A Shit Ton Of Cod Stuff Ig😭

18+

[twolffsss]

𝑟𝑒𝜐𝑜𝑙𝜐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑜𝑜𝑟.

▎PAIRING: Max Verstappen x reader.

▎WARNINGS: none. just jos being an ass.

The paddock buzzed with the usual frenzy of engines revving and camera flashes, but lately, all eyes were on you—Y/N, the newest addition to the glamorous world of Formula 1 WAGs. As Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, you’d quickly become a fan favorite. Max wasn’t shy about showing his affection: an arm slung protectively around your shoulders as you walked through the garage, his fingers intertwined with yours during press conferences, or a stolen kiss on your cheek after a stellar qualifying session or race win. It was clear to everyone that Max adored you, his usually stoic demeanor softening whenever you were near.

But not everyone knew about your relationship from the start. Max had kept it private, especially from his father, Jos. He hadn’t breathed a word, letting the F1 gossip pages and social media do the revealing for him. So when Jos extended an invitation for dinner via a curt text message—"Bring your girlfriend. We should meet properly"—Max had stared at his phone for a long minute before reluctantly agreeing. "It’ll be fine," he’d told you, though the tightness in his jaw said otherwise.

The evening arrived, and you pulled up to the upscale restaurant in Max’s sleek Aston Martin. You were dressed elegantly—a simple white dress that hugged your figure just right, your hair cascading in loose waves. Max, in a crisp button-up and jeans, squeezed your hand as you walked in. "Just be yourself," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "He’ll like you."

Jos was already seated at a corner table, his posture rigid, a glass of whiskey in hand. He stood when you approached, offering a firm handshake to Max and a polite nod to you. "Max. And you must be Y/N," he said, his Dutch accent thick, eyes appraising you like he was sizing up a new tire compound. "Sit, sit. I’ve ordered some appetizers."

The start was civil enough. A bottle of red wine was poured, and small talk flowed as the server brought out plates of bruschetta and olives. Jos leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "So, how did you two meet? Max isn’t one for details."

You smiled, glancing at Max, who gave you an encouraging nod. "It was at a charity event in Monaco last year. I was there for work, and we just… clicked. He spilled his drink on me, actually—total accident."

Jos chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Sounds like Max. Always focused on the track, not so much on the social graces." He turned to his son. "Remember that gala in Amsterdam? You were the same way with… what was her name? Daphne? Spilled champagne all over her dress too."

Max’s fork paused mid-air, but he forced a neutral expression. "Yeah, Dad. Ancient history."

The questions kept coming, innocuous at first. "What do you do for a living, Y/N?" Jos asked, spearing a piece of bruschetta.

"I’m a model," you replied confidently. "Mostly fashion and lifestyle shoots. It’s based in Monaco, which makes it easy to travel with Max."

"Monaco? Nice place. Expensive, though." Jos nodded approvingly, but there was a glint in his eye. "Max has always liked the glamorous types. Remember Kelly? She was from Brazil—model too, wasn’t she? Exotic look, always turning heads in the paddock."

Max shifted in his seat, his hand finding yours under the table. "Kelly was a long time ago, Dad. Let’s not—"

"And before her, there was that Italian girl, Sofia. Actress, right? Or was she a singer? Fiery temper, but she kept you on your toes." Jos waved his hand dismissively, as if reminiscing over old race strategies. "Y/N, you’re from Monaco—born and raised? That’s different. More… polished, I suppose. Not as wild as some of the others."

You felt a flush creep up your neck, but you kept your composure, sipping your wine. "Yes, born there. My family’s been in Monaco for generations."

Jos leaned forward, his gaze sharpening on Max. "Polished is good, but does it push you? Remember how Daniella used to challenge you? Spanish firecracker—she’d argue with you about everything, kept your head in the game. Won you that championship in ‘21, I’d say. Distractions can be useful if they’re the right kind."

Max’s grip on your hand tightened, his knuckles whitening. "Dad, enough with the history lesson. Y/N’s here now. Can we just enjoy the dinner?"

Jos raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "I’m just making conversation, Max. Comparing notes. You’ve had quite the lineup—models, influencers, even that one racer’s daughter. What was her name? Elena? Tall, blonde, always at the parties. She fit right in with the F1 crowd. Y/N seems quieter. Is that what you need now? Someone to… settle you down?"

The server arrived with the main courses—steak for Jos and Max, salmon for you—but the atmosphere had soured. You poked at your food, appetite waning, while Jos continued his barrage, each comparison laced with subtle digs. "Sofia had that edge, didn’t she? Pushed you to train harder. And Kelly—God, she was supportive during the tough seasons. Traveled everywhere with you. Y/N, do you plan to do that? Modeling’s flexible, I hear."

Max set his knife down with a clatter, his voice low and edged with warning. "Stop it. This isn’t about them. It’s about Y/N."

Jos shrugged, cutting into his steak. "I’m just saying, son. You’ve got to think long-term. Championships don’t win themselves. The wrong partner can—"

"That’s it." Max stood abruptly, tossing his napkin on the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing stares from nearby diners. "We’re leaving. Y/N, come on."

You rose quickly, heart pounding, as Max grabbed your coat. Jos looked up, surprised but not apologetic. "Max, sit down. We’re not done."

"Oh, we’re done," Max snapped, his blue eyes flashing. "Thanks for the invite, Dad. Real classy."

The car ride home was suffocating in its silence. Max gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. The city lights blurred past the windows of the Aston Martin, the engine’s low hum the only sound. You stared out at the passing streets, replaying the dinner in your head—the way Jos’s words had twisted from curiosity to criticism, each ex-girlfriend’s name feeling like a jab. You didn’t dare speak, not wanting to poke the bear. Max didn’t glance your way once, his focus laser-sharp on the road ahead.

It wasn’t until you pulled into the driveway of your shared Monaco apartment—overlooking the glittering harbor—that the dam broke. Max killed the engine and sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, breathing heavily. You unbuckled your seatbelt, reaching for the door, but his voice stopped you—rough, laced with frustration.

"This is why I didn’t want to go to dinner," he said, finally turning to you. His eyes were stormy, but there was a vulnerability there that made your chest ache. "I knew he’d pull this shit. Comparing you, digging up the past like it’s some fucking scorecard."

"Max…" you started softly, but he shook his head, cutting you off.

"He shouldn’t have done that. He had no right to bring them up, to make you feel like… like you’re just another one in a line." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the neat style from earlier. "You’re everything to me, Y/N. He’s stuck in his own head, always has been. Think’s relationships are just tools for winning races."

You reached over, placing your hand on his thigh. "I know, Max. It’s okay. I didn’t let it get to me."

But he wasn’t done, the words tumbling out now like he’d been holding them in the whole drive. "It’s not okay. He acts like he knows what’s best for me, but he doesn’t. Not anymore. I didn’t tell him about us because I didn’t want his judgment. And now… fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve shut it down sooner."

"Hey," you said, turning his face gently toward you with your hand on his cheek. His stubble was rough under your fingers, but he leaned into the touch. "You did shut it down. We left. That’s what matters."

Max sighed, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. "I just… I adore you, you know that? The way you handle the paddock, the media, all of it."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I adore you too, Max. Even when you’re being all protective and broody."

He let out a short laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Broody? Me?" He pulled you closer across the console, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It lingered, turning deeper as his hand cupped the back of your neck. When he pulled back, his voice was quieter, more earnest. "Promise me you won’t let what he said stick."

"I promise," you whispered, kissing him again. "Now, let’s go inside. I think we both need a drink that’s not from that restaurant."

Max nodded, finally unclenching. As you walked hand-in-hand into the apartment, the weight of the evening lifted, replaced by the quiet reassurance of just the two of you—against the world, the paddock, and even family.

[lap90]

hi!! i love everything you write. first have to tell you that because your blog is so comforting with the stress of uni. i have a req if you don’t mind. can you write something with max x yn where she finds a found family with max and his f1 world? she has a sad childhood, knows max since he was a rookie, and he becomes her family. something like that if it’s not too much ❤️ thank you for everything you write!

The Permanent Guest List - MV3

served with: max verstappen x fem!reader chef's note: she thinks people don't keep things like her. Max is about to prove her—and the entire data-driven world of F1—dead wrong. portion size: 3.7k

note: hi, sorry for the delay in responding to your request. I hope this is the idea you had in mind. Have a great start to the week! xx

The air in the Toro Rosso garage always smelled of spent fuel and ambition. Back then, Max was just a teenager with a heavy right foot and a gaze that could burn holes through telemetry screens. You, meanwhile, were a master of the periphery.

You had learned long ago that if you stood perfectly still near the stacks of Pirelli tires, or tucked yourself into the corner behind the spare front wings, people simply stopped seeing you. It was a skill honed in a childhood where being noticed usually meant being a target. In the paddock, you were a ghost in a world of giants.

But Max always saw the ghost.

It started in Melbourne. His first race. The chaos was deafening, but when Max stepped out of the cockpit, drenched in sweat and adrenaline, his eyes didn't go to the cameras first. They scanned the back of the garage, cutting through the mechanics and the engineers, until they landed on you.

You were leaning against a flight case, arms crossed. He didn't smile—Max wasn't really a "smiler" back then—but he gave a sharp, single nod.

I’m here. You’re here. Good.

That became the ritual. Every session, every track. He’d arrive, he’d find you, and only then would he start his work. You already knew exactly where to stand to be in his line of sight without being in anyone’s way. You were his north star, a quiet constant in a life that was moving at 300km/h.

When the call came for the move to Red Bull, the world shifted. The hospitality was grander, the crowds were thicker, and the pressure was a physical weight. You tried to shrink even further, worried that this new, elite version of his life wouldn't have room for a girl who stayed in the shadows.

It was your first full weekend in the Red Bull navy blue. You were standing near the energy station, watching the frantic energy of the grid prep. You felt like an interloper, a stray cat that had wandered into a palace.

A high-ranking sponsor, someone with a VIP lanyard and a suit that cost more than your life, looked down at you. He noticed you weren't wearing a team polo, just a plain dark shirt.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice dripping with polite condescension. "Which team are you with? Are you lost?"

The question hit you in the chest. Lost. That was exactly how you felt. You opened your mouth to apologize, to tell him you were leaving, to fade away like you always did.

"She's not lost," a voice interrupted.

Max was walking toward the grid, his helmet tucked under his arm. He didn't even slow down as he reached you. He stepped into your space, his shoulder brushing yours, asserting a physical presence that silenced the sponsor.

The man blinked. "Oh, Max. I was just asking... well, who is she with?"

Max looked the man dead in the eye. He didn't say 'She's a friend' or 'She's with my management.' He didn't give a long-winded explanation.

"Mine," Max said.

It wasn't a romantic declaration. It was something deeper—a claim of protection, a statement of fact. He said it with the same certainty he used to hit an apex.

He didn't wait for a reaction. He just looked at you, that familiar, sharp nod returning. "Hospitality for lunch. Don't be late."

