✨ hi hii ♡ i’m breezy and i write fanfiction as my little escape. 🌸
I used to write mostly for anime & manga, but lately my blog has shifted into being more F1-focused 🏎️ (thank u max verstappen)
-> that said, i’ll probably still jump back to anime every now and then because it’ll always have my heart ♡
-> It is safe to assume ALL my works are 18+, as my blog is 18+, it will otherwise be stated if it is sfw.
✨ Requests are OPEN for all drivers ✨
(Currently writing mostly for Max, Lando, & Oscar 💌)
🌸 AO3 ✨ - [ Read all my works here → ✦ AO3 LINK ✦ ]
🏎️ Max Verstappen | mv1 | mv33 ...my driver ♡
📁 Series: 🏁 Understeer ⋆˚࿔ (mv1 x reader x ln4 - love triangle with mv1 ending *almost complete -> 46k words total)
⚠️ Disclaimer ⚠️
All works are purely fan fiction. I do not own any rights to F1, the drivers, or affiliated brands. These fics are for entertainment only. Everything you read here is at your own discretion. I will always do my best to tag appropriately for content & triggers.
Hello , I'm just asking if you're planning to continue sparks and cursed shadows. I've read it on AO3 and loved it so much.
Hi Anon!
Firstly, thx so much for reading 🥺 I’m so glad you liked it, this means so much to me <3
I am planning on finishing it, especially with the JJK movie that just came out. I think it’ll respark my love for it once I see it! I went on a little hiatus with anime/manga since my love for F1 took over but I shall return soon 🫡
🚦⭑.ᐟ Singapore GP is way too hot, and so is all the unresolved tension between you and Max. Months after his cold “no distractions” dismissal, you return to the paddock glowing, grounded, and finally healing. Max pretends not to see you — until he does. The heat takes its toll, and Max overheats in the car, leaving the team scrambling as he stumbles out, barely conscious... leaving you to tend to him.
Pairings:
Max Verstappen x Reader
Lando Norris x Reader
Reader x Rockstar OC (ex) *loosely based on Andy Biersack
-> future *semi Oscar Piastri x Reader
Tags/Warnings:
Fem!Influencer!readerSlight!Oc but not really, just story building for Y/N{2024-present season based}
*Not always lore accurate
Slight #Smau - Social Media
Alternate UniverseToxic/semi-abusive relationship with established rockstar boyfriend, alcohol use, drunken behavior, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, public argument, heated kissing, paparazzi & social media mentions, angst, depression, themes of escape, reinvention & heartbreak, very light smut references (fade to black) -> the future chapters will include smut, unprotected sex, enemies-to-??? extreme slow burn in the making, love triangle, love square, let's just say the reader has a reverse harem
Disclaimer: This is a fictional fan work. I do not own or claim to represent any real individuals (including Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, or any public figures mentioned). All characterizations and events are fictional. Please don’t confuse this with real life. This is for entertainment only.
🔞 NSFW Disclaimer: This is a fictional and mature fan story featuring adult themes, emotional intensity, and potentially explicit content.
A/N: RAHHHHHH - Thank you guys so much for sticking through this <333 My PC crashed and I thought that I lost this entire doc. I replaced my PSU (by myself! pls be proud of me :P) and now I can finally finish this fic * evilly rubs my hands together*
One more chapter to go.... hehehehe... how we feeling?
The paddock is loud, well, it’s always loud, but somehow it still feels like silence presses on your ears the moment you spot him.
Max.
Walking ahead of his engineers, race suit half unzipped, head down—even from a distance, it hits you like it always does. That feeling in your stomach that never really goes away, even with the passing of time. Three months to be exact now, 6 race weekends and two breaks.
He still doesn’t look at you though. Not once.
Not even a flicker. Not even a hint of anger towards you. Nothing.
Like you dont even exist in his world anymore. Like none of this, none of you, ever happened.
Vanessa nudges your shoulder lightly breaking you free from your daze.
“Don’t,” she murmurs. “You promised you wouldn’t stare.”
“I’m not staring,” you lie, cheeks going red.
“You are staring,” she corrects. “Like, a lot actually. Should we leave?”
You elbow her in feign annoyance, and she grins, but her eyes soften when they return to your face, worry painted across her face.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
You’re not.
You’ve been trying to be. Ever since Max’s last real words to you, without the cameras — sharp, quiet, decisive — cut whatever invisible string there was between you pulling you together.
“You’re just noise. A distraction I don’t want, not now, not ever.”
You spent months picking yourself up after that. Making new friends. Less doom-scrolling. More sleep. More breathing. More being… you.
Healing from Cyrus. Healing from Lando. You couldn’t quite shake the dutch man though.
But, alas, somehow… you became lighter. Brighter and more centered.
So it doesn’t make sense that your stomach is folding in on itself now after all this time.
As if time had heard your quiet plea for kindness and chose to ignore it, Max’s path crosses yours and Vanessa’s by your walk to the Media Pen, and you know he sees you but he keeps walking.
Vanessa exhales.
“Oof. Okay. That hurt even me…”
“He said he didn’t want distractions remember?”
Your voice is small.
“Well, that meant me.”
Vanessa scoffs. “And now you’re the distraction because what? You’re single single? Did he only like you when there was competition involved?” she rolls her eyes.
You wince. “That’s not—”
“Well you are!” she interrupts. “And not to mention — this is the happiest I’ve seen you in months. He probably hates it.”
“Why would he hate that?”
“Because,” she says, lowering her voice, “you look like someone who’s over him now.”
“Hey—”
Lando’s voice pops in from behind, hesitant but warm.
You turn, surprised. “Lando?”
He gives a half-smile. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if I should come over.
Vanessa said you might not want to talk to me.” He shoots her a devilish smirk.
Vanessa mutters, “Damn it, I said might.”
Lando fiddles with the wristband on his hand. “Just wanted to say hi. And… check in on you.”
You shrug, trying not to make it any mroe awkward than it already was.
“Hi. I’m okay.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move.
He studies your face with the kind of confusing sincerity that should make you uncomfortable, but doesn’t.
“I don’t get it,” he says softly. His eyes searching yours now.
“Get what?”
“Why you cut things off with me if…”
He glances over your shoulder toward where Max had passed you.
“…if that isn’t even happening anymore.”
Your throat tightens.
Vanessa steps in like a wolf guarding her pack.
“Because she didn’t want to use you as a rebound, Lando. She cares about you too much for that.”
Lando nods, guilt crossing his features.
“I know. I get that. I’m not trying to make things weird. I just—”
He rubs his neck.
“I just don’t understand how you two aren’t together. Everyone sees it. Even he sees it.”
You swallow.
“Not anymore.”
Lando opens his mouth but stops when his radio engineer calls him.
“Anyway,” he says softly, backing away, “I’m still around. If you need me. Or… if you don’t.” He winks.
You smile. “Thanks, Lan.”
He jogs off, leaving a knot in your chest you didn’t ask for.
Vanessa watches him go.
“He’s being so respectful, it’s actually painful. I hate that you didn’t pick him.”
“I know, I know.”
Singapore Grand Prix weekend means one thing: heat. Heavy, relentless, wrap-around-your-lungs heat. You’re already sweating through the barely-there outfit you chose for survival, and you can’t fathom how the drivers manage to walk—let alone breathe—in their fireproof race suits.
The heat grows heavier the longer you stand there — thick, sticky, clinging to your skin.
Vanessa waves a hand in front of her face. “Okay, I’m going to get water before I literally evaporate.”
You nod, grateful for the moment alone. “Go. I’ll be here.”
She squeezes your arm and slips away, leaving you in the noise and light and sweat of the paddock.
You pull out the flimsy paper fan someone handed you at the entrance and start fanning your face, praying for even one molecule of cold air. Sweat trickles down your spine; your shirt sticks to your skin. You’re melting. You tug at your hair to lift it off your neck. The sweat making its way down your chest, past your breasts and pooling in your naval.
You’re too busy trying not to pass out to notice at first — but then you feel it.
Eyes on you. Behind you.
You follow the prickle of heat up your neck and turn to see—
Max. Watching you.
He stands across the media pen, waiting for his interview slot, hands on his hips, race suit peeled to the waist, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who hasn’t driven yet. His face is flushed — deep red at the cheeks, damp tufts of blonde hair glued to his forehead.
You don’t know if it’s the temperature or anger or if this is just what he looks like when he’s trying very, very hard not to feel anything.
Even from here, he looks completely wrecked. Overheated. Uncomfortable. And beautiful in that painfully unreachable way.
You freeze mid-sweep of your fan.
For a second — just a tiny, impossible second — his eyes soften.
Something like recognition flickers.
And then he looks away sharply, jaw tensing, shoulders setting like concrete.
A PR handler calls your name.
“Perfect timing! You’re hosting the Guess the Driver segment with Max and Lando in thirty.”
Your stomach plummets. Hosting.
Meaning you’ll be standing in front of him.
Meaning you won’t be able to hide behind Vanessa or your fan or the crowd.
Meaning Max will have to look at you. Where was Vanessa when you needed her.
You’re handed a stack of laminated cards covered in hilariously terrible fan-drawn portraits of F1 drivers. Thick Sharpie lines. Goofy smiles. Uncanny eyes. Exactly the type of thing fans love watching drivers suffer through.
In front of you sit Lando and Max—two chairs angled toward the camera, a small high table between them, and your tiny blue mic in your hand. They’re barely looking at each other. They’re definitely not looking at you… yet.
You clear your throat, putting on your host-voice.
Lando lifts his hand in a shy, careful wave — the kind that says I don’t want to step on any landmines, but I’m here if you let me be.
You smile back, small but grounded.
Max… doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say hello.
Doesn’t even pretend to acknowledge you’re standing less than six feet away from him right now.
