Max’s Shift In Career

Too Late

in which the love you have for him is the cause of your death

requested pairing: seokjin x reader word count: 3,242 genre: angst hanahaki disease au

*****

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Oh my god... this is sooo beautifully written... i cried😭😭

POV

Imagine as you lay across his lap, he breathes hums of your favorite song that he memorized just for you.

Imagine as your vision blurs because he’s such a pretty sight to fall asleep to.

Imagine as a warm smile spreads across your face and you whisper your love to him because he has to know.

You don’t know why the urgency of your feelings is there but the warmth of his hand sweeping your hair across your cheek is enough to halt any thoughts. 

Imagine as his eyes grow teary because he loves you so deeply and he cannot picture life without you.

Imagine as he places a shiny ring on your finger because he never plans on leaving your side. 

Imagine as you smile warmly up at him and whisper ‘yes’ before you fall asleep to his gentle humming.

Imagine being in love.

Now imagine his point of view.

Imagine as he cradles your head with gentle hands like he’s carrying glass.

Imagine him trying to steady his breathes long enough to hum your song because you look so confused and he just wants to settle your mind. 

Imagine he watches your eyes glaze over and his body strains to hold his weight and your own without breaking.

Imagine him glancing away to wipe his tears because your smile is slowly tearing him apart and you whispering your love is the same as whispering goodbye.

Imagine his eyes growing teary because you’re getting colder and colder and he can’t do anything to stop the slowing of your heart.

Imagine him placing a shaky hand on your cheek to ground himself and hold you one last time.

Imagine as he slides a ring onto your finger, the ring he was supposed to propose with tonight at your birthday, the ring that promises you’ll be with each other until the end.

Imagine as sobs heave through him and he struggles to continue humming your song as you whisper ‘yes’, because he finally has his answer but this isn’t how he wanted it.

Imagine as his scream rips through the air when your eyes close.

Imagine being in love until death do you part.

Imagine breaking his heart.

Mini Verstappen Series Masterlist

Paring: Single Dad!Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

At the end of 2020, Max Verstappen gets the surprise of his life when he finds out that his ex-girlfriend had given birth to a son, his son. A year and a half later Max's longtime girlfriend of 8 months finds out about his son Nico.

This is an ongoing series. I'm always adding to it. The masterlist changes often.

I do take requests for this. If there is anything that you want to see happen in this series just message me in my ask box. All of my normal request rules apply.

Reader Face Claim: Hande Erçel

Total Published Word Count: 78,420 Words

Disclaimer: This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction, so enjoy it as such.

𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑂𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟

0.0. Prologue - [December 10, 2020]

Max finds out that he has a son. And it changes his world.

0.1. Be Something You'll Love and Understand [December 11, 2020] Outtakes

He knew that he should have called his mom yesterday but he was still wrapping his head around the idea of being a father.

0.5. The Moment You Smiled At Me - [December 27, 2021]

The evening that started it all for Max and Reader.

1. Mini Verstappen - [August 15, 2022]

You get a small surprise the first time you visit Max’s apartment.

1.5. Girlfriend? - [November 1, 2022] Request

You meet Nico.

1.8. Caught - [June 4, 2023] 18+ Outtakes

Lando swears he knocked before walking into Max's hotel room, maybe he should have yelled before opening the door.

2. Change - [November 26, 2023 + January 2, 2024]

It’s the end of the F1 season. Some things are changing for the Verstappen's.

SMAU #1. The Secrets Out - [December 31, 2023 - January 1, 2024]

3. A Lioness Protects Her Cub - [May 5 - 9, 16, 23, 2024] Request

Reporters are vultures and Max picks out a ring.

4. Day At The Karting Track - [June 14, 2024]

Nico starts karting. It opens a small can of worms.

4.5 The Engagement - [August 15 - 16, 2024]

He moved his hand over yours, moving the engagement ring that he placed on your finger, side to side.

SMAU #2. Through Max's Eyes - [March 8, July 30 - August 15, 2024]

5. Something Bad, Something Good - [August 17 - 19, 2024] Request

Reader deals with the haters on Twitter, Nico calls Reader Mama. Max claps back at the haters on Instagram like the malewife that he strives to be.

5.5 Time to Move? - [August 25, September 15, 2024]

When Max had brought up moving, it was because the lease on his apartment was going to be up at the end of the year. Maybe it was time to find a new place for all of you.

6. Race Day - [October 20, 2024] Request

Nico tags along with Max during a race day in Monza, well as much as he can.

6.1 White Wedding - [February 2, 2025] Request

Max and the Reader's wedding day. OG Wedding Headcanon with social media from their honeymoon.

6.5. Give and Take (Kind of Love We Make) - [February 28, 2025] 18+ Request (The Morning After)

Max had a plan in his head for the evening. He had mapped out the track before, and intended to keep to his strategy until they got home.

6.7. To Constantly Be Away - [March 9 & 10, 2025]

Second race of the season and Max is already having a tough time with the car. Missing his family only makes it worse.

7. From Three to Four - [April 4, 2025]

Reader tells Max that your expecting, he doesn't have the best reaction at first.

8. Stones To Throw At My Creator - [July 19, 2025]

He wasn't his father. He would never raise Nico like that.

SMAU #3. The Verstappens - [January 8, February 2, May 26, December 3, 2025]

8.7 Give Me Eyes To See - [December 8, 2025]

Nikita's first few days at home. Flashbacks to moments from the reader's pregnancy.

8.8 Nikita's First Christmas - [December 24-25, 2025]

Nico's first Christmas with his baby brother.

8.9 Ghost of Bittersweet Memories - [January 25, 2026]

A few of the drivers visit you and Max for the day, and you end up talking with Charles about a woman that he meets at an FIA event. (This is the conversation I referenced in Part 2 of Bittersweet.)

9. Glass Houses - [February 17, 22, 23, 2026]

When Raymond had called you about going and getting lunch, you should have known that something was going on.

9.5. All That I Can Give - [May 10, 2026]

Another Mother's Day and one of Nikita's firsts.

9.7. On Sleepless Roads, The Sleepless Go - [December 2-3, 2026]

It's the early hours of Nikita's first birthday, and you can't help but look back at the day you brought your son into the world.

SMAU #4. A Year in Moments - [February 10, May 28, August 2 & 27, October 22 & 31, 2026]

10. Redline - [May 25, 2027]

"I'm sorry, mijn leeuwin. I know you were excited to announce it to everyone."

