There is something so funny about Stilesâs dad not being able to remember the differences between all the supernatural creatures Stiles tells him about. Itâs like a dad trying to learn about PokĂŠmon to show he cares about his sonâs interests.
Summary: Touch-starved and quietly unraveling, you keep letting Max in, hoping one day he wonât stop at almost. (Requested)
3.5k words / Masterlist
It doesnât begin with a grand declaration or some cinematic revelation under the lights. Not in the middle of a race, or during a shouting match, or under the weight of pouring rain like in the movies. No it starts in the smallest, quietest ways so subtle that if you werenât paying attention you might miss it entirely.
It starts with glances.
Always glances.
Not the kind you give when youâre idly watching the world go by, or when your eyes drift across a room without purpose. These are different. You catch Max looking at you in a way that feels intentional, focused like heâs studying the curve of your smile, the furrow of your brow, the way your fingers tap the edge of your water bottle when youâre distracted. Itâs not fleeting either. He looks at you like heâs trying to capture the moment, like he wants to hold it somewhere permanent just in case it disappears as if his gaze alone could ask you to turn around and see him in a way you havenât before.
Sometimes you meet his eyes. Sometimes you hold his stare for just a second too long, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. And sometimes, more often than youâd admit, you look away, pretending you didnât notice. Pretending your heart isnât already tangled in something complicated.
Itâs not that youâre unaware. You think he feels it just as much as you do, the tension coiled quietly beneath every glance that lingers longer than necessary, beneath every joke that lands with too much softness, beneath the texts that arrive late at night and mean far more than either of you will ever say out loud.
But still⌠youâre friends.
Best friends.
Thereâs something impossibly delicate about that. Something worth protecting. Because once a line is crossed thereâs no going back to what you were before, and maybe thatâs why neither of you has said anything. Maybe thatâs why you keep pretending the glances donât mean anything at all.
Even when they do.
It escalates, but never all at once.
Thereâs no single moment you could point to, no obvious line crossed or breathless confession made in the dark. Instead it builds slowly, like a storm creeping in beneath blue skies, subtle, steady, inevitable.
At first itâs simple things. Innocent things. Max brushing past you in the kitchen of his Monaco apartment you sometimes share on quiet weekends. He reaches over your shoulder to grab a mug from the cabinet and his hand grazes your arm. Light. Barely there. But you feel it anyway. You always do.
A soft touch to your lower back when you're both crowded by the sink as if guiding you, even though thereâs more than enough space to move around. Knuckles bump when you both reach for the same spoon in the drawer, and neither of you laughs. He murmurs âSorryâ without looking at you, as if not meeting your eyes will keep it from meaning anything more than it should.
It works for a while. You both act like it's nothing. Like these touches are accidents, coincidences, the natural clumsiness of sharing a space.
But theyâre not.
You both know theyâre not.
Then one evening youâre curled up on opposite ends of the couch watching some mindless show neither of you is really following. The remote sits between you. You both reach for it at the same time.
Your fingers graze his.
And then they stay there.
Neither of you pulls away.
The television continues in the background, some canned laughter rising and falling like static, but the world has narrowed to the space where your skin meets his. His fingers are warm. Your pulse jumps but you don't move. You donât dare. Because the moment feels suspended in air.
Still you both pretend. You stare ahead pretending youâre lost in the flickering screen, pretending the air hasnât gone thick with something you donât have words for.
Eventually you pull your hand back so gently it doesnât even feel like a retreat and yet you feel the absence like a weight.
That night you lie in bed staring at the ceiling replaying it again and again, the moment, the stillness, the way his skin felt against yours. You wonder if heâs doing the same just a few feet down the hall. You wonder if he feels as wrecked by nothing as you do.
Because if something that small can feel that intenseâŚ
What happens if you let it become something more?
Itâs raining when you hug him for the first time in months.
Not one of those quick, routine hugs you give friends on instinct or out of politeness. This is different. This is real. Thoughtless in the way only things that matter tend to be.
Youâve both just landed in Austria, strung out on a blur of time zones, delays, and airport chaos. The kind of day where everything feels off-kilter, fans pressing too close, luggage going missing, the air thick with humidity and tension. Youâre cold. Youâre tired. Your patience is frayed thin.
And then you see him.
Heâs standing just ahead of you in the team transport queue, hoodie pulled up halfway against the drizzle, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but he smiles when he spots you, that tired, crooked smile that only ever seems to be meant for you, and before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can rationalise or hesitate or think, youâre moving.
