“Listen,” Oscar whirls around on Max, no doubt he’s wearing a borderline crazed expression as the next few sentences come hurtling out. “Luke cheated on me with some model and so obviously I broke up with him but now he thinks I’m like still hung up on him and came to this party for him, which by the way is absolutely not the truth, but anyway I told him I moved on and have a boyfriend, which I definitely don’t, but then he asked me who and I pointed to you.”
Max looks a little lost, a lot taken back — but not angry? So that’s at least a win.
“Can you please pretend to be my boyfriend?” Oscar blurts out.
Or; Oscar, desperate to show his cheating ex that he's moved on, asks their uni's heartthrob, Max Verstappen, to pretend to be his boyfriend.
Oscar should've thought of this a bit better. He should've known his cat brain has no idea what the layout of the paddock is, how could he trust his cat self to find a building he has never been to before?
or;
Oscar craves comfort after the shitty end to his race in the Hungarian GP. He neglects to think his plan through.
REBLOGS ARE HIGHLY ENCOURAGED AND MUCH APPRECIATED !!! <3
I Came, I Saw, I Conquered (I Saw, I Conquered, I Came)
“Why are you here?” Oscar asked.
Max grinned at him. “Because I want to come.”
Oscar looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide if the gin and tonic was making him lose his English, or if his words had come out exactly how he meant them. Max shrugged at him, cocky and suggestive, and Oscar realized it was the latter.
Leave it to Max Verstappen to show up to Lando Norris’ championship party just to get laid.
OR: Oscar and Max find a way to make a boring party a little bit more... interesting.
Proof of Contact - written for @miesgaga in the GBB server exchange
max/oscar (maxcar), 8k words, rated E:
“You’re weird,” Oscar tells him. Max looks pleased, which feels like a trap.
Oscar didn’t plan to spend summer break hovering over Max Verstappen’s bruise, but Max keeps insisting it needs repeat attention. It’s not flirting. It’s not weird. And if it is…well, Oscar’s not the one making it weird.
read here
inspired by this prompt i got once from @oscgirlie
friction ridges - maxcar / landoscar omegaverse au for @omegaoscarficfest
chapter 1 on ao3
The FIA introduces mandatory collars for the omega drivers in the middle of the 2025 season, citing safety and precaution. Of course, that's what the public knows. In reality, it's all about teams deciding who will the omega drivers mate, a networking of some sort.Oscar, thanks to the collars, was exposed as an omega, and hurled into situations he would rather avoid.
Oscar Piastri/Max Verstappen, rated: E, words: 5,452
Summary: Max Verstappen and the Art of Vexing People.
I… don't really know what to say about this one. It was supposed to be hot and short, and somehow it turned into this absolute monster… with a whole lot of angst, especially toward the end. So, please mind the tags!
Also, I can't write smut for shit… and then I went ahead and made most of this fic exactly that. How presumptuous of me.
Hope you'll still enjoy it! I'm pretty nervous about posting this one, though. I really hope I did Maxcar justice 🥹
Next up: Vertonelli with a choking kink. This one won't be nearly as angsty—or angsty at all—I promise!
So, tiny request, if Maxcar is ok? But baby dom!Oscar figuring out what it means to be in control? Maybe he’s had a long day and Max sees it and decides he needs to do something about it???
yay for more requests! you summon me, so here I am once again. (ALso, any ship is okay, the more the merrier or whatever)
3.4k words, Explicit, first time dom!Oscar-ish/sub!Max. Not betaed, straight from the docs as usual, feel free to point out any typo/mistake. Will post on Ao3 laterz!
He’s glaring at a chip in the wall when he feels it.
The heavy weight of someone staring at him.
Oscar looks around from where he is on the couch he’s claimed in the deserted lounge of an old hospitality room, trying to find the source of the disturbance, brows furrowed.
His eyes catch Max’s easily enough.
The driver hasn’t even stepped into the room, standing just outside of it, still in his racing suit, which hangs open, pooling low at his waist, showing off the white fireproofs he wears. His eyes are fixed on him, unmoving, no particular emotion showing on his face except for the typical neutral scowl Oscar has grown used to.