10.5. Mommy and Me - [May 31 - June 6, 2027] Request

Late one evening after dinner Y/N brought up the idea to Max for her to take Nico out for the day.

11. X3 - [July 8-9, 2027]

“Hallo, kleine welp,” Max said.

11.5. She's Not Acid Nor Alkaline - [December 8, 2027]

Max and Reader have a night away from the kids in Santorini for the 2027 FIA Prize Giving Gala.

SMAU #5. Welcoming Another Verstappen - [2027]

12. Hey, Little Sister - [March 27 - November 20, 2028]

“You wanted this Max. You wanted her.”

SMAU #6. A Year to Celebrate - [2028]

12.5. Of Father’s and Children - [June 18, 2029]

Father’s Day 2029

13. The End of An Era - [November 2030]

The days leading up to Max retiring from Formula 1. The Article announcing his retirement. And the last race of his F1 career.

14. No Time To Die - [2031]

Max goes racing at Nürbergring and it doesn't end well.

15. Right On Track - [2036]

Checking in with the Verstsppens in 2036.

16. Letters From The Past - [November 17, 2038]

Max and Reader sit down to read the letters that Amelia (Nico's birth mom) wrote.

𝐸 𝒳 𝒯 𝑅 𝒜 𝒮

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Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @musingsbyshreya, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @fanboyluvr, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @taylorslovesswifties13, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @smnthnclj, @brekkers-whore, @lpab, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127 , @mysticalnightenthusiast , @green-thots , @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp

A TALE OF FAME

pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au

chapter ꪆৎ 1

summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.

note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.

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Ahaana Patel was an enigma wrapped in stardom. She’d emerged onto the Bollywood scene with a debut that was nothing short of explosive, pro shaking up the industry and catapulting herself into the hearts of millions. She featured in a movie of one of the most celebrated Indian directors, Karan Johar, alongside her costars Varun Dhawan and Sidharth Malhotra, and hasn't looked back since. It was a journey no one, least of all her academically fixated parents in Ahmedabad, could have foreseen. From their meticulously structured plans of engineering degrees and Ivy League aspirations to the glitzy chaos of movie premieres and magazine covers, her story was the epitome of unpredictability.

Now, twelve years later, Ahaana strode confidently through the paddock of the Chinese Formula One Grand Prix. Her steps were light, but her presence was impossible to ignore. The roar of engines, the sharp tang of gasoline, and the relentless buzz of the crowd enveloped her in a world she had come to know well over the years.

Dressed in attire that matched the casual coolness of the paddock air, a fitted white top and denim skirt. Her hair, perfectly styled despite the chaos of travel, swayed gently as she moved, her signature smile lighting up the faces of everyone she passed.

The first race of the 2024 season was underway, and the paddock was a symphony of excitement. Engineers tinkered with machines that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, journalists scrambled for the perfect soundbite, and VIP guests mingled in their designer ensembles, trying to look like they belonged. Ahaana, however, didn’t need to try—she was a natural here.

“Ahi!”

The familiar Dutch accent cut through the cacophony, and Ahaana turned, her eyes narrowing playfully as Max Verstappen approached. Helmet in hand, the reigning world champion exuded confidence. His movements were deliberate, his gaze sharp, but the moment he saw Ahaana, his expression softened ever so slightly.

“Max,” she greeted, her voice laced with mock seriousness. “Are you ready to win, or should I start drafting my consolation speech now?”

Max rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Your faith in me is touching. Truly inspiring. Maybe you should stick to Bollywood instead of doubting world champions.”

“And miss this circus?” Ahaana gestured grandly at the bustling paddock around them. “Not a chance.”

Their bond was one of playful banter and unspoken trust, forged in the early days of her association with Red Bull. At first, their interactions had been fraught with the awkwardness of two young professionals forced into photoshoots and promotional events. But as time passed, they found common ground in their shared struggles—both carried the weight of their fathers’ expectations and both were determined to carve their own paths. What began as reluctant camaraderie soon blossomed into a sibling-like relationship. Max truly saw Ahaana as a little sister, and always would.

“Where’s Kelly?” Ahaana asked, scanning the crowd for Max’s girlfriend.

“She’s around,” Max replied, shrugging. “Probably hunting you down.”

As if on cue, Kelly Piquet appeared, her presence as radiant as ever. Spotting Ahaana, she broke into a wide grin and pulled her into a warm hug. “Ahaana! I didn’t know you were coming today. Otherwise, I’d have brought P—she misses you.”

Ahaana beamed. “I miss her too. We’re calling her as soon as these boys start driving their toy cars.”

“Toy cars?” Max echoed, feigning offense.

Before Ahaana could retort, another familiar voice joined the fray.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Red Bull’s golden girl.”

Ahaana turned to see Lando Norris, the ever-charming McLaren driver, strolling toward them. His grin was as cheeky as ever, his orange, oh sorry papaya, jacket standing out starkly against the sea of Red Bull merch.

“Lando,” Ahaana greeted with mock disdain. “Lost your way from all the oranges. Here let me show you, its that garage with a mark that looks like a disfigured comma.”

“It’s papaya and you know it. You’re obsessed with me , aren’t you?” Lando shot back, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Admit it—you came all the way here just to see me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t resist the charm of McLaren’s poster boy.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with both of you.”

The banter continued until race preparations called for Max and Lando’s attention. Kelly and Ahaana waved them off, heading toward the lounge.

The race was a spectacle, with Max clinching victory and Lando following closely behind in P2. The podium celebrations were a blur of champagne showers and roaring applause, but the real festivities began that evening.

The group—Max, Kelly, Lando, Carlos Sainz, Rebecca, Carlos’s girlfriend, and Ahaana—found themselves in a luxurious nightclub, the VIP section buzzing with energy. Neon lights danced across the room, the bass of the music reverberating through their bodies.

“Did you hear?” Rebecca leaned closer to Kelly and Ahaana, her voice conspiratorial. “Apparently, Alex cheated on Charles.”

Kelly’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”

Ahaana raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How do you know?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Apparently, Charles tried to break up with her, but she keeps avoiding the conversation.”

“Classic denial,” Ahaana remarked, sipping her drink.

Kelly shook her head. “Why doesn’t he just cut her off?”

“He wants a clean break,” Rebecca explained. “But Alex is… persistent.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the night wore on. Lando, ever the photographer, took candid shots of the group, earning playful protests from his friends.

