I'm a massive nerd and love to read, write, and play video games. I play a ton of Call of Duty and play Destiny 2 as well.
I absolutely adore Star Wars and Lord of the Rings - I have tattoos for both. But I am involved in so many more fandoms than just that - to name a few Star Wars, LOTR, Marvel, Supernatural, and more!
I started writing again so if you want to check that out it's currently @supremewolfren - This name will most likely change in the near future but it's currently what it is!
I'm relatively active on tumblr but not always as a writer - being a mom keeps my ass BUSY but I try my best.
Summary: how often do you find yourself roaming through Monaco, your dream holiday, a getaway of a lifetime, and be spotted by one of the best in motorsport? Max is in love with you, and if there’s one thing about Max Verstappen – he always gets what he wants, even if it means hiding you away from the world and keeping you all for his own.
Warnings: dark!max, 18+, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, dubcon! Breeding kink (sort of), smut, aftercare, NSFW content, minors DNI. This story is not a representation of the real person
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: first time writing dark fiction, oh lordy. This is a product of being extremely single. do I now have a crush on max??
It had been exactly 476 days, 12 hours and 7 minutes since you disappeared. He wasn’t stupid, he had made sure that it went exactly as planned. He had handed in a fake resignation letter the day before, saying you were going to travel the world. Your parents were sent messages weekly of your ‘adventures’ that were perfectly photoshopped by a friend of his. Your phone was only allowed to be used with supervision. Which actually meant that he held it and you looked over his shoulder as he kept your accounts active with fake tweets and perfectly executed selfies. He had your belongings collected from the hotel the next morning.
But none of that was real. Because you had spent 476 days, 12 hours and now 10 minutes, trapped inside of Max’s Monaco apartment. He wanted you. He got you. And not in the traditional sense. No. There were no butterflies on the first date. There was no awkward brushing of each other’s fingers as you walked down the promenade. There was no first kiss where your noses bumped and you giggled until it felt normal.
Instead, it was waiting for him outside your hotel, when a blacked out Audi came to pick you up. Dressed up in the best black dress you had packed with you. You had saved up for a year to travel solo to Monaco. It was on your bucket list, one last thing to tick off before the year came to an end.
You slid into the back of the blacked-out SUV, the driver peering at you through the middle mirror. You shot him a smile, but he didn’t smile back, he just turned back to the road in front of him. That was your first warning. Was it normal that celebrities didn’t come to pick their date up? Was it normal that they sent a driver and did not come with them? You brushed it off, because after all, what would your girlfriends say when you came home and told them you had a date with THE Max Verstappen?
Except, you didn’t make it home. You stayed. And not out of choice.
The driver led you up into the elevator, nodding to the doorman as the doors closed in front of you. The elevator ride felt long and drawn out. You could feel the electric shocks running through your veins as your heart hammered against your ribcage. You had expected a romantic dinner in one of the finest restaurants that Monaco had to offer. Or even sat on his yacht, a dinner with candles lit under the stars. You had daydreamed of it when you were getting ready in front of the mirror.
But you walked straight into it. You walked straight into the lion’s den and now there was no way out.
Of course you tried. There was a day when he had left for a few hours and trusted you to roam the apartment, freely. The first time since the day you arrived. The first time you’d seen more than the four walls of the bedroom you were bound to. The cats had drawn to you, like Snow White. Animals had always been friendly with you, dogs would jump at you in the street for a cuddle and a kiss, cats would stop and wrap themselves around your legs with their tail. The comfort of having animals around you made you feel semi-safe. But as you reached for the door handle of the apartment, your bare feet tip-toeing gently as you planned your escape, thinking of how amazing it would be to see your family, your friends, finally feel the fresh air on your pale skin.
Until he stood on the other side. You stepped back, almost tripping over yourself. His height towered over you as you dived under his arm, a poor attempt at trying to leave. He effortlessly picked you up under his arm, held by only your torso as you squirmed.
“Please, Max.” you begged, “I want to go home.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you went on a date with a stranger.” he declared, dropping you onto the bed, back in the bedroom where you’d once been freed from.
“What about my parents, Max? Please?” you sobbed.
He sat on the edge of the bed, as you shimmed up towards the headboard. Max placed a gentle hand on your ankle, running his thumb along the bone as he continued.
“They messaged earlier, they’re glad you’re having a lovely time.” he said, “And they said not to rush home and enjoy yourself.”
Your head dropped into your chest. Of course they would’ve said that. The photos were believable, he had gotten good at writing exactly like you used to.
That was six months ago.
You had promised yourself that you wouldn’t succumb to his attempts to care for you. To look after you. You told yourself that this wasn’t what love was. But he had finally let you roam the apartment, he left you for more than just one hour, he let you sit with him in the lounge as you both watched reruns of sitcoms on the TV.
You didn’t feel it, not properly, until he sat down next to you as he handed you breakfast in bed. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to bring you breakfast in bed, it was however, odd for him to come and lay next to you as you tucked into your fruit and toast.
“Is everything okay, Max?” you whispered. Half scared you’d done or said something wrong.
“I have to go away for a few days. I have a race in Australia and I’ll be gone for at least two weeks,” he traced small circles along your arm as you continued to eat.
It wasn’t unusual for Max to leave for races. But when he did, one of his team would usually stay in the apartment with you, so you didn’t plan your escape. So why now did it feel like someone had ripped your heart from your chest? Why did it physically pain you that he was leaving?
“Will one of your bodyguards be staying with me?” you asked.
“Not this time, you’ll be here on your own.”
“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment in your own voice startling you.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. You’re not going to miss me are you?” He asked, a small grin appearing across his lips.
“I–I don’t know,” you muttered, unable to keep eye contact with him. “I don’t want you to go.” You admitted.
His grin had now fully turned into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Because Max knew exactly; he had finally broken you. It had taken over a year and yet here you were, completely under the power of Max Verstappen.
He took the tray for your lap, placing it on the floor below him and pulled you into a hug.
“I told you that you would understand one day.” He placed a small kiss on your temple as he continued, “You belong with me.”
You didn’t exactly know how, or why, or even when. But you felt it. You felt the gravitational pull that he had over you now. How it hurt to know he was leaving you and you couldn’t go with him. How you were going to spend two weeks on your own, in his apartment, with no human contact and only the comfort of his cats to keep you going.
“Promise me, promise you’ll come back?” You whispered into his chest.
“Of course, Mijn liefje.” He placed another kiss on top of your hair.
The next two weeks were painful. The furthest you have travelled was from the sofa to the kitchen, to the bedroom and back. Living the same routine daily.
Wake up, get dressed, run on the treadmill for 30 minutes, feed the cats, feed yourself, watch tv, eat, sleep, repeat. For 14 days straight.
Max had set up the TV so you could watch the race. And you couldn’t help but feel a small flutter in your stomach as you saw his car appear on the screen. Or when his interviews would show again. How you could feel his presence here with you. The faint smell of his aftershave wrapped around the apartment still.
On the last night you were alone, you found yourself wandering into his bedroom. You just wanted to wear one of his hoodies; you told yourself that you just wanted to feel his warmth. You picked a hoodie from his wardrobe, letting the hanger fall to the floor, and found yourself laying back on his bed, your head on one of his pillows. It smelt exactly like him. You pulled it in closer, pulling his hoodie over your knees as you brought them to your chest and slowly, yet peacefully fell asleep.
You didn’t hear the door click shut behind you. You didn’t hear Max place his bags by the front door. He looked around the apartment, one of the cats greeting him with a gentle purr as he stroked their fur. He peered into ‘your bedroom’ to find the covers still intact, a perfectly made bed still from this morning. He paced back into the living room, then to the kitchen, fear striking his body.
Had you finally made your escape? He thought. Had he trusted you too soon?
He sprinted to his bedroom, opening the door. And he felt the panic escape his soul.
You were there, still curled up in a small ball, wrapped in his hoodie and tightly wound against his pillow. He stared for a small moment, your legs were bare, just the small filly hem of your bed shorts that you had packed for Monaco over a year ago, he watched as your breathing was steady and calm. Like you had finally admitted defeat.
He leaned in closer, laying behind you and pulling you in. You stirred slightly, but the deep, peaceful sleep had gotten you. Weeks of being alone, loneliness. You thought you were dreaming it, that he was here, that he was finally touching you how you had daydreamed of for the last two weeks.
Except this time it was real. You felt his soft lips against the back of your neck as you woke from your slumber. You were careful not to open your eyes yet, you didn’t want to do anything to ruin this moment. Max finally touching you, holding you, kissing you.
His hands moved slowly, one holding your hip, as the other grazed your thigh, his fingers gently dancing across your bare skin. Until finally his fingers pulled your shorts to one side, slowly as two fingers entered you, the other circling your clit in a motion that made your head spin. You hadn’t been touched like this in a long time. You froze for a moment, feeling every nerve in your body spark like electricity.
“Max?” You whispered, raising your head slightly from the pillow.
“Shhh,” he replied, continuing to circle your clit. It wasn’t long before you came over his fingers. The coil burning deep in the pit of your stomach as you let out a moan so loud it vibrated your eardrums.
He wasn’t finished. Your moans only spurred him on more.
He stood now, stripping from his clothes, his jeans and t-shirt now a pool on the floor. He didn’t ask you to do the same, but you followed, pulling his hoodie over your head, your breasts hitting the cold air as your nipples hardened at the sight of him completely naked.
