the art of being loved ♡ max verstappen
pairing: max verstappen x reader
red bull has a problem. when the controversy surrounding max's career begins turning public opinion against him, his manager suggests an unusual remedy: a fake relationship with someone capable of making the world see him differently. you're intelligent, ambitious, socially brilliant, and almost unnervingly good at making people love you. the arrangement is supposed to last three months. you've always known how to play a room. you just didn't expect to fall in love with the man sitting across it.
warnings: fake dating, fluff, slow burn, mutual pining, media scrutiny, online hate, implied past relationship history
note: hello ♡ this one came from a request, and i had so much fun with the idea. and honestly? i always get so excited when writing about max verstappen, because he is my fave. that man can do no wrong in my eyes, SUE ME. a little disclaimer, as always: this is fiction. the real people referenced here are being used as fictionalised characters, and none of the events, relationships or conversations in this story are intended to represent reality. the max in this story is a fictional character wearing a familiar face. so... enjoy the pr crisis and the painfully oblivious man. and, as always, thank you for reading. :) - dean
There are many ways to survive being hated. Some hide away, some fight back, some learn to stop reading. Max Verstappen has never been particularly good at any of them.
The controversy arrives in the way Formula One controversies always do - with absolutely no respect for nuance. A teenager behind the wheel of an F1 car. Enter questions about Red Bull, about responsibility, about whether the sport has gone too far.
And, somehow, questions about Max. It doesn't matter that he isn't the person making every decision. It doesn't matter that the situation is more complicated than a headline.
The internet doesn't particularly care for complicated. It wants a face. A name. Somebody to blame.
For a while, that somebody is him. The first week is manageable. The second is unpleasant. By the third, even Max's mother tells him to stop reading the comments. He doesn't listen. He reads them at three in the morning when sleep refuses to come, in airport lounges, with the unseizing interest of an avid bookworm, muttering just one more chapter to themselves.
He learns which words people use when they hate him, which photographs they attach to them. He learns that an expression caught for half a second can become a personality trait if enough people repeat it.
Eventually, he stops reading. His manager does not.
Which is how, on a grey Tuesday afternoon in Milton Keynes, Max finds himself sitting in a conference room while his manager places a folder on the table.
Max looks at it. Then at him.
"What is that?"
"An idea."
"No."
"You haven't heard it."
"I know you."
His manager exhales. Across the table, you hide a smile behind your coffee. Max notices. His eyes narrow.
"You know something."
"Perhaps."
"Don't."
You take another sip.
"I haven't said anything."
"You're smiling."
"I'm naturally cheerful."
He stares at you. You smile wider. His manager clears his throat.
"Max's public image is becoming a commercial concern."
Max leans back in his chair.
"My driving isn't."
"No."
"My results aren't."
"No."
"So this is about my image."
"Yes."
Silence.
Max looks toward the ceiling. Then back at the folder.
"How bad?"
His manager hesitates.
"Bad enough that we're discussing alternatives."
You finally place your coffee down.
"And what exactly is the alternative?"
His manager looks between you.
"A relationship."
Max's head turns. Your eyebrow rises.
"A relationship?"
"A public one."
"With who?"
A pause. You already know. Max looks at you. You smile politely.
"Oh."
You have spent most of your life learning how people work, not because you particularly distrust them, rather you find them fascinating. People tell you everything if you know how to listen. They reveal themselves in the way they hold a glass at a party. They tell you more about your personality than they realize by talking to the person they greet first, or in whether they remember the waiter's name.
You know when someone wants to be complimented and when they want to be challenged. You know which questions make people feel intelligent. You know how to make a shy person comfortable without embarrassing them by drawing attention to their shyness. You know how to walk into a room full of strangers and leave with three invitations to dinner.
You have never considered this manipulation. It is simply social intelligence.
The world rewards people who understand its choreography. You happen to know the steps. Your manager certainly thinks so.
"People already respond well to her," he says.
Max looks unconvinced.
"People respond well to everyone."
"No, they don't."
You smile.
"That's sweet."
