#dom!max

"What do I have to lose?"

Lienne stares down the car ahead — identical to hers, just a few meters in front. The gap is closing. The angle to the kerb? Perfect. The radio call came unexpected.

A perfect P1 in only her fourth Formula 1 race. By overtaking her own teammate.

"Your damn mind, Lienne. We're on Plan A."

Plan A and Plan B are wrapped around that P1 car. Her engineer knows her instincts — and knows she’ll ignore rules if it means a win. So, the reminder comes quick.

They all knew what they were signing up for when they brought her in — straight from Formula 2, fiery temper, allergic to losing.

And then they paired her with Max Verstappen. What could go wrong?

Well, it seems like there's something wrong by his following radio message;

"Has she lost her mind? What is she doing?"

The pit wall’s a mess of confused engineers and frantic glances. They all know how this ends. A bomb, just waiting.

"We're working on it, Max. Keep the pace up."

"Lienne, secure the podium and spare the car. P1 and P2 for the team. Bring it home."

The third-place car’s way behind. There’s a lap and a half left. All Lienne has on her mind is victory.

"Copy, Lienne?"

"Yeah, copy. P1 and P2. Congratulate Max on his second place for me, please."

After that, nothing anyone says matters. Not Hannah. Not Horner. The girl in the RB20 is going full throttle — and she's about to race her own teammate.

When Red Bull signed her, everyone understood: she wouldn’t play nice. She wasn't here to bow or obey. She was here to win. But, yeah, Max didn’t expect her to take it from him.

"What the fuck?! What in the actual fuck is she doing? Mate, what the fuck?"

"Calm down, Max. We're working on it."

Truth is, the team knows just as little as he does. Lienne’s gone rogue. Max can’t catch her now.

She’s not racing for the team anymore — she’s racing him. And he’s losing.

Two laps of chaos. The engineers go quiet. She's done. Probably fired. That’s all the paddock can talk about.

When the race ends, there’s no celebration. Not from her because at least she knows there's no mood for that. She follows the steps, does what’s required. Nothing more.

The cool-down room is hell.

"You're lucky if you ever race again," Max growls, sitting far away, face red and tight with fury.

She smiles. Smiles. Like it’s all a game. Like it’s not eating him alive.

"This sport was too easy for you," she shrugs. "I'm what you needed to improve."

She says it looking him dead in the eye. Like she didn’t just ignore every team order. Like she didn’t blow up the race plan.

How can someone so small be so reckless?

"I need you out of my way. That’s what I need." Max forgets everyone’s watching. "You fucked up. Bad."

"Did I?" Her lashes flutter. The P1 cap on her head is tilted like a crown. "Or did you finally lose the throne, Max Verstappen? Someone finally put you on your knees. Thank God! It was getting boring."

She even bites her lip.

God, he wants to shut her up.

"Shut the fuck up."

Nothing else. The screen replays her final overtake. The third driver — McLaren — walks in. Max says nothing. His mind races.

Lienne keeps smiling, chatting with Oscar like she didn’t just cause a storm. Sweat clings to her skin, stray curls stuck to her neck. She's a tease in every way.

And Max hates her for it.

"What a race," Oscar offers, trying to cut the tension. "Did you guys plan this?"

"No… All freestyle," Lienne grins, leaning back. "That’s how you do it, you see? Just one lesson: you see Max, you overtake Max. Then you win over Max."

She’s taunting him. On purpose. She always does this.

Max doesn’t even feel guilty for what he’s thinking.

Lienne needs someone to fuck the attitude out of her.

"Just that easy," the Australian laughs nervously. "Weird as hell though. What was the actual plan?"

"The plan was what we had until lap 47. Everything else was unprofessionalism," Max explains coldly. "Lienne went rogue."

"Max! Don’t be so hard on yourself!" she chimes in, voice syrupy with sarcasm. "Losing to me isn’t unprofessional. It’s just life! Everyone loses sometimes."