By 3 A.M., the nightclub was still alive with energy, but Ahaana needed a breather. She stepped out onto a balcony, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. The city lights stretched out before her, their glow reflected in the glass of the towering buildings.

She wasn’t alone for long.

“Hey, Ferrari,” she said, spotting Charles Leclerc leaning against the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand.

Charles glanced at her, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” Ahaana replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “But you looked like you could use some company.”

Charles chuckled softly, though the melancholy in his eyes remained. “Maybe I do.”

Ahaana joined him at the railing, their gazes fixed on the cityscape. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them comfortable.

“Rough night?” Ahaana asked eventually.

Charles hesitated before nodding. “Something like that.”

Ahaana studied him, her expression thoughtful. “You know, brooding doesn’t suit you. You should try smiling—it might just solve all your problems.”

Charles couldn’t help but smile, albeit faintly. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone light. “But if you’re not ready to smile yet, I’ll settle for a drink.”

Charles handed her his glass without a word. She accepted it, taking a small sip before handing it back.

“Not bad,” she remarked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Charles looked at her, truly looked at her for the first time. The neon lights from the club painted her features in hues of pink and blue, her hair catching the faint breeze. There was something about her—an effortless charm, a warmth that drew people in.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“Ahaana,” she replied, extending a hand.

Charles took it, his grip firm but gentle. “Charles.”

“I know,” Ahaana said with a grin. “You ready to party now, Red?”

Charles chuckled, a genuine laugh this time, and downed the rest of his drink. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, the night took on a new energy, two strangers finding unexpected companionship amidst the chaos of flashing lights and thundering music.

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ᝰ.ᐟ first part! i know this isn't much, but i plan on writing more and this is just the start. i hope you aren't freaked out by the rather rustic writing and keep reading the chapters to come!

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tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @ho3smadd

comment to be added to taglist

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© weekendlusting

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Moments You Wish You Caught on Camera

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary... Six strangers. Six ordinary places. One unforgettable couple. This is a collection of short, cinematic glimpses into Max Verstappen’s life with the woman he’s loved since high school. Seen through the eyes of strangers who just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

A/N: Happy reading. I loved writing this piece and I hope to write more pieces like this, with Max and other drivers. You guys let me know who you wanna see next. As always enjoy it and have a beautiful day!!!

If you enjoy this story don't forget to like, reblog, and comment your thoughts and feedback.

---

The Pediatric Waiting Room

— Sofia, a tired new mom running on a lukewarm oat milk latte, not expecting to witness a world champion be a world-class dad.

It was 8:07 a.m., and Sofia was already regretting not canceling the appointment.

Her youngest had just started cutting teeth and had been up at 3:15, 4:52, and again at 6:01—each time with a cry like she was personally offended by the universe. Her toddler was whining for screen time, the diaper bag was short one essential wipe packet, and her phone had just died after playing Cocomelon on repeat.

The waiting room was mercifully empty. Cold, quiet, sterile. Just her, a too-small chair, and a little boy whose nose was running like a faucet.

Then the door creaked open, and in stepped someone she almost didn’t believe was real.

First, the man. Tall. Athletic. Messy hair tucked under a cap. Hoodie. Sweat shorts. That kind of effortless “I’ve got my shit together even though I definitely haven’t slept” vibe.

Then the baby carrier.

A tiny girl inside, swaddled in a soft floral blanket, a yellow pacifier in her rosebud mouth. Peaceful.

Then the toddler on his hip—grinning around a banana biscuit, curly hair tousled like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into a Gap ad.

And then her.

The woman.

Clearly postpartum. Puffy eyes, leggings, nursing tank, hospital socks still peeking from her sneakers. Yet… radiant. And holding herself like she was used to being loved out loud.

Sofia couldn’t look away.

They settled into the opposite corner. The man gently set the baby carrier down first, then lowered the toddler into a seat with a whispered, “Remember our agreement? Sit quietly until snacks, yeah?”

The toddler gave a dramatic thumbs-up.

Y/N approached the check-in desk, voice low and melodic as she confirmed their appointment for baby girl’s six-week weight check.

Max—because now Sofia realized that’s who he was, Max Verstappen—leaned over the carrier, adjusting the pacifier and brushing a finger over the baby’s cheek. His hoodie bunched at the elbows, revealing the black-and-gray ink on his forearm.

“She’s still got those hiccups, huh?” he murmured to her, voice so soft that Sofia almost didn’t hear it.

“She’s just dramatic like you,” Y/N teased, returning to sit beside him.

“You say dramatic, I say expressive.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately, curling into his side.

Sofia turned her gaze back to her own child, who was gnawing on a toy giraffe like it owed him money, but she couldn’t help but steal glances at them.

There was a rhythm to them. An unspoken choreography. Max peeled open a pouch of applesauce, offered it to the toddler with practiced hands, and even remembered to wipe the crumbs off his chin without missing a beat.

Y/N shifted the baby, cooing when she stirred. “She’s getting fussy.”

Max was already unzipping the diaper bag. “Bottle?”

Y/N frowned. “Shit. I think I forgot it. I—” Her voice cracked with guilt. “I thought it was in the side pocket. I triple-checked. God, I’m so tired, Max.”

“Hey,” he cut in immediately, warm and gentle. “She’s fine. We’ve got options. We always do.”

“I didn’t bring a cover either,” she added quietly. “I’ll go feed her in the car.”

“No,” he said firmly, already pulling his hoodie over his head and handing it to her. “You stay here. We’re good right here.”

He used the hoodie to drape over her shoulder while she adjusted her top and helped the baby latch on.

“There we go,” he murmured, rubbing small circles into her back. “You’re doing great.”

The room was still, silent, except for the suckling sounds and the cartoon jingle still stuck in Sofia’s head.

After a few minutes, Y/N whispered, “I just… I don’t know if she’s getting enough milk. She pulls off a lot. I think I messed up something with my supply.”

Max shook his head. “Babe. She’s got cheeks like brioche buns and arms like croissants. She’s fine.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, resting her head against his. “Croissants?”

“You heard me. That’s pure Dutch baby chub. I know quality carbs when I see them.”

When the nurse finally called them back, Max scooped up the toddler, hoisted the carrier with his free arm, and glanced at Y/N.

“You okay, mama?”

She nodded. “As long as you’re right here.”

