ruin your life.
A door by the end of the hall creaks open, and the devil himself steps out. Curls mussed, eyes blinking slowly as he stretches his arms over his head.
His shirt rides up. Your hand gets burnt by your coffee mug.
“Shit!” you exclaim, yanking your hand away and accidentally spilling hot coffee over the counter.
Isack’s still-sleepy eyes flit over to you with a start, straightening. He blinks once, twice, before he makes his way over to the counter.
“Sorry,” you say, embarrassed. Isack simply reaches for a dishcloth and wipes down the stain. “Did I startle you?”
He dodges your question with pinched brows. “Did you burn yourself?”
“No, I—” you trail off, clearing your throat. “I was just… I wasn’t paying attention. It’s fine.”
He nods, and you can already feel an awkward tension seeping in through the cracks. Wordlessly, Isack gently reaches for your wrist, and guides it under the steady stream of cold water.
He doesn’t let go. Not immediately, anyway. Not until you meet his gaze. You watch Isack’s throat bob before releasing your wrist.
He clears his throat, folds his arms over his chest. “They were way out of—”
“So, about last night—”
The two of you stop at the same time, words catching in your throat. The corner of your lips pull up into a half-smile that Isack mirrors.
“Sorry. You go,” you say apologetically.
“They were out of line last night,” he starts. You turn off the tap and dry your hand with a washcloth. Something else to focus on. “Franco and Gabi, I mean. I am sorry if they made you feel...” he inhales, exhales, as if bracing for a crash. “You know. Awkward.”
You furrow your brows. “You are apologizing… for making me feel awkward?”
“Yes?” he says, hesitation dripping from his voice. “I know it was mostly them leading the charge and all but… I know it was about me. And it kinda feels like my fault that you got dragged into it.”
You blink at Isack. Frown. “What are you talking about?”
Isack swallows, staring back at you like he’s dreading spelling it out for you. “You know.”
“I really, really don’t,” you respond slowly. “I was gonna apologize to you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” you say, and you can feel warmth climbing up your face. “Because I told Franco something and he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”
Isack tilts his head, heart skipping a beat. “What did you tell him?”
You’re closer now than you were before. His knuckles nudge against your fingers on the counter. His breath catches in his throat.
A yawn comes from behind you. “That she thinks you’re hot.”
The two of you jolt apart, faces blushing furiously. Behind the counter in his pajamas is none other than Franco Colapinto. You throw the dirty washcloth at his face with murderous intent.
“What is wrong with you?” you demand, your frustration a poor attempt at hiding your flustered state.
“You were talking in circles,” Franco says with a tired shrug. “Someone had to say something.”
“I despise you.”
“Whatever,” he yawns again. “You owe me.”
“I owe you?”
Franco arches a brow. Pointedly glances at Isack before turning back to you. Nudges his head towards him. “Yeah. Obviously.”
You stare at him, your disbelief momentarily outweighing your embarrassment as he takes his leave. You turn back to Isack, who is already looking at you with slightly parted lips and a pink blush on his cheeks.
You suppose there’s no use denying it now.
“You think I’m—”
“Yeah,” you say, heart thudding in your ears like a drum. The corner of his lips curve upward. Your face feels unbearably hot. “Maybe. On occasion—”
The way Isack kisses you is quick—lasts a second, maybe less, but you feel it. The warmth of his mouth on yours. The electricity it shoots through your body.
“Sorry.” His pupils are blown wide, his lips slightly parted. You can’t help yourself. “I couldn’t—”
You tug him closer by his hand, swallowing his words as your lips meet his again. This time, it lasts longer. He can feel you smiling against him—you’re sure. His hand settles around your waist, unwilling to let you go now.
Isack licks into your mouth, and the thought crosses your mind that he’s been doing this on purpose—driving you insane and pretending otherwise.
When you finally pull away, you do so reluctantly.
“So,” Isack starts, breathless.
“So,” you repeat, face flushed.
His palm settles along the side of your waist. He still looks flustered—the cocky smile playing on his lips does nothing to hide that. “So, you did like watching me shirtless, huh?” Isack hums, leaning closer to the shell of your ear. “Petite voyeuse.”
Your words dry in your throat as you blink at him owlishly. A grin tugs at his mouth, amused. You’ve seen Isack being confident—at times overconfident—before. But something about the way he’s looking at you now makes your brain short-circuit.
You lean into him again, bringing his mouth to yours. You drag your teeth over his bottom lip before pulling away. Isack still chases your mouth, ever the overachiever.
“Eager,” you murmur, and you can feel his heart pounding in his chest. It shoots a light, giddy feeling in your gut.
“Yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Very.”
You bury your face into his shoulder, biting down your smile. You don’t think then—not really. You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.
“C’mon,” you hum, and lead him down the hall to your room.
hadjarfan has gifted you 20 subs!
where are y/n and isack?? feels like we haven’t seen them :(((
Kimi watches as the donation is read out loud on the stream, ignoring Ollie and Franco bickering behind him. The chat scrolls by with variations of the same question. He tilts his head.
“I… don’t know, actually,” he responds, apparently the only one paying attention to the stream anymore. He nudges Doriane. “Where are they?”