As he walked away toward the roar of the engines, the word stayed behind, hanging in the air like the scent of burnt rubber. Mine. For the first time in your life, the sidelines didn't feel like a place to hide. They felt like home.

The victory in Spain was loud. It was a cacophony of air horns, Dutch flags, and the rhythmic chanting of Max’s name. As the podium ceremony began, you stood at the very edge of the celebration, tucked behind a camera crane. The "Mine" from the week before still echoed in your head, but your old instincts—the ones that told you that you were an uninvited guest in someone else’s success—were hard to silence.

The champagne started spraying before the trophies were even dry. Max was on the top step, grinning as he aimed his bottle directly at his lead mechanic. You watched from the periphery, a small smile on your face, already preparing your "exit strategy" to the motorhome to stay out of the way.

Suddenly, a pair of arms hooked under yours.

"Oh no, you don't. You're not dry-suit compliant today!" Lando yelled over the music. He didn't wait for an answer. He hauled you forward into the "splash zone" just as he emptied his own bottle of sparkling wine.

The cold, sticky liquid drenched your hair and soaked through your shirt. You gasped, shocked, but before you could apologize for "getting in the way," Charles was there, wiping his eyes and laughing. He nudged your shoulder with his trophy-free hand.

"You’re one of us now, sorry," he said with a graceful shrug, as if it were a life sentence. "The champagne is mandatory. No one gets out clean."

By the time the sun began to set, the adrenaline had cooled into a weary, satisfied hum. The garage was half-dismantled, flight cases being wheeled toward the trucks. You were trying to dry your hair with a paper towel when one of the senior data engineers kicked a stool toward you.

"Sit," he grumbled, though his eyes were kind. "You’ve been on your feet since the formation lap."

Another mechanic appeared, sliding a cardboard tray of local tapas onto the workbench in front of you. "Found the good stuff before the hospitality crew cleared it. Eat up, Y/N."

As they worked, they started dissecting the race. They began telling a story about a botched practice start from three years ago—a story involving a lost radio signal and Max accidentally swearing in three different languages at once.

When the punchline hit, the whole group erupted. You found yourself laughing so hard your chest hurt. It wasn't the kind of laughter you were used to from your childhood—the kind that felt like a weapon. This was different. They weren't laughing at you; they were laughing with you. For the first time, your presence wasn't a question mark. It was a period.

Usually, this was the part where you’d slip away to the hotel, terrified of overstaying your welcome. You waited for the signal—the awkward glance, the "well, we should probably get going"—but it never came.

The engineers kept talking to you as if you were a permanent fixture of the hardware. Max eventually emerged from his media debriefs, his hair still damp and his face tired. He didn't look surprised to see you there, surrounded by his team and half-eaten boxes of food.

He didn't ask if you were ready to leave. He just leaned against the workbench next to you, grabbed a piece of bread from your tray, and exhaled.

"Good race," he muttered, mostly to you.

You stayed another two hours. No one asked you to leave. No one looked at you like you didn't belong. You were the last ones to walk out of the paddock gates under the moonlight. As you walked toward the car, the fear started to prickle at the back of your mind again—the terrifying realization that you were starting to need this. You were starting to need them.

And in your world, needing something was the fastest way to lose it.

-

Max was never one for grand gestures or poetic declarations. His affection was a series of commands, disguised as blunt observations.

“Eat.” He’d slide a protein bar or a bowl of fruit toward you without looking up from his phone. “Sit here.” He’d point to the empty space on the sofa next to him in the driver’s room, closing the gap so no one else could take the spot. “You’re coming with me.” No question mark. No "if you want to." Just a simple assumption that your presence was a requirement for his day to function.

To anyone else, it might have seemed demanding. To you, it was the only stability you had ever known.

The first time you broke the seal on your past, it wasn't a planned confession. It was a rainy Thursday in Spa, the gray clouds mirroring the heavy feeling in your chest. You were sitting in the back of the Red Bull motorhome, watching the rain streak down the glass.

“My dad used to leave the lights off to save money,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could catch them. “Even when I was scared of the dark. He’d say that if I couldn't see the monsters, they couldn't see me either.” You gave a small, half-hearted laugh, waiting for the pity, the awkward apology, or the inevitable “I’m so sorry, that’s awful.”

Max didn't move. He didn't look away from the window. He didn't offer a platitude that would have felt like a lie.

“Okay,” he said.

That was it. Okay. It wasn't a dismissal. It was a neutral acknowledgment that your past existed, that it was heavy, and that it didn't change the way he looked at you. In that one word, he stripped the shame away. He didn't ask questions. He didn't dig. He just accepted it as a fact of your biology, like the color of your eyes.

For the first time in your life, you felt safe. And that was exactly when the panic set in.

The safety was a trap. Your brain, conditioned by years of "temporary" homes and "conditional" love, began to scream. This isn't mine, you told yourself as you watched Max laugh with Gianpiero on the pit wall. Eventually, the season will end, or he’ll get bored, or they’ll realize I don’t actually do anything here. They’re going to let me go.

The thought was a poison. You decided you wouldn't wait for them to throw you out. You would leave first.

Between the European leg and the flyaways, you started to disappear. You stopped showing up at the factory. You stopped responding to the group chat with Lando and Charles. You booked a separate hotel from the team for the next race. You were a ghost again.

Max noticed the silence immediately. He was a man who lived and breathed data; he knew when a variable was missing.

Your phone buzzed on a Tuesday night.

Max: Where are you?

You: Busy. Lots of stuff to catch up on at home.

The reply came back three seconds later.

Max: No, you’re not. You’re lying. Why?

You didn't answer. You turned the phone face down, your heart hammering against your ribs. You thought that if you made yourself small enough, he would eventually stop looking. You didn't realize that Max Verstappen never stopped until he reached the finish line.

The air at the Suzuka circuit was thick with humidity and the smell of high-octane fuel, but you felt cold. You had spent the entire morning dodging the Red Bull hospitality suite, moving through the crowds like a shadow. Your bag was already packed and sitting in the trunk of a rental car. You weren't waiting for the podium. You weren't even waiting for the lights to go out.

You were leaving.

You were halfway down the service road behind the transport trucks when the sound of heavy footsteps on gravel stopped you cold. You didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. The silence he brought with him was more demanding than any noise.

"What are you doing?"

Max’s voice was like a physical barrier. You turned slowly. He was still in his cooling vest, his hair a mess from taking his helmet off after the final practice session. He looked at your civilian clothes, then at the car keys gripped tightly in your hand.

"Just... leaving," you said, your voice small. "I've got a lot to do back home, Max. I thought I’d beat the traffic."

"No, you’re not," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a fact. He stepped into your path, crossing his arms. "The race is tomorrow. You never leave before the race."

"I don't need to be here for it," you snapped, the fear finally bubbling over into a misplaced defense. "This isn't my place. I'm just a guest who stayed too long. I’m just... some girl who’s been hanging around the garage for years."

Max didn't flinch. He didn't even look surprised by your outburst. He just stared at you with that unnerving, clear-eyed focus he used to study a racing line.

"You’ve been here for years," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "You say that like it was an accident. Like you just fell into the garage every weekend for a decade."

"That doesn't mean it's mine!" you shouted, and the sound echoed off the side of the Red Bull truck. "Don't you get it? This—all of this—is temporary. The contracts, the teams, the people... eventually, the music stops. And I’ve learned the hard way that when the music stops, I’m the one without a chair."

You looked at the ground, your vision blurring. “People don’t keep me, Max. They just... use the space I fill until they find something better.”

The silence that followed was deafening. You expected him to let you go. You expected him to realize you were "too much work" and step aside.

Max didn't move. He took one step closer, closing the distance until you could smell the fire-retardant fabric of his suit. He didn't soften his expression. He didn't offer a hug. He just looked at you with a terrifying, absolute certainty.

"I do."

You looked up, shocked. "What?"

"I keep you," Max said, his voice as resolute as a checkered flag. "I’ve been choosing you this whole time. Every flight I booked for you, every seat I saved, every time I looked for you in the garage... that was me choosing you. You just keep pretending I’m not."

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but he cut you off.

"I don't do things by accident, Y/N. You know that. If I didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here. But you are here. You’ve always been here." He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm, not touching, but offering. "So stop leaving."

For the first time in your life, the "exit" didn't look like freedom. It looked like a mistake. You stood there, keys digging into your palm, realizing that the only person trying to throw you out of this family was you.

The walk back from the service road was silent, but for the first time, it didn't feel lonely. Max walked beside you, not touching you, but his presence was a physical weight, anchoring you to the asphalt.

He didn't need to say anything else. He had already said the only thing that mattered.

When you walked back into the Red Bull hospitality suite, you expected awkwardness. You expected questions about where you’d been or why your eyes were red. Instead, you were met with a wall of aggressive normalcy.

Lando was slumped in a chair, spinning a fidget spinner on the table. He didn't even look up as you approached, but he kicked a chair out with his foot, sending it skidding toward you.

"Sit down. You're blocking the light," he muttered, his voice devoid of its usual high-pitched energy. He looked up then, his eyes sharp. "And by the way, you’re not ghosting us again. I’ve already blocked your number from being able to leave the group chat. It’s a technical thing. Very complex."

You let out a wet, startled laugh. "Lando—"

"I'm serious," he interrupted, finally smiling. "You’re a nightmare to replace. Who else is going to tell me when my hair looks like a bird's nest?"

Before you could even process Lando’s nonsense, Charles walked over, carrying two bottles of water. He handed one to you without a word, then leaned against the table, looking at the empty seat Lando had provided.

"We literally saved you a seat at dinner last night," Charles said softly, his tone more sincere than Lando’s but just as firm. "Max barely ate because he kept looking at the door. It was very annoying for the rest of us. So, for the sake of the championship, please just stay put."

He gave your shoulder a quick, grounding squeeze. It wasn't a "welcome back" hug; it was a "don't be stupid, you never left" gesture.

As the evening wound down and the hospitality crew began to dim the lights, one of the head engineers—a man who lived for aerodynamics and hated small talk—stopped by the table to grab his laptop. He looked at you, then at the credential hanging loosely around your neck.

"Y/N," he grunted.

"Hey, sorry I missed the afternoon briefing," you started to apologize.

He waved a hand dismissively. "You're on the list for the flight to Austin. And the hotel block. You always are. Don't make the admin girls redo the paperwork just because you're having a 'moment.'" He tapped the table twice and walked off.

That night, there were no grand speeches. No one sat you down to perform an intervention or demanded to know the details of the childhood that made you want to run.

You just sat there.

You sat between Max and Lando while they argued over a video game. You listened to the clatter of silverware and the hum of the generators. You ate the food that was placed in front of you.

For the first time, you realized that a family isn't always a place where you're born. Sometimes, it’s a group of people who simply refuse to let you disappear.