Oscar had already been irritated on his own, but the unwanted attention just when he’d come here to be alone makes an irrational burst of anger rise in his chest, one that feels like a burn from how sharp it is. A muscle in his jaw twitches. His lips twist in anger as he straightens to stare right back at the Dutchman.
“What do you want?” he calls, voice loud, but strained from lack of use over the past hour.
Through the glass walls between them, Oscar notices Max doesn’t react, even when he knows his voice has been loud enough for him to hear.
The lack of response, whether verbal or physical, makes him fume even more, makes the twist in his chest more vicious. He’s about to snap, say something again, curses on the tip of his tongue, when Max finally moves.
He steps forward, hand rising to push at the handle of the glass door through which they’ve been eyeing one another. He doesn’t stop there, moving closer and closer until he’s standing at the foot of the couch Oscar lies on. Oscar feels his anger waver the closer the man gets, the proximity forcing him back into silence.
Max’s presence carries with it the scent known to cling to them after they’ve been in the car, a mix of burnt rubber and fuel. Oscar’s heard drivers complain of it, yet it’s always been comforting to him, cathartic, and somehow, despite his annoyance, it settles something in him where he’s sprawled.
But Max comes with more than a scent. He has an aura to him. Oscar had noticed it from the moment he’d finally stepped into F1– even earlier, watching the man win through his early seasons. It’s something that makes heads turn when he walks into a room, voices die down, something that compels respect but isn’t authority, a delicate thing that is so very distinctive to him.
Oscar has felt it before, of course, plenty, through the past few years, but somehow, it’s even more pronounced here when it’s just the two of them. They aren’t face-to-face that often, with no other driver to buffer the weight of Max’s presence. It takes a few seconds for Oscar to adjust to it, shifting his weight on the couch while Max comes to a stop and stills completely, not a muscle moving.
He has to force himself not to shift or squirm under Max’s impenetrable gaze. They stare for a moment- Oscar feels like he’s holding his breath through the stretch of silence.
“You’re not with your team,” Max is the one to break it. His voice is surprisingly soft. He tilts his head, breaking their eye contact, gaze drawn lower to take in Oscar’s own racing suit, still zipped up to his throat.
Oscar gives a shake of his head, looking away. His shoulders have sagged from hearing that there’s no anger in Max’s voice, unlike there had been in his own. It would have been justified if there had been, Oscar finds himself thinking, what with the morning they’ve had. He slowly leans back on the couch again from where he’d tensed up, his gaze drifting back to the chip in the wall.
“No, obviously not,” he answers with a slight shrug.
His avoidance of eye contact doesn’t seem to bother Max, who takes a moment to look around, at the chairs scattered around the room, the empty desk set in a corner. Distantly, Oscar wonders if Max has come here before. But he supposes the older driver has seen it all, even this unused part of the hospitality quarters, rarely given to teams. Especially this early in the season: they’re only testing and the teams aren’t complete just yet, kept only to the staff strictly required around the car. Oscar still supposes it must be used at times in races, for it does look like it has been used at some point, the coat of dust thin enough over the furniture. He simply hasn’t been adventurous enough to walk here before.
But he was today, seeking calm and quiet, craving solitude after the very first practice run on track.
When he looks back at Max, the man’s eyes have settled on him again, their gazes meeting. Oscar sighs, irritation rising once again- this is the opposite of the peace he’d sought here.
“What do you want?” he repeats, though there’s less anger this time. He only sounds tired, even to his own ears.
If he notices, Max doesn’t show it. He shrugs, hands falling to his hips, fingers catching at the seams of his racing suit.
“I saw you walk in here earlier,” he says, voice as neutral as his face is.
“And?”
“I don’t know. I thought I’d check on you.”
Oscar sighs. Though a part of him wants to be, he isn’t angry anymore. What had burst so very suddenly just moments earlier has deflated- and what little is left in him isn’t directed towards Max. That much he’s sure of, at least, especially when the older driver is intent on being nice to him. He holds his gaze for a moment, quiet, trying to find his words.
“I’m fine,” he offers finally- which feels poor, and sounds like the lie it is.