Gabriel snorts. “Oh, don’t worry about them, chat,” he says with a casual shrug and a devious smile. “They’re both right where they wanna be.”
eve notes: i feel like i should mention (because not everybody knows) that spanish and portuguese are mutually intelligible!! meaning that even if you’re only fluent in one of them you can still understand the other so this is me soft launching my hc that franco and gabi speak in spanish and portuguese respectively when talking to each other but still understand what they mean cause fuck the language barrier
featuring . oscar piastri , popstar!reader , sabrina carpenter fc , strangers to lovers , mutual pining , humour and fluff , no real timeline , use of Y/N , reader is friends with a few celebs , just a bit of fun !
author's note . heyyyy I started this like mid last year and finally got around to finishing it. this is just silly goofy little bit of fun. hope you enjoy! xx
my masterlist ·✶·
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
yourusername • Manchild, Y/N L/N
yourusername ✓ hey men! manchild song and music video is out now! no animals were harmed in the making but some men were 😉
♥️ liked by f1 , mtv and 7,536,604 others
bachnarthur not one man in that video was prettier than her and I respect her sm for that!!!
rachelzegler ✓ ohhh im so sat babe!!!! ♥️ liked by author
sportsfreak oh my god Y/N you've out done yourself ITS SOOOO GOOD
ynfandom11 the bridge 🙃🙃 tew relatable
tatemcrae ✓ so here for the manhating movement 🫶🫶 ♥️ liked by author
selenerrrr MANCHILDDDD WHY YOU ALWAYS COME RUNNIN TO ME
⤷ lando444 FUCK MY LIFEEE WON'T YOU LET AN INNOCENT WOMAN BE???
ynswife best mv of the century
oliviarodrigo ✓ big fan of your work 💐💛 ♥️ liked by author
swiftie13 damn girl you are looking FIREEEEE
ovariandr the grainy + country vibe does you sooo many favours>>>>>
music.luva her voice is like the most heavenly thing in the world
jackantonoff ✓ so proud of this and you ♥️ liked by author
dramaqueenie her natural curls are to die for
formula1fan so obsessed with the outfits in the mv, she really does just make everything look so good.
load more comments...
f1 ✓
f1 welcome yourusername to the main stage! catch clips of her performance at COTA live now on our youtube, including her new single 'Manchild' played live for the first time 👀✨
♥️ liked by taylorswift , f1academy and 1,483,797 others
mrpiastri MANCHILD LIVE WE WONNNNN
swiftie81 her outfit fits the vibe of cota so well
albongirlie im so in love with her
yourusername ✓ thanks for having me ;) ♥️ liked by author
⤷ f1 ✓ our pleasure. come back again soon! 😉
yt22retribution her playing after oscar won was absolutely the cherry on top this weekend needed
prideguy her releasing the video and then performing it live in the same week ?!!?!?! ♥️ liked by author
⤷ yn.stanner she is absolutely blessing us rn!!!!
izzys.puppies big big fan of her singing live, her vocals are insane
aurafarmer yourusername is there an album coming soon 😫
⤷ yourusername ✓ ... 🤷♀️🤷♀️ ;))))
⤷ f1fanatic WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS MEAN OMG OMG
medicalmarvel did she sing hopelessly devoted to you ??
buckybarneswife absolutely obessed with this outfit and her stage presence!!!!
load more comments...
f1.wag.gossip
f1.wag.gossip yourusername and her new puppy walking around the COTA paddock before her performance after the race - and interestingly, posted a photo of Oscar's garage: could there be a friendship (or more?) budding between these two? what do you guys think?? #wag #f1 #Y/NL/N #oscarpiastri
♥️ liked by batman.real , ofmicenwomen and 11,394 others
bonradstan body is so tea
martin.fam I can't believe she adopted the puppy for the manchild video 😭😭 bless her
hamiltonian44 specifically at oscars garage?? hmmm....
yns.wife.real OR mclaren were just hosting her? lol
⤷ piastea but specifically oscar's garage? not just mclaren hospitality?
⤷ tatertot32 maybe she doesn't like lando LMFAO
pitt.santos she's honestly more famous than any of the drivers would ever be
sdmnsundays big fan of her music!!
nytgamerr does she actually like f1? or just another boring influencer they invited instead of a fan 🙄
⤷ rapunzel.rapunzel she literally headlined the music performances lmfao
formula1fan33 the dog is so cute omg
sarcastic.kitty her and osc would be so good together
ukbaddie y/noscar I can see the vision !!
load more comments...
yourusername ✓
yourusername manchilddddd why you always gotta be so pretty and dreamy and treat me so well...
♥️ liked by oscarpiastri , magui_corceiro and 981,234 others
batchild holy fucking hard launch
drwhittaker.fr wow she is so gorg. like drop dead drop panties
⤷ user DROP PANTIES LMFAO
landoscar481 okay... okay I don't know how to respond. my brain just did a full reset from her hotness!
ari.grande111 omg this made my hole weak... I mean my whole week
mamdanistan pretty sure those aren't the lyrics hahahaha
madeleinecwhite ✓ you are glowing girlfriend x
ynsbiggestfan omggg that is DEF OSCAR!!!!
⤷ womensworld i've never seen two faceless photos that look exactly like him until right now... that is soooo him oh my god 🙊🙊
motorsport.gal omggg the photobooth photo 🥹
grammy.winnerz YNOSCAR FANDOM WE RISEEEE!!
oscar.p81 guys check on your local bisexuals I guarantee they aren't doing well or they are extremely horny
alexandramelenaleclerc ✓ my girll 💐💐
rosanovrose the songs we are going to get from this >>
⤷ user they are going to be the freakiest yet sweetest ever
leclercian16 I wonder how charles leclerc feels about this
load more comments...
yourusername ✓
yourusername got myself a muse. new album 'Man's Best Friend' out next sunday 🐾🐾💋💋 (p.s. do we rate the album cover or the alt... I couldn't decide x)
♥️ liked by oliviarodrigo , bensonboone and 7,814,333 others
jantanoff.is.king HOLY FUCK WHAT
jackantonoff ✓ a pleasure, an honour 🫡 ♥️ liked by author
I.heart.miniminter WITH LESS THAN A WEEKS NOTICE?
wickedista omg it's the oscar effect omg omg
pinkpantheress ✓ can confirm its the best album of all time x ♥️ liked by author
ynswifeylicious LETS GOOOOO!!!!!!!!
formula.1.fandom why does the guy look so much like oscar holy fuck
⤷ oscars.big.one it probably is lmfao
yns.best.friend is it all from a new muse yourusername ??
