𖤓 when their bassist breaks his hand two weeks before the biggest uni band competition of the year, they need a replacement. fast. You weren’t planning on joining a band, especially not one that’s competing against your ex. But when their post shows up on your feed, it suddenly feels like the perfect idea. Revenge first. Everything else later.
𖤓 kimi antonelli x fem!reader, band au, uni au, rivals, strangers to bandmates to lovers, smau + written (multi-part), drummer!Kimi, quiet!Kimi x chaotic!reader, fc:bea
𖤓 note: All the uni stuff is UK based, so if some things seem odd, sorry gang idk how uni life or degrees work in other countries! Also my goofy ass has never touched a guitar, let alone been in a band so um if all the music stuff also doesn't make any sense, just ignore it pls! Episodes will be posted weekly!
𖤓 Sunny radio! Before you read this, I gotta tell you there is a miscommunication trope because well I am a romcom lover before anything else so like apologies in advance for the most cliche thing you’re about to read (ᵕ—ᴗ—)
𖤓 Listen to "Teenage Dirtbag" when reading this!
Profiles | Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine | Part tten
yourusername
📍Antonio’s
yourusername was kind of hungry I guess
♡ liked by francoluvr, devondsdiary, kimiantonelli and others
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devonsdiary I wonder who picked that gorgeous dress
↳ yourusername liked this comment
gabihere yn hard launching in THIS economy 😭
↳ yourusername nobody was hard launched?
randomgirl22 wait who is that 👀
↳ yourusername a man unfortunately
francoluvr aw
↳ yourusername liked this comment
ellamoore the bracelet being back on your wrist :( stop
↳ yourusername ella don’t start
isackhadjar this feels invasive somehow
randomguy17 slide 2 HELLO???
randomgirl34 wait is that kimi antonelli???
↳ devonsdiary congratulations you have eyes
olliebearman guys be respectful that’s basically my sister
↳ yourusername I have no idea who you are
↳ olliebearman WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS
kimiantonelli
:)
♡ liked by yourusername, olliebearman, liamlawson and others
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liamlawson HE POSTED????? AND HIS FIRST POST IS ABOUT YN?!
↳ olliebearman bro is down bad
↳ kimiantonelli relax
randomuser12 I'm dying of the colour contrast between yn's post and his
landonorris who stole kimi’s phone
↳ carlossainz55 genuinely concerned
↳ olliebearman you know it's serious when the seniors comment
george_russel kimi ??? 😭
↳ olliebearman heyy george, the goat, the man of the hour, the guy who got full marks in his freshman year, can you please send me the test answers?
↳ george_russel no
devonsdiary men really post one smiley face and call it vulnerability
↳ yourusername liked this comment
gabihere bro thinks he’s mysterious
↳ kimiantonelli i am
charles.leclerc antonelli outside of a practice room???? impossible
↳ kimiantonelli liked this comment
user67 kimi posting a girl before competition week is insane
↳ liamlawson LOVE CHANGED HIM
↳ arvid.mp3 unfortunately
francoluvr aw :(
↳ yourusername are you going to cry under every post
↳ francoluvr yes
randomgirl38 WAIT THAT'S YN FROM MY ECON WTF
yourusername nice caption
↳ kimiantonelli liked this comment
↳ kimiantonelli thanks
↳ devonsdiary OH THEYRE SICKENING
The morning after Antonio's, you woke up smiling.
Not a small smile. Not a private smile. A stupid, uncontrollable, face-aching smile that had been plastered across your features since the moment Kimi's car had disappeared around the corner last night. You lay in bed for a full five minutes, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment — the candlelight, the way he'd said maybe I wanted to, the brush of his thumb across your knuckles, the kiss on his cheek that had felt like stepping off a cliff.
Your phone was already buzzing.
You hesitated. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. This was the part you'd been avoiding — the part where you admitted something had shifted, something had cracked open, something that looked a lot like the walls you'd spent years building.
The Gabriel party was legendary.
Not in the way Lance Stroll's parties were legendary — those were about excess, about money, about the kind of extravagance that made you feel like you were trespassing in someone else's life. The Gabriel party was different. It was chaos distilled into liquid form, poured over a weekend, set on fire. Every term, without fail, Gabriel transformed the shared floor of their building into something that defied description — a labyrinth of fairy lights and makeshift bars and dance floors that appeared in places dance floors had no business being.
