Childhood best friends lestappen is so sweet 🥰!!! They’re so oblivious to their feelings for each other, and they even don’t know that everyone think they’re mated. They truly act like a couple, Charles always sits in Max lap even if there are free seats (but Maxie’s lap is more comfy 🥺), and they have a tradition since karting days of Max kissing Charles’ forehead and Charles kissing Max’s nose good luck before the races (for some reason I see Max being 5cm taller than Charles here, just enough that he has to be on tiptoes to kiss his nose). They’re always going out together in Monaco, Charles walking a few steps is front of Max and pointing to something at the Dior’s window display and Max just smiling at him and nodding for him to go in there while he’s carrying a lot of bags from Charles shopping spree.
Hi Anon 💓💓💓
Feelings Realization AU: Part 1
(Ohhhh boy it's been a while since we added to this AU 🥹)
Anonnnn the way I was giggling, nodding, and smiling along as I read this ask?? Ahhh this AU is quickly becoming one of the sweetest little tales because Max and Charles are sooo oblivious but so precious??
The way they're always rushing to each other's garages or motorhomes to get their pre-race kiss and everyone being so accustomed to it they're just like, "Ah, just Max and Charles being Max and Charles."
The two of them always flying home together—first using commercial airlines and then in Max's private jet. The first time Charles stepped foot on AirMax the Alpha immediately swept his best friend up in his arms, spinning Charles around in the middle of the plane as the Omega giggled and blushed and yelled out Maxie!
Every single one of the cabin crew being so charmed that they finally get to see their new boss's adorable boyfriend that they mention it to other people in the aviation industry and soon, news travels all around the world that Mad Max has somehow managed to win over the heart of Ferrari's principessa.
(When Max and Charles learn that everyone thinks they're "together," Charles just blinks up, confused. "Of course we are always together," he pouts, "he's my Maxie, my best friend, who else would he spend his time with?" And Max over here just nodding along, holding Charles's purse and high heels while the Omega tries on new shoes like yeah, you tell 'em Charlie, I got your Louboutins 😌)
And don't even get me started on the dates.
You see in Part 1 how Charles was basically planning out his evening with Max and lowkey being annoyed he had to be on a date with his boyfriend? Well Max doesn't even bother with dates—he hooks up with other Omegas and that's about it. When asked why he doesn't date, the Alpha just shrugs and replies: "Spending time with Charles is better than any date. I like him more than any Omega I've ever been with."
But even better:
Whenever Charles goes on a date Max immediately heads over to his best friend's apartment, makes himself cozy by scenting literally everything in sight, and then texting Charles nonstop during the date: Sending him memes, videos, chatting about everything and nothing. One time Max engaged Charles in a heated battle over which cat toy was Sassy's favorite and the argument got so intense Charles straight up left the date to go to a pet store and buy a dozen cat toys just to prove Max wrong.
(Max doesn't know why he feels so smug and pleased whenever Charles cuts a date short because of him. He doesn't know why he rushes to scent Charles as soon as he gets back, the Alpha massaging his best friend's aching feet and calves before listening intently to Charles's retelling of the date. Max doesn't even realize he's shitting on every single date—all he knows is his comments make Charles laughs. And that's what matters.)
Meanwhile whenever Max has a hookup Charles literally shows up to the Alpha's penthouse right as the other Omega is leaving. The Ferrari driver just shoving his way inside, eagerly wrapping his arms around a still sweaty Max, wrinkling his nose at the smell of another Omega, and pouting: "Shower time Maxie." Charles then going into the kitchen to prepare snacks and treats for movie night before he's sitting between the Dutchman's legs, back pressed against the Red Bull driver's chest, Max's hand over his shoulder, and Charles occasionally kissing his wrist and fingertips.
(Charles doesn't know why he feels the need to immediately stake his claim on Max every time his best friend finishes a hookup. Doesn't know why he demands Max tell him about these hookups just so Charles can decimate each and every one of them by walking around in Max's shirts and reminding the Alpha just who the #1 Omega in his life should be.)
These two bumbling fools are walking around, acting like feral cats, and not even realizing it 😭😭😭
Summary: Felix and the reader don’t appreciate the looks Oliver is giving her.
Words: 1,689
Warnings: Oliver is his own warning. He’s creepy to the reader. Making out in a bathtub- not super descriptive. Yelling, cursing.
Author's note: May god bless our souls for not only watching Saltburn but also reading fanfics about it :|
Masterlist
.........................................
Y/N was a usual resident at Saltburn. The girlfriend of Felix Catton himself, she often found herself spending her time at his family mansion during holiday. She had a family that loved her, sure. But it couldn’t match up to the things that Saltburn, and Felix, gave her.
Oliver was one of those things. A seemingly loyal friend to her dear Felix. And she was overjoyed when he agreed to spend the summer at Saltburn with them.
She sat on a lawn chair near the pool, a bikini adorning her body. She tilts her head slightly to the side, to see her perfect Felix in the pool. A graceful smile shows on her face as she moves back to relax in the chair. She hears the sound of splashing water and soon, a shadow is felt over her body. She moves her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. Felix stands above her, his body dripping from the pool and a large smirk across his face.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says. His smirk grows into a grin. He leans his tall body down, his arms reaching out to catch him against her chair. His frame towers over her more than it does when he’s standing.
She meets him halfway, their lips touching in a gentle kiss. Her hand moves up to the back of his neck, lightly tugging at the hair there. He groans, pushing into her lips a little rougher.
Farleigh gives a small laugh, “You two are too horny to be out here, right now. Go get a fucking room.”
Y/N pulls apart from him with a slight blush on her cheeks. Felix’s jaw clenches slightly, his head turning in Farleigh’s direction. “Don’t be jealous of what I have and you don’t.” He then leans back down to kiss Y/N as if no comment was ever made.
They made out for a little while, Y/N at Felix’s mercy. Not that he was ever a cruel lover. No, quite the opposite. He was very giving. He was a giving person in general, a quality his girlfriend admired greatly.
They pulled away from each other, Y/N slouching back against the lounger like before, and Felix going back to the pool. Her eyes closed as she heard the splash of his return to the water.
The moment was interrupted yet again, but by Felix’s voice, “Oliver! You getting in?”
Y/N opened her eyes at that to see Oliver’s answer. But Oliver’s eyes were on her. They had been on her. She could see that Felix’s question had broken his train of thought. Oliver shakes his head a bit, blinking. “Oh, uh. Not sure.”
Felix nods his head with a certain look. Y/N had seen it many times. It was a knowing look. He didn’t give two shits if Oliver got in the water, but he did care if the scholarship boy was looking at his girl a little too much. But he took that as an answer and went back to relaxing in the warm water.
But Y/N still felt Oliver’s gaze. It was quite uncomfortable now that she knew it was there. She tried to do anything to relax. She closed her eyes. She watched Felix. None of it would distract from the constant feeling of being watched by Oliver’s piercing eyes.
Hours passed and the family found themselves retiring for the night. Felix lead Y/N by the hand to his room, a routine the entire family was used to at this point. He closed the door behind them before turning around and placing his hands on her waist.
She sighed at the feeling, a relaxing end to the day. The day’s events were still bothering her, but she didn’t wish to bring them to her boyfriend’s attention. After all, Oliver was to stay here for a while, and the last thing she wanted was to cause conflict between the two.
Felix noticed the deep look in her eye. He let out a soft sigh, “How about a warm bath?”
Her eyes met his, “a bath?”
“Yeah. It’s been a long day. A warm bath might be nice. I mean we don’t have to-“
“-No. I want to. I do.”
He smiles, leaning down to kiss the top of her head before disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of the running water is heard soon after.
She sits at the end of his bed, running her hands through her hair to calm herself. It truly did bother her, but what if it’s nothing? She knows that Felix would burn the world for her, but she didn’t know if it was worth the world burning. Not over something so stupid as a stare from one of his friends.
He returned before she had even noticed. He pulled her hands from her hair, placing them on his chest. He pulls her up easily. “C’mon, love.”
…
She is straddling Felix in the tub, their bodies close. Her hands are in his hair, and his are wandering over her body, admiring every part. Their lips are locked in a passionate kiss that is getting hotter by the minute.
Why was Oliver looking at her? Was he jealous? Perhaps just curious? Did he want her? Did he want Felix? Simply judging? What does the boy want and why? He was beyond impossible to read.
Felix at this point had slowed himself, seeing that she was not reciprocating his movements. His hands now rest on the side of her thighs, keeping her in place. He pulled away softly, his tone quiet and comforting, “What’s wrong, beautiful?”
She is pulled from all of her thoughts quickly, realizing he had caught on. “Nothing, Felix. It’s nothing, really.” She moves forward to catch his lips again.
He lets her for a moment, before his hands gently grab her face, pulling her away. “Don’t lie to me. And don’t try to deflect like this. I know something is bothering you. It has been. Please. Trust me?”
The sound of the water trying to settle is all that is heard in the bathroom at this point. She finally lets out a breath, “It’s not something you can fix. I can handle it.”
He pulls her face into his hands again. “Is it something I’m doing? If it is, I-“
How could she do this to him? He was now doubting himself, and it was all her fault. She felt awful. She had to correct this.
Her hands move to each side of his chest. “No, Felix. It’s not. I promise, it’s not. You’ve done nothing.”
He nods, his jaw clenching slightly as if he knows exactly what’s bothering her at this point. “It’s Oliver, isn’t it?”
Her hand reaches up to his mouth, a finger pushed to his lips. “Shh… he’ll hear us.”
He moved his head back from her hand. “I don’t care,” he says, “If it is Oli, I understand. I noticed it today, too. And it is a big deal to me if it bothers you, angel. It bothered me, but I figured I’d let it go if it was just me noticing. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
He was the sweetest thing she had ever seen in her life. Her eyebrows lifted, “You’d do that for me?”
He smiled, “‘Course. Consider it done.”
She smiled as well, moving her body against his. Her lips connected with his once more.
…
She woke up to the sound of yelling. She sat up in bed quickly. Her hair was a mess, her body in nothing but Felix’s t-shirt and her underwear. Her head cocked to the side as the sound continued. It was coming from Oliver’s bedroom.
It was Felix’s voice.
She never heard Felix raising his voice like this before in her life. It had been raised before, yes. But never like this, and never had it had this horrid tone in it.
She pushed herself to the end of the bed, standing herself up. She ran towards his voice, opening the bathroom door and running through it to Oliver’s room. She opened that door quickly, her body standing in the doorframe.
This caught both men’s attention. They both turned to her. Oliver’s eyes widen at her attire before a smirk appeared on his face. Felix’s eyes softened as he saw her worried expression.
“Oh, angel. I’m sorry to wake you up,” Felix says, his usual sweet tone returning as if he wasn’t screaming seconds earlier.
Oliver chips in, “Yeah, sorry. Felix and I were just chatting about yo-“
A glare was sent to Oliver from Felix, shutting him up quickly. Felix turned back her her, his eyes comforting again.
“Go back to bed. Breakfast isn’t for another hour,” he said, stepping towards her.
She’s beyond confused at this point. Her hand rests against the doorframe, her eyes moving between the two men. “Is... Is everything alright, Fe?”
Felix sighs, moving towards her again. Now in front of her, his hand moves up to the side of her neck, caressing it gently. “Yeah. We’re fine. Back to bed now.”
Her eyes shift to Oliver again. He stands with a confident appearance. He has a smirk on his face, his eyes focused on her bare legs.
Embarrassed, she nods, moving backwards into the bathroom. “Alright. Good morning then, Felix,” her quiet voice says. She nods to Oliver, “Oli.”
She moves back quickly, but not quick enough, hearing Oliver quip, “Good morning to you, beautiful.”
Felix head spins back to Oliver, his voice a growl, “Don’t fucking-“
That’s all she heard, for she had went back into Felix’s room, shutting both doors. She rested her head again, letting sleep overtake her as Felix had requested.
…
When breakfast time came, Oliver was nowhere to be found, but Farleigh had blabbed to her later that Oliver had left Saltburn in a rush before breakfast with at least a black eye and a limp in his step.