Max is kind enough not to call his bluff out loud, but the brow he raises is enough for Oscar to know he’s not believing the words, seeing right through them.
“You cut my corner,” the Dutchman says after a beat, giving a slight shake of his head. Still, there’s no anger in the words like Oscar could’ve expected. “And then ten laps later, you blocked me off getting out of the garage. We could’ve crashed.”
“We didn’t. You braked.”
“I almost didn’t. I usually don’t, you got lucky. Crashing in testing is trouble.” Max’s lips flatten to a twisted, displeased line at last.
Oscar forces himself not to look away again, keeping himself anchored in the blue of Max’s eyes despite how his cheeks flame. “Fine. I’m sorry. There- Is that what you wanted to hear then?”
“No. Why would you apologize?”
Oscar’s lips part, the frown that has been pulling at his brow deepening. He’d thought this was what Max would’ve wanted from him, apologies for this morning.
“I don’t know,” he mutters eventually.
Max gives a noncommittal hum, shoulders rising in a vague movement. “Stop apologizing then. Explain,” he requests- as if it’s simple.
Shaking his head, Oscar groans, struggling to find his words again. Max is not making it easy for him- the apologies would’ve been less troublesome. Reaching to cover his eyes, he lets his head tip back into the fabric of the couch, jaw clenching as he tries to find what to say- and he knows what to say, there is an explanation for his behavior. But he’s too frustrated for the words to get through.
“I was angry,” he says, finally, in a quiet admission. It’s the truth, condensed as it is, encompassing all he cannot articulate enough, and he suspects Max isn’t expecting much more.
When Oscar looks up, fingers sliding from his eyes to his hair, pushing back the strands falling to his forehead from how long they’ve grown through the break, Max gives a short, approving nod, as though he’d expected this to be the explanation.
“At your team. What were they telling you?”
“To go slower. To hold back. To stop asking questions about the car.”
“Thought so,” Max hums. He stares for a moment more before he steps closer. Oscar stares warily, eyes narrowing. “You know, the more you listen, the more you comply, the less you’ll have for yourself.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Make it easy too, then,” Max shrugs again. “Take control.”
His knees are close to the edge of the couch Oscar lies on, close to Oscar’s hips. He can’t help but frown as he looks up at the Dutchman, noticing Max’s eyes aren’t on his anymore. They’ve slid down lower, moving down his chest, his hips, his thighs in a slow drag.
Oscar feels a spark shoot low in his gut at the darkness that’s grown through usually vibrant blue, now hidden beneath long lashes.
“What are you doing?” he asks when Max moves, one hand leaving his hip to reach forward, towards Oscar’s thigh. Fingers brush in the crook of his tracksuit, slowly inching higher, to finally press over his crotch, which had seemed to be their destination from the way they pause there.
It makes Oscar jolt, gaze snapping from Max’s hand back to his face, searching. But the older man only has a brow raised, his touch stilling, the warmth and weight of the contact noticeable even through the fireproofs, and the thick fabric of the suit. Stop me, the look he gets says.
Oscar, though still confused, doesn’t. He says nothing, doesn’t recoil, even as the muscles at his thigh twitch where Max’s fingers are paused. Max takes it as the ascent it is.
His hand moves, firmer now, not just a light graze of fingertips. His gaze flicks from Oscar’s eyes to where his own palm lies. There’s determination in the way his fingers span out, before they squeeze.
Oscar sucks in a breath, body tensing, his legs reflexively closing- But Max doesn’t let up. He kneads at the tent slowly forming under the fabric. When he looks up again, Oscar feels his cheeks warm at the hunger he sees in Max’s eyes, more discernible now- That’s what the darkness had been, that’s what mars the blue of them.
Max’s free hand moves, though it doesn’t join the other, and instead lands higher until deft fingers catch at the zipper of Oscar’s suit, brushing his chin. It gets pulled down quickly when Oscar doesn’t reach out to stop the movement, the sound loud in the empty space around them.
Max doesn’t stop there. The hand that had been at his crotch moves up, joining the other. He pushes the fabric at Oscar’s shoulder until he straightens on the couch, quietly pushing for it to be taken off, until Oscar himself reaches to tug at the sleeves himself to take them off his arms.
