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it’s never over

⋆˚࿔ finn bennett x singer!reader

fc: cindy kimberly

summary: you’ve admitted that finn bennett is your new celebrity crush and even if your fans are making fun of it they all hope you two would get together

warnings: fluff!! reader probably has no pr training and she’s a lil autistic, finn is shy he doesn’t really make a move till the end, some swearing maybe? fucked up timeline? is that a warning idk, readers friends are my fave singers sooo… sorry if you’re not listening to them, lando norris and jude bellingham are mentioned as reader’s friends!! use of yn

a/n: this is my first time writing a smau and a fic so go easy on me pls 😔 and english is not my first language

part two

ynupdates

user1, user2 and 467, 761 others

ynupdates yn talked about the series she is watching:

yn: “i'm currently watching season 3 of euphoria. i still can’t believe this is the final season.”

- “what about off-campus ?”

yn: “nope! but i want to start, it keeps popping up on my feed.”

- “you should definitely watch it. OH! before i forget, i know you're an asoiaf fan so i have to ask, have you watched ‘a knight of the seven kingdoms’?”

yn: “OH MY GOD!! OF COURSE I WATCHED IT! and i won't lie, i thought they were going to deviate from the plot like house of the dragon, but it was actually really good.”

- “who was your favorite character ?”

yn : daeron targaryen! i love complex characters like him. henry ashton is a great actor… speaking of great actors i gotta say that i hated aerion targaryen while reading the book, but when i watched the show and saw aerion, what he did didn't seem that bad.”

- “oh my! he broke the poor girl’s fingers!”

yn : “i mean yeah that’s a very extreme reaction but i completely understand why aerion would get mad cause… well i don’t exactly know how many puppet shows they show us but tanselle had alternatives and chose to do the dragon one for the night targaryens arrived so it was open for misunderstanding atleast that is what i think. i know what he did is bad but i think finn bennett has such a handsome face that he even makes you like a character such as aerion.” #whatdatmean

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user1 is she talkin bout my glorious, elegant, intelligent, charming, kind, thoughtful, strong, courageous, creative, brilliant, gentle, humble, generous, passionate, wise, funny, loyal, dependable, graceful, radiant, calm, confident, warm, compassionate, witty, adventurous, respectful, sincere, magnetic, bold, articulate, empathetic, inspiring, honest, patient, powerful, attentive, uplifting, classy, friendly, reliable, ambitious, intuitive, talented, supportive, grounded, determined, charismatic, extraordinary, trustworthy, noble, dignified, perceptive, innovative, refined, considerate, balanced, open-minded read more…

user2 wait involve me

user3 SHE LOOKS SO PRETTY ❤️❤️

user4 my worlds are colliding

user5 girl go watch true detective rn

user6 call her frank ocean cause she is doing anything but releasing

user7 why is my wife calling a man handsome???

→ user8 specifically my husband???

user9 off-campus mentioned!!

user10 she’s kinda right about tanselle but you’re not ready for that

yourusername

feliciathegoat, peter_claff and 1,236,659 others

yourusername ☀️🪷

user1 peter in the likes 😭

→ user4 he is doing a research

→ user5 @user4 for finn lmao

user2 when is the album queen 💔💔

user3 so off campus ?

→ yourusername i’ve started watching it!!

user3 OMG SHE RESPONDED

pinkpantress gorgeous ❤️ by the creator

judebellingham when are you coming to madrid ?

→yourusername are we going to hang out??

→judebellingham i guess we can

→ yourusername then never. 💗

→ user6 OUCH YN DON’T HURT HIM LIKE THAT

zendaya ❤️❤️❤️

→ yourusername rip rue💔

_manabouttownuk

yourusername, _finnbennet and 67,9B others

_manabouttownuk For over 10 years, @_finnbennett has made a name for himself on-screen playing “really lovely boys”. However, as the…read more

.yourusername wow ❤️ by the creator

yourusername holy shit fuck

user1 and yn is here once again

user2 he is so fine wth

user3 yn is me when i have a crush i love her

user4 happiest day of yn’s life

→ user5 nah that was prolly the release date of ep2 akotsk

user6 can someone tell me why everyone is talking about yn ln🧍‍♂️

→ user7 yn called him handsome in one of her interviews hehe

→ user6 do you have the link

→ user7 there you go https://youtu.be/OxlJLz9M8hQ?si=s9Vf48mog2vr1MQh

→ user6 tyyy!!

👤 finn bennett started following you

yourusername

🎵 jeff buckley - lover you should’ve come over

_finnbennet, lando and 942,627 others

yourusername it’s never over.

user1 LMAO THE INSTANT THIRST TRAP AND THE CAPTION SHE IS SO DRAMATIC

user2 THE STUDIO SHE IS BACK 😍😍😍

user3 finn do something 😐

→ user4 hey atleast he liked it

→user3 progress i guess

sza beautiful as always 🤍 ❤️ by the creator

kaliuchis love you ❤️ excited for our song ❤️ by the creator

→ user13 KALI AND YN I’M IN HEAVEN

→user14 do you think someone inspired her 🤨

user5 am i the only one who noticed norris, oh okay…

→user6 I DID TOO LANDO FOCUS ON YOUR RACES BRO

lando 🧡🧡

→ yourusername du du du 🇳🇱 (sorry)

→lando ☹️

→ user7 @lando ariana..?

→ user8 @.yourusername!! what do you think about rb22?

→ yourusername i try not to think about it

→ user8 @.yourusername me too diva me too

sushitrash 🗣️ ❤️ by the creator

→yourusername it’s filthy frank motherfuckerss

→user9 she summoned everyone

→ user10 is that pink guy i see ???

→ user11 hamburga pls

blonded 👀 ❤️ by the creator

→user12 frank feature her pleasepleasepleaseplease

_finnbennett pretty

_finnbennett cute

finnbennetupdates

ynupdates, user3 and 416,829 others

finnbennetupdates FINN TALKING ABOUT HIS ROLE AND HE MENTIONED YN I REPEAT HE MENTIONED YN!! SHE IS RIGHT IT’S NEVER OVER

user1 he is smiling oh my god

user2 oh yn has game

user8 i shouldn’t have doubted you queen

user3 proud of yn

user4 he got so shy after saying her name tho

user5 my goat yn knows ball

user6 soo… when is their wedding

user7 he is only an apple tall look at him 😔

ynupdates

finnbennettupdates, user1 and 661,715 others

ynupdates horrible fucking news… yn is seen with lando norris in london, england (lando is not horrible but these news probably are for finn bennett)

user1 oh…

user2 but finnyn ???

user3 she’s over him nooo

user4 what is lando wearing bro 😭

→user5 he is turning into a papaya

user6 they kinda look good together

→ user11 @.user6 i’ve had a long fucking day

user7 whole week ruined bro

user8 istg ts better be ai

user9 all of that just to be with lando

user10 does this mean lando is free from magui ??

→ user12 hopefully 😭

peter_claff this isn’t good

→user13 peter???

→user15 even duncan the tall was weirded tf out

finnbennettupdates guys it might be over…

→user14 i knew it she stopped liking finn’s pictures 💔

→finnbennettupdates we didn’t want to believe

finnbennettupdates and ynupdates

peter_claff, ynupdates and 602,785 others

finnbennettupdates it’s not over guys… finn bennett and yn ln were spotted kissing in london

user1 i used to pray for times like this

user2 YESS YESSS

user3 finally

user4 what about lando

→user5 looks like nothing was going on between them

user6 OH HER LOVE SONG ERA

user7 SHE YEARNED HIM AND EARNED HIM

user8 I’M GONNA TRY THIS ON MY CELEBRITY CRUSH

peter_claff ❤️

→user9 bro def gave finn the courage

yourusername

🎵 sufjan stevens - futile devices

_finnbennett, blonded and 783,261 others

yourusername here he comes world… be nice to him

peter_claff you’re welcome

→_finnbennett thank you 🙄

_finnbennett love you ❤️ by the creator

→yourusername i love you more

judebellingham so madrid ?

