Heyy Any Chance I Could Request 25 ("Don't Get In My Way") With Max And Red Bull Driver!reader?

heyy any chance i could request 25 ("Don't get in my way") with Max and Red Bull driver!reader?

winner of what?

PAIRING; Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!reader

SUMMARY; Max thinks you are going to ruin his chance at a fifth World Driver's Championship, and he can't let that happen. set in 2025, but doesn't necessarily follow the schedule

WARNINGS; small description of violence of a crash, angst, manipulative Max

A/N; thank you so much for this request! I hope I did your idea justice:)) also the longest fic I have ever written? thats crazy

not proof read

3.7k words masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・♥︎・✫・゜・。.

.・。.・゜✭・♥︎・✫・゜・。.

You were new here. You were an outsider. You knew that, and you hated every moment of it.

Despite knowing most people on the paddock by now, you couldn’t get rid of the lingering feeling that some of the mechanics or others despised you for taking Checo’s seat, even though you had rightfully won it. You knew that no one actually thought that, but the idea always sat idly in the back of your mind.

The season had barely begun (if you count pre-season testing as the start of the season), and yet here you were, already finding new ways to doubt your own abilities.

After a rough season with RB and Daniel, you were more than ready to actually be in the fight for podiums and wins, rather than measly points. Even with a one-year contract, you were determined to make this season yours, proving to Red Bull that they should keep you around for a little while longer.

Your new teammate, Max, was just coming down from a high of winning his fourth DWC and constructors’ with Red Bull, and you couldn’t be more excited to join the likes of these champions.

You hadn’t really met or had a chance to interaction with him, despite the many team meetings and social media outings you did together. He never really introduced himself; was there really any need too anyway? You knew he was Max Verstappen, 4-time world champion, and that was all you really needed when it came to him. You had raced with him on the grid for a few years now, so it brought you a little comfort to be able to say you at least were familiar with the surface level version of him.

From what Daniel had told you, the persona the media had given him was far from the truth; he wasn’t a villain, a monster out to make everyone’s race a living hell. No, Max was a pretty stand-up guy. According to Daniel, he was “just your type” and the two of you would “vibe like crazy” when you finally spoke to each other.

In fact, it was your ex-teammate who was the one to take the first initiative and introduce you to each other. You were at a season launch lunch, sitting by yourself at your table when Daniel, dragging Max along behind him, sat himself down beside you.

“It had recently been brought to my attention that you two have not been formally introduced, so I am going to do it for you,” he grins, almost proud of himself. Patting the seat on your other side, you look up a Max, silently offering him a seat.

He politely refuses, but the glare Daniel gives him is enough incentive for him to quietly take the seat.

“Now talk to each other.” The Aussie stands, taking his leave. “I am going to go back to the bar an get some more drinks, but I better see both your traps yapping or I’m not gonna be happy.”

An awkward silence entails, neither of you knowing where to start after he walks away.

“…He can be very bossy when he wants to be,” Max chuffs, being the one to break the silence. You laugh quietly in agreement, and the conversation flows pleasantly for the next few hours.

It isn’t until the sun begins to set that you realise how long you had been talking, and that Daniel never did come back. In the most subtle way you can manage, without disturbing Max who was looking on his phone for the best photos of his cats, you peer around the luncheon in hopes of finding your ex-teammate. Spotting him sitting at the bar, he was already looking your way; smirking, he taps his watch, and you can almost hear him say I told you so.

It’s the opening race of the season, and what a stellar start it was for Red Bull; a front row lock-out in qualifying, and a 1-2 podium, Max triumphing for what was the first time this year. It was exhilarating, being up on the podium with the others, especially considering it was your debut race with your new team. It wasn’t your first podium, of course, but this time around it felt much more earned, like you were finally getting recognised for your achievements.

At the debriefing, Max off-handedly mentioned the team going out to celebrate the win and asked if you wanted to come along. It was a stupid question, and he knew it; who were you to turn down the opportunity to commemorate your maiden podium?

You were out all night, not officially going back to your hotel room until the sun had risen the next morning. Although you didn’t remember much, there were multiple accounts recounted to you that you had been glued to Max’s side for majority of the party, including from the man himself. Photos of the two of you swarmed your messages and social media; his hand on the small of your back, yours grasping his shoulder for dear life.