He sits stiffly, elbows on his knees, jaw working, hair plastered to his forehead from the heat. His race shirt clings to his chest and shoulders — damp, stretched, showing every line of tension running through him. He’s overheated and looks way more red up close. He continuously sips through his red bull water bottle trying to stay hydrated.
But the moment the cameras start rolling, you see it:
He’s not looking at you
—but at your fan.
You’re fanning yourself out of instinct, each sweep moving air across your collarbones, lifting strands of hair from your neck. It’s innocent, really. Until you pull your hair from off your neck again, pulling your head to one side as if it’ll give you just what you needed right now.
Air.
Max’s eyes track every movement.
You clear your throat and begin reading. “Okay, first drawing—”
“Lewis.” Max answers immediately, monotone.
You blink. “I… didn’t even show the picture yet.”
Lando snorts. “I think he’s speed running the game.”
“It’s too hot for this.” Max mutters under his breath, too low for the cameras, but not low enough for you.
Your chest pinches.
You hold up the card anyway. Max is right.
“Alright,” you say lightly, “next one—”
You flip the second card and Lando leans forward, squinting dramatically.
You swallow past the knot in your chest and move on.
“A clue: This driver cried when he got pole once.”
“That’s me?” Lando bursts out laughing. “I look like a potato with teeth!”
You laugh — a real one you didn’t mean to let out — and Max’s attention snaps toward the sound like a reflex he hates himself for still having.
His eyes meet yours.
And the moment is electric.
Like he’s angry that Lando made you laugh.
Like the heat in the paddock is nothing compared to the one crawling under his skin.
You tear your gaze away too fast, heart misfiring now.
“Okay, card three—”
This time, Lando stares up at you before guessing, clearly distracted, clearly thinking something while his eyes were locked on your neck, and that is what Max sees.
Not the picture. Not the game.
Just Lando… looking at what he had just been looking at.
Max’s eyes go cold.
The same look he gives rival drivers when they’re lining up beside him before race start. His jaw slack and his brows unconsciously pulling together.
You feel your pulse thump uncomfortably.
Lando finally guesses wrong — hilariously wrong — and you giggle again despite trying not to.
Max shifts in his seat, uncomfortable and pointedly looking anywhere but at the two of you.
But he keeps glancing back.
Quick flashes.
Barely-there cuts of attention that feel like fingers brushing your skin. You wanted him to look at you. You wanted him to still feel what you felt when you were in a room with him. How is it so easy for him to ignore?
You try to ignore the way Max’s gaze drops, for a brief, disloyal second, to the exposed strip of skin at your collarbone—the one the heat forced you to leave bare today. His jaw flexes and —Oh! You finally see what he’s trying so hard not to look at. Instead of shutting it down you decide to make it worse for him by bringing your cool water bottle to your neck. The condensation dripping down your clavicle.
He drags his eyes away. Tears them away, actually. Shifting uncomfortably for the umpteenth time during this interview.
You keep hosting.
They keep guessing.
And all the while, the tension between you and Max hums like a live wire. You keep selfishly stealing looks now. The way Max is practically panting in front of you, cheeks the color of Charles’ Ferrari.
“Next clue,” you say quickly, voice thin. “Uh—he once got stuck in an elevator…”
Max: “George.”
Lando: “George.”
You exhale. “Yes, correct! Good job boys.”
But Max simply isn’t paying attention anymore.
He’s still staring at you. Not with a softness or affection but rather a frustration or restraint. Or lack of.
Like the heat is melting all the distance he tried to build over these past few months. He is so visibly frustrated it’s starting to hurt you.
You pretend not to notice, flipping to the next card, but your fingers shake again. Legs crossing uncomfortably.
By the last card, Lando is relaxed, laughing, nudging Max occasionally—completely oblivious to what is happening around him.
Max is so good at undressing you with his eyes that if you were to look at him now you might just jump his bones. So you don’t.
Max answers dryly, checks his watch, rolls his shoulders, wipes sweat from his neck for the seventh time.
You swallow and read the final card. “Okay, last one—”
But before you can finish, Max cuts in:
“Can we go? It’s too hot to sit here and pretend this is normal.” His voice cracks a little in a whine that only you catch.
His words are directed at no one in particular but you knew it was for you and you only.
The crew scrambles, the cameras cut, the media crew murmur quick wrap-ups.
Lando stands first, smiling softly at you. “Good job. You made that fun. As always.”
You nod with a small smile. “Thanks.”
Max stands last. Shifting a little to adjust himself.
He wipes his forehead again, breath uneven, chest rising too quickly.
He’s burning. And trying desperately not to show it.
As he turns to leave, he glances at Lando — at how close he’s standing to you now — and something dark flickers across his expression again.
Jealousy, sharp as a blade.
But when his eyes land on yours?
They go blank.
Wiped clean. He was back to being indifferent, cold, and calculated.
He steps around you both without a word.
But as he passes, you feel it — the tiniest brush of his arm against yours. Sending jolts of electricity up your arm.
And then just like that — he’s gone. Everything once again, in the past.
The Singapore sun feels like it’s settled directly on your shoulders as it goes down for the night.
Even in your lightest outfit—shorts, a cropped mclaren team tee you got from a PR intern, and your hair in a low, messy ponytail—you’re already sweating before you clear the security gate.
You adjust your media lanyard and exhale.
It’s Race day.
Vanessa walks beside you, sipping a painfully neon energy drink. One of Lando’s monsters.
“Singapore is actually trying to kill us,” she mutters.
You snort. “Everything is wet. Even the air feels wet.”
“Ew, babe.” She gives you a pitied once-over. “Don’t remind me.”
Despite everything—Max avoiding you, Lando’s confusion, the awkward quiet between corners of the paddock—Vanessa makes you laugh. She squeezes your arm. This race should be fun overall.
“You ready for today?” she asks gently.
Are you? No. Maybe. You don’t know.
“Yeah,” you lie. “Busy day ahead for the boys.”
She catches the lie. She always does.
But she lets it go this time.
Vanessa throws up her pointer finger to single someone is calling her. “I’ll catch up!” You hear her answer with a smile.
The paddock before a night race is a different energy—hyped, charged, jittery.
Fans screaming from barriers.
Engines firing in the garages.
Teams rushing with headsets and clipboards.
You step aside as a group of Ferrari crew barrel past with a trolley of tires.
“Careful, love,” someone says behind you.
You turn and see Oscar, hands shoved into his McLaren shorts pockets, hair slightly damp already.
He smiles softly.
“You almost got run over,” he says.
“Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you say. “Influencer death.”
He snorts. “At least it’d go viral.”
You roll your eyes and keep walking with him toward the McLaren hospitality.
“How’re you feeling today?” he asks.
“Hot,” you say. “Stressed. Avoiding emotions. Normal things.”
He hums.
“Yeah. Same.”
You laugh, and it loosens something in your chest.
Oscar bumps your shoulder lightly.
“If you need anything today… someone to walk you between buildings, or someone to block Max from seeing you—just let me know.”
You blink.
“You know about that?”
Oscar gives you a look.
“Lando told me.”
You’re near the McLaren wall of screens when Lando appears, helmet under his arm, fireproofs half on. He looks freshly showered, hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead.
He brightens when he sees you.
“There she is,” he says, voice warm and relieved. “Thought you were hiding from me today.”
You swallow.
You kind of were.
Lando steps closer, eyes soft but searching.
“You look good,” he says quietly.
You force a smile. “It’s definitely the sweat.”
“Still good,” he shrugs.
Before it can get weird, Vanessa sees this and swoops in to grab your wrist.
“Borrowing her,” she tells Lando and Oscar. “Girl stuff.”
“Girl stuff?” Lando repeats, confused. “What does—?”
Vanessa doesn’t let him finish and drags you off, whispering,
“He is one longing stare away from asking you to take him back. I’m protecting your sanity.”
You laugh, but your stomach twists.
Lando wasn’t wrong to be confused.
You cut things off. Max pushed you away.
And somehow you ended up alone on both fronts.
You and Vanessa weave through crowds toward the media center when you hear it—
That distinct, unmistakable Dutch accent.
“Is the telemetry fine? It didn’t match what we saw during qualifying.”
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You don’t even want to look—
but your eyes betray you.
Max stands just outside his garage, fireproofs tied around his waist, drinking from a red bull water bottle. His hair is sticking up slightly, damp from the heat. His face is flushed, jaw clenched like the heat was getting to him.
He looks good. Annoyingly good. Frustratingly good. UGH.
You wrench your eyes away.
Vanessa mutters, “You wanna go the long way?”
“Yes,” you answer instantly.
But as you turn, Max shifts.
His attention flicks—fast, sharp—
straight to you.
His brows pinch the tiniest bit.
Like seeing you physically hurts him.
You look away first.
You always do now.
You and Vanessa escape down the opposite walkway, pretending not to hear the way Max’s voice drops mid-sentence.
Pretending not to feel the stare burning between your shoulder blades.
Pretending he didn’t look at you like he remembers the exact feeling of having you pressed against him not too long ago.
You retreat to the media pen platform, exhaling hard.
Vanessa nudges your shoulder.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Absolutely not.”
She laughs and loops her arm through yours.
"Fine. Then we’re talking about literally anything else. Like how I will never understand why the drivers don’t melt into little puddles at the hot races."
You smile.
For the first time all day, it feels real.
The lights on the track shift.
Engines rev.
This is it.
You lift your headset, ready to watch, ready to distract yourself, ready to pretend everything is fine for the next two hours.
Somewhere on the grid, Max straps into his car.
Somewhere in all of this, everything inside you is tightening into one single truth:
Something has to give.
And soon. You can almost feel it.
The broadcast opens with the usual glamour shots, but even the camera lenses look hazy, like even the air is sweating.
Martin Brundle’s voice comes through your headphones: “Welcome to Singapore for what is already the hottest Grand Prix weekend on record.”
Then followed by Ted Kravitz: “Yes, we’re hearing cockpit temperatures could exceed 60 degrees Celsius tonight. Absolutely brutal conditions for the drivers.”