→yourusername you come to england

→judebellingham nevermind.

lando awww ❤️ by the creator

sabrinacarpenter cutiesss ❤️ by the creator

alexconsani disgustingly in love

→yourusername hey!! be nice

user1 it couple

user2 we were making fun of her look at her now 🥺

user3 yn are you ready for his 5 second screentime in backrooms

→yourusername i’m coming for him and his happy trail

→finnbennett i can wear that top again

→yourusername best boyfriend ever

_finnbennett

🎵 jeff buckley - lover you should’ve come over

ohhenryashton, yourusername and 356,789 others

_finnbennett my favorite singer

yourusername my fave targaryen

→ dextersolansell what about me???

→yourusername you two both are!!

thanks for reading!!

#finn bennett #finn bennett x reader #aerion targaryen #finn bennett x you #finn bennett fanfic #x reader #x you

stalinswetbandaid

Folie à Deux

Summary: You were young, stupid and extremely desperate for a better future. You did what you had to. Max hasn't forgiven you for that fateful night.

Warning: NSFW, Swearing, Mentions of Abuse, Minors DNI 18+

12K words (i am so fucking sorry it's so long i genuinely hated doing a two part series last time. no proofreading, we die like men)

Masterlist

If you had balls, they would be blue. One night. One chaos free night was all you asked for.

You were meant to sneak out that Friday night with your fellow junior mechanics, hit on cute boys from Ferrari and get generally wasted. Instead, you watched the screens with despair as the Redbull chassis got obliterated by the wall, crumbling like papier-mâché. As soon as the driver was confirmed to be very much okay and in one piece, the bitching and cursing of various degrees sounded off as the hunk of metal was delivered back to the garage, the possibility of going forward with your evening plans shrinking to nothingness, as the chief mechanic was tallying up the damage. If anyone needed a drink, it was him.

Mechanics crowded the remains of the car like ants on a sugar cube. Getting to work, you dove head down into the cockpit, feeling the blood rush to your head as you hurried fixing whatever the hell was wrong with the pedals. As you wriggled around, you could feel your thong begin to slide up your hips and protrude the hem of your pants. As subtly as you could, you tried shoving it out of sight, but frankly at this point no one could register it as even mildly attractive. Angry, annoyed, puffy eyed and laser fucking focused to finish fixing the car before the race. Right now, the only sexy thing was the floor, because it was so seductively flat and smooth and oh my god you could sleep on it.

To the sound of faux cheering, in walked the guilty party, the bane of your existence. A 19 year old Max Verstappen. As punishment for your long sleepless night, the young driver had to help the interns haul boxes of Redbull cans to the garage. Flatcap pulled down to his eyes, complaining about the breaks, he held the two freezing boxes to his chest, and nearly dropped them on the floor as he caught sight of the thin red bands barely sticking out of your pants, hugging your hips. He didn’t realize that he stopped walking until the intern behind him accidentally plunged the corner of his box into the driver’s shoulder blade.

Max went around, distributing the energy drinks, finally getting to you, holding the cold metal in the palm of his hand. Eyes still glued to the fabric, he extended the drink to you.

“Make sure they work this time.” He muttered into the cockpit.

You dove back out, snatching Max by the fireproof collar and dragged his face down to your height. Your face red, blood draining back to the rest of your body.

“Pull your head out of your ass and drive next to the wall, not at it.” You let the elastic collar snap back onto his neck.

You ignored the offered drink and pushed past him to fetch the necessary screw drivers. No one batted an eye. You were allowed to talk to Max this way because you were sort of Jos’s protege, and he chose to ignore the continuous micro aggressions between you and his son, so who was to stick their head in the middle of this and figure out exactly what your problems were with each other. Not a single brave soul out there.

Max nudged your tools away as he walked by, so you binned his unattended energy drinks. He unlaced your shoes as you worked and you carried a safety pin to poke holes in all of his straws. He spit in your coffee, you stuck chewed gum in his helmet. It was revolting to everyone else but to you, it was about standing your ground.

He couldn’t get rid of you because Jos wanted you there. You couldn’t get rid of him because he was Max Verstappen. Nevermind that you were a really good mechanic and he was a prodigy driver. Hours passed quickly as everyone kept tinkering. Max was silent, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the red strip, like a flag to a raging bull. Eventually he was ushered to go and rest.

Laying in bed, he pictured you, ass hanging over the halo, the red stripes like a runway strip. No one else was in the garage. Just you and him.

All those stupid videos of pseudo step sisters getting “stuck” in the laundry machines flooded his mind. Late at night at a school friend’s house, while the parents were out, a bunch of boys piled around the giant beige box of a computer. Heads bumping as they stared at the staticky screen, pixelated girls getting their legs spread for views in various positions. The next day they discovered the importance of “deleting the browser history”, as a less than happy phone call was made to each of their houses. Max got away with a cuff on the nape while doing homework, as Jos was apologizing for not keeping his son’s hormones under control. A new reason emerged to keep Max occupied with racing.

Max Verstappen did not think he had a particularly imaginative mind. His thought process and problem solving ability was based on patterns. He saw, he understood, and adapted. Things didn’t always work on the first try, but he navigated the world in a way that made sense to him. Problem, cause, solution.

You were a problem, and he knew the cause of it. It’s the last bit that he was having trouble with.

“Kleine slet” he whispered under his breath.

You first met Max when you moved back across Europe to live with your father. Your mom’s promises to help you get into a good Parisian university and an internship at Renault had fallen through. It was all hehe and haha and then she bailed out on you during the summer, running off with a rich man to Fiji. But you understood sweetheart, right? She would send the money for school as soon as she would get a big enough allowance from her boyfriend. You could stay with monsieur for a bit, right? By monsieur, she meant your old man.

Hell, if anyone understood that Bella Swan girl from the Twilight series, it was you. Except that there were no hot vampires in the Netherlands, only the shit weather. So you were back at your old man’s place, working as a mechanic at his old Go Kart racing track. He welcomed you like he knew you had nowhere else to be but here. Like a whore crawling back to her pimp, that’s about as affectionate of a comparison as you could think of. You had spent most of your summers helping him in the garage, not because he wanted you to bond, but because you had to be useful to stay in his house. But now you were almost on the official payroll. Not really, but you didn’t pay rent, you shared the cost of the groceries, you were saving up to buy a cellphone, you still struggled learning Dutch.

You almost had nothing to lose.

While you were gone, your father befriended an ex Formula One driver Jos Verstappen, who recently moved in around your area. He and his son Max had spent every day on the racetrack, when they weren’t away on championships. Jos was big and square. You addressed him in the same way you did with your father. Just a whole lot of yes sir and no sir. You were a year older than Max, but he was taller. He looked a lot like his dad. He tried to act like his dad. One thing that distinguished them was the fact that Max talked a lot. Yapped. Complained.

The more time you spent together, the more brash Max became, but you only quietly took in all the criticisms. His English wasn’t great but it was a thousand times better than the way you were barely getting by with your Dutch, understanding marginally better than you spoke. So passed an entire school semester worth of your time being monopolized by Jos, your efforts concentrated on helping Max fix his kart.

You grew to despise him because he had money and every opportunity in the world and yet he complained all the fucking time. He hated school and yet there was nothing more you wished for than to go to university. You looked at this 17 year old punk and revered his attitude towards everything that was fed to him on a silver spoon, and he still managed to fucking choke on it. How often you fantasized about rubbing your dirty, sweaty hands against his face, letting him get a taste of the work he never took the time to appreciate or thank you for.

Months passed. You had to watch college students take their little siblings to race on the weekends, envying their sense of purpose. You were exhausted, constantly covered in oil and dirt, and unable to escape the feeling that you were wasting your time. You missed your friends.

The other heavy burden on your shoulders was Jos’ looming presence in the garage and sometimes even at your house. He didn’t say much, but whenever he tapped you on the back, his hand stayed on your shoulder a little longer than you thought it needed. One time he stopped by for breakfast, and seeing you before work, he commented that you were actually quite pretty under all that grease. You shrank under those beady eyes of a predator, constantly measuring you up.

Of all the days, it had to happen on a gloomy and overcast one. Checking for a puncture on a little kart, you accidentally overheard a conversation between your father and Jos. They weren’t whispering, clearly unaware of your presence behind the stack of tires. You held your breath and tried your best to piece together the conversation with whatever words you were able to translate.

Max was accepted to Torro Rosso at Redbull. They would be leaving the next morning.

Then your name was mentioned. Jos asked your dad why he didn’t send you to get a degree. This was no longer a daily argument at your house. You gave up. Your dad’s excuse was that he couldn’t afford tuition at a good university and that a diploma at a cheap school was just a piece of paper that would get you nowhere. Jos asked about possible scholarship applications.