He bought you drinks; you bought him drinks. It was a sweet cycle that had you both wasted within a couple hours, you more so than him. Even with your foggy recollection of the night, you knew that Max and you were getting closer, and you didn’t mind one bit of it.

The second race saw a similar fate; P1 for Max and P2 for yourself again, and the afterparty leading to very close proximity for the pair of you. Whilst you didn’t drink as heavily this time, you still felt just as intoxicated from the mere presence of him so near you.

“I know it’s only two races into the season, but you are already by far my favourite teammate that I’ve had,” you laugh, sure that he would barely be able to hear you over the blaring music.

He laughs too, leaning closer to you to be able to whisper in your ear, “same goes for you, Liefde.”

You didn’t even know what the nickname meant, but it sent chills down your spine. You didn’t question it, letting the mystery of his native language sway with you to the bass of the music.

The next few races would follow the same pattern; Max would finish the race above you, he would invite you to a party, and you would dance together much closer than two friends ever would. Even after coming second to Charles in the Monegasque’s home race, Max kept up this new tradition you had created.

Outside of the clubs and bars, he never acknowledged his behaviour. And because he didn’t, you didn’t either. No one asked about it, so it never got brought up, but people knew enough to expect it during any afterparties.

Interviews, podiums together, and in the cool down room, all that the public would see is two teammates celebrating each other’s achievements.

It wasn’t until you were actually able to give Max a run for his money for P1 after he had a poor pit stop that there was a falter in the routine. It all came down to the final lap; you overtook him at turn 1, he retaliated into turn 3, you got a better jump from the hairpin, but ultimately, he was the one who crossed the line ahead of you, even if it was only by a couple tenths of a second.

The cooldown room was tense, a state it had never been before. Even Carlos, known for his non-stop yapping, was quiet, knowing that something wasn’t quite right between the two of you. Of course, he didn’t know what it was, but honestly, you didn’t either – to your understanding, you were just having a good, competitive race, but Max must’ve thought otherwise.

He didn’t invite you to any celebrations afterwards, but others did. It made no difference either way who you went with; he was nowhere to be seen.

You didn’t talk to him much during the doubleheader, focusing more on the want to finally get your first win. With how well the car had been performing, and the statistics showing that you were closing in on Max more and more every race, a win this week was well within the realm of possibility.

With 5 laps left in the race, Max was leading with you hot on his heels, and Lando hot on yours. But all it took for everything to spiral into a flaming hot mess was for Max to cut you off, not leaving you enough room. It resulted in sending you spinning and crashing hard into a wall. Max, struggling to regain his composure, was overtaken by Lando. Red flags were waved, and the Brit was the first to see the checkered flag, trundling along behind the safety car.

To say you were heartbroken was an understatement. Nothing could describe just how angry and devastated you were that you didn’t even get to finish the race, and how willing your teammate was to just blatantly cut you off, all but forcing you into the wall.

Honestly, you wanted to cry, but you held yourself together throughout the media conferences, restraining yourself from diminishing Max’s performance today. As much as you wanted to, and boy did you really want to, a manager pulled you away before you could express your true feelings.

For whatever reason he thought it was appropriate, it was the Dutchman who invited you to celebrations of his win. You declined, being as polite as you physically could, claiming you just wanted to go back to your hotel room and sleep the night away.

He muttered some sweet nothings about ‘it not being the same without you,’ and ‘the party will be such a bore if you aren’t by my side,’ as if nothing had happened between you.

The stark contrast between his personas almost gave you whiplash, but regardless of you left by yourself. You tired and tried your hardest to convince yourself that the reason you weren’t partying tonight was because you just wanted to forget about such a poor end to such an amazing weekend. But in your core, you knew it was because you didn’t want to be with Max, to fall into his traps, be seduced by his niceties.

Were they even real? You weren’t sure what they were anymore.

You were in a new country within a day of the last race, completing videos for Red Bull’s socials, some even with Daniel by your side.

Naturally, he questioned your relationship with your teammate once the cameras were off.

Stunned silence was the only answer you could give him. With some gentle coaxing, he gets some information out of you.

“It’s just… I don’t even… I’ve never delt with anything like this in my life. Normally I can separate my outside life and racing, but he is just there. Always there,” you sigh, not realising how heavy the situation was weighing on your chest.

He hums in understanding. “I think you need to talk to him about it all.”

