Hello everyone! I’m Rose, I’m 26, and I’ve recently found that I’ve grown quite emotionally attached to a group of men who drive sometimes fast cars. I wanted to start a new blog to write stories about some of the drivers, so here it is. I hope you enjoy your time on my blog ✌️ yes I know I suck at intros I promise my writing is better
This is a second account, so I won’t be able to follow anyone from this account
🤍masterlist🤍
🤍driver’s list/rules🤍
Fic recs can be found in my featured tags, it’ll have the driver’s initials and their number with “recs” at the end (ln4 recs, cl16 recs, etc)
so can you write something with lando and dry humping? where it's late at night and they're just friends and they come back from the club and he comes in his pants because it's all too much?
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader
word count: less than 600
warning: dirty talk, dry humping, smut!
author's note: just a lil smutty blurb for y'all since I had some spare time today.
smut under the cut!
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He shouldn’t be doing this. Not with you. Not with his best fucking friend.
But the minute you tugged him closer, fingertips fisting the material of his shirt like you needed him, he was done for.
His hips snapped into you with a rhythm he could no longer control. Too rough, too needy, too far gone. The sound of it...that filthy drag of cotton panties over your soaked core against him, was like music to his ears.
You were soaked for him. He could feel it through his own boxers, every grind slicker, messier than the last.
“God. Fuckin look at you,” He panted, his pupils blown wide. “So fuckin’ wet for me, yeah?”
Your fingers trailed to his head, fisting his messy curls and pulling just enough to make him groan. It was deep and guttural, and he was absolutely fucked.
His hips rutting up into you was nothing but instinctual at this point. He had no control or thoughts, just the overwhelming need to feel you. To make you feel him.
His cock throbbed against the damp fabric of his boxers, pushing against your heated core with an unrelenting friction. He angled his hips just right, hitting that oh so perfect spot over and over, again and again.
“Tell me you’ve thought about this. About me.” He growled, his mouth brushing the crevice of your ear. “About me fucking you like this.”
You couldn’t find the words to answer. The way you rocked against him, head thrown back with a soft moan was enough.
His hand reached for the nape of your neck, pulling you into him, his lips finally catching yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t even sweet. It was frantic, messy, a clash of teeth and tangled tongues.
Every single thrust ripped a strangled moan out of his throat, a low groan that said he was so fucking close.
“Fuck, baby.” He rasped, his hands finding solace on the dip of your hips, grabbing hard as he thrust upwards into you again. “Look at us.”
The sounds you made. Little whimpers, and those soft gasps when it hit that spot in you just right. It had him throbbing. “Y’gonna come like this, yeah?” He struggles to get the words out.
“Humping my cock like it’s yours. All fuckin’ desperate.”
He ground his hips in a tight circle, and your entire body arched into him. “Yeah, just like that. Rub that pretty little pussy on me.”
“Shit, I’m gon—“ He couldn’t finish the sentence, his forehead falling against the crevice of your neck. “I can’t…fuck.”
You came with a sharp cry, hips jerking against his as your body convulsed over him. And the second he felt that little gush of heat, through your panties, he lost it.
He came hard. Grinding into you so hotly that it made your toes curl. His whole body shook with it. Not just from his orgasm, but from everything that led to it. The years of tension, years of friendship. All of it.
After a few moments of silence, you both stay there, your forehead pressed to the skin of his shoulder, heart hammering in your chest.
And when Lando finally broke the silence. It wasn’t to say sorry.
I .WANT. TO .RIDE .OSCAR. IN .THE .SAME .POSITION .HE’S .SITTING. IN .THE .COOLDOWN .ROOM.!!
we all do. and he deserves it. he’d just sit back with the arms behind his head, looking up at you as you clench around him, using all the tricks in the book to make him feel good. then you’d get on your knees and let him cum on your chest or on your face or in your mouth, anything he wants really.
him coming back up from being in between your thighs for a while and murmuring “hi” against your lips when you cup his cheeks, smiling… and then kissing you… <3 <3 <3
Summary: despite being Dutch, Max isn’t exactly surrounded by many particularly tall people — Formula 1, after all, is one of the few sports where height can be a disadvantage — so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when a strikingly tall beauty queen catches his eye and refuses to leave his thoughts
Based on this request
Max drags his feet through the paddock, the sun glaring down in waves that seem to radiate off every surface. His Red Bull PR officer, Gemma, walks two paces ahead of him, clipboard in hand, her voice relentless.
“… and it’s a fantastic opportunity for engagement, Max. She has millions of followers, the Miss Universe Netherlands title — it’s a dream crossover. Positive PR for both of you. You’ve seen her photos, right? She’s stunning-”
“I don’t care,” Max cuts in, irritation dripping from his voice. He pulls at the neck of his race suit, already sick of the day, and now they’re parading him around like a puppet. “I don’t need a gimmick.”
Gemma ignores him. “It’s not a gimmick. This is strategic. A guest with her profile draws attention to you. To the team. Think of it as-”
Max stops walking, forcing Gemma to halt and turn back. “I already get enough attention,” he mutters, folding his arms.