You lowered yourself back on the bed as he towered over you. His eyes were dark, his cock was hard and you were completely soaked. Slick dripping down your thighs as he used his knee to pry them apart. He held your waist, his grip tightening as he pushed into you. It wasn’t slow, it was lustful, like he had been waiting for you to succumb to him. To fall under his trap.
You were tight, clenched around him as your hands grabbed at the sheets of the bed. He was knocking against you thick and fast, he kissed you with force, your moans breathing against his lips. You were under his complete and utter control.
“Fuck–kkk” you moaned, he was fully pushing into your heat, the roughness of his movements, his teeth gnawing at your neck. It was overstimulating, in the best way.
He didn’t stop. His pace picked up rapidly. He took two fingers, tracing your lips before he shoved them into your mouth, making you gag slightly – his devilish grin plastered across his face as he fucked you through it all. He continuously pushed his cock against your G-spot, teasing and rubbing against you until you finally burst, your orgasm hitting again with full force as he fucked you through your high. Your eyes were glassy, tears streamed from your eyes.
“Are you going to take all of me?” He groaned, “I’m gonna fill you with my come, make you mine.”
He thrust into you, not letting up as you screamed his name. He finally spilled into you, his hips jerking against yours, his hand wrapping around your throat as he reached his climax. Max pulled out of you, his come covering your thighs.
He walked into the bathroom, bringing back a towel and gently dabbing and cleaning you up. A completely different treatment than you had from him before. He tossed the towel into the washing basket, and joined you back in bed, you laid there still for a while, unable to feel your legs. Your hands vibrating. Not from fear now, but from a high of pleasure you were unsure you’d ever feel.
He pulled the covers of you both, placing his arm over your shoulders and pulling you into a hug. Your hot, naked bodies colliding together again, but softly this time. Like this was where you were supposed to be.
“Max?” You looked up at him, your doe eyes still weepy.
“Yes, baby?” He tucked a small strand of your sweaty hair behind your ear.
“I–I think…I think I love you.” you mumbled.
“I love you too, schatje.”
You didn’t say it because you wanted out or because you were scared. Because you thought this was true. You did love him. Maybe it was because you had no choice. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Maybe it was because you had admitted defeat. But either way, the chemistry you had, even if it was all orchestrated by Max, you had fallen irrationally in love with Max Verstappen.
A few months had passed since that day. He trusted you more and more with each passing day. And not because you had proven yourself, but because he could tell you were in love. The way you looked at him when he came home from a race or when he’d been working at the simulator, The way you cooked him dinner. How you now shared a bed together, shared slow mornings as a couple. Nothing was defined. No one had uttered the words, but you both knew.
One night, you were curled up on the sofa together, legs tangled under a blanket, a film flickering in the background. You had been building up the courage to ask him, scared of the outcome of the consequences of the question you had been practicing.
“Max?” You lifted your head from his shoulder.
“Yes, schatje?” He placed a kiss on your shoulder, sending a small shock through your body.
You swallowed hard. “When can I be your proper girlfriend?” You asked, fiddling with the seam of the blanket. “I want you to bring me to the paddock, to spend every moment with you.”
Your heart was beating so fast you could feel it vibrating through you. He stared at you for a moment, the cogs in his mind turning as he thought of what to say next.
“Please, Max.” You begged. “I love you more than anything, you know that.”
“I know,” he replied deadpan.
The silence stretched between you both for a moment. The only noise was the hum from the TV.
He finally spoke, “And you won’t try to do anything stupid? You’re not plotting some big escape?”
You shook your head, pulling his t-shirt and crashing your lips into his, “No, Max. I promise!”
It wasn’t a lie. You hadn’t thought of leaving, not for a long time. You just wanted to be with him. You wanted to be around him, you didn’t want him to leave, for him to be away anymore. It wasn’t about freedom at this point, it was about completely, irrevocably, in love with him.
“Fine, you can come to my next race.” Your smile could’ve lit up Monaco. “But–”
You fell back into your seat as you waited for him to finish. “–You follow my rules, my lead and you do not stray too far. Understand?”
You nodded, falling back into his embrace, pulling the blanket back over your shoulders as it brushed your chin.
That week he had ordered a plethora of beauticians, hair stylists, nail artists, all to the apartment – each of them paid off to ensure their discretion. He had made sure you were pampered, your hair dyed and cut, nails painted with french tips, just the way he liked them, toes painted white, your body spray tanned to distract from how pale your skin had become from not being out in the sun for an extended period of time. New clothes were hung in the wardrobe, beautiful, elegant dresses, expensive heels stacked in boxes, handbags that you could only dream of.
The day of the race came, Monaco. You both had agreed this was the best place to announce your relationship. You were allowed your phone back for the first time in a very long time. You placed it in your YSL clutch. The dress he had chosen for you was a black off the shoulder number that flowed long, white frills at the bottom grazing your ankles, the straps of your heels digging in slightly – this was the first time you’d worn shoes, proper shoes since that night.
He held your hand tight as you walked through the paddock. Whispers circled as you passed familiar faces. Lando and Oscar gave each other a look as if saying ‘who is she?’ You could hear people asking the obvious, “Max has a girlfriend?” “Who is this girl?” “Since when did Max have a girlfriend?”
You did exactly as he said, exactly as he made you practice. Be the girl that Max Verstappen would be proud to have one his arm. So you walked with grace, like you were floating above the air. Which, in all honestly, you felt like you were.
It was Charles who stopped in front of you both. Max’s grip around your hand growing tighter.
“Well, bonjour mon cher,” Charles gently took your hand and placed a kiss on it. You offered him a sweet smile, as his gaze met yours. “Max never told us he had such a beautiful girlfriend.”
You told Charles your name, and how you both wanted to keep it under the radar until you were ready to tell the world. You could see in Max’s eyes how proud he was of you for keeping the lie going and how well you were at telling it.
When Charles had walked away, heading toward the Ferrari paddock, Max led you to the Red Bull motorhome, and through to his private driver room. He motioned you to take a seat on the leather sofa, as he clicked the door shut behind him.
“Well done, my girl.” He took a seat next to you, placing his hand on your cheek, as he pulled you into a kiss. Deep and unforgiving. You fell into him again, falling into the embrace of Max.
“Remember our plan?” He asked, pulling away from your lips slightly, his hand still cupped around your cheek.
You nodded.
“When I’m on track, you stay in the paddock and speak when you’re spoken to. And when people ask how we met, what do you say?”
You rehearsed the lines in your head. “That I was travelling across the world, and you had swept me off my feet. That I had fallen in love with you from the moment we met.”
“Perfect. I love you. Remember that.” He stood, holding his hand out to you.
You took it, lacing your fingers with his as you rose from the sofa. “I love you too, Max.”
You knew two things in life now.
Firstly, Max was the love of your life, even if it was unconventional the way you met. And secondly, he was in complete control. No matter what, he was the one who would say what you would wear, who you could speak to, what you looked like.
Because after all, he’s the reason you’re here. The reason you get to live. And even though deep down, you knew it was wrong. You didn’t want anything to jeopardise being with the man you love.
Burdened by a toxic family and running from an equally toxic nannying job in Monaco, Emma finds unexpected refuge with her best friend’s older brother, Max Verstappen. Feeling an undeniable need to protect her, Max impulsively offers Emma a job as his personal assistant, setting the stage for a complicated dance of ever growing feelings they both try to resist. Max tries to deny the growing feelings for his little sister’s best friend while Emma is wary of blurring professional lines and losing the only stable thing in her life. As their lives intertwine, Emma must also confront her painful past and learn how to believe she is worthy of love while Max is forced to confront what it could mean if Emma ends up being able to be the one to finally break down all of the carefully built walls he’s put up around his life over the years.
summary: you knew there were cracks in your relationship with george before you got pregnant, but tried your best to stick it out for your little girl. it doesn’t take long after she’s born to realize there’s no saving what once was. you’re fully ready to take on life as a single mom, but then an unexpected friendship with your ex’s rival blossoms into more, and it’s through max that you realize love and family is so much more than what you thought it was.
pairings: george russell x reader, eventual max verstappen x reader
warnings: angst • time skips • eventual fluff • not george russell friendly • don’t like, don’t read!
fc: greta onieogou
status: ongoing
taglist: no
vicious speaks: hello, my loves! i was working on other fics when the idea for this series popped into my head and simply wouldn’t leave 🙃 i’m having a lot of fun with this verse and i really hope you guys enjoy reading it!! 🩵
ok,just take your time and have fun with it!It's a Max request where Max and YN have been together since forever (no shade to Kelly) and are inseparable since kids (she's the one who sees his soft side) adn she's a fampus author,and the f1 fans love her work (but her first and biggest fan is Max). what do you think?
The First Fan
Max Verstappen x Author!reader
Synopsis: Childhood soulmates, Max Verstappen and his author wife grow up inseparable — she’s the only one who softens him, and he’s her first and forever biggest fan, cheering for her stories as fiercely as she cheers for his races.
Moonlight Radio: You guys seem to love Author!reader with Max these days 😂 I’m loving this concept though, i hope u like it! - and I hope this fic lifts the spirits after that god awful race today..
You and Max Verstappen had been a pair long before the world ever learned his name.
Before podiums, before trophies, before the noise and the cameras and the endless commentary, there had been two kids in a quiet Dutch neighbourhood — a boy who hid his softness behind stubbornness, and a girl who saw right through him every single time.
Max had always been a storm. You had always been the one person he let stand in the middle of it without flinching.
And somehow, decades later, nothing had changed.