“I tried, once. He just pretended like he didn’t know what I was talking about, as if there was nothing happening between us,” you say. “It isn’t like a want a fully committed relationship with him or anything, I just… I’m so confused, I don’t know what to do. I really like him Dan. I don’t want to stop hanging out with him, he’s become a good friend, but I also don’t want to keep being led on like this. If that is what this even is?”

You collapse on your chair, covering your face in shame. The Aussie doesn’t have much to offer except some quiet consolations, softly rubbing your back in hopes of bringing you some comfort.

Your confidence had taken a hit, and it showed in your race results. Finishing P5 behind Max’s P1 wasn’t exactly a poor result, but for consistently being on the podium this season, you were not happy. You wanted to blame the car, or the slow pitstops (they were actually the two fastest of the race), but you knew deep down it wasn’t either of those.

A knock on your driver room door made you falter, unsure of who even knew you were in there.

“Who is it?” you ask, not bothering to move from your position.

The door creaks open, and you look over your shoulder to see the handsome smile that belonged to the one and only.

“What do you want, Max?”

“‘Congrats on the win Max, you had a great race.’ That’s so sweet, thank you,” he mocks your voice, laughing as he leans against the doorframe.

You don’t laugh, finding no humour in the situation.

“We are going out again tonight, to Frankie’s. you heard of it?” he continues, as if you weren’t glaring daggers at him.

You turn yourself to face him. “Who’s we?” you ask, ignoring his question.

“You and I, of course,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m not going out with you tonight.”

“Sure you are, we have to celebrate my win!”

“No, Max. And that’s final.” You stand, grabbing the door to usher him out.

“I’ll pick you up at 8, sound good?”

“No.”

“I’ll see you then,” he grins, walking away to his own room.

And true to his word, he is at the door of your hotel room, three minutes to 8. You don’t bother answering the door, leaving him knocking and calling your name. He leaves not long after, and you’re left to spend the night alone.

Finally, it was time for the Spa Grand Prix, the reigning World Driver’s Champion’s home race. You knew this race was important to Max, and what better way to one up him than to beat him in his home country?

You out qualify him in every possible way – free practises, Q1 and Q2. When it came time for Q3, you wish him luck as he jumps into his car. He grants it in return, but you know it doesn’t hold much value to it.

You complete your timed lap first, clocking the fastest time the last two days have seen. Max is on track to beat it, but understeers around one corner, leading him to…qualify the same time as you?? No, that couldn’t be right…

You sit in shock, looking at the checkered flag was waved. You. In P1. You would start the race up the very front for the first time in your career. You would start ahead of Max. in his home race.

He didn’t have much to comment on it, knowing that the actual competition would come during the race.

The night was a blur, and before you could prepare yourself, the five lights were out, and you were racing in Spa.

You lost the lead before the first lap was even over, and of course it was to Max. You tried to not let it damper your hopes for the win, fiercely fighting him for first place. Halfway into the race, the pair of you were over 30 seconds ahead from Charles, running in P3. You couldn’t remember how many cars you had lapped, but it had to have been at least half of the grid.

With only tenths between you, he crossed the line first. Your heart shattered, but at least you had the fastest lap, right?

Content with the weekend, you took Max up on his offer to go to a party together that night. It didn’t take much to convince you to have a few drinks, and it wasn’t long until you were out on the dance floor. The Dutchman accompanied you, not nearly as drunk as you were.

You let him run his hands down your waist, eventually resting your hips. It made you queasy, how easily he could control every thought you had. You wanted nothing more than this night to ever end, and that was only aided by the sweet nothing he would whisper, only for you to hear.

“I missed having you here with me,” he murmurs, barely audible over the drone of the packed bar you were in. “You’re the only reason I enjoy celebrating my wins.”

A blush creeps up your neck and cheeks, pulling him closer to you. The proximity has you weak, supported only by his hold. You let him sway you side to side, enjoying this side of him. This side you only saw when he was drunk, and you were too.

You couldn’t help but fall back into the rhythm of your relationship with Max. His sickly intoxicating words were music to your ears, leaving you wanting more and more every time. It never escalated into anything physical, but the illusion that it might had you holding onto this faux reality so tightly.

The season was coming to an end, only a few races left on the calendar. One of which was your home race, and you had never been more excited to be a driver in your life. Qualifying saw you on pole for the second time and, a surprise twist for everyone, saw Max sitting in P4, behind the likes of both Ferrari’s.

The thought of him being so many cars behind you brought some comfort to the nerves racking your body. You had never felt so anxious in your life, not even when you were on pole in Spa. You were so, so desperate for this to be your first win.