She raises an eyebrow. “Yes, but not all attention is good attention. Just try, Max. Be charming. Be … approachable for once.”
He groans but resumes walking, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Charming,” he mutters under his breath. “Sure.”
They turn the corner into the Red Bull hospitality area, the usual mix of engineers, staff, and guests milling around. Max’s eyes are already scanning for the nearest exit when Gemma stops abruptly.
“There she is,” she whispers, nodding toward the seating area.
Max follows her gaze — and stops dead in his tracks.
You’re sitting at one of the tables, long legs crossed gracefully, an effortless posture that radiates confidence. The light catches on your hair, making it shimmer. You glance up, and your eyes meet his.
Max’s mouth snaps shut mid-complaint.
“Max!” Gemma hisses, but he doesn’t move.
You stand up, impossibly tall in your heels, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs as you extend a hand toward him. Max blinks, his brain tripping over itself.
“Hi,” you say, your voice smooth, warm, unhurried. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m-”
“You’re, uh-” Max’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, willing himself to act normal. “I know who you are.”
You smile, a touch amused. “And you are Max Verstappen. Right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he manages, shifting awkwardly. Your hand is still extended, so he reaches out to shake it. Your grip is firm, your hand soft against his calloused one.
“Pleasure,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Same,” Max blurts, though he hasn’t. Well, not much anyway. His mind scrambles for something else to say, but all he can focus on is how tall you are — how he has to tilt his head up slightly to maintain eye contact. And the heels. The heels are making it worse.
“Max?” Gemma prods, her voice sharp in his ear.
He jerks his hand back, realizing he’s been holding yours a beat too long. “Right, uh, welcome. To … the paddock.”
You laugh softly, a sound that feels like it cuts through the noise of the entire paddock. “Thank you. Everyone’s been very kind so far.”
Max swallows hard, his eyes darting to your legs, your dress, and then back to your face. He knows he’s staring too long.
“So,” you continue, filling the silence he’s left hanging, “are you excited for the weekend?”
“Yeah. I mean, sure.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up. “It’s … racing. That’s what I do.”
You laugh again, and Max swears his brain short-circuits. “That’s what you do,” you repeat. “Good to know you’re consistent.”
Gemma clears her throat loudly. “Max, why don’t you show her around? Make her feel at home.”
Max shoots her a glare. “I’m sure she doesn’t need me to-”
“I’d love that,” you interrupt, smiling at him. “If you don’t mind.”
He freezes, his excuses dying on his tongue. “Uh … sure. Yeah. I can do that.”
You step closer, and Max’s breath catches. “Lead the way,” you say.
He’s acutely aware of the way everyone’s watching as he starts walking, you falling into step beside him. His PR officer gives him a pointed look before disappearing into the crowd.
“So,” you say, your voice light, “is this how it always is? Chaos, cameras, and all?”
“Pretty much.” Max glances at you, trying not to trip over his words — or his feet. “It’s, uh … normal.”
“You make it look easy,” you say, and he catches the genuine note in your voice.
He laughs, short and awkward. “Not as easy as you make the whole pageant thing look.”
Your smile widens, and he immediately regrets how stupid that sounded.
“Thank you,” you say, your tone teasing. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was,” he insists quickly. “Definitely was.”
You keep walking, asking questions about the team, the cars, the track. Max answers them, though his usual confidence is nowhere to be found. Every time you laugh or nod, he feels his brain falter.
“You’re taller than I expected,” he blurts out at one point, then immediately regrets it.
You stop, turning to look at him. “Taller?”
He stammers, waving his hands. “I mean, not in a bad way. Just … I didn’t realize.”
You glance down at your heels and back up at him. “It’s the shoes,” you say, but your grin tells him you know exactly what you’re doing.
“Right. Shoes,” Max mutters, his face burning. He clasps his hands in front of his groin, trying to hide the very visible reaction his body is having to … all of this.
You don’t seem to notice — or maybe you do, and you’re kind enough not to mention it. Instead, you keep walking, asking another question about the weekend’s schedule.
Max answers automatically, but his mind is elsewhere. He’s never felt like this — off balance, awkward, like he’s two steps behind and doesn’t know how to catch up.
As you reach the edge of the hospitality area, you stop and turn to face him fully. “Thanks for showing me around,” you say, your voice softening.
Max shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at you. “No problem,” he mumbles.
You tilt your head, studying him for a moment. “You’re not as scary as they say.”
He looks up, startled. “Scary?”
“Yeah.” You smile again, and it feels like a punch to his chest. “People talk. But you’re … normal. Almost sweet.”
Max doesn’t know whether to laugh or crawl into a hole. “Sweet,” he repeats, deadpan.
“Almost,” you tease, stepping back. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah,” he says, watching as you walk away, heels clicking against the floor.
It’s only when you’re out of sight that Max exhales, running a hand through his hair. His heart is pounding, his thoughts a mess.
Gemma reappears, smirking. “See? Not so bad.”