Ah. Your sore spot. You never got an answer or even a rejection letter.

Your father’s honest answer made your heart stop. All the letters you have spent typing in the library’s computer, printing and folding neatly in envelopes. All the stamps you licked and addresses you carefully wrote. The neat stack of scholarship applications that your dad offered to post on his way to the grocery store, never even made it to the mailbox.

Jos started explaining something about a junior program at Torro Rosso, but your father cut him off. He said he was getting too old to manage this place alone. He needed you here with him. You were good at what you did and you got along with kids.

You felt the ground below you getting closer, sinking to your knees. Your body never felt heavier, the wind knocked out of your lungs. Your palms against concrete, little rocks stinging the skin, the pain almost pleasant, distracting you from the unbearable ache in your chest. You opened your mouth to scream, but the only thing that escaped your lips was an outpour of saliva. You suddenly felt extremely nauseous.

You could never get out of here.

The rest of the conversation was a muffled blur. Jos said that it was a shame but that your father surely knew better. You mustered the courage to lift your brick heavy head above the kart, and you saw the two men shaking hands, as Jos walked out of the garage and into the cold afternoon air.

The lights of your house were out around 1 am when your dad finally went to bed. After 20 minutes to make sure that he was fully asleep, you threw off the duvet and reached for the small flashlight under your pillow. On your nightstand was a thick binder, with all the copies of the scholarship letters, all the high school outstanding achievements, any personal notes and projects that you thought might be relevant. You clutched it to your chest and twisted the doorknob, pulling it towards you before pushing it, knowing that would prevent the wood from creaking as it usually did. Barefoot, you snuck out the front door, only putting on your shoes on the sidewalk. It was a half an hour walk in the pitch dark. The cold air nipped at your skin, but you made a deliberate choice not to wear a coat. You had on the shortest dress you could find, you had put on a little bit of makeup and brushed your hair.

About 10 minutes before you got to Verstappen's residence, it had started pouring rain, like god was personally watering the earth with buckets out of a well.

You didn’t slow your pace. Completely soaked through, clenching the plastic binder to your chest. The expired mascara that your mom gave you must have been running down your eyes, and the tiny cotton dress clung to your skin. It was freezing cold, but you couldn’t stop now. You were about to bet your entire future on the way Jos kept looking at you. You needed Jos to help you. If you have learnt one thing, it was that he could bully anyone into getting his way. This time you truly had nothing more to lose, not even your dignity.

By some miracle, there was a faint light in the window of their living room. You mounted the three steps to their door and raised a trembling fist. You knocked as loudly as you could.

You sniffled and waited. Jos opened the door with a bottle of beer in his hand. His tired eyes widened as he said your name. He stared at you in surprise and concern, like you were the last person he expected to see.

“Is everything alright?” He immediately stepped aside, letting you into the corridor.

You nodded frantically, shivering and dripping onto the floor, black mascara trailing down your neck. Like an ugly duckling covered in tar.

“Did you walk?” Jos set his beer on the shelf next to the coatrack, and walked off into the house. He returned with a large towel, draping it over your shoulders and rubbed it down your arms and back. This is not how you planned this to go. His actions seemed unfamiliarly parental. You tried to keep your teeth from chattering as he was soaking up the water from your freezing skin.

“Max is asleep. Why are you here so late?” He asked again.

Max could hang for all you cared.

“I came to see you.” You whispered.

He stopped rubbing the towel, his eyebrows furrowed, waiting for an explanation.

“P–Please take me with you.” You stammered on your first sentence. But you forced yourself to push through, words not sounding quite right falling off your frozen numb lips. “Please take me with you sir. I overheard what my father said. What he did with the scholarship letters. I don’t want to be stuck in this town my whole life. I want to work as an engineer, as a mechanic. My grades are good enough to get into any school. I have experience, you’ve seen me work. I learn fast. I have everything here–”

You unclenched your arms from the soaking binder and pushed it into Jos’ hands.

“Please. At any cost. I’m ready to do anything.”

Oh the begging was so pathetic. He sighed heavily, listing through the wet plastic wrapped pages.

“Look, your dad–”

“Please. Surely you must know someone who can help me. I will work any internship. Any student program. I can’t stay here forever. I’m completely broke and I can't rely on my parents. You’re my only hope. I’m begging you. Please take me with you.”

He opened his mouth to protest again but you blurted out the final words before they could get stuck in your throat.

“I don’t have any money to pay you, but I’ll get on my knees if I have to…” You looked down to his belt.

He tore his eyes away from the pages in the binders, trying to process if he misunderstood the blatantly cliche pornographic line you just threw at his feet. He narrowed his eyes at you, his attitude shifting, as he caught your drift.

You were both dreading and relieved that you got the situation back on track. This had to happen. It had to, for you to get where you needed to be.

“Your whore mother taught you this?” He looked you up and down, seemingly understanding the ruined makeup and the short dress.

Your mother’s only vices was being French and getting pregnant too young by too old of a man. She was always more of a friend than a parent. But you absorbed the insult. You were ready to sponge much more and much worse.

“How old are you?”

“I turned 18 this summer.” You kept his gaze. Aside from being immoral, this would be perfectly legal.

The silence hung thick like a fog. Jos was waiting for you to back out of whatever you were plotting. You wouldn’t.

“How bad do you want this?” He raised his hand to your cheek and brushed your lips with his thumb, looking down at you with a quiet fury in his eyes.

You gave him something better than an answer, you parted your lips obediently. Warming up, they burned with what you felt like had to be a rosy tint.

The man suddenly turned around, grabbed his half empty bottle and casually marched back into the room, falling at ease in the armchair, and beckoned you over.

Your stomach churned but you forced it down. You kicked off your shoes, and taking small steps, entered the house. When you got to Jos, he pointed to the ground.

“Kneel.”

The rough carpet burned your skin, and you settled between his open legs. Thankfully, the lighting was dim, because you felt your face turning green.

“Go on.” He nodded, almost daring.

You weren’t as brave as you thought you’d be at that moment.

You took as subtle of a breath as you could muster, and placing one hand on his knee for stability, you reached for his belt with the other. Just as your fingertip touched the buckle, Jos brutally grabbed your face with his hand, and pulled you up to his eye level, iron fingers digging into your jaw.

“Never again in your life– Do you hear me? Never again are you going to try to pull shit like that. There will be many men that will try to force you in a position like this. Your mouth and your legs stay closed, do you understand?” He growled, ignoring your whincing as you clawed at his hands. If he squeezed your cheeks any harder, he could dislocate your jaw.

“Do you understand me?” He slammed the beer on the coffee table, as you tried your best to nod, unable to utter a syllable, your mouth locked in place.

He threw you violently to the floor, and stepped over your frame, walking back towards the coat rack. He put on a jacket.

Propping yourself on your elbows, silent tears rolling down your cheeks from pain and humiliation, you watched him lace his shoes.

“When we get to your house, you will pack your essentials. No sentimentalities, don’t waste the space. The very bare minimum. I will talk to your dad.”

He grabbed the keys and opened the door without leaving you a chance to answer. There wasn’t enough air in the world for you to swallow. You tumbled scurrying to put your shoes back on and ran out the door to meet him in the car.

Jos muttered something under his breath. The car was cold, and the rain hit the metal with a deafening hum.

Waking up your father with the doorbell, you zoomed past him right up to your room and started throwing whatever you could into a backpack. Most importantly your stash of bills. Underwear, toothbrush, socks, your only other bra, jeans, 2 tshirts, headphones, mp3 player, passport. And then there was no room for anything else. You only stuffed your deodorant in a side pocket and the rest you could buy. You didn’t even bother getting changed, running back downstairs before Jos could change his mind.

At 4 am Max came downstairs with his luggage, scowling at the sight of you sitting on his dad’s couch, as if you were an alien. Jos was pacing back and forth, booking an extra ticket for you by telephone. You had forgotten about Max, your head spun due to sleep deprivation and stress, your body still tense. You couldn’t care about him, and his hateful glaring.

Max threw an angry dutch question at his dad, who waved him off, thanking the operator.

When he hung up, ignoring Max’s question, he looked at you, still in the damp dress with a new towel around your shoulders, and pointed back upstairs, speaking English.

“Max, get her a hoodie and joggers.”

