multi-twenty-onez

(Possibly set around 2012)

contains interactions with mark, jenson, and nico h......

You barely got time to attend Sebastian's races. Between your photoshoots, events and interviews, it was a wonder you even got time to watch them on the TV.

So, the first time you were actually free on a race weekend saw Sebastian parading you around for all of the grid to see.

Faces—those of drivers, mechanics, and the public alike—peeked out from behind walls and doors, watching you and Sebastian chat and wander the pit-lane and paddock.

The first driver to approach was Seb's teammate, Australian driver Mark Webber.

'Jesus, Seb,' he clapped the younger driver on the shoulder. 'She's a beauty.'

'Right?' you'd never seen such a huge, toothy grin on your boyfriend's face. He was beaming, not unlike a small sun, straight up at his fellow Redbull driver.

'Have to keep her from the rest of the boys,' Mark chuckled, winking at Seb and smiling at you before striding off.

After that, there seemed to be no end to the greetings—or the whispering.

You'd noticed small clusters of drivers and officials starting to form in your wake, chattering a bit too loudly to be considered in secrecy.

Mainly, you caught the tail ends of their words—things about recognising you, some murmurings about your good looks—harmless things, really.

So absorbed in this train of thought, you didn't even notice that Jenson Button—the McLaren Mercedes driver—had wandered over.

'Hi, Seb,' he grinned. 'And—he-llo, Seb's girlfriend.'

Sebastian snorted, and pulled you a little closer. 'Okay, Jennifer, keep it to yourself.'

The Brit shrugged, winking at you anyway. 'You know, if you want someone who actually speaks English...'

'Ich bin Deutsch,' you smiled up at him, and Jenson baulked.

'Shit, girl, I take that back.'

He awkwardly patted Sebastian's shoulder one last time and ducked off, likely reporting to his teammate, Lewis Hamilton.

'Dämlich,' Seb said affectionately, smiling down at you. 'The English drivers can be stupid.'

'I expected better,' you sighed, but couldn't contain your grin.

'Maybe another German?' Sebastian waved over fellow countryman Nico Hulkenberg.

He strolled over, smile almost blinding in contrast to the dark tint of the sunglasses propped on his beakish nose, and shook Seb's hand.

'Ich sehe, du hast eine Freundin gefunden,' [I see you've found yourself a girlfriend!]

'Ja,' Seb grinned, seemingly unable to keep the expression off his face. 'Sie ist hübsch, nicht wahr?' [she's pretty, isn't she?]

'Very,' Nico agreed, his lips curving up in a warm smile as his eyes turned to you. 'Willkommen.'

'Danke,' you shook his hand, returning his friendliness before he turned back to your boyfriend.

'Kümmere dich gut um sie, Seb,' Nico nodded.

I PROMISE I WILL START POSTING MORE AGAIN............. school has been kicking my ass

guys i can’t stop thinking about teen max n exchange student reader they are my magnum opus

It sort of felt like a sign.

After all, it rarely snowed in the Netherlands—and even more rarely, snowed this heavily.

And exactly two days after Max’s new exchange student had moved into his home.

You had scurried up to one of the windows on the top floor, face pressing against the freezing glass, and stared out at the white-blanketed hills that had appeared overnight. The snow seemed to glister, sparkling back up at you in the early-morning sun, ensnaring your eyes.

Max, woken by the commotion of your footsteps, crept out of his room to see what was up.

He probably should have been impressed by the snowfall, by just how thick it looked even from up here. But, alas, he was a little more focused on you.

You, in the sweatpants and longsleeve you’d been wearing to bed due to not being used to the cold. You, with your pillow-mussed hair, in a tangle over your shoulders. You, with the warmth from your hands slowly fogging the glass.

It took Max a little longer than he liked to drag his eyes away from you.

‘The snow is nice,’ he mumbled, and you jumped—you had been too enamoured by the pale, glittering hills outside to realise he had approached.

‘I’ve never seen it before!’ you sighed, glancing longingly out the window once more. ‘It’s so beautiful…’

This had Max perk up. Never seen snow before? Even he had, despite it being rare here. It usually didn’t last past midday, however.

‘How?’ he obviously didn’t mean to be rude, but the word was a little too incredulous.

