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mv1simp · 4 months ago

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Haunted ♥️ Part 1 of 2

Alpha!Max Verstappen x Reader (Omegaverse AU)

READ PART TWO HERE

it’s where we go, it’s what you see (I know if i’m onto you, you must be onto me)

As Mercedes’ rookie female driver, you garner a lot of media attention, even more when you reveal you haven’t presented. You don’t care about true mates or presenting - all you wanted was the championship. You’d be a lot closer to it, if it wasn’t for the dominating Alpha Max Verstappen. But after your late presentation, you two realize there’s a lot more to your bond than competition.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, size kink, primal themes, dom!Max, Sub!Reader, enemies to lovers. WC: 5.4k

Triumphantly holding the trophy up in your hands, you beam at the sea of black and white fans who scream their approval. Winning your second race after having fought your way throughout the season as the new Mercedes driver was an unforgettable feeling - sealing in that it was your talent, not luck that got you the first. And no one had given you a harder time and held up your long overdue win than the reigning world champion - Max Verstappen. Turning to your right, you reward him with a smirk as your national anthem finally plays instead of the Dutch one.

He doesn’t hide his frustrated glare at you from his P2 podium that instinctively makes you want to sprint away and hide in your safe garage behind Toto. You’re a bit annoyed he’s still taller than you, even though you’re on the highest step. One of the downsides of being 5 foot compared to Max’s tall 6 foot frame - but that hasn’t stopped you from finally taking the win from him and proving how deserving of your seat you are, you remind yourself.

As the first female driver in decades, you’d sent shock waves through the paddock when Mercedes had pulled you out of the F4 pool and straight into their seat after the loss of their golden boy, Lewis Hamilton, to Ferrari. What had been even more shocking was the fact that you were an Unpresented female in a sport that was almost exclusively dominated by Alpha males.

Like the majority of premier athletes, most of the drivers had presented from a very young age as Alphas. Unsurprising - given the traits of ruthless competitiveness, aggression and passion that came naturally to Alphas. And out of all this group of already highly dominating drivers, Max Verstappen was the alpha, well known for his perfect instincts, the ultimate apex predator. His early career was famous because of how, at 17, his intimidating aura had been enough to make grown men racing on the same track give way to the younger alpha. This automatic submission Max was able to elicit from others was one of the many, many benefits that came with being an Alpha in society - especially for one such a powerful as Max.

So when you - who was not an Alpha, or even a Beta, but rather an Unpresented - showed up to the paddock for your first ever race and then ended up somehow going wheel to wheel with the reigning world champion by Lap 20, jaws dropped and headlines were rapidly printed. Presenting as an Alpha was rare, an Omega even rarer - with the majority of the population being Beta. However a small population also remained Unpresented, spending their whole lives without any sign they belonged to any gender. Essentially, you were like a scentless Beta - but just several rungs below on the social ladder as Alpha commands had minimal effect on you. It could be worse, you had mused when started racing - you could have been born an Omega.

Omegas were a rare breed and highly sought after. With their attributes of being sweetly nurturing and natural carers - they made the perfect match for protective Alphas. Of course, as the world had historically always been ruled by Alphas, in turn Omegas had been stereotyped as the soft, submissive, delicate ones who needed to be closely guarded in society’s eyes.

So it had been suprising to you that there were not one, but two Omega drivers on the paddock this year. Yuki Tsunoda made sense, you supposed, with his slight frame and pretty features giving him away. But he certainly swore so aggressively up and down the track he’d have the commentators asking if maybe he had been assigned the wrong group. Alex Albon had been much more surprising with his very Alpha-like build - but given his quietly confident aura and gentle nature compared to the other drivers who were always aggressively arguing, it made sense looking back. And it had been even more surprising when he announced he’d found his true mate and Alpha, his girlfriend Lily.

Really, you were grateful you didn’t have the drama that came with being assigned a presentation. Even if it meant you would never have a true mate, you could live with it if you could have a shot at being world champion. But goddamn Max Verstappen, with his intense gaze and powerful aura that even you would feel tickling the back of your neck, across the paddock, would keep getting in your way. Your first P1 though, 2 months ago in Japan, you hadn’t let him win and successfully defended him off. It was the only advantage of being Unpresented - unlike the other Alphas and Omegas on the track, you were the least affected by his suffocating presence and used that to your advantage when pulling dangerous manoeuvres that vexed the Dutch driver to no end.

And he’d certainly let you know it after your first win - after a neutral indifference to you when you approached him on your first day to greet him, unlike the majority of the drivers who’d curiously flocked to the first female one. But after you took P1 from him, he claimed angrily, with dirty fucking moves, what was that overtake on the 2nd corner- you’d formed an instant dislike of him. Just because you didn’t bend to his will like everyone else?! Just because you’d won using the same move - you pointed out to him furiously - that he’d used to overtake you on the last race?

The pair of you had become quick rivals, butting heads more and more as each race went on and providing lots of great content for the media which ate it up. Sometimes Max would confuse you into thinking you were friends - occasionally murmuring helpful advice as you watched the post race highlights in the cooldown room, or shutting down sexist questions you’re repeatedly asked in the driver interviews. You’d think this was the warm, caring Max that you’d heard existed off the grid. But then you two would have some racing incident or the other and he’d be back to the fire breathing lion he usually was.

That first P1 in Japan had been bittersweet to you - because after your argument with Max, when you’d gone back to your hotel to admire your new trophy, you’d started to becoming increasingly unwell for a few days and had high fevers. You hadn’t even realised what was going on until your Beta coach banged on the door demanding to be let in, before saying you were finally presenting, 5 years late, as an Omega.

You’d been shocked and upset, of course, leading to a very traumatic first heat in a foreign country where although the desire and lust hadn’t been intense, the longing for an Alpha to comfort and protect you as you cried and whined has been so overwhelming. You had never wanted to feel anything like that again, so disempowered - so you had sworn your manager to secrecy and after a very private meeting with you, your teammate George Russell, your managers and a very concerned Toto Wolff - you’d tearfully told them what had happened. You’d expected to be dropped from the team, but they had taken one look at your distress and instantly calmed you down. Mercedes will most certainly not be dropping their very promising rookie, who had just taken P1 at her 4th ever F1 race, Toto had reassured you firmly, exuding calm confidence as he handed you a tissue. George’s large hand rubbed warm circles on your back and within a few minutes you’re laughing at jokes the two tall Alphas made to cheer you up, unable to resist the urge to protect the small Omega in front of them and using their scents to soothe you.

Regardless of how understanding your team principal had been, the fact was it would be terrible PR for you to publically present as an Omega female and risk the loss of sponsors. Given that the first heat after the presentation was notorious for being especially painful in an effort to attract a fated mate from the very start, Toto had guided you to a discreet specialist doctor to ensure the world continued to believe you were Unpresented. You’re relieved, hating the idea of being stereotyped as something delicate and pretty to be protected when you were anything but. You literally drove like a suicidal madwoman at 300km/hr for a career! So you’d promptly been started on high strength suppressors to avoid any issues with a first heat happening in the middle of a race weekend, and a couple sprays of sweet perfume later no one would be any the wiser if they picked up on any residual Omega scent that the suppressors couldn’t block.

So here you were now, celebrating your second win in Barcelona with a few of the drivers and friends at a 3 story club downtown. Although you’d been enjoying drinking and laughing with your friends, you’d been unable to stop the shivers that ran down your bare spine from your rival’s intense gaze, still simmering with anger, across the dancefloor where he was talking to Lando. You hated the way that you still felt so affected by him, by his scent that always seemed to drift over to you, always smelling more and more heady each time you saw him. And the urge to submit to him was just stupid and desperate, you thought, rolling your eyes and taking another shot. It turns out your “slutty inner omega whore” as you had not-so-fondly dubbed her, seemed more interested in having a strong Alpha’s dick inside her, instead of hating said Alpha for trying to run her off the track. Multiple times.

And tonight, the suppressants were clearly not doing their job because you couldn’t control the way you squeezed your thighs together, panties suddenly damp with the thought of an alpha like Max keeping his eyes on you - instead of the girls who had been throwing themselves at him the second he’s entered the club. You tell your inner slut who delighted in this attention to get it together, because the attention was likely murderous rage from the competitive Dutch champion at losing a race. Forcing yourself to ignore the prickles down your spine, you take another shot instead and head back to the dance floor.