"I'm not complimenting you."
"I know."
The manager continues.
"She has a strong public image. Intelligent. Elegant. Charitable. Professionally successful. She's photographed well."
You look at him.
"Photographed well?"
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
Max rubs a hand over his face.
"This is ridiculous."
"Probably."
"You're asking me to fake a relationship."
"Yes."
"For PR."
"Yes."
"With her."
You tilt your head.
"Do you have a problem with me?"
"No."
"Good."
"I barely know you."
"That seems fixable."
Max looks at you. You look back. Something in his expression suggests he has just realized that this may be significantly more complicated than his manager made it sound.
The arrangement is drafted over lunch. Simple enough - three months, public appearances, occasional photographs, maybe a handful of interviews. No expectations. No obligations outside agreed appearances.
You read every clause carefully. Max signs the first page without reading half of it. You glance at him.
"You're very trusting."
"I've got people for that."
"That's not..."
"You'll be fine."
You sign your name.
"Probably."
The manager collects the papers.
"Congratulations."
You look at Max.
"Pleasure doing business with you."
He stares at your extended hand, then takes it. His palm is warm, his grip firm.
"Good."
Your first appearance together is a charity gala in London. You arrive separately. That is intentional. The photographs need to capture the moment he sees you, not the moment you arrive together.
So you enter twenty minutes after him, wearing a dress that does the best it can to cover you with very little fabric. There are cameras near the entrance. You hear your name. Then his. You turn. Max is standing several feet away.
For one brief second, he simply looks at you. Then he remembers the cameras. You walk toward him.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You look terrified."
"I'm not."
"You look it."
He glances toward the photographers.
"I hate this."
"I know."
"Then why are you smiling?"
You smile wider.
"Because they're photographing us."
The camera shutters begin. You move closer. Your fingers settle lightly against his arm. His shoulders tense.
"Relax."
"I'm relaxed."
"You're standing like you're waiting to be interrogated."
He exhales.
"You always this annoying?"
"Only professionally."
That almost gets a smile. Almost. You lean toward him.
"Think of it as acting."
"I'm not an actor."
"No."
You glance toward the cameras.
"You're much prettier."
His head turns.
"What?"
You smile sweetly.
"Nothing."
The photograph catches him looking at you. It becomes the first image everyone remembers.
The next morning, the headlines are different.
MAX VERSTAPPEN SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AT LONDON CHARITY GALA WHO IS THE WOMAN BESIDE MAX? FORMULA ONE'S MOST PRIVATE DRIVER GOES PUBLIC
You sit at your kitchen island scrolling through them while eating toast. Max calls.
"Did you see?"
"Yes."
"They're talking about you."
"Exactly."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know." You smile. "The attention moved."
A pause.
"You planned that."
"Of course."
"You enjoyed it."
You glance at the screen. A photograph of the two of you fills it. Max looking at you. You looking at him. The image looks intimate, almost convincing if you had never signed that contract.
"I enjoyed winning."
"Is there a difference?"
"Always."
The second appearance is easier. The third is easier still. Soon, you don't have to think about where to stand. You learn how Max prefers to enter rooms. You learn to touch his arm when he becomes overwhelmed. He learns to move slightly in front of you when a crowd becomes too dense.
Neither of you discusses these things. They simply happen, as the paparazzi shots rain in articles. One from a restaurant in Monaco, where he supposedly gifted you a diamond bracelet, no one knowing you had picked it out yourself. One from a museum in Paris, where he did little other than complain about being bored. A quiet walk near the harbour. A coffee shop where somebody recognizes him halfway through your conversation.
The arrangement becomes a rhythm. You manufacture familiarity with a hand on his shoulder, his coat over yours, a private joke whispered close enough to his ear that the camera gets the picture it needs.
People begin to soften. They see him laughing. They see you adjusting his collar before a photograph. They see him carrying your bag. They see the way he looks at you when he forgets the cameras are there. They decide he must be happy.
And if Max Verstappen is happy, perhaps he isn't as terrible as they thought.
