any images used are just place holders, imagine reader however you'd like!
note: this is my first time writing/creating an smau, so please be kind!
liked by redbullracing, maxverstappen1 and 425,231 others
youruser so glad to be back we're ready for this season! go redbull!💙
tagged: redbullracing & maxverstappen1
view all comments
redbullracing: our favourite engineer!
liked by youruser
⤷ user: redbull admins playing favourites 🫠
maxverstappen1: excited to get started again
liked by your user
⤷ user: max showing an actual emotion that isn't sarcasm??
⤷ youruser: can't wait to work together again this year! let's get you a win!
liked by maxverstappen1
user: max verstappen wdc 2026!
user: we are SO back 💙
user: the way that max only comments on her posts 🥹
liked by redbullracing, maxverstappen and 398,987 others
youruser not the best start to the season but still proud of max for P6!
view all comments
maxverstappen1: couldn't do it without you
⤷ youruser: 💙💙
user: hear me out… max and yn
⤷ user: wait yes!!
liked by 15,800 users
f1gossipofficial We received this photo from a anonymous source, Redbull driver Max Verstappen seen leaving his hotel in Australia with engineer YN LN, they both seemed very close and were seen sharing a rather romantic hug.
view all comments
user: i mean they work together of course they'll be seen together?
user: maxyn would solve all problems
⤷ user: they aren't together 😭
user: why aren't we respecting their privacy? if they wanted use to know they would have shared it with us
view story replies
Maxverstappen1: we need to talk, pap saw us last night schat
⤷ youruser: wait they did?
⤷ maxverstappen1: i guess the secret is out 🤷♂️
liked by youruser
liked by youruser, redbullracing and 486,869 others
maxverstappen1 one year with you liefje, thank you for being my biggest supporter on and off the track 💙
tagged: youruser
view all comments
youruser: love you always
liked by maxverstappen1
user: NOBODY PANIC.
user: mum & dad!
lando: finally it was impossible to keep it a secret
⤷ user: LANDO KNEW?!?
alexandramalenaleclerc: stole my girl ☹️
⤷ youruser: forever yours bby
⤷ charles_leclerc: ???
⤷ maxverstappen1: ???
liked by maxverstappen1, lando, redbullracing and 378,912 others
youruser one year with my forever world champ, i love you so much my baby
planning to do a detailed post whenever i get some time on my hands but we'll work with just tags today. tagging my moots who make this platform so much more fun, lovely and beautiful. seriously love you all (mwa).
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the permanent taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the permanent taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the permanent taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
Genuinely HOW are you so good at writing tension?!! This was amazing, author! You really captured his douchebag antics so well while still maintaining his aggressive charm. Well done!!
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which it has been six months since you broke up with your ex boyfriend, the world’s renowned f1 driver max verstappen, and you’re still not over him.
or… you think that it’s best to cope by drinking alcohol, and your very own drunk mistakes lead you back to him.
max verstappen x singer f! reader · category : smau. · contents : reader is referred as y/n. eventual exes to lovers. reader is really wasted and ‘kinda’ cringe. pining. suggestive themes. strong language. mentions of alcohol. unhealthy coping mechanism. reader’s discretion is advised.
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ my first max smau! 🥹 this story will have 2/3 parts, stay tuned!
part one — < next >
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
subscribers: @chaosbutterflysstuff @voidsbabe
ynln posted a story.
ynverse commented on your story — and she’s back!!!!! can’t wait for your comeback queen!!!!
sabrinacarpenter replied to your story — can’t wait <3 it’s gonna be a hit
alexandrasaintmleux replied to your story — good luck 💗
maxverstappen1 viewed your story.
ynssecond posted a story.
ynln posted a story.
ynverse replied to your story — my girl is living her life! have fun gorgeous!
alexandrasaintmleux replied to your story — not an invitation? ouch babes 💔
yoursister replied to your story — girl if u get drunk again i SWEAR i’ll kill u
yoursister replied to your story — i don’t need u vomiting all over the couch 🖕
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the permanent taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the permanent taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
proceed to navigation? < yes. > · join the permanent taglist? < let me know by commenting below! >
A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
stormborns
prguitarman
romaincrisis
annaxmalina
titsay
baratheonpilled
izzy806
discoholicmusic