Just then, someone enters to bring them to the podium. Lienne is the first out, last into the champagne spray. Oscar tries to ease the mood — but he won’t be in Red Bull’s driver's room later.

"You think this is a joke? That you do whatever the fuck you want, and laugh it off later?"

Lienne turns, halfway out of her fireproofs, expression innocent. Almost too innocent.

"I think I’m hilarious." She shrugs again. That damn shrug. "I’m not doing whatever I want, Max. I’m doing what pisses you off. And now you’re mad. That’s on you."

He steps closer. Her lack of reaction just stokes the fire. She’s still peeling off the rest of her gear, casual like she’s in her own bedroom.

"You broke team rules."

"I broke your rules. Big difference." Her lips move slowly, deliberately. Hair wild, eyes locked on his.

"The rules are mine because I win. You can’t compete with me, Lienne. It’s all fun until you’re out of your seat."

"You talk too much." She sighs, still calm. "You need a catchphrase or something. Bit more punch."

She’s standing there in just her sports bra beneath the fireproofs, still holding the fabric. She always walks around like this — why does it feel different now?

"And you need to lose that attitude. But do I go around saying it all the time? No, I don’t."

Her eyes flicker to his lips. Back up again. A smirk. "Yeah, bet. Not much of a man now, huh? Guess you're only Mad Max when there's no competition."

If she’d said this years ago, maybe it would’ve gotten in his head. But Max matured. Now he only thinks one thing.

He’s going to fuck the attitude out of her.

"What do you want, Lienne? What’s the point of this scene? You want something, just say it."

Oh, he’s right. She wants something she won’t ask for.

This isn’t new. They’ve shared drinks before. Caught each other looking. The tension’s always been there. It was getting only easier to ignite it.

"I want you to go fuck yourself." She’s leaning into it now. "I’m not one to ask."

"Yeah. I know."

It’s like a fuse. Electric. He watches her, sweaty, flushed, half undressed, and—

She turns. Big mistake.

Two steps. His hand wraps around her wrist, turns her around, pins her between him and the wall.

No more words.

Then it’s her back hitting the wall of her driver’s room, and Max’s body pinning her there like a slammed door.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s all teeth and tongue and months of restrained tension breaking open like a snapped DRS flap. Their mouths crash together, hot and furious, her hands grabbing at his half-unzipped race suit, tugging until the sleeves tied at his waist fall loose.

Max doesn’t pause — not even a second — before his fingers find the zipper of her own suit and drag it down with single-minded intent. Fireproofs cling to her hips, damp with sweat, her chest heaving against him as his mouth trails hot down her neck.

"You really have to fuck your way into my dick, huh?" he growls, hand sliding down over her belly. "You could’ve just asked."

"I got some good points out of that," she throws back, smug as hell, lips brushing his jaw.

The laugh that slips out of him is low, dark, humorless. Her voice is too loud — and they both know it. The walls are thin, the paddock is just beyond the door, and they’re both still suited like they just stepped off the track.

Max grips her face, palm firm across her jaw, and shoves her back against the wall again.

“Keep your voice down,” he snaps. “You want the entire grid to hear how wet you are for me?”

She opens her mouth to talk back — always does — but he cuts her off with another kiss, brutal and fast. One hand tugs her fireproofs and suit down her thighs, the other keeps her face right where he wants it.

And she moans. Loud.

Max pulls back, furious, breath ragged. “I said quiet.”

Then comes the slap.

Not hard — but sharp. A sting across her cheek that silences her instantly, eyes wide, lips parted. Max stares her down, jaw tight.

“That help you listen?” he asks, voice rough like gravel.

She nods, lips already swelling, eyes flickering from his to the door, as if remembering just where they are. But she still can’t keep her mouth shut — not when he drags his fingers between her legs and finds her already slick.

"Fuck, Max—" it's half on purpose, like she's just not even trying to hold back.

She's trying to push. And she gets it, just as it worked on track.