---
I. the morning before the race
The Monaco sun was barely up when you padded into the kitchen of the apartment you and Max had shared for years — long before you were married, long before the world called you a power couple, long before your books had their own section in airport bookstores.
Max was already awake, hair messy, hoodie half‑zipped, leaning over the counter with a mug of coffee he clearly hadn’t touched.
He looked up the second he heard you.
“There you are,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “I was waiting.”
“You always wait,” you teased, stepping into his space, sliding your hands under his hoodie to warm them on his skin.
He shivered. “You know I do.”
He always had. Even when you were kids and he’d pretend he didn’t care whether you showed up to karting practice. Even when he’d scowl at anyone else but soften the second you walked in. Even when he’d call you after every race, no matter the hour, because you were the only person he could talk to without performing.
You pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You nervous?”
“No,” he said automatically — then sighed. “Maybe a little.”
You smiled. “Good. Means you care.”
He huffed a laugh, leaning his forehead against yours. “I care about you more.”
You rolled your eyes. “Max.”
“What?” he said, grinning now. “It’s true.”
---
II. the world loves your books — but Max loved them first
Your latest novel sat on the counter beside him, spine cracked, pages marked with sticky notes. Max had read it three times already — once in silence, once out loud to you on a rainy night in bed, and once again on a flight to Miami because he said he missed the way your words sounded.
The fans adored your work. Critics called you one of the most compelling voices of your generation. BookTok had practically built a shrine to your prose.
But Max… Max had been your first reader. Your first editor. Your first believer.
He picked up the book now, flipping to a page he’d dog‑eared.
“This part,” he said, tapping the margin, “is you.”
You frowned. “Which part?”
“The line about loving someone so much it feels like gravity,” he said softly. “That’s how I feel about you.”
Your chest tightened. “Max…”
He shrugged, suddenly shy — a rare sight, one only you ever got to see. “I just wanted you to know.”
You cupped his face. “I always know.”
---
III. inseparable since forever
The paddock was buzzing by the time you arrived. Cameras flashed, fans screamed, and the familiar hum of race day wrapped around you like static.
Max held your hand the entire walk in — not for show, not for PR, but because he always had. Even when you were kids sneaking into the garage, even when you were teenagers pretending not to be in love, even when you were adults who finally stopped pretending.
A group of fans spotted you and waved excitedly.
“WE LOVE YOUR BOOKS!” one shouted.
Another held up a sign: MAX’S WIFE IS MY FAVOURITE AUTHOR.
Max beamed like he’d written the sign himself.
He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “Told you they love you.”
You nudged him. “They love you more.”
“Impossible,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple before heading to the garage. “I loved you first.”
---
IV. the soft side only you see
The world saw Max the competitor — sharp, relentless, unshakeable.
You saw Max the man — tender, loyal, and hopelessly, stupidly in love with you.
After qualifying, he found you tucked away in the Red Bull hospitality lounge, typing furiously on your laptop. He slid behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
“Writing?” he asked.
“Trying to.”
“Need inspiration?”
You laughed. “What kind of inspiration?”
“The good kind,” he murmured, kissing your neck. “The kind that makes you blush.”
You elbowed him lightly. “Max!”
He grinned against your skin. “What? I’m helping.”
“You’re distracting.”
“Same thing.”
You turned in his arms, hands on his chest. “You have a race in an hour.”
“And I have a wife right now,” he said simply. “Priorities.”
You kissed him once — soft, slow, grounding. He melted instantly, like he always did with you.
When you pulled back, he whispered, “Stay with me until I have to go.”
You nodded. “Always.”
---
V. the race
You watched from the garage, heart pounding with every lap. Max was poetry in motion — precise, fierce, utterly in control.
But every time he passed the pit wall, he glanced toward you.
A tiny gesture. Invisible to everyone else.
But you saw it.
You always saw him.
When he crossed the finish line P1, the garage erupted. Mechanics cheered, engineers hugged, champagne sprayed.
Max didn’t celebrate.
Not yet.
He ran straight to you.
Helmet off. Hair wild. Eyes bright.
He lifted you off the ground, spinning you in a circle as you laughed into his shoulder.
“You did it,” you whispered.
“We did it,” he corrected, breathless. “You’re my good luck.”
You shook your head. “You’re the talent.”
“You’re the reason I breathe,” he said, so quietly only you could hear.
---
VI. after the podium
Later, when the noise faded and the cameras disappeared, you found yourselves back in the apartment, curled up on the sofa, his head in your lap as you played with his hair.
He looked up at you with that soft, unguarded expression he saved only for you.
“Do you ever think about how long it’s been?” he asked.
“Since we met?”
“Since I fell in love with you,” he corrected.
Your heart squeezed. “Max, we were children.”
“I know,” he said, smiling. “But I think I loved you even then.”
You brushed your thumb across his cheek. “I loved you too.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “I still can’t believe I get to have this. You. Us. All of it.”
“You earned it,” you whispered.
He shook his head. “No. I got lucky.”
You laughed softly. “Max Verstappen, lucky?”
“With you?” he said, opening his eyes again. “Always.”
He reached for your book on the coffee table, flipping to the first page — the dedication.
For M.
My first reader. My fiercest believer. My home.
He traced the words with his thumb.
“You know,” he said, voice thick, “I’d read anything you write. Even if it was terrible.”
You snorted. “Thanks?”
“But it’s not,” he continued. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
You leaned down to kiss him, slow and lingering.
When you pulled back, he whispered, “Write about this someday.”
“About what?”
“About us,” he said. “About how we grew up together. About how I’ve loved you my whole life. About how you’re the only person who’s ever really known me.”
You smiled. “I already am.”
---
VII. forever
Hours later, you fell asleep tangled together, the Monaco lights glowing through the curtains, the scent of champagne still faint in the air.
Max held you like he always had — like you were the one constant in a world that never stopped moving.
And maybe you were.
You’d been there before the fame, before the victories, before the world learned his name.
You’d been there when he was just Max — the boy who loved racing, the boy who loved you, the boy who let you see every soft, hidden part of him.
And you’d be there long after.
Because some love stories don’t start with fireworks.
Some start with two kids who never learned how to let go.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after getting your heartbroken by your long-time one-sided love for charles, the most irritating and vexing person in your life, max verstappen, suggests only one thing to remedy it: fucking it out. and after some brief scepticism, you agree. what could possibly go wrong?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: enemies with benefits, angst, smut (18+ please for the love of god minors DNI), best friend's older brother vibes, bad french and dutch, poor humour, mental health, insecurities, jealousy
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
EP 1 | AN OPEN DOOR
EP 2 | MEDDLE ABOUT
EP 3 | BABYDOLL
EP 4 | PACIFY HER
EP 5 | PLAY WITH ME
EP 6 | HOUSE OF BALLOONS
EP 7 | JEALOUS TYPE
EP 8 | DADDY ISSUES
EP 9 | SHE'S ALL I WANNA BE
EP 10 | DO I WANNA KNOW?
EP 11 | BACK TO FRIENDS
EP 12 | THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS
EP 13 | A CLOSED DOOR
total word count: 76.1k
EP 13.1 | dancing with our hands tied s|f|a
EP 13.2 | their first podium f|a
EP 13.3 | happy birthday max f|a
EP 13.4 | revolving door universe headcanons f|s
EP 13.5 | max vs superman f|s
EP 13.6 | horror night at the leclercs f
EP 13.7 | hand-painted trophies f|a
EP 13.8 | cat whisperer + cat parents f
Ep 13.9 | positive reinforcement f|s
EP 13.10 | casual lore drop f|a
EP 13.11 | the simulator f|s
EP 13.12 | the winner takes it all f|a
EP 13.13 | i think you'd look best in all white f|a
EP 13.14 | yes to forever f|a
EP 13.15 | honeymoon avenue f|s
EP 13.16 | a forever family f|a
total word count: 54.6k
PLAYLIST
𝐀/𝐍: yes this is not a drill! i'm writing another series! however, this idea is credited to this lovely anon who i dearly thank for requesting this! i hope you like it as much as summer sunshine although, as you can see, the tone is a bit different. and this one doesn't have entirely pre-written chapters so i'm taking my time to explore the plot here!
Hey, I had an idea for a fic for either Max or lando. From iloveitiloveitiloveit by Bella Kay " Oh, fuck it, baby, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it when we fight, and I like it when you're mean We don't have to get into what that says about meOh, shut it, baby, I love it, I love it, I love it, I'm a couple minutes out from relapsing
Do you remember the last time this happened?" Where the driver and the reader are in a kinda toxic realtionship where they aren't in a fully committed realtionship yet and are maybe hiding the realtionship from everyone. Maybe the reader is a Charles younger sister if you're doing max but for lando it could be another driver's sister.The reader tries to end it but the driver realizes how much they messed up and need the reader?
ILoveItIHateItILoveIt
Summary: Max realizes how much he messed up and needs you.....
Song: Sweater Weather · The Neighborhood
Author’s note: I LOVE this idea! Thanks for requesting it! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 1.4k
MASTERLIST - F1
The smell of burnt rubber and expensive espresso usually calms you, but today, standing in the shadows of the Red Bull hospitality motorhome, it just makes your stomach twist.
You pull your oversized designer sunglasses further down your nose, praying that nobody from the Ferrari Ferrari garage spots you here.