⤷ yourusername ✓ yes, new muse is so pretty it had me in my feels
wifeto.f1drivers I wonder what the vibe is going to be... freaky or sad or innocent or sweet ?!?!?!
grindr.user113 oh this is going to go triple platinum in my house
zaralarsson ✓ YESS DIVAAA WE LOVE TO SEE IT!! ♥️ liked by author
jorja.f1fan this is potentially the best day of my life
⤷ baby.ynn69 wouldn't it be the day it comes out 😭
load more comments...
Y/N L/N Takes a Lie Detector Test | Vanity Fair
youtube.com/vanityfair
3.5m views | 97k likes | 7,681 comments sort by MOST POPULAR
user694 the first five minutes essentially just being about oscar lmaooooo
user363 oh so the album is def oscar. they are sooo confirmed by this
user695 the fact that this was filmed before the album came out and yet the rumours where still existent back then hahahaha
user805 never thought I would see the day of Y/N on a lie detector test
user811 the part about the quick turn around from sns to mbf?? aww I love that for her
user485 I would let her take me to bangladesh
user814 she is suspiciously good at dodging questions
user333 I looove when she talks about sns. my baby!!
user921 she looks so yummy here omg. I love this hair on her
user034 whoever created those questions was not messing around LOL
user201 "is he the muse?" "he is very handsome" THAT ISN'T DENIAL Y/N
user859 whoever PR trained her to dodge questions needs a raise bc this was a masterclass. we did not get one straight answer outta her lmaooo
load more comments...
yourusername
yourusername album out today yayyyy let’s celebrate!! drinks and a hard launch. love you all sm, stream mans best friend 🐾🐾 xx
♥️ liked by charlesleclerc, taylorswift and 13,814,333 others
christiandiior LETS FUCKING GOOO
manchild.girl GUYS ITS MY BIRTHDAY THEY DID THIS FOR ME
oscarpiastri ✓ 🧡🧡 album is outstanding, couldn’t be prouder of you ♥️ liked by author
⤷ yourusername ✓ couldn't do it without my pretty muse 🖼️
dk.bazza.f1 this isn't real. oh my ogd this is real
ukytslut what a day. a new rodds flavour, new Y/N album, and oscar piastri has a girlfriend?? my kids will be hearing ALL about this
f1 ✓ our favourite power couple 🤭✨ congrats on the album! ♥️ liked by author
thgfangirl okay who is this? he kinda cute but is he famous?
⤷ mv33lover legendary f1 driver oscar piastri, known for his dry humour and bottling of championships
rachelzegler ✓ my royal wedding 🙂↕️ ♥️ liked by author
barbiegal huge fan of whatever this is
clubz.ddearie my good close personal friends oscar and Y/N!!
⤷ f1fanatica like yess I orchestrated this (in my dreams)
oliviadeano ✓ you are THAT girl babe ♥️ liked by author
⤷ italianfann she is barbie. he is ken. ken only has a good day when barbie looks at him
world.of.series you have no idea how excited I am about this
sarahmargaretqualley23 ✓ I personally would love a house tour!! ♥️ liked by author
⤷ yourusername ✓ i'd love to show you around sometime xx
⤷ booktokreqs MV APPEARANCE?? WHJAT DOES THIS MEAN
mansbestfriend81 its 8am and I just spat out my coffee at work HELLOOOO!!!!!!!
liviesgirl juno is nawt at all what I was anticipating. the entire album is freaky lmaoaoaoao
load more comments...
2026 Abu Dhabi Media Day | Driver Reactions
youtube.com/formula1
781k views | 11k likes | 1,353 comments sort by MOST POPULAR
user281 ooohhhh kay im so normal about oscar there omg
user923 sorry what was that question about Y/N??
user898 max's nonchalance just radiates
user633 big fan of oscyn crumbs omggg
user569 I know italianbach is screaming rn
user094 does lance even want to be here anymore
user859 can't wait for the race, hoping for a Y/N appearance!
user912 was isack drunk bc what the hell does he mean by that omg
user554 vcarb needs to keep lawblad together at all costs
user768 Y/NOSCAR CRUMBS LFG
user364 do we think lewis actually enjoys being at ferrari lmfao
user239 awww the comments oscar made are soooo sweet!
user779 lowk the hottest oscar has ever looked. Y/N just has that affect I swear
featuring . night out , broken skin , stitches , and a drunken confession . tw for needles !! short drabble (1k words)
my masterlist ·✶·
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
When the glass first shattered in your hand, you thought nothing of it. Yes, the blood slowly dripped down your palm where it had pierced skin. And yeah, you were probably going to need stitches, but in your drunken haze the only thing you could focus on was Max.
The same Max who had been a close friend for a while now. The same Max that sent you memes across time zones, that you text and called nonstop, that reminds you of how nice it is to be surrounded by people who care. The same Max who is now blindly escorting you out of the bar, insisting on getting you medical attention.
You want to whine, to say no, to tell him its fine I’ll be fine. But his gentle grip on your arm, the warmth from his fingers, makes any decent thought scramble in seconds.
You think he might’ve had more drinks than you but is somehow much more sober of than you are. You plan to ask him about that later, if you remember.
When Max messaged you at midday earlier, asking if you wanted to join some friends for a drink tonight, you agreed without thought. Max had this way of making it practically impossible to say no to him. With his charisma and witty charm, he had everyone wrapped around his finger.
You knew this. You saw how often people would throw themselves at him, feeling special that he made eye contact with them. You heard stories, witnessed stolen kisses, remembered how desired he was.
And yet.
It just... felt different with you. His gaze would linger. The smiles last longer, laughs a little louder. He drove you to the nearest emergency room and sat with you in the quiet hours of the morning.
But you couldn’t tell if you were hallucinating it, or if it was real. What you did know, was that he didn’t do that for everyone.
Even when the room was spinning, your palm throbbing under the makeshift shirt-gauze Max had wrapped it with, you could feel his steady presence beside yours. Unrelenting in his softness, solid and whole and real.
You took a deep breath, remembering what an old sports coach had once told you; focus on a specific detail to find balance. Focus on breathing to balance the mind.
You noticed Max’s leg. “Your knee is bouncing.”
“Is it?” he says, and it stops. “Sorry.”