She twisted the fork in her hand, her eyes focusing across the table at Felix’s bloody knuckles.
max verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation
summary: max verstappen can’t help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it
folkie radio: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXIEEE, it's been a minute since the last time i did a compilation blurb and this felt like the perfect occasion to bring them back, i hope you like this!
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the best driver of his generation is known for his incredible driving skills and relentless pursuit of victory on the track.
However, behind the wheel, Max has another passion that rivals his love for racing: his girlfriend.
In every interview, press conference, and social media post, Max can't help but gush about her, seamlessly sharing stories of their life together into conversations about lap times and race strategies.
Fans quickly began doing compilation videos about all the times he mentioned his girlfriend publicly, and those gathered millions of views across social media platforms.
The most popular one was called "Max Verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation," and it began with a video of Max arriving to the paddock for media day, Red Bull's social media team filming him while he answered some rapid fire questions.
"Waffles or Pancakes? You know I used to love pancakes but I think I've had too many because my girlfriend is obsessed with making them," he said as he signed some stuff, "So I would go for Waffles at the moment, but if my girlfriend is watching this I'd say I take her pancakes every day."
The next clip was from a post qualifying interview, and of course, Max earned the pole position, the interviewer had asked him what was expecting for the race the following day.
"To win of course, that's what I'm here for," he said with so hesitation, "But I'm also looking forward to it because my girlfriend will be here, it's the first race she attends this season and I can't wait to see her in the crowd while I take on the podium."
The video moved to show Max with his teammate Sergio Perez, they were playing a game of Green Flag or Red Flag, they were asked about people who film themselves at the gym and Max immediately waved the red flag.
"I actually don't go to the gym anymore," Max added, "I get annoyed by everyone else so I just exercise at home."
"So no topless selfies, not even at home," the interviewer said.
"I don't need to impress anyone, I've got my girlfriend, so," Max shrugged.
The next clip was taken from Max's own Youtube channel, he was showing some of his preparation routine for a race, that included some neck training, checking statistics, quick meetings with his team and engineers among other things.
And of course, his girlfriend made an appearance, standing in a corner watching everything unfold. He approached her, race suit on and helmet in hand, kissed her lips gently as she caressed his arm.
"Be safe out there okay?" her voice could be faintly heard.
"Always schatje, I love you."
In the next segment, Max had just earned his second world championship and was doing a casual interview for a sports channel.
"Do you have your girlfriend now call you 'Two time world champion Max Verstappen' or just Max,"
"Definitely not the first one," Max laughed, "She'd never do that, she says she likes to keep me humble."
"Your girlfriend has a pet name for you?" the guy asked again.
"We call each other a bit different but I prefer not to say that on camera," Max laughed again, "I don't want the internet to make fun of me for being cheesy."
The next clip was from Max's streamings, he was too immersed in a game that he didn't hear his girlfriend come into the room, noticing her presence when she leaned into him.
Out of habit of keeping their privacy, he covered the camera but forgot to turn his mic off.
"Schatje I'm streaming," he said, unaware that everyone could hear him.
"Oh I'm sorry, I was going to ask if you could feed the cats but I'll do it myself," his girlfriend spoke.
"No I'll do it, just let me get off the stream,"
"Baby, there's no need," she insisted.
"I was missing you anyways, just give me a minute."
His audience couldn't see anything but they clearly heard how Max kissed his girlfriend's lips, turning his attention back to the screen, he realized that he was broadcasting their conversation to everyone.
His viewers went wild in the chat, spamming heart emojis and comments about how sweet the couple was. Max ended the stream with a laugh, addressing his fans. "Alright, you heard the boss. I gotta go feed the cats. See you all next time."
On the same note, another clip from a video for RedBull with Checo was included, they had been asked to show the most recent picture in their phones.
"Oh it's from this morning, my girlfriend with the kids," Max said, showing the picture to the camera.
"The kids?" Checo asked with a laugh.
"The cats are our kids," Max shrugged, "Jimmy and Sassy Verstappen."
A particularly touching moment was from a press conference after a difficult race. Max had finished fifth, a rare position for him given his usual dominance. When asked how he dealt with setbacks, he gave a candid response.
"It can be tough, but my girlfriend always knows how to lift my spirits. She's my biggest supporter and always finds the right words to say. Just being with her makes everything better, no matter how bad the race went."
During a clip of Max giving a tour of the Red Bull factory, he stopped at a wall covered in race-winning memorabilia. Among the trophies and champagne bottles, there was a small, framed photograph.
"This is special to me," Max pointed it out, "It's from my first win with Red Bull. But look closer..."
The camera zoomed in to show a young woman in the background of the photo, cheering in the pit lane.
"That's my girlfriend," Max said softly. "She was there for my first win, and she's been there for every one since - even if she can't always be at the track. The team knew how much that meant to me, so they made sure she was in this photo when they framed it."
In the next segment, Max was asked about his favorite off-track activity.
"I love cooking," Max grinned, "Well, more like watching my girlfriend cook. She's amazing in the kitchen, and I'm just there to taste-test everything."
The compilation included a moment during a press conference, Max addressed a question about his girlfriend facing criticism online. The question arose after she received negative comments following a public appearance with him.
"Look, it's tough sometimes," Max began, his expression turning serious. "She didn't choose this life, but she supports me through everything. It's not fair for her to get hate just because of who she's dating. If you have a problem with me that's fine but don't go after my family or my girlfriend because that is just unacceptable."
The final clip that wrapped the video us was from the FIA Prize Giving ceremony, Max received his trophy for winning the 2023 championship.
In his acceptance speech, he thanked his team, his family, and, of course, his girlfriend.
"Winning races and championships is amazing, but having someone by your side who believes in you and supports you unconditionally is truly special. To my girlfriend, thank you for being my rock and my biggest cheerleader. I love you."
The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the perfect boyfriend.
He stared at his phone screen, basically begging it to light up.
It didn’t.
Which was fine. You usually called him at the same time everyday, but not today. That was fine. He would be fine.
A knock at his hotel room door pulled him out of bed, it was his dinner. He sat down to eat it, feeling every ache and pain the past few weeks had caused. He hadn’t expected the jump to be so… much. He thought it would be simple, easy, just like F2. He was wrong. He was driving well, but not well enough, and he was worried. He pushed it all to the back of his mind, but the only other thing in his mind was you.
What would you be doing now? On your way to uni, probably. Probably finishing off your makeup on the train because you’re allergic to waking up early enough to get it all done. Or maybe you’d actually woken up early, and you could get some reading done before your lectures took your attention. Friday. Free practice and sprint quali. He had time, but not enough. He needed rest. He needed you. But you were halfway across the world and he wouldn’t see you for another few months.
Another knock at the door. He dragged his exhausted body to the door and opened it without question.
And there you were.
Waiting for him. Suitcase in hand. Bright smile despite your long day of travel.
“Hey baby,” you smiled, your voice soft. It immediately put to bed the thoughts he’d been thinking about you pulling away from him.
He took a step closer and wrapped his arms around you in a comforting embrace. The world seemed to slow around you two, allowing space for the subtle calmness you brought him. He pressed his head into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath in. Your shampoo, the perfume he got you last Christmas, his your cosy hoodie, you. He’d needed this, needed you.
“I missed you.”
His gentle admission in the low light of the hotel hallway made your heart ache. Sometimes you forgot Kimi wasn’t always your happy, go-lucky, bright Kimi. Sometimes he was beaten down by his sport. Sometimes he was exhausted. Sometimes he was just… meh. And that was fine with you.
“I missed you too,” you whispered, hands pulling through his curls as he leant against you. “How are you doing?”
He pulled back and ushered you in, taking your bag from you (ever the gentleman). “I’m… alright. Tired,” he admitted. “Just… needed you, I guess,” he chuckled as he scratched the back of his head, not realising what was coming out of his mouth.
You stared at him, smiling. “Yeah?” You mused, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He blushed but nodded, wrapping his hands around your waist. “Yeah.”
“Well, I’m here, and I’m all yours for the whole weekend,” you smiled. “No uni work, nothing like that.”
He smiled. “You’ll come to the race?”
“Only if you want me there,” you chuckled.
“I want you everywhere. Wherever I am,” he admitted, his fingers drawing small shapes on your skin. “Always.”
You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Well, I’m right here.”
And how true it was. You were right there in front of him. And he wasn’t going to let the weekend pass without allowing himself to spend some time with you. You sat on the couch together, watching whatever show you’d convinced him was hilarious. He didn’t spare the TV one glance. You were right there. You were a thousand times more interesting than some fucking TV show.
“you know, moles are where your soulmate kissed you the most in your past life.”
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 1.3k.
ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff. mention of alcohol; profanity. established relationship, pinch of manhandling, title from the script’s science & faith.
ꔮ commentary box: kae stop writing about oscar piastri challenge: failed 🤷 miami race winner, baby! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You hadn’t even been dating yet when the ‘fact’ first came up in conversation.
You were virtual strangers at one of Lando’s infamous house parties. Oscar had only met you a couple of hours prior, and it was the point of the night where everybody was sufficiently sloshed. Not in a destructive way, but enough to kind of lose grasp on reality.
Oscar had been bleary-eyed and regretting his third shot of tequila when you loudly announced, to no one in particular, “You know, moles are where your soulmate kissed you the most in your past life.”
It had been so absurd, so out of the blue, that Oscar couldn’t help it. He let out a snort of laughter that even the thumping music couldn’t hide, and you’d glared at him with the fury of a drunken woman scorned.
“What?” you had demanded, and Oscar remembers finding you pretty in the moment. The flush in your cheeks—from the alcohol and indignance—and the fire in your eyes, not at all dulled by the Jägermeister you had chugged before graciously inviting yourself to the loose circle Oscar was hiding in.
“It’s bullshit,” he had responded easily.
“What’s bullshit?”
He glared at you like he didn’t quite understand why he had to explain. “Soulmates,” he said exasperatedly. “Past lives.”
“Well,” you had shot back, voice pitching higher, “you can go take your orange rocket ship and shove it up your—”
Somebody slapped a hand over your mouth. And Oscar had smiled, the barely-there grin hidden behind his red solo cup, without thinking for a moment that he was going to go down the deep end in record time.
Falling in love with you hadn’t taken time; convincing you to date him was a completely different story. You still sometimes bitched about his anti-soulmate mentality, and Oscar had resolved to rubbing the migraine out of his temples if it meant agreement would keep you happy.
It was just—so insane. Karmic justice and reincarnation made no sense to Oscar the same way telemetry might baffle an average person. He was not a man of faith. He liked to think everything could be broken down.
The precision needed to make an impossible turn. The aerodynamics of his car that could make or break his race.
The parts of his brain that lit up whenever you’re around.
The serotonin he felt when you agreed to a date.
Oscar believes in science. It’s tried, and tested, and true.
His marks were products of melanocytes. He knows, because he drunkenly Googled it on the way home from Lando’s party. That night you met, he searched up a typo-laden why do people have moles, took a screenshot of the Mayo Clinic page that came up, and kept it in his gallery for three whole weeks.
He had thought of you for three whole weeks.
Now, Oscar gets tagged in memes about being an Aries. He finds himself taking ‘personality’ quizzes he swears have no purpose, but he’ll indulge you with his damn MBTI if it keeps you from pouting. He doesn’t understand the tarot cards you pull or why you have notifications on for an app called Co–Star.
He learns to live with it, chalks it up to being so horribly down bad that he’ll give you the benefit of doubt for nearly everything.
Nearly everything.
It’s another hotel room, another race weekend. The two of you are sprawled out on the bed, doing your own things, when Oscar feels your fingers absentmindedly tracing the back of his neck. It’s a touch light enough that it doesn’t tickle, doesn’t distract. There’s nothing provocative about it either, so Oscar keeps his gaze firm on the cricket match he’s rewatching.
After a couple moments, you let out a huff. “Pay attention to me,” you grumble, and Oscar rolls his eyes—feeling so unbearably fond of you, he thinks he could die from it.