No one questioned your place because, to them, your place was as fixed as the stars in the sky or the finish line at the end of the straight. You didn't have to earn it anymore. You just had to exist.

Max caught your eye from across the table. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. He just reached over and snagged a fry from your plate, a silent, blunt reminder: You’re mine. And I keep what’s mine.

And for the first time, the thought of staying didn't scare you. It felt like breathing.

-

The air in Abu Dhabi was thick with the scent of pyrotechnics and the deafening roar of a crowd that knew they had just witnessed history. The championship was decided. The checkered flag had fallen, and for Max, it was another gold star on an already legendary career.

But for you, it was the first time the finish line didn't feel like an ending.

The Red Bull garage was a chaotic sea of navy blue. Mechanics were jumping on each other, engineers were screaming into headsets, and the air was filled with the stinging mist of sprayed Red Bull and champagne. In the past, you would have been pressed against the back wall, trying to stay out of the splash zone.

Now, you were right behind the barrier, your heart hammering against your ribs.

When Max pulled the car into the P1 slot, he didn't immediately jump onto the nose of the car. He climbed out, ripped his balaclava off, and—before the cameras could even get a clear shot of his face—he looked. He didn't look at Laurent, didn't look at his father, didn't look at the grandstands.

He looked for the gap in the crowd where he knew you’d be standing.

When his eyes met yours, the intensity was staggering. He vaulted over the parc fermé fence, ignoring the frantic gestures of the FIA officials. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He just pulled you into a hug so tight it knocked the breath out of your lungs. His suit was hot, smelling of Nomex and sweat, but it was the most grounding thing you had ever felt. He held you as if he were pinning you to the earth, ensuring you wouldn't drift away in the post-race madness.

For the first time, you didn't hesitate to wrap your arms around him. You didn't look for the exit. You just stayed.

Three months later, the circus reset in Bahrain. The new season brought new faces—new PR assistants, new hospitality staff, and junior drivers trying to find their footing.

You were sitting on a flight case in the back of the garage, looking over a track map with one of the junior engineers. A new junior marketing coordinator, clip-board in hand and looking stressed, walked up and tapped her pen against her chin. She looked at your lack of a formal team uniform.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice crisp and professional. "Who is she? I don't see her on the guest list for this specific session. Is she a visitor?"

Max was standing ten feet away, mid-conversation with Gianpiero. He heard the question and started to turn, his jaw already set to deliver a blunt correction.

But he didn't have to.

The lead mechanic, a man who had been with the team since Max’s rookie days, didn't even look up from the wheel nut he was cleaning. "She’s with us," he grunted, his tone suggesting that questioning your presence was as absurd as questioning the existence of the engine.

The marketing girl blinked, stammered an apology, and scurried away.

The sun was setting over the desert, casting long, orange shadows across the paddock. You were walking toward the motorhome with Max, the familiar hum of the generators providing the soundtrack to your evening.

You weren't checking your phone for flight exits. You weren't mentally packing your bags. You were thinking about where you wanted to eat dinner with Lando and Charles later.

Max slowed his pace, glancing sideways at you. The harsh light of the circuit made his features look softer than usual.

"You didn't leave," he said quietly. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of a victory more important to him than the one on the track.

You looked at the garage—at the people who saved you food, the engineers who shared their data, and the man beside you who had refused to let you disappear. You felt the weight of your childhood fading into the background, replaced by the solid, noisy, beautiful reality of the present.

"I didn't want to," you replied.

Max reached out, his hand finding yours and squeezing briefly. "Good. Because we're not done yet."

And as you walked into the hospitality suite, you realized you weren't just a guest anymore. You were home.

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[verstappenverse]

I absolutely LOVE your fics!!! I’m so excited requests are open!

I love me some panicked angst and hurt/comfort, so maybe something where they’re in an established relationship and reader gets hurt somehow? Like an accident or someone gets too handsy in a club or during a race or something? Something where Max either finds her or gets that panicked phone call. Totally okay if that’s not something you’re comfortable with but thought I’d throw it out there!

Can’t wait to see what you come up with across the board💙

Call Out My Name

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: A night out spirals when a guy gets too handsy, but one panicked call is all it takes for Max to come get you.

2k words / Masterlist

Max had been buried in training all week, early mornings, late debriefs, that quiet locked-in focus he got when a race was close. You’d learned it was best not to interrupt it, how to slip out of the apartment without rustling the air too much. So when your friends begged "please, just come out, you’ve been a ghost lately" you told yourself it was a good choice, a sensible one even.

It was only one night.

Drinks, dancing, clinking glasses slick with condensation. The lights were bright and the music was loud enough to drown out the part of you that hesitated. Just a few hours of fun, of being someone who doesn’t check the time or her phone every ten minutes. Someone who doesn’t need to orbit a schedule that isn’t hers.

You never expected the dread to hit like this, sharp and sudden, tightening in your chest until it feels hard to breathe. The music is suddenly too loud, bass thudding through you like a second heartbeat, rattling your ribs. Strobe lights fracture the room into blinding snapshots of faces, hands, and heat. Bodies press in from every direction, the air thick with sweat and perfume and something sour beneath it all. You feel swallowed by it.

You think your phone buzzes in your purse. The sound is faint, almost imaginary, but it makes your pulse spike anyway. Your hands are shaking too badly to dig it out, fingers clumsy, nails scraping uselessly against fabric.

You don’t see him approach.

One second you’re dancing with your friends laughing too loud and the next there’s a body behind you too close, breath warm at your ear. A hand closes around your wrist, not tight enough to bruise, but firm. Possessive. Like he thinks he’s entitled to you.

You freeze then twist away. “Get off,” you say, sharp and clear, trying to pull your arm back.

He laughs like it’s a joke you’re both in on, like you’re being dramatic. His grip tightens and moves to your waist, just enough to make your stomach drop.

“I said no.” Your voice comes out louder this time but it’s brittle at the edges.

You try again. He still doesn’t listen, only pulling you closer. Something cold washes through you, anger, fear, instinct, you wrench your arm free and stumble backward, heart hammering so hard it actually hurts. You shove through the crowd, muttering apologies you don’t mean, shoulder clipping strangers as you push toward the bathrooms, toward the edge of the room where the lights dim and the music dulls to a distant roar.

Your hands are shaking so badly you almost drop your phone when you finally get it out. You don’t think, don’t hesitate, your thumb moves on muscle memory alone.

Calling: Max ❤️

The screen glows in the dark and you can only hope he picks up. It rings once. Twice. Long enough for your chest to tighten with the thought that he won’t—

Then—

“Y/N?” His voice is rough with sleep, low and warm, the way it only ever is when you wake him up. “Everything okay?”

The sound of it nearly undoes you and you suck in a breath but it comes out uneven anyway, your voice cracking around his name. “Max…”

He’s awake instantly, you can hear it in the rustle of sheets, the soft thud as he sits up too fast. “What’s wrong?” he asks already moving. “Where are you?”

“There’s—there’s this guy,” you manage, words tripping over themselves as the fear catches up to you. “He won’t he wouldn’t leave me alone. I told him no. He grabbed my arm.” Your grip tightens on the phone, knuckles white. “I—fuck, Max, I don’t know what to do. I just wanted to go out for a bit. Sorry I’m being stupid.”

“Where are you?” The softness vanishes from his voice, replaced by something sharp and precise, like a blade being drawn every syllable is urgent.

“Bar Lux. Near the square.”

“I’m already in the car,” he says, and you know it’s not an exaggeration. You hear keys, the scrape of a door, the solid slam of it shutting. “Go find security now. Tell them someone touched you and you need a private room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The speed of it all leaves you dizzy.

“Max—”

“Don’t hang up,” he cuts in quicker now, but gentler too, his voice dropping back into something steady. “Just keep talking to me. Can you do that?”

You nod even though he can’t see you, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says. “Start walking toward the front. Can you see the exit?”

You push through the crowd phone pressed hard to your ear like an anchor. The music feels distant now, muffled under the sound of your own heartbeat. You don’t see the guy anymore, but your body hasn’t caught up to that fact and your pulse is still racing, lungs still tight as if he’s right behind you.

“There,” you murmur. “I see it.”

“Good girl,” Max says softly. “Find security. You’re doing great.”

You spot one near the entrance and tap his arm, your hand shaking. “I need help,” you say, forcing the words out. “Someone grabbed me. My boyfriend’s on his way.”

“You okay?” he asks. “Come with me.”

Max hears all of it, checking in, making sure the bouncer is actually leading you somewhere safe. It already feels like he’s here, that you’re not alone, that nothing else matters right now.

You’re led down a narrow corridor into a small office, the door clicking shut behind you with a sound that finally lets you breathe. You sink onto the worn leather couch, legs weak, adrenaline buzzing so hard your fingers feel numb.

You lift the phone back to your mouth, voice barely above a whisper. “You still there?”

“Always,” Max replies without hesitation.

Nine Minutes Later.

The knock on the door is sharp and loud.

“Security said my girlfriend’s in here.”

You know the muffled voice before the door even rattles in its frame.

Your hands fumble with the handle, fingers still a little numb, and when you pull the door open his eyes find you instantly, like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. They sweep over you in one quick, devastating pass the smeared mascara beneath your eyes, the way your arms are folded tight around yourself, the faint tremor running through your legs now that the adrenaline has nowhere else to go.

His chest rises with a harsh breath.

Then he’s moving, he crosses the room in two long strides and pulls you into him so fast it steals the air from your lungs, arms wrapping around you like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even for a second you’ll vanish. You don’t hesitate you fold into him, bury your face in his chest fists twisting into the soft fabric of his hoodie as if anchoring yourself there.

The scent of him hits you all at once, clean laundry, sleep, warmth, something unmistakably Max and it settles your nervous system in a way nothing else has managed all night. Your breathing stutters, then slowly evens out.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your hair, voice low and raw. “Are you okay?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still firm at your sides. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “I—I got away before he could. He just… wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

You feel it immediately the way Max’s body goes rigid, the tension snapping tight through his shoulders, his jaw clenches hard enough you can see the muscle jump.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, anger curling dark and dangerous beneath the words.

You shake your head again, lifting a hand to his chest like you can physically keep him grounded. “I’m okay. I just I—I got scared.”

“I’m here,” he whispers. “He’s not going to touch you again. I promise.”

Your fingers grip the back of his shirt as you try to breathe through the panic.

That’s when his expression shifts, the fury doesn’t disappear, but something softer edges in around it as his hands come up to your face, gentle now, thumbs brushing under your eyes as he tilts your chin up so he can really see you.

“You shouldn’t have had to call me like that,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” you whisper. “I panicked. I just—I needed you.”

His eyes soften at that, the sharp edge of his anger giving way to something fierce and protective. “You did the right thing,” he says without a second’s hesitation. “I just hate that anyone made you feel that way.”

You nod, once, then again and that’s when it breaks the tears come without warning, slow at first, then heavy and unstoppable, spilling over like your body has finally decided it doesn’t need to be strong anymore.