‘It doesn’t snow everywhere, Max,’ you giggled, and it was only now that the boy realised you were shivering. As your shoulders shook from your little laugh, they sort of trembled uncomfortably for a little longer than they should have.

‘Do you need a—’ Max motioned with his hands as if he was wrapping himself up in something. His English was broken, and of course, he couldn’t remember the word jacket in a conversation he was trying very hard not to fumble.

‘A jumper?’ you asked shyly. ‘Yes, please.’

He nodded, grabbing your wrist gently and leading you to his room. You’d already been in here, probably twice, but he hadn’t opened his closet yet—not until now.

‘You can choose.’

Inside, there was an assortment of hoodies and jackets—most with team logos on them. Some you’d seen before, with insignia of various F1 drivers on them, or others with symbols you could only assume were that of his F3 team.

You reached for one in grey and orange—it had his name embroidered on the back. On the front was a small patch with the logo for Van Amersfoort Racing—Max’s F3 constructor.

He chewed his lip, watching as you shrugged it on, nudging you so you would turn around and show him the letters “VERSTAPPEN” which were now splashed across your back. A small, possessive part of him grinned with all of it’s pointy teeth.

I’ll see what I can come up with ……

I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING BEHAVIOURS INCLUDING IMPLIED CHEATING.

Max knew he never should have got mixed up with your family. They were wealthy sponsors of the FIA, ever present at meetings, galas, and events—people he could never avoid and usually disliked.

However, when Christian introduced his father to yours, he knew there’d be no chance of having a table to himself at any more sponsor dinners.

There was four of you, mother, father, and two daughters, all looking glowy and well-fed with the sheer money that seemed to ooze off the parents in the form of designer labels and expensive, heady perfume. Max himself came from a relatively wealthy family, but this was obnoxious. However, Jos seemed right at home.

It was inevitable that Max’s father, Jos Verstappen, would try to set something up to benefit himself. Namely, a politely forced relationship between his son and his friends’ eldest daughter.

Now, everything aside, she was nice enough. Quite thin, with dark hair and dark eyes, the woman should have been exactly what Max wanted at his age. There was only a year between them both and they got along well enough—nice, vague and boring just like everything else Max associated with the FIA.

He was restless. How did his father expect him to function in this pairing? When her idea of a good time was to be paraded around Monaco like one of her Louis Vuitton handbags?

This was the first crack in Max’s resilience. For, he’d been trying to ignore just how much better he felt when he was around his girlfriend’s younger sister.

You were about four or five years younger than him, not a scandalous amount, which was something he wasn’t even supposed to be thinking about. As hard as he tried, though, Max always found himself chatting to you whenever your families caught up, ignoring the way his girlfriend—your older sister—watched with hawklike eyes.

To make matters worse, you were also far more interested in racing than your sister. This made conversation worryingly easy.

One particular evening, after Max’s girlfriend had excused herself to go find her friends across the restaurant, you invited him to dance without really expecting him to say yes. To your surprise, Max did, though after a furtive glance in the direction your sister had just disappeared.

You told him he had nothing to worry about. You were practically in-laws.

The wish that you weren’t passed simultaneously through both of your minds, and the identical look of barely restrained longing you exchanged with the Formula One driver being led onto the dance floor by your hand must have given it away. Though it would, no doubt, take some ordained doomsday to for it to be acted upon.

Soon enough, you reached the dance floor. It was quite small, with three or four other couples already taking up a large portion, but you and Max slid between two and made yourselves at home.

The song piping from some hidden speaker was a little on the slower side, so you just swayed with Max for a while. He had absolutely no schoolboy nerves at all, one of his hip-bones prodding your lower stomach and making you blush.

Nothing, however, happened. Nothing more than simply moving with each-other to the music. You tried to tell yourself it was good—because you, of course, didn’t want anything to happen, right?

Max was less adept at hiding his disappointment. It was clear when he was walking out the door with your sister, barely paying attention to whatever gossip she’d procured from her friends’ table, and not even bothering to open the passenger-side door of his car for her.

He’d experienced what it was like to be with someone more interesting. And it was incredibly difficult to go back to whatever level of unbearable this relationship was.

The next time he saw you was when you were house-sitting for him and your sister. Max had booked a holiday—after much pleading—and they flew out in a few hours. While the two were gone, you were looking after the two cats they owned, alongside their penthouse apartment.