He grinned. “Always.”

Sofia watched them go, still stunned by what she’d witnessed: a world champion who didn’t care about being recognized, a mom who looked like a goddess in leggings, and a love that looked like it was built on inside jokes, sleepless nights, and endless grace.

She pulled out her phone to text her husband:

"We’re trying skin-to-skin tonight. And also, maybe don’t complain when I forget wipes. Just tell me I’m doing great like Max Verstappen did.”

---

The Tiny Café in Tuscany

— Luca, travel writer, espresso enthusiast, and recently dumped romantic.

It was a sleepy café tucked on the corner of a side street in San Gimignano—one of those blink-and-you-miss-it places where the tiles were chipped, the espresso machine screamed like an old woman in a mood, and the overhead fan wobbled dangerously every time someone opened the door.

Luca had been coming here every morning for a week, hunched over his laptop, pretending to update his travel blog while actually stewing over a messy breakup with a man who said things like, “I need freedom” and “You’re too intense.”

It was on day five, as he swirled the last bitter sip of his third espresso and stared blankly at the same paragraph for the sixth time, that the door jingled behind him—and he looked up.

The couple didn’t match the usual tourist aesthetic. No clunky cameras, no loud American voices. Just a man in a navy hoodie and black shorts—tall, relaxed, with sun-kissed skin and a quiet sort of confidence. His hand rested lightly on the lower back of the woman beside him, who was wearing loose linen pants and a tank top tucked in with no effort but all the grace in the world.

They were talking softly in a strange blend of Dutch and English—Luca caught pieces of both as they approached the counter.

“No, Max,” she laughed, gently elbowing him. “You had two yesterday.”

He mock-pouted, a hint of an accent curling around his words. “That’s called balance. Two yesterday, one today. I’m growing.”

The barista, clearly familiar with them, didn’t even ask for names. Just smiled and went to work preparing their usual: two cappuccinos, one extra hot, and a slice of fig-and-honey tart.

They slid into the table directly in front of Luca—angled just enough that he could pretend to be focused on his screen while secretly watching them over the rim of his coffee cup.

“I had a dream last night you forgot our anniversary,” Y/N said as she took the first sip of her coffee. “You gave me socks.”

“Were they at least good socks?” Max asked, pretending to be offended.

“They had race cars on them.”

He grinned. “So… on brand. What’s the problem?”

“You told me they were on sale.”

Max placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Discounted love. Brutal.”

She leaned in, nudging her shoulder into his. “You know what’s worse? I still said thank you in the dream. Like a chump.”

“You’re a very polite chump.”

They laughed—quiet, unassuming, private laughter that made Luca feel like he was seeing something he wasn’t meant to.

He watched Max tear off a piece of tart and offer it to her on his fork. She opened her mouth with the same ease someone might accept a kiss.

The domesticity of it all—the comfort, the familiarity, the rightness—ached in Luca’s chest.

They weren’t checking their phones. They weren’t documenting the moment. They were just… being.

Max leaned his elbow on the table, fingers threading lazily through the ends of her hair as he spoke. “Do you remember that café in Bruges? The one with the green door?”

“The one where the waiter spilled a whole espresso in your lap?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, eyes soft. “I think that was the first time I realized I wanted this with you. All of it.”

She blinked, caught off-guard. “Because I laughed at you?”

“Because you didn’t care about the stain. You just said, ‘Well, now you match the chair.’ And I remember thinking… fuck, this is the person I want next to me when things go wrong.”

Y/N’s expression crumpled slightly with affection, her hand reaching to curl around his wrist. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t have the words then.”

Luca was still staring when Max glanced up, eyes locking with his for a brief second.

Not in a confrontational way. Just a knowing look. Like he knew Luca had heard everything. Like he didn’t mind, as long as it made someone believe in something again.

He turned back to Y/N, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“You still get this little line here,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the corner of her eye. “Right before you cry. You’ve had it since we were seventeen.”

She swatted at him. “Stop making me sentimental, Verstappen.”

“I’m serious. It’s my favorite wrinkle.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Wrinkle?”

“Expression line,” he corrected immediately, grinning like he was proud of himself.

They finished their cappuccinos slowly, not rushing, like they had all the time in the world.

And when they stood to leave, Max held the door for her—let her step out first like it was second nature—and tucked his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose without releasing her hand.

They disappeared around the corner.

Luca stared down at his blank document for a moment longer before finally typing:

“Sometimes love doesn’t need to be loud to be heard. Sometimes it just needs a morning, a fig tart, and someone who remembers your first wrinkle.”

And for the first time in days, he meant every word.

----

The School Fundraiser

— Camille, 27, first-year teacher, very overwhelmed, very underpaid, and absolutely not ready to witness Max Verstappen handing out juice boxes like a literal dad dream.

Camille had been teaching first grade for exactly four weeks and seventeen hours.

And she already knew that if one more parent tried to explain why their child didn’t need to follow “standardized discipline guidelines,” she would fake her own death and move to Spain.

The school fundraiser was supposed to be a “light lift,” according to her ever-optimistic vice principal.

Which was, apparently, a lie.

Because nothing about organizing a bake sale, a bouncy house, three food trucks, a dunk tank, a raffle, and a very temperamental face-painting volunteer felt light. Her hair was frizzing. Her shirt was stuck to her back. A juice box had exploded in her tote bag.

She was stress-sorting Capri Suns when she heard the murmurs.

“Is that…?”

“No way.”

“Wait, that is Max Verstappen.”

Camille looked up—half expecting it to be a false alarm or some dad who just looked like him. But no. It was him.

Walking across the school field in a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sunglasses pushed back into his hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder… holding hands with his toddler.

Behind them was a woman holding a baby strapped to her chest in a linen wrap, her other hand gripping the shoulder of a little boy in a Lightning McQueen hat who was dancing along the pavement like the ground was lava.

They looked so normal. And yet, not.

Max squatted down to fix the toddler’s shoe, glancing up at his wife. “Did we bring sunscreen?”

Y/N patted her tote. “Already did them before we left.”

He nodded. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

The baby squirmed in the wrap, and Y/N bounced instinctively, her voice light. “You’d think we’d remember to bring the pacifier.”

Max reached into his pocket and pulled one out. “Already ahead of you.”

“God, marry me.”

He glanced up, deadpan. “We are married.”

She smiled. “Marry me again.”