Max wasn’t moving, still angrily staring at you.

Jos barked something at him, and Max stomped upwards, returning with warmer clothes that he tossed on the floor near you. That spoiled rat bastard was disgusted to share his belongings with you. The knowledge that this annoyed Max made the clothes feel softer and toastier. But they smelled like their owner, sweat and axe body spray. He got you something from the hamper. He didn’t think you deserved to sully his clean clothes. You wiped the remainder of the mascara stains on the hoodie sleeves. Max’s jaw clenched. Yeah, this was close enough to your fantasy.

You didn't care how badly Max protested your presence. You were elated. You would be getting out. You had a chance. At no point since you returned to their house, did Jos make you feel safe, but you knew for a fact that you were safe from him.

The plane ride was quiet. Jos sat between you two, arms folded to limit each other's visibility. You slept, nuzzled in Max’s hoodie. At some point, Jos must have left for the bathroom, as you were jolted awake, by an incensed Max pulling you by the collar across the seat.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He spat.

“What are you going to do about it, Verstappen?” You blinked at him slowly, voice almost indifferent.

But Jos came back, and barked angrily at his riled up son. You did something Max was unable to, pretending that he wasn’t on the plane with you. You weren’t at the garage anymore, you only had to answer to his dad, and you didn’t expect anything out of Jos except for orders.

Everything that happened as soon as you landed in Monaco was a complete blur, fatigue finally dominating your senses.

Apartment, ignoring max, phonecall, meeting Jos’ friend, going out to lunch, picking cheapest thing on the outrageously expensive menu, more talking, eating until you could faint, the binder made a comeback, more phone calls, ignoring Max again, more phone calls and then suddenly you were at the train station. Jos handed back your passport and a ticket to Italy. Torro Rosso’s headquarters. Jos and Max would meet you there in a couple of days. This was the Junior mechanics program that he talked of.

Despite the many hours that had passed, the young driver was still irritated, arms crossed and huffing, unable to believe that you would be part of his team. Jos was unmoved. That gave you confidence that he thought you were good enough to be there.

On the last call, you tried thanking Jos but he cut you off short.

“Don’t be an idiot.” The only words of advice you were given.

Out of your earshot, Jos muttered

“Kleine slut.”

Max’s ears perked up slightly.

The night was long but the time to fix was short, and by the time the cameras were being tuned for the many pre pre pre racing shows, mechanics were dropping like flies. Junior mechanics piled into the corner surrounded by empty red bull cans. What was this, 24h Lemans?

You were nudged awake for breakfast, and everyone crawled back to their rooms to change into cleaner uniforms. You left your clothes scattered on the floor, undressing as you went to shower. Ready in 20 minutes, you stepped over the pile of laundry and went to join the rest of the team to finally eat.

Max ate early and went back to rest before the media. Passing by your room, he saw the cleaning ladies cart next to your open door. He did a double take noticing a familiar string of crimson sticking out of a black pile on the bed.

One day, around the age of 15, Max was tossing laundry into the machine, when a string of red caught his attention. He pulled it out and stretched it, brain short circuiting at the realization that these were women’s panties, red, lacy and light as a feather. Jos was walking by, talking on the phone and seeing his son’s discovery, snatched them out of the young man’s hands and shoved his head as if to say “mind your business boy”. Max watched his dad walk out of the room, tucking the panties in his pocket.

The driver hadn’t realized how deeply that moment was etched in his brain until he saw your little pile of laundry. Yesterday’s distraction suddenly made sense. Something shifted inside of him, skin suddenly buzzing as he felt his hair rising.

The cleaning lady must have been taking care of the bathroom. The coast was clear.

Keeping your plastic coffee cup pressed to your chest, lid tightly closed from any foreign body fluids that your driver might want to add for aggravating flavour, you marched back to your room to grab your notes, when you saw Max’s figure, weirdly speedwalking down the corridor, both hands shoved in his pockets, disappearing around the corner.

“What a freak.” You exhaled, shaking your head.

The car was almost done. With about an hour before the beginning of the third free practice, you were still tinkering in the garage. A little further away, Daniel and Max were doing media duties, aka dicking around with microphones. Lightly shoving each other around, as Max was reading a question from a card, something caught his attention and the senior driver pulled on a red loop that was sticking out of Max’s pocket.

“What’s this?” He laughed, raising the panties to get a proper look at them. “Oooooh a naughty gift from a fan!” He shouted excitedly.

Reflexes of an F1 driver, Max snatched the “gift” out of the Australian's hand and shoved it deeper into his front pocket, keeping his hand there, making sure it wouldn’t see the light of day again.

“It’s mine actually!” Max laughed raspily, and almost panicked. “It’s better for the aerodynamics.”

“Less restrictive!” Daniel nodded, adding on the joke.

“Yes exactly!” The young driver got back to reading the cards, for the first time enthusiastic at answering stupid and repetitive questions. Anything to quickly change the subject.

The Dutchman might have thought he got away with it, but you were watching the scene develop from the garage.

What a freak.

It couldn’t be. SURELY IT COULDN’T BE.

You held your breath. That was your red thong. Your only thong. The one you wore because you were hoping to hook up with a cute junior mechanic at Ferrari. At the fucking party. That you missed because of Max. Because he crashed his car. That fucking thong.

Max was careful, his stupid thick neck locked, preventing him from looking back at the garage. You were about to combust. What could you do? You couldn’t claim it as yours. There was no chance of confronting him in private until the qualifications were over.

You could incinerate him with one look, and yet he ignored your presence with strenuous dedication. How the tables have turned.

Never before have you been outraged that your driver qualified extremely well. During the question panel, Sebastian Vettel leaned over the table, and asked Max, in that sly tone of his, if his result might have been affected by this newly discovered lucky charm.

Oh, so everyone saw that interview then. The only thing that travels faster than an F1 car is the news.

“It’s a nice Ferrari red” The German laughed as Max blushed beneath his cap. “Maybe I can borrow it for the race tomorrow?” Vettel smiled.

As soon as the debrief was over, you nearly kicked down your door. And just as you had suspected, a crucial piece was missing from your laundry pile. And you reckoned that it wasn’t the cleaning lady that took it as a trophy with her.

You went out to hunt for Max. You stalked him all the way in the Redbull hospitality, talking with Horner. As soon as the team principal left, you caught up to your victim and sunk your nails deep into the back of his neck.

“Give it back you little creep!” You bared your teeth.

Max yelped from pain and jumped back from you, rubbing his neck. His eyes, full of poorly hidden guilt.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, give it back. I know you took it from my room!” You raged.

“Are you calling me a thief?” He mockingly placed his hand over his very much racing heart.

“A thief and a fucking pervert!” You hissed.

“Inappropriate to be wearing a thong under your uniform.” Despite your insults, the feral look in your eyes, your sharp teeth and nails, he knew that he had the upper hand.

“That’s none of your business bitchboy.”

“Which Ferrari mechanic are you trying to sleep with, huh?”

“Stop.” You warned him.

“Maybe I’ll give it to Vettel, he said he wanted it.” Max wasn’t about to lose this game.

“You know what? Fucking keep it. I hope you choke on it.” You spat back at him, storming away. Max was bigger and stronger, you couldn’t fight him for it. He wasn’t afraid of you either.

You didn't even know how to one up him on this one. What could you possibly do that could avenge this embarrassment? You contemplated tampering with his car. But death would be a kinder fate compared to the atrocities you were ready to commit to the Dutchman.

The damn bastard got on the podium the next day. Beaming in the sunlight, holding a third place trophy, soaked in champagne. All at your expense.

He never returned it as the weeks went by. It bothered you that every time his hand was in his pocket, he was probably holding it. But you knew Verstappen better, the best way to stop the endless teasing was to simply stop paying attention to him. That usually drove Max up the wall.

The lucky charm helped him with the results for a while, but he was no longer getting a rise out of you. He quickly got bored of it as the excitement wore off. The only time he momentarily broke though your stoic barrier was when one morning, you lifted your paper coffee cup to take a careful sip, and something wet and heavy hit your lips. Your eye twitched as you understood what it was.

The assault on your drinks had resumed as he discarded your panties in the liquid, ruining both them and your coffee.

You caught him viciously staring across the garage, waiting for your reaction, but with a barely noticeable trembling hand, you threw out the whole cup and its contents.

That was your last interaction before the summer break.