Red Bull were secure in their Constructor’s Championship, winning for the fourth year in a row. The Driver’s Championship, however, was still anyone’s game. It would be hard for Charles, who was sitting in third, to come back and win it, but it was still a possibility. Sitting in second, you were miraculously only 24 points behind Max. That was close enough to give you hope, determined more than ever. He, on the other hand, was not a happy chap.

On the racetrack, he didn’t really acknowledge you unless he had too. Off the racetrack? Max was a completely different person, never one to break the routine that had begun again.

During the formation lap, you felt the nerves and cheers radiating off of the crowd, supporting you in their wake. Being their only representation, you had a lot sitting on your shoulders.

The lights flicked on. One by one, taking what felt like forever to finally disappear. And when they did, you got the best jump of the group, leading the grid into the first, second, third corners and what would be the next 30 laps of the race.

Max had made up positions, closing in on you in first. It wasn’t until he made a stupid, irresponsible decision to try and overtake in a corner that was not made for two cars, causing a collision that his car couldn’t walk away from. Yours was in much better shape, only having damage to the front wing.

Whilst yeah, you lost multiple positions, his DNF sparked so much hope in your chest that there was almost nothing stopping you from winning this race.

Within record time, you jumped from ninth to first, giddy at the idea of actually winning for the first time in front of your home crowd. With only 1 lap to go, you were crying. You couldn’t lose it now, with whoever was running second so far behind you there was simply no chance of them catching up. You vision was blurred, but you could still see the checkered flag clear as day. People were screaming over the radio, but it all muddled together.

Stepping onto that first-place podium and hearing your national anthem was a dream come true. Literally. Sweat mixed with champagne, and for once you didn’t dread being sprayed. Revelling in the cheers of the crowd, you were overwhelmed with emotion that you couldn’t even form coherent sentences.

Someone, you aren’t quite sure who, mentions that because of your win, you were now first in the Driver’s Championship; Max’s DNF cost him the lead. How ironic.

Back in the team garage, you’re pulled away before you can get a big team photo.

Surprise is the last thing you feel when you see your teammate being the one to lead you away from everyone.

“What are you doing? We need to take the photo, Max. I don’t want to miss the photo,” you whine, laughing from the absurdity of the situation.

The door of whatever room he’s pulled you too slammed behind him, a loud bang you weren’t expecting.

“What the hell were you doing out there?”

“…what?” you ask, confused on what the hell he was talking about.

“Your shitty driving pushed me into the wall. Your shitty driving cost me the championship.”

“No, Max, the incident was your fault. Not mine.”

He looks like he’s holding back from strangling you. “No. I told Christian that you would ruin everything, and here we are. What a surprise, I was right.”

“There is still like 3 races left in the season, and I’m only a couple points up. You could very easily come back. No need to freak out.”

“Do not get in my way of my fifth championship, or else I’ll make sure you never race for any team, ever again.”

He had never been this mad, not in front of you.

“Fuck you, Max. At this point in time, I hold the title. Not you. It is not yours to claim,” you retaliate, fed up with him ruining your day.

“I bet you grinding your ass on me every night was a manipulation tactic, wasn’t it? To get in my head, fuck with my races.”

“What?? You were the one asking me to come with you, not the other way around. Do not try and turn this around on me Max.”

Down the hall, you could hear people calling out for you. He notices it too, opening the door with much gusto. “This isn’t over. Get in my way again, and I will personally see to you never getting in a car again.”

He stalks off, nowhere to be found for the photo. You tell the team not to wait up for him, knowing he would not be coming.

Safe to say that this weekend, this race that you had dreamed of for your whole life, was ruined.

Yeah, you were a winner, but a winner of what?

.・。.・゜✭・♥︎・✫・゜・。.

charles' back, a short compilation from his new vlog

Oh my god Arthur wasn't lying when he said he way crying. Look at his wet cheeks on the video😭❤️

check out the mourning doves’ new single “hooOOOO hoo hoo hoo” if you get the chance. sound of the summer.

born to run

“He’s too much cowboy for you,” she says.

You meet Max’s eyes from across the field. The sun is low in the sky, white fluffy clouds dotting the blue above your heads. He grins just a little wider when he looks at you, you swear. He tips his hat to you and then he nudges his horse, taking off across the pasture, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.

a two part special // coming june 22nd & 23rd