(An exaggeration of epic proportions, of course. Oscar knows there’s no recorded deaths due to ‘fondness’, but he allows himself a hyperbole every now and then. A little treat.)
He shifts in the bed until you can lean on him more comfortably. “You could have just led with that,” he points out, even though he’s never truly minded your whining.
You don’t answer, instead opting to burrow yourself into his side. He tries and fails to keep himself from smiling.
When your face tilts upward, lips brushing against his throat, Oscar’s eyes flutter shut. He’d never admit it out loud, but this was one of his favorite things about you. How tactile you could be. How generous you were with your affection. How—
Huh.
This isn’t new. You’ve always been the type to shower Oscar with kisses, whether it was a prelude to something more or a show of affection on its own. For the first time ever, though, Oscar notices something.
Two kisses near his Adam’s apple. One to the side of his neck, below his ear. A couple across his jaw—seemingly random, except they’ve always been in the same place, and now Oscar is laughing.
“What’s so funny?” you murmur accusingly, your lips brushing over the constellation on his cheek.
“You are,” he answers, arms looping around your waist.
In one deft movement, Oscar pulls you on to his lap. You go without resistance, taking the change in position as an opportunity to lave his face with more chaste kisses.
“Trying to one-up my soulmate?” he teases.
You pause, realizing you’ve been caught. Instead of backing down, though, you only move to press your lips to his. Oscar can feel you smiling, and it makes the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.
“I’m your soulmate,” you murmur without breaking the kiss, and he hums a vague ‘mhm’ in response. When you have him like this, he’ll agree to anything.
You keep up with your trail of kisses, and the sudden rationale behind it all makes something treacherous thump, thump, thump in Oscar’s chest.
That very thing aches when you mumble, all trademark petulance, “You didn’t love me enough in our past life.”
Early into your relationship, you had pointed it out. How Oscar had a lot more visible marks than you. You’d mapped them all over his body until he felt like there wasn’t a part of him he could hide from you, and he’d mentally compared it to the glaring lack on your own skin.
He’d thought you liked it, that you didn’t have as much blemishes or moles. But now, you’re burying your face into the crook of his neck and kissing up his throat, complaining like he had a hand in it at all.
He uses the grip he has around your waist to flip you over. Your back to the mattress, your head cushioned by his hand.
“What the hell!” you squeak, indignant, but Oscar’s already moving.
Bracing himself on top of you, he kisses along the line of your jaw. Over your collarbone. Down the column of your throat. It’s methodical, still, even here. Brushes of his lips, each one pressed with intent.
Despite your earlier protest, your fingers find purchase at the short hair at Oscar’s nape. “What’s this all about?” you breathe.
Oscar peeks up at you through his bangs, noticing the way your eyes have fluttered close in contentment.
He’ll take that. He’ll have that over you claiming he didn’t ‘love you enough’ in whatever past version of you might have existed. It’s so out of character for him, but something inside him had flicked like a light switch at your taunt.
“I’m making it up to you,” he answers, voice hoarse, as he goes back to trailing kisses over each part of you that he can reach.
Jaw, collarbone, throat. The slope of your shoulder. The inside of your wrist. Places where, if you’re right, you’ll find moles in your next life.
Oscar still doesn’t believe in a lot of things. But you’re laughing affectionately underneath him, pulling him closer, taking what he has to give, and Oscar—
Summary: Oscar’s been asking for a little one for a while and you finally agree.
Note: Lowkey feeling so insecure about my lowkey fluffy version of kinktober, feel like I’m doing this wrong 😭
wc 983
Oscar Piastri doesn’t rattle easily. Not when he’s leading a race, not when he’s down on his luck, not when you told him you wanted to talk earlier but then got all sheepish and said it didn’t matter.
He’d never seen his pretty little girlfriend so shy before, it was enough to pull the soft dominant side from him as he kissed your forehead, reassured you that you could talk anytime. Of course you’d ended up beneath him in the sheets.
He uses one hand to steady himself against the sheets, groaning softly, pumping in and out of you with a practised ease, one of your legs hooked up over his hip as he presses kisses down your sweaty neck.
“Osc… let’s do it.” He looks up at you from where his mouth is attached to the crook of your neck, murmuring a confused hmphmm?
His cheeks would’ve reddened if he hadn’t already been so worked up, because his first thought is… anal? The answer you give practically knocks him sideways, it would’ve done if he hadn’t been buried to the hilt within you, hips still rocking slowly.
“You’ve been asking for a baby ‘n I’ve just never felt ready but this year… I mean, since summer, I suppose…” You were too nervous to bring it up earlier after mentioning having a chat but it had slipped out with ease now that he was massaging your g-spot, hips flicking in the most delicious way to stretch your tight cunt.
“Gimme a baby, Osc. I’m ready, let’s do it?” Oscar Piastri doesn’t rattle easily. Not when he’s leading a race, not when he’s down on his luck, not when you had told him you wanted to talk earlier but then got all sheepish and said it didn’t matter.
His eyes widen and he’s rattled now, more shocked and in disbelief than anything else. His eyes scan yours for any trace of doubt but there’s none. “Baby, I… fuck. You can’t say that and now expect me to fucking ruin you over and over until it takes, yeah? Tell me you’re sure. Tell me before I fuckin’ lose it.” The words come out like a desperate plea, already a man possessed as he ruts against you, becoming painfully aware of the latex barrier that stops him from doing what you’ve asked.
The moment that he hears you’re serious, he’s gone. It only takes him a moment to pull back and rip the condom away before slamming back into you with a newfound intensity.
Your knees are pushed back to cup the sides of your tits, his hands pressing down on your shins as he lifts his hips slightly, pounding into you with far less grace and gentleness than normal, his fat cock bullying you for each of the eight inches as he prods against your g spot, grinding his hips upwards to massage it with each press.
“God, gonna have to make every moment count. Track your period, get you some supplements…” He’s already murmuring away, attention taken from the sex and pushed onto every way he knows how to make sure that it takes, that he fills you up good and proper, wanting to become pregnant immediately as if it would make you think he was somehow more of a man.
Oscar moans out and presses his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss, smiling as you make a similar noise and push your hands up through his hair to scratch his scalp and bring him nearer, already whimpering about being close.
“God, Osc. ‘M not gonna ask you to stop if you slow down for a moment. Christ, you’re… fuck…” A loud whine breaks from you and he only grunts in response, his balld slapping against your bum slightly with the effort he puts into bottoming out with his jackhammer thrusts, fast and hard, punching the air from your lungs each time he pushes down harder on your shins in the mating press.
“Gunna need you to cum for me, pretty girl. I’m close but want you to be a good girl and milk me dry, yeah? Make it take.” It’s a demand rather than a suggestion and your eyes roll back in reaction as the familiar coil builds within your belly, becoming tighter. Your head lolls back on your shoulders with a low effort nod, panting his name out desperately, over and over like a prayer for the baby both of you now want.
You both finish in tandem, Oscar grinding slow and deep as he begins to spurt sticky cream deep into you, his thick cock practically bumping at your cervix to make sure he gives you what you want, ever the pleaser. He huffs against your neck as your cunt sucks him deeper, weeps with a mixture of fluids despite the way he’s locked deep inside of you to keep the cum in.
“Love you so much pretty girl.” His lips are sweaty and hot when they press to your temple, his chin tucking into your neck to lay down on you from above, not letting up on the mating press that should hopefully ensure a fast pregnancy. “Gonna make you a mummy.”
Summary: you’ve dated the Bare Minimum Brigade your entire life — men who let doors slam in your face and split bills to the last cent — so when Oscar’s unconscious acts of care become impossible to ignore, you’re forced to confront a startling possibility: chivalry isn’t dead, you just never knew what it looked like
The thing is, you’ve never considered yourself a damsel.
You open your own jars, kill your own spiders, and have a colour-coded spreadsheet for your personal finances. You are, by all accounts, a woman who has her life meticulously, almost aggressively, together.
Your dating history reflects this preference for self-sufficiency. It’s a veritable graveyard of men who viewed chivalry as a quaint, dusty relic from a bygone era: men who let doors swing shut in your face, who walked ten paces ahead on a busy street, who split the bill down to the last miserable cent on a first date. You called them the Bare Minimum Brigade. You didn’t need a knight, you just wanted a partner.
And then, there’s Oscar.
The London air is crisp, carrying the distant scent of rain and exhaust fumes. You’re walking side-by-side, a comfortable silence settled between you after a long lunch. The pavement is uneven, a mosaic of cracked grey paving stones. He’s telling a story about babysitting Max Verstappen’s cats, something about a strategically destroyed roll of toilet paper, and his voice is a low, pleasant rumble against the city’s hum.
You’re approaching a particularly busy intersection. As the crowd thickens, funnelling you closer to the curb, a gentle pressure settles on the small of your back. It’s his hand. Before your brain can fully process the warmth of it, he’s steering you.
It’s not a push, not a pull. It’s a seamless, fluid motion, like a current guiding a boat into harbour. In the space of two steps, you’ve switched places. You are now on the inside of the sidewalk, nestled against the muted brick of a storefront. He is on the outside, a quiet barrier between you and the roaring red blur of a double-decker bus.
He doesn’t break his story.
“… and I swear Sassy looked me dead in the eye while she did it,” he finishes, a small smile playing on his lips. “Pure evil, that one.”
You’re not listening. Your mind has snagged on the manoeuvre. It was so subtle, so practiced, you might have missed it if you weren’t actively cataloguing every new and bewildering thing about him.
You stop walking. He pauses a few feet ahead, turning back, his expression shifting from amusement to concern. “Everything alright?”
“You just … you moved me,” you say, the words feeling clunky and strange in your mouth.
He glances back at the street, then at you. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. “Yeah? It was getting a bit crowded.”
“No, not … you switched sides with me. I was on the outside, and now I’m on the inside.”
He looks at you, really looks, and the cogs are visibly turning behind his calm, brown eyes. He seems genuinely baffled that this is something worth commenting on.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says finally, as if just realizing he’d done it. “Well, you’re not supposed to walk on the road side.”
He says it so simply. A statement of fact, like ‘the sky is blue’ or ‘water is wet’. It’s not a declaration of protective intent. It’s not a grand gesture. It’s just … a rule. An unspoken, deeply ingrained piece of code in his programming that he executed without a second thought.
Your ex, a man named Seth who considered sending a ‘u up?’ text at 2 a.m. the height of romantic effort, would have let you get clipped by a cyclist’s handlebar and then blamed you for not looking.
“I … huh,” is all you can manage.
Oscar’s brow furrows slightly. “Is that a bad thing?” He sounds genuinely worried now, as if he’s just committed some egregious social faux pas he’s entirely unaware of.
“No,” you say, shaking your head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across your face. “No, Oscar. It’s really not a bad thing.”
He watches you for a second longer, his expression still a little uncertain, before he offers a small, relieved smile in return. “Right. Good. C’mon, my flat’s just around the corner. I’ll make you a tea that’ll make you forget all about my weird walking habits.”
He starts walking again, and you fall into step beside him. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t throw an arm around you. But you are acutely aware of his presence beside you, a solid, unassuming shield against the chaos of the city. And for the first time in a very, very long time, you feel the foreign, terrifying, and wonderful sensation of being looked after.
***
A week later, you’re on the phone with your best friend, Jess, pacing the length of your small apartment.
“He did it again,” you say, twisting the phone cord around your finger.
“The dishes? Because if he did the dishes without you having to ask, I might have to build a small shrine in his honour,” Jess’s voice crackles through the receiver.
“No, not the dishes. The thing.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific. He does a lot of things. You know, for a man. Things like ‘listening’ and ‘remembering your coffee order’. Bizarre, I know.”
You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see you. “The sidewalk thing. We went out for dinner tonight. We walked from the restaurant to the car park, maybe a hundred metres. He switched sides with me three separate times. Three! Every time we crossed a street. It was like a perfectly choreographed dance I didn’t know I was a part of.”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then a low whistle. “Wow. So, what you’re saying is, he’s not just a fluke. This is a factory setting.”