Many, many drunk dances with your girlfriends later, you found yourself safely dropped off at the hotel. Pressing the button, you waited patiently for it to come down, fanning your face because you felt strangely hot in the night chill despite having left the club. And then you feel it - that heady, dominating aura that makes you want to fall to your knees. Spinning around, you see Max standing there, dressed in a rare outfit of a fitted white tee and tight pants, accentuating his broad shoulders and thick thighs. Fuck, you had forgotten Redbull was staying in the same hotel as your team this weekend.

He smirks at you, asking if you’d had a good night celebrating, because it’ll be the last win he’ll let you have this year, Princess. You despised the nickname he’s given you over the Redbull radio one race, and how it had stuck in the media too - the pretty little Mercedes princess. You give him an unimpressed glare and tell him to fuck off, Verstappen as you get in the elevator, staying right by the front with your back purposely to him. As the doors close, you can’t help but notice through the reflective wall how Max’s dark gaze unabashedly wanders down your body, enjoying the sight of your curvy, petite form dressed in a backless halter satin minidress and stiletto heels that accentuated your thick ass. Forbidden delight curls in your abdomen from the thought of an alpha as strong as Max finding you desirable. A deeper part of you - one that you would never admit to anyone - can’t deny that you desperately wanted Max to want you, having always idolised him before you joined F1. That when you’d picked out this dress you wondered if Max was going to be out tonight, if he’d see you in this outfit…and find you pretty.

And you’d never, ever admit that recently you woke up with damp thighs and lingers of a dream of being underneath a dominating blonde Alpha, his voice deep and accented as he whispered for you to take it all for me, prinses…

Again, you promptly tell your inner slut to close her mental legs - just in time as the elevator opens before both your floors to let in a large group heading to the upstairs bar.

They’re a drunk, rowdy bunch of businessmen and you’re in no mood to be felt up - and you find yourself moving beside the protective aura of Max. You scowl at how you couldn’t seem to control yourself around the taller man then find yourself surprised when he moves to cover you from their curious gazes. His wide shoulders block out their view of how enticing you look as he crowds you into one corner, his back to them. You nervously make sure you don’t stare anywhere else but straight ahead at his toned chest, your heart beating at 200bpm as the desire that’s pulsing through you being this close to him. Especially when he’s decided to look so fucking hot tonight, that intoxicating deep scent making you light headed, like luxurious velvet running down your skin, like burnt amber, smoky and woody from the embers of a winter's night fire. That wicked inner omega of yours can’t stop purring at how your scandalous choice of dress gives Max a generous view down your cleavage.

The elevator comes to a stop with a sharp jolt on the businessmen’s floor, startling you out of your thoughts and you find you’ve placed a manicured hand on Max’s toned abs to steady yourself. And as soon as you touch him - the first time you’ve ever laid hands on him, you realise later - electricity crackles in between you both. His scent becomes all the much headier to you - as if all the same flavours had suddenly become 10 times amplified. It makes you whimper and again, your body betrays you with the fresh wetness that suddenly drenches your panties.

The change in the air is instant, tension clearly palpable as you nervously peek under Max’s arm and realise the group of businessmen aren’t leaving the lift - and instead all their eyes are turned in your direction with lustful gazes. You shiver but don’t hesitate to glare at them as you tell them to get out. They don’t move, looking entranced at you, when a low, threatening rumble from Max’s chest makes it very clear that you are not to be messed with - unless they wanted to go against the strongest Alpha in a 100 mile radius. Slightly tilting his head to look back at the group, Max’s narrowed eyes and threatening aura makes them run off with their figurative tail between their legs.

The elevator closed with neat ding, moving back up, and suddenly you realised you were in a very compromising position with your rival - who had definitely noticed the very Omega-like addictive, sweet smell you were giving off as a supposed “Unpresented” female.

Verstappen- you say anxiously, frantically thinking of what to say to convince him to keep your secret. But all thoughts are cut off when Max unexpectedly leans down and buries his face into your neck, making you gasp. Your hands grab his shoulders to push him away, to ask what the fuck he thought he was doing. But the words don’t even make it out of your mouth because your head is spinning from his lips now pressing kisses against your delicate collarbones. Somehow, you’re finding yourself winding your fingers in his blonde locks, which were just as soft as they looked.

By the time the elevator reaches your floor, you’re almost falling to the ground from the sensation but Max easily supports your weight against him. He’s guiding you out of the lift and trapping you against the nearest wall - and following immediately with his hard body pressed right up against your soft one. You’re whining that he needs to stop, what is he doing, you’re in a hallway for anyone to see, but he cuts you off again with his husky voice as he breathes out that this scent, your scent, princess…fuck, I’d thought it was perfume or something but it’s all you, isn’t it? I can’t get enough of how intoxicating you are.

Tilting your head back with his strong hands, he bends down to the opposite side now and shuts up your half hearted protests by licking a line straight up the column of your throat. Oh my god, your inner omega was having the time of her life right now. Max, you murmur weakly, and he sharply inhales as your gazes meet. The dark hunger in his eyes is clear when he tells you to say that again.

And when you sweetly call his name again, he’s kissing you, still leaning against the wall in the dimly lit hallway, and you automatically moan into the passionate kiss because it feels so good, so right as his lips moved against yours with a gentleness you hadn’t expected.

But when the lift dings, signalling another arrival to your floor, Max turns to look with narrowed eyes at the potential threat and you’re reminded of how wrong wrong wrong this is and how you’d lose all your sponsors if the media found out about this scandal. So you use his second of distraction to use your small frame and slip under his arms, hastily swiping your card and slamming the door behind you when you enter.

Heart beating, you lean back against the door as your replay what just happened over and over, your hands running over your tingling lips where Max’s - your rival - has just been a second ago. Across the other side, Max leans against your door just the same. He’d let you escape his hold - for now - but he wouldn’t next time, because he knew what it meant to smell a scent so divine it made him want to destroy anything that so much as glanced in your direction. That made him lose all inhibition and pin you against a wall as he desperately resisted the urge to bury his fangs in you right there. You were his fated mate, he thinks with relief, pure joy and warmth spreading across him with the idea of having you as his mate. The one who he’d not thought he’d find at age 26 after meeting countless women. And yet here you’d been the whole time, right in front of him, the only driver who drove him so wild on the track. He'd never thought about why the pretty little Unpresented driver was able to generate such strong responses from his Alpha unusually quickly. With a backwards glance to your room where you safely hid, Max wandered away, contemplating how he was going to claim his Omega who hated him.

Meanwhile, the kiss has sent you into an absolute flurry of panic, trying to come up with ways of convincing your rival to keep your secret, having no idea why he suddenly found your scent irresistible. Your half baked plans came to an end when Max texted you the next day to meet him in the hotel lobby to talk. No fucking way, you texted back furiously, so you can get me alone and kiss me again without my permission?

You’d flown back to Monaco an hour later, ignoring Max’s replies. Clearly, he seemed as troubled by this…situation as you were, and judging by the fact you hadn’t woken up to headlines about you secretly being an Omega, it seems Max was keeping your secret - for now, at least. And you were terribly confused by how good his kiss had made you feel, even though you were furious with how he’d done it without asking, as if you belonged to him.

So you decide to ignore Max for the whole week, but when he shows up at your apartment door unexpectedly, you couldn’t hold him off. We need to talk, he’d said tersely, and that’s how you found yourself on the apartment rooftop - surprised that Max hadn’t barged his way into your apartment. In fact, he stood well away from you, leaning against the railing and looking out towards the setting Monaco sun over the pristine Mediterranean waters as you watched his back uncertainly. Just when you were going to ask him what he wanted, he began telling you the story of how his Alpha father, Jos, had claimed his Omega mother, Sophie before she had been ready. You tilted your head, confused. You were very familiar with that particular media scandal - where Jos had deliberately performed the claiming, the ancient ritualistic tradition of an Alpha marking an Omega as theirs - in the peak of Sophie’s career, and had illegally used their mating bond to manipulate her into early retirement and focus on the family instead. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, of how no court or laws could protect an Omega fully from the abuse of a controlling Alpha.