Now you’re here, safe. In Max’s arms. Everything you’ve been holding back comes rushing out.

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat as you press closer to him, your face buried against his chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs continue. Max doesn’t say anything at first he just tightens his hold around you, one arm firm across your back, the other hand moving in slow, steady circles soothing you one breath at a time.

He lets you cry, lets it happen without trying to stop it, without asking you to explain or be okay faster than you are.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and constant against your hair. “You’re safe.”

Back at your apartment Max doesn’t let you out of his sight for a second.

He follows you from room to room like a quiet shadow always close enough to touch, as if the simple act of being near you is the only thing keeping the night from catching up again. When you change he hands you one of his shirts without a word. It’s soft and oversized, the hem brushing your thighs smelling faintly of him in a way that makes your chest ache with relief. You hadn’t realised how badly you needed that small, familiar comfort until it settles over you like a second skin.

You sit on the edge of the bed and Max comes with you, positioning himself behind you, legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, his presence solid and warm at your back.

“I feel so stupid,” you murmur, eyes fixed on your hands twisted together in your lap.

“You’re not,” he says immediately, the words firm enough to stop you mid-thought. “Don’t ever say that.”

“I thought I’d be fine,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t think—” Your throat tightens and you swallow hard. “I didn’t think I’d feel that scared.”

Max exhales slowly, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the warmth. “I felt like the ground dropped out from under me when I heard your voice,” he says, voice low and honest. “I don’t think I’ve ever moved that fast in my life.”

You lean back into him, letting yourself be held, your fingers finding his and lacing together like they know exactly where they belong.

“I should’ve come with you,” he whispers, regret threaded through every syllable.

You turn your head slightly. “No, Max. You needed rest. You can’t be with me all the time. That’s not healthy anyway.”

“I know,” he says quietly, tightening his grip just a fraction. “But I still wish I’d been there to stop it from happening at all.”

The silence that follows is heavy but gentle, filled with the soft sounds of breathing, the city humming faintly beyond the windows after a moment you turn in his arms just enough to look back at him.

“I’m really glad you picked up,” you say softly.

He gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, something almost broken and deeply sincere. “There’s no universe where I wouldn’t answer your call.”

Your chest tightens, you lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles. “You always make me feel safe.”

His voice drops to a whisper, serious and unwavering. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

You know he means it.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w @abcdefghi09lmnopqrstuvwxyz @kevynnashley @robindrake13 @lilorose25 @sogoodtoheritsvicious @angelluv16 @alex1ella @nightrose-18

[hoolaand]

Max Verstappen

💌: toxic max x reader

Max was not someone who played about you. He deemed you as one of the most important people in his life. Whatever you demanded was prioritised the most. You had him wrapped around your finger and he knew that, but he genuinely didn't care. But all the good things came with a consequence.

Dating him felt like a fairytale. You never had to ask him for anything. He did it for you willingly. He did the bare minimum and made princess treatment a priority.

Opening doors for you. Check.

Giving flowers every week. Check.

Cooking food for you whenever he was home. Check.

Bringing you gifts and souvenirs everytime he travelled abroad. Check.

Gifting you jewellery without letting you know about the tracker inside it. Chec- Oh.

That was something Max wouldn't tell you. The little diamond necklace you wore all the time, only taking it off during showers that Max gave you at the beginning of your situationship had a cute little tracker in it as well. He made sure to know where you were at all times. All the time.

No, it was not a joke.

All the time.

With that, he made sure you knew what he wanted. He would never raise his voice at you. Never. He would rather explain it to you gently. Making sure his voice was soft because he hated to see you flinch. But he didn't miss the flinch when you noticed his car parked in an empty lot to a party you didn't tell him about. He liked that flinch. Your spine straightening up and your eyes widening. He took pride knowing he was the reason you made that reaction.

2 am. Empty parking lot. With the headlights of his Porsche cutting through the darkness like a freshly bladed knife.

He didn't start an argument or shout at you when he drove you home. He just simply didn't talk. He went cold. No response, no soft murmurs. He went cold.

And that made you panic and he knew that.

No flowers. No greetings. No nicknames. No gifts. No calls.

Only one or two text messages every few days.

This was love bombing. And it worked. You came crawling back, showing up on his door with tears in your eyes and apologies stuttering out your mouth. That was when the idea of letting him know where you were at all times was planted on your mind.

He was protective. Over protective. He didn't like your male friends and his eyes narrowed everytime he heard you talk about or to them. Not even your gay male friends. He made sure that they were out of the picture soon enough. Suddenly, your closest friends started isolating you. Partying and planning on dates without you and weeks later, they didn't even bother to reply back. You cried but you cried in his arms and that's what it mattered. Now, you didn't send your outfit pictures to your friends but rather to him.

With that came something, he'd never want you to know. The documents and polaroids of you. He had a file of you with every information his private investigation could dig out. Your childhood home, favorite book, pet, teacher, color and what not. Everything including your digital footprint in return of a hefty sum.

It would be an understatement if said that Max would go to any lengths for you. He pressed charges and made his legal team remove articles and pictures of you in bikinis whenever you guys would party at his private yacht because no one deserved to see you in that except him. Journalists who wrote foul things about you had their careers absolutely destroyed and never dared to enter the paddock again.

And god knows what would happen if you ever tried to break up with him. He was a man of immense power and wealth. He knew every single thing about you and had people keeping an eye on you when he couldn't. And that was okay because if you came to knew about it, you would just have to adapt to it because there would be no where to run.

[harianaswhore]

⟡ 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 ⟡

NONE OF THESE ARE WRITTEN BY ME

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬 ☆ 𝐟𝟏 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐬

— ᵗʰᵉ ᵍʳⁱᵈ ⟡

missing piece (a) - @katebishopsbow

grid kids (series, sebastian vettel and grid) - @pucksandpower

birthday wishes (max is the bf but focused on everyone) (smau) - @mclqren

points have been made (lestappen x reader) - @sinofwriting

birthday wishes (charles is the bf but focused on everyone) (smau) - @astonmartinii

other side of the moon (^)

heartbreak syndrome (mostly the grid but ex!max and eventual lewis) - @h4m1lt0ns

the grid's delight (series) - @sebscore

— ˢᶜᵉⁿᵃʳⁱᵒˢ/ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿˢ ⟡

makeup shopping with the boys (f) - @verstappen-cult

getting caught making out with the boys (sexual references) (^)

boys reacting to being called pretty (mostly f) - @ln444

"where they would like to kiss you" (f) - @itsvelyria

f1 drivers and their favorite types of hugs (f) - @mirohlayo

ass or tits (s) - @youaresimplylovely

"what did you just call me" (f) - @23victoria

“i love you” (f) (^)

he takes care of you on your period (f) - @fastandcarlos

when f1 drivers dirty text you (and you pretend your dad answers) (s) - @maxtermind

fuckbuddy!f1 drivers getting jealous (f,a,s) (^)

f1 drivers reacting to the hickeys they left on you (s) (^)

putting f1!drivers on a sex ban (s) (^)

accidently telling your f1!boyfriend you think he likes someone else (a) (^)

blind girl (f, suggestive) - @hamilando

unbreakable (a) - @amberjazmyn

how the f1 drivers would kiss you (f, suggestive) - @uluvjay

bereals with your f1 bf - @lilasamaaa

f1 boys and their moments of quiet admiration for you (f) - @itaipava

tease (s) - @hugleclerc

cheating two (^)

f175 (^)

new year with your f1 boyfriend (f) - @jungwnies

scaring your f1 boyfriend (f) (^)

there's always a first for everything (suggestive, f) (^)

pranking the parents two (f) (^)

two string bathing suit (suggestive) (^)

nonsense christmas (f,s) - @pha55ed

you're jealous of a baby (f) - @verstappensrealwife

flowers (f) - @merchelsea

favorite days (f) - @moonlight-records

crush chaos (f,s) - @f1amour

let's get physical (s) (^)

love marks (s) - @tpwk-formula1

love language (f) - @yuramour

— ˡᵉʷⁱˢ ʰᵃᵐⁱˡᵗᵒⁿ ⟡

king of my heart (smau) - @cieloclercs

keys to the benz (smau, sexual innuendo) - @imnameimswrld

him being a simp for you (headcannon) - @itaipava

thick and thin (f,a)- @agendabymooner

lawyer up (smau) - @monzabee

war is over (tw: brocedes mention) (f) - @pucksandpower

lucky charm (smau) - @maplesyrupsainz

chapter 25 (smau) - @edwardslvrr

controversially young gf (f) - @dreamauri

— ᵈᵃⁿⁱᵉˡ ʳⁱᶜᶜᵃʳᵈᵒ ⟡

ultimate wing man (smau) - @astonmartinii

keep it private (smau) - @marlenesluv

forever kind of love (smau) - @chrisevansonly

my book worm (smau) - @lewisvinga

— ᵃʳᵗʰᵘʳ ˡᵉᶜˡᵉʳᶜ ⟡

kissing in the rain (f) - @thebearchives

forgiveness (f) - @starlost97

fan behavior (smau) - @lxclerc

it's you and me (smau) - @lecsainz

party girl two (smau) - @natailiatulls07

amour (smau) - @marlenesluv

happy tears (f) - @versairic

through the night (f,a) - @menteycorazoncito

matchmaking brothers - @5sospenguinqueen

red (f,a) - @lucy-literates

the bouquet (f) (^)

— ˢᵉᵇᵃˢᵗⁱᵃⁿ ᵛᵉᵗᵗᵉˡ ⟡

just you wait sunshine (a) - @unsolvedjarin

helmet kisses (headcannons) - @forteafy

drink water, not alchol (f) - @sebscore

me and my husband (smau) - @starkwlkr

fever dream it's nothing new i wait for you (smau) (^)

cherry flavoured (rbr!seb my love) (f) (^)

miss honey (f) (^)

always an angel, never a god (!!!! EASTING DISORDER !!!) (a) (^)

come back to me (CRASH) (a)- @lucyrose191

about you (series, f)- @drvscarlett

merry christmas, please don't call (a) - @bestalbertcamuslover

— ᶠʳᵃⁿᶜᵒ ᶜᵒˡᵃᵖⁱⁿᵗᵒ ⟡

mi bonita (smau) - @harrysfolklore

nothing special (f,a) - @p1astr81

mi vida (smau) - @n0vazsq

getaway (f) - @mywritersmind

WAG in training (smau) - @5sospenguinqueen

el coqueto (f) - @theonottsbxtch

all of the boys you loved before (f,a) - @wcters

let's reconnect (smau) (^)

fan favorite (smau) - @menagerofmischief

gold rush (smau) - @afterglowsainz

challenge accepted (smau) - @hugleclerc

the secret's out (smau) - @goldsainz

[fallingforyouforeverr]

LOVE LANGUAGES

feat. Lando, Oscar, Max, Charles, Lewis, and Carlos

a/n: I loved writing this sm so if you want me to write this for anyone else or if you have ideas for other headcannons/fics please leave a request <3