“It has to be! Jess, it’s … weird.”
“Weird how? Weird bad? Or weird like finding a twenty-pound note in a jacket you haven’t worn in a year?”
You sink onto your sofa, tucking your feet under you. “Weird good. It’s just, no one has ever done that. Ever. My exes would have used me as a human shield against a rogue puddle.”
“Ah, yes. The Bare Minimum Brigade. A truly distinguished group of gentlemen,” she says dryly. “So, what did you do?”
“Nothing! I just let it happen. What am I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me, sir, could you please stop being so subconsciously considerate? It’s unnerving.’”
Jess laughs, a bright, clear sound. “Okay, I see your point. It’s like you’ve been subsisting on dry toast your whole life and someone just handed you a perfectly baked, artisanal sourdough with French butter. You don’t know what to do with it.”
“That is a startlingly accurate metaphor,” you admit. “It’s not just the walking, either. He always opens the car door for me.”
“Get out.”
“I’m serious. Not in a showy way. He just gets to the passenger side first, opens it, and waits for me to get in before he walks around to his side. The first time he did it, I just stood there like a lemon for a full ten seconds.”
“What did he do?”
“He just waited. Patiently. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me like, ‘Are you getting in, or …’”
“This man is a unicorn,” Jess declares. “A rare, Australian, motorsport-driving unicorn. You need to protect him. Keep him away from the influences of modern, emotionally stunted masculinity. Put him in a biodome if you have to.”
You laugh, the tension in your shoulders loosening. “It’s just, I’m not used to it. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, is this all an act? Is he going to turn around one day and ask me to pay him back for all the doors he’s opened, with interest?”
“Honey,” Jess says, her voice softening. “Some people are just nice. Genuinely, properly nice. Maybe he’s not putting on an act. Maybe that’s just who he is. Maybe his parents raised him right.”
The thought is both comforting and terrifying. If this is just him, if this isn't some elaborate ruse, then what does that mean? It means you might actually have to let your guard down. It means this might actually be … real.
“He also holds the door for everyone,” you add quietly. “Not just me. Men, women, elderly people, kids. If he gets to a door first, he holds it. It’s like a reflex.”
“Okay, the biodome is a go,” Jess says decisively. “I’ll start drawing up the blueprints.”
***
You’re in the paddock at Silverstone. The noise is a physical entity, a roaring, vibrating beast that seeps into your bones. The air smells of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and the nervous energy of thousands of people. It’s overwhelming, a sensory assault course, and you’re trying your best to look like you belong here.
Oscar has a debrief in ten minutes. You’re walking with him from the hospitality suite to the garage, a journey that feels like swimming upstream against a tide of media, team personnel, and VIPs. He has his game face on — focused, serious, his gaze fixed straight ahead. But his hand is resting lightly on your lower back again, a steady, grounding presence in the chaos.
A small crowd of fans has gathered near the entrance to the McLaren garage. They surge forward as he approaches, shouting his name, holding out caps and programmes for him to sign.
“Oscar! Oscar, over here!”
“Good luck this weekend, mate!”
He gives them a quick, polite nod, a tight smile. “Thanks, guys. Bit busy right now, maybe later.”
Most of them are respectful, but one man, burly and insistent, leans over the rope, shoving a phone in your direction. “Can you take a picture of us?” He barks at you, not even making eye contact.
You flinch, surprised by his aggression. Before you can form a response, Oscar has moved. It’s that same seamless efficiency as the sidewalk maneuver, but amplified. He takes a half-step, placing himself squarely between you and the man. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look annoyed. He looks … blank. Incredibly, unnervingly calm.
“Not right now, mate,” he says, his voice low and even, but with an edge of steel you’ve never heard before. It cuts through the surrounding noise. “And you’ll speak to her with a bit more respect.”
The man’s bravado immediately deflates. He mutters an apology, pulling his phone back.
Oscar gives him a short nod, then his hand is back on your back, urging you forward. “C’mon.”
You’re bustled through the garage doors and into the relative quiet of the engineering office. The door clicks shut behind you, muting the roar of the paddock to a distant hum. Your heart is hammering against your ribs.
“Are you alright?” He asks, his attention now fully on you. His brow is creased with genuine concern.
“I’m fine,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “He just startled me.”
“Some people just have no manners,” he says, shaking his head. It’s a simple statement, but the underlying frustration is clear. He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” you say, looking up at him. “You … thank you.”
“For what?” He looks genuinely confused again. “He was being a tosser.”
“For stepping in. For saying that.” You try to explain, the words tumbling out. “It’s just … most guys I’ve dated would have either ignored it or, worse, thought it was funny. They would have told me to ‘lighten up’.”
A look of deep distaste crosses his features. “Why would anyone think that’s funny?”
“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, a bitter little laugh escaping you. “Because they’re idiots?”
He gives a small, wry smile at that. “Can’t argue with that logic.” He glances at the clock on the wall. “Right, I’ve really got to go.” He hesitates for a second, then leans in and presses a quick, soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you after?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, touching the spot where his lips were. “See you after.”
He gives you one last small smile before disappearing into the debrief room. You’re left standing alone in the sterile office, the thrum of the garage vibrating through the floor.
It wasn’t a grand, dramatic defence. He didn’t puff out his chest or start a fight. He just calmly, quietly, and unequivocally drew a line. This is not acceptable. He didn’t do it to look like a hero. He did it because, in his world, you don’t let a stranger be rude to someone you’re with. It’s another rule from his unspoken codebook. Chapter 3, Subsection B: Don’t Tolerate Blokes Being Tosspots.
You sink into a nearby office chair, the adrenaline slowly leaving your system. It’s being replaced by something else. Something warm and solid and terrifyingly hopeful. Jess was right. This isn’t an act. This is just him. And you’re starting to think you could get very, very used to it.
***
The night is quiet. You’re curled up on his sofa in his Monaco apartment, a ridiculously soft blanket draped over your legs. A half-finished movie is playing on the television, casting flickering blue light across the room. Oscar is in the kitchen, the gentle clinking of mugs the only sound.
He comes back with two cups of tea, steam rising in fragrant clouds. He sets yours on the coaster on the side table, exactly how you like it — milky, one sugar. Another one of his small, silent observations.
He settles onto the other end of the sofa, stretching his long legs out. For a few minutes, you just sit in comfortable silence, watching the film, sipping your tea.
“I have a question,” you say, breaking the quiet.
“Shoot,” he says, his eyes still on the screen.
You take a deep breath. You’ve been wanting to ask this for weeks, ever since that first day in London, but you’ve been afraid of how it might sound. Afraid of making a big deal out of something he clearly sees as nothing.
“Why do you do it?”
He finally turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Do what?”
“All of it,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your mug. “The sidewalk thing. The doors. Today at the track. All the … gentlemanly stuff.” The word feels old-fashioned and silly on your tongue.
He processes this for a moment, a thoughtful frown touching his lips. He doesn’t laugh or dismiss it. He just thinks.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, honestly. “I don’t really think about it. It’s just how I was raised, I guess.”
“By who? Your parents?”
“Yeah. My dad, mostly,” he says, a fond, distant look in his eyes. “He’s a very proper bloke. Not in a stuffy way. Just … decent. He always told me, ‘You look after the people you’re with, Oscar. It’s not hard. It’s just what you do.’ It was never presented as a big deal. It was just part of being a good person, you know? Like saying please and thank you.”
You stare into your tea, the warmth seeping into your hands. It’s not hard. It’s just what you do. The simplicity of it is staggering. The Bare Minimum Brigade had always acted like basic consideration was a monumental effort, a task worthy of a medal.
“So it’s not a conscious choice?” You press, needing to understand. “You’re not thinking, ‘Oh, I must now place myself between her and the traffic’?”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “God, no. If I had to consciously think about it, I’d probably trip over my own feet and walk into a lamppost. Nah, it’s just … automatic. Like I said, it’s just how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?”
He asks it as a genuine question. Isn’t it? As if he can’t conceive of a world where men don’t do these things. As if your entire dating history is an anomaly from a bizarre alternate universe.
And in that moment, something inside you, a tightly wound knot of cynicism you’ve been carrying for years, finally begins to unravel. The constant analysis, the suspicion, the waiting for the other shoe to drop — it all just dissolves in the face of his simple, unpretentious decency.
He’s not trying to prove a point. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s not playing a role.
He’s just being Oscar.
“I guess it is,” you say softly, your voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite name.
He seems to sense the shift in you. He puts his mug down and shuffles closer on the sofa, closing the distance between you. He gently takes your mug from your hands and places it next to his. Then he just opens his arm in a silent invitation.
You don’t hesitate. You slide across the cushion and curl into his side, resting your head on his chest. You can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear. His arm wraps around you, holding you securely. It feels less like an embrace and more like a homecoming.
He rests his chin on the top of your head. The movie continues to play, forgotten. The sounds of the actors’ voices are just background noise to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
You settle back against him, feeling a profound sense of peace wash over you. The world outside, with its noise and its crowds and its rude men with camera phones, feels a million miles away. Here, in the quiet of his apartment, curled up on his sofa, you are on the inside. You are safe.
You think about all the things you thought you wanted in a partner. Someone who would challenge you, who would match your fierce independence, who wouldn’t try to ‘take care’ of you. You were so busy building your fortress, you never realized how nice it would be to have someone who just quietly, instinctively, makes sure the drawbridge is secure. Not because he thinks you can’t do it yourself, but because it’s just what you do for the people you care about.
He shifts slightly, his hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. It’s a simple, comforting gesture. Another unconscious act of care.
And you finally let yourself believe it. This isn’t a 2000s rom-com. It’s not a fairytale. It’s just a quiet Tuesday night with a decent man who was raised right. And you realize, with a stunning, heart-stopping clarity, that it’s more than you ever dared to wish for. It’s everything.
★ summary: max doesn't fear anything - except the way his chest feels tight every time you're within 30 feet of him
★ pairing: son of Ares!Max Verstappen x daughter of Aphrodite!reader
★ contains: demigod/camp half blood au, acquaintances to lovers, humor, swearing, romance, slight angst (you know i had to) mentions of food, descriptions of very minor injuries
★ word count: 5.9k
★ radio check: this idea came immediately after reading @tsunodaradio 's fall in (ft Oscar Piastri) & love is war (ft Yuki Tsunoda). i am absolutely obsessed w. kae's writing and you should definitely check them out (kae if you're reading this ily lets be friends <3
masterlist
The morning sun filtered through the strawberry fields and training dummies, scattering gold across the sand like someone had dusted Camp Half-Blood with sunlight. The air was warm already, thick with the mid-July heat that made the metal of the weapons racks shimmer. Somewhere behind you, a camper shouted as their sword clanged off a shield. Ahead, the scent of fresh hay and singed wood drifted from the arena after an unlucky Apollo kid set a dummy on fire again.
You tightened the strap of your gauntlet and rolled your shoulders, ready to face whatever overly dramatic combat drill the Ares cabin had designed to “make the weak stronger.” (Otherwise known as: an excuse to show off.)
You were halfway through stretching when you felt it - that electric prickle along the back of your neck. The feeling that someone was staring at you with too much intensity.
Max.
He stood across the arena with the rest of the Ares campers, braced and coiled like he was preparing to go to war instead of morning practice. The light caught on the edge of his jaw, making him look like he’d been carved from a block of irritation and muscle. His expression was unreadable, but his posture - tight shoulders, rigid spine - was classic Max. Silently annoyed, always watching, always calculating.
You didn’t hate the kid, per se, but he definitely wasn’t your favorite of the Ares bunch. (Which said a lot, considering the bar was already underground.)
The Ares’ head camper read off partners, voice booming through the arena like they were announcing gladiators instead of teenagers with wooden sticks.
You turned your head.
He turned his.
Your eyes met like two swords clashing.
And it was done. The Fates were clearly bored today.
You walked toward him with what you hoped was a neutral expression, even though your stomach did an entirely unnecessary flip. Max didn’t move aside when you approached. He never did. But he held himself like he expected you to hit him with your blade, and not the flat side.