You swallow.
You knew it was hot.
You didn’t know it was dangerous hot.
The lights go out.
The race begins.
You’re watching from the paddock screens with Vanessa as Red Bull’s radio crackles through the broadcast.
Lando: “It’s like a sauna in here, mate. My visor’s fogging.”
Lando’s race engineer, Will: “Understood. Just keep pushing. You got this.”
Then Oscar—
Oscar: “Uh—I’m overheating in here.”
Oscar’s race engineer, Tom: “Copy Oscar. Just keep your head down.”
Martin sucks in a breath.“Drivers are really suffering today. That humidity is no joke.”
Ted quickly replies, “Look at Max Verstappen—he’s fighting the car and the heat. He’s just visibly uncomfortable now.”
On-screen, Max shifts in his seat, shoulders tense, his gloved hands move under the halo whenever they can to get a cool air flow. Even through the onboard, you can see it—
He’s suffering.
You grip the railing.
Vanessa glances at you.
“You okay?”
You nod. You’re not. You’re still relatively new to F1 but this was just unnerving and you were so anxious.
Then—
Max: “Guys I’m… losing strength. My head feels—so heavy.”
Your heart drops. F1 drivers are able to withstand so much so for Max to say that he can barely hold his head up is not good.
Engineer: “Copy Max. Just a few more laps. Cool your brakes when you can, reserve your breathing.”
But the onboard shows it clearly:
Max slumps slightly in the seat.
Ted’s voice sharpens. “Verstappen looks really unwell. That is not normal movement from the dutch driver.”
You feel your throat tighten. You hear the crowd react.
Vanessa grips your arm.
“Oh my god.”
And despite everything—
the heat
his voice fading
the way he keeps leaning his head back like he’s desperate for cool air—
Max crosses the finish line first.
Pandemonium.
Fans scream.
The broadcast cuts to the drivers finishing their laps.
You don’t feel relief.
Not fully.
Because Max doesn’t whoop or scream or celebrate immediately like he usually does.
He doesn’t even lift a hand as does his cool down lap.
His radio is quiet for several seconds.
Too quiet.
Finally:
Max, voice slurred:
“Yep. Good job.”
That’s it. No laugh. No victory yell.
Vanessa swallows hard.
“That didn’t sound good…”
The Red Bull screen shows Max rolling slowly, too slowly, as he pulls into the number 1 spot.
You feel cold despite the heat.
Vanessa sees the crew celebrating on TV and bumps your shoulder.
“Come on, let’s go down there Bradley before he disappears.”
You blink.
“Why would he—”
“Because Max won? You think Brad isn’t about to be swallowed by media?”
Fair point. After the cool down room Bradley would be with the rest of the red bull team.
So you go with her.
You expect noise. Shouts. High-fives. Music.
Instead—
When you turn into the Red Bull garage, everything is wrong.
No cheering. No champagne. No celebration.
Just frantic movement.
People rushing. Whispers. Hands grabbing ice buckets and towels.
Your heart stops.
“What—Vanessa—what’s happening?”
Before she can answer, you hear an engineer shout:
“Get the ice bath ready! Strip the car fan off—get him out of the suit now!”
Your stomach drops to your knees.
Max.
They push the RB20 back into the garage and you hear the engine cut off. Max didn’t even get out of the car at the parc ferme.
Then—
Max slumps getting out of the car.
Almost collapses trying to take his helmet off.
Bradley and two mechanics catch him just before he hits the ground.
His face is beet red.
His hair is soaked.
He can barely keep his head up.
“Max, stay with us,” Brad says, shaking him lightly. “Look at me, mate.”
Max’s eyes barely slit open.
“I—need… air,” he rasps.
The medic checks him quickly.
“He’s overheating. Dehydration. Get the ice bath NOW.”
Your vision blurs watching this unfold.
Vanessa grabs your elbow.
“Y/N—wait—”
But someone else grabs your wrist.
“You—here!”
It’s one of the Red Bull team members, shoving a soaked, freezing cold towel into your hands.
“Hold this on his head! Don’t let it move!”
You freeze.
“What? Me?”
“Yes! I need to get more towels—we need someone to hold this on his head!”
Max is practically sprawled out on the garage floor in front of the rb20. The mechanics rush to close the garage so no one can see inside. There was so much happening around you as you kneel immediately, towel in hand, pressing it to Max’s scalp as instructed.
His skin is burning under your palm. You pull his head into your lap to give him a more comfortable place to rest instead of the hard concrete floor beneath you.
“Max,” you whisper, breath shaky, rubbing a thumb across his temple, “hey—hey, stay awake.”
His lashes flicker.
And for the first time in months—
he looks at you.
Eyes foggy, unfocused, but soft.
Soft like his walls finally dropped.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t snap at you, and instead he leans into your touch.
Your heart breaks a little.
“Bath’s ready!” someone shouts.
“Move him!”
Bradley and two mechanics lift Max again. He groans as he’s removed from your thighs.
His knees buckle a little.
You stand, towel still on his head, walking with them as they guide him toward the small treatment room off the garage, behind the tire racks.
Max’s hand—unsteady, trembling—reaches out blindly and finds yours. Your chest seizes.
“Stay,” he whispers. Barely audible. “Stay, please…”
His voice cracks—weak, scared, vulnerable.
You’ve never heard him like this.
You squeeze his hand.
“I’m here,” you whisper, throat tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As they guide him into the room and toward the ice bath, he leans his forehead against your temple for a split second.
A broken, overheated, wordless apology.
Your heart shatters. You stay. Of course you stay. Even if it hurts you—you stay.
They remove Max’s race suit and lower Max into the ice bath slowly, carefully — but even then, the shock hits him like a punch to the face.
He grits his teeth, a strangled sound slipping out as the water climbs up his abdomen, then his chest. His fingers clench around the edges of the tub, knuckles bone-white.
Bradley kneels beside him, checking his pulse, giving instructions that Max is barely conscious enough to follow.
“Deep breaths,” Brad murmurs. “Slow. We’ll bring your temp down gradually.”
But Max’s breaths are fast. Panicked. Shallow. His teeth are chattering together.
Your heart twists. He looks so out of it.
The rest of the crew lingers for a few moments — Someone pokes their head in from outside.
“The podium celebrations have been postponed. Media’s been told he’s being seen by medical.”
Another voice adds:
“Y/N, if he needs anything, just come get us.”
You blink.
“Me?”
“Yeah,” Brad says, almost distracted. “He seems comfortable for now. I am going to get him electrolytes. Just… stay with him. Keep him grounded.”
Then the last of them file out.
The door shuts.
And suddenly it’s so quiet.
Just you. Him. And the sound of ice cracking in freezing water.
He leans back, breath trembling, the towel still pressed to his forehead. His eyes are glassy, unfocused — somewhere between exhaustion and delirium.
“Max?” you whisper, kneeling beside the tub.
His lashes lift.
Slow.
Like they weigh a thousand pounds.
He stares at you.
Really stares.
And something in his expression breaks open.
“Are you…” he whispers, voice hoarse. “…real?”
Your breath catches.
He reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, then sliding into your hair — barely there, like he’s afraid he’ll go through you.
“I saw you,” he murmurs. “In the garage. Thought I was imagining it.”
“I’m real,” you whisper, leaning closer. “I’m right here.”
His thumb traces your temple with a soft, shaky stroke, like he’s memorizing proof of you.
His voice comes out quiet. Unsteady.
Vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard.
“I… lost consciousness.”
Your blood goes cold.
“What?”
He swallows hard.
“In the car.” A pause. A trembling inhale.
“I blacked out. Just for a few seconds.”
“Max—”
“I thought—” his voice cracks, “—I wasn’t going to wake up.”
Your throat tightens.
He looks away, ashamed.
“I didn’t tell them,” he says, breath shaky from the cold and from the words he’s forcing out. “Didn’t want to get pulled from the race.”
You put a hand against his cheek — wet, freezing, somehow still blazing hot beneath the surface.
“Max, that’s not—”
“I know.”
His eyes flick back to yours.
“I know. It was stupid.”
Another breath. Uncertain. Raw. His eyes as blue as the ocean.
There’s tears in them now.
“But the only thing I could think was… this might be it.”
The ice water ripples as he lifts a hand toward you again — slow, weak, trembling — resting it against your jaw.
“And I hadn’t seen you yet. Apologized for everything.”
Your heart stumbles.
“You kept me going,” he whispers. “I just kept thinking… I’ll see her again. Just hold on. Just a little longer. Just—”
His voice breaks.
“—just get to her. I didn’t even care about how the race would end.”
Your pulse is a drum in your chest, loud and aching and terrified.
“Max…”
His eyes close, forehead leaning forward until it rests lightly against your hand.
“I was so scared,” he admits, barely audible. “I’ve never been that scared in the car. And all I wanted was you.”
His breathing turns uneven. Not quite crying.
Like the adrenaline has finally worn off and the fear is catching up.
“Why are you here?” he whispers. “After everything I said?”
“Because you needed someone,” you say softly. “And I still—”
You stop.
But the rest hangs there in the air.
You still loved him, you thought.
Max opens his eyes.
Even half-delirious, the emotion in them is unmistakable.
“I didn’t mean it,” he murmurs. “What I said before. I was angry. Scared. You weren’t a distraction. You were…”
He struggles for the right words. “…I just didn’t want to feel something real.”
The ride back to the hotel is quiet, the car humming softly under your hands as you keep a careful eye on Max. His arm is draped over the center console, fingers loosely brushing yours every so often. He doesn’t speak much, but the occasional soft groan, the way he leans against the door, tells you he’s exhausted—physically and emotionally. It’s kind of ironic that it’s you driving him now after everything.
Once in his hotel room, he sinks onto the couch, still pale and flushed from the heat and stress. You sit beside him, gently tugging his jacket off his shoulders. He shivers, and instinctively, his hand finds your hips, head pressing against your stomach, pulling you in for warmth.