LANDO NORRIS

Lando's love for you is obvious in the way he is always touching you. His hand habitually reaches for yours whenever you are nearby only to drop to rest on your thigh when you sit down and in crowded places he wraps his arm tightly around you. In private however, he is even more clingy. Lando constantly craves some form of physical touch and takes every opportunity to act on it. Watching tv? Cuddles. Laying in bed together? More cuddles. Cooking dinner? He's hugging you from behind. Busy with work? He's lying next to you with his head is in your lap. The other drivers find it cute how he always attaches himself to you and although it can be annoying sometimes - especially during very hot weather - it is also endearing to you as it is impossible to feel unloved when he is quite literally smothering you in his affection 24/7

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar shows his love for you through his actions, all the sweet little gestures he does for you, often subconsciously. These habits have become so ingrained into your relationship that you usually don't even notice him doing them, but the fans always do. There are many threads and compilations dedicated to all of Oscar's acts of service towards you, whether it be him carying your bags for you, covering sharp corners with his hand, or him having a hairband around his wrist at all times in case you need one. He is always gentlemanly towards you by opening doors, giving you his jacket and refusing to let you pay on dates, and people often joke that 'chivalry isn't dead till Oscar Piastri is'. At first, you were worried that he was lovebombing you or something, but you soon realised that it was just the way he is and now it is one of your favourite things about him

MAX VERSTAPPEN

Max sometimes struggles to articulate his thoughts, so he tends to show his love more through his acts of service. It's the little things he does that let you know how much he cares for you, such as always carrying a spare of your essentials or items that you often forget and carrying you home from a night out when your feet hurt, despite the inevitable teasing from Charles and Lando. Max can be deceivingly romantic – he may not often outright say that he loves you, but he ensures that you feel loved every single day, even when he's not with you. Whenever you're apart, Max loves surprising you with fresh bouquets and random grocery deliveries of your favourite snacks to your shared apartment, as well as ensuring he always brings home a trinket from whatever country he was racing in. It's simply his way of letting you know he's thinking about you

CHARLES LECLERC

Because of how much time he spends away from you due to the demands from his job, he values the quality time you have together. Charles loves doing mundane activities such as cooking together, even though he isn't always the best at it, just as much as he enjoys the expensive dinner dates you often go on. He doesn't really care where you go, just as long as you are there with him. Something Charles absolutely adores is when the two of you share your respective hobbies with eachother, whether it involves playfully competitive sim races or you trying to teaching him a skill you have cause he doesn't have enough random side quests already, it's guaranteed to be a fun pastime with Charles by your side, regardless of the outcome. Also, whenever you mention a new interest of yours, however niche or kooky, he spends hours afterwards researching as much as he can about it so that you can enthuse about it together

LEWIS HAMILTON

Lewis is literally a multimillionaire and he uses all that money to absolutely spoil you. He loves to surprise you with all manner of gifts, whether it be a new designer purse he knew you wanted or just ordering your favourite flowers. You and Lewis are no doubt the most fashionable couple on the grid as since you started dating, he has literally bought you every single item of clothing/makeup you could ever want. You sometimes feel bad about how much he spends on you, but he always assures you that he just wants you to be happy and it's not like he can't afford it lol

CARLOS SAINZ

Carlos is a very jokey guy, and he is always willing to make a complete fool of himself in front of everyone he knows just to get a smile from you, but he can also be incrediblely sincere when it matters. To him, you are genuinely the most beautiful person Carlos has ever seen, and he never forgets to remind you of this, as well as showering you with compliments 24/7 about your personality, your humor, your kindness, even your fashion sense. If you ever feel insecure at all, rest assured this man will bombard you with endless reasons as to why he loves you, and he will not stop until every doubt and negative thought has been swept away. He's also the type of guy to send random 'ily' or 'I miss you so much' texts in the middle of the day, even if he knows you won't check your phone for hours because of differing timezones. Carlos loves you immensely and he's not afraid of telling you so, or anyone else for that matter. Carlos's friends and family constantly complain about how much he talks about you and tease him relentlessly, but they not-so-secretly love to see him so happy with you

[gr4cier4cie]

♡ can you come home? i need you. ♡

or: the drivers aren't only fast on the track. to be fair, you did tempt them. featuring: lewis hamilton, lando norris, max verstappen, daniel riccardio warnings: sexual innuendo (gracie's ovulating i apologize in advance)

♡

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Doing Their Makeup

♥ masterlist

♥ headcannons: lewis hamilton, max verstappen, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, lando norris, and logan sargeant

♥ as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: a little bit suggestive !!!

ᡣ𐭩 ʟᴇᴡɪs ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ - There is not an ounce of toxic masculinity in his body so when you asked to do his makeup he immediately let you. He most likely had some Mercedes PR that day which put his look on display. The fans weren't able to shut up about how glowy his skin was. After this Lewis asked you to do some colorful eye makeup for him whenever he showed up to the paddock (matching the colors of his outfit of course).

ᡣ𐭩 ᴍᴀx ᴠᴇʀsᴛᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ - I have a feeling he uses a 3 in 1 soap on his face but has the most flawless skin. This meant that he never felt the need to use any makeup or skin care. After you introduced him to a few products like primer, cleansers, and oils he really got into it. As for a standard face of cosmetics he doesn't like the feeling of foundation or eye products. He'll let you practice on his face but the minute you're done he washes it all off.

ᡣ𐭩 ᴄʜᴀʀʟᴇs ʟᴇᴄʟᴇʀᴄ - He didn't mind getting his makeup done by you considering he was so used to it when doing promo pictures. After a while he'll start requesting that you practice on him because he loves how the brushes feel on his skin. He's also an absolute sucker for a lip butter or gloss.

ᡣ𐭩 ᴏsᴄᴀʀ ᴘɪᴀsᴛʀɪ - Oscar loves that no make up make up look and probably has a few products of his own! He'll definitely let you teach him things like why setting your makeup is important or the difference between contour and bronzer. He also absolutely adores doing face masks and really any sort of skin care with you.

ᡣ𐭩 ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪs - He wasn't really up for the idea of you practicing new makeup techniques on him but he gave in when you offered to sit on his lap as you did it. He'd buck his hips into yours not realizing that it would totally backfire on him later. The more he teased you the more you wanted revenge. You purposely messed up and smudged the products across his face just to make him look as ridiculous as possible.

ᡣ𐭩 ʟᴏɢᴀɴ sᴀʀɢᴇᴀɴᴛ - Alex invited you to do Logan's make up before a team torque episode just to see how he'd respond. Logan was enjoying it much more than he thought he would, but who was surprised that he loved being pampered? It was difficult to spread any foundation on his face due to his stubble but you didn't mind because he looked too good with it.

[sainzsiren]

max and "i'm here for you" bc he seems pretty closed off and saying that would make him 🫠🫠

IM HERE FOR YOU, MV1

cw: swearing

liz's .5k event

the race was awful. max knew it, you knew it, everyone at redbull knew it. the entire world knew it. p1 thrown away because of a pit stop, a seventeen second pit stop to be exact. max had been hiding in his drivers room for the past hour after storming out of media when an asshole reporter wouldn't stop trying to make him say something terrible about his team. you had let him be for as long as possible, but he needed to be on his flight back to monaco soon. you slipped away from lily z, alex, lily m, and rebecca and made your way to his drivers room. after knocking and receiving no response, you pushed the door open to find him on his phone. upon closer inspection, you found that he was looking at twitter, which is always a terrible place to be, but especially if you're a public figure. you took a few steps until you were standing in front of him, gently taking his phone out of his hand and turning it off and on mute. he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his cheek on your stomach, mumbling, "that was bullshit. all of it." "i know, max," you responded, "it's all bullshit, but i'm here for you." he froze for a moment, then squeezed your waist and started to rub circles on your hip with his thumb.

[andcars]

STREET RACE ━━ THE GRID

﹙ 16 33 03 63 44 55 43 ﹚ ─────── living life just a bit faster

this is a semi prologue to these headcannons, showing how a street racer reader meets the boys

tags street racing, some are established romantic relationships, slight max ooc but it's him being lovestruck imo style headcannons and drabble

MASTERLIST ⠀REQUEST ME ⠀ TAGLIST⠀ PATREON GUIDE

radio "comments and reblogs are much appreciated!" wanted to write a certain someone into here but Uhm. well. idk i'm still a bit torn and have some form of opinion on it but i'm gonna halt writing about him in case someone gets offended. #freepalestine.

CHARLES LECLERC

- you never told him about your street racing in fear he wouldn’t like it - then he caught you from a damn instagram live from a random account with almost no views - he saw the way you exited the winning car in triumph, winning above everyone like an RB20 - he pretended he didn't lose sleep thinking about it

you find him sitting at the kitchen counter with a coffee, scrolling on his phone. he doesn’t look up. you’ve been gone last night with the excuse of staying with a friend. something doesn’t feel right, though. “sleep well?” you ask, pretending not to notice the tension in his shoulders.

he finally glances at you. there’s this look, sharp and unreadable. “fun race last night?”

your heart stops. “what race?”

he flips his phone around. there it is: a grainy, neon-lit video of you sliding around a corner like you own it, the crowd screaming your name.

“you could’ve told me,” he says softly. “instead i had to watch you risk your life from someone else’s livestream.”

you set your bag down, meeting his gaze. “would you have let me go if i did?”

his jaw tightens. “no. but i’d have been there, if anything bad had happened.”

you’ve been doing this long enough to not be worried. “charles, i was fine. you don’t need to worry.” you sigh, “if you want, you can join next time. watch me.”

charles doesn’t complain. he kisses you so gently and watch your next race with the dumbest grin on his face.

MAX VERSTAPPEN

- you met because of street racing - he didn't really like street racing. not really - but his friend had a car up in line and invited him over to watch - then he saw you, driving with your head out the window like you're unstoppable - there's an air of ego around you, nothing bursting, just one that makes you happy

max was leaning against his friend's car when you came to a stop. his expression somewhere between curiosity and challenge. he was never one to drive in conditions like this. not really.

“nice run,” he said, anyways. his voice is between awe and jealousy. “you’re quick.”

you smirked, wiping your hands on your jacket. its calloused and sweaty but no less elegant as you walked towards him. “and you are?”

“someone who’s faster,” he shot back. "in, well, other conditions anyways."

it was ridiculous. you’d never seen him before. max felt that urge to get behind the wheel just to see how good you look up close. he races you right then and there. getting into the car fuelled by curiosity. at the end of race, it was only by a margin that you won againsth im. it was in your turf, after all.

afterwards, while everyone else was dispersing, he fell into step beside you. “so, when’s the next one?”