I- I know about your parent’s story, it was quite…anyways, why are you bringing it up now? Max didn’t answer your question, turning around instead to face you. You felt that same fluttering beating of your heart as his intense blue gaze locked in on your doe eyed brown one. After she was able to get the divorce, he continued, she finally found her true mate. And she told me about the difference she’d felt, in how my father and her mate had treated her, how one had made her into the wife he wanted and the other had protected her as she chose to life she wanted for herself.

You’re truly confused now about why he’s still on this topic, and tell him that you’d even spoken with his mother when you began racing about her advice as a female on the track, and you’d expressed your sympathies for how hard it must have been to have her career tarnished so early by an abusive Alpha. Being her son was one of the few things you actually respected about him. Thinking he was foreshadowing what he was going to ask of you, your scent became sour with anger. So, out with it, Verstappen, you demanded, what’s your blackmail plan, I know you know about me being an Omega, are you going to make me promise not to try for P1 because you can forget it-

Max cut you off then, stepping forward and making you tilt your head back to look up at him. You wanted to step back so desperately, knowing what happened last time he was so close - but that inner omega vixen of yours was far too satisfied with the reassuring, soft spicy scent Max was now gently emitting. You hadn’t even known he was capable of anything other than the intense scent he used to dominate on the track.

No, schat, Max says softly. I’m not going to tell anyone anything you don’t want shared. Or use it against you. I wanted to tell you my parents story…to show you my father is the kind of Alpha I don’t want to become. I don’t want anyone to go through what my mother did. You can literally feel your body relaxing from his reassuring words, with the way he had called you darling in Dutch for the first time, from his soft look and scent. And it pisses you off to no end, that he can use his biology to make you feel like this - you’d had no idea the effect from an Alpha could be this strong on you. You realize you’ve involuntarily said that out loud when he tells you it isn’t normal for you to react this intensely to an Alpha, but it’s because it’s him that you’re reacting to. At your perplexed look, he’s reminded that your parents are both Betas and you had very limited knowledge of presentations, compared to his own family which were exclusively Alpha-Omega mates for generations.

Because…because we’re rivals? You ask, those sweet doe eyes of yours blinking up at him and making the urge to protect you bloom deep in his chest. Unfortunately for his inner alpha, he was about to cause you a lot of distress with his next words.

Because - Max swallowed, because, schat, we’re true mates. I’m your Alpha, if you’ll have me.

The distress that comes off you is instant and makes Max want to jump off the balcony railing, if it means ending your despair. You’re stammering out your shock, confusion, and then just straight denial at his claim, insisting it can’t be true - but he watches you with an apologetic expression, only speaking after a long time once you’ve let out all your conflicting emotions. He softly explains why it was true, that you might not know because your own parents weren’t a true match but what happened in the elevator, the reaction to each other’s scents - it was the first step to prime you two for the claiming.

He can see the colour drain from your face, flushed caramel skin now going pale as your distress turns to pure rage, steeped with fear - of him, Max realises. So that's why you're pretending to be so nice, isn't it? you question hotly, so that I say yes to your claiming just for you to use it order me to leave racing? And you'll act like its so different to your parents-

Max can't bear this foreign pain in his chest any longer, each furious word from you twisting a knife into his heart. His inner alpha is screaming at him to comfort and console you, so he does just that by stepping forward again and taking your small form into his large arms, forming a secure hold around you. Your annoyed shriek is muffled against his toned chest, but after a few seconds you calm down once he says, sounding so unusually desperate, he will never do the claiming until you ask him too, even if that's well after your racing career finishes. You pause, hearing the genuine sincerity in his words, and somehow deep within you a sense tells you that Max is telling the truth. As his warm, large hands soothingly rub circles on your back, you find yourself closing your eyes and lean into him, your french manicured hands pressing against his firm muscles and hearing his strong heartbeat through his chest.

You stay like that for a long time, slowly processing everything he's told you, until the sunset disappears over the Monaco horizon and the bright city lights emerge. At some point his arms have wrapped around your soft waist, one hand firmly on your hip and the other cradling your head against him, softly stroking your dark curls. If anyone had told you a month ago that you'd find yourself in this position with goddamn Max Verstappen you'd have laughed them off the track. But here you are, your inner omega purring with satisfaction at the secure embrace of your strong Alpha. You find yourself returning his comforting embrace by tentatively moving your small palms up over his pecs and across his ridiculously broad shoulders, looping around his wide neck. You hear Max's breathing hitch as he feels your shy touch, and then he’s hit with your delicious scent as your new position exposes your neck. It's the same as in the lift - so sweet, like exotic Indian jasmine on a hot summer night, like burnt sticky vanilla in the stroopwafels he adored as a kid, on the rare days he was allowed to go to the park instead of karting. But this time, your scent is even more inviting as your desire for him is stronger, and he doesn't fight his instincts and buries his face into your delicate neck again. He inhales deeply and leaves you gasping when he starts leaving lazy, soft kisses in the hollow of your throat. This time, you can't bring yourself to pull away, your fingers gently threading into his hair as you tentatively call out V-Verstappen, this is-

That's not my name, prinses he rumbles lowly, Dutch accent slipping through as he continues moving up your neck, leaving hickeys with flicks of his tongue and gentle, teasing nips of his sharp fangs - teasing, but not puncturing your tantalising caramel skin. And when you sweetly moan Max for him, looking up at him with those wide brown doe eyes, heady with desire, and a pretty red flush across your full cheeks, he meets your plush lips with his own. There's no hesitation this time, your fingers tangling into his messy blonde locks as you kiss deeply. His large hands running across your body make you feel like you're on fire. And when he grabs a hold of your thick ass, squeezing it like he owned it and and pulling you even closer to him, you're gasping and moaning sweetly into his mouth. He doesn't hesitate to slide inside your parted lips, completely dominating the kiss as he easily takes control over your tongue despite your efforts to battle against his.

Max, this is so wrong you say breathlessly, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure as his large thigh parts yours, your skirt sliding up as thick muscles come into contact with your aching core. You're certain he's going to be able to feel the wetness rapidly pooling between your own legs. Then why does it feel so right, prinses? He cockily responds, squeezing your ass greedily again and moaning himself when you start grinding against his leg, your wetness dripping past your soaked panties and ruining his pants. Fuck, he was never going to take these off, so he would always have the intoxicating scent of how sweet you smelled when you were so desperate for him, hmm?

The harsh ringing of your phone you'd set on a nearby table startles you. Max ignores it, flexing his thighs up against you to tempt your self control again as your inner Omega begs you to let the Alpha - your Alpha - claim you right here, right now, for all the world to see. But through the haze you see your boss's face flash on the screen and suddenly you're reminded of what's at stake. Snapping to your senses, you stumble away from Max's strong hold, making him growl in annoyance as he reluctantly releases you from his arms. This is why I didn't want to talk, you hiss at him, but he can tell from your scent you’re more conflicted than angry. Because you- you cutely flush, -we can't control ourselves for more than 5 minutes without something like this happening. You gesture to the space between you two as he watches you inquisitively, taking in every small movement with a tilt of his head like he was a lion stalking a deer. Stay away from me from now on, Verstappen you say with a scowl on your pretty face, pointing right at him, his sharp blue eyes not missing the slight tremor that gives away how affected you feel by him. I need to focus on winning this championship and not your…slutty Alpha seduction techniques.

He lets you go, smirking as you practically sprint away down the stairs to avoid any further temptation, enjoying the view of your generous ass from behind. Using his thumb to brush the dampness you left on his pants, he licks it away, chest lowly rumbling in approval as he confirms you’ll taste just as sweet as you looked, as you smelled. Next time, he promises his disgruntled inner Alpha.

After all, it was only a matter of time before he claimed you - it was a question of when, not if. The dark, controlling parts of him wanted to lay his claim on you right now, knowing that you desired him and would be unable to resist if he wanted to have his way with you. But you’d be so much sweeter, more pliable, more eager for him if he waited until you came begging.

He’d have his fun in the meantime.