“Okay, okay,” he mutters from how pushy Max is despite the lack of words.
But he does nothing to stop the movement, on the contrary, fingers rushing to tug at the orange fabric. Soon enough, his suit pools low at his hips, the sleeves falling limp over his thighs. His cock has grown hard, pushing at the fabric of the regulation-approved underwear still covering it.
It’s only a matter of seconds before Max’s fingers return low, where they had been, grazing first at the exposed strip of skin between his top and the waistband of his boxers, before they close at the edge of them, tugging down. Oscar lifts his hips enough for them to be pushed down, enough his cock springs free. He forces himself to quiet down a gasp, afraid it would be too loud, echo around them, knowing it would make him blush even more- and he can feel just how hot his cheeks have grown already from Max’s touch.
For a moment, nothing happens. Max is taking him in, eyes trailing down Oscar’s body, before zeroing in on his cock where it stands proudly at attention. He’s still on his feet, though bent to stay close, hands curled in the fabric at Oscar’s thighs where it’s just been rucked down.
When Max sets in motion again, Oscar doesn’t expect it to be for him to drop to his knees, pressing himself to the edge of the couch, though he supposes it’s only the next step to this, to what’s going on between them.
The eye contact that follows feels electric, making Oscar’s fingers clench around nothing where his hands have dropped back to the couch, lips parting around a hitched breath.
“You’re in control,” Max says, voice low, its usual rasp more pronounced now. Oscar swallows roughly.
Is he?
“You are.” Max seems to read his mind. “You’re in control.”
“Right,”
“Stop thinking. Do it. Take what you want.”
For a moment, Oscar’s mind blanks.
It takes a squeeze to his thigh from Max’s fingers to get him to focus again, move again.
He takes a deep breath.
His hand moves then, though still a little hesitant, reaching the back of Max’s head. His hair has grown through the break, too, making it easy to hold onto the strands at the nape of his neck, something for which he gives Oscar an approving nod.
It gets easier to tug him closer. Oscar watches how Max’s eyes flutter closed as his lips finally wrap around the head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he curses quietly, hips twitching.
Max sucks around the tip, tongue swirling for a few seconds, pressing over the slit, which makes Oscar’s body seize, before his tongue stills, falls immobile, as the rest of Max is, pressed against the couch.
It makes Oscar frown for a second before his brain finally snaps the pieces together.
I’m in control, he thinks.
He guides Max to take more of him, groaning at how easily his cock slides down the man’s throat, and gets an approving hum in return, muffled as it is. Oscar gasps, the vibration it sends around him reverberating, making more heat pool low in his gut.
It takes a moment for him to feel comfortable enough to let go of the restraint with which he’s handled this until now. But somehow, seeing Max responding without resistance, seeing the blissfulness smoothing his brow, it makes his instinct take over. This isn’t just for him, Oscar realizes. Max is finding something to it, too.
I’m in control, he thinks again, more confidently this time. His fingers tighten at the back of Max’s head, his thighs spreading to accommodate. Wanting to experiment, feel around for limits, he rolls his hips until he hits the back of Max’s throat and gets a choked groan in return. But Max gives no sign he’ll pull back, fingers still curled in the fabric at Oscar’s hips groundingly, eyes shut, brow lax.
It gets easier after that to fuck Max’s mouth, once he realizes the man won’t break, realizes he wants this.
Torn between the urge to close his eyes and tip his head back, and the need to watch the way Max’s lips wrap around him obscenely, Oscar props himself on an elbow, groaning as his cock pushes deeper briefly- Max stays where he is, unmoving. His eyes have opened, though they’re heavy-lidded. He looks focused as always, almost like he does on track- Oscar can’t help a groan as their gazes meet, his hips bucking up.
There’s something in Max’s eyes that catches his attention. Something a little distant, that he hasn’t seen before, struggles to name.
But it’s hard to focus on it when his body seeks release.
All in all, it doesn’t take long for pleasure to become overwhelming. The day has already worked his body hard- The return to the car, the adrenaline, the anger. Oscar feels it all pooling low in his gut, and he grunts, rocking into Max’s mouth.