“why?” you asked. "felt like a sore loser?"

he hummed, "just wanna see how long it takes for me to beat you."

the ego trip looked delicious when it came onto max.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

- he found out about your little hobby when you borrowed one of his cars once - you said that yours broke down, something with the engine - someone sent him a clip of that exact car ripping through a night race - at first, he just thought it was a random person's car. the license plate was covered so maybe it wasn't his - except, he called you anyways. because the name everyone was chanting sounded so much like yours

“okay,” daniel said the second you picked up the phone, “i’m only gonna ask this once, so answer carefully. did you take my car to an illegal street race last night?”

still celebrating with some friends, a few drinks in, you paused. “…how illegal is illegal.”

he snorted. it seemed like the two of you aren't that different after all. “that’s a yes. i’ve just been sent the most glorious video of my baby taking corners like she’s auditioning for fast & furious. you’ve been holding out on me!”

you're already on the way home, scared that you're going to be scolded to hell. or worse, being broken off. except his words had instilled some sense of comfort in you. “you’re not mad?”

daniel was nothing if not understanding.“mad? no. i’m insulted i wasn’t invited.” his tone was mock-offended. he was rustling in the background as you started the engine, driving at a normal pace. “pack your helmet next time, i’m riding shotgun.”

when you come home, he starts telling you to find someone to help upgrade the car for better speed.

GEORGE RUSSELL

- when you were friends, he always suspected you drove a bit too aggressively when you were behind the wheel - he didn't not let you drive though. he likes sleeping in a car once in a while - when he couldn't reach you one night, he was worried - he knew you were supposed to be home and messaging him but you just weren't - so imagine his disbelief when he ended up hearing the ruckus of your race happening in your city

when you spotted him at the edge of the crowd, you almost stalled the car out of shock. he was standing there in his pristine coat, shielded away from the cold air, and sticking out from leather jackets and hoodies. that was, one hundred percent, george russell.

after the race, you barely had time to get out. you didn't want to be spotted more than you already were. except, he had found you just before you could leave. “you could’ve told me,” he said, his voice low but tight.

you gulp, backing up into your race winning car. you try to smile it off, a bit too cheeky but more nervous than anything. "come on, it's nothing bad. nothing worse then what you do—"

“what i do!?” he gestured to the emptying street, “do you have any idea how dangerous this was? there's no rules, there's no people here to help you if you crashed. you aren't even wearing a helmet!”

the mood dies as you two stood quiet. without looking at him, you hear him sigh and say, "i'll... i'll come to you the next race."

when you turn to look at him, you're surprised to see him avoid eye contact. despite the dim lights, you can see the faint red in his cheeks.

you smile, immediately understanding, "wait a minute. you liked seeing me drive."

he snapped his head to you in anger. "no! no... i just, it's dangerous. i want to be the one to help you."

“sure,” you say, opening the door behind you. “i'll see you at the next one, russell.” you jerk your head towards the passenger seat, "i'll drive you home."

george never asked you for a ride again. however, he started asking when your next race is

LEWIS HAMILTON

- you convinced him you were just working late some nights - other boyfriends would immediately think you're cheating on him - he knew you loved him too much to be even thinking that - however, on the drive home—a night he knew you were out—he heard the unmistakeable sounds of people screaming and a loud engine cracking through the air - the sound was dragging over to your street, where you mentioned you were working, and he immediately became concerned - he followed the sound to ensure your safety

as you were exiting the busy streets and the sound of everyone celebrating, you saw him by his car. you stopped, feeling caught as you had the smell of asphalt coming off you.

“hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. the nervousness dripping off of you.

he tilted his head. “fun time?”

you question him, raising your eyebrow as you stand on one leg and to the other. “fun?” you sounded more stupid the more you talked.

humming, lewis adds, “the kind of fun where i hear an engine i know isn’t supposed to be on the street at midnight, so i follow it and watch my girlfriend blow past two cars like she’s an f1 driver.” his voice wasn’t sharp, just… well, you didn't quite know.

despite his town, lewis didn’t really look upset. which was confusing. “you’re mad?”

“mad? no.” he smiled faintly. “just wondering why you never told me you had that kind of fire in you.”

you didn't want to exclude your boyfriend more than you already have. so on the drive home, in his car, you explained to him everything. when you arrive back to your place, he just told you that he'd need to see for himself if you were that good.

CARLOS SAINZ

- you had so casually asked him help with tuning your car one afternoon - the modifcations you wanted were way too agressive for normal driving - still, he didn't back off when he took a look at your car and see that it was definitely not built for casual use

“you know these changes aren’t exactly… street-legal,” carlos said, leaning over your hood. he was no car expert, especially normal cars, but he knew these weren't things that normal cars had.

you shrugged. “depends on the street.” or, perhaps, depending on the occassion.

carlos shot you a look. he looked convinced about something he didn’t even know about. “you’re racing," he stated, convinced. "not racing, racing. street racing."

there was no point lying, so you just nodded. “sometimes. it takes the edge off when i'm starting to get tired of my boring life."

his mouth curved into something between amusement and disbelief. he understood that. racing in itself was an escape he found himself craving at times. just the car and him. “and you didn’t think to mention this before asking me to help you shave milliseconds off your acceleration?”

“figured you’d say no.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “no, i’m saying we could have made it better even earlier.”

FRANCO COLAPINTO

- you met him through mutual friends - he didn't even know you raced until his friend had told him about your reputation - at first, he thought it was a joke. you looked too... innocent? for that. - then he saw a photo of you standing on top of your car holding the cash prize - led by curiosity, he showed up to your next race without telling you

you were walking away from the crowd when you heard it. a voice louder and more distinct than the rest. your eyes followed the sound and there he was—franco colapinto, grinning like an idiot, and waving both arms to catch your attention.

both of you stood next to each other far from the audience. his arms are crossed and you are approaching him with a bright smile on your face. "when did you find out?"

he shrugged, all too casual but looking smug. "found out yesterday." franco suddenly bursted into excitement, flailing his arms around, "didn't believe it but then i saw you drive and. holy shit. you're—" he waved his hand around you—"fuck, well. you were amazing."

laughing, you admired the way he was all acting like a fan in front of you. "better than you?"

he shakes his head, a playful pout. "different terms. you can't beat me in f1."

"surprised you aren't freaking out, in another way," you shrug, amused in him. “you’re not going to tell me to stop?”

franco looked offended that you'd even assume that of him. “tell you to stop? no way. i’m buying the popcorn for the next one. and i'm putting a bigger bet on you.”

@delululeclerc @coconut-dreamz @hiireadstuff @fallingforpvris @rtorresblog @Tribbisweetdear @Jamie2305 @yourmommyagone22 @nichmeddar @vannylen2144 @@bulletlovedie @blablablablacar @rere10

[miaaxxzf1]

DRIVING LESSONS | MV3

SUMMARY: After failing your driving test (again), your best friend Max takes it upon himself to teach you how to drive.

PAIRING: max verstappen x reader

No part 2 requests please!!!

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You knew damn well you were a terrible driver. This was your third attempt at getting your license, and the last instructor had bluntly suggested you buy a bicycle and forget about driving altogether.

The real issue wasn’t that you didn’t know the rules or how the car worked. The problem was your complete lack of spatial awareness, something that had haunted you your entire life.

You’d misjudge distances, clip imaginary curbs in your head, and overthink every turn until your brain short-circuited.

Max Verstappen, your best friend had watched you spiral one too many times. After you’d failed a mock test and nearly cried into your takeaway, he’d sighed and said, "I’ll teach you myself."

So here you were.

“Okay, first thing: calm down,” Max said as he slid into the passenger seat of the training car and immediately noticed your white-knuckle grip on the wheel. “It’s not that hard.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Four-Time F1 Champion,” you muttered, heart already racing.

“I swear, it’s easy. You just need to focus. Breathe.”

“I am breathing. I’m just… overthinking.”

“You always overthink. That’s the problem.”

You exhaled shakily, checked the mirrors for the tenth time, adjusted your seatbelt twice, and still didn’t start the engine.

“You know the engine won’t magically turn on by itself, right?” Max asked, lips twitching.

“Yes, I know that. Just… give me a second.”

Finally, you turned the key. The engine roared to life.

“Clutch in. Slowly,” he instructed, voice calm but firm.

You did it. Sort of...

“Now first gear.”

You hesitated, hand hovering over the shifter. “Was that… my left or your left?”

Max exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re going to be here a while, aren’t we?”

The next hour was a comedy of errors.

You kept mixing up left and right when he said “turn.” At one point you went to indicate and accidentally hit the windshield wipers instead. When Max told you to reverse into a marked bay, you somehow ended up facing the completely wrong direction, like the car had betrayed you.

“Max, I swear the car moves differently when you’re watching,” you groaned after stalling for the third time.

“It doesn’t. You’re just panicking because I’m here.”

“You’re literally the best driver in the world. Of course I’m panicking!”

He chuckled, that low, warm sound that always made your stomach flip a little. “I’m just Max right now. Your friend. ”

He spent the rest of the session drilling spatial awareness into you “Picture the car’s dimensions in your head. You’re not driving a point, you’re driving a box. Feel where the corners are.” He even had you close your eyes (engine off) and point to where you thought the mirrors were, then open them to see how far off you were.

It was equal parts frustrating and hilarious. You nearly cried when you finally managed a smooth figure-eight without clipping the cones. Max just grinned and said, “See? You’re not hopeless. You just needed someone who won’t yell at you for taking eight seconds to find first gear.”

By the end of the lesson, you were exhausted but lighter.

“That’s it for today,” Max said, ruffling your hair as you both got out. “Homework: stop overthinking so much before your test tomorrow.”

“Max, you have no idea… you might have actually saved my life with this.”

“Call me right after you get your license.”

“You really think I’ll pass this time?”

“Of course. You drove well today.”

“Okay… then you’ll be the first person I pick up once I have it.”

“Uh… let’s not rush that.”

“Why? You don’t like being a passenger princess?”

“Not if the driver got their license a few hours earlier,” he deadpanned.

You laughed, but it came out nervous. Your anxious brain immediately supplied ten ways you could still fail spectacularly.

“The most important thing is not to overthink it,” Max added, more gently this time. “I promise you’ll get it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“If, if… if my mother had balls, she’d be my father.”

You stared at him. “What kind of motivational quote is that?”

“The kind that says stop imagining worst-case scenarios that haven’t happened yet.”

The big day arrived, your third (and hopefully final) driving test.

You were a mess of nerves the whole way there. Maybe it really isn’t for me. Maybe you should just embrace the bicycle life. But something from Max’s lessons had stuck...and somehow… didn’t fail

When the examiner handed you the paper with a smile and said “Congratulations,” the relief hit so hard you almost sobbed in the car park.

What you didn’t expect was Max leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting for you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, walking over.

“The instructor wanted to see what his student did,” he teased “So? How did it go?”

You put on your best devastated face. “I failed again.”

Max’s expression dropped instantly. “What? No way. You were driving well enough to...”

“I’m kidding!” You burst out laughing and basically launched yourself at him. He caught you easily, arms wrapping around your waist as you hugged him tight.