You squeeze his shoulders to comfort him. Your fingers combing through his hair.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers, voice rough, breathy against your naval.
“I’m not,” you murmur, brushing a lock of sweat-matted hair off his forehead.
He pulls you into a much deeper hug, bringing you down onto the couch with him. You’re straddling him and he’s holding onto you like you’d float away if he didn’t. Suddenly, pressing his lips to yours softly, tentatively. Sweet, desperate. Nothing rushed, nothing forceful. Just… him. Full of gratitude, fear, and longing all tangled together.
You tilt your head, letting him pull you closer, then gently pull back, hands still resting on his chest. Your eyes meet, and it’s like the whole world narrows down to just the two of you.
“So cold… ‘s too much,” he murmurs against your lips, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t want to let go.”
You shake your head softly, heart hammering. “Not now. Not yet. We’ll go slow.”
He groans softly, but doesn’t resist, curling slightly into you. The vulnerability in his eyes, the way he leans into your touch—it’s all aching and raw.
You settle next to him on the couch, draping an arm around his shoulders, letting him lean into you. He nuzzles against your neck, breathing you in, and you feel the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your hand. His arms snake their way around your waist and he’s holding you against him, the side of his face pressed against your stomach as he practically lays you down.
Minutes pass. Hours feel like minutes. He murmurs your name, soft, broken, almost like a prayer as you play with his hair.
“I’m… sorry,” he whispers. “For everything. I… I didn’t know how to deal with it.” It was like this particular race shook him to his core.
You press a gentle kiss to his temple. “I know. Maxie… It’s okay. I’m here now.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face against you “I’m being a bit clingy, huh?”
“You’re allowed to be,” you murmur. “Tonight, I’m taking care of you. Plus, I kind of like it.”
He hums, leaning closer. Tentatively, he kisses you again—this time lingering, deep, full of all the words neither of you can say aloud yet.
You respond softly, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself melt into him… then pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his.
The longing in his eyes mirrors yours. The quiet ache between you is heavy but… safe.
Eventually, you let your eyelids droop, exhaustion from the week and the emotional roller coaster catching up. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms around you, keeping you close, cradle-like.
And for the first time in months, with him warm and soft against you, you fall asleep with Max holding you, the tension of the past months dissolving into a quiet, fragile peace.
-
The sunlight filters in through the thin curtains, warm and soft, casting a golden glow across the room. You stir first, blinking against the brightness, feeling the steady weight of Max still pressed against your stomach. His arm drapes loosely around your waist, pulling you closer when you stir. His large body is taking up the entire hotel room couch but you can’t help but feel heat pooling in your cheeks at the sight of it. He’s so large that his body is swallowing you.
Your heart skips. He looks… peaceful, finally relaxed. His hair is mussed in every direction, damp from sleep, and a faint sheen of sweat from yesterday still clings to his neck. Even like this, vulnerable and messy, he’s impossibly good-looking. Your pulse quickens. How did you both get to this point? If you had told yourself that the guy you met on the balcony would now be using you like a pillow and making your heart skip a beat you wouldn’t believe it.
He shifts slightly, muttering your name in his half-asleep, rough voice.
“Morning,” you whisper in a sing-song voice, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
He groans, burying his face into your waist. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Don’t go.”
You bite your lip, smiling softly. Giggling a little, “Maxie, I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a pause as he relaxes further into your hold, fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm. His touch is tentative, testing boundaries, but there’s heat in it. That same unspoken pull from the past months that neither of you can ignore forever.
You hear the sound of your phone vibrating nonstop on the coffee table. You reach over to grab it without moving Max off your waist as his eyes flutter shut again.
The second you unlock it, your notifications explode across the screen.
Vanessa, Lando, and Oscar are asking for updates.
Then you see the tags from drama pages saying that Max Verstappen was not in good shape last night after the Singapore grand prix.
The tabloids say that he was seen being driven by you out of the paddock. You would usually be a little annoyed but people care about him so much. It’s sweet.
And on and on you scroll. Dozens of messages. A few memes. A couple clips of commentators talking about how brutal the conditions were. One clip of Max stumbling getting out of the car — you scroll past that so fast you almost drop the phone.
Your heart squeezes. They’re all worried.
And then you look back down at Max…
…he fell asleep again in your lap, cheek pressed to your thigh, brows relaxed at last, his hands wrapped around you.
You feel something warm, and stupid, and kind bloom in your chest.
Before you can overthink it, you angle your phone and snap a picture — just his hair, his hand squeezing your waist, the blanket, nothing too revealing. Just enough to show:
He’s safe. He’s resting. He’s with you.
You open Instagram, your finger hovering for a moment over “Add to story,” your heart thudding too hard for someone who’s “just checking in.”
Then you type the caption:
“He’s okay guys — I got him ❤️”
You hesitate only one beat before hitting post.
Your phone vibrates immediately — heart reacts pouring in, replies popping up — but you set it aside, sliding your fingers gently into Max’s hair.
He stirs at the touch, pressing closer to your stomach with a sleepy sigh.
“I… can’t believe I’m here with you,” he murmurs, finally lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glazed from sleep, but the intensity is still there. That stormy mix of desire, guilt, and longing.
“I stayed,” you tease softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “And you didn’t push me away this time.”
His lips twitch into a half-smile. “I tried… but I can’t.” He hesitates, swallowing. “You’re… impossible. And I’ve wanted you the whole time.”
You feel the ache in your chest. The way he says it, so raw, makes it impossible not to lean in.
“Max…” you start, but he sits up enough to cut you off with a soft, lingering kiss. Just enough to make your knees weaken, just enough to ignite every nerve in your body.
When you pull back slightly, heart racing, he’s still close, forehead pressed against yours. “We don’t have to rush,” he whispers, voice low, shaky. “But… I can’t hide how I feel about you anymore.”
You nod, trembling slightly, letting your hand slide down his chest, feeling the warmth, the steady beat of his heart. “I don’t want to keep hiding it either,” you admit. “In fact, I might’ve just hard launched you on social media trying to let everyone know you’re okay.”
He chuckles softly, breathless, brushing his lips over yours again, this time more insistently, a teasing tug that promises more.
“So what you’re saying is, you’re my girlfriend?” The tension between you is tangible, almost painful, and every glance, every brush of skin sends sparks racing through you.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, that teasing smirk falters into something deeper—wanting, unrestrained. He leans in, brushing his lips over yours, not quite claiming, not quite asking. Just hovering, testing. Your chest tightens.
“God, you look too good like this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw, your neck. “And I can’t… I shouldn’t…”
You catch his hand and press it to your side, feeling the heat radiate from him. He’s on top of you now, hovering above you on this tiny hotel couch. You’re not sure how you both managed to fall asleep here when there’s a perfectly good bed in the corner of the room.
“You don’t have to stop, especially since I’m your girlfriend” you whisper, teasingly into his mouth.
He groans, low and guttural, tilting his head to claim your lips fully this time. There’s no hesitation, just a slow, heated push and pull—soft and desperate.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he admits between kisses, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Every time I see you, I—” He stops abruptly, almost pained.
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing closer, feeling the warmth, the unspoken months of want and frustration finally pressing back. “Max, stop holding yourself back.”
Max pauses, just long enough for your eyes to meet—messy hair falling over his forehead, sweat glistening on his skin, the barest hint of red across his cheeks—and you see that struggle in his eyes. He wants everything, but he’s still holding back.
“You feel that too, don’t you?” he whispers, fingers tracing a slow path down your spine. He pulls you into him as he sits now to look at you. “This… pull. You’ll never be out of my system.”
You shiver, biting your lip, nodding just slightly. “Yes.”
He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, lips hovering, and your chest tightens. Every inch, every second stretched out like a taut wire, charged with desire, longing, and the sweet ache of finally being close after months of teasing, arguing, and near misses.
“Maxie,” you mutter, voice low, almost a whine. “I picked you, months ago, I picked you. I’ve been waiting for you to… pick me back. I-I love you.”
You can feel it, every brush of his lips, the lingering heat of his hands, and it’s enough to make you dizzy. Enough to make you forget the world outside this hotel room, the cameras, the podiums, everything—because right now, it’s just him and you.
Max pulls back to look at you, fully absorbing what you’ve just said. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His eyes search yours, loving, desperate, and impossibly warm. “Me? You love me?” he says quietly, voice breaking just slightly in surprise. “I… I love you y/n.,”
Your heart is hammering, your chest tight, your skin aching with want, but there’s a softness there too, in his gaze, in the way he lingers, that makes it impossible to pull away.
🚦⭑.ᐟ Singapore GP is way too hot, and so is all the unresolved tension between you and Max. Months after his cold “no distractions” dismissal, you return to the paddock glowing, grounded, and finally healing. Max pretends not to see you — until he does. The heat takes its toll, and Max overheats in the car, leaving the team scrambling as he stumbles out, barely conscious... leaving you to tend to him.
Pairings:
Max Verstappen x Reader
Lando Norris x Reader
Reader x Rockstar OC (ex) *loosely based on Andy Biersack
-> future *semi Oscar Piastri x Reader
Tags/Warnings:
Fem!Influencer!readerSlight!Oc but not really, just story building for Y/N{2024-present season based}
*Not always lore accurate
Slight #Smau - Social Media
Alternate UniverseToxic/semi-abusive relationship with established rockstar boyfriend, alcohol use, drunken behavior, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, public argument, heated kissing, paparazzi & social media mentions, angst, depression, themes of escape, reinvention & heartbreak, very light smut references (fade to black) -> the future chapters will include smut, unprotected sex, enemies-to-??? extreme slow burn in the making, love triangle, love square, let's just say the reader has a reverse harem
Disclaimer: This is a fictional fan work. I do not own or claim to represent any real individuals (including Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, or any public figures mentioned). All characterizations and events are fictional. Please don’t confuse this with real life. This is for entertainment only.