Nobody is supposed to know. Not the mechanics, not the media, and certainly not Charles. Your brother is fiercely protective, and if he ever found out that his younger sister was the secret outlet for Max Verstappen’s relentless intensity—the one he turns to when the track gets too suffocating—he would lose his mind.
And you? You are supposed to be smarter than this.
You hear the heavy, familiar crunch of gravel behind the motorhome. A familiar figure rounds the corner, the red and blue of his team kit smeared with grease from the simulator session.
Max’s hair is wind-whipped and messy, his blue eyes sharp and searching until they land on you. When he sees you, the sharp edges of his face soften just a fraction, a subtle change that only you are meant to catch.
"You're late," you say, your voice barely a whisper against the low hum of the air conditioning units. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to build a wall of air between you two. "I told you I was done, Max. I meant it."
Max stops a few feet away. He doesn’t crowd you, which is rare for him. Usually, he takes up all the oxygen in the room, his presence heavy and demanding. Today, he looks almost… unsteady. He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture erratic.
"We need to talk," he says, his voice gravelly from hours of radio chatter. "You can't just leave a text like that and then ignore me for twenty-four hours."
"Watch me," you retort, though your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It's over, Max. This... whatever this is. Sneaking around, fighting like we hate each other, and then pretending we don't exist the moment a camera points our way. It's toxic. You don’t even want to claim me."
A flicker of raw, unadulterated panic flashes across his face. He takes one sharp step forward, invading your space this time, his scent a mix of familiar expensive cologne and the sterile air of the paddock.
"Toxic? You think this is toxic?" Max scoffs, though there is no malice in it, only a desperate kind of fear. "Is it toxic that I need to see you before a race to clear my head? Is it toxic that all I think about when I'm on the grid is getting back to the motorhome so I can find you?"
"Yes," you hiss, refusing to look away, though your eyes are stinging with unshed tears.
"Because when the helmet comes off, I’m just your dirty little secret. You're so afraid of Charles, so afraid of what the media will say, that I'm only allowed to exist in the dark. I'm a couple of minutes out from completely breaking, Max. I can't keep relapsing into this."
Max flinches at your words, as if you’d physically struck him. He closes the distance completely, his hands hovering tentatively near your waist before he gently takes your wrists in his grip. His touch is warm, grounding, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Baby, don't say that," he pleads, his voice losing every ounce of its characteristic championship arrogance.
He looks down at you, searching your eyes as if looking for a lifeline. "I messed up. I know I did. I was so caught up in the championship, so used to keeping everything locked down and controlled, that I didn't realize what I was doing to you. I took you for granted. I thought you'd always just be there, waiting in the wings."
You pull your wrists back, but he doesn't let go—he just shifts his grip so his calloused palms hold your hands securely. "I'm not a pit stop, Max. I'm not something you visit when you need to refuel."
"I know," he whispers, leaning down so his forehead rests against yours. You close your eyes, the warmth of his breath washing over your face. "I know. Look at me, please."
You open your eyes, finding yourself drowning in his intense gaze. Max looks terrified. It’s a side of him the world never gets to see—the dominant, aggressive driver is stripped away, leaving only a boy who is genuinely scared of losing the one person who truly knows him.
"I need you," he says, the words coming out rough, as if they are physically painful for him to admit. "It’s not about hiding you. I just... I was so afraid of ruining things between us, so afraid of bringing you into this circus full-time, that I handled it in the worst way possible. I need you in my corner. I don't know how to do this without you. When you're not there, the silence is too loud."
You let out a shaky breath, the fight draining from your limbs, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness that scares you almost as much as the toxicity did. "Max, we can't just keep doing this cycle. It's destroying me."
"We won't," he promises, his thumbs gently caressing the backs of your hands. "We won't hide anymore. Not from Charles, not from anyone. If I have to fight everyone in the paddock to keep you, I will. But I need you to stay. Please. Just give me the chance to do this right."
He searches your face, his expression so open and raw that the lingering anger in your chest begins to dissolve into a heavy, quiet understanding.
You’ve both been dancing this dangerous, magnetic dance for months, pulled into each other’s orbits by the same reckless momentum that drives his car. But looking at him now, seeing the genuine remorse and need in his eyes, you realize that neither of you is ready to walk away.
You sigh, the sound trembling in the quiet space behind the motorhome. "If we do this, if we try... it has to be different, Max. No more secrets. I won't be your secret."
"No more secrets," he repeats, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips—a rare sight that makes your heart skip a beat.
He releases your hands only to wrap his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent that has become your undoing. "I'll tell Charles tonight."
You tense in his arms, pulling back slightly to look up at him. "Tonight? Are you serious?"
"Yes," Max says, his jaw tightening with determination. "I'm not losing you over a stupid fear of confrontation. I'll go to him, I'll explain. He’ll be angry, but he’ll get it eventually."
"He'll probably try to punch you," you warn, though a small, fond smile tugs at the corner of your lips.
Max chuckles—a low, quiet sound against your ear—and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "I deserve it. But I'll take whatever comes, as long as you're with me when the dust settles."
You wrap your arms around his neck, finally giving in to the overwhelming relief washing over you. The toxicity of the past few months seems to evaporate, replaced by the heavy, steady weight of his commitment.
You know there will be mountains to climb—the press, the paddock whispers, and an inevitable, explosive confrontation with your brother—but standing here in Max’s arms, none of that seems to matter.
"Okay," you murmur against his chest. "Let's do it."
Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity that promises a completely different kind of relationship. He leans down and captures your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss—not the frantic, hurried kisses you've shared in the past to hide from prying eyes, but a slow, unhurried claim that tastes of absolute certainty.
When you finally pull apart, Max keeps a protective arm around your waist, his thumb stroking your hip. He doesn't let you go, and you don't want him to.
"Come inside," he says softly, guiding you toward the steps of the Red Bull motorhome. "I need to clean up and do a debrief, and then we're going to talk to your brother. Wait for me inside?"
You nod, squeezing his hand. "I'll wait."
The interior of the Red Bull motorhome is sleek, quiet, and meticulously organized. You sit on one of the plush, grey leather sofas, watching as Max efficiently gathers his things.
It’s strange to see him in this environment—stripped of the racing suit, his athletic frame dressed in simple team wear, yet still radiating the hyper-focused energy that defines him.
He moves with purpose, but every few minutes, his eyes dart over to where you are sitting, as if checking to make sure you haven't vanished. Each time your eyes meet, he offers a small, reassuring smile that warms you from the inside out.
Eventually, the door opens and Christian Horner steps inside, a stack of papers in his hands.
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the sofa, his sharp eyes flicking from you to Max, who immediately steps in front of you in a subtle, protective gesture.
"Ah," Christian says, a knowing, slightly amused expression crossing his face. He raises an eyebrow at Max. "I see we're having a rather productive weekend, then."
Max doesn't look away or stammer. He holds his boss's gaze, his posture rigid and uncompromising. "We'll be in the media pen later, Christian. But right now, we have personal things to sort out."
"Of course," Christian replies, a dry smile touching his lips. He glances at you with a polite nod before turning and exiting the motorhome, leaving a heavy, expectant silence in his wake.
Max lets out a breath he seemed to be holding, turning to you with a slight chuckle. "Well, that's one person who knows."
"Probably," Max admits, walking over to the sofa and sitting down beside you. He takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles on your skin. "I'm sorry about before. I was an idiot. I was so tunnel-visioned on the races that I forgot to race for the things that actually matter."
"Is that your way of being romantic, Verstappen?" you ask, a playful smile on your lips as you tilt your head.
"Maybe," he says, a rare, genuine blush creeping up his neck. He leans in closer, his blue eyes searching yours with an earnestness that makes your breath hitch. "I love you. I'm terrible at saying it, and I'm probably even worse at showing it when I'm under pressure, but I do. I need you to know that."
The words hang in the air, heavy and precious. You’ve known for a long time how deeply your feelings ran, but hearing him say it—stripped of all the adrenaline and the games—leaves you entirely speechless. Your heart swells, erasing the last lingering doubts in your mind.
"I love you too," you whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly roughened by the wind and the sun. "Even when you're mean."
Max chuckles, leaning into your touch. "I'm only mean because I get frustrated. When you're around, I just... I forget how to be normal. I want to be better for you."
"Good," you say, your voice dropping to a softer tone. "Because I'm holding you to that."
The two of you sit in the quiet for a long time, talking in hushed tones about the past few months. It's a strange kind of therapy, dissecting the arguments and the secretive dates, unearthing all the ugly parts of your relationship that you both had tried to sweep under the rug.
In the past, your interactions were often defined by arguments and a fierce, electric tension, fueled by the fact that you both wanted more but were too afraid to ask for it. Now, talking openly, that tension melts into something steady and comfortable.
The sound of the paddock outside gradually begins to quiet down as the sun dips lower in the sky. The evening light filters through the motorhome windows, casting long, golden shadows across the grey leather.
"Are you ready?" Max asks eventually, looking at his watch. He laces his fingers through yours, his grip tightening.
You take a deep breath, your heart beginning to hammer again, though the nervous dread has transformed into a sharp, thrilling kind of anticipation. "As ready as I'll ever be. Where is he?"
"The Ferrari hospitality," Max says, standing up and pulling you gently to your feet. He doesn't let go of your hand, holding it firmly as the two of you walk toward the door. "I'll do the talking. You just stand there and make sure he doesn't kill me."
"Oh, I think he's definitely going to try," you say, a nervous but fond laugh escaping your lips as you step out into the cooling evening air of the paddock.