You ignore that. Hard to come up with a reasonable response when its well past midnight and you can barely see straight. “Are you nervous?”
He pauses for a moment, before replying, “No, I don’t think so. Just don’t like seeing you hurt.”
“Aww, Max. That was almost sweet,” you grin, laying your head on his shoulder. You can hear the smile on his face.
Even under the bright glow of the hospital lights, your mind was scrambled. It was hard enough to think when sober, let alone drunk and in pain and so utterly head over heels for the man sitting beside you.
The triage nurse calls your name and escorts you to an empty room, promising the doctor would be with you in just a moment.
You sit on the bed, the paper sheet wrinkling loudly beneath you. It's the only sound in a quiet room, echoing gently off the walls and in your mind.
When the doctor comes in with her fancy equipment and sterile gloves, examining the wound without disturbing it, you keep your eyes on Max the whole time. He answered all of the questions they asked on your behalf, clearly the more coherent of the two of you.
You heard them discuss using a local anaesthetic and needing six or so stitches. The conversation came in parts – you were too busy staring at Max and how concerned he looked, with his perfect hair and sparkly eyes. It wasn’t fair that he could just sit there and look this good whilst making you feel how you did.
You only looked away when the needle came out, gently poking it around the cut, before the doctor and nurse disappeared for a few minutes to let the area become numb.
“Max,” you say, though it comes out more of a whisper.
He hums. “Yeah?”
“I’m really tired right now.”
Max laughs. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s the alcohol and the drugs. Let's just get you stitched up and then I promise you can go to sleep.”
Sweetheart. You sigh. If only he knew. “Can we get something to eat too? I think I'm going to starve to death.”
“Of course we can. How about that souvlaki you always get after a night out?”
You practically drool at the thought. Max grins.
“I really like having you around, Max.”
Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone too quick for you to have even noticed.
“...yeah?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
Pink creeps up his neck and cheeks, a shy smile on his face that you had never seen before.
“I really like having you around, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You giggle like a girl in love. Full-body giggles, embarrassed and smitten all at once.
“I like your hair,” you say, reaching over to brush it out of his face. You don’t notice how still he gets. “And I like your eyes. And your beard that you shave but grows back in an hour.”
He laughs, grinning like a fool. “Oh really?”
“I like everything about you, Max. It’d be hard not to.”
He rubs the back of his neck, breaking eye contact to give him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“I like you. As a friend, as more. I really like you, Max.”
The doctor enters the room before you realise what you had said. You watch her stand over you, reassuring that this would be quick and painless. You nod, looking back over at Max whose expression had dropped.
He didn’t look happy, or sad. He didn’t look anything.
Summary: After one disastrous weekend Max suggests that maybe you're not cut out for F1. He spends the rest of the season trying to rebuild what his words damaged.
6.1k words / Masterlist
You had only just made it back to the garage after a humiliating FP1 session a spin at Turn 8, a lap time that left you rooted to the bottom of the timing sheets, and nothing but clipped, uncomfortable silence from the pit wall as you limped the car back. By the time you climbed out of the cockpit, heat still trapped beneath your race suit and embarrassment burning beneath your skin, you already felt as though every pair of eyes in the garage was fixed on you.
Max didn’t need to make it worse.
The words hit you harder than any crash ever could.
“Maybe this just isn’t the place for you.”
He didn’t sound angry, somehow that would have been easier to take, his voice was calm and detached, delivered with the kind of cold certainty that made it sound less like an insult and more like a conclusion he'd already reached.
Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.
For one awful second you could only stare at him waiting for something else, a flicker of regret, a sign that he had spoken out of frustration rather than meaning it, but nothing came. His expression remained unreadable, already turning back towards the monitors as though the conversation was over.
You blinked twice and gave a small nod, because pretending to agree felt safer than letting him see how deeply he had cut you. Then you walked past the engineering desk without speaking, keeping your shoulders straight and your gaze fixed ahead until you were safely out of sight, where no one could see the tremble in your chin or the tears gathering behind your eyes.
You didn’t say another word for the rest of the day.
You avoided him for the rest of the weekend.
During team meetings you took the seat furthest from his. In briefings every answer you gave was clipped, addressed to your engineers never to him. You didn’t look his way once even before FP3 when you caught him watching you through the reflection in the garage mirror as you pulled your balaclava over your head. You saw the way his gaze lingered almost as though he wanted to say something, but you turned away before he could.
Then qualifying came and everything got worse.
You locked up into Turn 12, the front tyres protesting as the car skidded just wide enough to cost you two tenths through the final sector. Two tenths that might have been enough to save you. Instead your name dropped to sixteenth as the clock ran out, leaving you stranded in the garage and eliminated in Q1.
By the time you had climbed out of the car the headlines were already writing themselves.
RED BULL’S LATEST RISK FAILS TO DELIVER.
MAX’S NEW TEAMMATE CRUMBLES UNDER PRESSURE.
It didn’t seem to matter that you weren’t actually his teammate, not yet at least. You were still only a junior driver, loaned out for unknown period of time during Isack’s injury, a slight test for the future so you could find your feet without the full weight of Red Bull pressing down on your shoulders. The media had already decided what you were supposed to become though and every mistake was treated as proof that you would never be ready for it.
Max’s comment had only lit the match.
Now the entire paddock seemed determined to watch you burn.
Over the next couple of weeks you began to notice a change in Max, it was easy enough to dismiss at first. He no longer offered unsolicited advice over the radio or hovered beside your engineers while they picked apart your laps. Instead he kept his distance, watching from across the garage whenever he thought you weren’t paying attention.
You did notice but you just simply refused to acknowledge it.
In the hospitality tent you kept your headphones on and your head lowered over a sheet of telemetry, pretending to study the same sector analysis you had been staring at for nearly twenty minutes. The numbers had blurred together long ago, but concentrating on them was easier than looking around and risking another encounter with him.