🔞 NSFW Disclaimer: This is a fictional and mature fan story featuring adult themes, emotional intensity, and potentially explicit content.
A/N: RAHHHHHH - Thank you guys so much for sticking through this <333 My PC crashed and I thought that I lost this entire doc. I replaced my PSU (by myself! pls be proud of me :P) and now I can finally finish this fic * evilly rubs my hands together*
One more chapter to go.... hehehehe... how we feeling?
The paddock is loud, well, it’s always loud, but somehow it still feels like silence presses on your ears the moment you spot him.
Max.
Walking ahead of his engineers, race suit half unzipped, head down—even from a distance, it hits you like it always does. That feeling in your stomach that never really goes away, even with the passing of time. Three months to be exact now, 6 race weekends and two breaks.
He still doesn’t look at you though. Not once.
Not even a flicker. Not even a hint of anger towards you. Nothing.
Like you dont even exist in his world anymore. Like none of this, none of you, ever happened.
Vanessa nudges your shoulder lightly breaking you free from your daze.
“Don’t,” she murmurs. “You promised you wouldn’t stare.”
“I’m not staring,” you lie, cheeks going red.
“You are staring,” she corrects. “Like, a lot actually. Should we leave?”
You elbow her in feign annoyance, and she grins, but her eyes soften when they return to your face, worry painted across her face.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
You’re not.
You’ve been trying to be. Ever since Max’s last real words to you, without the cameras — sharp, quiet, decisive — cut whatever invisible string there was between you pulling you together.
“You’re just noise. A distraction I don’t want, not now, not ever.”
You spent months picking yourself up after that. Making new friends. Less doom-scrolling. More sleep. More breathing. More being… you.
Healing from Cyrus. Healing from Lando. You couldn’t quite shake the dutch man though.
But, alas, somehow… you became lighter. Brighter and more centered.
So it doesn’t make sense that your stomach is folding in on itself now after all this time.
As if time had heard your quiet plea for kindness and chose to ignore it, Max’s path crosses yours and Vanessa’s by your walk to the Media Pen, and you know he sees you but he keeps walking.
Vanessa exhales.
“Oof. Okay. That hurt even me…”
“He said he didn’t want distractions remember?”
Your voice is small.
“Well, that meant me.”
Vanessa scoffs. “And now you’re the distraction because what? You’re single single? Did he only like you when there was competition involved?” she rolls her eyes.
You wince. “That’s not—”
“Well you are!” she interrupts. “And not to mention — this is the happiest I’ve seen you in months. He probably hates it.”
“Why would he hate that?”
“Because,” she says, lowering her voice, “you look like someone who’s over him now.”
“Hey—”
Lando’s voice pops in from behind, hesitant but warm.
You turn, surprised. “Lando?”
He gives a half-smile. “I, uh… wasn’t sure if I should come over.
Vanessa said you might not want to talk to me.” He shoots her a devilish smirk.
Vanessa mutters, “Damn it, I said might.”
Lando fiddles with the wristband on his hand. “Just wanted to say hi. And… check in on you.”
You shrug, trying not to make it any mroe awkward than it already was.
“Hi. I’m okay.”
He nods, but he doesn’t move.
He studies your face with the kind of confusing sincerity that should make you uncomfortable, but doesn’t.
“I don’t get it,” he says softly. His eyes searching yours now.
“Get what?”
“Why you cut things off with me if…”
He glances over your shoulder toward where Max had passed you.
“…if that isn’t even happening anymore.”
Your throat tightens.
Vanessa steps in like a wolf guarding her pack.
“Because she didn’t want to use you as a rebound, Lando. She cares about you too much for that.”
Lando nods, guilt crossing his features.
“I know. I get that. I’m not trying to make things weird. I just—”
He rubs his neck.
“I just don’t understand how you two aren’t together. Everyone sees it. Even he sees it.”
You swallow.
“Not anymore.”
Lando opens his mouth but stops when his radio engineer calls him.
“Anyway,” he says softly, backing away, “I’m still around. If you need me. Or… if you don’t.” He winks.
You smile. “Thanks, Lan.”
He jogs off, leaving a knot in your chest you didn’t ask for.
Vanessa watches him go.
“He’s being so respectful, it’s actually painful. I hate that you didn’t pick him.”
“I know, I know.”
Singapore Grand Prix weekend means one thing: heat. Heavy, relentless, wrap-around-your-lungs heat. You’re already sweating through the barely-there outfit you chose for survival, and you can’t fathom how the drivers manage to walk—let alone breathe—in their fireproof race suits.
The heat grows heavier the longer you stand there — thick, sticky, clinging to your skin.
Vanessa waves a hand in front of her face. “Okay, I’m going to get water before I literally evaporate.”
You nod, grateful for the moment alone. “Go. I’ll be here.”
She squeezes your arm and slips away, leaving you in the noise and light and sweat of the paddock.
You pull out the flimsy paper fan someone handed you at the entrance and start fanning your face, praying for even one molecule of cold air. Sweat trickles down your spine; your shirt sticks to your skin. You’re melting. You tug at your hair to lift it off your neck. The sweat making its way down your chest, past your breasts and pooling in your naval.
You’re too busy trying not to pass out to notice at first — but then you feel it.
Eyes on you. Behind you.
You follow the prickle of heat up your neck and turn to see—
Max. Watching you.
He stands across the media pen, waiting for his interview slot, hands on his hips, race suit peeled to the waist, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who hasn’t driven yet. His face is flushed — deep red at the cheeks, damp tufts of blonde hair glued to his forehead.
You don’t know if it’s the temperature or anger or if this is just what he looks like when he’s trying very, very hard not to feel anything.
Even from here, he looks completely wrecked. Overheated. Uncomfortable. And beautiful in that painfully unreachable way.
You freeze mid-sweep of your fan.
For a second — just a tiny, impossible second — his eyes soften.
Something like recognition flickers.
And then he looks away sharply, jaw tensing, shoulders setting like concrete.
A PR handler calls your name.
“Perfect timing! You’re hosting the Guess the Driver segment with Max and Lando in thirty.”
Your stomach plummets. Hosting.
Meaning you’ll be standing in front of him.
Meaning you won’t be able to hide behind Vanessa or your fan or the crowd.
Meaning Max will have to look at you. Where was Vanessa when you needed her.
You’re handed a stack of laminated cards covered in hilariously terrible fan-drawn portraits of F1 drivers. Thick Sharpie lines. Goofy smiles. Uncanny eyes. Exactly the type of thing fans love watching drivers suffer through.
In front of you sit Lando and Max—two chairs angled toward the camera, a small high table between them, and your tiny blue mic in your hand. They’re barely looking at each other. They’re definitely not looking at you… yet.
You clear your throat, putting on your host-voice.
Lando lifts his hand in a shy, careful wave — the kind that says I don’t want to step on any landmines, but I’m here if you let me be.
You smile back, small but grounded.
Max… doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say hello.
Doesn’t even pretend to acknowledge you’re standing less than six feet away from him right now.
He sits stiffly, elbows on his knees, jaw working, hair plastered to his forehead from the heat. His race shirt clings to his chest and shoulders — damp, stretched, showing every line of tension running through him. He’s overheated and looks way more red up close. He continuously sips through his red bull water bottle trying to stay hydrated.
But the moment the cameras start rolling, you see it:
He’s not looking at you
—but at your fan.
You’re fanning yourself out of instinct, each sweep moving air across your collarbones, lifting strands of hair from your neck. It’s innocent, really. Until you pull your hair from off your neck again, pulling your head to one side as if it’ll give you just what you needed right now.
Air.
Max’s eyes track every movement.
You clear your throat and begin reading. “Okay, first drawing—”
“Lewis.” Max answers immediately, monotone.
You blink. “I… didn’t even show the picture yet.”
Lando snorts. “I think he’s speed running the game.”
“It’s too hot for this.” Max mutters under his breath, too low for the cameras, but not low enough for you.
Your chest pinches.
You hold up the card anyway. Max is right.
“Alright,” you say lightly, “next one—”
You flip the second card and Lando leans forward, squinting dramatically.
You swallow past the knot in your chest and move on.
“A clue: This driver cried when he got pole once.”
“That’s me?” Lando bursts out laughing. “I look like a potato with teeth!”
You laugh — a real one you didn’t mean to let out — and Max’s attention snaps toward the sound like a reflex he hates himself for still having.
His eyes meet yours.
And the moment is electric.
Like he’s angry that Lando made you laugh.
Like the heat in the paddock is nothing compared to the one crawling under his skin.
You tear your gaze away too fast, heart misfiring now.
“Okay, card three—”
This time, Lando stares up at you before guessing, clearly distracted, clearly thinking something while his eyes were locked on your neck, and that is what Max sees.
Not the picture. Not the game.
Just Lando… looking at what he had just been looking at.
Max’s eyes go cold.
The same look he gives rival drivers when they’re lining up beside him before race start. His jaw slack and his brows unconsciously pulling together.
You feel your pulse thump uncomfortably.
Lando finally guesses wrong — hilariously wrong — and you giggle again despite trying not to.
Max shifts in his seat, uncomfortable and pointedly looking anywhere but at the two of you.
But he keeps glancing back.
Quick flashes.
Barely-there cuts of attention that feel like fingers brushing your skin. You wanted him to look at you. You wanted him to still feel what you felt when you were in a room with him. How is it so easy for him to ignore?
You try to ignore the way Max’s gaze drops, for a brief, disloyal second, to the exposed strip of skin at your collarbone—the one the heat forced you to leave bare today. His jaw flexes and —Oh! You finally see what he’s trying so hard not to look at. Instead of shutting it down you decide to make it worse for him by bringing your cool water bottle to your neck. The condensation dripping down your clavicle.
He drags his eyes away. Tears them away, actually. Shifting uncomfortably for the umpteenth time during this interview.
You keep hosting.