Pure joy and relief made you bold, you went to kiss his cheek in thanks, but in your excitement you misjudged the angle.

Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth instead.

You pulled back, face burning. Max cleared his throat, ears going slightly pink, but he recovered faster than you did.

“So… dinner to celebrate your victory?” he asked, voice a little rougher than usual.

“That sounds perfect. But I’m paying. You have no idea how much you helped me.”

“You definitely won’t be paying. It was my pleasure. That’s what friends do, right?”

Friends. Right.

As you walked back, you glanced at his car.

“Can I drive your car now?” you asked hopefully.

“Not a chance. Not yet.”

“Why? I have a license now!”

“You need more experience before I let you behind the wheel of something like this. Like… a lot more experience.”

“Experience like what?

Max smirked. “A super license or at least a few months of not stalling at every roundabout.”

[outoftheseine]

- MAX VERSTAPPEN FIC RECS -

season is over. i’m sad and it will go away by reading max fluff | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include warnings like: violence, blood, toxic family dynamics. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

main masterlist

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

strawberry wine • max verstappen x friends to lovers!reader

↳ by @scuderiahoney

glitch • max verstappen x reader / mason mount x reader

↳ by @talkdutchtome

long live the walls we crashed through | part two • max verstappen x driver!reader

↳ by @propertyofhenrywinter

max the wag | two | three | four | five • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @ferrstappen

lucky red bull driver | make it work • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @fxrmuladaydreams

heartbreak girl | part two • max verstappen x fem!reader

↳ by @auggieblogs

let me be the lighter • max verstappen x fem!driver!reader

↳ by @nostappen

snap out of it • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @diqldrunks

you belong with me | part two | part three • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @verstappenverse

the pretty interviewer | pursuing the interviewer • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @charlotteking27

my dear assistant • max verstappen x assistant!reader

↳ by @lomlando

orbiting you • max verstappen x childhoodbestfriend!fem!reader

↳ by @leclarifies

i can do it with a broken heart | part two • max verstappen x red bull strategist!reader

↳ by @daydreamsharry

paying attention | like it tends to • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @postracehair

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

good things don’t last long (but sometimes they do) • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @uglyducklingofthe2000s (slight angst, fluff)

you call me love and i call you home • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @uglyducklingofthe2000s (very fluffy)

anytime • max verstappen x fem!gf!reader

↳ by @chillielo (fluff)

don’t touch her • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @fxrmuladaydreams (reader is a mclaren employee, toxic relationship dynamic, angst)

baby steps • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @vetteltea (angst, fluff, little smut)

drunk walk home • max verstappen x racer!fem!reader

↳ by @everythingne (angst, hurt/comfort, tw: sa)

a found family • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @softtdaisy (angst, comfort)

some day it will all be okay • max verstappen x driver reader

↳ by @katebishopsbow (angst, hurt/comfort)

max, don’t panic • max verstappen x driver!reader

↳ by @ferrstappen (car crash, angst, comfort)

under the opulence • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @struggling-with-drivers (hurt/comfort)

truly, madly, deeply • max verstappen x oc!fem

↳ by @scuderiamv (fluff)

tying you to me • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @pierregazly (sooo fluffy)

girl dad • dad!max verstappen x mom!reader

↳ by @lightsoutletsgo (fluff)

flowers are a language of their own • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @lightsoutletsgo (fluff, slight angst)

cat-quette • max verstappen x fem!reader

↳ by @charles-leclerizz (fluff)

the grudge • max verstappen x sibling!oc

↳ by @hockeyshmockey (angst)

little bunny • max verstappen x mom!reader

↳ by @mytinycrazymind (very fluffy)

cherry wine • max verstappen x fem!merc!reader

↳ by @angldelight (fluffy hc’s)

matilda • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @twirlyleafs (complicated family dynamics, angst, comfort, fluff)

and they were roommates • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @itsallyscorner (suggestive)

what’s me without you • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @neferaskingdom (fluff)

it’ll pass • max verstappen x engineer!reader

↳ by @snoopyracing (right person wrong time, childhood friends to lovers, angst)

connection • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @katsu28 (fluff)

gold rush • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @postracehair (suggestive, simp!max)

you made your mark on me, golden tattoo • max verstappen x fem!reader

↳ by @f1verse (very fluffy)

between the laps • max verstappen x driver!reader

↳ by @verstappenverse (fluff, a little angsty at times)

haunted • max verstappen x fem!journalist!reader

↳ by @verstarris (angst with happy ending)

the station down the road • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @theonottsbxtch (fluff, comfort)

this one’s for your girlfriend • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @stzrgirl4norris (smau/story, fluff, cheating angst)

steal your heart tonight • max verstappen x coyote!fem!reader

↳ by @lvrclerc

practice makes perfect • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @charlotteking27 (fluff)

in every quiet moment • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @pucksandpower (aaaa this was sooo good, fluff, literally whipped!max)

dad of three • dad!max verstappen x reader

↳ by @ferrstappen (fluff)

this could be love • max verstappen x reader

↳ by @rex-rambles (soulmate au, suggestive, angst with happy ending)

with love, verstappen • max verstappen x wife!fem!reader

↳ by @verstarris (soft!max, fluff, rom-com-ish)

little love • dad!max verstappen x reader

↳ by @joeyfromthetrack (fluff)

[sogoodtoheritsvicious]

vicious' fave max fics

a collection of max fics i've read again and again 🩵 f1 fic rec masterlist

✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩

@thetalesoffastcars

please, bother me

@midnight-in-monaco

between naps and laps

@ijustwannabecool

moments you wish you caught on camera

@scuderiahoney

fluorescent

@postracehair

paying attention | part 2

gold rush

chicane

@pierregazly

tying you to me

@verstappenverse

breaking point

the lion and the flame

lessons in jealously

a fine line

@pucksandpower

to have a heart

pro bono

another man's treasure

the shape of your silence

have you ever tried this one?

thicker than blood

shouldn't have done that

too hot to handle

@cheftsunoda

single dilf

puppy love

part of the family

love is patient

hearts don't always break in two

@theemporium

and i promise none of this is a metaphor

@charlotteking27

the missing ring

the pretty interviewer | part 2

@theonottsbxtch

match made in hell | part 2 | part 3

@tracksidebaby

his favourite

idiot

@verstappenspole33

radio check

@lovestruck-radio

shoot to kill (and you know i will)

@starset21

heartache on the homestretch

@astonmartinii

into the arms of another | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

worlds biggest fan | part 2

behind the camera

i will always love you

little lion

@poetsblvd

bejeweled

[miaaxxzf1]

Wallbanger | MV3

SUMMARY: Your new neighbor clearly has a passion for 'late-night activities' and every night, you’re the one losing sleep because his bed won’t stop banging against your wall.

PAIRING: max verstappen x reader

WARNINGS: suggestive content, forced proximity (kinda), sleep deprivation, escort/paid company implications

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I actually wrote this more than a month ago, but right now I have the worst cold of my life and couldn’t sleep, so I ended up editing it. If you see any plot holes or grammar mistakes… no you didn’t. I’m literally dying over here

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The constant banging against the wall had driven you insane within the first few weeks.

Your new neighbor clearly had a passion for… night activities. Every single night.

You’d tried everything. Knocking back on the wall. Yelling, “Some people are trying to sleep!” It only seemed to make him go harder, the banging growing faster and louder like he was putting on a show just for you.

He had a rotation of at least three or four different women. After a while, you started recognizing them by their voices, their moans, even their rhythms.

One was breathy and high-pitched. Another liked to curse in another language. And then there was “Kitty.”

Kitty was the cherry on top of this absolute nightmare.

The first time she appeared, you thought that a cat was genuinely meowing on the other side of the wall. Loud meows that somehow synced with the pounding of the headboard. It was so ridiculous you almost laughed until you realized you still couldn’t sleep because of the constant vibration traveling through the thin plaster.

Does he know women sometimes exaggerate just to stroke a guy’s ego? you wondered bitterly.

You wouldn’t have minded so much if it was a quick round and done. But no , this man had inhuman stamina. They’d go for hours with short breaks in between, only to start up again.

After weeks of sleep deprivation, you were desperate enough to go to the building administration.

The man in his mid-fifties behind the desk barely held back a laugh when you explained the situation.

“Excuse me, miss… you’re complaining because your neighbor is having sex?”

“It’s not about the sex,” you snapped, cheeks burning. “It’s happening every single night for hours. The walls shake like there’s an earthquake. I haven’t slept properly in weeks. Can you please talk to him?”

He leaned back, grinning. “It’s private property. We can’t exactly tell people what to do in their own homes.”

“Even if they’re disturbing everyone else? If you won’t do anything, I’ll have to call the police for disturbing the public peace.”

That made him laugh out loud. He knew and you knew how ridiculous that would sound.

“Alright, alright. We’ll try to have a word with Mr. Verstappen. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

You got one glorious week of silence. No banging. No meowing. No opera-singing moans. You slept like the dead and thought the administration had actually worked.

Then he came back home. And the show started again louder than ever.

This time the woman sounded like she was performing at the opera house. Sharp, high-pitched moans that cut straight through your earplugs. The headboard slammed so hard against the wall you were half-convinced it would break through.

If the administration wouldn’t help, you’d have to handle this yourself.

You knew his routine by now. Every morning, whoever stayed the night got walked to the door and kissed goodbye like a gentleman. You felt like a total stalker timing it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

You waited outside your apartment. Ten minutes later, the door opened. A tall blonde woman stepped out, turned, and practically made out with your neighbor right there in the hallway. They didn’t notice you until she finally left.

Before he could close the door, you stepped forward.

“Hi. I’m Y/N, your neighbor from right here.” You pointed at your door. “Can we talk for a second?”

He blinked, still looking half-asleep. After a moment, he gestured for you to come inside, but you shook your head and stayed in the hallway.

“Uh… yeah, okay. I’m Max.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Wait... you’re the one who complained about me having too much sex?”

“That’s what they told you?”

“Pretty much. I asked the other neighbors. No one else seems to mind.”

“Maybe because their bedrooms aren’t right behind your bed. It feels like an earthquake every night. The lady on the other side is deaf, she can just turn her hearing aid off. I can’t. I’m not trying to ruin your fun. I’m just asking for some peace. Can you maybe… move it to another room? I’ll even buy better earplugs, but the constant banging is too much.”

Max raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You can’t tell me what to do in my own house. If it bothers you that much, change rooms. Or…” His eyes glinted with amusement. “If you’re sexually frustrated and all this noise is driving you crazy, you could always come over. I’ll take care of you. I can tell one of the girls not to come one night. Or she can join if you’re into that.”

You stared at him, disgust mixing with pure disbelief. “I don’t think you understand. I don’t care what you do in your apartment as long as it doesn’t ruin my sleep. I’m not sexually frustrated, and I definitely don’t need your… services.”

He laughed, low and cocky, like your anger was adorable..You turned on your heel and slammed your door behind you.