The chair beside you scraped against the floor and your shoulders tightened before you could stop them. Max sat down without asking, close enough that the edge of his knee nearly brushed yours beneath the table. For a moment, he said nothing, then a Red Bull energy bar slid across the page, covering the corner of the graph you had been pretending to read.
“Eat something.”
You pulled one side of your headphones away from your ear and stared at the bar. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
His answer came quickly, but there was none of the coldness or impatience you remembered from the last race. Only a quiet certainty that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to examine. You moved the energy bar aside and returned your attention to the data sheet. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, settling between you like wet concrete. Around you the hospitality suite carried on as normal cutlery clinking against plates, team members laughing near the coffee machine, someone discussing something as mundane as the weather two tables away, but the space between you felt strangely separate from all of it.
Max leaned back in his chair and released a breath, it wasn’t the irritated sigh you had grown used to hearing from him, he sounded tired, defeated, almost. When you finally glanced at him guilt sat heavily in the slope of his shoulders. His elbows rested against his knees, hands clasped loosely together as he stared down at the floor.
“I saw the headlines,” he said at last.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the paper.
“And I know I made them worse.”
You looked away before he could see the flicker of hurt cross your face. “Forget it.”
Before he could reply you pushed your chair back and stood, Max reached for your wrist, calling your name as though he could stop you, but you pulled away without looking at him and walked out.
Max stopped keeping his distance after that.
At the next debrief he walked into the crowded conference room passed several empty chairs and took the seat directly beside you. You told yourself it was nothing, but when he did the same thing at the following session and again the day after that it became impossible to dismiss as coincidence.
Each time he arrived he would set his tablet down beside your notes and settle into the chair as though sitting anywhere else had never crossed his mind. While engineers filled the room and sector times glowed across the screens, Max remained at your side, listening more closely when your laps were discussed and quietly following every piece of feedback you were given.
He never tried to force a conversation, he simply listened, occasionally leaning closer to point out something on your screen or quietly asking one of your engineers to bring up a different lap comparison.
Then he began appearing in your garage after his own sessions. He would arrive with the sleeves of his team shirt pushed up to his elbows and an sheet of telemetery tucked beneath one arm, walking straight past the cameras and curious mechanics. Sometimes he had barely climbed out of his own car before he was asking for your telemetry.
It was strange, watching him study your laps with the same fierce concentration he usually reserved for his own. He replayed your onboard footage, compared steering traces and questioned your engineers until every small inconsistency had been pulled apart.
One evening, long after most of the paddock had begun to empty he stood beside you at the engineering desk, scrolling through a comparison between your fastest lap and the one that had been abandoned after a lock-up.
“This isn’t a braking issue,” he muttered.
You glanced away from the screen. “That’s what they keep telling me though.”
“They’re wrong.”
His tone was so blunt that one of your engineers looked up from the opposite end of the desk. Max either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He enlarged the tyre data and tapped the front-left trace with his finger.
“It isn’t coming up to temperature quickly enough. Look here.” He dragged the laps side by side. “You’re turning in expecting the grip to be there, but it isn’t. Then you’re compensating by braking later on the next lap which makes the lock-up worse.”
You studied the graph, following the lines he had highlighted. Once he pointed it out, the pattern seemed obvious.
“You’re chasing grip that the car isn’t giving you,” he continued. “You could drive the corner perfectly and still lose time.”
You looked at him instead of the screen.
Max noticed after a moment, his hand still hovering over the tablet. “What?”
“Why are you doing this?”
The question came out more quietly than you intended.
His expression closed slightly, and he turned his attention back to the data. “Because someone needs to.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
His jaw tightened.
You waited, unwilling to let him escape behind another graph or technical explanation.
Finally, Max lowered the tablet onto the desk. “Because I should have said something useful that day.”
You said nothing.
“I knew you were struggling with the car,” he continued. “I knew the balance was wrong, and I knew you were already blaming yourself for all of it.” His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, as though looking at you would make the admission harder. “I could have helped and instead I made you feel like you didn’t belong here.”
The familiar ache returned beneath your ribs.
“And now you think fixing my setup will make up for it?”
“No.” His answer was immediate. For the first time since you arrived he met your gaze fully.
“But it’s something I can do.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of you still wanted to be angry. Anger was usually easier. It created distance between you, kept his words sharp enough in your memory that you wouldn’t risk trusting him again.
But Max was making it difficult to hold on to, especially when he kept showing up. Every evening, once the media duties ended and the garage began to quiet, you would find him waiting near your engineering station. Sometimes he had two coffees balanced in one hand. Sometimes he had already loaded your onboard footage before you arrived. He never asked whether you wanted his help anymore, but he never acted as though you owed him anything for it either.
On Friday evening, you returned from a meeting to find him leaning against the desk, your more recent data already open in front of him.
He glanced up as you approached.
“Come on,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Get your notes. We’re going over Turn 4 again.”
You folded your arms. “We went over Turn 4 yesterday.”
“And you’re still losing a tenth on entry.”
“You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as you noticed it. He picked up the laptop and started walking towards the back of the garage, clearly expecting you to follow.
For a moment, you remained where you were. Then you reached for your notebook and went after him.
It wasn’t until a media scrum a few races later that you understood just how much things between you had changed.
You stood behind the taped barrier beneath the harsh paddock lights, waiting for your turn while three different press officers attempted to keep the restless crowd of reporters moving. Your helmet bag hung from one shoulder, and you had already arranged the usual answers neatly in your head: the car was improving, the team was working hard, and you were taking everything one session at a time. Each response was measured, harmless and carefully constructed to give the journalists nothing they could twist into another headline.
A few feet away Max was halfway through his own interview when one of the reporters asked him about you.
“What do you make of her recent improvement? She seems to have found something over the last few races.”
You lowered your gaze, preparing yourself for the usual vague endorsement. Something about promising pace or needing more time. The sort of harmless answer drivers gave when they didn’t want to say anything at all.
Instead, Max tilted his head and squinted at the reporter as though the question had irritated him.
“She’s quick,” he said. “People forget how steep the learning curve is at this level. She’s had to learn a new car, a new team and tracks she’s never raced on before within a few weeks with everyone waiting for her to make a mistake. Give her time.”