While his girlfriend was doing some last-minute shopping, Max was showing you around his home. Where the cat food was, mainly, and some small irrelevant rooms, too…

‘My sim setup,’ he opened the door to a darkened room, and you gasped. The money sitting in front of you in the form of monitors, pedals and framework was almost unfathomable.

‘Wow.’

‘Pretty cool, right?’ Max’s Dutch accent was incredibly prominent, which was unfortunate—you’d always found it far too attractive.

‘What’s—what’s your favourite track to race?’

‘Spa is fun sometimes,’ he said after a pause. ‘You can try it one day?’

You barely had to register his words to know it wasn’t really a question. Max wanted you in his house again, sitting in his sim rig, and listening to him talk about all the things he couldn’t when your sister was home.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. The prospect of going behind your sister’s back was thrilling, especially with Max. He wasn’t doing anything to foster the withering shreds of hope that this could be brushed off as friendship, either.

For the (Eighth? Ninth?) time today, his hand brushed your waist. As you turned to glance at him, he was already reaching over your shoulder to play it off, hand closing around a coffee mug he must have left on his desk earlier.

‘Back to the kitchen. I have to wash this.’

You let him close the door behind you with one last longing glance to the rig, hearing his sigh and smiling slightly.

‘You gonna miss it while you’re on holiday?’

Max made a little “hhmph” sound. ‘What am I not going to miss?’

‘Her?’ you almost regretted saying that, until the broad shoulders just above your line of sight shook with laughter.

‘Mm, yeah.’

its actually incredible how much love i’ve got for my max fics, lol. i love you all so much

I’m going through a bit of writers block at the moment unfortunately and am pretty much just doing the stuff in my inbox. i really enjoy writing for max mainly because i find that writing his personality comes surprisingly easy to me, so it’s pretty likely i’ll write more for him, even if it’s not a series like some i’ve done in the past.

big, hulking kimi raikkonen with his soft little round ears and downy tail 😋 gosh i can see it

You were only surprised for a second when you met the Lotus driver. Not of his extreme “don’t care” demeanour, but of the fact you hadn’t already realised he’d be a big cat hybrid.

As you were walking down the paddock, you saw him in a pavilion, stretched out on a deck chair like a lazy housecat. Your own ears flicked, amused. Kimi, seeming to sense your presence, tilted his head a little to look at you over his sunglasses.

His eyes seemed to freeze you in place, their shockingly pale hue trapping you like a mouse. And there it was—Kimi Raikkonen’s lopsided smirk, tugging up one side of his lips.

Your tail jammed itself between your legs and you scurried off, back to the safer end of the paddock—where no drivers frequented.

Hybrids and humans mingled there, drifting toward the various live performances on the stages scattered around. Each, however, kept glancing at their programmes—the interviews were on soon. Before qualifying, most drivers were put on stage and interviewed for the crowd.

Today, the two Lotus drivers were going up, alongside the pair for Redbull, and the Mclaren—Mercedes two.

You reached stage number five—where the interviews were happening—with two minutes ‘till they started. The crowd had already closed around the front barrier, but you wigged your way through, dodging tails and wayward limbs.

You weren’t at the vey front, but you’d managed to get close as Kimi and Romain walked out.

Grosjean was a regular human, one of the few in the sport, but most eyes—or yours, at least—were on Kimi. His pale, downy tail flicked lazily behind him, and his round snow-leopard ears pointed straight forward.

Kimi’s sunglasses didn’t, however, hide the fact he was scanning the crowd.

Looking for you.

Before the hybrid was even halfway to the panel set up on the centre of the stage, he saw you. The crooked smirk was back, but subtler this time.

You shuddered. Maybe watching these interviews wasn’t a good idea. It was a long, stretched-out interrogation, with sporadic, forced jokes from the journalist that were only met with Romain’s polite, vacant smile and Kimi’s deadpan.

The crowd rarely laughed, and even then, it was contained in the front row. By the time the ordeal was over, you felt very sorry for the lady with the mic.

Luckily, the Redbull drivers are a little more friendly, you thought as you extricated yourself from the crowd. Sebastian Vettel and Mark Webber were walking on stage as you left the half-penned area.

The paddock was pretty empty as you walked back, looking for a van selling the food your stomach seemed to be growling for.