The tradition had started two years ago, when Gabriel had been a fresher with too much energy and not enough outlet. He'd thrown a small gathering — maybe twenty people, maybe thirty — and it had spiraled. Someone had brought a speaker. Someone else had brought fairy lights. By 2 AM, the entire floor had been dancing in the hallway while Gabriel stood on a table, screaming the lyrics to a song no one recognized.
Now, it was an institution.
Third years talked about it. Fourth years reminisced about it. Even the lecturers had stopped pretending not to know about it, though officially they were required to disapprove.
And you — you were Gabriel's co-conspirator.
It had started last year, when you'd wandered into his flat at 10 PM the night before the party and found him surrounded by streamers, panicking. "I don't know what I'm doing," he'd said, which was the first time you'd ever heard him admit to not knowing something. You'd sat down on the floor next to him and started untangling the fairy lights. You'd worked until 3 AM, talking about nothing and everything, and by the time the sun came up, you'd become a team.
This year was no different.
Gabriel's living room was a disaster zone — streamers everywhere, empty cups on every surface, a whiteboard covered in scribbled notes about drink stations and playlist transitions. Gabriel himself was standing in the middle of it all, wearing a t-shirt that said "PARTY PLANNING IS MY CARDIO" and holding a clipboard like he was directing a military operation.
"You're late," he said when you walked in.
"I'm exactly on time."
"You're late in my heart."
You grabbed a roll of streamers and started hanging them across the window. This was your role — the practical one, the one who actually knew how to tie a knot and where to put the snack table so it wouldn't block the bathroom. Gabriel provided the vision. You provided the follow-through.
"The theme this year," Gabriel announced, "is chaos."
"The theme is always chaos."
"Chaos with a capital C. Chaos with intention. Chaos with —"
"A budget?"
Gabriel waved a hand. "Devon's handling the budget."
"Devon's handling the budget?"
"Devon's parents are handling the budget. Same thing."
You laughed, despite yourself. This was the thing about Gabriel — he was exhausting, yes, and loud, and sometimes you wanted to throw him out a window. But he was also the kind of person who made you forget to be careful. The kind of person who pulled confessions out of you without even trying.
"So," Gabriel said, not looking up from his clipboard. "The drummer."
"What about him?"
"You like him."
"Well, I didn't say it like—"
"You didn't have to. You've been smiling at that confetti for three minutes. It's confetti, Y/N. It's not that interesting."
You looked down. You were, in fact, holding a length of gold tinsel and smiling at it like it had just told you a secret.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't." Gabriel set down his clipboard. His voice was softer now, less performance, more real. "Look. I'm not going to make fun of you. Well — I am. But not right now. Right now, I'm going to ask you something serious."
You waited.
"The party," Gabriel said. "Are you going to tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
"That you like him. That you want to —" He gestured vaguely. "Whatever it is you want to do. Date him. Hold his hand. Write his name in a notebook with little hearts around it."
"I don't write his name in —"
"Y/N."
You stopped. Took a breath.
"I don't know," you said. "Maybe. Probably. I don't — I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Been the one to —" You gestured. "To care. To actually care. With Mark, it was easy because I didn't really —" You paused, searching for the words. "I didn't really feel it. Not the way I'm supposed to. Not the way I feel when I'm around Kimi."
Gabriel was quiet. Gabriel was never quiet.
"He makes me feel like I'm not too much," you continued, the words spilling out now, unstoppable. "Like I don't have to be smaller. Like I can just — exist. And he'll still be there. In the corner. Watching. Not saying much but — but noticing. Always noticing."
Gabriel set down his clipboard. Walked over. Put his hands on your shoulders.
"You're going to tell him," he said. "At the party. You're going to find him, and you're going to tell him, and if he says anything other than 'I like you too,' we're going to jump him."
"Gabriel —"
"I'm serious. The whole friend group. We'll take him down. Franco will cry. Devon will throw the first punch. Ella will look sweet while she's holding him down. Isack will recite his Miranda rights. It'll be beautiful."
"You're insane."
"I'm a good friend. Same thing."
You laughed. Real this time. And for a moment — just a moment — you let yourself believe it might actually work out.
Across Campus, Kimi was not having a good morning.
Not because anything bad had happened — quite the opposite. The date had been perfect. You had been perfect. The way you'd looked in that black dress, the way you'd laughed at his stupid stories, the way you'd kissed his cheek and run inside like you were the one who was nervous —
That was the problem.