His shoulders were tight, his jaw was tighter, and his entire aura radiated I am not affected in the way only someone extremely affected would.
“Verstappen,” you said in greeting
He nodded stiffly. “Let’s get this over with.”
You raised your wooden practice blade; he mirrored. A whistle blew, crisp and sharp, echoing off the stone walls of the arena. Max stepped in -
And immediately dropped his guard.
His arm sagged just slightly. His stance cracked open on the left, a gap so obvious it was practically an invitation.
You tapped his wrist lightly with your blade. “There.”
He blinked at you. “What?”
“You’re exposed.” You demonstrated the angle, stepping to the side. “If I wanted to land a hit, you just made it easy.”
He straightened. “No, I didn’t.”
“Max,” you said, stepping closer, “you did.”
You took his elbow and lifted it.
He went rigid - so rigid you almost stepped back. The muscles in his arms flexed under your touch, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t even anything flirtatious. It was a correction. Practical. Standard training procedure.
But he reacted like your hand was molten.
“There,” you repeated softly. “Better.”
Behind you, a wave of whispers, not-subtle gasps, and giggles rose from the younger Aphrodite campers who were definitely not supposed to be in the arena.
“Oh my gods, they’re so cute.”
“He’s blushing.”
“Max Verstappen, BLUSHING!”
“Someone write this down!”
Max’s ears went scarlet.
You could practically feel his embarrassment crackle like sparks of flint. He stepped back too quickly, heel sliding in the sand, flailed for balance, and missed the easiest counter in the universe.
He never missed.
The entire arena saw it. A couple of Ares kids stared at him like he’d sprouted wings; an Apollo archer paused mid-arrow draw.
Max stumbled, regained his footing, and acted like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just sent a shockwave through half the camp.
“Again,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut stone.
“Okay,” you said gently, lowering your blade.
But your heart was pounding. His was too, you could sense it in the air like heat from the forge.
You repositioned yourself. He adjusted his stance a second too late. You parried, tapped, corrected, falling into the rhythm you’d practiced a hundred times.
Except today he felt… different.
Hesitating. Distracted.
Trying not to look at your face.
Trying not to let you close enough to see the truth hiding in his eyes.
And trying desperately not to let it show.
You circled each other carefully, blades raised, feet shifting through the sand in practiced arcs. Dust kicked up beneath your heels, and clung stubbornly to the sweat collecting at your collarbone. Max was breathing a little harder than usual. Not from effort, but from something unsettled.
You struck.
He blocked, wooden blades colliding with a muted crack, but too late. You slipped through the opening and your blade tapped his rib with a dull thunk.
His eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction. Surprise. Annoyance. Something dark and flickering.
“You hesitated,” you said, lowering your blade just enough to make the point sting.
“No, I didn’t”
“Max.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose, tension snapping in a tiny visible ripple down his shoulders. “You keep getting too close.”
“That’s literally how sparring works.”
“That’s not-” He cut himself off so abruptly it was like the words burned his tongue. His jaw locked again, and he looked away for a heartbeat too long, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than at you.
Your grip tightened on your sword. ‘What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing is going on.” His posture stiffened, chin lifting a fraction too high, a tell you’d learned to read. “Can you just spar?”
Before you could answer, he lunged.
Instinct snapped through your muscles. You dodged left, felt the whoosh of his swing skim your arm, and pivoted, catching his next strike midair. The wooden swords clashed with force that vibrated all the way up your arms.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.
He pressed forward with a sudden ferocity, faster than you’d seen him all morning. His movements were sharper, less controlled. The Ares precision was still there, but under it was a wildness, like he wanted to push you back and pull away from you at the same time.
Your sneakers slipped slightly in the shifting sand as you blocked another strike, then another. You felt the shock of each impact in your wrists, the rapid thudding of your own heartbeat.
He wasn’t sloppy.
He wasn’t distracted.
He was… angry.
And you didn’t know why.
You only knew you could feel the frustration radiating off him like heat from a forge.
Finally, you caught him off guard and swept your blade under his arm, clean and precise. He froze, breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath the orange camp T-shirt.
“Point,” you announced quietly.
Silence. Thick. Tense.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t nod. Didn’t reset his stance. Didn’t even look at you.
He just stood there, blade at his side, shoulders trembling ever so slightly with the effort of keeping something inside from breaking loose.
You stepped into the Aphrodite cabin hoping for a few minutes of peace, maybe a cold drink, maybe five uninterrupted minutes where nobody said the word Max.
Just five. That’s all you wanted.
Instead, you barely crossed the threshold before a shriek split the air like a battle cry.
“There she is!”
“Our heroine returns!”
“Tell us everything!”
You stopped dead in the doorway. “No.”
It didn’t matter.
Instantly, you were swarmed, engulfed in a tidal wave of perfume, pastel fabric, and lethal enthusiasm. Aphrodite kids descended like piranhas, moving in perfect, terrifying synchronization.
One sibling grabbed your wrist. Another plucked your training sword away (why? No idea). A third shoved a pink notebook into your hands so quickly it nearly smacked you in the face.
Lacy, the cabin’s smallest agent of chaos, practically launched herself onto your bed and flipped open the notebook with a flourish.
The title page sparkled. Literally sparkled.
Daughter of Aphrodite Threat Assessment Chart with doodles of hearts, daggers, and questionable smiley faces.
“Alright,” Lacy said, clicking her pen with an authority she did not deserve. “Max Verstappen. Son of Ares. Thoughts?”
“No,” you repeated, firmer this time.
“Too late.” She drew a huge giant heart. Then aggressively struck it through with an X. “He’s dangerous. He’s emotionally repressed. He’s hot. That’s the holy trinity.”
“Lacy-”
“You touched his arm.” She pointed her pen at you like a sword. “And I swear to mom he almost combusted on the spot.”
“He got nervous,” another sibling chimed in, lounging dramatically on a chaise. “An Ares kid. Nervous. Around you. That’s basically a prophecy.”
“Stop,” you groaned, rubbing your temples.
But they were merciless:
“He’s totally into you.”
“He’s not subtle.”
“He dropped his sword today. HIS SWORD!”
“Name one other time Max Verstappen has shown weakness.”
Silence.
“Exactly. You are the weakness.”
“Guys, he just had an off day,” you said, exasperated, “there’s nothing going on.”
A collective gasp sucked all the oxygen out of the room.
“Not yet,” someone whispered ominously.
You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at the cluster of them. It bounced harmlessly off two of them and hit a third in the face. Nobody cared. They only laughed harder, collapsing into each other in melodramatic triumph.
You dragged your hands down your face. “I can’t do this today.”
Your siblings couldn’t hear you over their own cackling. They collapsed onto beds, onto each other, flinging limbs everywhere, celebrating like they’d just discovered a scandalous secret rather than invented one from thin air.
You shook your head and pushed your hair back, trying - and failing - to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Annoying as they were, they meant well. Sort of. Usually. In their own… chaotic way.
But in the middle of the chaos, you felt a tiny tug of warmth in your chest. A shift in the air. A soft, distant awareness.
You froze for a second.
Everyone else in the cabin kept giggling, kept arguing about fonts for the threat chart, kept plotting your nonexistent love life… but you no longer heard any of it.
Then the feeling faded.
Your mother was listening.
Dinner was usually lively, campers shouting across tables, the sizzle from the grill pit, harpies circling overhead threatening violence if anyone tried to sneak extra dessert. It was home. Warm. Chaotic.
But tonight, every clang of cutlery felt like someone was hammering on your nerves with celestial bronze.
You sat at the Aphrodite table, pushing blueberries around your plate. The air smelled like roast beef and freshly poured nectar, sweet enough to make your head spin.
And across the pavilion, barely thirty feet away, Max was pretending you didn’t exist.
He sat with the Ares cabin, shoulders rigid, posture a perfect soldier’s silhouette. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t eating. He was just… staring at his plate with the intensity of someone trying to will it to open a portal he could escape through.
But even from this distance, you felt it.
Every time you shifted in your seat. Every time you sighed. Every time you ran your fingers through your hair or lifted your cup.
His attention flicked to you. Fast. Sharp. There and gone in a heartbeat.
But you felt it like static under your skin.
Ares kids were not subtle. And Max, despite trying desperately to be, was not an exception.
“Hey, Max!” one of his siblings shouted, loud enough to snap half the pavilion’s heads in his direction. “Your girlfriend looks lonely!”
A chorus of snickers rose from the table. Someone banged their shield on the wood for emphasis. Someone else wolf-whistled.
Max froze.
Then jerked so violently he nearly launched his goblet across the table. It clattered, nectar sloshing over the rim, and the entire Ares cabin erupted into laughter, pounding him on the back, shoulders, helmet, whatever they could and a hit before he swatted them away.
You didn’t react.
You kept your expression perfectly, flawlessly neutral as you stabbed your fork into a piece of strawberry with far more force than necessary.
You didn’t look at him.
Not even when your siblings leaned in dramatically, whispering:
“Oh my gods, he’s so obvious.”
“He’s going to explode.”
“Should we place bets?”
“You two are killing me.”
You ignored them.
But your heart betrayed you instantly, skipping, tightening, warming with that same infuriating pull that had been haunting you all day. That invisible thread tugging between you and him, no matter how far he tried to stretch it.
A breeze drifted through the pavilion, stirring your hair, brushing cool air across your shoulders.
You lifted your gaze for the briefest moment.
Max looked up at the same time.
Your eyes met across the distance. Just one second, one breath, one flash of something unguarded.
Then he looked away so fast it nearly snapped his neck. You swallowed, a knot forming in your chest.
If this was avoidance…
Something was definitely wrong.
Or complicated.
Or dangerous.
Or all three.
But gods, you could feel it.
Whatever was happening inside him - a storm, hesitation, a want so tightly locked down it was starting to crack - it was aimed right at you.
Golden hour spilled through the forest like melted honey, turning pines into towering pillars of gold and shadow. The leaves glowed with a warm translucence. The air shimmered as if the whole world were holding its breath. It should’ve been breathtaking.
Except you were sprinting for your life.
Branches clawed at your arms as you tore through the underbrush, the forest floor kicking up in bursts beneath your boots. Every inhale scorched your lungs. Every exhale tasted like panic and pine sap. The woods around you echoed with the chaos of Capture the Flag - war cries, clashing weapons, the metallic snap of traps springing shut, the thundering rhythm of feet pounding earth.
A shadow darted left. Someone shouted orders behind you. The sharp tang of ozone from a shock trap stung your nose.
You vaulted over a fallen log with a grunt, nearly slipping, then ducked beneath a low-hanging branch at the last second, feeling pine needle graze your hair. You skidded to a stop at the edge of a clearing.
That’s when you saw them.
Three Athena kids closing in on Max.
He stood in the clearing’s center, framed by sunbeams slanting through the canopy like stage lights. His T-shirt was sweat-darkened beneath his armor, clinging to the sharp lines of muscle across his shoulders. His hands, cut and bruised, gripped his weapons in a stance that was solid but fraying. His jaw was clenched hard enough you could see the strain from where you stood.
Max was holding off two attackers at once, barely. Their strikes were precise, coordinated, strategic in a way that screamed Athena. A fourth kid apparently hadn’t been as lucky, judging by the lone pair of sneakers dangling from a nearby branch, they were probably tied up in a tree somewhere, courtesy of Max’s earlier efforts.
But even Max couldn’t fight three of Athena’s best indefinitely.
You saw the moment his stance faltered. The moment exhaustion pulled at his shoulders. The moment fear - not for himself, but for the flag behind him - tightened the air.
Then one of the Athena campers raised a spear. Aimed straight at him.
You didn’t think. Didn’t weigh the consequences. Didn’t consider that charm-speak in a game was technically frowned upon.
You just moved.
“Hey!” you called, voice slicing through the clearing. The Athena kids didn’t look. Of course they didn’t. Athena kids were trained to ignore distractions.