Visiting his mom and sister during his off time, he followed them around the mall, jokingly browsing for his sister’s next podium present. Scanning the window displays, Max’s eye was suddenly caught on a pink and cream striped Victoria’s Secret store. Inside, on the lower body of a mannequin, on top of the well organized drawers of lingerie, was a lacy blue thong of a familiar tint of a can that he was nursing through the shopping spree.

Huh.

For the first time, he was motivated to go explore this girly store and the rest of its contents. Max was aware that he was rough around the edges. His dad’s upbringing had drilled in the mentality that if he wanted something, he had to achieve it no matter the cost. That applied well to racing, but not so much to girls. Mechanics and other drivers were the only references he had during his formative years. Most of whom were also still grappling with the fact that women were NOT at all like cars. Just helpless and hopeless and unable to transfer any useful knowledge.

So, thankfully in Max’s case, this was not about romance. This was about causing havoc.

Your birthday passed pleasantly enough at the factory. Many emails from your school friends, a brief call from Jos, a voicemail from your mom, an email from your father. A cake from the mechanics and a very out of tune happy birthday song that made up for it with a childlike enthusiasm from the rest of the team, followed by a shitload of work and crunchtime deadline. Yoopi.

The best part is that you didn’t catch a single glance of Max Verstappen anywhere in the building, busy with photoshoots and promotions. Oh the bliss.

It was short lived however, as when you opened your locker, a very small but eye-catching bag, with fancy paper nearly fell into your hands. Like someone hurried to throw it in without being caught. Pink, cream and black. Two curvy letters. This was a sick fucking joke. You shoved it into your backpack and let it fester in the back of your mind until you were in the safety of your dorm room.

The now lightly crumpled bag contained a very lacy and clearly overpriced thong, a travel sized bottle of vanilla perfume and a tube of sparkly pink strawberry lip gloss.

You were anaspeptic? Frasmotic? Compunctious? Pericomobulated? Braindead. That’s the one.

How and why? Mostly why? And when? But why? Why? What were you even supposed to make of this? Was it an apology for stealing your red one? That was an unhinged way of making up for it. Was it to mock you some more? Then why go the extra mile and get the other crap too? Was this a tactic to confuse you? If so, he succeeded! If he was looking for another trophy to steal–

Well actually, you wondered how satisfying it would feel to fuck someone in Max’s gift? To then throw the blue panties back at him, stained with another man’s cum. He could carry that around his pocket. Yeah, that would be very satisfying.

You tore off the tag and turned the tap in the bathroom sink, beginning the execution of your plan by washing them with the hotel soap.

Belgium? Check. Sunday evening? Check. Evening celebrations at the bar post race? Check. And not a moment too soon.

During the debrief, Max rolled up a chair and sat next to you. He caught a whiff of a familiar sugary vanilla scent lingering around and followed it. Your body was still facing Christian but you turned your head slightly towards Max, your lips stretching in a sly curl, attempting to lull him into a false sense of security.

“You drove really well today.”

His eyes narrowed at your compliment. He did not feel safe at all. As the meeting was coming to a conclusion, the driver kept asking you technical questions, as people were leaving the room. Soon, it was just the two of you still at the desk. You looked impatiently at your phone.

“Look Max, we can discuss this further tomorrow, or if you can’t bring yourself to sleep without an answer, ask the chief mechanic.” You stood up, gathering your notes.

“Where are you going?’

“There will be a celebration at the hotel bar. Will you come?” You choked on the last syllable, unable to understand why you even asked. Every once in a while, you were able to maintain civil discussions when it came to racing. Perhaps that politeness was an extent of that conversation.

“Dad’s picking me up soon.” He picked at the fabric of the chair. “Are you going alone?”

“I’m meeting someone there.” You threw him a warning glance not to pry further.

“That one Ferrari mechanic?”

“He’s just a friend.”

“Just a friend huh?”

“Careful, you’re starting to sound jealous.”

“No, I just think it’s not very team like to sleep with the competition. I’m not sure what Christian would say about this.”

“Is that a threat, Verstappen?”

“Just so he doesn’t find out, it’s best that you stayed.”

“You got me a thong and you think you own me now?”

“Are you wearing it?” His eyebrows rose.

“You wish.”

“You’re wearing the perfume,” he looked closer at you “and the lip gloss. It's only fair to assume you’ve got it on right now.”

You wish you weren’t wearing it, suddenly conscious of the fabric, seams digging where they needed and didn’t need to. Afraid of doing something that he might enjoy.

“Sorry to disappoint–” You whipped around and started towards the exit.

Your hips were yanked backwards. Dragging you back by the loops of your pants, he hooked his finger in your waistband to pull out a familiar strap.

He saw blue, and then he saw stars.

As they say, fuck around and find out transcends language barriers. The slap hurt your palm as hard as it hurt his cheek. Groaning, the driver held his face, upper lip stinging as he pressed his hand firmer to soothe the burning feeling.

Notwithstanding your own injury, you were at the door in a few strides. Before your hand touched the soothing cold metal of the doorknob, your pocket vibrated and sang out a melody, drowning out Max’s grunts with his father’s ringtone.

You clenched your fist, using pain to feed your patience, and answered.

“Pack up now if you haven’t already. I’m taking Max to see some family and you’ll come with us. Your dad hasn’t seen you in a while. Be ready in about 20 minutes.”

You heard a hiss behind you, as Max pried his hand away from his mouth, a smear of red on his long fingers. His upper lip trembled as he felt a small tear on the thin skin, right under his beauty spot.

You didn’t want to see your father, and you didn't want to be in the car with Max for hours. You didn’t want to have to answer why his son’s cheek was red or bruised. You didn’t want to ride in silence like you usually did. You didn’t want to miss another party. You didn’t want to go to bed sober. You didn’t want to go to bed alone.

“Yes sir.” You answered flatly and he hung up.

You exhaled sharply, and held back on taking another breath for a moment. Closing your eyes, you inhaled, getting a grip on yourself.

Still in the chair at the back of the room, Max swore quietly.

“Kleine slet.”

Your eyes opened sharply and you left the room before you could inflict any more violence on the Dutchman. You slammed the door behind you, aggressively enough for several employees to shoot you a disapproving look.

Like clockwork, Jos stood in the lobby at the promised time, waiting for you and Max to show up with your bags. Your combined sulky mood did not affect Jos in the slightest. Both of you had your earphones in, hiding deep in your hoodies like snails. Max held a cold unopened can of Redbull to his lip. You looked over at him only once. At no point did you think that he didn’t deserve it, but something acidic began brewing in your gut, irritating your throat, threatening to let out an apology that his actions did not merit. His head moved, and before he could catch you staring, you leaned away to the window, raising the volume higher to drown out any thoughts.

Just as your bum was starting to get sore, familiar streets swam by your window after a very long drive. It was still very early in the afternoon but it felt like ten business days had already passed since you woke up. House after house, after house, and then there was emptiness, as the ex driver had taken a turn to the Go Kart parking lot. When the engine was off, you swung the door open, and your nose was assaulted by a bittersweet memory.

There was a small figure of a man standing in the garage, waving at your little group. Not enthusiastically, but more so in acknowledgement of your arrival. That was your father alright.

You didn’t visit him during the first Christmas break, chucking it up to work and intensive preparations for the next year’s race. The truth is you were still betrayed and you couldn’t risk getting guilt tripped for leaving spontaneously. But now that you were secure in your position, and in the middle of a race year, you didn’t feel like you were in any danger. Still, your muscles tensed up, preparing to be amiable.

As you approached, he welcomed you with open arms, like one would do with a distant family member that just won the lottery. As you embraced, he felt smaller in your arms, perhaps due to your own confidence over the time that you haven’t seen him. Jos has been keeping him updated, over the phone. You and your dad only emailed each other every once in a while. And when you finally bought your phone, you didn’t call.

It was nice to see that it was still busy. Little drivers zooming past the garage, unaware that a real F1 driver watched them go by. As Verstappen Sr and Max took over the conversation with your father in Dutch, Jos patted your back encouragingly, probably talking about your progress with the team. His hand was still heavy, but it no longer felt creepy. You came to learn that Jos manhandled Max, you, other drivers, mechanics, sports commentators, sponsor representatives and even inanimate objects. No one was safe.