They made their way to the games area, Max lifting the toddler up so he could see better. “Where to, kleine muis?”

The little boy pointed at the duck pond game with such confidence that Max saluted. “Duck game it is.”

Camille tried to focus on organizing the juice cooler, but her eyes kept trailing back to them—especially when they came to her table.

“Hi!” Y/N greeted. “Can we grab some waters?”

“Of course,” Camille replied, fumbling a little. “They’re… they’re cold-ish.”

“Honestly, cold-ish is perfect,” Y/N said with a warm smile. “We’ll take four.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think the kids will go straight for the soda?”

“They can try,” she said, already tucking the bottles into her tote.

Max turned to Camille with a grin. “Let me guess. First year?”

Camille blinked. “How did you…?”

“The look of despair. I had the same one during my first press conference.” He said.

She laughed despite herself. “I wasn’t aware that despair was that universal.”

“It is. But you’re doing great,” he added sincerely. “This all looks amazing.”

Y/N nodded, reaching into her wallet. “Can we donate directly to your class?”

Camille’s heart skipped. “Oh—you don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Y/N insisted gently, tucking a folded bill into the donation jar.

Camille glanced down after they walked away and nearly choked.

A hundred euros.

Who just casually dropped that into a fundraiser jar?

The answer: apparently Max Verstappen’s wife.

—

An hour later, Camille was managing the chaos near the dunk tank when she saw them again—this time sitting on a picnic blanket beneath the shade of a tree. The toddler was in Max’s lap, licking an orange popsicle with sticky fingers. Y/N was lying on her side, her baby curled up against her chest as she wiped her son's mouth with a napkin.

“Easy, liefje,” she murmured when he got too excited and nearly dropped it.

“He’s trying to break his own record,” Max said, biting into his own popsicle and wincing. “Brain freeze. Why do I do this to myself?”

Y/N chuckled, tucking her bare feet under his thigh. “Because you never learn.”

He looked at her for a second too long.

Then, with all the gentle devotion in the world, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I’m glad we came.”

She closed her eyes for a second, as if just letting herself feel the moment. “Me too.”

Camille tried not to stare. But it was like watching a scene from a movie that somehow escaped into the real world.

No drama. No noise. Just… partnership. Parenting. Love.

When the toddler reached up and touched Max’s cheek with a melting hand, Max just kissed his palm and said, “Sticky boy. My sticky boy.”

Camille went home that night and told her roommate, “Max Verstappen came to our fundraiser and made me believe in love again.”

And she wasn’t even exaggerating.

---

The Supermarket

— Zoë, 35, single, newly heartbroken, and very much just trying to buy oat milk and not cry in the produce section.

Zoë wasn’t in the mood to see anyone that day.

She’d cried in her car for twenty minutes in the parking lot, then sat scrolling through TikTok about “healing energy” while pretending she hadn’t just been ghosted by a man who once wrote her a poem about her freckles.

All she wanted was to get through her grocery list and be home before the sobbing resumed. The universe, however, had other plans.

Because as she turned into the snack aisle—debating between regular sea salt chips and the fancy truffle ones that cost way too much—she saw them.

Not in a tabloid. Not on TikTok.

In real life.

It was Max Verstappen.

Pushing a slightly scuffed shopping cart, baseball cap backwards, hoodie on, brows furrowed like he was solving a math equation instead of comparing two different brands of oat milk.

Next to him was a woman who could only be described as… anchored.

She didn’t look like a celebrity’s wife. She looked like someone who smelled like vanilla and fresh laundry. Her hair was tied in a messy bun. Her leggings had a juice stain near the knee. A toddler sat in the cart seat, happily munching on crackers.

And trailing behind them—barefoot inside Spider-Man crocs—was a little boy in a Red Bull jacket, holding a box of waffles like it was treasure.

“Did you write down whether it was the almond milk or oat milk that made her stomach weird?” Max asked, waving the carton slightly.

Y/N squinted at her notes app. “It just says ‘milk (weird tummy?)’ — which is completely useless. This is past-me setting us up for failure.”

Max sighed dramatically. “She’s going to be gassy for three days and we’ll never sleep again.”

“We never sleep anyway.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Zoë tried to duck behind a display of pretzels but ended up knocking a bag off the stack. It crinkled loudly. Mortifying.

Max glanced up — not with irritation, but mild curiosity — and when their eyes met, he gave her a small, polite smile. Then turned back to his wife like the world had narrowed back to just them.

“Do we have enough diapers?” Y/N asked.

“Define enough.”

“For two nights away and three ‘blowout emergencies.’”

Max tilted his head. “So… a hundred?”

“Give or take.”

He smirked and offered her the oat milk carton. “We’ll gamble. She’s had worse.”

Zoë followed them — not intentionally, just… coincidentally — into the produce section.

They were standing by the bananas when the toddler in the cart dropped her snack container and immediately began to whimper, tears bubbling up in her big blue eyes.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” Y/N cooed, reaching for it—but Max was faster.

He picked it up, brushed it off, and crouched so they were eye-level. “Hey, kleine prinses. Look—it’s back. Just a little floor spice. Builds immunity.”

The baby blinked at him, then gave a hiccupy giggle before popping a cracker into her mouth.

“You’re so weird,” Y/N said fondly, watching him rise.

“You married me,” he shot back, brushing his hands off on his sweats.

“And I’d do it again. But only if you promise to stop saying ‘floor spice’ in public.”

“I make no promises.”

The little boy—Ezra, they called him—was tugging at Y/N’s sleeve, holding out the waffle box.

“Can we get two? One for home and one for the car ride?”

Y/N crouched down, eyes level with his. “Do you promise not to eat them all before dinner again?”

“I pinky swear on Daddy’s racing helmet.”

Max gasped. “That’s legally binding. Now you have to behave.”

Ezra beamed as his mom kissed the top of his curls and stood back up.

They wandered past Zoë again near the bakery, Max now balancing a bouquet of tulips awkwardly in one hand.

“Who are those for?” Y/N asked, amused.

He shrugged, adjusting the flowers. “You. You’ve been in a mood lately and I like it when you smile.”

She blinked at him, stunned for a moment. “I’m not in a mood.”

Max raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I’m maybe…slightly overwhelmed.”

“You’re allowed. But flowers still help.”

They shared a look so full of unspoken history that Zoë had to look away.