The walk to the Ferrari hospitality area feels agonizingly short. The paddock is mostly empty now, save for a few mechanics cleaning up equipment and the occasional journalist rushing to catch a flight.
Max walks with a determined stride, his broad shoulders shielding you from the slight evening breeze. He holds your hand with a possessive, unyielding grip, a silent declaration that he has no intention of letting you go.
When you reach the sleek, red-and-white motorhome, you see Charles standing outside on the terrace, talking animatedly with a few team members.
He looks relaxed, a glass of water in his hand, laughing at something his engineer just said.
As you approach, the group disperses, and Charles’s eyes land on you. His smile is warm and bright, but as his gaze shifts to the man walking beside you—and more importantly, to the way Max Verstappen is holding your hand—his expression shifts in an instant.
The laughter dies in his throat. His jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow, the friendly, relaxed demeanor evaporating in a split second. He sets his glass down on the table with a sharp, metallic clink.
"Max," Charles says, his voice dangerously calm. He steps to the edge of the terrace, looking down at the two of you. His eyes flick to your intertwined hands before locking onto Max’s face. "What are you doing with my sister?"
You feel a ripple of tension run through Max's hand, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he steps slightly in front of you, his posture squaring off.
"We need to talk," Max says, his voice level and devoid of its usual sharp edge. He looks at your brother with a quiet, unwavering focus. "We've been seeing each other for a while. I wanted to come and tell you myself."
For a moment, the silence is deafening. Charles stares at Max as if he has just spoken in a foreign language. His gaze darts to you, searching your face for confirmation, his eyes wide and incredulous.
"Seeing each other?" Charles repeats, his voice rising a notch. He steps down the stairs of the terrace, moving quickly until he is standing directly in front of you both.
He looks at you, a mixture of hurt and disbelief in his dark eyes. "You've been seeing Max? For how long? And you didn't tell me?"
"Charles..." you start, stepping out from behind Max's shoulder, though you keep your hand firmly in his. Your heart is pounding, but you meet your brother's gaze directly. "We were going to tell you. We just... we didn't know how."
"You didn't know how?" Charles scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his signature Monegasque temper finally beginning to show.
He glares at Max, stepping into his personal space. "You've been sneaking around behind my back? With Verstappen? Do you have any idea what the press would do if they found out? You're my sister. He's my rival. This is... it's a joke."
"It's not a joke," Max says, his voice perfectly calm and steady, refusing to back down even an inch. "I know how it looks, Charles. And I know you have every right to be angry with me. I should have told you months ago instead of hiding it. That was my mistake."
"Your mistake?" Charles snaps, his voice rising, drawing the attention of a few remaining people in the paddock. "You treat her like a secret. I've seen how you two act in the paddock—like strangers. If you actually cared about her, you wouldn't have kept her in the dark."
"I do care about her," Max interrupts, his voice low and fiercely intense.
The champion's fire that you know so well is back, but it's not directed at an opponent on the track—it’s directed at protecting what’s his. "That's exactly why I'm here. I didn't come to ask for your permission, and I didn't come to make excuses. I came because I love her, and I'm not going to hide her anymore."
Charles falls silent, staring at Max with a look of pure shock. He wasn't expecting that. He blinks, the anger in his eyes warring with pure, unadulterated disbelief.
He looks over at you, his expression softening just a fraction, the protective older brother shining through the frustration.
"Is this what you want, Y/N?" Charles asks, his voice quieter now, filled with genuine concern. "Are you happy with him? He's..."
"He makes me happy, Charles," you say, stepping forward and letting go of Max's hand for a moment to place it gently on your brother's arm. "I know it’s a lot to process, and I know it’s messy. But it’s real. We wanted to tell you."
Charles looks down at your hand on his arm, the tension in his shoulders slowly beginning to dissipate. He sighs—a long, heavy, defeated sound that echoes the exhaustion of the race weekend. He turns his head back to Max, who stands there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on Charles.
"If you hurt her," Charles says, pointing a firm finger at Max's chest, "I don't care about the FIA, I don't care about the contracts. I will end you. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Max says, his voice solemn and sincere. He takes your hand again, his fingers lacing tightly through yours. "I won't hurt her."
Charles lets out another breath, looking at the two of you, shaking his head in a mixture of resignation and lingering annoyance. "I can't believe you. My sister and Max Verstappen. It's a nightmare."
"It's your reality now, Charles," you tease gently, though your eyes are shining with gratitude. "We're all going to make it work."
"Go away," Charles grumbles, though a small, begrudging smile finally touches the corners of his lips. He looks at Max with a pointed stare. "We'll talk about this more next week. And no more hiding. If I see you two acting like strangers in the paddock again, I'm going to personally crash into your car in Monaco."
"Understood," Max says, a slight, rare grin breaking across his face.
You step forward and wrap your arms around Charles, hugging him tightly. He holds you back, kissing the side of your head before pulling away and giving Max one final, warning look.
The three of you stand there for a moment in the fading light, the heavy, secretive tension that has hung over you for months officially broken.
Later that evening, you find yourself on the balcony of your brother's suite, looking out over the twinkling lights of the city. The noise of the paddock is miles away, replaced by the gentle evening breeze and the distant sound of the ocean.
The sliding glass door opens, and Max steps out onto the balcony, holding two glasses of cold water. He’s dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair damp from a shower.
He hands you one of the glasses before stepping up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.
You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, watching the city lights.
"That went better than expected," Max murmurs against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. "I thought he was actually going to swing at me."
"He thought about it," you say, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid refreshing against your throat. "But he loves you really. In his own, incredibly competitive, Ferrari-loving way."
Max chuckles, his arms tightening around your waist. "I think he just hates the idea of me being right about anything. But it’s done. No more hiding."
"No more hiding," you repeat, the words feeling incredibly sweet on your tongue.
The toxicity of the past few months—the late-night arguments, the fear of being discovered, the constant push and pull of an undefined relationship—feels like a distant memory.
Standing here in the quiet, with Max’s steady heartbeat against your back and his chin resting on your shoulder, you realize that the chaos of the racing world only makes the peace you've found with him that much sweeter.
"I need to tell you something else," Max says, his voice suddenly shifting to a more serious, quiet tone. He turns you around in his arms so you are facing him, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.
"What is it?" you ask, a small frown of concern forming on your lips.
"I was an idiot before," he says, his hands reaching up to gently cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "I was so focused on the racing, so scared of changing the dynamic, that I let you believe you were just an option. But I've been thinking about this all day. I don't want just a couple of weeks with you, Y/n. I want all of it. I want a future."
Your heart misses a beat, the quiet sincerity in his voice making your knees go weak. You look up at him, your eyes shining in the moonlight. "Max..."
"Let me finish," he whispers, a small, nervous smile touching his lips. "I love you. I need you in my life, not just in the motorhome when the cameras are off. I want to do this properly. Move in with me. In Monaco."
The offer hangs in the air, heavy and beautiful. It's a massive step—a commitment that goes far beyond secretive dates and stolen kisses in the paddock. It’s an acknowledgment that the dark, undefined period of your relationship is officially over.
"Are you serious?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
"Never more serious in my life," Max says, his gaze locked onto yours with absolute certainty. "I'll talk to Charles about it tomorrow, make sure he knows I'm not playing games. But I want you with me."
You look at him, seeing the genuine love and need in his eyes, and any lingering doubts in your mind completely disappear. You’ve both weathered the storm of his intensity, the paddock whispers, and your brother's temper, and you’ve come out on the other side.
"Yes," you say, a radiant smile breaking across your lips. "I'll move in with you."
Max lets out a breath of pure relief, his face lighting up with a rare, dazzling grin. He pulls you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the ground as his lips crash into yours. It's a kiss that tastes of absolute certainty, of the future you are about to build together, and the end of all the secrets.
When he finally sets you back on your feet, he keeps his arms securely around your waist, his eyes burning with a quiet, fierce passion that has always drawn you to him.
"Come inside," he whispers, his voice low and husky against your ear as he guides you toward the suite. "We have a lot of lost time to make up for."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest, and let him pull you inside, knowing that whatever chaos the racing season brings, you'll be facing it together.
No more hiding. No more toxic games. Just you, and Max, and the life you're finally ready to build. . . .
[1.5k] “You’re thinking too much,” he muttered, fabric of his balaclava shifting slightly as his jaw set. “Can hear it from here. The ticking clock in your head. The bottle or the blade you’ll use to quiet the noise when all that tips over.”
The Anatomy of a Ghost | 2
[2.8k] Worried.
The word rolled around in his mind, unfamiliar, like a foreign language he’d forgotten how to speak. Simon didn’t get worried. Worried was a civilian emotion. It was an indulgence for people who had the luxury of a future, people who weren’t already ghosts walking among the living. He knew fear, he knew rage, and he knew the cold, dead vacuum of indifference. But this? This soft, gnawing irritation at the back of his mind that demanded he ensure your safety?
It confused him. It pissed him off. He stared at the scuffed leather of the bag, jaw tightening. He didn’t know what to do with a feeling that didn’t have a tactical purpose.
The Anatomy of an Apology | 3
[4k] He turned his head slightly, gaze dropping to your face. “But the coffee’s better here.”
You felt a sudden, sharp flutter behind your ribs at that, swallowing, trying to keep your eyes locked with his. “Just the coffee?”
Simon didn’t look away like you expected. “No,” his voice dropped to a rough, honest whisper. “Not just the coffee.”