They keep guessing.
And all the while, the tension between you and Max hums like a live wire. You keep selfishly stealing looks now. The way Max is practically panting in front of you, cheeks the color of Charles’ Ferrari.
“Next clue,” you say quickly, voice thin. “Uh—he once got stuck in an elevator…”
Max: “George.”
Lando: “George.”
You exhale. “Yes, correct! Good job boys.”
But Max simply isn’t paying attention anymore.
He’s still staring at you. Not with a softness or affection but rather a frustration or restraint. Or lack of.
Like the heat is melting all the distance he tried to build over these past few months. He is so visibly frustrated it’s starting to hurt you.
You pretend not to notice, flipping to the next card, but your fingers shake again. Legs crossing uncomfortably.
By the last card, Lando is relaxed, laughing, nudging Max occasionally—completely oblivious to what is happening around him.
Max is so good at undressing you with his eyes that if you were to look at him now you might just jump his bones. So you don’t.
Max answers dryly, checks his watch, rolls his shoulders, wipes sweat from his neck for the seventh time.
You swallow and read the final card. “Okay, last one—”
But before you can finish, Max cuts in:
“Can we go? It’s too hot to sit here and pretend this is normal.” His voice cracks a little in a whine that only you catch.
His words are directed at no one in particular but you knew it was for you and you only.
The crew scrambles, the cameras cut, the media crew murmur quick wrap-ups.
Lando stands first, smiling softly at you. “Good job. You made that fun. As always.”
You nod with a small smile. “Thanks.”
Max stands last. Shifting a little to adjust himself.
He wipes his forehead again, breath uneven, chest rising too quickly.
He’s burning. And trying desperately not to show it.
As he turns to leave, he glances at Lando — at how close he’s standing to you now — and something dark flickers across his expression again.
Jealousy, sharp as a blade.
But when his eyes land on yours?
They go blank.
Wiped clean. He was back to being indifferent, cold, and calculated.
He steps around you both without a word.
But as he passes, you feel it — the tiniest brush of his arm against yours. Sending jolts of electricity up your arm.
And then just like that — he’s gone. Everything once again, in the past.
♡
The Singapore sun feels like it’s settled directly on your shoulders as it goes down for the night.
Even in your lightest outfit—shorts, a cropped mclaren team tee you got from a PR intern, and your hair in a low, messy ponytail—you’re already sweating before you clear the security gate.
You adjust your media lanyard and exhale.
It’s Race day.
Vanessa walks beside you, sipping a painfully neon energy drink. One of Lando’s monsters.
“Singapore is actually trying to kill us,” she mutters.
You snort. “Everything is wet. Even the air feels wet.”
“Ew, babe.” She gives you a pitied once-over. “Don’t remind me.”
Despite everything—Max avoiding you, Lando’s confusion, the awkward quiet between corners of the paddock—Vanessa makes you laugh. She squeezes your arm. This race should be fun overall.
“You ready for today?” she asks gently.
Are you? No. Maybe. You don’t know.
“Yeah,” you lie. “Busy day ahead for the boys.”
She catches the lie. She always does.
But she lets it go this time.
Vanessa throws up her pointer finger to single someone is calling her. “I’ll catch up!” You hear her answer with a smile.
The paddock before a night race is a different energy—hyped, charged, jittery.
Fans screaming from barriers.
Engines firing in the garages.
Teams rushing with headsets and clipboards.
You step aside as a group of Ferrari crew barrel past with a trolley of tires.
“Careful, love,” someone says behind you.
You turn and see Oscar, hands shoved into his McLaren shorts pockets, hair slightly damp already.
He smiles softly.
“You almost got run over,” he says.
“Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you say. “Influencer death.”
He snorts. “At least it’d go viral.”
You roll your eyes and keep walking with him toward the McLaren hospitality.
“How’re you feeling today?” he asks.
“Hot,” you say. “Stressed. Avoiding emotions. Normal things.”
He hums.
“Yeah. Same.”
You laugh, and it loosens something in your chest.
Oscar bumps your shoulder lightly.
“If you need anything today… someone to walk you between buildings, or someone to block Max from seeing you—just let me know.”
You blink.
“You know about that?”
Oscar gives you a look.
“Lando told me.”
You’re near the McLaren wall of screens when Lando appears, helmet under his arm, fireproofs half on. He looks freshly showered, hair damp, curls sticking to his forehead.
He brightens when he sees you.
“There she is,” he says, voice warm and relieved. “Thought you were hiding from me today.”
You swallow.
You kind of were.
Lando steps closer, eyes soft but searching.
“You look good,” he says quietly.
You force a smile. “It’s definitely the sweat.”
“Still good,” he shrugs.
Before it can get weird, Vanessa sees this and swoops in to grab your wrist.
“Borrowing her,” she tells Lando and Oscar. “Girl stuff.”
“Girl stuff?” Lando repeats, confused. “What does—?”
Vanessa doesn’t let him finish and drags you off, whispering,
“He is one longing stare away from asking you to take him back. I’m protecting your sanity.”
You laugh, but your stomach twists.
Lando wasn’t wrong to be confused.
You cut things off. Max pushed you away.
And somehow you ended up alone on both fronts.
You and Vanessa weave through crowds toward the media center when you hear it—
That distinct, unmistakable Dutch accent.
“Is the telemetry fine? It didn’t match what we saw during qualifying.”
Your heart drops into your stomach.
You don’t even want to look—
but your eyes betray you.
Max stands just outside his garage, fireproofs tied around his waist, drinking from a red bull water bottle. His hair is sticking up slightly, damp from the heat. His face is flushed, jaw clenched like the heat was getting to him.
He looks good. Annoyingly good. Frustratingly good. UGH.
You wrench your eyes away.
Vanessa mutters, “You wanna go the long way?”
“Yes,” you answer instantly.
But as you turn, Max shifts.
His attention flicks—fast, sharp—
straight to you.
His brows pinch the tiniest bit.
Like seeing you physically hurts him.
You look away first.
You always do now.
You and Vanessa escape down the opposite walkway, pretending not to hear the way Max’s voice drops mid-sentence.
Pretending not to feel the stare burning between your shoulder blades.
Pretending he didn’t look at you like he remembers the exact feeling of having you pressed against him not too long ago.
You retreat to the media pen platform, exhaling hard.
Vanessa nudges your shoulder.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Absolutely not.”
She laughs and loops her arm through yours.
"Fine. Then we’re talking about literally anything else. Like how I will never understand why the drivers don’t melt into little puddles at the hot races."
You smile.
For the first time all day, it feels real.
The lights on the track shift.
Engines rev.
This is it.
You lift your headset, ready to watch, ready to distract yourself, ready to pretend everything is fine for the next two hours.
Somewhere on the grid, Max straps into his car.
Somewhere in all of this, everything inside you is tightening into one single truth:
Something has to give.
And soon. You can almost feel it.
The broadcast opens with the usual glamour shots, but even the camera lenses look hazy, like even the air is sweating.
Martin Brundle’s voice comes through your headphones: “Welcome to Singapore for what is already the hottest Grand Prix weekend on record.”
Then followed by Ted Kravitz: “Yes, we’re hearing cockpit temperatures could exceed 60 degrees Celsius tonight. Absolutely brutal conditions for the drivers.”
You swallow.
You knew it was hot.
You didn’t know it was dangerous hot.
The lights go out.
The race begins.
You’re watching from the paddock screens with Vanessa as Red Bull’s radio crackles through the broadcast.
Lando: “It’s like a sauna in here, mate. My visor’s fogging.”
Lando’s race engineer, Will: “Understood. Just keep pushing. You got this.”
Then Oscar—
Oscar: “Uh—I’m overheating in here.”
Oscar’s race engineer, Tom: “Copy Oscar. Just keep your head down.”
Martin sucks in a breath.“Drivers are really suffering today. That humidity is no joke.”
Ted quickly replies, “Look at Max Verstappen—he’s fighting the car and the heat. He’s just visibly uncomfortable now.”
On-screen, Max shifts in his seat, shoulders tense, his gloved hands move under the halo whenever they can to get a cool air flow. Even through the onboard, you can see it—
He’s suffering.
You grip the railing.
Vanessa glances at you.
“You okay?”
You nod. You’re not. You’re still relatively new to F1 but this was just unnerving and you were so anxious.
Then—
Max: “Guys I’m… losing strength. My head feels—so heavy.”
Your heart drops. F1 drivers are able to withstand so much so for Max to say that he can barely hold his head up is not good.
Engineer: “Copy Max. Just a few more laps. Cool your brakes when you can, reserve your breathing.”
But the onboard shows it clearly:
Max slumps slightly in the seat.
Ted’s voice sharpens. “Verstappen looks really unwell. That is not normal movement from the dutch driver.”
You feel your throat tighten. You hear the crowd react.
Vanessa grips your arm.
“Oh my god.”
And despite everything—
the heat
his voice fading
the way he keeps leaning his head back like he’s desperate for cool air—
Max crosses the finish line first.
Pandemonium.
Fans scream.
The broadcast cuts to the drivers finishing their laps.
You don’t feel relief.
Not fully.
Because Max doesn’t whoop or scream or celebrate immediately like he usually does.
He doesn’t even lift a hand as does his cool down lap.
His radio is quiet for several seconds.
Too quiet.
Finally:
Max, voice slurred:
“Yep. Good job.”
That’s it. No laugh. No victory yell.
Vanessa swallows hard.
“That didn’t sound good…”
The Red Bull screen shows Max rolling slowly, too slowly, as he pulls into the number 1 spot.
You feel cold despite the heat.
Vanessa sees the crew celebrating on TV and bumps your shoulder.
“Come on, let’s go down there Bradley before he disappears.”
You blink.
“Why would he—”
“Because Max won? You think Brad isn’t about to be swallowed by media?”
Fair point. After the cool down room Bradley would be with the rest of the red bull team.
So you go with her.