Later, while unloading at self-checkout, Max gently peeled open the baby’s fruit pouch and helped Ezra scan his waffle box. Y/N was half-asleep on her feet, leaning against the cart as he gently nudged her shoulder.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll finish up and load it.”

“You sure?”

He kissed her forehead. “Always.”

She left with the kids, and Max packed the groceries methodically, organizing by category.

Zoë stood frozen in line behind him, cradling her oat milk and sadness like a broken promise.

And then Max turned, caught her staring again, and—once more—just smiled.

Not like a celebrity. Not like a man who thought he was better.

Just a tired dad, happy husband, and guy who clearly lived for the people who called him home.

As he walked out of the store with a bag in one hand and tulips in the other, Zoë opened her Notes app and typed something new.

“It’s not the big gestures. It’s someone remembering oat milk, wiping cracker crumbs off your mouth, and handing you tulips in aisle seven because they just want you to smile again.”

---

The Train Station

— Matteo, 19, pizza delivery guy, chain smoker, and hopeless romantic against his better judgment.

He didn’t mean to stare.

But the girl was crying, and the guy was arguing with a vending machine, and somehow both things were happening like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Matteo was sitting on a bench at the Eindhoven train station, waiting for the 3:15. He was sweaty, out of cigarettes, and coming off a breakup where his girlfriend said he was “emotionally dense” because he forgot their six-month anniversary.

Whatever.

He wasn’t eavesdropping. He just… noticed things.

Like how the girl in the jean jacket had smudged eyeliner and messy hair twisted into a bun with a pen. And how the guy in the Red Bull hoodie kept slapping the side of the vending machine like it had personally insulted him.

“You’re not eating M&Ms for lunch,” the girl said, sniffling.

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to eat them for comfort,” he muttered, still jabbing the buttons.

“You literally have a race tomorrow.”

Max turned, grinning. “And if I crash, I want to know I died with peanut chocolate in my bloodstream.”

“Max.”

He sighed like it physically pained him, turned, and held out his arms. “Okay, okay. Come here, crybaby.”

She glared at him but walked straight into his hug. He wrapped his arms around her like he’d done it a thousand times.

Matteo watched her melt instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his chest.

“You’re allowed to be upset. Your parents were unfair.” He leaned down to kiss the crown of her head. “But I’m proud of you for coming anyway.”

She wiped her eyes. “I look disgusting.”

“You look like my future wife.”

Matteo blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

She shoved him lightly. “You’re such a liar.”

“Nope,” Max replied, tone light but his eyes serious. “I’ve known since the first time you wore that ugly jean jacket.”

“Hey!”

“You looked like someone who’d ruin my life.”

“And?”

“You did. And I love it.”

They were quiet for a minute, sitting on the bench beside Matteo. Close enough for him to smell her cherry chapstick and his cheap cologne.

Max reached into his backpack and pulled out a chocolate croissant wrapped in a napkin. “Didn’t get your M&Ms. Got you this instead.”

Her face lit up like a child on Christmas. “You remembered?”

“You always want croissants when you’re sad.”

“I do.”

Matteo saw it then—saw the whole damn thing. The beginnings of forever.

They were too young. Too reckless. A little dramatic. But there was something magnetic about the way they looked at each other, like they were already writing the rest of their lives in real time.

As the train pulled in and they stood, Max laced their fingers together like it was automatic. She leaned her head on his shoulder, still holding the croissant.

They walked onto the train like two people who didn’t know how rare that kind of love was. Who didn’t need to.

Matteo pulled out his cracked phone and wrote a note he’d forget about until years later:

“Sometimes forever starts at a vending machine. And the person who buys you a croissant instead of saying the right thing is the one who actually gets it.”

---

The Airport Lounge

— Helena, 42, business consultant, solo traveler, professional people-watcher, and casual believer in fate.

The Zurich airport lounge was surprisingly quiet for a Friday afternoon.

Helena had parked herself near the floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of pinot and a half-read book she was pretending to finish. Her flight to Madrid had been delayed, and she was nursing the rare, delicious silence that came with noise-canceling headphones and no Slack notifications.

Until she noticed them.

They weren’t loud or dramatic. Just… still.

The woman sat curled up in the corner of a leather armchair, knees tucked beneath her, oversized hoodie swallowing her whole, damp curls loosely braided down her back. She had a book open on her lap but wasn’t reading it.

Instead, she was watching the man beside her — Max Verstappen, though it took Helena a moment to place him without the racing suit, the cameras, or the speed.

He looked softer like this.

He was seated slightly sideways in the chair, legs stretched out, thumb stroking lazy lines into her ankle where it rested against his thigh.

Her sock had a tiny embroidered mushroom on it. He was focused on it like it held secrets.

They weren’t speaking. Not really. Just occasionally exchanging glances, faint smiles, little movements that spoke volumes.

Max reached into his backpack and pulled out a tupperware container. “Eat,” he said simply, handing it to her.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured.

“You always say that and then eat half of mine.”

She squinted at him. “Is it the good pasta?”

“The good one. From that place near the ferry.”

“…I hate you.”

He grinned. “You love me.”

“I do.”

Helena didn’t mean to watch. But it was hard to look away from something that looked so much like home.

After a few quiet bites, the woman reached over, tugging the hem of Max’s sleeve with childlike gentleness. “Do you have to go today?”

Max hesitated. “Yeah.”

He said it softly. Not coldly. Like he hated the truth of it just as much as she did.

She nodded, lips pressing into a tight line. “It’s just a few days. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t try to talk her out of it. Instead, he reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Open it after I leave.”

“Is this a love letter?”

“It’s a maybe-you-won’t-murder-me-for-being-gone-so-long letter.”

She smiled, but Helena saw the way her fingers tightened around the paper.

“I left little notes in your bag,” Max added. “One in your book, one in the snack pocket, and one in your makeup bag.”

“That’s excessive.”

“That’s love,” he shrugged.

Helena found herself blinking rapidly.

She wasn’t used to seeing people who still made space for each other like that. Who weren’t rushing, glued to their phones, or distracted by other people.

Just present.

After a while, Max stood, stretching slightly. His flight had been called.

He reached for his carry-on, then paused and knelt in front of her.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

She leaned down, and he kissed her — not rushed, not showy, but full. Her hands slipped into his hoodie, his thumb brushed her cheekbone, and Helena knew she wasn’t the only one watching now.

But neither of them cared.