READ PART TWO HERE

#max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen x you #f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #omegaverse #f1 driver reader #driver!reader #18+ mdni

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bth3cowboi · 9 months ago

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paint me in lovely red, mv1xreader

masterlist

pairing: max verstappen x artist!reader

summary: a tiny slip can make your most beautiful secrets public. Sometimes the slip comes in the form of a painting, sometimes the secret is a relationship with a world champion.

format: social media au

a/n: all paintings used here were made by Malcolm Liepke! Part 1/?

( instagram )

verstappen1updates

liked by fanuser and 500,233 others

verstappen1updates Max just admitted that he’s in a relationship on stream! Transcript of the clip for those asking:

G: Max, they’re asking about the new painting in the background. I haven’t seen it before either.

M: Ah yes, that was a gift for the championship win from- [Stops to keep driving]. Well, my girlfriend really.

G: [Laughs] That’s cute, she’s great at painting. Oh- they’re surprised now- [Laughs] about your girl.

M: Ah- We just like to keep to ourselves, mate.

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user1 YO WHAT???

user2 and just like that we’ve lost him🥲

user3 u don’t know that man

user2 a girl can dream…

user4 sooo whos the girl?? I want to know noww

user5 a whole picture of his winning car??? she must be HOOKED

user6 after that season i cant blame her

( twitter )

( instagram )

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1 and others

yourusername Spring is coming so new prints are out on my online shop!! Make sure to check them out💛🧡🍋

From the vault: “my yellow mirror II”, oil on canvas, 18x24. Also: my bike, me.

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user1 I just came expecting more Max honestly

user2 SAME

user3 the only thing interesting on this page

user4 ok seeing her now I get why Max let her paint him like that😂 shes cute

user5 paint me like one of your french girls- max, probably

yourfriend beautiful as always Yn🥹🫶 only focus on that

liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1

yourusername thanks bby🫶

user6 oh girl stop being so dramaticcc

user7 drop the painting of the car instead, this is boring

user8 i get it know, date rich so you can afford to do your silly paintings🤯

maxverstappen1 just lovely

this comment has been deleted

comments on this post have been disabled

( messages )

( instagram )

inthef1paddock

liked by fanuser and 876.334 others

inthef1paddock Max Verstappen and girlfriend Yn Ln caught together after she arrived to Melbourne for the Australian GP.

The driver had to ask through his instagram stories for fans to respect their privacy and Yn’s career after people flooded her social media with disrepectful comments, he did so by posting this selfie.

Mean comments will be deleted.❤️

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user1 People are so rude, its obvious they love each other

user2 Oh that hug🥹 what a lucky girl

user3 Did you see the video? He RAN to her, shes blessed

user4 idk she still seems weird…

lando.jpg

liked by yourusername, danielricciardo and 698.442 others

lando.jpg 🇦🇺 nights

tagged charlesleclerc, maxverstappen1 and yourusername;

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user1 last photo made me SCREAM, MAX???

user2 Lando is so crazy for this lol

user3 From Charles dropping it low to a hard launch he knows his public

charles_leclerc 😎😎

yourusername 🕺🕺📸📸

charles_leclerc You mean 💋💋📸📸?

maxverstappen1 Lando wont post those because he is lonely and he will cry

landonorris mate thats not true

yourusername its ok to be single lando we dont care you cried to our happy photos

landonorris I did NOT cry 🤢 you guys made me sickkkkk

charles_leclerc sick to tears

maxverstappen1 😂😂

landonorris Stoppp

landonorris Dont know what its worse, the kissy photos or the porn paintings

yourusername not porn🖕

maxverstappen1 Dont be rude🖕

yourusername I will paint you crying now idc you crybaby

landonorris Sure😂

charlesleclerc Famous last words

user4 its ok Lando I will take 💋 pictures with you

user5 me toooo, I volunteer 🤩

maxverstappen1 Please send me the rest of Yn’s photos👍

liked by landonorris and 5021 others

user6 oh wow i get lando now this is so sweet its sick😭

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, charlesleclerc and others

yourusername “Lando Norris, the crybaby”, oil on canvas, 24x30.

Prints will be available online soon🧡

see all comments

user1 Oh she ate this one up😭😭

landonorris NO YN

landonorris YN THIS IS SO MEAN

landonorris why would you do this😭😭 I didnt think you were serious

yourusername See, crybaby

carlossainz55 Dont worry Landito you dont look too bad

landonorris 😭😭😭

user3 LMFAO THIS IS SO FUNNY

user2 the devil work fast, but yn works faster

danielricciardo Jesus how much for this one, I will give ANYTHING

charlesleclerc No man ask for your own, this one is mine

maxverstappen1 This is not leaving my house👍 good luck

charles_leclerc WHAT? NOT FAIR, YN I WILL PAY TOO MUCH

danielricciardo Whatever he pays I will give double

yourusername Sorry its been bought already

charles_leclerc ???

mclaren Thank you Yn, this will look great in our hall 🧡🧡

yourusername 🧡🫶

landonorris WHAT

charles_leclerc oh my god

landonorris NO WAY

user4 SOLD TO MCLAREN? this is a fever dream

user5 I, too, want a portrait of me kissing max verstappen

user6 I respect Yn so much, cause she went from making tittie art of her bf to paint their friend crying while they makeout in the background

maxverstappen1 Lovely😂

maxverstappen1 Can I request one but without the crybaby?

yourusername I have a few already 🤔 whats one moree

user7 DROP THEM, I KNOW YOU HAVE THE HOT ONES TOO

charles_leclerc Dont drop them please think of the children

yourusername wow youre so boring

maxverstappen1 Make fun of him on a painting for that baby

danielricciardo I will pay for that one this time

charles_leclerc God no have mercy

yourusername dont worry i wont do that, being a ferrari driver is punishment enough

charles_leclerc 😐

landonorris LOL DESERVED

maxverstappen1 Love you my Yn❤️❤️

yourusername love you too🥹🥹

——

a/n: Thank you for reading!!! I might do a second part to this fic, I think there is so much more to do with the plot so if anyone is interesed make sure to stick around❤️🥹 My inbox is now open if anyone has suggestions or ideas they want to se me writw!

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 smau #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #mv1 #mv33 #mv1 x reader #f1 imagine #mv33 x reader #mv1 imagine

2K notes · View notes

verstappenverse · 25 days ago

Text

A Fine Line

Requested by anon: "Would you ever do a fake dating fic with Max? I think that could be fun maybe they go to a wedding or have to share a bed or is for PR, you choose :)"

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Forced to fake date for PR, you and Max attend a high-profile wedding only to realise that maybe some feelings can’t be faked. - fake dating / one bed trope / enemies to lovers

Author’s note: Sorry this one took a while anon, it ended up being a bit longer than originally planned! I hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

6k words / Masterlist

The first time you met Max Verstappen you were there on assignment, shadowing a day in the life of a driver for an in-depth feature. Max, already a world champion, was an enigma you’d been eager to unravel—intense, brilliant, and the name on everyone’s lips.

You approached him tentatively, armed with your questions and a cautious smile, but it didn’t take long to realise that interviews were the last thing on his mind that day. Polite but curt, he answered with the bare minimum, his gaze constantly darting back toward the garage as if he had better things to do. He wasn’t rude exactly, just detached, his focus entirely on the next session.

“What’s the hardest part of juggling fame and racing?” you’d asked, pen poised.

He glanced at you briefly before replying, “I don’t really think about it.”

The conversation didn’t improve from there.

You wrote it off as part of his intense personality—laser-focused, unapologetic, and unwilling to entertain distractions. But something about his demeanour irked you, even then. You didn’t know if it was the confidence or arrogance of someone who knew he was the best and knew he had nothing to prove off-track.

The article went to print, and you moved on thinking Max Verstappen would be a footnote in your career, nothing more than an anecdote about difficult interviews. You were wrong.

Over the next few years, your paths crossed more times than you could count as your company expanded into motorsports media. First, it was another feature, this time at a glitzy sponsor event where Max was as uninterested in mingling as ever. Then a mid-season documentary where you were assigned to follow his team for a week. Somewhere along the way, what had started as indifference between you two evolved into a dynamic you couldn’t quite define.