So you pulled the power up from somewhere warm, sweet, and dangerous in your chest, and let it ring.
“Look at me.”
The command struck the clearing like a shockwave.
The Athena campers froze mid-step. Their heads snapped toward you in perfect unison, eyes glazing, shoulders slacking. Spears dipped toward the dirt as their focus melted away like wax under heat.
Max spun at the sudden shift, shock flashing across his face for only a heartbeat. He understood the opening instantly.
One - disarmed with a twist of the wrist
Two - a sweep of his leg sent them crashing into the leaves
Three - a clean strike knocked their spear into the dirt.
The forest exhaled. Silence rushed in.
It was over in seconds.
But when Max looked back at you, chest rising and falling, jaw clenched, there was more than battle adrenaline in his eyes.
There was fear. There was anger. But more than anything, there was that same raw, unguarded softness he kept trying to bury.
“You could’ve been hit,” he barked, the roughness in his voice sharper than any blade on the field.
“So could you,” you shot back, stepping boldly into the clearing. “What, you wanted me to just stand here and watch you get skewered like a kebab?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
His nostrils flared. His fists curled at his sides. He looked like he was trying to hold twenty emotions in at once and had no idea which one was going to break free first.
“You can’t just throw yourself into danger like that,” he ground out, low and strained.
“Funny,” you laughed, sharp, humorless as you crossed your arms, “coming from the guy who refuses to call for backup because his pride won’t let him.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. Looked back at you with something close to pain.
Max Verstappen, son of Ares, future warlord of bruised egos and flaming weapons… looked absolutely wrecked.
He wasn’t furious at you. He wasn’t even furious at the situation.
He just looked like someone who cared far, far too much.
The trees around you rustled gently, as if gossiping. The fading sunlight pooled at his feet, turning his disheveled hair gold. Sweat glistened on his jaw. His chest rose too fast, too unsteady, betraying everything he was trying to hide behind anger.
He looked like a boy standing on the edge of a cliff.
And you were the drop.
The sun had dipped low behind the hills, bleeding soft pink and lavender into the sky like the world was sighing itself into evening. Capture the Flag had ended hours ago, but your pulse still hadn't settled, and your thoughts spun in tight, tangled loops.
You should’ve been heading to the campfire. Or the cabins. Or anywhere normal.
Instead, you sat alone on the steps behind the strawberry fields, hugging your knees to your chest. The boards were cool beneath you. The breeze was cooler, soft fingers threading through your hair, carrying the smell of berries and bonfire smoke.
Fireflies blinked lazily through tall grass, glowing like little golden secrets. From somewhere behind the cabins, someone laughed, light, unbothered, unaware of the war in your ribcage.
You weren’t doing anything dramatic. No tears. No declarations. Just…sitting.
But gods you were tired.
Tired in that deep, soul-heavy way where even thinking felt like wading through honey. Tired of the way Max looked at you like you were dangerous. Tired of the way he pretended not to care, only to throw himself between you and danger every five minutes. Tired of the way your chest twisted every time he walked away before you could say something real
You pressed your face into your hands and muttered, barely above a whisper. Barely anything at all.
“If he could just tell me how he feels for once in his life.”
It wasn’t meant for anyone. Not a prayer, not a plea to the heavens. Just a thought escaping before you could swallow it.
But the wind shifted. The air warmed. Softened.
And somewhere unseen, silk rustled. Roses unfurled. A divine pulse rippled through the camp, faint but unmistakable.
Because it didn’t matter that you hadn’t said her name. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t meant to call her. Aphrodite heard heartbreak the way sharks smelled blood.
Your mother’s awareness brushed your cheek like the softest fingertips, curious, attentive, humming with interest.
Then, she was gone.
Across camp, in the dim glow of the armory lanterns, Max sat alone on a wooden bench, elbows on his knees, head hung low. The room around him was still and heavy, smelling of steel shavings, old leather, and the sharp metallic tang of weapon oil. The remnants of battle clung to him like a second skin.
His knuckles were scraped raw from the game. A smear of dirt streaked his cheek. Sweat dried in salt-crusted lines along his jaw.
Sure, he looked like the son of Ares, tired, battered, coiled with leftover adrenaline, but there was something hollowed out. Something hurting.
He dragged a hand back through his hair, pushing damp strands off his forehead, and let his shoulders slump in a way he would never allow in front of anyone else
He was exhausted. Wrung out. Haunted.
The armory should have been silent. Should have been safe. But he didn’t see the way the shadows shifted. How the lantern flame flickered though the air was still. How the temperature rose by a single, subtle degree.
He just let out a long, breaking breath and murmured into the empty room:
“Why do I have to feel anything at all?”
Not a prayer. Not spoken with intention. Definitely not meant for Aphrodite.
But it didn’t matter. She heard it anyway.
And this time, her presence stirred with something sharper. Interest, surprise, a slow smile curled in the dark.
Two hearts wanting opposite things. Two mortals fighting with themselves and each other. Two threads in the same woven tapestry, pulling tighter with every breath.
How utterly delicious.
Aphrodite leaned in - not physically, but with the divine focus that could split mountains. Her awareness wrapped around him like warm fingers under his chin, tilting his face toward a truth he refused to see.
She stretched herself thin across camp, touching both of you at once - your yearning, his fear - tasting the friction, the spark, the storm forming between love and war.
Clashing desires. Conflicting emotions. A connection neither of you could escape.
She was absolutely intrigued.
Surprisingly, Aphrodite didn’t appear with trumpets or glowing hearts or a dramatic whirlwind of pink petals. No cascade of doves, no harp glissando, no “my darling daughter, behold!” theatrics.
She simply appeared. Calm, composed, with elegance and a little too much knowing in her smile.
You had wandered far from your sulking spot behind the strawberry fields, seeking somewhere else quiet, somewhere wide and empty enough to hold your spiraling thoughts. The Long Island Sound stretched before you like a sheet of dark glass, catching the last traces of lavender dusk on its rippling surface.
You stood ankle deep in the cool water, waves lapping gently at your skin. You tried to breathe. To think. To unknot the tension in your chest that Max had somehow become entirely responsible for.
The breeze shifted suddenly. Warm. Honey-sweet. Too gentle to be natural.
Your spine went rigid.
By the time you looked up, she was already there.
Aphrodite stood on the shoreline as if she had risen from the foam itself. Her bare feet sunk into the wet sand, gown shimmered like it was spun from morning light. Her hair fell perfectly, untouched by humidity, wind, or physics. And her eyes, the same warm, liquid gold you’d catch glimpses of in your own reflection.
Beautiful. Effortless. Utterly terrifying.
“What do you want?” you asked immediately, exhaustion flattening your voice. Your shoulders sank as if you already knew the answer. “Seriously, can we not do this tonight?”
“Well hello to you too,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s always so refreshing to see how deeply appreciated I am.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but she raised a brow and continued before you could.
“You’re glowing lately,” she said, tone too casual for your liking
Flush filled your cheeks. “I am not.”
“Mmm,” She stepped closer, circling you like she was inspecting a piece of fine jewelry. “There’s that little flutter in your aura… that sparkle behind your eyes… that tilt in your smile… It’s adorable.”
A groan escaped your lips. “Please stop observing me like I’m a museum exhibit.”
Aphrodite only hummed, the sound laced with knowing amusement. She was intimately aware of every secret you’d ever tried, and failed, to hide.
“I see the way you look at him.” She said lightly. “And the way he tries not to look at you.”
Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. “Okay and? Ares won’t like it.”
She waved a hand, dismissing the notion like it was a mildly annoying fly. “Ares doesn’t like anything that doesn’t involve bloodshed or that dreadful bronze polish he insists on using for his armor.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
Aphrodite stepped closer, and her expression softened. Not condescending, just… sincere. A rarity that made your throat tighten.
“But I didn’t come to scold you,” she said. “Or tease you.” She paused. “This time.”
You swallowed. “Then why?”
Her eyes darkened with weary beneath the glow. “I came to warn you.”
Your whole body went still.
“Children of Ares burn bright,” she murmured, voice suddenly heavy with meaning.. “They love like war - intensely, destructively, fiercely.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the cabin in the distance, then back to you. “And they break just as hard.”
“I know,” you whispered, though the words felt small, unsure.
“Do you?” Her voice was gentle but sharp.
She cupped your cheek with a touch so light it barely existed, but the warmth of it spread through you like a blooming flower. “Ares will push him. His siblings will challenge him further. His own heart is a battlefield. If he thinks loving you makes him weak, he may run from you. Or worse - lash out.”
A lump formed in your throat.
“Be careful with your heart… and his.”
Before you could breathe, before you could ask what she meant, before you could ground yourself enough to speak, she vanished.
Just a dissolve of light. A whisper of rose-scent. And the sudden, crushing silence of being alone with your racing heartbeat.
The tide washed over your ankles again.
The dream didn’t feel like a dream.
It felt like the arena behind the Ares cabin - dirt underfoot, iron in the air, the distant tang of smoke from the forges curling lazily upward. Max stood alone in the center, chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths.
Except the sky above him wasn’t the camp’s sky. It was wrong. Too red. Too heavy. Like it had been painted in dried blood and set on fire. A suffocating, pulsing crimson.
A shadow moved behind him.
He didn’t turn. He already knew who it was.
Heat rolled across his back first. Then the crunch of boots on dirt. Then the low, vibrating hum of restrained violence.
Ares never announced himself. He didn’t have to.
He materialized in a flare of red heat and the stench of old battlefields, blood, dust, steel. His armor looked like it had been torn from corpses on different continents in different time periods and hammered together with impatience. His hair was wild. His beard was uneven. His presence burned.
He looked at Max the way a general looks at a rookie soldier already on thin ice.
“Still soft,” Ares said, voice rough enough to scrape bone. “All this training, and yet you never learn.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I’m not soft.”
Ares dragged the tip of his spear across the dirt, leaving a long, ugly scar in the dust. “Strength isn’t just about your arms, boy. It’s about your head. Your heart.” He flicked the spear up, pointing it directly at Max. “And yours is cluttered.”
Max didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t give Ares anything. Silence was safer.
Ares stepped closer, a sharp, predatory smirk on his lips. “She’s making you weak.”
The flinch was tiny, almost nothing. But Ares noticed. Of course he did. The god’s smile widened into something feral, a confirmed suspicion..
“There it is.” His voice dipped low, almost silky. “Affection. Attachment. All that… mortal fragility.” His lip curled like he smelled something rotten. “She will be your downfall.”
Heat surged under Max’s skin. Embarrassment, anger, fear. Each one overlapped until his breath stuttered. He hated that Ares saw too much. Hated more that the god was right about at least one thing: he wasn’t thinking clearly these days. He wasn’t fighting clearly.
Ares stepped closer, the air warping with the force of him. “War is survival. Love is distraction.”
Max’s fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. “You don’t know anything about-”
But Ares cut him off with a short, mocking laugh, like a blade striking armor. “I know everything about you. You’re mine. My son.” He jabbed the spear towards Max’s chest. Not enough to hit, but enough to slice the air between them. “And you’re acting like you think you get to choose who you are.”
Max’s pulse hammered. His ears rang.
“Wake up, boy,” he continued, cruel in softness. “Before she costs you everything.”
The arena split between Max’s feet. The sky bled downward. The whole world collapsed inward like a dying star.
Max jolted awake.
His body snapped upright so fast the mattress groaned. Cold sweat slicked down his spine. His chest heaved like he’d been sprinting for miles. For a moment he didn’t recognize his own cabin, the rows of bunks, the moonlight cutting across the floor.
His hands were shaking.
He pressed both palms over his face, dragging in air that refused to steady. Ares’ words clung to him, colder now that the dream was fading.
She’ll be your downfall.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. He felt angry: at Ares, at himself, at the feeling clawing under his ribs. And beneath the anger, something worse: fear.
You didn’t expect to see him again that night.
After your mother’s warning, you spent the rest of the evening doing everything in your power to feel normal. You helped your siblings braid each other’s hair. You messed with glittering nail polish. You pretended the ache between your ribcage was nothing. You forced yourself to laugh at a joke you didn’t hear.