When they parted, Max rested his forehead against hers for a beat. “See you Monday.”

“See you Monday.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t cling. But as he walked away, she held that letter to her chest like it was armor.

Helena watched her breathe in slowly. Then she tucked the note into her book and picked up her phone—not to scroll, but to open the photos app.

She was scrolling through pictures.

Ones of Max. Their kids, probably. A dog, maybe.

Every one made her smile in that quiet, half-wistful way that meant: I’ll be okay, but I miss you already.

Helena turned back to her wine thinking about how beautiful of a relationship they had.

Rolling, Rolling, Red Bull

Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

Summary… When the Drive to Survive crew shows up to film a behind-the-scenes look at Max Verstappen’s life off track, Y/N is less than thrilled to be in the spotlight. But between sarcastic interviews, soft domestic moments, and a now-viral deleted scene involving a jar of pesto, the world gets a glimpse of a Max they’ve never seen before. Boyfriend-coded. Cat-dad certified. And very, very soft for her.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy! I’ve been kinda M.I.A. & irregular on my posting but I have been out of town for the last two week so I’ve been writing on my phone and it has been a little difficult.

I hope you guys enjoy this story and feel free to donate on my Ko-Fi, maybe that way I can buy a better computer and write more consistently for you guys.

like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Y/N was halfway through brushing her teeth when Max knocked on the bathroom door.

“They’re here,” he said, muffled through the wood. “The Drive to Survive guys.”

She spat into the sink. “Tell them to come back never.”

Max laughed, leaning against the doorframe in joggers and a Red Bull hoodie, his hair still wet from the shower. “You said yes last night.”

“I was half-asleep and you bribed me with stroopwafels.”

He pushed the door open and gave her the most annoyingly charming grin. “And yet, here we are.”

⸻

The Netflix crew had set up in their living room, pretending the chaos of wires and camera angles was “low-key.” Max greeted them like old friends, casual and cool, while Y/N hovered awkwardly behind a kitchen stool, holding her coffee like a shield.

“Just pretend we’re not here,” the producer said, adjusting his headset.

“Impossible,” she muttered.

Max, ever the calm in the storm, slipped a hand around her waist. “You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.”

“That is the problem.”

⸻

They followed the couple through a normal day: breakfast on the balcony, Max fiddling with a simulator, Y/N curled up reading a book while their cats tried to chew on a mic cord.

But then they asked for a sit-down interview.

“Can you two just talk about what it’s like being in a relationship during the season?” the director asked, arranging pillows behind Y/N like this was a cozy podcast and not her personal nightmare.

Max shrugged. “It’s good. We don’t really fight.”

Y/N snorted. “You say that because you don’t consider ignoring my texts for six hours a fight.”

“I was driving,” he said, deadpan.

“You were on the simulator.”

“Same thing.”

The crew laughed. Max smiled sideways at her.

Then the director leaned in. “Y/N, how do you handle the pressure of being with someone constantly in the spotlight?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know, but because she hadn’t expected the question to feel so… real.

“I don’t try to handle it,” she said slowly. “I just try to remind him that there’s a world outside of racing. That he’s more than just Max Verstappen the driver.”

Max’s expression softened—one of those rare looks he saved just for her, all warm gaze and relaxed jawline.

“And she’s the only one who gets away with calling me out when I start acting like a robot,” he added, voice lower now.

There was a pause.

“Wow,” the sound guy whispered.

“Keep rolling,” the director whispered back.

⸻

Later, when they were reviewing footage in the trailer, someone asked if they could get a shot of Max hugging Y/N.

“We have the paddock stuff, the Monaco stuff—but we need something soft to end on.”

Max found her sitting on the edge of the Red Bull hospitality couch, phone in hand.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up, pulled her into his chest, and kissed the top of her head. Cameras or not.

“You’re doing great,” he said.

“You owe me ten stroopwafels and a massage.”

“I’ll give you twelve.”

The camera rolled as she smiled against his hoodie, arms tightening around his waist.

And later, when the season aired, fans clipped that moment. Over and over.

“Who knew Max Verstappen could be soft?”

“Protect this woman at all costs.”

“Relationship goals.”

But to Max, it was just Tuesday.

_______

Deleted Scene

Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, struggling with a stubborn jar of pesto. The label peeled at the edge, and the lid refused to budge despite two dish towels and her full body weight.

“Max!” she called, mildly annoyed. “Can you come here?”

Off-camera, you hear footsteps. Then Max appears in the kitchen doorway, looking suspicious. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. Just open this before I yeet it into the sea.”

He walks over, takes the jar, and opens it effortlessly with one twist.

She stares. “Are you serious?”

He grins, proud. “You loosened it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Without missing a beat, he dips a finger into the pesto and sticks it in his mouth.

“Max!” she gasps, swatting him with a tea towel. “That’s for dinner!”

He shrugs. “Taste test.”

A Netflix producer can be heard laughing behind the camera.

“Can we actually keep rolling?” another asks. “This is gold.”

Y/N turns, catching the crew still filming, and mock-glares at the camera.

“I’m going to need hazard pay.”

Max wraps an arm around her waist and plants a pesto-flavored kiss on her cheek.

“No one would believe how domestic you are,” Y/N mutters, smirking.

“Good. Let them think I’m scary.”

⸻

But don’t worry. The pesto jar ended up on eBay “signed by Max,” with a sticky note that read:

“She loosened it.” – M.V.

All proceeds went to cat shelters. Because Max demanded it.

⸻

FAN REACTIONS TO DELETED SCENE

Twitter/X:

@paddockbabie:

MAX OPENED A JAR AND A NATION FELL IN LOVE

#driveToSurvive #maxverstappen #domesticking

@softf1updates:

the way he dipped his finger into the pesto and then kissed her with zero shame?? I’m on the floor.

literally who gave him permission to be this boyfriend-coded

@f1spicypage:

“you loosened it.”

OH OKAY MAX VERSTAPPEN KING OF HUMBLE DOMESTICITY

⸻

Tumblr:

f1blurbs:

It’s not about the pesto.

It’s about her calling him like a husband.

It’s about him walking in like “what did I do?” like he knows he exists to be summoned.

It’s about the quiet love.

It’s about the damn jar.

I’m crying.

netflix-please:

Reblog if you too would risk it all to have Max Verstappen open a jar for you and call it “loosened by you.”