Your grip tightened around the strap of your bag.
The reporter glanced down at his notes, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth. “It was a fairly rough start, though. You must have had doubts after the opening rounds.”
Max’s expression changed immediately.
“You ever driven a car at three hundred and twenty kilometres an hour while half the world watches your onboard and waits for you to get something wrong?”
The reporter’s smile faltered. “Well obviously not, but—”
“No?” Max interrupted, his voice still measured even as his eyes narrowed. “Standing here criticising her is easy. You’re very comfortable judging something you’ve never had the ability to do yourself.”
A murmur moved through the press pack, cameras shifted towards him, microphones lifting higher as everyone sensed the possibility of a headline. Max didn’t elaborate. He didn’t soften it with a laugh or look towards the press officer for rescue he simply handed back the microphone and stepped away from the barrier. He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, but he never looked at you.
You remained frozen in place, staring after him while the reporters around you whispered to one another and your press officer called your name for the second time.
For weeks Max had been helping you quietly, behind closed doors and dimmed garage screens where no one else could see, this was different, there had been a hundred cameras pointed at him, and he had defended you anyway, you wondered briefly whether guilt was still the only reason he kept showing up for you.
You found him alone at the back of the Red Bull motorhome after the race. The celebrations had already begun downstairs, your engineers opening bottles and passing around plastic cups because eighth place ordinarily meant very little, but today it meant everything. Your first Formula One points. A small mark beside your name on the championship table that proved, at least for one weekend, that you belonged there.
Max had disappeared shortly after the podium ceremony.
You found him slumped into the corner of one of the black leather sofas, still wearing his team kit, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His phone was in his hand, but he didn’t appear to be reading anything. His thumb moved aimlessly over the screen, his expression distant in a way that made you think he had come there precisely because he didn’t want to be found.
He looked up when you entered.
“Congratulations,” he said, his voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him. “Your first points.”
You stopped a few feet from the sofa. “Thanks.”
Max studied you for a moment. “You don’t look very happy about it.”
“It’s not really enough still.” You shifted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, reluctant to let yourself feel proud of a result that had fallen short of what you wanted.
“You scored your first points,” Max continued. “That should be celebrated. It isn’t easy and you shouldn’t act like eighth means nothing just because you wanted the podium.”
“I wasn’t planning on celebrating eighth.”
“No?” The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping I might finally get a smile out of you.”
Your eyes met his, and the warmth in them caught you off guard. “You’re not that charming.”
“I didn’t say I was.” His gaze dipped briefly down before returning to your eyes. “But you’re still trying not to smile.”
You looked away before he could see that he was right.
“You drove well,” he added, the teasing fading. “You stayed out of trouble, managed the tyres and took every chance when it came.”
The praise should have felt good, but it left a strange pressure beneath your ribs because you could still remember when his opinion had been the one you cared about most, before his words had hollowed you out and taught you not to look for his approval.
You nodded, unsure what else to offer him. “The changes helped.”
Max understood what you meant, the hours spent studying telemetry, the late evenings dissecting corners and the coffees left beside your laptop before early briefings.
His mouth tightened faintly. “They helped,” he agreed. “But you still had to drive the car.”
You could hear the muffled celebration below you, bursts of laughter rising through the floor whenever the doors opened. You considered leaving. You had already started to turn when Max placed his phone face down on the cushion beside him.
“Wait.”
You stopped.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere near your feet. There was tension in the movement, as though the words had been sitting inside him for weeks and he still hadn’t worked out how to say them.
“I meant what I said that day,” he began.
Your entire body went still.
“Not like that,” he corrected quickly. “Not in the way it sounded.”
A humourless laugh escaped you. “Is there another way to interpret ‘maybe this isn’t the place for you’?”
He looked up then.
There was no anger in his expression and none of the defensiveness you had expected. He looked exhausted in the way someone looked when they had been carrying the same regret for too long and had finally realised there was no painless way to put it down.
“No,” he admitted. “There isn’t.”
You folded your arms over your chest, more to protect yourself than anything else.
“I was frustrated,” he continued. “With the car, with the team, with myself. Everything had gone wrong that day and then you walked into the garage looking so…” His voice faltered, and he glanced away. “You looked completely crushed.”
The memory returned with painful clarity, the heat beneath your race suit and the silence from the engineers. Max’s voice following you through the garage.
“And so you decided to make it worse?”
“I knew that feeling,” he said. “I knew exactly what was going through your head because I’ve been there. I know what it feels like when everyone is watching, when one bad session becomes proof that you’re not good enough and when every person around you has an opinion about whether you deserve to be here.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees. His hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles had begun to pale.
“I knew how much you were already blaming yourself and instead of helping you I gave you another reason to.”
You looked down because holding his gaze had become too difficult.
“I told myself I was trying to warn you,” he continued. “That maybe you needed to understand how brutal this place could be before it swallowed you but that isn’t what I did. It isn’t how it came out.”
“Why?” you whispered.
Max inhaled slowly.
“Because I was scared for you.”
You looked at him again.
His gaze remained fixed on his hands. “I know what this place does to people. I know what it did to me when I was your age, everyone tells you that pressure makes you stronger, but sometimes it just makes you believe you’re only worth something when you’re winning.”
His jaw tightened, the words becoming more difficult with every sentence.
“I could see you starting to disappear into it, every mistake or headline, every time someone questioned you—like it proved something. I wanted to tell you that it didn’t. I wanted to say that you’re allowed to struggle and that one bad session doesn’t mean you don’t belong here, you’re allowed to question whether you want to be here and that doesn’t mean you don’t care.”
A broken breath left him.
“But I didn’t know how to say that… in fact I said the exact opposite.”
The tears came before you could stop them, stinging at the corners of your eyes. You blinked quickly, but one escaped anyway, slipping down your cheek before you could turn away. His expression crumpled so briefly you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching him. He swallowed hard, eyes shining as he looked down at the floor again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice shook now, stripped of every trace of the certainty he carried in front of cameras. “I know saying it doesn’t undo anything. I know helping with the car doesn’t make it better, but I am so fucking sorry for making you feel like that.”