He couldn't stop thinking about it.
He'd barely slept. He'd spent the night replaying every moment, analyzing every glance, wondering if he'd imagined the way you'd leaned toward him in the car, the way your hand had lingered on the door handle, the way you'd said goodnight, Kimi like it meant something more.
He needed advice.
Which was how he found himself standing outside Ollie's door at 10 AM, seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
"You're here," Ollie said, opening the door in pajamas covered in cartoon dinosaurs. "You never come here."
"I need help."
Ollie's expression shifted from confused to delighted. "Come in. Sit down. Tell me everything."
Kimi sat on the edge of Ollie's desk chair, because the bed was covered in laundry and the floor was covered in everything else. Ollie perched on the bed, cross-legged, looking like a therapist who had absolutely no qualifications but infinite enthusiasm.
"The date," Kimi said. "It was good."
"Good good or good bad?"
"Good good."
Ollie nodded slowly. "Progress. What's the problem?"
Kimi stared at the wall. The wall had a poster of a cat hanging from a branch with the caption "HANG IN THERE." He hated that cat.
"The problem is," Kimi said, "I don't know what happens next. I don't know how to do this. I've never —" He stopped. Started again. "I've never wanted someone to stay this much."
Ollie's expression softened. "Then tell her."
"At the party?"
"The party is perfect. Everyone will be there. The lighting is bad. The music is loud. If it goes wrong, you can blame the alcohol."
"I don't drink."
"Then blame the atmosphere." Ollie leaned forward. "Look. I know Y/N. She's — she's complicated. She doesn't let people in. She acts like she doesn't care about anything because caring is scary. But she cares about you. I've seen it. The whole band has seen it."
Kimi was quiet.
"So at the party," Ollie continued, "you find her. You tell her how you feel. And if she says anything other than 'I like you too' —"
"You'll fight her?"
Ollie grinned. "It's funny that you'd think I'd win a fight against Y/N. I was actually going to say I'll buy you a drink."
Kimi almost smiled. Almost.
"Thanks," he said.
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me after she says yes."
The party was, as always, absolute chaos.
Gabriel had outdone himself. The fairy lights were strung across every ceiling, casting everything in warm gold. The playlist was perfect — loud enough to feel in your chest, good enough that no one had complained yet. The drink stations were overflowing. The snack table was a work of art. People spilled out of every room — students you knew, students you didn't, faces from lectures and faces from the years above you.
Older students had started showing up to Gabriel's parties sometime last year. Third years, fourth years — people who had reputations, people who had names you recognized. George, who was doing something with the student union and acted like he owned the place. Charles, who was impossibly charming and knew it. Max, who stood in corners and watched everyone with quiet intensity. Lando, who was currently attached to Devon's hip, which was not surprising because Devon had a new boytoy every week and Lando had apparently drawn the lucky straw.
And Oscar — Oscar, who was standing by the drink table with a cup of water, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. You liked Oscar.
"Y/N!" Gabriel appeared at your elbow, already three drinks in, his energy somehow higher than the fairy lights. "The party is a success!"
"The party is always a success."
"Tonight feels different. Tonight feels —" He paused, searching for the word. "— electric."
"That's because Lando just showed up and Devon is about to drag him into a closet."
Gabriel squinted toward the corner, where Devon was indeed pulling Lando by the hand toward the hallway. "Huh. Good for her."
"Gabriel."
"What?"
"You're drunk."
"I'm celebratory. There's a difference."
You shook your head, but you were smiling. The music thumped through the floor. The room was hot, crowded, full of bodies and laughter and the particular energy of a night that was going to end in stories.
You scanned the crowd.
No Kimi. Not yet.
But you had time.
An hour later, the party had reached critical mass.
The living room had become a dance floor. Bodies pressed together, arms in the air, the bass vibrating through the walls. Gabriel was standing on the coffee table — because of course he was — screaming along to a song you didn't recognise. Isack was arguing with someone about politics near the bathroom. Ella was in the corner, looking sweet, holding a red cup and watching everything with quiet amusement.
You were weaving through the crowd, looking for Franco, when someone grabbed your arm.
"Y/N."
Your blood went cold.
Mark was standing in front of you.
He looked different — older, somehow, though it had only been weeks. His hair was longer. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His eyes were bloodshot, and his breath smelled like whiskey, and he was smiling at you like nothing had happened.