Though through it all, that strange, lingering tension in your chest only pulled tighter. It felt like walking around with someone else’s heartbeat pressed against your own, too loud, too uneven, too close.
By the time the Aphrodite cabin dimmed its lights, everyone slipping into soft pajamas and softer gossip, your skin was buzzing. You tried to sleep. You couldn’t. You laid in your bunk, staring at the twinkling charm lights on the ceiling, counting each uneven breath.
Then: A knock.
Sharp. Contained. Barely holding together.
Your stomach sank.
You opened the door.
When you opened it, the moonlight poured over him first.
Max stood on your doorstep like a shadow carved out of fear. Shoulders rigid. Face pale. Knuckles split and bruised. Sweat dried in uneven streaks on his temples. His eyes were dark, unfocused, as if he’d sprinted here from a nightmare and hadn’t realized he was awake yet.
He didn’t look at you. Because looking at you might break him completely.
Something inside you fractured instead.
“Max?” You whispered
He didn’t answer. His breath came out in a rough, uneven exhale. A sound only made by someone who had been running or drowning, trying desperately not to fall apart.
Then, without warning, he sank down onto the top step of your cabin. Shoulders shook once. Hands braced on his knees. His head bowed.
Ares kids don’t show fear.
But this was something even you couldn’t name.
You sat beside him, leaving just enough space for him to choose. He didn’t move at first. He didn’t speak
Then, very slowly, like the weight of the world was dragging him forward, he leaned his forehead against your shoulder.
You froze. Not from fear, but from the realization that this boy, made of iron and war, was trembling against you.
Ares kids only lean in when they’re breaking.
After a long, brittle minute, he muttered, voice raw sandpaper:
“He was there.”
Your chest tightened. He didn’t need to explain. There was only one “he” that could shake Max.
Ares. The god of war. His father. His worst nightmare. His sharpest shadow.
“What happened?” you whispered
He gritted his teeth. “I couldn’t shut him out.”
You closed your eyes. Aphrodite’s voice echoed in your mind “Ares will push him. He will push you away when he gets scared.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You’re not him.”
The words must’ve struck a nerve because he let out a small, splintered sound, and your heart shattered. You wanted to hold him. You didn’t. Not until he asks.
But before you could gather your thoughts, a soft breeze drifted past. Warm. Sweet. Scented unmistakably with roses.
Max flinched. His breath caught. His body went rigid against your shoulder. He lifted his head, eyes wide, pupils blown.
“Was… that-?” He couldn’t finish his sentence.
You nodded “She was here earlier.”
His jaw locked. Something ugly and scared flashed across his face. “She saw me?”
“She felt you,” you said gently. “She knows.”
Max stood so fast the step creaked. He paced once, twice, running a shaking hand through his hair, breath coming sharp and uneven again.
Then he turned to you, not angry at you, but terrified for you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked, raw with panic. “Why didn’t you warn me she was watching?”
“Max,” you breathed, rising to your feet slowly, “she wasn’t angry.”
“That’s worse.” His voice was sharp, but his eyes were glassy. “Ares - he doesn’t - he won’t - fuck, you don’t understand.”
You stepped closer. “Then help me understand.”
He let out a harsh, broken laugh. “She knows how I -” He stopped himself violently, fists clenched. “How I… care. And Ares - he sees it as weakness. He’ll push. He’ll punish. And you’ll be the one who gets hurt.”
You shook your head. “Aphrodite didn’t come to threaten me.”
He stilled. His breathing stuttered.
“She came to warn me,” you admitted softly. “That you’d run. That you’d get scared and pull away.”
Max’s eyes snapped to yours. Destroyed. Conflicted. Desperate.
“I came here,” he said quietly, like the words were dragging blood from him, “because I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t want to run.”
You took another step closer. Then another. “Then stay.”
He exhaled like he’d been stabbed. He looked at you like you asked him to step into fire.
“I can’t protect you from him,” he whispered
“You don’t have to,” you reached up, barely brushing his wrist. “Just don’t shut me out.”
He exhaled, ragged. Something broke open in him. Something folded. Something gave up fighting itself.
He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. Warm. Trembling. Fragile in a way he desperately didn’t want to be.
“You smell like roses,” he murmured, almost pained. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known she touched you. That she was telling you things. I thought -”
“What?”
“That you’d realize loving someone like me is a mistake.”
Your breath hitched. Your hand rose to his jaw, cupping it gently, your thumb tracing the line where fear met fury.
“Max,” you whisper, “loving you would be brave. Not foolish.”
His eyes closed. A single, shaky breath escaped him. He leaned into your touch like it was the first real thing he’d felt in hours. Slowly, carefully, like touching sunlight after years in the shadows.
And his voice, barely audible, terrified, broke between your hands:
“Don’t leave.”
“Never,” you whispered.
And for the first time, his shoulders finally let go.
Summary: Max is loving having a clingy girlfriend and y/n is actually trying to tone it down till Max tells her not to bother.
Word count: 1.4k
"Please." Y/n pouts making Max sigh a little before he leans over cupping her face.
"You know I'll be back. I'm not disappearing forever and you are only staying because you offered to stay with the pets." Max reminds her while y/n huffs a little since she knows that's entirely true. But it doesn't mean she's happy about her past self's promise. "I'll call you once I'm in the car and I'll call once I land."
"Ok." Y/n nods then smiling when Max leans down and captures he in a long kiss that's almost teasing which makes them both regret the choice to lie in rather than indulge in morning sex before he left. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Y/n smiles as Max picks up Donatello and launches him onto the bed to lie with y/n hoping that will help bring her some sort of comfort. Though really he knows that y/n just wants Max there because she finds comfort in his presence and just him as a person.
Donatello thankfully is far more cuddly than Jimmy or Sassy so y/n does hold onto the cat and settle down into a sleep.
-
"I don't know what if I'm too clingy for him." Y/n sighs resorting to the girls for some advice.
"I personally don't think there's such a thing, however if it's giving you anxiety babe. Just see how it feels pulling back a little." Y/f/n states softly while y/n sighs knowing that she maybe should pull back.
Her and Max might not be brand new but it's more recently got intense and she knows it's from her side because in truth he's not the clingy one. In fact Max is viciously independent and he has a busy life, one that y/n's clinginess has to be a burden to.
"Yeah, maybe I should." Y/n nods though she doesn't feel great about it.
"Hey, you just need to do what's right for you babe. Only you decide that."
Y/n nods but allows the conversation to move on hoping to be left with her thoughts. And eventually the call is over because people have things to do and their lives to get on with.
Y/n takes care of the cats doing her self appointed tasks before getting Nino in his harness and texting Alex to see if she's up for a dog walk together with Nino and Leo.
Alex is usually a refreshingly calm and rational voice to bounce ideas off of, but she's a fairly new friend in y/n's life so she hesitates to immediately turn to her for advice sometimes. But if there is anyone to understand her situation, she thinks it's another F1 WAG.
"I think you're doing nothing wrong. Max knows you. He understands your wants and needs, you might be...more dependent on him but that's something he is aware of how you are and what you need. He wouldn't be with you if he didn't want a woman like you." Alex stations making y/n puff out as she watches their little dogs trot along the path.
"But maybe if I try easing up? It might not be so badly received?"
"You can try, but I don't think it will go unnoticed."
-
Max's return home from the race weekend was, as usual, no time wasted in getting out of there onto his jet and then to Nice with a helicopter ready to get him from Nice back to Monaco.
The same journey home as always.
But his return to the apartment is not as warm as he'd grown used to.
"Baby?" Max calls out having expected y/n to practically charge at him as she has every other time. "Y/n? Are you home?"
"Yeah, I'm just cooking." Y/n calls back glad he can't see her since it's physically pained her to fight the urge to run to him.
"Do I not get a hello?" Max asks walking in with all the pets plodding after him like they're imprinted on the man and maybe all things considered, they are.
"Hello." Y/n smiles hugging him gently but not lingering or prolonging it for a second more than she thinks anyone else would and though he doesn't say anything but his expression says a lot. Not that y/n notices because she's already looking back at the pan. "How was the trip back?"
"It was good. Quick which is what I like."
"Good. You were incredible in the race." Y/n states then biting her lip to stop her from saying anything more. "I think all the babies missed you."
"Just the animals? Did you not miss me?" Max asks wrapping his arms around her from behind, hoping to prompt some more of y/n's usual clinginess that he was never blind to or unaware of.
"Yeah, but I mean you do you see them." Y/n laughs gesturing to the cats who have lined up with Nino lying on his back waiting for a belly rub. "It's gonna be a while till the food is done, you can go sit down with them. Just relax if you want."
Max begins to wonder if he's done something wrong but y/n doesn't say another word and he walks out with the animals following him.
Jimmy and Sassy seem to just want to be in his presence from a distance while the newer, younger additions to the family are much more latched onto him as he lets them cuddle up into him.
Y/n serves dinner up sitting away from Max at the other end of the sofa. She talks to him and it doesn't feel hostile but he can't deny there's an awkward atmosphere with the distance.
But it's not till they're getting into bed that Max finally snaps when y/n doesn't lie and cuddle with him but instead lies on the edge of the bed, completely aware of their distance and almost shivering from how far he is from her. They have a super king so there's always plenty of space to spare, but y/n never sleeps without invading and sharing Max's space and he loves it.
"Y/n, what is going on?" Max finally snaps with a huff, not angry but just upset and wondering where this change is coming from.
"What?" Y/n frowns before jumping when his hot hands reach grabbing her body and pulling her through the sheets towards himself.
"Why are you acting like you can't stand me?"
"I'm not."
"You are for you!" Max stresses while y/n looks at him with a sad expression. "Baby, what is going on?"
"I...I thought I was being too clingy, so I wanted to just give you space."
"I don't want space. I want you all the time and you're the only person I want like that." Max frowns shaking his head but softening his voice. "Who told you to change?"
"Well...no one really. But they said if I thought I needed to back off then I should follow my gut." Y/n mumbles feeling incredibly stupid. "I was just overthinking about it. I didn't mean to upset you."
"Baby, I didn't sign up for a girlfriend who was...nonchalant and unbothered about actually wanting to be around me. I signed up for you because I love how you show your love and how you want to be loved."
Y/n stays silent then cuddling into Max silently while he sighs squeezing her tightly.
"Can you try talking to me next time you decide to give yourself some self punishment that actually just punishes me?"
"Trust me...I hated not being clingy. But I thought you might prefer it."
"I don't. Don't ever do that again. I hated it." Max declares then smiling. "And I really hate you pushing yourself as far from me as possible in bed. That is never happening again unless you want me to superglue us together."
"I thought that was my job."
"It is your job, unless you decide to start changing up on me again." Max declares then sighing. "Seriously, y/n. You scared me. I thought you were deciding to end things and finding the right time or something."
"Sorry. I really didn't mean to make it like that."
"It's ok. I probably should've known you were just overthinking like an idiot." Max teases earning a small laugh. "Ok?"
"Ok." Y/n nods then grinning at him and kissing him in a very long and heated kiss. "You have no idea how hard it was to hold myself back from kissing you all night."
Maybe something with max/lando where they fight with reader and she goes out to unwind but has a crash/incident in the street, nothing major but angsty (they can both be in the car tho, do as u please) sorry for my english <3
the fondness of distance - MV33
pairing: max verstappen x gf!fem!reader
summary: max's recent distance from you finally reaches it's boiling point and it lands you in the hospital.
warnings: fluff, angst, arguing, miscommunication, reader gets into an accident, injuries, mentions of blood, indirect mentions of mental health, mentions of crashing/spinning cars, j*s mention // poorly proof-read ♡︎
word count: 2.7k+
a/n: hello anon! sorry it took so long to complete but here you go! it's hard to write max reqs without thinking of rd!max ARGHHH but i'm trying lol! lmk what you think ♡︎
tag list ♡︎: @moonvr @justaf1girl
🏎️ masterlist | ⚽️ masterlist
You supposed this fight had been a long time coming. Something that had been building up for a few weeks now.