You expect noise. Shouts. High-fives. Music.
Instead—
When you turn into the Red Bull garage, everything is wrong.
No cheering. No champagne. No celebration.
Just frantic movement.
People rushing. Whispers. Hands grabbing ice buckets and towels.
Your heart stops.
“What—Vanessa—what’s happening?”
Before she can answer, you hear an engineer shout:
“Get the ice bath ready! Strip the car fan off—get him out of the suit now!”
Your stomach drops to your knees.
Max.
They push the RB20 back into the garage and you hear the engine cut off. Max didn’t even get out of the car at the parc ferme.
Then—
Max slumps getting out of the car.
Almost collapses trying to take his helmet off.
Bradley and two mechanics catch him just before he hits the ground.
His face is beet red.
His hair is soaked.
He can barely keep his head up.
“Max, stay with us,” Brad says, shaking him lightly. “Look at me, mate.”
Max’s eyes barely slit open.
“I—need… air,” he rasps.
The medic checks him quickly.
“He’s overheating. Dehydration. Get the ice bath NOW.”
Your vision blurs watching this unfold.
Vanessa grabs your elbow.
“Y/N—wait—”
But someone else grabs your wrist.
“You—here!”
It’s one of the Red Bull team members, shoving a soaked, freezing cold towel into your hands.
“Hold this on his head! Don’t let it move!”
You freeze.
“What? Me?”
“Yes! I need to get more towels—we need someone to hold this on his head!”
Max is practically sprawled out on the garage floor in front of the rb20. The mechanics rush to close the garage so no one can see inside. There was so much happening around you as you kneel immediately, towel in hand, pressing it to Max’s scalp as instructed.
His skin is burning under your palm. You pull his head into your lap to give him a more comfortable place to rest instead of the hard concrete floor beneath you.
“Max,” you whisper, breath shaky, rubbing a thumb across his temple, “hey—hey, stay awake.”
His lashes flicker.
And for the first time in months—
he looks at you.
Eyes foggy, unfocused, but soft.
Soft like his walls finally dropped.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t snap at you, and instead he leans into your touch.
Your heart breaks a little.
“Bath’s ready!” someone shouts.
“Move him!”
Bradley and two mechanics lift Max again. He groans as he’s removed from your thighs.
His knees buckle a little.
You stand, towel still on his head, walking with them as they guide him toward the small treatment room off the garage, behind the tire racks.
Max’s hand—unsteady, trembling—reaches out blindly and finds yours. Your chest seizes.
“Stay,” he whispers. Barely audible. “Stay, please…”
His voice cracks—weak, scared, vulnerable.
You’ve never heard him like this.
You squeeze his hand.
“I’m here,” you whisper, throat tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As they guide him into the room and toward the ice bath, he leans his forehead against your temple for a split second.
A broken, overheated, wordless apology.
Your heart shatters. You stay. Of course you stay. Even if it hurts you—you stay.
They remove Max’s race suit and lower Max into the ice bath slowly, carefully — but even then, the shock hits him like a punch to the face.
He grits his teeth, a strangled sound slipping out as the water climbs up his abdomen, then his chest. His fingers clench around the edges of the tub, knuckles bone-white.
Bradley kneels beside him, checking his pulse, giving instructions that Max is barely conscious enough to follow.
“Deep breaths,” Brad murmurs. “Slow. We’ll bring your temp down gradually.”
But Max’s breaths are fast. Panicked. Shallow. His teeth are chattering together.
Your heart twists. He looks so out of it.
The rest of the crew lingers for a few moments — Someone pokes their head in from outside.
“The podium celebrations have been postponed. Media’s been told he’s being seen by medical.”
Another voice adds:
“Y/N, if he needs anything, just come get us.”
You blink.
“Me?”
“Yeah,” Brad says, almost distracted. “He seems comfortable for now. I am going to get him electrolytes. Just… stay with him. Keep him grounded.”
Then the last of them file out.
The door shuts.
And suddenly it’s so quiet.
Just you. Him. And the sound of ice cracking in freezing water.
He leans back, breath trembling, the towel still pressed to his forehead. His eyes are glassy, unfocused — somewhere between exhaustion and delirium.
“Max?” you whisper, kneeling beside the tub.
His lashes lift.
Slow.
Like they weigh a thousand pounds.
He stares at you.
Really stares.
And something in his expression breaks open.
“Are you…” he whispers, voice hoarse. “…real?”
Your breath catches.
He reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek, then sliding into your hair — barely there, like he’s afraid he’ll go through you.
“I saw you,” he murmurs. “In the garage. Thought I was imagining it.”
“I’m real,” you whisper, leaning closer. “I’m right here.”
His thumb traces your temple with a soft, shaky stroke, like he’s memorizing proof of you.
His voice comes out quiet. Unsteady.
Vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard.
“I… lost consciousness.”
Your blood goes cold.
“What?”
He swallows hard.
“In the car.” A pause. A trembling inhale.
“I blacked out. Just for a few seconds.”
“Max—”
“I thought—” his voice cracks, “—I wasn’t going to wake up.”
Your throat tightens.
He looks away, ashamed.
“I didn’t tell them,” he says, breath shaky from the cold and from the words he’s forcing out. “Didn’t want to get pulled from the race.”
You put a hand against his cheek — wet, freezing, somehow still blazing hot beneath the surface.
“Max, that’s not—”
“I know.”
His eyes flick back to yours.
“I know. It was stupid.”
Another breath. Uncertain. Raw. His eyes as blue as the ocean.
There’s tears in them now.
“But the only thing I could think was… this might be it.”
The ice water ripples as he lifts a hand toward you again — slow, weak, trembling — resting it against your jaw.
“And I hadn’t seen you yet. Apologized for everything.”
Your heart stumbles.
“You kept me going,” he whispers. “I just kept thinking… I’ll see her again. Just hold on. Just a little longer. Just—”
His voice breaks.
“—just get to her. I didn’t even care about how the race would end.”
Your pulse is a drum in your chest, loud and aching and terrified.
“Max…”
His eyes close, forehead leaning forward until it rests lightly against your hand.
“I was so scared,” he admits, barely audible. “I’ve never been that scared in the car. And all I wanted was you.”
His breathing turns uneven. Not quite crying.
Like the adrenaline has finally worn off and the fear is catching up.
“Why are you here?” he whispers. “After everything I said?”
“Because you needed someone,” you say softly. “And I still—”
You stop.
But the rest hangs there in the air.
You still loved him, you thought.
Max opens his eyes.
Even half-delirious, the emotion in them is unmistakable.
“I didn’t mean it,” he murmurs. “What I said before. I was angry. Scared. You weren’t a distraction. You were…”
He struggles for the right words. “…I just didn’t want to feel something real.”
The ride back to the hotel is quiet, the car humming softly under your hands as you keep a careful eye on Max. His arm is draped over the center console, fingers loosely brushing yours every so often. He doesn’t speak much, but the occasional soft groan, the way he leans against the door, tells you he’s exhausted—physically and emotionally. It’s kind of ironic that it’s you driving him now after everything.
Once in his hotel room, he sinks onto the couch, still pale and flushed from the heat and stress. You sit beside him, gently tugging his jacket off his shoulders. He shivers, and instinctively, his hand finds your hips, head pressing against your stomach, pulling you in for warmth.
You squeeze his shoulders to comfort him. Your fingers combing through his hair.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers, voice rough, breathy against your naval.
“I’m not,” you murmur, brushing a lock of sweat-matted hair off his forehead.
He pulls you into a much deeper hug, bringing you down onto the couch with him. You’re straddling him and he’s holding onto you like you’d float away if he didn’t. Suddenly, pressing his lips to yours softly, tentatively. Sweet, desperate. Nothing rushed, nothing forceful. Just… him. Full of gratitude, fear, and longing all tangled together.
You tilt your head, letting him pull you closer, then gently pull back, hands still resting on his chest. Your eyes meet, and it’s like the whole world narrows down to just the two of you.
“So cold… ‘s too much,” he murmurs against your lips, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t want to let go.”
You shake your head softly, heart hammering. “Not now. Not yet. We’ll go slow.”
He groans softly, but doesn’t resist, curling slightly into you. The vulnerability in his eyes, the way he leans into your touch—it’s all aching and raw.
You settle next to him on the couch, draping an arm around his shoulders, letting him lean into you. He nuzzles against your neck, breathing you in, and you feel the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your hand. His arms snake their way around your waist and he’s holding you against him, the side of his face pressed against your stomach as he practically lays you down.
Minutes pass. Hours feel like minutes. He murmurs your name, soft, broken, almost like a prayer as you play with his hair.
“I’m… sorry,” he whispers. “For everything. I… I didn’t know how to deal with it.” It was like this particular race shook him to his core.
You press a gentle kiss to his temple. “I know. Maxie… It’s okay. I’m here now.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, burying his face against you “I’m being a bit clingy, huh?”
“You’re allowed to be,” you murmur. “Tonight, I’m taking care of you. Plus, I kind of like it.”
He hums, leaning closer. Tentatively, he kisses you again—this time lingering, deep, full of all the words neither of you can say aloud yet.
You respond softly, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself melt into him… then pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his.
The longing in his eyes mirrors yours. The quiet ache between you is heavy but… safe.
Eventually, you let your eyelids droop, exhaustion from the week and the emotional roller coaster catching up. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms around you, keeping you close, cradle-like.
And for the first time in months, with him warm and soft against you, you fall asleep with Max holding you, the tension of the past months dissolving into a quiet, fragile peace.
-
The sunlight filters in through the thin curtains, warm and soft, casting a golden glow across the room. You stir first, blinking against the brightness, feeling the steady weight of Max still pressed against your stomach. His arm drapes loosely around your waist, pulling you closer when you stir. His large body is taking up the entire hotel room couch but you can’t help but feel heat pooling in your cheeks at the sight of it. He’s so large that his body is swallowing you.