"How did you get in here?" you asked.
"I know people."
"Get out."
"Y/N —"
"I said get out."
He didn't move. Instead, he stepped closer — close enough that you could smell his cologne, the same one he'd always worn, the one that used to make your stomach flutter and now just made you nauseous.
"I've been thinking about you," he said. "About us. I made a mistake. I know I did. But I can fix it. I can fix us."
"There is no us."
"There could be. Just — just give me a chance. One chance. That's all I'm asking."
"No."
"Y/N —"
"Let go of my arm."
He didn't. His fingers tightened. His face twisted — not angry, not yet, but close.
"You're being dramatic," he said. "Just let me explain —"
"Did you not learn your lesson from last time?"
Mark's jaw clenched. People were starting to look — not many, but some. A girl with a red cup froze mid-drink. Two guys near the window stopped talking.
"You don't get to say no," Mark said, voice low. "Not after everything I did for you. Not after —"
He leaned in.
His lips were almost on yours.
You didn't kiss him back.
You didn't move.
But from the doorway, someone saw.
Kimi had just arrived.
He'd been looking for you — scanning the crowd, pushing through bodies, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd rehearsed what he was going to say. He'd practiced in the mirror. He was ready.
And then he saw Mark.
Mark with his hands on you. Mark leaning in. Mark kissing you — or appearing to kiss you, his face too close to yours, your body too still.
Kimi stopped breathing.
The room faded. The music faded. Everything faded except the image of you and Mark, pressed together, and the crowd cheering — because the crowd was cheering, they thought it was romantic, they didn't know what had happened at the other party, they didn't know anything.
Kimi turned.
Walked away.
He didn't see you shove Mark backward.
He didn't see the slap.
He didn't see the way your palm connected with Mark's cheek, sharp and final, the sound cutting through the music like a gunshot.
"WHAT THE FUCK." Your voice cut through the music. "If you do this shit again, you're gonna get worse than a slap in the face. "
Mark stumbled back, hand on his face, eyes wide. "Y/N —"
"You had your chance. You had eight months. You ruined it. Now get out of my sight before I make you regret ever walking into this room."
The crowd was staring now. Someone had turned down the music. Gabriel was pushing through, his expression shifting from party-mode to protective-mode in the span of a second.
"What the hell is going on?" Gabriel demanded.
"Mark happened," you said.
"What? I didn't invite him. Someone must have brought him. A plus one. A guest." Gabriel's jaw tightened. "I'll get rid of him —"
"He tried to kiss me."
Gabriel's face went dark. He turned to Mark — but before he could move, Franco was there.
Sweet, gentle Franco, who never raised his voice, who never threw a punch, who was currently looking at Mark like he wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.
"You need to leave," Franco said. His voice was calm. That was what made it terrifying.
"I wasn't —" Mark laughed, but it was shaky. Nervous. Because Franco wasn't laughing, and if Mark had learned ONE thing about your friends from the time you had dated, it's that someone has fucked up big time if Franco wasn't smiling or laughing.
"Now."
Ella appeared at Franco's shoulder. Gentle, soft Ella, who baked cookies and spoke in light tones and was currently holding an empty bottle like she was about to use it.
"You heard him," Ella said. "Leave."
Mark looked around the room — at Franco's cold fury, at Ella's unexpected steel, at Gabriel's clenched fists, at Devon pushing through the crowd with Lando behind her.
"This isn't over," he said.
"Yes, it is." Devon's voice cut through. She was standing with Lando — who looked deeply unimpressed — and Oscar, who was already rolling up his sleeves. "Get him out of here."
"Party's over for you," Lando said cheerfully. "Let's go." He and Oscar grabbed Mark by the arm and escorted him toward the door. The crowd parted. Someone booed. Someone else cheered.
You stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, your hand still stinging from the slap.
"Are you okay?" Franco asked.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I will be." You took a breath.
Franco didn't argue. He just put his arm around your shoulders and led you away from the crowd, toward the hallway, toward somewhere quieter.
"He didn't kiss me," you said. "I didn't — I would never —"
"I know."
"I shoved him. I slapped him. I told him to leave."
"I know."
"But if anyone saw — if Kimi saw —"
Franco stopped walking. "Where is Kimi?"
You looked around. The party was still going — the music had come back up, the crowd had refocused, the chaos had resumed. But Kimi was nowhere.