There was a sharpness to your interactions, an edge that didn’t seem to dull no matter how often you met. Max would roll his eyes when you asked questions he deemed unnecessary, and you’d pointedly ignore him when he made sarcastic comments under his breath. But beneath the mutual irritation, there was something else—an understanding, perhaps, that neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt.

You could see it in the way his friends teased him whenever you were around.

“Careful Max,” Daniel had said once, smirking as he leaned against the garage wall. “You two together, it’s better than most reality TV.”

Max had glared at him but didn’t deny it, which only made Daniel laugh harder. He shot back a dry, “At least it’s not fake,” earning a round of chuckles from the surrounding crew.

You gave as good as you got, though. After one particularly grueling race weekend, when Max had snapped at a camera crew for invading his space, you’d quipped, “Does the championship leader need a nap?”

He’d glared at you but couldn’t quite hide the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

The dynamic became part of the paddock lore, your sharp-tongued sparring and his witty retorts, both of you unwilling to back down. Beneath the teasing and the occasional tension, there was a begrudging respect. Max never dismissed your work outright, and you never underestimated his talent.

Deep into the 2024 season your manager called you into an emergency meeting, the kind where the tension was palpable before anyone had even spoke. You’d been sitting across from her in your shared office space, nursing a coffee that had gone lukewarm when she dropped the bombshell.

“We have a potential solution,” she began, choosing her words carefully. Her tone had that familiar mix of optimism and hesitation that always made you wary.

“For what?” you asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

She exhaled, leaning forward with a steely determination. “For the mess after the breakup.”

Ah, the breakup. The one that had been plastered across every gossip column and dissected mercilessly online. Your ex, who thrived on curated chaos, had turned what should’ve been a quiet separation into a public spectacle. Cryptic tweets, veiled Instagram posts, and leaked “insider” information painted you as the villain in a narrative you didn’t even recognise. Brands had started to question your reliability. Followers who once adored you now flooded your comment sections with doubt.

“I told you I’m working on that,” you replied, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“I know you are,” she said, her tone softening just enough to keep you from snapping. “But we need something big, something that shifts the focus completely. Damage control isn’t enough anymore we need reinvention.”

That’s when she said his name. Max Verstappen.

Your coffee cup froze halfway to your lips. “Max… as in…Max?”

“The World Champion himself” she corrected, as if his accolades needed more emphasis. “Look, hear me out before you say anything.”

You leaned back, your stomach sinking as she explained. Max’s team had approached them with an unconventional pitch: a mutually beneficial PR relationship. Max, despite his unprecedented success on the track, had been facing increasing scrutiny in the public eye. His no-nonsense personality and occasional sharp tongue in interviews didn’t exactly scream “approachable,” and attempts to soften his image had largely failed.

“You’re serious,” you said flatly, interrupting her.

“Yes.”

“And they think pairing him with me—” you began, gesturing vaguely, your skepticism evident.

“—Will humanise him while giving you the boost you need to rebuild trust with your audience,” your manager finished smoothly, her tone shifting into the polished confidence she reserved for high-stakes pitches. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk. “This isn’t just about optics. It’s about narrative control.”

You crossed your arms, still not convinced. “How exactly is fake dating someone like Max supposed to build trust? My audience isn’t stupid. If anything, they’ll see right through it.”

She gave you a pointed look, the kind that told you she’d already anticipated every objection you could throw her way. “It’s not about fooling anyone. It’s about resetting your image. Right now, people associate you with drama, thanks to that messy breakup. Pairing you with someone as high-profile as Max reframes the conversation. Suddenly, it’s not about your past it’s about this new, unexpected connection.”

You frowned, skepticism still etched on your face. “And Max? What does he get out of this?”

“Max needs to show a different side of himself too,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “He’s known for being intense and unapproachable. This gives him a chance to look more... balanced. Like someone who can laugh, have fun, and be in a stable relationship. You two are opposites, and that contrast is exactly what makes this work.”

The logic was undeniable, even if you hated it. “So, basically, we’re giving the world a feel-good story,” you said flatly.

“Plus you’ve already got chemistry with him.” She added with a small smirk.

“Chemistry?” You nearly choked on the word. “We can barely stand each other.”

She smirked knowingly. “Exactly. People love that. It’s enemies-to-lovers gold, and you two are halfway there already. Look you two balance each other out. Your brand is warm, open, relatable. Together, it’s an opposites-attract dynamic that will have people hooked.”

You stared at her, trying to wrap your head around it. The logistics, the audacity, the sheer ridiculousness of it all. You didn’t even like Max Verstappen. You barely knew him, and what you did know didn’t inspire confidence.

You snorted. “You’re really banking on people eating this up aren’t you?”

She gave you a pointed look. “You’d be surprised how much people love a good story.”

“Why me, though? Why not some actress or model?”

“They don’t want someone who’s unattainable. They want real. Genuine. Someone who can connect with his fans and expand his reach. And frankly, after everything you’ve been through, this could be the fresh start you need.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your temples. “Okay, fine. Let’s say I agree to this insanity. What makes you think Max Verstappen of all people is going to go along with this?

Your manager didn’t even blink, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, he’s already agreed.”

You froze mid-sigh, your hand dropping from your face. “What?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “He didn’t really hesitate. Apparently, the PR benefits appealed to him.”

“Or he just wanted to see how long it would take before I strangled him,” you muttered under your breath.

You tapped your fingers on the armrest of the chair, the gears turning in your head. “And what happens when this ends? When people realise it was all staged?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” she replied, her voice smooth. “By the time it ends, the focus won’t be on whether it was real or not, It’ll be on how far you’ve both come. This is about resetting your story, not writing it forever.”

Her words lingered, cutting through your resistance. A fresh start. God, you needed one. The idea of pulling yourself out of the shadow of your ex’s antics, of regaining control over your narrative, was tantalising. But still, this? Fake dating a Formula 1 driver?

“I haven’t even agreed, and you’re talking like it’s a done deal,” you said, crossing your arms.

“Because I know you’ll say yes.”

Two days later, after sleepless nights and a long list of pros and cons, you found yourself sitting in a conference room across from Max himself.

He didn’t look thrilled to be there. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room with a mix of boredom and annoyance, his posture relaxed but his expression guarded. He was dressed simply, in a Alphatauri hoodie and jeans, looking every bit the world-class athlete who didn’t have time for PR stunts.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked his team, his Dutch accent making his irritation clear.

“Positive,” one of his PR reps said, their tone overly bright. “We’ve done the research, and we truly believe this will be mutually beneficial for both of you.”

Max’s gaze flicked to you briefly, and you could feel the weight of his judgment. You were used to being analysed, but his scrutiny was sharper than most.

“Trust me, I’m not thrilled either,” you shot back before anyone else could respond.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your attitude. “Great. This should be fun.”

“Look,” one of the PR reps cut in, attempting to mediate, “we know this isn’t ideal, but it’s a short-term arrangement with clear benefits. Public outings, a few coordinated posts, a handful of high-profile events. It’s all very manageable.”

Max leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. “And what happens when people figure out it’s fake?”

“They won’t,” his manager said confidently. “As long as you both play your parts.”

Play your parts. The phrase hung heavy in the air, a reminder of what this truly was: a performance. Nothing more.

“Fine,” Max said eventually, his voice low and resigned. “But I don’t want this to interfere with my real life more than it already has too.”

“Don’t worry,” you replied, unable to help yourself. “I’m not looking to be a distraction.”

“Good,” he said, his tone clipped.

When you got up to leave the meeting, another Red Bull PR rep caught you in the hallway, his grin far too smug. “Play nice, you two. Or don’t. Either way, it’ll sell.”

You scowled. Max, walking beside you, muttered, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“You’re telling me,” you replied, glancing up at him.

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

The first few weeks were awkward, to say the least. Staged outings dominated your schedules, each meticulously planned by PR teams with an eye for maximum exposure. Charity events, red carpets, a contrived café date for the paparazzi - every encounter felt like a work assignment, not a date.

You’d arrive arm-in-arm, your smiles dazzling and cameras clicking. Max was always impeccably dressed, his hand resting lightly on your waist as if it were second nature.