You close the distance and wrap your arms around his neck, sudden and full and tight, not soft or polite or hesitant like it mightâve been a month ago. It's instinct. A reaction to the storm, to the cold, to the way everything lately has felt a little bit too much. Youâre not even sure who reaches first. You just end up in his arms, like gravity chose for you.
And he sinks into it.
Like itâs home.
His hands slide around your waist with a kind of aching familiarity, pulling you in closer than necessary. You feel how his fingers tighten just slightly, how his body folds into yours like something long denied. How he doesnât just accept the hug, he needs it. He clings to it like heâs been holding his breath for weeks and youâve just given him permission to exhale.
The moment stretches.
Neither of you speaks. For a second itâs just this. Just the press of his chest against yours, the subtle tremble in his exhale, the quiet thud of something unspoken between you both.
Eventually, because you have to, you both pull back. His hands fall away slowly, reluctantly, like they donât want to let go, like theyâd stay right there forever if they could.
You glance at him.
He doesnât say anything.
Neither do you.
But the silence between you crackles with something louder than words.
That night long after the rain has stopped and your bodyâs finally warm beneath hotel sheets, you dream about that moment, about turning back into his arms, about him holding you even tighter, about him not letting go.
In the dream itâs not just a hug itâs everything neither of you has been able to say, because the truth is, though neither of you would ever admit it out loud, youâre both a little touch-starved.
So when his arms wrapped around you earlier it wasnât just a comfort, it was a release. A surrender. A moment of being held and seen, and you felt it in the way he clung on, a second too long, a fraction too tight, he needed it just as much as you did.
When you wake up heart hammering and throat tight, you stare at the ceiling and wonder how something so simple could feel so much like the beginning of the end.
Or maybe the beginning of something else entirely.
From that moment on nothing feels quite the same.
Thereâs no declarations, no stolen kisses behind closed doors, but in the kind of quiet, creeping way that makes it impossible to pretend nothingâs different.
Max starts lingering more.
Longer in hallways. Closer on planes. His knee bumps yours during dinners and doesnât shift away. His thigh presses alongside yours when you're both crammed into the back seat of a car, and he leans just a little further into your space, always under the guise of something casual, looking at your phone screen, pointing something out on your laptop, brushing an imaginary thread off your sleeve.
He still doesnât say anything that could be mistaken for flirting.
He still doesnât cross any obvious line.
But itâs not platonic anymore.
Not really.
It feels like a lie, like youâre both clinging to the comfort of what you used to be while pretending not to notice how itâs morphing into something else entirely. Every touch lingers. Every glance is loaded. Every shared silence hums with all the things youâre not saying.
And then thereâs Silverstone.
Youâre both waiting under an awning outside the paddock watching the summer rain fall in sharp, rhythmic taps against the concrete. It's one of those passing storms brief but sudden, the air heavy with it, the sky still bright despite the downpour.
Max stands beside you close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him in waves. Your shoulders hover near each other, the two of you are suspended in that delicate in-between space where friendship ends and something else begins.
His arm brushes yours.
Just barely.
A fraction of movement. A breath. But it might as well be a lightning strike with the way it sends something electric shooting through your spine. Your thoughts derail instantly, all clarity lost to the sensation of warm skin against yours.
You turn your head instinctively.
Heâs already looking at you.
His gaze is steady, unreadable, but not indifferent. Thereâs something behind it, deep and dark and dangerous. His voice when he finally speaks is rough like gravel, like itâs been scraped raw from the inside.
âCold?â he asks.
You nod without thinking, even though youâre flushed beneath your jacket, your skin practically burning.
He doesnât say anything more. Then in one small movement that feels impossibly significant Max lifts his arm and slides it around your shoulders, gently, like heâs thought about doing it a hundred times and is finally allowing himself the indulgence.
You freeze. His hand settles against the curve of your shoulder and you can feel every inch of him, the press of his side against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the strength in the arm now wrapped around you like it belongs there.
He shifts, just slightly, and now youâre fully shoulder-to-shoulder, his warmth bleeding into your skin like a confession heâs not ready to make.
Your heart is beating so loud, you wonder if he can hear it.
The car arrives. You hear the rumble of the engine, see the flash of headlights through the rain, but neither of you moves both acutely aware that something is unraveling between you slow and irreversible.
And neither of you wants to stop it.
It gets harder to pretend.
Harder to swallow the ache in your throat every time heâs near. Harder to breathe around him without your chest tightening, without your fingers twitching with the need to do something, to reach, to hold, to finally have.