Your heart skips. He looks… peaceful, finally relaxed. His hair is mussed in every direction, damp from sleep, and a faint sheen of sweat from yesterday still clings to his neck. Even like this, vulnerable and messy, he’s impossibly good-looking. Your pulse quickens. How did you both get to this point? If you had told yourself that the guy you met on the balcony would now be using you like a pillow and making your heart skip a beat you wouldn’t believe it.
He shifts slightly, muttering your name in his half-asleep, rough voice.
“Morning,” you whisper in a sing-song voice, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
He groans, burying his face into your waist. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Don’t go.”
You bite your lip, smiling softly. Giggling a little, “Maxie, I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a pause as he relaxes further into your hold, fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm. His touch is tentative, testing boundaries, but there’s heat in it. That same unspoken pull from the past months that neither of you can ignore forever.
You hear the sound of your phone vibrating nonstop on the coffee table. You reach over to grab it without moving Max off your waist as his eyes flutter shut again.
The second you unlock it, your notifications explode across the screen.
Vanessa, Lando, and Oscar are asking for updates.
Then you see the tags from drama pages saying that Max Verstappen was not in good shape last night after the Singapore grand prix.
The tabloids say that he was seen being driven by you out of the paddock. You would usually be a little annoyed but people care about him so much. It’s sweet.
And on and on you scroll. Dozens of messages. A few memes. A couple clips of commentators talking about how brutal the conditions were. One clip of Max stumbling getting out of the car — you scroll past that so fast you almost drop the phone.
Your heart squeezes. They’re all worried.
And then you look back down at Max…
…he fell asleep again in your lap, cheek pressed to your thigh, brows relaxed at last, his hands wrapped around you.
You feel something warm, and stupid, and kind bloom in your chest.
Before you can overthink it, you angle your phone and snap a picture — just his hair, his hand squeezing your waist, the blanket, nothing too revealing. Just enough to show:
He’s safe. He’s resting. He’s with you.
You open Instagram, your finger hovering for a moment over “Add to story,” your heart thudding too hard for someone who’s “just checking in.”
Then you type the caption:
“He’s okay guys — I got him ❤️”
You hesitate only one beat before hitting post.
Your phone vibrates immediately — heart reacts pouring in, replies popping up — but you set it aside, sliding your fingers gently into Max’s hair.
He stirs at the touch, pressing closer to your stomach with a sleepy sigh.
“I… can’t believe I’m here with you,” he murmurs, finally lifting his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glazed from sleep, but the intensity is still there. That stormy mix of desire, guilt, and longing.
“I stayed,” you tease softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “And you didn’t push me away this time.”
His lips twitch into a half-smile. “I tried… but I can’t.” He hesitates, swallowing. “You’re… impossible. And I’ve wanted you the whole time.”
You feel the ache in your chest. The way he says it, so raw, makes it impossible not to lean in.
“Max…” you start, but he sits up enough to cut you off with a soft, lingering kiss. Just enough to make your knees weaken, just enough to ignite every nerve in your body.
When you pull back slightly, heart racing, he’s still close, forehead pressed against yours. “We don’t have to rush,” he whispers, voice low, shaky. “But… I can’t hide how I feel about you anymore.”
You nod, trembling slightly, letting your hand slide down his chest, feeling the warmth, the steady beat of his heart. “I don’t want to keep hiding it either,” you admit. “In fact, I might’ve just hard launched you on social media trying to let everyone know you’re okay.”
He chuckles softly, breathless, brushing his lips over yours again, this time more insistently, a teasing tug that promises more.
“So what you’re saying is, you’re my girlfriend?” The tension between you is tangible, almost painful, and every glance, every brush of skin sends sparks racing through you.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, that teasing smirk falters into something deeper—wanting, unrestrained. He leans in, brushing his lips over yours, not quite claiming, not quite asking. Just hovering, testing. Your chest tightens.
“God, you look too good like this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw, your neck. “And I can’t… I shouldn’t…”
You catch his hand and press it to your side, feeling the heat radiate from him. He’s on top of you now, hovering above you on this tiny hotel couch. You’re not sure how you both managed to fall asleep here when there’s a perfectly good bed in the corner of the room.
“You don’t have to stop, especially since I’m your girlfriend” you whisper, teasingly into his mouth.
He groans, low and guttural, tilting his head to claim your lips fully this time. There’s no hesitation, just a slow, heated push and pull—soft and desperate.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he admits between kisses, teeth grazing your lower lip. “Every time I see you, I—” He stops abruptly, almost pained.
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing closer, feeling the warmth, the unspoken months of want and frustration finally pressing back. “Max, stop holding yourself back.”
Max pauses, just long enough for your eyes to meet—messy hair falling over his forehead, sweat glistening on his skin, the barest hint of red across his cheeks—and you see that struggle in his eyes. He wants everything, but he’s still holding back.
“You feel that too, don’t you?” he whispers, fingers tracing a slow path down your spine. He pulls you into him as he sits now to look at you. “This… pull. You’ll never be out of my system.”
You shiver, biting your lip, nodding just slightly. “Yes.”
He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, lips hovering, and your chest tightens. Every inch, every second stretched out like a taut wire, charged with desire, longing, and the sweet ache of finally being close after months of teasing, arguing, and near misses.
“Maxie,” you mutter, voice low, almost a whine. “I picked you, months ago, I picked you. I’ve been waiting for you to… pick me back. I-I love you.”
You can feel it, every brush of his lips, the lingering heat of his hands, and it’s enough to make you dizzy. Enough to make you forget the world outside this hotel room, the cameras, the podiums, everything—because right now, it’s just him and you.
Max pulls back to look at you, fully absorbing what you’ve just said. His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His eyes search yours, loving, desperate, and impossibly warm. “Me? You love me?” he says quietly, voice breaking just slightly in surprise. “I… I love you y/n.,”
Your heart is hammering, your chest tight, your skin aching with want, but there’s a softness there too, in his gaze, in the way he lingers, that makes it impossible to pull away.
✨ hi hii ♡ i’m breezy and i write fanfiction as my little escape. 🌸
I used to write mostly for anime & manga, but lately my blog has shifted into being more F1-focused 🏎️ (thank u max verstappen)
-> that said, i’ll probably still jump back to anime every now and then because it’ll always have my heart ♡
-> It is safe to assume ALL my works are 18+, as my blog is 18+, it will otherwise be stated if it is sfw.
✨ Requests are OPEN for all drivers ✨
(Currently writing mostly for Max, Lando, & Oscar 💌)
🌸 AO3 ✨ - [ Read all my works here → ✦ AO3 LINK ✦ ]
🏎️ Max Verstappen | mv1 | mv33 ...my driver ♡
📁 Series: 🏁 Understeer ⋆˚࿔ (mv1 x reader x ln4 - love triangle with mv1 ending *almost complete -> 46k words total)
⚠️ Disclaimer ⚠️
All works are purely fan fiction. I do not own any rights to F1, the drivers, or affiliated brands. These fics are for entertainment only. Everything you read here is at your own discretion. I will always do my best to tag appropriately for content & triggers.
“a message to all the fans who fell in love and miss chestappen?”
max: “he’s coming back next year, so i’m very happy for checo to be back on the grid and for now we just enjoy the moment. i’m enjoying my time here in mexico and it’s always incredible to see how passionate the fans are.”
after a messy breakup with her co-star, y/n swore she was done with dating. then she showed up at the US gp… and somehow ended up in max verstappen’s orbit 👀😛
In this chapter: There is speculation that yn and Cody have broken up since she was spotted partying with certain F1 drivers. While yn doesn’t want to follow Max back on insta…. something or rather, someone, gives her a reason to 🫢
warnings:
reader x actor!bf will have slight!toxic themes, possible “explanation” writing for specific chapters, max verstappen is a lover boy hehe :3, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, my love, etc.), 2nd person POV(SMAU), swearing, will proofread + edit later
face claims:
sophie thatcher, cody fern, random pinterest ppl and photos
A/N: please ignore my poor photoshop skills for some of the “speculation” pics LOL I tried
series masterlist • f1 masterlist • taglist
—————————————————————————
yn.yln posted a story ->
song: wind it up by gwen stefani
. ✦ .
ybfn is typing…
. ✦ . the next day . ✦ .
yn.yln just posted a carousel 🎠 ->
. ✦ .
fan speculation->
. ✦ .
deuxmoi just posted ->
. ✦ .
max verstappen is typing…
. ✦ .
Cody is typing…
. ✦ .
yn.yln just posted a carousel 🎠 ->
. ✦ .
F1tea is typing…
. ✦ .
max verstappen is typing…
. ✦ .
To be continued…
To be added to the taglist -> 🔗
AN: if you see my spelling errors in the posted pics no u didn’t 👀
after a messy breakup with her co-star, y/n swore she was done with dating. then she showed up at the US gp… and somehow ended up in max verstappen’s orbit 👀😛
warnings:
reader x actor!bf will have slight!toxic themes, possible “explanation” writing for specific chapters, max verstappen is a lover boy hehe :3, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart, my love, etc.), 2nd person POV(SMAU), swearing, will proofread + edit later
this will be multiple parts ~ I will try to update it as quickly as possible (this is my first real SMAU and I still need to finish my Understeer series)
face claims:
sophie thatcher, cody fern, random pinterest ppl and photos
series masterlist • f1 masterlist
yn.yln posted -> a carousel 🎠
song: golden brown by the stranglers
. ✦ .
deuxmoi posted ->
. ✦ .
yn is typing…
. ✦ .
yn.yln just posted a story ->
song: please please please by sabrina carpenter
. ✦ .
fernburn posted -> a carousel 🎠
. ✦ . A year later . ✦ .
yn is typing…
. ✦ .
cody is typing…
. ✦ .
fan speculation->
. ✦ .
yn is typing…
. ✦ .
To be continued…
AN: these are SOOOO much harder to make than I thought 😅