Between flashes of paparazzi cameras and murmurs of admiration from onlookers, Max leaned in close, his voice low and teasing.

“Did you rehearse that laugh? It’s almost impressive.”

You let out a huff, leaning closer under the guise of whispering something romantic. “You know what’s impressive? That anyone believes you’re charming.”

A low chuckle escaped him quiet enough that only you could hear. “Touché,” he murmured, his face a picture of calm indifference for the cameras, and you found yourself fighting the tiniest urge to laugh.

During a joint Instagram post session complete with coordinated outfits and a faux-candid shot of you laughing at something he’d “said”—he quipped, “If you’re going to post this make sure you get my good side.”

“You have one?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

“Rude,” he replied, smirking just enough to make your stomach flip in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The banter became a fixture of your so-called relationship. No matter the setting, you both always had something to say.

“Try smiling for once,” you remarked at a gala, your arm threaded through his as you waved to photographers. “It won’t kill you.”

He turned to you, his lips curling into the faintest grin. “See? This is why they hired you. Full of such brilliant ideas.”

The exchanges grated on your nerves. But then there were the moments when the act became easier. Like when he’d guide you through a crowd with a steady hand on the small of your back or offer his jacket without a word when the night turned chilly.

“This is ridiculous,” you groaned one evening after yet another photoshoot featuring a carefully curated “date.” You tossed your heels into the corner of the adjoining suite, rubbing your aching feet.

Max, lounging on the couch, looked up from his phone. “You’re telling me. Do you know how much I hate wearing these suits, I look ridiculous” He gestured to the tailored blazer he hadn’t bothered to take off yet.

“Oh shush, you know you look good,” you muttered.

His lips twitched in amusement. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, flopping onto the opposite end of the couch.

For weeks, this was your routine. The world saw a whirlwind romance, but behind the scenes you were still figuring each other out.

The only time your guard softened was during race weekends. Watching Max in his element was mesmerising. The precision, the focus, the sheer intensity of his drive—it was unlike anything you’d ever seen. His brusque nature made sense in those moments; he wasn’t cold, just singularly devoted to his craft.

“You’re staring,” he said one afternoon, catching you watching him during a debrief.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied quickly, though your cheeks burned.

“I’m not,” he said with a shrug, turning back to his engineer. “I’m just used to it by now.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

The energy between you shifted slowly, almost imperceptibly. Max would catch your eye across a crowded room and smirk, as if sharing an inside joke. And when you fired back with a cutting remark, his grin would linger for far too long.

The turning point came when you were invited to attend a high-profile wedding together. It was one of those events—an invitation extended to only the most influential figures, with a guest list packed with celebrities, businessmen, and the media's who’s who. For you and Max, it wasn’t just an event; it was the test. A high-stakes moment in your staged relationship, where every little detail needed to be perfect.

The location was a sprawling Tuscan villa, perched on a hill with views of vineyards and cypress trees that seemed to go on forever. The air felt thick with romance, but it was the kind that pressed down on your chest, suffocating with expectation.

It all seemed glamorous at first—until the moment you checked in. The concierge, with her polite smile, handed Max a single keycard.

"Your suite is ready," she said, not even glancing at the reservation sheet. "Enjoy your stay."

You froze mid-reach for your suitcase, your eyes locking on the single keycard in Max’s hand. A knot formed in your stomach. “Excuse me,” you started slowly, a smile pulling tight on your lips. “We reserved two rooms.”

The receptionist’s smile didn’t falter as she glanced at the reservation. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. We have a fully booked weekend, and we only received a request for one suite.”

Max frowned, his frustration starting to bubble. “We booked two rooms,” he repeated, voice low. “Check again.”

But the receptionist only shook her head, her expression unwavering. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do. If another room becomes available, we’ll notify you immediately, but until then this is all we have.”

Max shot you an incredulous look. “Did you know about this?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing the keycard from his hand. “Of course not,” you muttered. “Let’s just get to the room and deal with it there.”

The hotel room, when you finally entered, was undeniably luxurious—a grand space with marble floors, plush furnishings, and a balcony with sweeping views of the vineyard. But none of that mattered when you saw the bed.

One king-sized bed sat in the centre of the room, its pristine white linens almost taunting you.

“No way,” Max said flatly, his gaze locked on the bed as though willing it to disappear. “This isn’t happening.”

“Like I’m thrilled about it either,” you shot back, dropping your bag onto the bench at the foot of the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll just complain about it all night, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Well, I’m not sharing the bed,” you snapped, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

And then came the phone call.

Both of your managers had been on the line, in sync as usual, their voices cutting through the tension like a knife. “You two need to make this work, the whole point of this trip is to sell the relationship. People are going to notice if you're seen going into separate rooms. It’ll look suspicious.”

Max’s jaw tightened as he glanced at you, the silent fury in his eyes mirroring yours. “This is getting ridiculous,” he bit out.

“There’s no choice,” they replied their tone unwavering. “We’ve made arrangements. You’re both staying in that suite, and you’re going to make it work. Don’t disappoint us.”

The line went dead.

You stood there, staring at Max, who was now pacing the length of the room. “This is insane,” he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “They can’t just—”

“They can,” you interjected, “and they just did.”

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Let’s make the best of it then.”

After another few minutes of heated back and forth, you came to an agreement—if you had to share the bed, then there would at least be a line of pillows down the middle, creating a barrier between you. It felt childish, but neither of you were willing to back down.

That night, as the hours dragged on, the tension between you both was palpable. You lay on your side of the bed stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling while Max, for the hundredth time, scrolled through his phone. The silence was deafening, with only the distant sounds of laughter and music from the reception area reaching your ears.

“You could at least pretend to care about this,” you muttered into the silence.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone. “About what?”

“This,” you shot back, turning toward him slightly. “Us. The stupid story we’re selling.”

He set his phone down with a sigh, finally turning his head toward you. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because it’s my job Max,” you said. “My reputation is on the line.”

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at you. “And you think mine isn’t?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “You think I enjoy pretending to be in love with someone who looks like they’d rather be anywhere else…who looks like they hate me?”

His words hit harder than you expected, leaving a sting in their wake.

“I don’t hate you,” you said, your voice quieter now.

Max’s eyes softened. “Yeah, well…I don’t hate you either.”

The room was silent again, but it was different now. The distance between you, both literal and figurative, seemed to lessen just slightly. You tried to force yourself to fall asleep, but the tension that lingered was almost too much to bear.

The night dragged on, and in the midst of it you felt the shift, the moment when everything blurred.

Somehow, in the quiet hours of the night, you found yourself moving closer, instinctively curling up for warmth or comfort, you couldn’t tell which. And before you could stop it, your bodies had aligned. Max’s arm had found its way around your waist, and your face was pressed against his chest.

You woke up the next morning tangled in the sheets, Max’s arm still around you, your bodies a tangle of limbs. The pillows had been kicked aside sometime during the night, leaving the line between you completely obliterated. You couldn’t even remember when it had happened only that you’d woken up wrapped in him, as though it had always been that way.

The reality of it hit you both at the same time, and neither of you moved immediately. His breath was warm against the back of your neck as he shifted.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough from sleep.

“Guess we’re really selling the story now, huh?” you said.

Max smiled, a real one this time. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. “Guess we are.”

And in that moment, the lines between what was real and what wasn’t felt even less clear than before.

The wedding weekend was a whirlwind—a carefully curated mix of elegant affairs, lavish dinners, and champagne toasts in the sun. But amidst the clinking of glasses and the sweeping romance in the air, something inside you shifted. It was subtle at first, but by the end of the weekend, you couldn’t deny that things were different.

The welcome dinner was filled with polite smiles and laughter. You both posed for photos together, Max’s arm draped around your waist in the way that had become second nature by now. He leaned down slightly to speak to you during one of the speeches, his breath warm against your ear as he muttered, “This is getting old huh?”

You smirked, glancing up at him, but before you spoke you found yourself lingering in the moment, the proximity between you suddenly feeling a little more… comfortable.

That night, as you both retired to your suite, the pull between you lingered. There was no escaping it now, the facade you had been building for months was being tested in real-time. Neither of you said much as you prepared for bed, the weight of the situation settling over you like a heavy blanket.