You stood there for a long moment. Part of you had imagined this apology countless times. In some versions, you shouted at him. In others, you told him exactly what his words had done to you and walked away before he had the chance to answer, but now that the moment had arrived, anger wasn’t the strongest thing you felt.
It was relief. Relief that he understood. That he hadn’t forgotten it the moment the words left his mouth, that every evening he had spent beside you had meant something more than obligation.
You crossed the room before you could overthink it and lowered yourself onto the sofa beside him. Max watched you carefully, almost warily, as though he didn’t trust himself to hope.
You shifted closer and gently rested your head against his shoulder.
For several seconds, Max didn’t move. Then his body softened beside yours, and he released a long, unsteady breath as though he had been holding it since that first Friday afternoon.
His head tipped carefully against yours.
You never said the words I forgive you, but when Max’s hand settled beside yours on the sofa, his little finger brushing tentatively against your own you didn’t pull away.
By the time the paddock reached Austria Max had become woven so thoroughly into your routine that neither of you seemed capable of remembering when it had happened.
He was there during the quiet hours before briefings, leaning against the counter in hospitality while you waited for your drink, and again late in the evening when the garages began to empty and the conversations around you softened into the tired murmur of engineers preparing for the following day. What had begun as Max helping you understand an unpredictable car had become something far less structured. Some evenings you still spent hours studying telemetry and comparing onboard footage and on others the laptop remained open and almost entirely forgotten while he told you stories about his early years in the sport or tried to convince you that his terrible movie recommendations were somehow your fault for listening to him.
Whenever you climbed out of the car after a session your eyes would drift instinctively towards his garage. At dinner you saved the seat beside you before you had consciously decided to do it. When something went well Max had somehow become the first person you wanted to tell, even when he had already been watching the entire thing unfold.
The team had started to notice and the reporters had certainly noticed, but neither of you acknowledged it.
After qualifying seventh in Austria you found Max near the back of the garage, studying the final timing screen. He had claimed pole by less than a tenth and should have been preparing for the media pen, but his attention shifted towards you the moment you approached.
You stopped beside him and folded your arms, allowing a deliberately smug smile to form.
“You’re welcome.”
Max glanced towards the screen and then back at you. “For what?”
“Pole.”
His eyebrows lifted. “My pole?”
“You were losing time through Turn 6 yesterday. I told you the wind was pushing the rear around on entry.”
“You said it felt like it ‘might be windy tomorrow’.”
“And then you went faster.”
A smile spread slowly across his face. “So now you are taking credit for my qualifying?”
“Only the successful parts.”
“What about the rest of the lap?”
“That was acceptable too.”
Max laughed, a warm sound that caught the attention of one of the nearby mechanics. A few months earlier you would never have spoken to him like this, you would have analysed every word before saying it and waited anxiously for some indication that he approved. Now you simply enjoyed the way his eyes brightened whenever you surprised him.
“Well,” he said, turning his body fully towards you, “thank you for securing my pole position.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“And congrats on seventh.”
Your smile softened. “Thank you.”
There was no joking qualification attached to it. Max did not point out where you had lost time or suggest that you might have placed higher with a cleaner final sector. He had never treated your progress like something he had created, even after all the hours he had spent helping you, when you did well the achievement remained entirely yours.
“You looked confident out there,” he said.
“I felt better.”
“I could tell.”
Something in his tone made warmth rise beneath your skin. “Were you watching?”
“I’d finished my lap.” Max’s gaze travelled over your face, amusement softening into something more intent. “You make it very difficult not to watch you.”
Your press officer called your name from the entrance to the garage before you could decide how to answer. You glanced towards her and then back at him, reluctant to let the moment end.
“I have to go.”
“I know.”
Neither of you moved immediately.
“Try not to lose the lead tomorrow. I would hate for all my coaching to be wasted.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You should, I have a reputation to protect now.”
Max shook his head, still smiling as you turned away and you could feel his eyes following you until you disappeared into the corridor.
The race unfolded more perfectly than anything you'd allowed yourself to imagine.
You gained a place before the first corner and emerged from the opening lap in sixth, the car balanced beneath you in a way it rarely had been at the beginning of the season. Max led several seconds ahead, but for once you weren't thinking about him or the expectations attached to being part of the same programme. Your focus narrowed to the car in front, the gap on your steering wheel and the calm instructions coming through your radio.
During the first stint you remained close enough to fifth to force the driver ahead into using more of his tyres than he wanted. Your engineer suggested extending the stint, trusting that you could maintain the pace while the others began to struggle.
It worked. You emerged from the pits later with clear air and tyres fresh enough to attack. By the time the strategy settled you were running fifth with fourth place less than three seconds ahead.
There had been a point earlier in the season when fifth would have felt too valuable to risk, you would have protected the result, terrified that wanting more might cost you everything. That instinct still whispered at the edge of your concentration, but it no longer controlled you.
With eight laps remaining you began closing the gap. The car ahead defended into Turn 3, forcing you to abandon the first attempt, but you stayed close through the middle sector. On the following lap, you positioned the car more carefully through the final two corners and pulled alongside before the braking zone.
For a fraction of a second your front-left threatened to lock.
You kept your foot in and trusted the car to hold.
The two of you swept through the corner together, but you had the inside line for the next turn. By the time you accelerated fourth place was yours.
Your engineer’s voice erupted through the radio.
“That’s P4! Great move. Absolutely fantastic.”
A breathless laugh escaped you inside your helmet. “That was close.”
You crossed the line three laps later in fourth, with Max taking the victory several seconds ahead.
The result registered slowly as you completed the cooldown lap. It wasn’t a podium, although you could almost touch one now, only three drivers had finished ahead of you and for the first time that knowledge felt exciting rather than cruel. You hadn't inherited the position through retirements or luck. You had raced for it and taken it.