Max glares at her. “Shut up.”
***
The sun blazes high over Mykonos, the air thick with salt and the faint thrum of music from a nearby DJ booth. The exclusive beach club is buzzing with energy — groups of friends lounging on cushioned chairs, waiters ferrying trays of cocktails, and the occasional splash of laughter from the turquoise water.
Max leans back on his chair, sunglasses perched on his nose, a cold drink in hand. Lando’s perched on the chair next to him, scrolling through his phone, while Martin Garrix, their mutual friend and the reason they’re here, chats animatedly with someone by the bar.
“Tonight’s going to be wild,” Lando says, nudging Max’s arm. “Martin’s set at Cavo Paradiso? Epic. You ready?”
Max shrugs. “Sure. It’s just a party.”
“Just a party?” Lando scoffs. “It’s the party. You’re lucky to even get in.”
Max rolls his eyes, half-listening. The heat makes him drowsy, and the rhythmic sound of waves is almost enough to lull him into a nap. Almost — until something catches his eye.
A woman, her long limbs moving gracefully through the water, emerges onto the sand, droplets glinting like diamonds on her skin.
It’s you.
Max freezes, his drink hovering mid-air.
You walk toward a cluster of lounge chairs, your friends laughing and talking around you. One of them — a petite brunette — stands on her tiptoes, trying to reach a bathing suit cover-up that’s hanging from an umbrella. She jumps, stretching her arms, but the fabric remains just out of reach.
“Short girl problems,” Lando mutters, following Max’s gaze.
Max doesn’t respond. He’s too busy watching you stroll over, your laughter mingling with the sea breeze. You reach up without effort, your long fingers plucking the cover-up from the umbrella.
“Here,” you say, handing it to your friend, who thanks you with an exaggerated bow.
You laugh again, and Max feels a familiar heat creeping up his neck — and lower.
“Uh oh,” Lando says, his tone teasing.
“What?” Max snaps, glancing at him.
Lando’s eyes drop pointedly to Max’s swim briefs, where the outline of his very obvious arousal is already visible.
“Oh, man,” Lando says, grinning. “You’ve got a situation.”
“Shut up,” Max mutters, crossing his arms over his lap in a futile attempt to hide the problem.
But Lando’s not letting it go. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you actually — because of that?” He gestures toward you, who is now tying your hair back into a loose bun, oblivious to the chaos you’re causing.
“It’s not-” Max starts, but before he can finish, Martin strolls over, a fresh drink in hand.
“What’s going on?” Martin asks, looking between them.
“Max has a problem,” Lando says, his grin widening.
“What problem?”
“This one.” Lando points directly at Max’s lap.
Max’s jaw drops. “Lando!”
Martin looks down, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, no. Max, really?”
“Stop it,” Max hisses, his face burning. He adjusts his position, but it’s no use. The snug fit of his swim briefs makes everything painfully obvious.
Lando’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off his chair. “This is gold. I’m never letting you live this down.”
“Will you two shut up-”
“Problem solved,” Martin interrupts, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “We’ll just get you a bigger towel. Or a cold shower. Or-”
He doesn’t get to finish because your voice cuts through the conversation like a knife.
“Is everything okay over here?”
Max’s stomach plummets.
You’re standing a few feet away, one hand on your hip, the other holding a glass of something bright and citrusy. Your impossibly long legs seem to stretch on forever, and the sunlight makes your skin glow.
Lando and Martin exchange a glance before dissolving into more laughter.
Max wants to die.
You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly — too briefly — to his lap. A slow, knowing smile spreads across your face.
“Is that a banana in your shorts,” you ask, your tone teasing, “or are you just excited to see me?”
Max’s mouth opens, then closes. His brain has officially checked out.
Lando is wheezing, clutching his sides. Martin’s not much better, his laughter loud enough to draw a few curious stares from nearby tables.
“I, uh-” Max stammers, every coherent thought fleeing his mind.
You take a step closer, setting your drink down on the table. “Relax,” you say, your voice low enough that only he can hear. “I’m just teasing.”
Max swallows hard, his gaze fixed on your face. You’re even more beautiful up close, and it’s doing nothing to help his situation.
“Uh … thanks?” He manages, the word coming out like a question.
You laugh softly, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine. “For what?”
“I don’t … I don’t know,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.
Your smile softens. “Don’t be so tense, Max. It’s a beach. Everyone’s here to relax.”
“Yeah. Right. Relax.” He shifts awkwardly, wishing he could sink into the sand and disappear.
You glance over at Lando and Martin, who are still trying — and failing — to stifle their laughter. “Are these your friends?”
“Unfortunately,” Max mutters, shooting them a glare.
“They’re fun,” you say, your tone neutral but your eyes sparkling with amusement.
“They’re idiots,” Max corrects.
You shrug, picking up your drink. “Sometimes idiots are the best company.”
“Not these two,” Max mutters under his breath, which only makes you laugh again.
“Well,” you say, taking a step back, “I’ll leave you to your … situation.” You give him one last lingering look before turning and sauntering back to your friends.