The next morning, after another night spent wrapped up together in the same bed, you both sat down to a quiet breakfast in the villa’s courtyard. The wedding hadn’t yet begun, but the grounds were already bustling with preparations. Max sat across from you, the sound of clinking silverware filling the spaces between your words. You were sipping your coffee, but you couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flickered over to you.

He finally broke the silence, his voice easy. “You know, you’ve been full of surprises this weekend.”

Your heart skipped, but you didn’t let it show. You crossed your arms, trying to hide the warmth flooding your chest. “Oh? So, you admit you were wrong about me?”

His lips curved into a slow, teasing grin. “Maybe I was,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “But you’re still impossible to figure out.”

You swallowed, your pulse quickening. “Or maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.”

Later, as the wedding ceremony started, you both took your seats near the back. Max leaned in during one particularly touching speech about eternal love. "Do you really believe that this whole thing might be real for some people?" he asked.

You blinked, turning your gaze to him. "I don't know," you said slowly. "Maybe it is. Maybe they just know something we don't,” you laughed lightly.

He didn’t respond right away, but you could see the way his expression shifted. There was a vulnerability in his eyes now. "Maybe," he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

As the evening progressed, you found yourself spending more time together. You were seated next to him at dinner, and instead of the usual small talk, there was an ease between you that hadn’t been there before. The jokes that used to feel forced now felt more natural, even the sarcastic quips between you that used to ignite sparks of irritation now carried a different kind of energy. You started to laugh more easily, and Max’s rare smiles seemed less manufactured.

The night of the wedding was in full swing, the dance floor was crowded, you had been standing at the edge of the crowd, holding a glass of champagne and talking to a few other guests when you noticed Max. Without thinking, you found yourself walking toward the dance floor. You were halfway there when Max appeared beside you, his presence immediate, almost magnetic.

“Fancy a dance?” he asked, his voice low.

You raised an eyebrow, catching the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sure, for the cameras, right?”

Max’s smile didn’t falter. “Whatever you say schatje.”

Max placed one hand on your waist, his other hand holding yours delicately. You couldn’t remember the last time you had danced with someone this close.

His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in slightly. “You know, you’re not bad at this whole ‘fake dating thing”.

“Maybe you’re just getting used to me,” you said, lifting your chin a little.

Max’s hand tightened around yours ever so slightly, and for a moment, you thought he was about to say something else, but he didn’t.

The music seemed too slow, the moment stretching out, and you found yourself closer to him than you’d ever been, the space between you practically nonexistent your bodies pressed together your head resting on his chest. Max’s thumb brushed over your hand, sending a small shiver up your spine. You could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, the warmth of his body making your own heart race.

“Are you sure this is just for the cameras?” Max murmured, his voice barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air between you.

You swallowed, your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in your mouth. Instead, you simply nodded, though you knew it wasn’t true anymore. The way he held you, the way his gaze never left yours, was real. All the lines you’d drawn between fake and genuine were starting to melt away, and it terrified you.

The song ended, and the spell was broken, but neither of you moved away immediately. You were still pressed up against each other, a heartbeat away from something more. Max pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something, anything.

But instead of words, you gave him a soft, almost imperceptible smile. “Well, that wasn’t terrible,” you said, trying to deflect the swirling emotions that had settled deep within you.

The night wore on, and as you walked back to your room, the glow of the villa’s lights cast long shadows, and you could hear the soft murmur of other guests laughing and talking in the distance.

When you entered the room, the silence between you felt different. You both stopped at the foot of the bed, the stillness hanging in the air.

Max hesitated for a moment before speaking again, quieter this time. “You know... I don’t think I mind this, us... being like this.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you met his gaze. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I don’t mind it either,” you finally admitted.

The weekend had changed something fundamental between you. By the time you left for Monaco, the lines between what was fake and what was real had blurred beyond recognition. What had started as a contract had slowly, imperceptibly, become something more. And neither of you was ready to admit it—not yet.

As time went by Max started showing up at your place unannounced, claiming he needed an escape from his hectic schedule. At first, it was just an excuse. He’d show up, settle onto your couch, and spend hours scrolling through his phone, not really talking much, but not leaving either. But over time, it became a routine that neither of you could shake off. He’d arrive late in the evenings, wearing that same devil-may-care attitude he always had, his visits felt more natural every time, less like something forced and more like an excuse to simply be with you.

It started innocently enough, he’d show up, flopping down on your couch, kicking off his shoes, and throwing a lazy “what’s shall we have for dinner?” in your direction. You’d find yourselves cooking together, Max teasing you for your lack of cooking skills, and you firing back with sarcastic remarks that now always seemed to make him laugh.

“Don’t worry, Max,” you’d say, stirring whatever you were attempting to make. “I’ll make sure this one doesn’t burn. Unlike your last attempt at.”

Max would chuckle, shaking his head. “You make it sound like it was a disaster. It was edible…”

“Sure it was,” you’d retort, flicking a bit of sauce at him.

What had once been confined to discussions about the weather or small talk about the PR deal shifted into much deeper, more intimate exchanges. You’d find yourself talking about everything from the silliest of topics like your least favourite childhood snacks, to sharing your thoughts on the future. It was strange, how these quiet moments, spent lounging on the couch or taking walks around the city became some of the most genuine conversations you’d ever had.

Watching movies together late into the night became a staple of your routine. You’d snuggle up on the couch, popcorn between you, arguing over the best movie. You’d watch one of his choices, only for him to grumble about how you’d fallen asleep halfway through, your head resting against his shoulder. You never intended to sleep, but his warmth, his presence, had a way of pulling you under.

One evening, you’d found yourselves cuddling on the couch, his arm draped over you as you played a ridiculous trivia game on your phone, his hand brushing through your hair absentmindedly as he caught his breath.

“Okay, I think you’re cheating,” Max teased, shaking his head as you got the answer right for the third time in a row. “There’s no way you knew that.”

“I’m just that good,” you grinned, leaning in closer, pretending to be smug.

Max rolled his eyes, his fingers lightly grazing your arm as you leaned into his side. It wasn’t intentional at first, but neither of you seemed to care. The tension that had once existed—whether because of the contract, the PR, or just the fact that you had no idea how to truly deal with each other—had slowly dissipated. You no longer needed to try to make each other laugh or even pretend to be interested in what the other person was doing. You genuinely enjoyed it.

And then, there was the first time you realised how much you’d changed. You woke up one morning at his apartment, still tangled in blankets on the sofa with Max, your head resting on his chest, and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this content. His hand was resting lightly on your back, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin, and you knew, without a doubt, that what you had with him wasn’t just some act anymore.

When he stirred, blinking his eyes open and catching sight of you, a smile tugged at his lips. “You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

You smirked. “You mean you didn’t kick me out yet?”

Max chuckled, his fingers gently tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “Not a chance,” he said, leaning down to kiss you softly. It wasn’t one of those quick kisses that had always been a part of your facade. This one lingered, slow and warm, like he wanted to savour it.

That was when you realised it: You’d both slipped into something real. The PR contract was technically due to end soon, but neither of you had needed to bring it up, because you had long stopped pretending. There were no more walls between you. No more games. Just you, and him, and the quiet certainty that this was no longer about anyone but the two of you.

One evening your buzzer rang unexpectedly. You weren't expecting anyone, so you frowned as you walked over to the peephole. You blinked when you saw Max standing outside, holding a small bouquet of your favourite flowers, the kind you’d mentioned in passing months ago. His hair was slightly messy from the wind, and his expression was somewhere between nervous and sheepish. You could practically see the hesitation in his stance, as if unsure whether to knock.

Curious and slightly caught off guard, you opened the door. He stood there for a beat, offering the flowers with that tentative half-smile of his. The sight of it made your chest tighten, and you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“For the record,” Max started, his voice light. “I’m not doing this for PR anymore.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to sink in. You had both danced around the truth for so long, but now, standing on the other side of your door, it was clear that what was between you two had always been real.

You stared at him for a beat. “In case you haven’t noticed,” you said with a playful smirk, “I’m not doing this for PR anymore either.”

