such awful news today, sending all my thoughts to the family and friends of juha miettinen.
please do not post/repost any photos/footage of the accident. and i encourage you to report accounts that do. it's incredibly disrespectful to all involved, especially given the severity of the situation.
Y/N x Max Verstappen
Theme: Fluff, a little teasing
Max and his team just qualified 4th for the 24h race on the iconic Nordschleife, and you meet him in the garage x
word count: 2040+
gif by me :)
open for requests!
The air at the Nürburgring is unlike the air anywhere else in the world. It's heavy with the scent of pine needles, damp earth, and the sharp, metallic tang of fuel hanging in the Eifel mist. A track known to swallow the unprepared whole, the Nordschleife is as scary as it is iconic. Today, on this Friday, however, the atmosphere across the paddock was something else entirely.
You stood in the back of the garage, tucked away from the main hub of activity but with a perfect vantage point of the monitors and the man you'd come here to support. The 24h Norschleife weekend was a beast on its own level, a marathon of endurance and nerves, and Max had been vibrating with excitement for months leading up to it.
The qualifying session had just flickered to a close. The screens showed the final standings: 4th place. For a field this competitive, on a track like this, within his first year of attending NLS events, it was a phenomenal result.
The whole team was buzzing.
You shifted your weight, the gravel of the paddock floor crunching beneath your sneakers. You were dressed simply, jeans and a light sweater, but as the afternoon chill began to roll off the mountains, you had reached for the one thing that guaranteed warmth.
You were currently swallowed up in Max's team-issued jacket. And even though it was several sizes too big, the sleeves gathered at your wrists, it was lined with the most comforting fleece. More importantly though, it smelled like him, a mixture of his clean, citrusy cologne and the faint, sharp scent of adrenaline that seemed to cling to him after a session.
Across the room, Max was the center of attention. He had barely left the car when people crowded him, congratulating him for the result. He was in his light blue racing suit, the red accents popping under the harsh fluorescent lights of the garage.
He had just pulled off his balaclava, and his blonde hair was a chaotic mess, flattened in some places and standing up in others. His face was flushed, a bright, healthy pink across his cheekbones from the exertion of wrestiling a GT3 car around the longest, most demanding circuit on earth.
He looked incredible.
The suit was tailored perfectly to his lean, athletic frame, hugging his shoulders and narrowing at his waist. Every time he shifted his weight or gestured toward a data screen, the fabric pulled taut against his muscles.
You found yourself staring, mesmerized by the way he moved, the fluid, natural grace of an elite athlete who was finally, truly, in his element.
In F1, the pressure was a constant, heavy weight. It was politics, media, and the relentless grind for perfection. But here? Here, Max was just a racer. He was smiling wide, his eyes bright as he spoke rapidly to his lead mechanic, hands mimicking the movement of the car throughout a trickier part of the track.
He was laughing, tossing a joke toward one of his teammates, his chest rising and falling with the lingering effects of the stint.
Anyone watching could tell that Max was here to race, to tackle one of the most demanding tracks, and to look good while doing it. And you felt a swell of pride so thick it was hard to swallow. He had worked so hard to make this happen, to carve out time in his impossible schedule to race here, simply because he loved it.
As if sensing your gaze, Max's head turned. His blue eyes found yours through the crowd of engineers and equipment. The transformation in his expression was instantaneous. The 'racer' mask didn't disappear, but it softened, a warm, private grin spreading across his lips. You couldn't help but beam back, pulled into his orbit even from twenty feet away.
A final pat on the back from his engineer signaled the end of the little post-quail debrief. The huddle broke apart, and Max immediately started toward you. He had a certain swagger today, a lightness in his step that told volumes about him riding the ultimate high.
This was what Max loved. Racing. And you could tell he was enjoying every second of it.
You didn't move; you just watched him approach, your eyes shamelessly wandering over the way the suit gripped his legs and the way he began to peel the gloves off his hands, placing them on a nearby table.
By the time he reached you, you were breathless for an entirely different reason than he was.
Without a word, he stepped into your space, his presence warm and overwhelming; you felt the heat radiating from his body through the layers of protecting gear. His hands, still slightly buzzing and warm from the steering wheel, found your waist. He pulled you flush against him, and you didn't care who was watching.
You reached up, your hands catching on the rough fabric of his shoulders, and met him halfway for a kiss.
It was soft, lingering, and tasted like he'd been living on nothing but focus and grit for the last two hours. When you finally pulled apart, just a fraction of an inch, he let out a long, shaky breath against your lips.
"Hey," he breathed, his voice a little husky.
"Hey yourself," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You were incredible out there, Max. 4th? On this track? You're a madman."
He grinned, that boyish, mischievous look you loved so much.
"It felt so good. The car is balanced, the grip is there... honestly, I could have gone faster in the second sector, but we'll save that for the race."
He searched your face, his eyes scanning for your reaction.
Max always sought it out, the praise, the validation. For all his confidence, he loved knowing you were watching.