Youâve started recognising the patterns. The rhythm of his touches. How deliberate they are in their disguise.The way his hand finds the small of your back when heâs guiding you through crowded garages, protective and steady, fingers just grazing the fabric of your shirt like heâs holding himself back from more.
The way he always sits close at dinner, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he lifts his glass, close enough that you can feel the heat from his skin as he rests his hand on the table, just inches from yours. Close enough to tempt but never close enough to claim.
The way he laughs, full and unguarded, and then reaches out to you without thinking tapping your knee or squeezing it gently like the joy would be too much if he didnât release some of it into you. Like contact is the only way he knows how to feel fully now.
It would be easier, maybe, if he didnât look at you the way he does.
If he didnât linger in those silences between sentences, watching your mouth as you speak. If he didnât study your face like he was memorising it. If he didnât touch you like he was trying not to burn.
Eventually something gives.
Youâre sitting on the balcony of his Monaco apartment just the two of you, late into the night after a long, endless day of press obligations and sponsor smiles. The city glows beneath you, a blur of lights reflecting on the sea, and a soft breeze rolls through the stillness. You both have glasses of wine in hand, your legs curled beneath you on the couch, the hush between you thick with unspoken things.
Youâre laughing over something dumb. You canât stop smiling, the wine warm in your chest, your head tilted back toward the stars as you recount it.
Suddenly Max goes quiet.
Completely.
The shift is immediate so still it cuts through the air.
âI need to talk to you,â he says, quiet but firm. A decision, not a suggestion.
You turn toward him slowly, the smile fading from your lips. âWhat?â you ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight, like he's trying to swallow something that won't go down.
Finally he speaks, voice low and cracked and rough at the edges.
âYou know sometimes it physically hurts.â
You blink. âWhat does?â
âBeing around you every day⌠itâs like torture.â
You donât interrupt. You barely breathe.
He stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, his fingers flexing tight around the base of his wine glass like he needs something to hold onto or he might fall apart right there in front of you.
âSeeing you. Laughing with you. Sitting next to you on flights, at home, debriefing after races or just⌠existing in the same space.â His voice cracks, barely noticeable, but it punches something straight into your chest. âTouching you but not really. Not the way I want to. Some dumb excuse to sit too close on the couch it doesnât help. It just makes it worse.â
Your throat tightens, but you stay quiet. Let him speak.
âI donât even know when it got this bad, but it did. Because now when I see you across the room and you smile at me it hurts. When you laugh and Iâm not the reason it hurts. When I have to walk away instead of kiss you, when I have to pretend this isnât killing meâŚâ He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes is wrecked. Bare. âIt feels like Iâm being torn apart.â
He shakes his head once, frustrated with himself, with everything and then finishes quieter now:
âI canât even breathe near you without feeling like Iâm going to lose my fucking mind.â
Your heart lurches.
âIâm trying so hard,â he says, voice low and unraveling. âSo fucking hard to respect what we are. To not cross that line, to be your friend and pretend thatâs enough.â
He laughs not because itâs funny, but because he think itâs hopeless.
âBut itâs not. Not anymore and it hasnât been for a long time.â
You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you almost miss the next part.
âEvery time you touch me I feel it for hours after. Every time you smile at me I have to remind myself that this isnât something more, even though it feels like it is. Even though it is.â
He swallows hard.
âIâm tired of pretending I donât want you.â
You go still. The words land in your chest like an earthquake, sudden and irreversible.
Your voice is quiet. âThen why didn't you say anything?â
Max finally turns to you and heâs not hiding anymore. His eyes are wide open all pain and hunger and something devastatingly tender.
âBecause I didnât want to lose what we have,â he says. âBut now⌠not having you like this?â His voice cracks. âThatâs starting to feel like losing you anyway.â
âIâve been holding it in for so long I didnât think I was allowed to want more,â you whisper. âI kept telling myself friendship was enough, that I could live off scraps of just being near you.â
Heâs still, eyes fixed on yours.
âI needed you too,â you say, voice barely holding. âIn every way I tried not to. Every time you touched me and then pulled away⌠I felt it for hours after.â
Max stares at you like youâve just leveled him.
âI thought I was the only one losing sleep over it,â he says.
âYou werenât,â you whisper.
You donât know who moves first.
Maybe itâs him. Maybe itâs you.