When you returned to parc fermé your team were waiting against the barriers. Hands reached towards you as you climbed from the car, mechanics cheering loudly enough to be heard over the engines still arriving behind you.
You'd barely removed your helmet when someone caught you around the waist.
A startled laugh left you as your feet lifted briefly from the ground. You knew who it was before Max could set you down, his arms still loose around you and a victorious grin covering his face.
“Fourth,” he said.
“First,” you replied, looking up at him. “I suppose you managed without too much trouble.”
“I had excellent coaching.”
His hands remained at your waist and yours had settled instinctively against his shoulders. Around you cameras clicked continuously, but Max appeared entirely unconcerned by the attention.
“That overtake was brilliant” he said.
“Wha-How?”
“Because I was watching.”
“You were leading.”
“I had a gap.”
“You used it to watch my race?”
Max’s eyes moved over your face, his voice lowering despite the noise surrounding you. “I told you. You make it difficult not to.”
In the garage you had been able to blame the electricity between you on adrenaline from qualifying. Here, with his hands still resting against your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you there was nowhere for either of you to hide.
A member of the podium crew called for Max, he glanced reluctantly towards the stage and then back at you.
“You need to go,” you told him.
“Stay for the podium.”
“I usually do.”
“Stay where I can see you.”
Your heart stumbled, you tried to cover it with a smile. “Planning to dedicate the win to your coach?”
“Maybe.”
Max gave your waist one final squeeze before stepping away. The absence of him felt immediate although his gaze remained on you until someone placed a cap in his hands and steered him towards the podium.
When Max lifted the trophy he found you beneath the stage almost instantly. Champagne had dampened his hair and darkened the shoulders of his race suit, but his attention settled on you with such certainty that several photographers turned to follow his line of sight.
You raised your eyebrows and mouthed, You’re welcome.
Even from a distance you saw him laugh.
It was much later before the two of you managed to escape the celebrations.
The paddock had begun to quiet when you found Max on the terrace behind the motorhome, he had changed into a clean team shirt although his hair was still damp from the champagne. His trophy sat on the table beside two bottles of beer, catching the last of the evening sunlight.
“You abandoned your own party,” you said as you stepped outside.
Max turned towards you. “I was waiting for someone.”
“Your coach?”
“She’s becoming very demanding.”
You walked towards him and accepted the bottle he offered. “Success changes people.”
“So does finishing fourth apparently.”
You leaned beside him against the railing. “I was delightful before.”
“You barely spoke to me.”
“You deserved it.”
“I did.”
The ease with which he accepted it removed any sting from the exchange, he looked out over the paddock for a moment, his shoulder resting against yours before turning his bottle slowly between his hands.
“You should be proud of today.”
“I am.”
Max glanced sideways at you, checking for any sign that you were only saying it for his benefit.
You smiled. “I really am.”
His expression warmed. “Good.”
“I wanted the podium.”
“I know.”
“But I didn’t leave feeling like fourth was a failure.” You looked down at the bottle in your hands. “That’s new.”
“You’ll get one soon.”
The certainty in his voice made you laugh. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“What happens when I do?”
Max’s gaze shifted towards you. “When you do what?”
“Get a podium.”
He considered the question with exaggerated seriousness. “You stand on the stage. They give you a trophy. Usually there’s champagne.”
You turned until your hip rested against the railing, facing him properly. “I meant what happens afterwards.”
Understanding flickered across his face.
“Are you asking me to plan your celebration?”
“I’m asking whether you intend to be there.”
Max’s smile became more private replacing the teasing expression he'd worn moments earlier. “I intend to be there for all of them.”
The answer caught you off guard.
“All of them?” you repeated.
“Your first podium. Your first win.” His eyes remained on yours. “Whatever comes after that.”
The future opened quietly between you, carried in words that could still have been about racing if either of you needed them to be.
“You’re planning quite far ahead,” you murmured.
“I spend a lot of time looking at data. I can recognise a trend.”
“And what trend is that?”
“You keep getting closer.”
“To the podium?”
Max stepped nearer, leaving only a narrow space between you. “That too.”
Warmth climbed into your cheeks, but you resisted the instinct to look away. The confidence you had found in the car seemed to follow you here allowing you to hold his gaze and enjoy the rare moment in which Max appeared to be the less certain one.
“So,” you said, stepping slightly closer, “when I get my podium how exactly are we celebrating?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re still pretending you don’t know what I want.”
Your pulse quickened, but you managed to keep your expression composed. “Perhaps you should explain it to me.”
Max laughed under his breath. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“This was much easier when you were nervous around me.”
“You hated it when I was nervous around you.”
His expression sobered. “I do like this version better.”
Months earlier his opinion had shattered something in you. Now he looked at you as though your growing confidence was not merely something he had witnessed, but something he treasured.
“You helped.”
“You did the difficult part.”
He moved closer until his shoulder brushed yours and lowered his voice.
“Get the podium.”
“And then?”
“Then you won’t have to ask whether I’ll be there.”
You smiled. “Still avoiding the question about the celebration.”
“I already told you. It depends.”
“On whether I know what you want?”
“Yes.”
You tilted your face towards his, leaving so little distance that you felt his breath catch. “I think I’m beginning to work it out.”
For one suspended moment you thought he might kiss you.
Instead Max reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing lightly along your cheek. The restraint in the gesture made it feel more intimate than rushing forward would have done.
“You drove beautifully today,” he said.
There was no joke to hide behind now, you let the praise settle without dismissing it.
“Thank you.”
His hand lingered against your cheek before falling slowly.
When you eventually returned inside Max placed his palm against the small of your back and guided you through the doorway. Several team members looked up, one of them smiled knowingly before returning to his conversation.
Heyyy!! I was wondering if I can take inspo from super freak and create a fic that’s similar to it! It’s a really good fic and I’d love to see if I can take inspo! Thank youuuu🤍🤍🤍
Absolutely!! But please just give credit where credit is due (and tag me - I would love to see it!!) 🩷🩷