⸻

TikTok Comments (under the leaked scene with 4.8M views):

@formulalover44:

the way she’s like “MAX” and he just comes?? we love an obedient man

@jamgirlie:

petition to release ALL deleted scenes or i riot

@pestoprincess:

me @ my boyfriend: “why can’t you be more like max verstappen opening pesto jars and donating to cat shelters?”

⸻

Instagram Stories:

@f1gossipgrid:

MAX & Y/N: PESTO-GATE

This leaked deleted scene is the best PR Netflix never meant to drop.

Rumors say Red Bull marketing is already printing “You loosened it” merch.

We’ll take 5.

⸻

And yes—someone already made pesto-themed merch on Etsy with:

“You loosened it – M.V.” in sleek Helvetica on tote bags, mugs, and aprons.

⸻

the end.

Don't ever hesitate. Reblog this. TUMBLR RULE. When you see it, REBLOG IT.

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Eunoia // Ch. 20

eunoia (noun): beautiful thinking, the possession of a well-balanced mind, which exhibits goodwill and kindness

Pairings: Hybrid! BTS x reader

Summary: You are a world famous director and you have dedicated your life to your job.You have everything you could ever dream of; wealth, recognision, talent, your friends and family. But loneliness ins’t cured by success. So what happens when you somehow rescue seven hybrids? Can they fill the void?

Genre: Angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, eventual smut

Word Count: 10.7k+

Warnings: past abuse, past sexual abuse, cursing, past violence, mentions of blood

Masterlist

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 chapter 18 Chapter 19

Many thanks to my incredible beta reader <3

The taglist is now closed

Los Angeles wore its hot and dry summers with pride. You were sweating the moment you stepped out of the private jet, your shirt sticking to your back and your jeans stifling your legs. Above, there was no cloud in sight but an endless expanse of blue and the white-yellow of the sun. An orange hue tinted everything around you, strange and dizzying.

Inside the airport, the AC froze the sweat on your back bringing sweet relief to your burnt skin. The midday sun needed only a couple of minutes. Picking up your suitcases, you headed to the parking lot and got into the SUV. John got into the driver’s seat because when it came to John, he was always the one driving. He only allowed someone else to do the job when it was for official events like red carpets. Overseas, he would turn on the GPS and navigate the streets with ease.

You climbed into the backseat with Taehyung, reluctant to leave him alone. He had barely spoken a word to you the whole trip. He would answer every question with a nod and you were starting to doubt he could understand anything you were saying.

Half an hour into the flight, your eyes were drooping and John’s head was dropping back on his chair. You had been tired from promotions to begin with when you had first arrived in Seoul. The late hour of the auction, the anxiety, and the early visit to the police department had only made it worse. You woke up to the captain announcing you would be landing in ten minutes and to kindly put on your seatbelts.

You were finally back in Los Angeles, its beaches and palm trees. There had been a few dark moments in the blood-red ballroom that you had doubted you would see Los Angeles again. Maybe that’s why it looked more beautiful than ever because you had nearly lost it. One slip and your last memory of it would be watching it grow smaller through a jet’s window.

Keep reading

Masterlist

(F)=Fluff , (N)=gender neutral

BTS

Kim Namjoon

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Charles Leclerc x Verstappen!Reader

Max finds out that Charles is dating his sister

You and Charles have been in a secret relationship for a few months now. It’s been fun, sneaking around and sharing little moments that feel special just to the two of you. Today, Charles plans on surprising you with flowers and food from your favorite place. He’s headed to a flower shop in Monaco to get your favorite flowers, and he’s really excited about it.

As he picks out a beautiful bouquet, he suddenly hears a familiar voice. “Hey, Charles!” It’s Max Verstappen, your brother, not surprised at all since it's Monaco.

“Max! What are you doing here?” Charles asks, trying to act casual while holding the flowers behind his back.

“Just grabbing some coffee,” Max replies, eyeing the bouquet curiously. “Got a hot date or something?”

Charles laughs nervously. “You could say that.”

Max raises an eyebrow but shrugs it off. “Alright, man. Enjoy your date!” They exchange pleasantries, and Charles makes a quick exit, flowers in hand and now on his way to pick up your food, already imagining how happy you’ll be.

***

Later that day, Max decides to drop by your apartment. He walks in without even ringing the bell, and the first thing he notices is the vase of flowers sitting on the coffee table. His eyebrows shoot up. “Wait a minute…” he mutters to himself, remembering the same flowers he saw Charles holding.

Confused, he examines them closely, trying to figure out what’s going on. Just then, he hears some noise from the bathroom. Before he can call out to you, Charles steps out, wrapped only in a towel. He looks completely relaxed, totally unaware of Max’s presence.

Max’s jaw drops as his brain processes the scene. “Charles?!” he exclaims, pointing at him like he’s just seen a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

As soon as you heard your brother's voice you rushed to the living room.

Charles freezes, wide-eyed, and tries to pull the towel tighter around his waist. “Uh… I can explain?”

Max’s eyes dart between you and Charles, and he starts connecting the dots. “So you’re the one who’s been sneaking around with my sister?” Max had his suspicion that you are seeing someone but never figured out who.

You try not to smile at the situation but fail miserably. “Max, it’s not what it looks like!” you say, trying to act innocent while biting your lip.

Max crosses his arms, clearly protective. “Oh really? Because it looks like my sister is dating a Formula 1 driver in a towel!”

Charles stammers, “I promise it’s not weird. We were just—”

“Just what? Practicing your towel dance?” Max interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

Before Charles can answer, he accidentally takes a step back and—whoosh—the towel slips right off!

“Ah!” Max yells, covering his eyes. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

You burst into laughter while Charles quickly grabs the towel, trying to cover himself as best as he can. “This is not how I wanted you to find out!” he exclaims, looking mortified.

Max lowers his hands and shakes his head. “Well, I guess you really are dating my sister, huh?”

Charles, still red-faced, nods sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. I really care about her.”

Max sighs dramatically, pretending to be serious. “Alright, just remember—I have a reputation to uphold as the protective older brother. So if you ever break her heart, I will hunt you down, towel or not.”

Charles laughs nervously, finally relaxing a bit. “Deal. But I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

With that, Max rolls his eyes, a small accepting smile breaking through. “Just put on some pants, man. Seriously.”

As you and Charles share a relieved glance, you can’t help but feel the weight being lifted off your shoulders. Now no more hiding your relationship from your brother.