Max watches you go, his heart pounding in his chest.
Lando wipes tears from his eyes. “That was the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up,” Max mutters, throwing a towel at him.
Martin grins. “You’ve got it bad, mate.”
Max groans, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. “I hate both of you.”
But even as they continue to tease him, he can’t stop glancing in your direction. And when you catch his eye and smile, he knows he’s in trouble.
***
Monaco bustles with its usual mix of tourists, luxury cars, and locals navigating narrow streets. Max walks along Rue Grimaldi, a paper bag from the pet store swinging at his side. Inside are bags of treats for Jimmy and Sassy, who are definitely more spoiled than they have any right being. He’s dressed low-key: a plain t-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses, blending into the crowd as much as someone like him can in a town where everyone knows his name.
The walk back to his apartment is uneventful — until it isn’t.
He sees you first out of the corner of his eye, a flash of long legs and vibrant fabric catching his attention. He stops in his tracks, his brain taking a moment to catch up.
You’re standing in front of a brightly painted wall, posing effortlessly as a photographer circles you, snapping shot after shot. A team of stylists, assistants, and what Max assumes is a creative director hover nearby, adjusting lights and offering directions.
It’s undeniably you.
Max exhales, staring like an idiot. Once is chance, twice is coincidence, but three times? That’s a pattern. And this time, he’s not letting the moment slip by.
He squares his shoulders, hyping himself up. You’ve won four world championships, he tells himself. You’ve faced wheel-to-wheel battles at 300 kilometers per hour. You can do this.
He takes a deep breath, straightens his posture, and marches toward the photoshoot.
The moment he steps into the circle of activity, the entire team freezes. The photographer lowers his camera, the stylists stop mid-conversation, and all eyes turn to him.
You look up, startled, and your gaze meets his.
“Hi,” Max says, suddenly acutely aware of how everyone is staring. His confidence wavers, but he pushes through. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
The photographer blinks. “Uh, we’re in the middle of a shoot-”
“It’s okay,” you say, holding up a hand to stop him. You step toward Max, your heels clicking softly against the pavement. “What’s up?”
Now that you’re standing in front of him, Max’s brain short-circuits. You’re even more striking up close, the sunlight catching on your skin, your outfit perfectly tailored to highlight every line of your frame.
“I, uh …” He glances around, suddenly aware of the audience. He clears his throat, his voice steadying. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”
You blink, surprised. “Dinner?”
“Yeah,” Max says quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, I’ve seen you a couple of times now, and I figured it’s not just … random, you know? So I thought — why not? Dinner. Tonight.”
You tilt your head, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You interrupted a photoshoot to ask me out?”
“Yes.” He hesitates, then adds, “Was that a bad idea?”
The creative director mutters something under his breath, and Max hears someone else stifle a laugh. He feels the tips of his ears burn, but he refuses to back down.
You glance back at your team, who are all watching with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief. Then you look at Max again, your smile softening.
“What time?” You ask.
Max blinks. “What?”
“What time should I be ready?”
“Oh.” Relief floods his face. “Uh, seven? I can pick you up at your hotel.”
You nod, clearly entertained by his flustered state. “I’m staying at the Hôtel de Paris. Does that work?”
“Perfect,” Max says quickly, ignoring the murmurs from your team.
“Great,” you say, stepping closer. You lean down slightly — because of course you’re taller than him — and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
When you pull back, there’s a faint smudge of lipstick on his skin. “See you at seven, Max,” you say, your voice teasing.
He nods, unable to form a coherent response. You turn back to your team, who are all pretending not to stare, and resume your pose in front of the camera.
Max walks away in a daze, the paper bag swinging at his side. He touches his cheek where your lips brushed, his mind replaying the moment over and over.
By the time he makes it back to his apartment, he’s smiling so widely that even the cats look suspicious.
***
Max pulls up to the Hôtel de Paris in his Aston Martin Valkyrie, the car’s sleek design gleaming under the soft glow of Monaco’s streetlights. He knows it’s over the top, but if there’s ever a time to make an impression, it’s now. The low hum of the engine draws a few curious glances from passersby, and Max shifts in his seat, checking the dashboard clock.
6:50 PM.
He’s early. Not by much, but enough to take a deep breath and give himself a mental pep talk.
“She said yes,” he mutters to himself, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You can handle this. You’ve faced down Lewis Hamilton in a championship battle. This is dinner.”
At exactly 7:00 PM, the hotel doors glide open, and there you are.
Max’s hand freezes on the steering wheel as he watches you descend the steps. You’re wearing a sleek, floor-length dress that shimmers faintly in the light, paired with towering heels that make your legs seem impossibly long. Your hair is styled perfectly, and you move with the effortless grace of someone who knows how to command attention.
His throat dries. Wow.
By the time you reach the car, Max is already out of the driver’s seat, jogging around to meet you. “You look — wow.”
“Thank you,” you say, smiling warmly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
Max glances down at his tailored suit, a rare choice for him outside of mandatory galas, and tugs at the collar. “Figured I should try.”