"How did it look on the broadcast? Did I look fast?"
"You looked like you were on rails," you told him, sliding your hands down from his shoulders to his chest.
You began to stroke the center of his chest, right over his heart. You knew he loved the physical contact after a session; it helped grounding him, bringing him back down from the 200-mph headspace he'd been in.
"Everyone kept talking about your lines across the track. You make it look easy, even when we all know it's the hardest thing in the world."
He leaned into your touch, a small sigh escaping him. He looked like he was basking in the attention, his eyes half-lidded as he watched your hand move against the blue fabric.
Max licked his lips, his gaze dropping to the jacket you were wearing.
"You're wearing my jacket," he noted, his voice dropping an octave. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth. "It suits you, though it's a bit big, no?"
"I don't mind it," you said, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "I like it. It kept me warm while I was waiting for my champion to come back to the pits."
Max's eyes darkened slightly, a playful, flirty glint appearing.
"Your champion, eh? I like the sound of that."
Looking down, your fingers found his name written on the waistline, accompanied by four beautiful stars.
"You earned that." You breathed, looking up to meet his gaze.
You could see the sweat beads at his hairline and the way the heat was radiating off his body. The racing suits were incredibly tight, designed for safety rather than comfort.
"We need to cool you off, Max, before you melt," you murmured. "Here, let me help you."
You reached up to the collar of his suit, your fingers fumbling slightly with the heavy Velcro tab. He stood perfectly still, watching you with an intense focus that made your stomach flip. You unfastened the collar and then gripped the heavy metal zipper.
Slowly, you pulled it down, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the corner of the garage. You stopped just above his navel, pulling the thick material aside.
Max let out a massive, relieved sigh, almost a groan, his shoulders dropping two inches as the cool air finally hit his chest. Underneath, he was wearing a thin, white Nomex base layer, which was damp and clung to the definition of his chest and stomach.
"Better?" You asked.
"Mmm," he groaned now, the sound vibrating in his chest.
You didn't pull your hand away. Instead, you slipped it inside the open suit, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over the thin moisture-wicking fabric of his heart, still beating so fast, and the radiating heat of his skin.
You began to slowly stroke the plane of his chest, your thumb tracing the line of his collarbone.
A low, deep, appreciative growl rumbled in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction. He closed his eyes for a moment, the vibration of the sound traveling through your palm and straight up your arm.
"I love seeing you like this," you whispered, stepping even closer so your foreheads touched. "So happy. You're in your element here, Max. No drama, no politics. Just you and the track."
"It's the best feeling," he admitted, his voice soft and sincere. He kept his hands on your waist, his thumbs tracing small circles against your hips. "Sometimes you forget why you started doing this in the first place. Then you come here, you take a corner at full tilt in the middle of the woods, and it all comes back. I'm glad you're here with me to see it."
You continued to soothe him, your hand moving from his chest down to his tummy and back up again. A domestic moment in a very non-domestic environment, a little bubble of 'you' in the middle of the Nürburgring.
Max looked utterly relaxed, his head tilted back slightly as he just enjoyed the sensation of being touched and the adrenaline slowly receding.
"I have a surprise for you," you said suddenly, breaking the quiet spell.
Max raised one eyebrow, his eyes fluttering open.
"A surprise? Did you find a way to get us more turbo boost for tomorrow?"
You laughed, shaking your head.
"Better. Much better for your morale."
You reached into the deep, oversized pockets of the team jacket. Your fingers closed around two familiar, crinkly wrappers. You pulled them out and held them up like a trophy.
Max's eyes practically tripled in size.
"Kinder bars?"
"Nutrition for my world-champion racer boyfriend," you teased. "I know you haven't eaten properly since lunch because you were too busy looking at telemetry."
A huge, genuine grin broke across his face, the kind of grin that made the crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. He reached out and took one of the chocolate bars from your hand, his fingers brushing yours.
"You're actually the best person in the world. I was just thinking about how I could use a snack."
You both stood there, leaning against a stack of Pirelli tires, and unwrapped your chocolate. The 'snap' of the bar as Max took a bite was followed by a look of pure bliss. He chewed, nodding to himself, looking like a very satisfied kid.
"I could get used to this," he said after swallowing. "A stint on the Nordschleife, a kiss from you, and a Kinder bar. That should be the new team protocol. Can you make that happen? Talk to the engineers?"
"I'll see if I can get it written into your contract," you joked, taking a bite of your own. "But only if you keep bringing the car back in one piece."
"Deal," he said, leaning down to capture your lips in one more quick, chocolate-flavored kiss.
He began to fully peel out of the top half of his suit, letting the sleeves dangle from his hips in that effortless way racers do. He looked rugged, messy, and incredibly handsome.
He grabbed his kit bag from the bench and slung it over his shoulder, reaching out his free hand for yours.
"Come on," Max said, his fingers interlacing with yours, squeezing tight. "Let's get out of here. I want to change and then get some dinner."
Together, you headed for the motorhome area to spend some alone time together.