That night, the show was back in full force. At least it was one of the quieter girls this time, no meowing, no opera. Still, you dragged your pillow and blanket to the living room sofa. The moans were muffled enough to ignore, and the bed-banging stayed in your bedroom.

The only problem? The sofa was the most uncomfortable thing on the planet. You woke up with horrible back pain every morning. But at least you got some sleep.

It became a routine. He’d disappear for days (racing, you assumed), then come home and make up for lost time. When the opera girl returned, even earplugs couldn’t save you. The sofa destroyed your back so badly you considered dragging your actual bed into the living room.

Finally, you broke.

One evening, before any of the girls usually arrived (around 7 p.m.), you knocked on his door again. He looked surprised to see you, then smug, like he thought you’d finally accepted his offer.

This time you stepped inside, cautious but determined.

“Okay. I’m fucking desperate. What do you want so you’ll stop? Or at least move it to another room?”

Max crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “There is something you could do.”

You eyed him warily. “Like what?”

“Sleep here. With me. Just sleeping. And maybe a little cuddling. I won’t try anything.”

You blinked. “Are you insane? You want me to compensate you for letting me do the most basic human thing , sleep?”

He shrugged. “I feel lonely, alright? I travel all year. When I finally come home, I hate waking up to an empty, cold bed. I don’t expect you to understand, but I saw you complaining to the administration and the neighbors… This could be a solution for both of us. I’m not planning to change my habits anytime soon.”

For a second, the cocky smirk dropped, and you caught a glimpse of something genuine. Vulnerability. Then you remembered what an arrogant bastard he was and hardened again.

“Hurry up and decide so I can cancel Lara.”

“Lara’s the one who meows?”

“Yeah.”

“Cancel her. I don’t want to hear her again, I’ll stay tonight. Just tonight. I just need a night of good sleep, but just a night.”

“Your wish is my command.”

He pulled his phone out and stepped slightly away, already calling. You stayed where you were, arms crossed, suddenly unsure of yourself.

What were you doing?

While he called her, you wandered around his apartment. Two cats, real cats, immediately came over to investigate. They rubbed against your legs, purring.

You crouched instinctively, grateful for the distraction, letting your fingers sink into soft fur.

“I see you’ve met Sassy and Jimmy already,” Max said, hanging up.

“Yeah. What’s their opinion on Lara?”

“They don’t like her much.”

You snorted. “I don’t get the meowing thing. Is it pet play or…?”

“Nah. It’s just her thing. She does it instead of moaning. I don’t really do roleplay or pet play or things like that, I find it annoying sometimes. But she’s good company.”

You nodded, still processing everything you’d overheard for months. “So… you want company because you feel lonely. I get that part. But why you keep going? Couldn’t you just… finish and then cuddle and actually sleep?”

“Why would I do that? I pay them good money. Might as well enjoy the full service.”

“All night? Do you take Viagra or something?”

Max laughed. “What? No. I just have good stamina. And with breaks in between.”

You sighed. “I need to grab some things from my place first. ”

He nodded.

Going back to your apartment to grab your things felt like stepping out of a scene you hadn’t fully processed.

You moved quickly, pajamas, toothbrush, a few skincare products, your hands working faster than your thoughts.

Only when you stood still for a second, bag in hand, did it hit you again.

You’re going to sleep in your neighbor’s bed.

The awkwardness hit you the second you stepped back inside. Max cleared his throat, suddenly looking almost shy.

You had spent weeks hating this man, resenting him, imagining ways to bang on his door at three in the morning and now you were about to spend the night in his apartment because it was the only way you could get some peace. This is stupid.

“Bedroom’s this way. Bathroom’s there if you want to change”

You nodded quickly, grateful for the escape, and disappeared into the bathroom. You closed the door and leaned against it for a second.

Looked at yourself in the mirror. This is a bad idea.

But you didn’t leave. Instead, you went through your routine slower than usual washing your face, applying your skincare like it could somehow ground you. Give you time to think.

It didn’t help.

You slipped into bed, careful, deliberate, keeping distance between you. Turning slightly away from him, like that could create some kind of boundary.

You grabbed your phone, scrolling without seeing anything, your mind far too aware of the presence behind you.

The mattress shifted. A hand rested lightly against your side, tentative, like a question.

Your first instinct was to move away. To shut it down before it turned into something else.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t pull you closer. He just… left it there, giving you space to decide.

When his arm slid a little more securely around you, drawing you closer in a quiet, unspoken motion, you didn’t stop him, maybe you should.

Your head settled against his chest before you even realized it. You could feel his heartbeat.

It felt… ridiculously nice. You’d forgotten how good simple warmth and touch could be.

“You’re overthinking,” he murmured. "Ask,” he added.

You hesitated.

“…Why so many girls?”

He let out a quiet breath.

“I like variety. And… it’s not just about that. I need company. Distractions.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“And a girlfriend?” you asked. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“With my schedule?” he scoffed softly.

You didn’t push further.

When you put your phone down, Max shifted, becoming the big spoon. He brushed your hair away from your face and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

Who would have thought this cocky, arrogant man was secretly a clingy romantic?

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[veusin]

hmmmm………ford

[darlingdaisyfarm]

finger kisses . inspired by this

your hand fit small in Ford’s, and with his sixth finger, his hold always felt a little stronger. with a tenderness, a devotion that could only be described as puppy-like, he kissed the center of your knuckle, and the softness of his lips warmed you, gentle enough to bring a smile to your face. how often had anyone kissed your hands like that?

you lost track of time, flustered, dazed, and didn’t even notice when the man in front of you tilted his head, curious like a fox and just as smug, his mouth parting slowly. you felt something warm and wet what made your eyes widen, yet you didn’t rush to withdraw your hand.

Ford’s tongue moved slow, from the pad of your finger to the first knuckle, savoring every bit, tasting the skin, especially the slight tremble that ran through you.

sweet. warm like molten gold. honey. cozy fire.

your finger twitched just so, fragile and stunned, the skin glistening from the wetness left behind.

soft skin. delicate. . . they let me do this? let me taste them? want more, more than just this. i need to feel every inch, to taste it all. please, let me have more than just a quick touch. i have to taste every part, feel everything, please, darling

“Ford,” a gasp escaped you. his other hand found yours once more and gave a slow squeeze, you felt it trembling, caught in his grip.

“what? you were letting me.” he said lazily. a soft smile played on his lips as his teeth barely grazed your finger, then he pulled away.

your fingers weren’t enough on their own, too few to satisfy. . . thankfully, Ford enjoyed starting slow, knowing he’d make his way to your wrist, your collarbones, your neck, and finally, finally reach your lips.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

You always write such good things for the community so I hope to give you a little treat as a thank you! <3333 they get a little spicy :)

Stan:

the way the shirt forms around your chest should be a crime

he can't get the phrase 'hot pants' out of his head as he watches you move across the court

he whistles at you while you're trying to serve and it messes you up every time he does it

he hits the ball out of bounds on purpose, watching you as you run after it and bend over to pick it up

stan has no idea what the score is by the time the game is over

there's a locker room you said?

he's hungrily kissing you, pushing your head against the tile of the showers

somehow the water gets turned on and your outfit gets even more soaked

'really? that bra for a tennis game? you wore that for your winning party, didn't you toots?'

he's groping you through your clothes, pinching swollen nipples and rutting his hips against you

'out of breath already? don't tell me that game tired you out?'

'what does the lucky winner want as her prize anyway?'

his hand is cupping your cunt, savoring the heat radiating off it

you grind down into it as another hand grips you from behind

he makes his way under the fabric of your shorts so he can slip his fingers inside you

'maybe i should come play games with you more often, sweet cheeks'

'oh you were hungry for me, weren't you? you're so fucking wet; i bet you were thinking about how much you were teasing me'

Ford:

it's not just the outfit that gets him undone; it's the gleam of sweat across your brow and dripping down your neck

it's more than the determined, focused look on your face that you got this under control

his eyes don't know where to stay: your hands gripping the racket, the way you bounce on your heels, you licking your sweat from your upper lip, or the way your chest moves with each breath

his attention should be on the ball, on the game, he promised he would play fairly and not just let you win like last time

he holds himself back until the game is done; it wouldn't be fair otherwise

but by the time he gets to you, his hands are on your waist, pulling you close

face buried in your neck, he's giving you open-mouth kisses while groaning about how good you smell

'i promise i like it, you smell like you, like the sun.'

that mixture of whatever remnant of laundry soap stuck through and your natural musk are so intoxicating to him

he's on his knees in front of you, nose buried between your legs as he takes in your scent

'no, please, keep it on.' 'you smell so good starlight.' 'i need more of you.'

he's mouthing you through your shorts, hoisting a leg up to rest on his shoulder to get a better angle

you. are. soiled. by the time he's done with you

those shorts mysteriously vanish even though you're pretty sure you put them in the wash when you got back home

holy shiiitttttt first of all. thank you sm for “you always write such good things for the community” its so nice from your side! you are so sweet and cute and THEN you dropped this absolute bomb on me. what kind of treat is this hun.. i’m FOAMING

these hcs made me go full feral ngl. Stan’s section just fucking ended me. are you kidding me. i was already clutching my pearls at “he whistles at you while you're trying to serve” and then you hit me with “what does the lucky winner want as her prize anyway?” sorry but irl i would howl and beg so bad just this phrase alone. that line would take me OUT.

“there’s a locker room you said?” goddamn i felt the smirk in that sentence UGH

also “he hits the ball out of bounds on purpose, watching you run after it.” the little perv. he’s such a jerk. such a petty, horny little shit. that’s my man. i love how lecherous and playful you made him. yes please sex in the locker room i love !!!

the way you wrote “groping you through your clothes” while water’s running down your now-soaked tennis gear... it's really hot. he’s so sleazy and hungry and completely undone by you. and the nipples comment. the prize comment. the wet comment. i want to roll around in this like a dog.

it's crazy how accurately you hit the target on all my preferences :) this is exactly the kind of cheeky Stan i crave constantly and you just handed it to me. ugh i love it, he goes from horny old coot to insatiable fucking animal in seconds....

Ford uguhhg where do i even start... just. absolutely yes to Ford eating his partner out while they’re standing. him on his knees, just buried between your thighs. yes, he’d beg to keep your shorts on, nuzzling through the damp fabric. im so in love with “you smell like you, like the sun”?? get out. get OUT. i’m gonna be thinking about that forever... why is this man so beautifully poetic even when he's about to fuck. it's like, you’ve been out there glowing, radiant and warm and he just needs to inhale it. absolute cinema

and the bit about the shorts mysteriously vanishing?? i LAUGHED and then whined because i like that the fandom just labeled Ford as this pervert who will steal your underwear and clothes. it suits him so well that it's not even funny

i enjoyed reading this so much because it has all the details that really resonate with me. this whole thing was so hot. thank you for this meal :') i’m not okay :') i’ll never be okay again :')