You laugh softly, and the sound sends a flutter through his chest.
He opens the passenger door and instinctively places his hand on the edge of the roof, subtly cushioning the space so you don’t bump your head as you fold into the car. The move is smooth, almost second nature, but he catches the slight lift of your brow and the amused curve of your lips as you settle in.
“Chivalry isn’t dead, I see,” you tease as he closes the door.
By the time he rounds the car and slips back into the driver’s seat, his ears are burning. “Figured I’d give it a shot tonight.”
The Valkyrie roars to life, and you glance around the car’s interior, visibly impressed. “This is … something.”
“Just a car,” Max says, trying to sound casual.
You shoot him a knowing look. “A very subtle one, I see.”
He chuckles, pulling out onto the road. “What can I say? Monaco brings it out of me.”
The drive is short, but Max is hyper-aware of every moment — your laughter as he navigates the narrow streets, the way your dress catches the light when you turn to look at him, and the soft sound of your voice as you ask him about his day.
When you arrive at Le Louis XV, one of Monaco’s most exclusive restaurants, Max pulls up to the valet. The grandeur of the restaurant is impossible to ignore, its gilded facade shimmering under the night sky.
“Wow,” you say, leaning slightly to take in the view. “You really went all out.”
“I figured you deserved more than takeout,” Max replies, his tone light but his heart racing.
He steps out, handing the keys to the valet, and once again circles the car to open your door. This time, he offers his hand to help you out, and when you take it, his palm is warm and steady.
“Thank you,” you say, your smile soft but genuine.
The moment you’re both standing, it’s impossible not to notice the height difference. Max isn’t short — he knows that — but next to you, especially in those heels, he feels positively average. For a split second, he wonders if it bothers you.
But then you loop your arm through his as the valet takes the car, and the thought dissolves.
The two of you walk toward the entrance, and Max is acutely aware of the growing crowd around you. Fans have gathered, some holding their phones up to record or snap pictures.
“Max! Max, over here!” Someone calls.
He doesn’t flinch, used to the attention, but when he glances at you, he notices your calm expression. If you’re fazed by the cameras or the whispers, you don’t show it.
“You get used to this?” You ask under your breath, tilting your head toward the crowd.
“Kind of,” he admits, keeping his pace steady. “Does it bother you?”
“Not really,” you say, your tone amused. “But I think they’re more interested in you than me.”
He glances at you, his gaze sweeping up to meet your eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
At the door, the maître d’ greets you warmly, escorting the two of you to a private table near the back of the restaurant. The room is elegantly decorated, the ambiance intimate yet luxurious. A soft glow from crystal chandeliers bathes the space in golden light, and the quiet hum of conversation adds to the atmosphere.
Max pulls out your chair before sitting across from you, trying not to overthink every movement.
“This place is beautiful,” you say, looking around.
“Glad you like it,” Max says, reaching for the menu. “The food is incredible.”
A sommelier approaches, recommending a bottle of wine, and the conversation flows naturally as the first course arrives.
“You’ve been here before?” You ask, raising a brow as you take a sip of wine.
“Once or twice,” Max admits. “Usually for team stuff. Not exactly a regular spot for me.”
“So this is a special occasion?”
He hesitates, meeting your gaze. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
The corners of your lips lift, and Max feels the tension in his chest ease slightly.
As the meal progresses, the conversation deepens. You ask him about racing, and he asks you about pageantry, genuinely curious about your career and the places it’s taken you.
“What’s the hardest part of it?” Max asks, leaning forward slightly.
“Probably the constant travel,” you say, swirling your wine. “It’s amazing to see the world, but it’s exhausting sometimes. You must get that, though.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “The travel’s a lot. But I guess it makes the quiet moments at home more meaningful.”
“Home is Monaco?”
“Mostly now. Though I spend more time at the track than anywhere else.”
You nod, studying him. “Do you ever wish you had more time to yourself?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “Sometimes. But I love what I do. It’s worth it.”
There’s a pause, comfortable and filled with mutual understanding.
“And you?” He asks, his voice softer. “Do you ever wish for something different?”
You smile, but there’s a hint of wistfulness in your expression. “Sometimes. But I think we all do, no matter how much we love what we have.”
Max nods, his gaze lingering on you.
By the time dessert arrives, the tension has completely melted away, replaced by an easy camaraderie. You tease him about his driving habits, and he counters with stories of other drivers’ antics.
As the evening winds down, Max finds himself reluctant for it to end. He can’t stop glancing at you, at the way you seem completely at ease, despite the crowd of fans still waiting outside.
When the check comes, Max reaches for it without hesitation.
“Chivalry again?” You ask, arching a brow.
He grins. “I’m on a roll tonight.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”
Max leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you. “So, was it worth it?”
“Was what worth it?”
“Interrupting your photoshoot.”
You smile, resting your chin on your hand. “I think so. But I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re planning to ask me out again.”
Max feels his chest tighten, his pulse quickening. “I was thinking about it,” he admits, his voice low.