He barely hesitates before he pulls until the man’s lips are flush to the base of him, pressed to the patch of hair at his navel as he tenses and, after a choked gasp, starts coming.
Max doesn’t flinch. He breathes steadily through his nose, eyes shut. Oscar struggles to watch, his own eyes barely open, even if he wants to, only catching brief glimpses as Max swallows around him, throat working to take both his length and the spurts coming from it.
Oscar doesn’t relent on his grip until his body goes slack, until he falls back into the couch, the waves over, pleasure washing away all the negativity of the morning as he sighs heavily. Only then do his fingers relax on Max’s hair, staying there but slackening their grip. Max slowly pulls back from his cock, drawing ragged breaths.
Cheeks flushing at the sight, Oscar instinctively licks his lips upon noticing the spit at the corner of Max’s mouth, down his chin, mixing in with his spent.
“Fuck,” he says once more, voice shaky.
That gets Max’s eyes back on him.
He’s still catching his breath, but he gives a nod, a quiet acknowledgement to the curse, just as he reaches to wipe at his face with the sleeve of his fireproofs. It would be gross if it weren’t so hot. Oscar can’t help but think Max will be back in his car for the rest of the day, with traces of him, of this, still on his sleeve.
It makes his cock twitch where it lies on his hip, softening, still wet from Max’s spit. But the champion pays it no mind and slowly rises to his feet again. Oscar’s hand falls from where it had still been at the back of Max’s head, falling to his lap.
There’s an obvious tent at the crotch of Max’s suit, Oscar notices, eyes catching on the shape of it.
He stares, though Max doesn’t look like he cares. He’s pulled his arm to his chest, tugging up his sleeve to look at his watch, as if nothing has happened between them. It only catches his attention when Oscar’s fingers tentatively brush his clothed erection.
Gentle fingers are quick to wrap around his wrist then, tugging his hand away.
“Don’t,” Max says. His voice is firm, though still gentle, rough from what he’s done, throat probably sensitive.
Oscar frowns, staring up at him in confusion. Max gently squeezes at his wrist before he lets go, shaking his head.
“This isn’t about me. I should head back, anyway,” he says, already pulling away.
“Right. Right- Yeah,” Oscar mutters, straightening on the couch, as Max steps back.
They readjust their clothes at the same time, Oscar to cover himself up, tucking his softening cock back, pulling his suit over his hips again, and Max to push the hard line of his cock, trying to conceal it.
“Are you sure?” Oscar still asks as he sits up, boots hitting the ground from where they’d been propped up on the couch.
“Positive,” Max nods.
His eyes drag over Oscar, fleeting over the soft strands of hair that have fallen to his forehead again, his flushed cheeks, the color spreading down to his throat and disappearing under the dark fabric of his fireproof, then lower to his still heaving chest.
He steps close again, this time angled towards the door, ready to depart, only pausing by Oscar’s head briefly. His hand comes up, knuckles brushing at his chin to make him look up. His sleeve is still wet, Oscar notices now that it’s close, as his gaze grazes the fabric before shifting up to Max’s face.
Their eyes meet again, and Oscar knows before Max says what’s on his mind.
“I’m in control,” he’s the one to say.
He gets an approving nod, the smirk on Max’s face satisfied as he steps away, towards the door.
“See you on track,” he calls before he’s gone.
Oscar watches through the glass panels as the shape of him disappears, and he sighs as he gets back to his own feet, dragging his suit over his shoulders again. He should probably get going, too. The day isn’t over, they still have a full afternoon of testing.
Somehow, he feels more confident when he walks out of the place, head held a little higher.
At the end of the day, Oscar’s best lap time is in the top 5.
The afternoon’s session has run through smoothly, his mood improving with every lap spent on track, every exchange in which he manages to advocate for himself.
When they run into each other again between garages, Max winks at him in passing. Oscar’s eyes automatically fall to the sleeve of his fireproofs, exposed now that his suit is open, pushed down to his hips again. It’s hard not to smile at the faint stain he sees at the wrist.