Never once, however, did Kimi Raikkonen leave the forefront of your mind.

The snow leopard’s piercing gaze was burnt into the eye-sockets of your skull. Every pavilion you walked past had you doing double-takes—but you couldn’t tell if you were hoping to see him there, or hoping he wasn’t there.

Actually, Kimi thought it was pretty obvious as he walked a few yards behind, watching your tail twitch and ears perk up every corner you turned.

You hadn’t, to his relief, checked behind you once. Probably because you were starved, Kimi thought amusedly, watching as you walked into a small, outdoor restaurant pavilion.

Naturally, he followed.

It was cute, seeing you stand on tiptoes to order, your little nervous bottle-brush tail twined around your leg. The bartender slid over a glass of auburn wine and you turned to find a table.

Of course, there was a large, Kimi-shaped obstacle in your way.

His little stalk was over, but he didn’t mind. Maybe he’d even get a meal out of this.

Actually, the tiny squeak that escaped your lips made it all worth it.

‘What—?’

‘Hello,’ curse his terrible English. ‘Let me order. Before we sit.’

‘W-we?’

Kimi nodded, stepping up to the bartender and ordering himself a drink and the first thing on the menu. Thank God it was some irrelevant cut of steak and not some strange English dish.

The Finn picked up his gin tonic and led you, by your hand, to a table a little more out-of-the-way.

You, meanwhile, were experiencing a little overload even in your enhanced hybrid senses. Kimi Raikkonen, the world-class Formula One driver, had noticed your existence?

He pulled out a chair for you and you sat down gladly, gazing up at him as he sat across from you.

‘What’s your name?’ Kimi watched expectantly as you struggled to remember what you’d been called from birth. Eventually, you blurted it out, and the bulky man in front of you snorted.

‘Are you sure?’

You laughed despite yourself, blushing crimson.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said gruffly, turning a fork over in his fingers.

It was silent for a little while, but not uncomfortably so. You found yourself staring at him, and he let you, enjoying the attention like the huge housecat he was.

IT'S OK BRO IT ACTUALLY MADE MY DAY ICL

ooooh i definitely can. gonna start with some headcannons for now

- his wolfish side combined with his personality makes him quite territorial and borderline pushy. although, when he’s comfortable, he can get pretty malleable and soft.

- seb was always bad at disguising emotion, and his incredibly expressive ears and tail make it even harder. whether his tall ears are folded back in an interview or his bottle-brush tail is thumping his leg when he sees you, it’s remarkably easy to get a read on him

- took him forever to get used to everyone smiling at him. after all, showing teeth is a sign of aggro to canines—a lot of his team was super confused when his tail stuck itself between his legs after they congratulated him.

- he trails after you. all the time. he’s sometimes suffocatingly loyal, always making you grin when he’s inevitably approached (thanks to his status as an f1 driver). he barely looks anyone else’s way.

- he has a bound about him when he’s excited and loves play fighting, sometimes getting a little carried away. it’s only when you smack him on the nose as his teeth are sunk a little too deep into you that he realises and sheepishly pulls away.

- seb is really observant and protective of you, often from yourself and your habits to get a little too zoned in and forget about eating/drinking/getting sunlight/etc. safe to say it’s no longer an issue after he notices

- the one way to this man’s heart is his dog, obviously. and since Leo took a liking to you, it’s practically a sign.

- charles isn’t shy, either. he’s pretty direct the first time he says something forward, but if you ask him to repeat it, he just looks at you innocently. he knows you heard him.

- i hate playing into stereotypes with these but there’s no doubt he’s possessive. you’re a contractor, obviously you’re going to be working for other people in the breaks between races. he, however, doesn’t like that.

- one of his love languages is physical touch, no doubt. sometimes he doesn’t even realise he’s touching you until a nosy camera puts your image up on one of the paddock’s screens

- he thinks his dog is perfectly trained, you beg to differ. any dog that licks your face and arms while you’re cuddling it is a menace, in your books.

- charles is always making up lame excuses to try and take you home. “Leo isn’t behaving without you” (somewhat true) “he still needs his bodyguard at hotels” (lie) “there’s an extra bed in my hotel room, you can stay the night!” (disgusting lie).

NO WAY BRO oh my god