"I saw his friends," you said. "Liam and Arvid. They were near the drink table."
"Go find him. I'll clear the room."
You nodded. Pushed through the crowd. Found Liam. Found Arvid.
"Where's Kimi?" you asked.
Liam's expression flickered. "He was here. He left."
"Left? Why?"
Arvid and Liam exchanged a glance. Something unspoken passed between them.
"I guess he saw something," Arvid said carefully. "Something on the dance floor? I'm not sure, honestly."
Your heart stopped. "Where did he go?"
"Outside. Back garden. I think" Liam said.
You didn't wait for the rest. You pushed through the crowd, through the kitchen, through the back door that opened onto the garden.
The air was cold. The sky was dark. The garden was half-empty — a few people smoking by the hedge, a couple making out by the fence, and there, near the back wall, standing under a string of fairy lights —
Kimi.
He wasn't alone.
A girl was with him. Tall, dark hair, her arms wrapped around his neck. He was holding her tightly — tightly like he'd missed her, like she mattered, like she was someone.
You stopped walking.
The girl pulled back. She was laughing. She said something you couldn't hear — but you caught the name.
"Andrea. Oh, Andrea, I missed you so much."
Andrea.
Not Kimi. Andrea. His first name. The one he never used. The one that was reserved for people that knew him — really knew him — in a way you didn't.
Your chest cracked open.
Of course, you thought. Of course he has someone. Of course I was wrong. The dinners, the walks, the way he looked at me — none of it meant anything.
You turned.
Walked back inside.
Didn't look back.
Kimi didn't see you. He was too busy hugging his cousin Chiara, who had surprised him by showing up early, who had thrown her arms around him the moment he'd stumbled outside, who was currently rambling about her year abroad and how much she'd missed everyone.
"Andrea," she said, pulling back. "You look terrible. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
Kimi was quiet for a moment. Then: "There's this girl."
Chiara's expression softened. "The bassist?"
"How do you know about the bassist?"
"Ollie told me. He messages me sometimes. He's very invested."
Kimi sighed. "I like her. I really like her. But I just saw her —" He stopped. Swallowed. "I saw her kissing her ex. On the dance floor. Everyone was cheering."
Chiara's face fell. "Oh, Andrea."
"I'm an idiot. I thought — I thought she felt the same way. But she's known him for eight months. They have history. I'm just — I'm just the drummer. I'm just someone she plays music with."
"That's not true."
"It doesn't matter if it's true. It's what I saw." Kimi pulled away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm going home."
"Kimi —"
"Tell Ollie I left."
He walked toward the gate. Chiara watched him go, her heart breaking for him.
You found your friends in the kitchen.
Devon was there, and Ella, and Franco, and Gabriel, and Isack. They were huddled together, talking in low voices, and when they saw your face, they stopped.
"He has a girlfriend," you said.
"What?"
"The girl. In the garden. He was hugging her. She called him Andrea."
"Y/N —"
"I saw it. I saw them." Your voice was flat. Empty. "All this time. All those walks. The dinner. The —" You stopped. Took a breath. "It all meant nothing. He was just being nice. That's all. Just nice."
"Y/N, listen to me —" Franco started.
"No. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I just want —" You grabbed a cup off the counter. Poured something into it. Drank it. "I want to forget tonight happened."
"Y/N —"
"Please. Just — let me have this."
Your friends exchanged glances. Franco opened his mouth to argue, but closed it in defeat and nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
You drank.
The party continued around you.
But your heart was somewhere else.
Shattered on the floor of a garden you'd never set foot in again.
Kimi sat in his dark room, staring at his phone.
Your contact was open.
He wanted to text you. Wanted to ask if you were okay. Wanted to demand an explanation.
But he didn't.
Because he'd seen what he'd seen.
And it had broken something he wasn't sure could be fixed.
The wrong thing is not the fact that you write a story with an oc, no, that's not the real problem, really.
IT'S JUST THE FACT THAT YOU USE THE WRONG TAG SO YOU HOPE MORE PEOPLE READ YOUR STORY. BUT BELIEVE ME IT'S JUST FUCKING ANNOYING 'CAUSE WE AREN'T ABLE TO FIND THE RIGHT FICS IF YOU KEEP DOING THIS!!!
There are people who like to read more stories with ocs than reader inserts, so use the fucking right tag go reach that community and stop spamming your stories among ours.