Another slap. This time lighter, but it makes her shiver.

“Don’t make me gag you with your own fireproofs,” he mutters, free hand dragging up her thigh. “You want something in your mouth? Ask.”

He grins. Hands wrapping around her waist, pushing closer as she gasps.

Right on cue, his mouth moves to hers again —sloppier, slower. His tongue claiming the dominance he couldn’t keep on track.

She’s still barely out of her suit when he spins her around again, this time not for a kiss but to shove her front-first against the wall. Her breath hitches — not out of fear, but pure thrill — cheek pressed to the cool surface, arms pinned above her head by one of his hands.

“Still feeling cocky, little miss champion?” he growls low into her ear, his free hand already dragging her sports bra up over her chest.

Her voice is a purr. “Still feeling threatened, old man?”

Wrong answer.

The sharp smack lands on her ass now — loud, rough, enough to make her jolt. Her laugh is breathy, but she doesn’t apologize. Not even close.

Max’s fingers dig into her hips, dragging her against him until she feels how hard he is through his jeans. “I warned you. I told you to shut the fuck up.”

“And I told you I’m not one to ask.”

Another smack, harder. This time she gasps — not just from the sting but because his hand doesn’t leave. It palms her ass, then dips down between her thighs, two fingers rubbing over the fabric of her underwear like he’s mocking how wet she is already.

“For someone who talks so much, your pussy’s saying the opposite.” His voice is a rasp. Dark. Dangerous. “You like pushing me, huh? You like seeing how far you can go until I ruin you.”

She turns her head slightly, lips curled in a dare. “Do your worst.”

That’s all it takes.

In seconds, her underwear is down around her thighs and he’s sinking to his knees behind her, tongue already dragging through her folds like he’s starved. No warning, no buildup. Just wet, messy licks that make her knees buckle and her bratty confidence start to shake.

“Oh—fuck, Max—”

It's in the way her hips shift against him, chasing the friction. Max makes a sound low in his throat, mutters something in Dutch, and then he’s got her leg hiked up, her suit crumpled at her ankles, and his own fireproofs tugged just low enough.

No teasing. No time. They barely got to foreplay.

He pushes into her like he owns her — and maybe he does, in this moment. Her nails scrape across the thin fabric clinging to his back, her mouth open in a gasp he doesn’t let her release. His hand covers her mouth, thumb dragging across her cheek where the sting of his slap still lingers.

“You’re gonna take it all, quiet like a good girl,” he grits out, thrusts hard enough that her back hits the wall again with a dull thud.

She’s shaking already, muffled sounds lost beneath his palm, eyes rolled back.

“This what you wanted?” he hisses, hips snapping into her. “You think you can play games on track and walk away like I won’t ever get my payback?”

She nods — frantic, still — like she was using her words to say "yes, I think I can play whatever I want to and walk away like you won't ever get payback" and that only makes him go harder. Every stroke rougher, more desperate. The heat between them, the sweat, the scent of rubber and engine oil still clinging to their suits — it’s filthy and fast and perfect.

It's when she clenches; he knew he wasn't going to let it end so quickly. She feels the emptiness as he steps back, hands holding her waist and giving it no time as he turns her around.

He doesn’t even wait for her legs to steady. Just scoops her up like she weighs nothing and drops her onto the narrow couch shoved against the wall of her driver’s room. She barely has time to catch her breath before he’s pushing her down on her knees, fireproofs and suit still tangled around her thighs, cheek pressed into the cushion.

"Ass up," Max orders, voice hoarse, not even trying to hide how wrecked he is.

And she gives it to him — fast, eager, already moaning again as he grabs her hips and drags her back against him. No slow build this time. Just a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of her lungs, followed by another and another until she’s choking on the force of it, clawing at the armrest like it’ll save her.

“Max—” she tries, barely a whimper, “I—I can’t—”

He slaps her ass, hard. “Yes, you fucking can.”