Maybe itâs both of you at once, some invisible tether finally snapping loose, but suddenly his hand is on your cheek and your fingers are curling into the collar of his hoodie, and your mouths are meeting in the middle of that quiet night like itâs the only thing that ever made sense.
The kiss is soft. Uncertain at first. Underneath it is something heavier years of tension and friendship and longing melting into a single moment of release.
When you finally pull away youâre both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face like you might disappear if he lets go.
âI didnât even notice how disconnected I was,â he says, voice low. âUntil you touched me and I actually felt it.â
âYou donât have to pretend with me.â
He pulls you in again, arms wrapping around you holding you like he never plans to let go.
Itâs better than you imagined.
Being with Max isnât just about the kisses pressed into your neck in the back of hotel elevators, or the heat of his hands on your skin when the doors close behind you. Though those are incredible. But itâs more than that now. Itâs real.
Itâs the way he looks at you when he thinks youâre not paying attention those quiet, reverent glances across the room, like heâs still surprised he gets to have you, and then winks because he knows he can now.
Itâs how he reaches for your hand without thinking now during flights, gridwalks, car rides through Monaco always grounding you, always tethering himself to you like instinct.
Itâs the way he curls around you in bed, broad chest pressed to your back, one leg always slung over yours like his body refuses to let you go. If you shift away in your sleep, he pulls you right back in with a sleepy grumble, his arms wrapping tighter like even unconscious he knows where you belong.
âStay close,â he mumbles once, half-asleep, voice gravelly against the nape of your neck. âDonât go too far.â
You didnât plan on moving, not even an inch. You never do.
Then there are the mornings.
You used to wake to alarms and stress, fumbling through hotel rooms alone, but now? Now you wake to the quiet murmur of Max on the phone with room service, your Max, shirtless and half-dressed, hair sticking up in all directions, rattling off your breakfast order from memory.
âScrambled eggs, no toast, oat milk, yeah, thanks,â he says, glancing over his shoulder to check youâre awake.
You blink blearily at him from the bed, sheets tangled around your legs.
âYouâve memorised my entire order?â you mumble, voice still rough from sleep.
He gives a lazy grin, hanging up. âIâve been paying attention.â
âYouâve been studying me,â you tease, stretching like a cat.
Max walks over and presses a kiss to your hair. âIâve been in love with you,â he says, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world.
Itâs in the everyday things too the way he lets you ramble during long car rides between cities, listening like every complaint about traffic or hotel pillows is the most important thing in the world.
âYouâre cute when you rant about GPS,â he teases once, smirking when you flip him off without looking up from your phone.
And on race weekends no matter how loud the paddock gets, no matter how many people tug at his attention, Max always finds you.
Every. Single. Time.
Heâll be halfway to the grid, helmet in hand, suit half-zipped, engineers talking in his ear and still, he stops. Just for a second. Just for you. He doesnât make a scene, doesnât say much. Just steps close enough that no one else can hear and murmurs, voice low and steady:
âStay where I can find you.â
And it always makes you pause because heâs not just talking about geography.
You nod, every time.
âAlways,â you say.
Then heâs gone, swallowed by the blur of engines and tension and noise but you stay right where he left you because you know heâll come back, and when he does heâll look for you first.
Somehow it steadies you every time.
You used to be touch-starved.
Aching for connection. Craving something more than half-hearted affection and temporary flings.
Now?
Now youâre touch-drunk and Max Verstappen is your favourite addiction.
i ship other things but there is something to be said about Mel not understanding Santos' sarcasm so frequently that she just gives up and starts being genuine and honest with Mel to communicate & thereby suddenly bonds with her in ways she hadn't been able to with many other people
as a writer who's been posting here for a couple of years, iâve been noticing this for a long time, but right now iâm talking about the pitt fandom.
every time you write fanfic for pitt's male characters, you do not need to tag absolutely every female character, especially those who aren't there.
today i was looking through the latest updates with garcia and came across a work that only featured dennis and under the post there were tags for all the characters. you don't need to do this.
i understand that everyone wants as many views and likes on their posts as possible, but you're really making life difficult for those who just want to read female character x reader. the same goes for the tags platonic!female characters x reader. you can put this in the header of your work, but not in the hashtags.
when people search for female character x reader, trust me, they don't want to see jack abbott as a love interest and three lines from the female character they were originally looking for. you are showing great disrespect to your readers by making them waste their time. thank for attention.
You guys know how when you stay up all night reading fanfics and imagining having a soft romance while you fall asleep, pretending you're falling asleep with your favorite character and then the next morning you wake up and feel super lonely and empty.
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