The Anatomy of a Blade | 4
[5k] “I held it, Simon.” you murmured, voice dropping to an honest whisper as you whispered a half-inch closer into his space. “Held my lane, because I knew you were on the other side.”
Simon stared at you for a long, breathless moment, jaw setting as he processed the words. His eyes closed when your palms found the sides of his face, cradling it, whilst he exhaled a breath so deep he must’ve been holding it for decades.
“I’m always going to be on the other side.”
I have so many thoughts about ex-boyfriend!Daryl that it's not funny. Especially S1 Daryl. Like he's such a douchebag, but he cares so much. Enjoy!
Pairing: Ex-boyfirend!Daryl Dixon x Reader
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who immediately thinks of you when the world goes to shit. He knows there's no way to get to you, and even if there was, you probably wouldn't go with him, so he never tries.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels a crushing sense of guilt for that.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who finds himself wondering if you survived. Wondering if he should be out looking for you.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who freezes up when Rick comes back to camp with you walking cautiously behind him.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who dumps his crossbow on the ground and starts striding up to you like the fucking terminator, before he can even really figure out how he feels, making everyone nervous.
Ex-boyfirend!Daryl who doesn't give a fuck that he's your ex because you're alive. Tired, scared, and a little worse for wear, but alive.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who takes your face in his hands and just looks at you. Doesn't kiss you because he doesn't think he deserves to, but looks at you like he used to. Like you're the lady of the lake. Like you hung the goddamn moon.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels like he can take a breath for the first time since he realized he had to leave you behind.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who takes a shaking breath and tries to say something to you, maybe an apology, maybe something else, but can't do it. The words just stick in his throat.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who damn near takes Rick's hand off when he tries to pull you away, thinking Daryl might hurt you.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels such a sense of relief when you lean into him and tell him you missed him.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who's shoving down tears by sheer force of will while you say the difficult things for him. You wondered every day if he was alive. Wondered if you should look for him. That you still love him.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who can't believe he's been handed a second chance with you in this new, fucked up version of the world.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who doesn't know how to apologize for what happened before, and instead tries to atone by making sure you always eat before he does, sleep in the safest place, and never get so far away from him that he couldn't protect you.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who's suddenly not your ex-boyfriend anymore.
Hi love, can I make a request? Max and reader are married but lately they have been distant because they kept fighting. Whenever they meet, they fight. It's really tense for a while. Then one day, when Max comes home after a race, reader isn't around and the wedding ring is discarded somewhere?
But actually, reader just went outside doing something and forgot to use it because reader is in a hurry to meet someone. Perhaps male friend so there's a touch of jealousy too? Thank you so much by the way! 🩷🌷
Worn Thin
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: After weeks of fighting and distance Max comes home to an empty house and your wedding ring left behind, and for one awful moment he thinks this is how your marriage ends.
3.4k words / Masterlist
The first sign that something was wrong had been the silence.
It wasn't peaceful or comfortable, the kind that had once existed so naturally between you and Max that entire evenings could pass with no need for words at all, just the sound of a race replay in the background and his hand resting on your thigh, your head against his shoulder, the quiet understanding of two people who knew each other too well to need constant noise.
This silence was sharp.
It lived in the kitchen when you passed each other in the mornings, in the bedroom when one of you came to bed long after the other was already pretending to be asleep, in the strained phone calls when he was away for weekends and every conversation somehow became an argument before it had even properly begun.
You couldn’t even remember how it started anymore.
Whether it had been the missed dinner in Monaco or that interview he had done where he brushed off a question about you and your marriage so bluntly that it left your stomach twisting when you watched it back online. Maybe it had been the way you had snapped at him when he got home, already defensive, already tired, already carrying weeks of tension with him like a storm cloud.
From there it had just grown. Every conversation became a fight. If you asked if he was coming home at a certain time, he heard accusation. If he asked why you seemed distracted, you heard criticism.
You both knew exactly where to press, exactly which words would sting the most, because love like yours came with that dangerous knowledge. There was no cruelty like the kind that could only come from someone who knew every soft part of you by heart, and the worst part was that neither of you seemed capable of stopping it.
By the time Max left for the next race weekend things had become so tense that you barely kissed him goodbye.
He had stood in the hallway with his bag by his feet, waiting. You had leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded.
“That’s it?” he asked, voice already edged.
“What do you want me to say?”
His jaw tightened. “I want you to act like you actually care that I’m leaving.”
A laugh had escaped you before you could stop it. “You already know I care but maybe I’m tired of begging for scraps of your attention every time you come home.”
Then it had spiralled, because of course it had, by the time the door shut behind him the air in the house felt scorched, he didn’t call that night and neither did you.
During the race weekend you exchanged only the bare minimum, a clipped good luck before qualifying, a quick congratulations after the race.
So when Max landed back home late Sunday evening, exhausted from travel, still buzzing faintly from adrenaline and media obligations and the hollow ache of too many things left unsaid he was braced for another cold welcome.
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
The house was dim and quiet.
His brows pulled together.
Usually, even when things were bad, there was some sign of you. A light on upstairs, music playing softly from your phone in the bathroom, a mug left abandoned on the kitchen counter. Something.
He dropped his bag by the door and moved further inside, pulling off his cap.
“Y/N?”
Still nothing.
A flicker of irritation sparked first, because lately irritation always came easiest. Had you gone out without telling him? Before he had just gotten home?
Then he saw it.
Your wedding ring.
It sat on the kitchen island, catching the warm overhead light, unmistakable and motionless and completely, horribly wrong.
Max stopped dead.
For a second his mind refused to make sense of what he was looking at. It was just a ring. Just something you must have taken off absentmindedly.
But no.
No, because you never took it off and left it there.
His chest constricted so fast it almost felt physical. A brutal tightening beneath his ribs, a sudden ringing in his ears he crossed the room in two strides and picked it up.
It was yours. Of course it was yours. He knew every tiny detail of it, every glint, every curve. He had slid it onto your finger himself, both of you too young by most people’s standards and not caring even a little, his hands shaking with emotion and the absolute certainty that loving you had been the least reckless part of his life. People had called it early, impulsive, too much too soon, but standing there with you all those years ago, watching that ring settle onto your finger, Max had only ever felt one thing.
Right.
Now it was sitting discarded on the counter like something forgotten.
His throat went dry. Had you left? The thought slammed into him with enough force to make his knees feel weak. His gaze darted around the kitchen as if the answer might be written somewhere, some clue hidden in plain sight. Then he noticed your handbag was gone. Your keys too. His pulse kicked harder.
He reached for his phone immediately, calling you before he had even fully thought through what he was going to say.
It rang… and rang… then voicemail.
“Fuck,” he muttered, hanging up only to call again.
Voicemail.
His breathing had turned shallow now, panic creeping in through the cracks of his anger. He opened your messages, scrolling back through the sparse conversation from the weekend as if he might find something there he had missed. Some warning. Some goodbye hidden between the lines.
Nothing.
He called again.
This time you answered, slightly breathless. “Hello?”
Max nearly snapped the phone in half with how tightly he was gripping it. “Where are you?”
A beat of silence. “What?”
“Where are you?” he repeated, harsher now, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “I’m home. You’re not here.”
“I know you’re home, your flight tracker said you landed.”
That should have reassured him, maybe, but it only sharpened the confusion clawing through him. “Then where the hell are you?”
You exhaled. “I just popped out, I’m on my way home now.”
“Popped out,” he repeated incredulously. His eyes fell back to the ring in his palm. “You left your wedding ring on the kitchen counter and ‘popped out’?”
There was another pause.
Then, “Oh.”
Oh.
That was all you had to say? Oh?
Max laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “That’s your answer?”
“Max, I was in a rush.”
“In a rush to do what?”
His voice came out colder than he intended, but beneath it was something desperate he couldn’t quite hide.
You hesitated for a fraction too long and then you said, “I was just meeting Luca.”
Something ugly flared immediately in his chest.
Luca.
Of course.
Luca, your longtime friend from before Max, the one person he had never quite managed to like despite knowing, logically, that there had probably never been anything between you. Luca who texted too often and always seemed to appear whenever things between you and Max were rough. Luca, who made Max feel irrationally territorial in a way he hated.
“You’re meeting him?” Max asked flatly.
“Yes.”
“At night.”
“It’s 6pm.”
“You left your ring behind to go meet another man.”
“Do not do that,” you snapped, your own temper sparking to life now. “I forgot it because I was late, not because I’m making some symbolic statement.”
He looked down at the ring again, still cold against his skin. “It looked pretty symbolic.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
The silence on the line turned taut.
Finally Max said, quieter now but somehow more dangerous, “Come home.”
You let out a disbelieving breath.
“I’m already on my way,” your tone had turned icy. “I’m not a child Max. I’m allowed to go out and see my friends.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“No you just called me sounding like I’d committed a crime.”
“Because I came home and found your ring discarded on the counter.”
“It was not discarded.”
“It looked fucking discarded.”
You made a frustrated noise. “This is exactly what I mean every conversation with you turns into this.”
He shut his eyes, deep down he knew you were right. He knew it the second the words left your mouth. What had started as panic had twisted almost instantly into accusation, jealousy, anger, because lately that was all either of you seemed capable of giving each other.
Still the image of your empty finger and Luca waiting somewhere beside you was enough to keep his temper lit.
“What were you even doing with him?” Max asked.
Another pause. Then, carefully, “Talking.”
His grip tightened again. “About us?”
Silence.
Something hot and humiliating curled under his skin. “So now your friend is giving you advice about our marriage?”