You couldn’t help but replay your father’s words in your mind, how difficult it would be for him to maintain the track alone. But it looked just fine. He didn’t seem any more tired or worn out. The number of visitors didn’t diminish on a Sunday afternoon. He must have found a replacement.

Your eyes searched the track for your substitute, and found her standing next to the light console, close to the garage. She must not have been much younger than you. Something pulled at your heartstrings. Had you come back the next year you would have felt a pang of jealousy over the new girl working there, purely out of competitive nature. But you were happy where you were now, and you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Breaking away from the group you couldn’t keep up with either way, hands in your pockets, you made your way to say hello. You felt like it would only be polite. As you approached, she smiled warmly at you.

You cursed yourself during every interaction for not learning quickly enough. You both puzzled together English and Dutch sentences, giggling through introductions and poorly formed small talk. But you obtained the information that you seeked. She was 17 years old, she liked working here, she was still in school. She learnt that you were the owner’s daughter, that you liked no longer working here, and that you were happy that she did. Her little laugh turned into a gasp, as the girl’s eyes caught someone approaching. Her hands flew to her cheeks and you didn’t need to turn around to know who was coming.

“Max Verstappen!” She chirped.

What was that one phrase that Americans say? Bless your heart?

To be entirely fair to her, you had the same reaction to every other driver on the grid, except for the one that was currently breathing down your neck.

In the politest manner you have never even seen him be with fans, Max introduced himself to the girl, and proceeded to steal the entire spotlight by switching the conversation entirely to their native language. From the entirely foreign vocabulary, to the sudden smooth body language, you guessed that it was his attempt at flirting. And the worst part, judging by the worker, it was good flirting. Your suspicions were confirmed, as the Don Juan leaned on the console, darting a smug glance towards you.

Your eyes rolled so far back, travelling all the way to the Hungarian Grand Prix.

You heard your name being called. It wasn’t god’s voice, but you were ready to answer to the devil’s too if it meant that you had an excuse to leave this courtship without seeming annoyed or jealous.

It was Jos. Jos called your names back to the parking lot. You spedwalked away, leaving the casanova in the dust, who was still taking his sweet time with a girl who did not want to bash his head in with a wrench.

Thankfully, as you approached, the patriarchs switched back to English.

“I’m going to drop Max off at his mom’s. You should also go, you haven’t met my daughter. You will get along, I think. You always reminded me of her. Your dad and I will go out for supper, we will meet back at your house at 10pm.” Jos always spoke in short sentences, like he was sending telegrams. One phrase hit you on the head like a brick.

You always reminded me of her.

You haven't met my daughter.

Daughter.

Your dad gave you the house key, in case they weren’t back before you. You took it quietly, and sat back in the car. You couldn’t force your lungs to take a deep enough breath to calm your racing heart.

Max reached the car and he was arguing again, but your eyes were glued to the keys in your hands. Was it embarrassment that had finally dug itself out of a deep grave that you buried it in? Was it shame that scratched at your consciousness with dirt under the nails, memories of Jos’ strange behaviour bleeding out of the freshly opened wounds? Or was it humiliation, at the realization that you gambled your entire future on a misunderstanding?

Max collapsed into the seat next to you, slamming the door out of spite. You hadn’t flinched, and not out of indifference. It caught his attention. You had a thousand yard stare, visibly spiraling, and he kept watching you, in the same way that people are unable to tear their eyes away from a terrible accident. Something happened just before he reached the car. He was silently hoping that he wouldn’t have to ask you what was wrong. He knew you wouldn’t tell him either way. But maybe if you caught him staring, you would read the question in his eyes and answer it. But your head was still down.

Meanwhile, you were trying to find a reasonable enough excuse to stop the car. You could open the door and roll out. You could scream bloody murder and maybe it would startle Jos and the car would crash.

Eventually the car did stop. At a driveway, safe and sound. Max got out, but you hesitated. Maybe if you asked nicely enough, Jos would take you with him.

The cracking of leather made you lift your head, and you saw Jos had twisted himself in the seat, staring back at you softly, like one would stare at a shelter cat. Once again, that oddly parental movement caught you off guard. He wasn’t always a machine. There was a beating heart inside of that tin man, but he still used his metal arms to bend outcomes and people to his will.

“Go on.” He nodded towards the door.

You stormed out.

The door opened as you joined Max on the steps. You turned to look back at the road but the car was already gone. Women’s voices and exclamations brought your attention back, and you saw two sets of arms wrapped around the driver, before he even made it across the threshold.

His mom immediately zeroed in on the tiny cut on his lip, holding his face in her hands. She whispered something quietly. You held your breath.

But he just shook his head and kissed his mother’s palms as he gave a plausible excuse, which you understood to be “knocked helmet to the face”. She asked “father” but Max shook his head again, assuring his mother’s eyes, still full of worry.

As the beloved son was released, Max turned towards you, stepping out of the way so you could be greeted. You expected a backhanded comment. A subtle insult. Him pointing towards you and denouncing you as the assaulter. Just your job title. But he just introduced you by your name. No venom to it either. Like it was just you. As if they already knew about you, this was just an official announcement. Putting a face to the name.

Who was this and what did he do with the real Max Verstappen?

“This is my sister Victoria, and my mom Sophie.” He presented his family. His sister waved at you enthusiastically.

Sophie smiled at you and shook your hand. You hurried to add that you were a junior mechanic, feeling like this was a crucial point of your relationship with her son, and in turn she introduced herself as a former racer. You looked at Sophie’s mouth, and then at Victoria’s, and turned around to look at Max’s lips.

“What?” He eyed you suspiciously.

“No, nothing.” You shook your head.

It was incredible how similar they looked. Jos was such a dominant presence in Max’s life that you never once stopped to think that he also had a mom, and a sister. You wondered if he thought the same of your own mother, if he wondered if you had any siblings. You left stupid for not thinking that it takes two people to shape a face, that Max was not a carbon copy of his dad.

After shrugging off Victoria’s grasp and muttering something in Dutch, he made a B line to the living room couch and collapsed. Taking off your shoes, you were invited to the kitchen. You passed by the sofa, glancing at Max. You couldn’t get over how at ease he looked. He stood next to his dad so much, trying to be like him so badly. But seeing him around his mom and sister, everything from the nose to the mouth was his mom. The eyes were sharp like his dad’s. But they were closed now, Jos wasn’t here.

The house was also the polar opposite. It was brighter, softer, and calm. Safehaven, that was the word that stuck in your mind.

Pulling out a chair for you, Victoria sat by your side, and Sophie sat opposite of you after setting a bottle of white wine and three glasses on the table. It felt as if they were expecting your arrival without knowing the date of your meeting.

“So, how long have you been with Max?” Victoria got comfortable in her seat.

“How long, what?”

“Are you guys official or are you still at a talking stage?”

There was a faint snore coming from the couch. How was he asleep already? You envied him. You also wanted to rest.

“Oh, we aren’t together! We’re just coworkers. Jos just gave me a lift so I could see my dad!”

How could you explain to them that you and Max weren’t even friends?

“But Max talks so much about you!” Vic exclaimed, pouring the wine.

“Nothing nice I suppose.” You rubbed your neck.

“Oh you know how boys get when they like a girl, they get mean.” Sophie waved your assumption off.

Somehow you doubted that was the case for you and Max as he showed you just how nice he could be to a girl if he wanted to just an hour ago.

Time flew by as Sophie asked you about your parents, and you told her about the racing track and trying to paint your dad in a pleasant light. They seemed more intrigued by your mother and Paris. Your school and life in France. What got you interested in Formula 1. What it was like working with Redbull and Max. Once again, you dug deep inside of yourself to highlight that bastard’s strengths, which in his defense, were many. Just not when it came to you. But a lot of people genuinely liked Max, and he definitely had his merits. Perhaps it was not as difficult as you thought, saying kind things about that personal terrorist of yours.

Sophie and Victoria gave you a brief summary of the current happening in their lives, the mom’s history of racing, what it was like growing up with Max, but it was clear that they were a lot more interested to learn more about you. This was not a good idea, as they may have been fooled by Max’s momentary lapse in judgement, his endless grudge against you impeded by fatigue.

You asked just about the worst question you could think of.

“Can I see baby pictures of Max?”

With all the grace of a gazelle, Sophie sprang from the chair and ran into the bedroom barefoot.

As her mom disappeared around the corner, Victoria leaned in, whispering.

“Was the thong for you?”