The obnoxiously long hours Max had been spending on the simulator. The magic excuse he had before leaving for training, saying he couldn't help you with your task at the time. Heading straight to bed after you finished dinner to watch some old races. He joked less. He barely hugged you like he did before. His attention to your pets had been minimal—needless to say, Jimmy was not a happy cat.
Max wasn't angered easily. But with the mention of his fifth championship potentially being won, he had been neglecting you.
You had decided to play along with it. You didn't want to mess anything up. So, you thought pulling back was the best thing you could do. Maintaining a small distance, letting him leave when he wanted to, not choosing to pick at all the things that had been bothering you... but you just couldn't understand why he wouldn't communicate with you. This had never been a problem. You were in the healthiest relationship you had ever known. Yet every opportunity you gave him was shut down, saying he was fine.
But it took one thing to break your silence.
It was a Tuesday night after the very interesting Mexico GP. You were finishing dinner together as per usual. Max had been talking about the stream he had just done, laugh slowly coming to a stop when he realised you weren't responding as much. His hand reached over the table, resting on yours. "Hey, are you okay?" He asked.
You blinked, looking up from your empty plate and at him. You took in the concerned expression over his face. It was strange. You hadn't seen it recently. The deep look in his eyes nor the small frown on his face. You painted a tight smile on your face and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. You were saying?"
He furrowed his brows at your response. "Schat, you've been like this all week. Sitting far away from me, smiling less... you were even at the back of the podium on Sunday. What's going on?"
Your jaw clenched. You had done that. Standing at the back of the crowd in Mexico with his father because you had truly been at a loss. And with his father muttering some unkind words under his breath, you couldn't find the courage to go the front. But that wasn't the point. He had noticed. Just like you had. And he had waited a week to ask. A whole goddamn week. While you had been asking him what was wrong for weeks.
You breathed out slowly, grabbing your plate, and standing up from the table. "Can we not do this right now? I just want to go to bed."
Max watched you head towards the kitchen, standing up after you. "No. I want to talk about this. If something's wrong, I want to know so I can help," he exasperated, putting his plate into the sink before turning to you, hand resting on his hip. His brows were low as he tried to figure out what was going on.
The laugh falling from your lips was sharp yet dry. "Oh, so now you want to talk?" You hummed.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He retorted, baffled at your snarky tone. You never sounded like this. So... mean. It was unusual. Unsettling.
You stared at him blankly. Max was smart. You knew that. He knew it. But God, he could be so dumb. And it made your blood boil. "What's that supposed to— I'm sorry, what do you call the past few weeks? All those hours on the simulator, training instead of resting and spending time with me or the pets. You have dinner, you go to bed, or you race. I mean God, you barely even look at me anymore!"
Max blinked, taken aback by your confessions, mind instantly trying to decipher the memories you had brought up. The look on his face was as if you had attempted to hurl a knife into his heart because that's exactly where your words had landed. He hadn't realised he had been doing all of that. He had just gotten so caught up and he didn't want to bring you into this mess...
"T-That's not true! It's just with the championship and everything—"
You chuckled sorely, dull eyes staring back at him. "Ah yes... the championship. I never thought that would be the thing to drive a wedge between us," you sighed bitterly, shaking your head with disbelief.
His championships had always been a source of happiness for the both of you. At least for the most part. It symbolised your celebration, his hard work and efforts, and your pride. It made all the difficulties through the year worth it. But you had gotten through it together. But this year... that wasn't the case.
"A wedge?" He queried with incredulity. He swallowed, shaking his head frantically. "There's no wedge. You know how my father is. He's been pestering me about this since those points came to me. I... I don't want to let him down. You know how it is."
You raised your hands in the air, looking at him puzzled. "How am I supposed to know that if you don't tell me?" You huffed, letting your hands fall to your side.
"I thought you'd know!"
You fell silent at his exclaim, watching a familiar flush of red take over his face. He was tired. You were tired. You chewed in the inside of your cheek before speaking. "I'm not a goddamn mind reader, Max," you hissed, swallowing at his small flinch when you mentioned his name. "This doesn't work if I'm the only one talking."
Max's heart ached at your words. His brain buffered as you stepped away, inching towards the front door, grabbing the keys from the hook next to it. He furrowed his brows. "Where are you going?"
"I need some air," you muttered.
"No, come on, schat. Let's talk about this. We can fix this," Max exasperated, already walking over to you but you had already closed the door. His feet stood still, planted on the cold marble floors of his penthouse. He sighed, blinking away the small sting in his eyes. He turned to the feel of fur curling up against his leg, Jimmy and Sassy peering up at him like they knew. "She'll be back," he whispered, half trying to assure them and himself.
You weren't sure where you were going. You just needed to be out of the house. Max was right. You could fix this. But you had to leave before you said something you'd regret. You weren't thinking straight. You couldn't when you were angry.
The cold air of Monaco blowing past you attempted to calm you down as you walked through the streets, arms folded and tucked into one another, brain busy mulling over what had already been said between you and Max.
To an extent, you understood Max. Jos... well he was Jos, surprise, surprise. Tough and happy to be cruel if it reaped its benefits. At the start of the year, a fifth championship was sort of out of the question. The car hadn't been great. Even with an encouraging win in Suzuka. But things had changed since then. The McLarens had fallen victim to the inevitable: fighting against one another. And with a garage that couldn't communicate with them, Max's name had suddenly entered the conversation. And his father was pressing him.
You knew he had his differences with his father. That's why he was able to talk to you about him. Someone who hadn't grown up with that man and he could just vent or complain to—anything to just reduce the stress. But this time he hadn't. No, instead he had let it hurt your relationship. And that pained you the most.
It had been a few weeks, but it was enough to miss Max even when he was right in front of you. It was like living with a stranger or an assigned roommate. Alive with the most minimal presence to show for his beating heart.
Had you not asked enough? Should you have gone beyond his "I'm fine" and pushed him a little bit more? Maybe it had been your fault as well... for not trying hard enough. For giving him too much space.
You sighed to yourself, shaking your head. Maybe you should just go and talk to him like he said. Perhaps this was enough air.
About to turn on your feet, a sharp, echoing beep erupted into the air. Not a beep. A honk that set the hairs on your body straight up and the adrenaline spiking through the roof. You only caught a glimpse of the silver car, flashing by your eyes in an instance. And in seconds, you were on the floors of Monaco.
Max's chest fell gently, relief pouring into him when he saw your name sprawl across the screen of his phone. You had been gone for almost an hour; the evening sky was darkening. The panic had been settling within him. But here he was, sliding right, already lightly smiling. He breathed out, rushing his words, "Schat, thank God, I'm so glad you called. I was getting worried—"
"Is this Max?"
He paused, brows furrowing at the unfamiliar voice on the phone. An odd flare in his chest began to gnaw away at him. "Yes? Who is this?"
"Bonsoir Monsieur, I'm calling from the Princess Grace Hospital Centre. You were listed as Miss ___'s emergency contact."
Max could feel his heart lurch in his chest, brain instantly stuttering as his fingers tightened around the phone. Even his pets inched towards him like they knew something was wrong. "W-What's going on? I-Is she okay?" He queried, arm already extending to grab his jacket while panic flooded into his voice.
"She's fine," the stranger quickly reassured, though it did nothing to calm him. "She accidently came in contact with my car and has a few injuries."
He breathed harshly, grabbing his own keys from the key hook. He swallowed thickly, swinging the door open as he muttered, "I'm on the way."
Max's eyes darted rapidly around the various rooms and corridors, the bleak white daunting him with every movement he made. The lady at the front had said you were technically discharged which was absolutely ridiculous in his opinion. So, apparently, you were roaming around, injured to God knows what extent. Or as you'd probably like to say, "I'm just keeping you on your toes, Max."
But he had found you, sitting down on a chair next to some other patients, casually watching the show they had put on like he hadn't been stressing out for the past fifteen minutes. He breathed slowly, blue eyes cautiously raking over your body. His heart clenched at the bandages. They were sporadic. On your arm, leg, hand, and a few thin strips on your cheek.
You could feel those eyes lingering on you, capturing your attention away from the screen. A tight smile sprawled onto your face as you stood up from your chair, legs already automatically moving towards him despite the ever-present wince on your face. Christ, you had rolled your ankle real good.
Max was already darting towards you, hand out to stabilise you against him before he curled his arm around your waist, keeping you close. He could see your eyes hesitant flicker to him, questioning and wondering. But he said nothing except for, "Let's go."
The walk to the car was silent. Perhaps good for the both of you, giving you the time to think about what to say. You knew the quietness of Max was nothing compared to the simmering worry settled behind those eyes.
He got you into the car first, gently tucking you in and putting your seatbelt on for you. His face was stern, not slipping just yet. Once he was satisfied, he was walking around the car, opening the door, taking a seat before he closed it shut—the echoes screaming in this thick silence.
You chewed your lip while you rubbed your fingers together. You took your small glances at him, debating on whether to speak first. You wondered if he'd scold you first or not. To be honest, you couldn't tell. You often reprimanded him each time he crashed or spun out in the car. But only out of fear. Because the worry had been eating you alive. And you were sure that's exactly how he was feeling.
So, you opted for the root of humour. "Hey, at least I'm not like dead," you murmured with a small shrug, teetering smile on your face.
Max stilled, turning his head so slowly, you could see every micromovement; the furrow of brows, the disbelief in his eyes, and his parted lips. "That's so not even funny," he retorted firmly. He sighed, grabbing your arm gently, pads of his fingers lightly grazing over the bandages.
"Max, I'm fine. Seriou—"
"Shut up," he huffed, chest aching at the peeks of drying scabs underneath the white fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath, biting down on his lip. He flitted his eyes back to you. "I was so worried," he whispered, voice cracking. "With how you left. I told myself it was fine. You'd come back. And then you didn't."
You blinked, feeling your eyes grow hot. You pressed your lips together, trying not to fully break down.
"I thought.... I thought..." Max rasped, voice becoming raw by the second.
"Stop. Just don't complete that sentence," you heaved, sniffling as you curled your fingers around his, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. You had been in his position before. Too many times, for your liking. With every crash or collision, your reaction never differed. You only seemed to breathe when you watched him come out of the car.
Max stayed silent for a moment, breathing in deeply. He brought your hand to his lips, grazing your knuckles with his mouth as he thought about what to say. "I'm sorry," he said after some time, still quiet but firm. "I should've told you about my dad. You asked me and I shut you out. I didn't want to worry you—and that's not an excuse. But you're right. It's created a wedge. And I'm sorry."
You smiled gently, feeling the small press of his lips against your knuckles. "I think I was just concerned because you aren't normally like this. You usually tell me everything," you laughed softly.
"I know," he nodded, regretful frown on his face. "Just don't leave like that again, schat. Please. I don't ever want my last words to you to be 'We can fix this.' They should always be 'I love you,'" he pleaded.
You swallowed thickly, nodding in return. "Promise," you whispered, reassuring him with a firm smile. You flickered your eyes at the dark sky, trying to think of a solution. "I just don't get why your dad is being like this. So... invasive."
He raised a brow at you, gently resting your hand in his lap, thumb slowly rubbing circles into your skin. "You have met him, right?" He queried, making you roll your eyes. He heaved soon after. "I don't know. Things are just different this time, I guess," he shrugged.
You hummed to yourself, narrowing your eyes as an idea came to mind. "Should I talk to him?" You suggested, turning back to him.
Max gave you a pointed look. "Not that I'm against it... but are you sure you're up for that?" He chuckled.
You grinned, "You know he loves me more than you right?"
"Okay..." He pursed his lips, a smile still threatening to sprawl onto his face. "I feel like that's bit of a stretch. But since you're hurt, I'll let it go," he compromised.
You gasped so hard that it had you instantly wincing, small scrapes on your cheeks stinging. "That's it! I could guilt trip him!" You exclaimed, eyes wide in a way that borderline made your boyfriend worry.
"Did they give you any medication? Because I think you need them," Max muttered.
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