“No,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your tone. “He’s listening because every time I try to talk to my husband we end up shouting.”
The truth of it landed like a blow.
For a moment neither of you said anything.
Then you spoke again, softer this time. “I’ll be home soon.”
The line went dead. Max stood motionless in the kitchen for several long seconds, your ring still in his hand.
The house felt too big around him.
He should have put the ring back on the counter. Should have gone upstairs, showered, cooled off, waited for you to get home. Instead he sank down onto one of the barstools and just sat there, staring at the gold band in his palm as though it might explain how the two of you had ended up here.
He thought of your wedding day.
Of the way you had looked at him when he slid the ring onto your finger, eyes bright and wet and full of so much love it had made his chest ache. Of the way you had laughed through your tears when his hands shook. Of the private promise he had made to himself then, that no matter how difficult life became, no matter how demanding racing was, he would never let himself take this for granted.
Yet lately that was exactly what he had done, not because he did not love you. Christ, that had never been the problem.
It was because he loved you so much that every fracture between you felt unbearable, every criticism cutting deeper, every perceived distance sending him straight into defensiveness. He had been tired, stressed, stretched too thin, and instead of reaching for you he had pushed you further and further away.
He had let pride do the talking.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Max let himself really feel how close he had come to losing you.
The front door opened about twenty minutes later. He looked up immediately. You stepped inside, hair slightly windswept, your expression guarded the moment you saw him sitting there in the half-lit kitchen waiting.
Neither of you spoke at first. Then your eyes dropped to his hand.
To the ring.
Your face changed instantly. “Max—”
“You forgot it,” he said.
Your shoulders sagged, some of the fight leaving you at once. “Yes. I forgot it.”
He nodded once, but his voice was rough when he asked, “Did you know what I thought when I saw it?”
Your lips parted, but no answer came.
“I thought you’d left me.”
Something in his expression must have gotten through to you then, because the defensive set of your shoulders softened. The tension in your face cracked.
“Max…”
“I walked in and you weren’t here and that was there.” He held up the ring slightly. “And I thought that was it I thought you were gone.”
You swallowed hard.
“I didn’t leave you,” you said quietly.
“But you could have.”
The honesty of it hung between you.
You moved further into the kitchen, slower now, careful, like approaching something wounded. “Luca just asked me to meet him because he was nearby. That’s all. He knew things have been bad and he wanted to check on me.”
Max’s jaw tightened at the name, but the jealousy that had burned so bright before now felt secondary to everything else. “Did you tell him everything?”
“No.”
He looked away.
You took another step closer. “I wasn’t running away from you.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me where you were?”
A tiny, sad laugh escaped you. “Because lately even telling you I’m going to the shop turns into a fight.”
That stung because it was true. Max dragged a hand over his face. “I know.”
You stared at him for a long moment before saying, “When did we get like this?”
He let out a slow breath. “I don’t know.”
“We used to be so good. Great.”
“We still are,” he said immediately, then corrected himself, voice cracking slightly, “Or we could be. We should be.”
Your eyes filled properly then and Max hated that. Hated being the reason tears existed on your face at all.
“I’m tired,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of fighting with you.”
The words nearly undid him because they echoed exactly what had been sitting in his own chest for weeks. He stepped closer now too, until only a small space remained between you.
“So am I.”
You looked up at him, chin trembling. “Then why do we keep doing it?”
Because it was easier than saying I miss you. Because anger was simpler than admitting hurt. Because loving you this much made every distance feel like rejection.
Max had never been especially elegant with emotion, and the truth often came out blunt and raw instead.
“Because I think you’re slipping away from me,” he said, then took a deep, shaky breath. “And every time I feel that... I get angry before I let myself admit I’m scared.”
His thumb rubbed unconsciously over your ring. “And then tonight I came home and thought maybe I was right.”
Your eyes dropped to the band in his hand, and when you spoke your voice was shaky. “Max I’m scared too.”
You gave a watery laugh, wiping quickly under one eye. “I feel like I can’t reach you anymore. When you’re home, you’re tense. When you’re away, you’re distant. And every time I try to tell you I miss you it somehow becomes a competition about who’s been hurt more.”
He flinched, because that was true too.
“I didn’t meet Luca because I wanted to replace you,” you continued softly. “I met him because I needed to talk to a friend and I forgot the ring because I was running late and my hands were wet and dirty from watering the plants outside before I left. That’s it. That’s all it was.”
The absurd normality of that, watering the plants, rushing out, forgetting something important in the chaos, made Max feel suddenly foolish and unbearably relieved all at once.
He laughed quietly then, once, more like an exhale.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“I nearly lost my mind because you were watering plants.”
To your surprise, a tiny smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes. Very glamorous.”
He shook his head, stepping the rest of the way toward you. “I was jealous too.”
“I noticed.”
“Of Luca.”
“I definitely noticed.”
His mouth twitched despite everything. Then his expression turned serious again. “I don’t want to be like this with you. I love you so much.”
Your smile faded into something much softer. “I love you too.”
He looked at the ring in his palm for one last moment, then reached for your hand.
You let him take it, your fingers trembled slightly against his, he slowly slid the wedding band back onto your finger. The sight of it settling where it belonged made something deep in his chest loosen.
His thumb lingered over it. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
A humourless little laugh escaped him. “Most of it.”
That pulled an actual laugh from you, small and teary and beautiful enough to ache.
Max’s hand moved from yours to your face, fingertips brushing your cheek like he was remembering how to touch you gently. “I’m sorry for making this house feel like a war zone. I’m sorry for anytime I chose being right over being kind and I’m sorry that you had to talk to someone else because I made it too hard to talk to me.”
Your eyes closed briefly under his touch.
“I’m sorry too,” you whispered. “I’ve been angry for so long that sometimes I start a fight before I even know what I’m actually upset about.”
He gave a slight nod. “Then maybe we stop.”
Your brows knit. “Just like that?”
“No,” he said honestly. “Not just like that but maybe tonight we stop trying to win.”
That made your face crumple in the saddest, sweetest way, because that was what it had become, wasn’t it? Two people who loved each other desperately, trying to win arguments nobody was surviving. You leaned into his hand then and the gesture was so familiar, so heartbreakingly tender that Max’s own eyes stung.
“I missed you,” you admitted quietly.
He let out a shaky breath. “I missed you too.”
Your hands came up slowly, resting against his chest. “You really thought I left.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“I wasn’t going to. I would never.”
At that he looked down at you, searching your face as if he needed to be absolutely sure.
Then he bent his forehead to yours.
“You can’t leave your ring on the counter like that,” he murmured.
A weak laugh broke out of you.
“It nearly killed me.”
“Poor baby.”
He huffed a laugh against your skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the sound did not catch on broken glass.
You smiled against his chest and he pulled back just enough to look at you properly and Max, who could fight wheel to wheel without flinching, who could stare down cameras and critics and rivals with perfect composure, felt almost unsteady from the weight of that simple look.
So he kissed you, it wasn't a desperate or angry kiss you had sometimes shared in the middle of arguments, all heat and frustration and unsaid things. This was gentle, his hand stayed cupped to your cheek, the other at your waist, holding you as if he had learned tonight exactly how fragile even forever could be.
You kissed him back with a small broken sound, and when he felt your hands clutch at him more tightly he deepened it just enough to say everything he had been too proud, too stubborn, too hurt to put into words.
When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing unevenly. You rested your forehead against his again and gave a tiny, exhausted laugh. “We still need to talk about everything.”
“I know.”
“We’re not magically fixed.”
“I know.”
“You’re still dramatic.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You left your ring on the counter.”
“I was watering plants.”
“Terrorising your husband.”
That made you laugh properly, and Max thought he might spend the rest of his life trying to earn that sound again every day. He wrapped his arms around you then, pulling you fully into him and this time you came without hesitation.
You stayed like that for a long time. Just standing in the kitchen, the quiet weight of each other, the ring back on your finger, and the fragile but undeniable feeling that maybe this was how you found your way back, by choosing to stop treating love like something to defend yourself from.
After a while, your muffled voice came from where your face was pressed into his shirt.
“For the record, Luca says you’re very intimidating.”
Max’s hand stroked slowly up and down your back. “He’s right.”
“And a little possessive.”
“He’s also right.”
You tilted your head up just enough to grin at him. “Good. At least you’re self-aware.” Your smile softened. “You’re the one I came home to. Always will.”
He bent and kissed your forehead. “Good.”
Your eyes softened instantly. You reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his, squeezing once. He kissed you once more and led you out of the kitchen with your hand in his and your ring glinting softly under the light, both of you knowing there was still work to do, still wounds to mend, still long conversations waiting, but for tonight it was enough to know that neither of you would ever walk away.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after getting your heartbroken by your long-time one-sided love for charles, the most irritating and vexing person in your life, max verstappen, suggests only one thing to remedy it: fucking it out. and after some brief scepticism, you agree. what could possibly go wrong?
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: enemies with benefits, angst, smut (18+ please for the love of god minors DNI), best friend's older brother vibes, bad french and dutch, poor humour, mental health, insecurities, jealousy
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: max verstappen x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader
EP 1 | AN OPEN DOOR
EP 2 | MEDDLE ABOUT
EP 3 | BABYDOLL
EP 4 | PACIFY HER
EP 5 | PLAY WITH ME
EP 6 | HOUSE OF BALLOONS
EP 7 | JEALOUS TYPE
EP 8 | DADDY ISSUES
EP 9 | SHE'S ALL I WANNA BE
EP 10 | DO I WANNA KNOW?