“Good,” you say, your smile widening. “Because I’d say yes.”
***
The paddock buzzes with its usual pre-race energy: the hum of machinery, the chatter of teams, and the occasional roar of a nearby engine. But today, Max isn’t thinking about the upcoming race, his strategy, or even his car. No, today his focus is entirely on you.
You’re walking beside him, effortlessly chic in an AlphaTauri knit dress paired with stilettos that highlight your impossibly long legs. The team had sent you the gear ahead of time, but you’ve somehow managed to make it look runway-ready.
Max steals a glance at you as you navigate the chaos of the paddock with ease. You greet every camera pointed your way with a polite smile, and even the hardened mechanics pause to give you a second look. Max can’t help the small, smug grin tugging at his lips.
“Having fun?” He asks, leaning slightly toward you.
You look at him with a raised brow. “Are you asking me or the twenty people currently taking our picture?”
He laughs, brushing a hand over his face as if it could hide the grin. “Both, I guess.”
“Definitely more fun than the first time,” you tease. “I don’t think you’ve complained once today.”
“Because you’re here,” Max says simply, shrugging.
The honesty of his answer catches you off guard, and for a moment, you just look at him, your expression softening.
“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat and grabbing your hand. “I want you to meet some people.”
Max doesn’t miss the way heads turn as he guides you through the paddock, his hand securely wrapped around yours. He’s used to being the center of attention here, but today it’s different. The whispers and double takes aren’t about him — they’re about you. And if he’s honest, he loves it.
As they approach the Ferrari motorhome, Charles Leclerc steps out, chatting with one of his engineers. His conversation halts the second he spots you.
“Charles!” Max calls, waving him over.
Charles smiles, walking up to the two of you. “Hey, Max. And-” He pauses, his eyes drifting up as he takes in your height. His grin widens. “-and you must be the famous girlfriend.”
You laugh, offering your hand. “I suppose I must be.”
Charles takes your hand, shaking it warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve been hearing about you nonstop.”
“Oh, really?” You ask, shooting Max a playful look. “Nonstop, huh?”
Max rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
Charles chuckles, his gaze flicking between the two of you. “I have to say, you’re even taller than I expected.”
“Thanks, I think?” You say, laughing.
Max grins, clearly enjoying the sight of Charles craning his neck to meet your gaze. For once, the usually confident Monegasque driver seems slightly flustered, and Max files the moment away as one of his new favorite memories.
As they part ways with Charles, you nudge Max gently with your elbow. “Are you introducing me to people just to see them react to my height?”
“Maybe,” he admits, his eyes sparkling. “It’s fun.”
You shake your head, laughing, but let him lead you further down the paddock.
Then, as you near the motorhome, you spot Yuki Tsunoda walking toward you, his petite frame standing out among the crowd.
“Yuki!” Max calls out, and Yuki looks up, his face breaking into a grin.
“Max!” Yuki replies, jogging over. His gaze shifts to you, and his steps slow slightly. “Oh, hi.”
“Yuki,” Max begins, his tone dripping with barely contained amusement. “This is my girlfriend.”
Yuki’s eyes widen as he looks up — way up — to meet your gaze. He blinks, his mouth slightly open, before glancing back at Max.
“She’s … tall,” Yuki says bluntly, his expression both amazed and confused.
You laugh, offering your hand. “Hi, I’m-”
“Yuki,” Max interrupts, clearly enjoying himself. “Why don’t you stand next to her for a second?”
Yuki looks at Max, then at you, and then back at Max. “Why?”
“Just humor me,” Max says, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
Yuki sighs but steps closer to you. The height difference is … staggering. Yuki barely reaches your shoulder, even without your heels, and when you smile down at him, he looks like he’s reconsidering every decision that brought him here.
Max takes one look at the two of you and doubles over laughing.
“Max!” You exclaim, though you’re laughing too.
“It’s not fair,” Yuki says, crossing his arms but grinning despite himself. “Why do you always have to make me look short?”
“You do that all by yourself, mate,” Max manages between laughs.
Yuki looks up at you again, shaking his head. “How do you put up with him?”
“It’s a challenge,” you say, your tone light.
Yuki snorts. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Max steps back in, his grin still firmly in place. “Thanks, Yuki. That was everything I hoped for.”
Yuki rolls his eyes but can’t help grinning. “Yeah, yeah. You owe me for this.”
Eventually, the shorter driver waves goodbye and heads off, leaving you and Max to continue toward the motorhome.
“That was cruel,” you say, though you’re smiling.
“That was perfect,” Max corrects, his grin wide. “I’ve been waiting for that moment since the second I realized how tall you are.”
“You’re terrible,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow.
“Terribly lucky,” he replies, his voice softening slightly.
You glance at him, your expression shifting from amused to affectionate. “You really don’t mind the height difference, do you?”
Max stops walking and turns to face you, his expression serious. “Why would I mind? You’re gorgeous, and I love that people notice when we walk into a room. It’s like … I get to show you off, and they get to see what I already know — that you’re amazing.”
His honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you just stare at him, your heart swelling.
“Max,” you start, but he cuts you off with a shrug and a playful smile.
“Besides,” he says, leaning in slightly, “I think it’s hot.”
You burst out laughing, and Max joins in, his arm sliding around your waist as the two of you continue toward the motorhome, drawing every eye in the paddock.
***
Five Years Later
The hospital room is warm and quiet, save for the occasional soft coo of the newborn nestled against Max’s bare chest. The baby boy, barely a few hours old, rests peacefully, his tiny fists curled against Max’s skin. Max sits in a reclined chair, his head tilted back and eyes half-closed, utterly absorbed in the weight of his son and the moment itself.
In the bed next to him, you stir, your head turning toward the two of them. The exhaustion of labor still lingers in your features, but there’s a gentle smile on your lips as you take in the sight of Max cradling your son.
“Are you comfortable over there?” You ask, your voice soft but teasing.
Max’s eyes flicker open, and he glances at you with a faint grin. “More comfortable than you, I think,” he murmurs.
You chuckle lightly, wincing as you shift in the bed. “I don’t know. He looks pretty cozy to me.”
Max looks down at the baby, his expression softening. “He’s perfect.”
“He is,” you agree, your gaze lingering on the two of them.
The door creaks open suddenly, startling both of you. Max’s head snaps up, and his body stiffens when he sees who’s stepping into the room.
His father.
“Max,” Jos says, his voice gruff and clipped. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, stepping further into the room, his eyes scanning the scene.
“What are you doing here?” Max’s voice is low, measured, but there’s a sharp edge to it as he shifts in his chair, pulling his son closer.
“I came to see my grandson,” Jos replies curtly, his gaze settling on the baby. There’s no warmth in his tone, no trace of the pride or joy one might expect from a grandfather.
Max stands abruptly, careful not to jostle the baby. He moves toward the door, positioning himself between Jos and the rest of the room. “Now’s not a good time.”
Jos ignores him, his eyes narrowing as he takes a step closer. “Looks like he’s going to take after his mother,” Jos remarks, his tone disdainful. “With those long legs, he’ll be too tall for single-seaters. Not exactly ideal for racing, is it?”
The air in the room shifts instantly. Max’s jaw tightens, and a flicker of anger flashes across his face. His arms instinctively tighten around his son as if shielding him from the words.
“Get out,” Max says, his voice dangerously calm.
Jos scoffs, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying. If you’re hoping for another Verstappen on the track, you might want to manage your expectations.”
“Stop.” Max’s voice is sharper now, cutting through the tension. He glances at you, his expression softening briefly before returning to Jos. “I mean it. Get out.”
But Jos doesn’t move. “You know I’m right. Height matters in racing. You’ve seen it yourself. It’s not about love or coddling, Max. It’s about preparation, discipline-”
“Enough!” Max’s voice rises, and the baby stirs slightly in his arms. He immediately takes a deep breath, rocking gently to soothe the infant before continuing, his tone quieter but no less firm. “I won’t let you do this. Not to my kids.”
Jos raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Do what?”
“Turn them into something they’re not,” Max says, his eyes blazing. “Make them feel like they’re only worth something if they win. If they race. If they’re … perfect.”
Jos frowns, but Max presses on.
“If either of my kids wants to race, I’ll give them every opportunity. I’ll teach them, support them, and make sure they have everything they need — whether they’re five feet tall or six and a half. But if they don’t want to race, if they want to do something completely different, that won’t make me love them any less.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and charged.
Max shifts his son in his arms, his voice softening but remaining resolute. “I’m not you, Dad. And I never will be.”
Jos’ mouth opens slightly as if to argue, but whatever words he was planning to say seem to falter. He looks at Max, at the baby, then back at Max, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something almost like understanding in his eyes.
Almost.
But Jos says nothing, his jaw tightening as he turns and walks out of the room without another word.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the tension dissipates like a released breath.
Max exhales shakily, lowering himself back into the chair. He looks at you, his eyes apologetic.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs.
You shake your head, your voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to apologize. You did the right thing.”
He nods, looking down at his son, who has settled back into a peaceful sleep. “I just …” His voice catches, and he clears his throat. “I don’t ever want him — or her — to feel like they’re not enough. Not for me.”
You smile gently, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. “They won’t. Not with you as their dad.”
Max’s lips quirk into a small, grateful smile. He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his son’s head. “He’s not going anywhere near a kart until he’s ready. If he even wants to.”
“Good,” you say, your tone teasing now. “Because I think Mariska has already claimed the first shot at it.”
Max laughs softly, shaking his head. “She’s three.”
“And already faster than you in her Little Tikes Cozy Coupe,” you counter, grinning.
Max chuckles. “She’s going to be trouble.”
“Good trouble,” you say.
He looks back at you, his expression softening again. “Yeah. The best kind.”
As the room settles into a calm silence once more, Max leans back in his chair, his son still resting against him, and he allows himself to soak in the moment — a moment of peace, love, and the quiet certainty that he’ll never repeat the mistakes of the past.