Your mouth parted in surprise, eyes darting to the couch, but nothing but more snoring came to your rescue.

“What do you mean?” You dodged the question, playing dumb. You understood her perfectly well the first time.

“The gift! It was clearly for a girl. Max said the underwear was for a joke, and sure, I could believe that but who would go out of their way to buy perfume and lipgloss as a prank? He took the time selecting them too! Who would go out of their way to search for such specific flavours?”

Someone who spent months spitting in your French Vanilla coffee and scraping out strawberry gum out of their helmet. One of you clearly didn’t know Max as well as they thought they did. And now you weren’t exactly sure who it was.

Before you could answer, Sophie emerged a moment later with a thick leatherbound photo album. It looked like it was gifted to the family a while before Max was born, a bible of a future motorsport legend. As she flipped the pages, the most hedgehog looking kid was staring back at you. Spiky blond hair, chubby red cheeks, and a little pout instead of a frown. A mini Max in a blue little coat and rolled jeans. Something about seeing a bite sized version of the driver made you laugh out of endearment.

Your exclamation of joy must have been so loud, that the full sized version of the kid in the picture woke up and Max’s disgruntled head appeared from the back of the sofa, with pillow imprints along his cheek. Squinting from the kitchen light, he searched for the source of the noise and his gaze fell on the thick book, his own pandora’s box. Betrayed by his own kin. His eyes cut between your wide grin and the photo album, as Sophie asked him something in Dutch. Victoria shifted in her seat as he mumbled something, pulling up the rest of his torso to a seating position.

Max vaulted across the couch to get to the album but with the reflexes that only develop in siblings, Victoria snatched it out of his grasp and hit the deck. The brawl continued on the floor, as he was trying to catch any of her kicking feet to pull the book of embarrassment away from her. With many Dutch phrases being thrown around, Sophie joined her children in laughter.

“It’s like when they were little!”

The struggle ended when Victoria launched the album in your direction and you pulled it to your chest. Rising to his knees, Max stepped over his sister and was about to pounce on his next victim, dragging your chair closer to him. But as you yelped at the sudden change of location, Max stumbled as your knees hit his chest. Snapped back to reality, he no longer had a playful frown on his face, his expression turning sour. It was as if all of a sudden, he remembered who you were. The odd one out. Blue eyes turned hard, he searched for an answer in your face, the question to which you did not know. His nose crinkled and he addressed his family.

“Already? Could you stay any longer?” Sophie pleaded.

“They should be back soon. We should go.” Max stood up, and walked to the couch to retrieve his cap.

It was less than a suggestion and more of an order. His sudden change in behaviour stunned you a bit, but you didn’t fight it. You quietly set the album on the table and thanked Sophie. Not knowing much of the language, you should have felt isolated, but you found that their interactions between each other would have felt somewhat forced had they been speaking English among themselves for your sake. It wasn’t words you haven’t heard your father say before, you just weren’t completely sure of their meaning. It was like staring at someone’s mouth as they spoke and completely missing the dialogue. Sophie and Max embraced. Then Victoria and Max. By the time it was your turn to say goodbye, he was already out the door. His mom brought you into her arms in a way that you never felt your own mother do. It was a tight hug for someone you knew for only a few hours, but she held you like she knew you for years. And same went for Victoria. Your name lived in this house for much longer than the rest of you had.

Max didn’t wait, and you had to jog to catch up to him.

“Your family is wonderful.” You mused.

“If only they knew how you got here in the first place.” He muttered under his breath.

“What?”

The simultaneous mumbling and lisping drowned out the content of the phrase before it reached your ears.

Max didn’t repeat himself and stayed silent, walking with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. He brooded as you walked quietly for 20 minutes to your dad’s place. Something within you brought out his father again.

“God, you were being so cool when you weren’t such a dick at your mom’s place.” You grumbled.

The sun had set by the time you reached your father’s home. Jos’s car was in the driveway, but turning the house key, you discovered that the two friends haven’t returned. You flicked the kitchen lights on. Nudging your shoes off, you shrugged your hoodie on the couch, as Max followed suit.

“Can I use the bathroom?” He blurted, looking towards the stairs.

“Second floor, first door on the right.” You waved, turning towards the sink, intent on keeping yourself occupied to avoid interacting with that storm of a person.

The dishes made a nice little pile, and you let the muscle memory take over. For the past two years, house chores were replaced by garage maintenance. Living in dorms and hotel rooms spoiled you to the luxury of not having to deal with dishes, but you equated your current task with touching grass. Halfway through the washing, you noticed that Max has not yet returned downstairs. Unless he had a massive stomachache, he had no business being up there for so long.

He deserved no benefit of the doubt. Climbing the stairs, you noticed a faint light shining in the vicinity of your room, as if someone turned on a nightstand lamp. And someone did. Max Verstappen stood shamelessly in the middle of your personal space, studying the contents of your childhood. You wondered if he even used the bathroom at all.

“Looking for more panties to steal?” You crossed your arms.

“Baby pictures”

“There aren’t any here. My mom took all of them with her when we moved out. I don’t know if you have noticed, but my father isn’t about sentimentalities. He’s more of a boss than a parent. I suppose that’s one thing we have in common.”

He was observing all your sketches and notes. Bits of the car and race pamphlets. There were some more personal items though, belonging only to Max. Gloves that he discarded angrily into the bottom of the kart, upset at the testing results. You meant to give them back, but they just stayed on your desk for months. One of the old steering wheels that he used, scrapped for junk, but you wanted to study the worn out areas and where the drivers held their grip the most. The metal piece with his number. Well, his kart number. You wanted to study the vehicle; he just happened to be in it.

“Most of these are mine.” He hummed.

“Yeah, whose kart do you think I spent the most time fixing?”

“It’s like a small shrine. Didn’t know you were this obsessed."

“Maybe if you drove better, I wouldn’t have to have been.”

“I’m a better driver now.”

“Marginally.” You scoffed. “I still have to put up with a lot of your bullshit, Verstappen.”

“You’ll have to put up with a bit more.” He turned slowly towards you. “At least I earned my way to the top.”

“You didn't earn shit, you got the spot because your dad was a driver.”

“Oh yeah? And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You earned your way through my dad too.” He got in your face. “On your knees.” He hissed.

You flinched.

All of that pent up anger of his. All that hatred, the animosity, the resentment, bitterness. It began on that morning. Or, as you have guessed, that night. He must have heard it happen. Maybe even saw it. You had forgotten about him until he was on the stairs.

“Is this what it’s about?” You challenged him. “You think I’m ashamed of it? You think I wouldn’t have done much worse to get out of this house?”

He huffed his chest indignantly. You continued.

“Yeah, I used your dad alright. I had no other fucking choice. Maybe if you got over your ego and tried to understand where I was coming from, you’d see that I was desperate. But I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think of me, Max. I got Jos’ endorsement and I got myself where I needed to.” You stabbed your index into his chest.

“I worked for years to get his approval. Never good enough for him. Never fast enough. Pathetic excuse of a son. And all you had to do was get on your knees.” His warm breath hit your face, blue eyes burning like ice. “And the worst part, you didn’t even have to earn it.”

You felt your jaw ache, as Jos’ phantom grasp threatened to dislocate it again.

“You're just jealous, aren't you?" You scoffed.

"Maybe I am. I just want to see how much you'd actually work to get to where you need to be. How badly do you want something? Maybe then I’d understand. Maybe I’d respect you for it. But right now, you haven't done shit.” His face got closer and he closed the distance between your lips. He winced quietly at the contact with the wound but held through, pulling away slowly. "Prove it to me."

“Is that it? You wanted to bully your way into sleeping with me?” You huffed, chest burning from anger.

“Wouldn't take much convincing now would it?” He jabbed.

“Want me to kneel for you Max? Just like I did for your dad?” You spat at him. “You think that it's going to bring back years of his approval? You'll feel better about yourself if you fucked the competition? Let’s see how well this works out for you.”

You dropped to your knees and hiking up his t-shirt, you started unbuckling his belt.

“That's right Max. Maybe this will finally make Jos proud of you.” You jeered quietly.

He caught your wrists and glared. Max pulled you up roughly and pushed you down on your bed.