Her whole body jolts. Then another slap. Then he’s driving into her with such relentless rhythm that the couch legs start to squeak against the floor.

“You wanna talk about lap times now?” he pants, one hand sliding up her spine to grab her hair and yank her head back. “Still think you’re faster?”

She’s babbling. Words that aren’t words, her mind wrecked, legs trembling, cheeks stained with spit and tears. And she’s still trying to fuck back into him — helpless, addicted, gone.

“Too much,” she sobs, voice muffled in the cushions.

Max doesn’t stop. Not even close.

“That’s the fucking point.”

He presses her down fully, body blanketing hers, cock still buried deep. His mouth finds her ear, hot breath and sweat and growled Dutch curling over her skin.

“I’m gonna keep going until your voice breaks,” he swears, “and then maybe I’ll let you cum again.”

Her hands scrabble at the cushions, searching for something to hold onto. But there’s nothing — no mercy, no control, no stopping.

Only Max. And everything he’s willing to take.

“You wanna play queen of the grid? Fine.” He's all the way in; then all the way out. Then in again. Strong, relentless. “But right now you’re just a cock-drunk brat who needs to be put in her place.”

And then he’s inside her — all at once, no mercy, no gentleness. She cries out, legs fighting not to give up as he starts to fuck into her like he’s trying to fuck the memory of the race out of both of them.

She claws at the couch, trying to meet his pace but he’s faster. Rougher. Unforgiving. Her moans get louder, messier — every thrust knocking the air out of her lungs until all she can do is whimper and beg.

“Too much?” he taunts, even as he pounds into her harder, grounding his hands into her hips. “Thought you could handle anything, Lienne. Thought you were tough.”

“Fuck—Max, I—”

Her orgasm hits hard, tearing through her like lightning — but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow, fingers deep down her skin as he holds her in place. His hand finds her throat, pressing lightly as he fucks her through it, her body already shaking under him.

“One,” he mutters. “That’s one. I’m not done.”

She tries to protest, but it’s all breath and no sound. She doesn't want to, in fact. That's what Lienne was looking for ever since the first pet-peeve.

“Come on,” he hisses, thrusts brutal now. “You wanted to be better than me? Take it. Take every fucking inch.”

Another orgasm builds too fast — she’s too sensitive, too overwhelmed — but it hits anyway, making her sob and convulse, tears falling freely now.

She comes hard, a trembling mess pinned under him, her voice caught in the back of her throat as she tries to cry out but only manages a broken gasp. Max's hand is still over her mouth, smothering every sound she makes, letting her fall apart in silence. Her thighs shake violently, knees barely holding her weight on the couch as he fucks her through the last wave, giving her no pause, no break. Just relentless.

"Shhh," he hisses against her neck, breath rough and hot. "Don't wake the whole paddock just because you can’t take it."

Lienne sobs into his palm, guttural and muffled, her entire body twitching beneath him. She's ruined — properly wrecked. But even now, even collapsed, she tries to arch back into him, chasing something more she doesn’t even have words for.

He grinds in, deep and slow, once, twice, enough to hear her whimper again, and then pulls out without warning. She slumps forward, arms buckling, face pressed into the couch cushion as she pants through the comedown.

Max stands behind her, calmly pulling his race suit back up like nothing happened, smoothing the fireproofs over his chest, fixing the waistband like he's not leaving her there dripping and ruined.

He leans over, close enough to brush his mouth near her ear.

"Maybe now you’ll put some respect on my name."

She turns her head slightly, mascara smudged, lips raw and swollen, breath still shaky — and she laughs.

A weak, wrecked, absolutely shameless laugh.

"In your dreams, Verstappen."

Max grins, dark and crooked.

"Yeah. Thought so."

And then he’s gone. No towel. No aftercare. No parting words. Just the soft sound of the door closing behind him, leaving her to fix herself, knees weak and thighs shaking, wrecked and unbothered — because she’ll never give him that satisfaction.