***
Seven Years Later
The karting track buzzes with energy — engines revving, parents-turned-mechanics making last-minute adjustments, and young drivers darting around in full racing gear. Among them is Mariska, standing tall in her dark blue suit with “Verstappen” emblazoned across the back. At ten years old, she’s already a striking presence, her confidence tempered by the nerves of a child shouldering a big name.
Max watches from the sidelines, his arms crossed, a proud but protective look on his face. He’s been here countless times before, both as a driver and as a father. He knows this world, knows the pressure and the teasing that can come with standing out. And Mariska, with her long limbs and sharp mind, stands out in every way.
You’re beside him, your hand brushing against his. “She’s got this,” you say softly, your eyes never leaving your daughter.
“She does,” Max agrees, though the tightness in his jaw betrays his worry.
The race begins, and Mariska takes off like a bullet. Her natural talent is undeniable, her lines clean and her determination fierce. But the other kids aren’t just racing her — they’re ganging up, cutting her off in corners, and one boy even leans too aggressively, nudging her kart as they pass.
Max tenses, his fingers curling into fists. “That little-”
“Max,” you warn gently, placing a calming hand on his arm.
“She’s fine,” you add, your voice steady. “She can handle them.”
And she does. On the next lap, Mariska out-brakes the boy who had bumped her, overtaking him with a sharp precision that leaves him scrambling. A few laps later, she claims third place, her kart crossing the finish line with a triumphant roar.
The moment the race ends, Max strides toward the pit lane, his eyes scanning for Mariska. He finds her climbing out of her kart, her helmet tucked under her arm. A group of boys stands nearby, whispering and snickering.
“You’re too tall for this,” one of them says loud enough for her to hear. “Shouldn’t you be playing basketball or something?”
Mariska freezes, her posture stiffening.
“Yeah,” another chimes in. “You’ll never fit in a real car anyway.”
Max’s jaw clenches, and he’s ready to storm over, but Mariska surprises him. She turns to the boys, her expression calm but fierce.
“At least I don’t need dirty tricks to keep up,” she says coolly, her voice steady.
The boys’ smirks falter, and they shuffle awkwardly before walking away, muttering under their breaths.
Max approaches, his heart swelling with pride. “Hey, Mari.”
She turns to him, her face still set in a determined line, but her eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty.
“You okay?” Max kneels down to her level, his hands resting on his knees.
“Yeah,” she says after a pause.
He tilts his head, studying her. “You sure? Because you were amazing out there. Third place is a big deal.”
Mariska shrugs, her gaze dropping to her helmet. “They’re just … they’re always saying stuff, you know? About how I’m too tall. That I’ll never fit in a car.”
Max’s heart aches at the vulnerability in her voice. He reaches out, gently lifting her chin so she looks at him.
“Do you think Mama is pretty?” He asks softly.
Mariska blinks, startled by the question. “What?”
“Mama,” Max repeats, his tone light but serious. “Do you think she’s pretty?”
Mariska’s face scrunches in confusion, but she nods. “Of course I do. Mama’s the prettiest girl in the world.”
Max smiles. “I think so too.”
Mariska tilts her head, still unsure where this is going.
“You know,” Max continues, “you got your height from Mama. And she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. So, what does that make you?”
Mariska stares at him, her brows furrowing. “I don’t know.”
Max leans closer, his voice steady and full of warmth. “It makes you beautiful too, Mari. You’re tall because you’re strong, and you’re special, just like Mama. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel small because of that.”
Mariska’s lips tremble slightly, and she nods, a small smile breaking through.
“And for the record,” Max adds, a mischievous glint in his eye, “if you keep driving like that, those boys are going to have a lot more to say. But it won’t be about your height — it’ll be about how you’re faster than all of them.”
Mariska giggles, her confidence returning. “I was faster than them, wasn’t I?”
“You were,” Max says, his pride unmistakable.
You walk over then, crouching down beside them. “What’s going on here?”
“Papa says I’m beautiful like you,” Mariska says, her voice filled with a newfound certainty.
You smile, your hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “That’s because you are, schatje.”
Max watches the two of you, his heart full as he pulls Mariska into a hug.
“Now,” he says, pulling back with a grin, “what do you say we go celebrate? Ice cream from that little place down the road.”
Mariska cheers, her earlier doubts forgotten, and the three of you walk off together, leaving the track and its pettiness behind.
Max knows there will be more challenges ahead — more races, more comments, more moments of doubt. But he also knows his daughter is strong, just like her mother. And with a family like yours, there’s nothing she can’t face.
I love when men are sensitive— I love when even just a brush of your ass past them in the kitchen can make their hips jerk, or the way an exhale against their neck can make their cock begin to twitch itself to life. Resting your fingers beneath their shirt as a means to get comfortable? Be prepared to feel the way their hips twitch up in the hopes your touch will creep down a little lower, because with every press of your fingertips against their abdomen— the bulge in their pants only becomes even more obvious 💗