You bit your lip. You and your big fucking mouth. You saw in Max’s eyes that he finally decided how he could take his revenge. You stared at the ceiling, waiting. You could have stood up at any moment. You could have pushed him off and told him to stop. You weren’t scared of him despite the size and the feral look in his eyes. No. This was about standing your ground. You wanted to ruin this for him. You would ruin this for him so fucking bad. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a single sound. You wouldn't react. Because nothing drove Max up the wall like your indifference.

It was his turn to push your shirt upwards and undo your jean buttons. Pulling them down slowly, revealing the blue thong you were still wearing. His breath hitched seeing this part of you. Hooking his fingers through the sides, Max let the fabric travel down your thighs and dropped them somewhere on the floor. Cool air hit you as he parted your thighs. You waited for the metal buckle, or for the zipper to be slid down.

You couldn’t wait to disappoint him.

Instead, Max got on his knees, and tracing your inner thighs with his lips, as he got closer to your core, you felt his tongue right on your now throbbing cunt.

You hoped that he couldn’t hear how loudly your heart was beating, because you were nearly going deaf. You couldn't even allow yourself to clench the bedsheets. You bit the inside of your cheek as his arms snaked around your thighs, holding you in place. He was practically purring as he made out with your core.

The most infuriating part was how quickly Max was learning what you liked. Understanding your body on a microscopic level, the same way he understood his car. He was passionate about racing, so he invested himself fully into it. You didn’t know what to make of the way he was studying you. Of course he knew where to nudge his big stupid nose. If he could find the fucking Vatican City on a map, he could find the peak of your nerves. Your breathing became erratic as a thin veil of sweat appeared on your forehead. Your clenched muscles ached from the tension.

As he swirled his tongue, up, a little down and slightly up again and down, a triangle, cross— that fucker was spelling M A X on your clit. Your eyes widened in indignation. But he only got through half of V E R S T A as you shuddered, betrayed by pleasure, your back arching. Your gasp accidentally came out as a moan.

As he watched your chest rise and fall rapidly, he lifted his head with a wicked victorious grin, your slick coating his chin.

“You fucker!” You cried.

Furious at having lost your composure, your hand flew to his head and yanked his hair, with all your might. He groaned in pain, and squeezed your wrist hard enough for you to let go of him. Max pulled his body between your legs. You went to smack him again, but he held both your wrists in one hand, pinning them to your chest. He wiped his mouth on the hem of your t-shirt, raising it to his face, revealing the edge of your bra. With this free hand, he undid his zipper, and freed himself, lining at your entrance. Your mouth parted in surprise at the contact.

“I told you. You’ll have to put up with a bit more.” He mocked you, as he was pushing in slowly, allowing you to stretch. His forehead pressed against your temple, nose digging into your cheek, his breath on your neck.

“You’re gonna cry for me. Because you are just a stupid girl who tried to fuck your way into my family. You’ll have to earn your place this time.”

“You’re such a fucking dick Verstappen!” You cried out in frustration as he slowly filled you up.

“You could just tell me to stop. But no, you can’t help yourself. Je bent zo’n fucking slet.”

“Hou je mond!” You grit your teeth together, retorting to the best of your ability, but Max just laughed.

When he bottomed out, he stayed still for a moment as you trembled beneath him.

“Does it hurt?” His hot breath was on your ear.

You didn’t know whether to lie. You wanted to annoy him so bad.

“No.” You whimpered the truth as you felt him flexing inside of you.

“Are you being honest or are you just trying to be brave?”

Asshole.

His hand squeezed your thigh, prompting your answer.

“Honest!” You gasped.

You were expecting pain or at least discomfort. You thought he would simply use you, but the notion that he was making sure that you were enjoying it too, enjoying him, made you want to struggle even more. This wasn’t fair.

“I knew you could take it.” His lips traced your jawline as he spoke. “Mijn kleine slet. Mijn geode meisje.”

You were just leaking around him. A dripping sticky mess and he hasn’t even moved yet. He won. But instead of gloating, he kicked it up a few gears.

“Ik verlang al zo lang naar je. Je trilt nu al. Ik zal goed voor je zjin, dat beloof ik.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his lips caressing yours as he spoke.

Dignity? No, we don’t know her.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Max. Speak English!” You mewled.

“Should have learned.”

“Max please.”

“That’s it.” He gloated at your first plea.

He pulled out and pushed in possessively, holding you down with his athlete’s weight. Your breath came out shaky, succumbing to pleasure. When he pushed all the way in, he rocked against you, grinding against your clit. When he pulled away, you hated how your body reacted to his absence. One of your wrists slipped out of his grasp, but you only brought it back to his shoulder. The knot in your stomach was tightening. You didn’t catch yourself squeezing Max’s hips between your thighs but he did, nearly bruising them with his fingers. You came undone, muffling his name in his shoulder, your hand scratching dully at his back for some sort of anchoring point as you unraveled. You felt him smile against your cheek.

“Can you take one more?” He didn’t stop, just slowed.

Completely wrecked. Tears running down your temples, you shook from the overwhelming feeling.

“I can’t. I can’t Max I—“ you shook your head whimpering.

“You can. You can and you will. You're doing so good for me. One more, You're being so good.”

He started to push in deeper again, this time also clearly struggling to hold back, close to his own finish, his grunting getting louder.

He moaned your name and you both suddenly froze at the sound of a lock turning.

The front door opened and two booming voices sounded through the house in laughter. You got so carried away that you didn’t hear them through the window as they approached. Max was off you in a second, pulling his pants up and in two steps he was quietly shutting your bedroom door. He turned back to the bed and finding your jeans on the floor, he threw them back at you. He combed his fingers through his messy hair, trying to steady his breathing as he waited for you to get ready. As soon as you nodded, he silently cracked the door open, unaware of the creaking wood. You both winced at the sound, hoping no one heard it. You stayed on the bed, straightening the sheets, as he made his way back to your desk, sitting in the chair. He looked like he just ran a marathon, cheeks burning red, pupils blown. He was shaking slightly from the exhaustion, but you doubted that you were in any better state.

A moment passed, and you hadn’t heard anyone call your names. You rushed to the bathroom before any more time elapsed. You felt cold, and empty. Already missing Max’s weight on you. As best as you could, you cleaned the mess between your legs, but everything was already soaked through. You splashed water on your burning face and tamed your hair. You didn’t look good, but you didn’t look fucked either.

As you opened the door, Max stood at the entrance, waiting for you. His eyes fell on your lips as he swallowed hard. Jos called your names, and you witnessed the young man slip back into his father’s shadow, as his whole body stiffened.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything to keep him from being cold to you again, but Max turned away and headed downstairs.

In the car, as you were both buckled in the back, waiting for Jos to finally say goodbye. He shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his leg, also clearly uncomfortable with the wetness between his thighs. He didn’t say anything to you since the parents came back. Since his dad returned. He exhaled impatiently, watching Jos through the car window.

“Are you now satisfied?” You asked, breaking the silence.

“No.” He answered gloomily.

As you finally hit the road, the gust of wind that swirled around the car from the open window made you realize that you had forgotten your hoodie at your house. You pursed your lips, cursing yourself for not thinking about it, and trying to figure out at which point next year you would be able to retrieve it. You crossed your arms to conserve heat and leaned back in your seat, watching the street lamps as they flashed by.

Looking out the window for a couple of minutes, you felt a lump of fabric being deposited on your knees.

Max’s hoodie. As you turned your head to confirm it, he was already turned away looking at his own window, in a t-shirt. You didn’t refuse the warmth. Putting it on, the hoodie smelled like sweat and axe body spray. You closed your eyes.

You felt a gentle tug on the fabric, his long fingers holding the hem. You laced your fingers through his. He squeezed them gently. A small acknowledgment that things were going to go in a different direction.

“For the record, it’s hou je bek dicht. You said it too formally.” Max said quietly enough for Jos not to ask questions.

“I’ll keep it in mind next time.” Your lips curled involuntarily. “Maybe I'll try cussing you out in French.”

He looked surprised and oddly relieved that he could make you smile after the way he behaved.

This time on the airplane, when Jos left and returned from the bathroom, he found that Max had stolen his seat.

His son slept, his arm around you, cozied together for warmth, heads leaning against each other. Your eyes were closed, expressions peaceful.

You didn’t know what it was going to be yet, but both of you and Max were certain that this was much better than spit in the coffee or chewed gum inside the helmet.

dfinchr

ts is so tuff bro loved it 😮‍💨

#dfinchr

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