That is how public opinion works. You know that better than anyone.
Eventually, you become good at defending him.
A journalist asks about the controversy. You smile.
"Max has always been incredibly serious about the sport."
The journalist tries again.
"Do you think he should-"
"I think people forget how young everyone in this sport is." A pause. "There's enormous pressure on these drivers."
You don't defend his every decision. You defend his humanity.
Another interview asks what you admire about him.
You think for a second.
"His discipline." Max glances at you. You continue. "People see the driver. They don't always see how hard he works."
The clip goes viral, the comments raining in:
SHE GETS HIM. HE LOOKS SO HAPPY WITH HER. WHO IS THIS WOMAN?
You read none of them. Max reads one, then a few more. Then watches the entire clip again. He watches you speak, the tiny pause before your answer. And something strange happens.
He believes you.
Three months pass, they turn into four, slowly melt into six. Nobody asks about the end of the arrangement anymore. The contract expires somewhere on a shelf in an office. Neither of you mentions renewing it. You simply continue.
At some point, the line between performance and reality becomes impossible to see. Max starts doing things that aren't in the agreement. You mention once that you like peonies. Three days later, flowers appear at your apartment.
You stare at them. Then at him.
"What's this?"
He shrugs.
"You said you liked them."
"When?"
"I don't remember."
You smile.
"You remembered."
"Apparently."
Another time, you fall asleep during a flight. When you wake, his jacket is folded over you. You look at him.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
He turns back toward the window. You smile. Neither of you says anything.
Then there are the hard moments nobody sees. You sit on the phone with him until his voice becomes quieter. Sometimes you talk, sometimes you just listen to him breathe down the other line.
One night, he says:
"You're very good at this."
"At what?"
"Making people like you."
You laugh softly.
"I don't make them."
"No?"
"No."
You look out the window.
"I give them something to like."
He goes quiet.
"What's the difference?"
You smile.
"A big one."
Eventually, Max starts looking for you, even when there are no cameras around. His eyes seek you out automatically. And every time they land upon you in a sea of people, something in his face changes.
The first time you notice, you pretend you don't. The fifth time, you can't. The tenth time, you're terrified. You have spent your entire life understanding the difference between affection and performance.
And Max is beginning to look at you like there is no audience.
The realization hits like a freight train. You're standing backstage at an event, watching him speak to a journalist. He's smiling politely, answering questions with his usual attitude of "dumb questions get a dumb answer".
Then he looks over, finds you and smiles differently. A smile you have began calling yours. Your chest tightens.
Oh.
You look away, because suddenly the arrangement isn't an arrangement anymore. And that is a problem.
The worst part is that you don't know whether he knows. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't, so you keep playing the role.
You attend the dinners. You smile for the photographs. You let him hold your hand. You let the world believe. And every time his thumb brushes against your knuckles, you wonder whether he realizes that you're no longer pretending.
One evening, after a particularly long dinner, you step onto the balcony. Monaco glitters below. The sea is black glass beneath the lights. Behind you, the door opens. Max joins you. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then:
"You were good tonight."
You smile faintly.
"I'm always good."
He laughs.
"I know."
You turn toward him.
"Max."
"Hm?"
"Do you ever wonder if we're not pretending anymore?"
The question hangs between you. He goes very still. For one beautiful, terrifying second, you think he might answer. Instead, his gaze drops toward the city.
"It's complicated."
Your smile fades.
"Of course it is."
You look back toward the sea. Perhaps this is what happens when you become too good at pretending. Eventually, you stop knowing which parts were acting... And which parts were always true.
You don't hear him say your name behind you. You don't see the way he looks at your back. Like he's afraid that if he says the wrong thing, you'll disappear.
Because for the first time since this began, Max Verstappen is not afraid of the world finding out.
He's afraid of you.
taglist: @merrilyspicyspider @queen-of-disasterrrrr @Callenreesevzx @thegwen @kpopdramajenlisa @thegirlinblackgreensilver @saaucie @marywantsttobattle @rachabreathing @recklessyears @sarcophagusjourney