EP 11 | BACK TO FRIENDS
EP 12 | THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS
EP 13 | A CLOSED DOOR
total word count: 76.1k
EP 13.1 | dancing with our hands tied s|f|a
EP 13.2 | their first podium f|a
EP 13.3 | happy birthday max f|a
EP 13.4 | revolving door universe headcanons f|s
EP 13.5 | max vs superman f|s
EP 13.6 | horror night at the leclercs f
EP 13.7 | hand-painted trophies f|a
EP 13.8 | cat whisperer + cat parents f
Ep 13.9 | positive reinforcement f|s
EP 13.10 | casual lore drop f|a
EP 13.11 | the simulator f|s
EP 13.12 | the winner takes it all f|a
EP 13.13 | i think you'd look best in all white f|a
EP 13.14 | yes to forever f|a
EP 13.15 | honeymoon avenue f|s
EP 13.16 | a forever family f|a
total word count: 54.6k
PLAYLIST
𝐀/𝐍: yes this is not a drill! i'm writing another series! however, this idea is credited to this lovely anon who i dearly thank for requesting this! i hope you like it as much as summer sunshine although, as you can see, the tone is a bit different. and this one doesn't have entirely pre-written chapters so i'm taking my time to explore the plot here!
working nights in the morgue means you’ve gotten used to being overlooked. quiet ones always are. but dr. jack abbot notices you anyway.
he notices your careful hands, your lowered eyes, the way you fluster when he says your name. and somewhere between late-night charting, fluorescent lights, and exhausted confessions whispered in empty hallways, jack realizes he wants something he probably shouldn’t.
CHAPTER ONE — NINE ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 18.9k words ❫
⊹ ࣪ ˖ act one follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink and a single earth shattering kiss. best read in descending order for understanding!
⟢ cold and predictable
⟢ cold storage
⟢ a cold shoulder
⟢ too cold to touch
⟢ cold cut
⟢ caught in the cold
⟢ cold hands
⟢ left out in the cold
⟢ let in from the cold
CHAPTER TEN — NINETEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫
⊹ ࣪ ˖ act two follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting hotter. best read in descending order for understanding!
⟢ heat source
morgue notes - 001
⟢ heat on contact
morgue notes - 002
⟢ after the heat
⟢ heat in your hands
⟢ the sound of heat
morgue notes - 003
⟢ held in heat
⟢ heat flash ( coming soon )
⟢ heat bitten ( coming soon )
morgue notes - 004
⟢ heated words ( coming soon )
morgue notes - 005
⟢ heat of the moment ( coming soon )
morgue notes - 006
morgue notes - 007
morgue notes - 008
˚₊‧ 𐙚 THE APPENDIX ⊹ ࣪ ˖
⊹ ࣪ ˖ NIGHT SHIFT — MORGUE NOTES
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part one
˚₊‧ 𐙚 part two
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part three
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames from jack
˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames for jack
Simon Riley had never been good with women. He knew how to clear rooms, how to disappear, how to make threats stop breathing. But.. flirting, charming.. even talking to someone soft and smiling who brought him his lunch with a shy “here you go, love.” was another battlefield entirely.
Then there was you.
New café on the corner, stuck between a florist and a bookstore. The first time he saw you, you’d laughed at something a customer said and your eyes lit up. Simon’s chest did something strange.. he started going every morning just to watch the way your hands moved, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking…
He learned your schedule. Learned your likes, learned your habits.. learned the name of the useless boy who sometimes would be waiting for you after your shift—the one who never held the door, who barely looked up from his phone.
Simon decided that boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t treat you the way you deserved.
But Simon would.
He planned for three weeks. Watched the cameras he’d installed along your usual route home, waited until your boyfriend was out of town. The cloth over your mouth was quick, clinical—military training made it efficient. No screams, no mess, just the soft weight of you in his arms as he carried you out to the waiting vehicle.
You woke up in his basement, except.. It didn’t look like a basement.
The walls were painted a soft sage green you’d once mentioned was your favorite color. String lights hung in careful loops across the ceiling. A nice bed with the quilt he’d seen you admire in a shop window. Bookshelves he’d stocked with the authors and novels you’d sneak on your break to read. A small kitchenette with your favorite tea and snacks fully stocked. A locked door at the top of the stairs, of course, but the room itself smelled like vanilla and fresh paint.
Simon sat in the armchair across from the bed, mask off, watching you stir. His hands flexed on his knees—nervous, almost boyish.
“You’re safe..” he said quietly when he noticed the fear when your eyes first fluttered open. “No one’s gonna hurt you here. Not him. Not anyone.” His voice was rough, unused to softness. “I know this ain’t… normal. I ain’t good at asking. But I’ll give you everything he never could. The world you deserve. You just… you gotta stay a while. Let me show you.”
He stood slowly, making sure to not scare you as he set a tray on the bedside table—tea, the exact kind you liked, a blueberry muffin, and a small vase with a single daisy. His eyes were dark, hungry, but trying to be gentle.
“I’ll be back in the morning. Door’s locked, but there’s a bell if you need anything. I’m not a monster, love. I just… finally found something I want to keep.”
He turned the lights down, casting soft warmth across the room before pausing at the door.
“Rest. You’re home now.”
The lock clicked.
Upstairs, Simon leaned against the wall, heart hammering like it never had before.
Downstairs, the room waited—pretty, quiet, inescapable. And somewhere in the middle of it, you, still blinking awake, trying to understand how the man who used to order flat whites had decided you were his to save.
everyone is convinced your best friend is in love with you. you're starting to think they might be right.
note: you can pry the best friends to lovers trope from my cold dead hands! little bit of backstory: reader is from aus but lived in the uk and that's how she met osc. set during the 26 season, ignore any dates on the tweets. i forgot to change them 😅
warnings : swearing, reader is very stubborn and in denial
fc: beatrice barichella
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yourusername just posted
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yourusername: happy to be back home
view all comments:
user: two pretty best friends!!
user: does this mean you’ll be at the race??
comment liked by author
nicolepiastri: Can’t wait to see you again, dear ❤️
comment liked by author
nicolepiastri: I think basil misses you more than he does Oscar
⤷yourusername: I MISS BASIL SO MUCH
⤷oscarpiastri: Betrayed by my own dog
user: sorry yn i’m only looking at oscar’s back rn
⤷user: REALLL
⤷user: hes so wide 🫣
view story replies:
↳oscarpiastri: I’m not your fav boy anymore? 😔
↳yourusername: sorry osc, basil is just better than you 🤷♀️
↳oscarpiastri: You’d think the dog was your best friend
↳yourusername: he is
↳user: oscar with basil awww 😭😭
↳user: what a cute photo!
↳user: Are you guys dating yet?
view story replies:
↳hattiepiastri: should have known he was with you after he disappeared
↳hattiepiastri: i’ll let mum know he won’t be back tonight
↳yourusername: thank you hattie!
↳user: staying in the same hotel room?? hello??
↳user: definitely dating right? TELL US PLEASE
oscarpiastri just posted
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oscarpiastri: Two weeks of watching F1
view all comments:
user: oscar vs not adding yn to a photo dump 🙄
user: bro’s waist is snatched sheesh
user: ok but how is the oscar piastri burger?
yourusername: totally didn’t burn my tongue on that tea 😅
⤷user: and oscar didn’t kiss it better?
⤷user: what a weird comment?
opeightyone: Just here for the Yn content
⤷oscarpiastri: Can’t blame you
⤷user: oh he’s got it BAD
yourusername just posted
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yourusername: loving italy 🇮🇹🤌 thanks @.oscarpiastri for being my personal photographer
view all comments:
user: she’s trained oscar how to take the perfect photos of her 😭
user: girl if you don’t lock this man down i’m gonna snatch him up
⤷user: me when i’m delusional
oscarpiastri: 📸😁
user: more oscar back content ty yn 😋
user: god she’s so pretty idk how oscar can be normal around her
⤷user: no literally i’d be speechless every time i saw her
view story replies:
↳oscarpiastri: Meow?
↳yourusername: oscar is this you admitting you’re into pet play
↳oscarpiastri: I dislike you sometimes
↳yourusername: <3
oscarpiastri just posted
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oscarpiastri: And we're back
view all comments:
mclarenf1: Sooooooo back 🙌
user: they’re both glowing omg this break was good for them
user: they take the best pics of each other 😭
yourusername: ❤️❤️
⤷oscarpiastri: ❤️
⤷user: is anyone else seeing this???
hilton: Back like a winner 🧡
view story replies:
↳oscarpiastri: All for you, baby
↳yourusername: 🤭❤️
↳yourusername: gotta run it back in canada
↳oscarpiastri: I’ll try my best ❤️
↳user: it doesn’t feel real that you guys are together 😭😭
↳nicolepiastri: Finally
↳nicolepiastri: I’m expecting a grandchild out of this
↳yourusername: nicole please 😭😭
↳nicolepiastri: Just kidding, love. So happy for you two, you’ve always been part of this family ❤️
oscarpiastri just posted
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oscarpiastri: Still trying to get those streamers off
view all comments:
yourusername: the streamers stay ON during sex
⤷oscarpiastri: Please stop
⤷user: oh because we were wondering!
user: they’re so in love i can’t
user: oscar going directly to yn after he got out of the car i’m obsessed with them
user: You’re so funny please don’t go to redbull
monsterenergy: 💪💪
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