I don't think you get it but, you know, the purpose of fanfics with reader insert is to make the reader imagine her/himself as the mc of the story. The best part of these fics is the fact that EVERYONE can be included in them.
SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE TO RUIN THEM BY MAKING THE MC A PERSON THAT LOOKS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FROM THE READER AND EVEN HAS A NAME THAT IS NOT THEIRS?
Not to be dramatic but i hate y'all.
And the fact that it's always the same fandoms and we all know who we're talking about...
The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.
It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.
You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.
He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.
After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?
Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.
However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.
The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.
You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.
Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.
“Would you like another shot?”
The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.
“Uh… Sure.”
You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.
“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”
You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.
“And how do you know what I like to drink?”
Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.
“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”
“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”
You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.
“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”
You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?
It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.
He did not look this hot on tv.
“I’m YN.”
He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.
“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.
“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”
Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.
“You are not from around here.”
He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.
“Damn, do I look that poor?”
You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.
“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”
You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.
“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”
He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.
“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”
“Maybe some RedBull merch?”
That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.
“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”
“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”
You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.
You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.
“Are you here for the race, then?”
“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”
You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.
“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”
Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.
You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.
You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.
Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.
Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.
“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”
He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.
“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.
“Tough breakup?”
“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”
Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”
“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”
“Non taken.”
“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”
Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.
“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”
“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”
Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.
“So you flew out here?”
“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”
“And who’s that?”
“You.”
Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”
You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.
“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”
You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.
“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”
You shrugged.
“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”
Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.
“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”
Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.
You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.
“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”
You narrowed your eyes, tempted.
“And what is that?”
“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”
You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.
Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.
Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.
“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”
“So?”
“People will gossip. About me.”
“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”
Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.
“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”
Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.
“I have a condition though.”
“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”
“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”
You smirked.
“Ok, let’s hear it.”
“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”
Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.
“To celebrate your win?” You teased.
“To celebrate both our wins.”
Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.
“You better not crash then.”
Max laughed, relaxing his posture.
“I’m too good for crashing.”
You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
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"won't you guess where i am?"
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.
You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.
You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.
Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.
“Hello there, pretty.”
He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.
“Congratulations!”
“Did you enjoy it?”
You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.
“Way better than from home.”
“Any news?”
Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.
“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”
You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.
Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.
“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.
Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.
Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.
If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.
Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.
You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.
Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.
“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”
“Are you fucking insane?”
Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.
“What?”
“That fucking radio message!”
And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.
“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”
You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.
“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.
“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”
“Yes, I very much would, Max.”
He kneeled before you, reaching your height.
“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”
You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.
Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.
You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.
“So, what time are you picking me up?”
The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.
“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”
“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”
Max giggled, playfully.
“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
“See you later, champ.”
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?
Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.
Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.
“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”
He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.
Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.
“Is this yours?”
You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.
“Yes, welcome.”
Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.
The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.
“This is really nice, Max.”
Your compliment eased his nerves.
“I hope this isn’t too much.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”
And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.
“Are you hungry?”
You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.
“Starving.”
He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.
You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.
Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.
Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.
“I made them.”
“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”
“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”
You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.
He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.
“So… How is it?”
“Perfect.”
You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.
The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.
As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.
“I really want to keep seeing you.”
Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.
You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.
“How are we going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”
And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.
The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.
And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.
When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.
Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.
Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.
Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.
On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.
That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.
Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.
So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.
You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.
When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.
Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.
“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”
You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”
He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.
“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”
Your breath caught.
“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”
The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.
Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”
And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.
The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.
He saw you.
Always you.
His greatest win.
liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others
vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.
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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you
user they won best paddock couple 😍😍
user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩
user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏
yourbff my baby is a star 🤩
danielricciardo finally some real journalism!
> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo
> danielricciardo you're immediately losing
yourusername what is my life??
> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??
user how's dylan??
❤️ liked by maxverstappen1
user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem
user if they don't get married istg
yourmom my loves 😍
zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.
user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.
florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.
gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅
user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.
user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.
user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.
f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.
user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.
user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.
liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others
maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.
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user this is actually insane
user mad!max is back 🥵🥵
user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏
redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁
user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?
user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is
> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is
> user starting a fuck you dylan campaign
user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin
yourusername the best of the best! 💗
> user she is such a queen 😍
lando congratulations mate!! 🍾
charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him
> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎
lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably
user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡
georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend
user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄
user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥
user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
amandla
vaporwave