Max’s grin widened just slightly at your response, and a soft chuckle escaped him. “Good to know,” he replied. “Because I don’t think I’m ready to stop this just yet.”

With that you stepped aside, motioning for him to come in. Max placed the bouquet on the nearest table, but before either of you could say anything more, he wrapped his arms around you. The kiss he pressed to your lips was hungry and deliberate, different from the ones you had shared before.

You felt the shift inside you too, a deep sense of rightness that settled in your chest. This wasn’t for the cameras or for the PR agents anymore. This was you and him, standing in your apartment, sharing a kiss.

Max pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His lips brushed yours again, then he stepped back just enough to look into your eyes.

“I have an idea,” he said.

You tilted your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “Oh? And what’s that?”

He hesitated for a beat, then grinned—crooked and genuine. “How about a real date? No cameras, no PR team, just you and me.”

You pretended to consider it, biting your lip as if deep in thought, laughing softly you nodded. “Okay Verstappen. A real date.”

Max’s smile widened as he pulled you in for another kiss, one that felt like both a promise and a declaration…and it was real.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen masterlist #max verstappen x you #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #max verstappen fic #max verstappen oneshot #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen fake dating

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pickingupmymercedes · 7 months ago

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Of thorns and blooms - Lewis Hamilton

request: "Can I request a Journalist reader, who lewis has his eye on and she interviews him and smexy antics ensue after the gathering. She wears a light up floral crown which lewis finds so cute and when they they celebrate an anniversary, he gives her an actual crown." - @omgsuperstarg

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Fashion Journalist! Reader!

wordcount: +3K

a/n: It took me sooo long to get the tone to this one right, but I hope it was worth the wait.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Y/n adjusted her dress for the hundredth time as she waited for the next person she would interview, the humidity in the air boiling them all in the enclosed paradise the famous steps of the MET. The buzz of the Gala was like a living entity. And tonight, she wasn't just a fashion journalist, she was a guest, courtesy of a hand-delivered invitation from Anna Wintour herself.

A small proud smile played on her lips. It had been a long road, from the early days working in college fashion blogs to the owner of her own digital media platform. She had conquered every step on the ladder the had envisaged for her career, and the MET Gala was the cherry on top.

Her gaze swept the red carpet, catching a flash of black that snagged on her breath. Lewis.

They'd met a few times before, most notably for his iconic Vanity Fair cover in 2022. Shot in pink, in none other than Valentino, it had been a bold choice, and she had made it justice in the interview. I was a peek into the soul of a man who rarely had let himself be seen that way. It was raw, honest, and had garnered her more praise than any piece she'd ever written.

On the human level there had also been something else, a connection beyond the professional aura, but it had remained just that – a spark.

Over the years, they'd stayed in loose contact. She would congratulate him on a good race, he would message whenever he read one of her articles, a selfie once, holding her printed fashion annual he'd found at an airport in Dubai.

It felt like a secret language, a shared appreciation in their vastly different worlds.

And that night, he looked…untouchable.

A vision in a custom Burberry creation. Although not far from the usual black, his overcoat was anything but ordinary, adorned with hand-embroidered floral motifs that shimmered under the camera flashes, the thorns in his necklace a powerful statement. Heritage and resilience.

As Lewis neared her corner of the press pen, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. His eyes scanned the crowd, and when they landed on her, a flicker shone within them. He diverted his path slightly, heading straight for her.

"Y/n!" he boomed, his voice surprisingly warm for someone who always tried to maintain his stoicism.

"Sir Lewis Hamilton" she replied, offering a professional smile. "Looking sharp."

He chuckled, a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "You clean up nice yourself, Voltaire."

"Voltaire?" she raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Your floral crown. You quoted Voltaire on gardens being the only art that imitated nature in your preview of the met" He gestured towards her head, where a crown of intricately woven white flowers sat, each petal tipped with tiny LED lights that cast a soft glow. "It looks incredible by the way."

Her smile widened. "Maria Grazia Chiuri and I had a blast designing this piece. We wanted to honor the history of the floral crown, worn for centuries, but with a modern twist."

Lewis leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You always manage to find the hidden meaning, don't you?"

She met his gaze, the intensity surely not lost to her. "Fashion is all about meaning, Lewis. It's a language, a way to express ourselves." His gaze holding on to hers as she continued “Your statement in this Burberry. It's a powerful one”

He tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes, but just as he was about to answer back a microphone was thrust in front of them. A reporter, eager to get a quote looking impatient.

"Mr. Hamilton," the reporter began, "your outfit is quite…unexpected. Can you tell us the inspiration behind it?"

Lewis straightened his shoulders, slipping back into his professional persona. He launched into a detailed explanation of the Burberry design, his voice smooth and practiced. Y/n listened, captivated by his words and by the way his gaze flickered back to her every few seconds, a silent promise of something.

When the interview ended, the reporter scurried away. Lewis turned back to her; his smile warm. "They only gave me a few minutes," he said with mock disappointment.

"Well," she teased, "perhaps you could tell me the "real" story later," she finished, mirroring his playful tone.

A slow grin spread across Lewis's face. "Perhaps" he replied winking, a gesture that would have sent a lesser woman reeling. "I’ll find you later." He gestured towards the throng of celebrities and socialites milling about.

As Y/n wandered into the museum, she navigated the wave of guests with small talks and greetings alike. Her platform had gained traction over the past months, and her presence was becoming increasingly sought-after. But tonight, the glamor felt secondary as the show stoppers stood behind glasses of exhibitions.

As she stood and admired one of Balmain’s first collections, a familiar figure caught her eye. Lewis, leaning casually against a pillar, a glass of champagne in his hand. He was alone, just observing her, a smile breaking across his face as he saw she had noticed him, he made his way towards her, his movements graceful.

"There you are," a low rumble in his chest. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Hardly," she replied, a playful glint in her eyes.

"So," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "tell me about this secret language of fashion."

"Where do I even begin?" she laughed, a genuine, carefree sound. "Every stitch, every embellishment, every cut – it all tells a story. A story of who you are, where you come from and how you want to be perceived."

The conversation flowed easily, a back-and-forth about the art of fashion, their contrasting worlds, and the subtle messages woven into every outfit. Lewis, she discovered, was surprisingly well-versed in fashion history, his knowledge going beyond the surface. He spoke of iconic designers, groundbreaking trends, and the evolution of style through the ages, his voice filled with genuine passion as he recounted how he had learned so much from her own words.

"You know," Lewis said, his voice softer now, "you're not like anyone else I've ever met."

" This one is not gonna cut it" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.

"Right…" he said, his gaze locking on hers. "But I meant it though. You look at the story behind people. That’s rare."

His words hit her like a sucker punch, laying bare a truth she hadn't dared to public admit. She had always craved for connection with people, and fashion, she had discovered, was her way to reach for those who held their stories and dreams in their eyes and heart.

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked away, breaking the intense eye contact. "Perhaps you see the same," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He leaned closer; his breath warm on her ear. "Tell me about your dreams, Y/n. What stories are you trying to tell?"

And then, when she couldn’t avoid his gaze on her anymore, when the silence of his question had almost drowned her, a booming voice cut through the air. "Lewis! There you are. We have to get going."

Lewis sighed, pushing himself away from the wall. "Right" he said, a touch of regret in his voice before he turned abruptly to Y/n, as if he had just decided to take a jump "I have a proposition for you."

Intrigued, Y/n raised an eyebrow. "A proposition? Do elaborate, Hamilton."

He leaned in again, close enough for his lips to brush against her ear. “Are you, by any chance, willing to pass on those other after parties and come to mine?”

Y/n seemed to be taken aback, but just like before, when she was about to answer him, he shot her a look “I’ll text you the details. I’d love to know your stories.” And with a final lingering look at her, Lewis offered a charming smile. "Until later."

The afterparty held a low-key energy, a contrast to the frenzy of the Met. Y/n found herself at Lewis's expansive New York City apartment, surprised by the choice of venue. It wasn't the club she'd thought of, but a tastefully decorated space that felt more like a home than a celebrity crash pad.

Lewis had introduced her to a motley crew of people. Some of his friends, but mostly, a mix of young, up-and-coming designers, photographers Y/n knew by reputation, and even a couple of journalists she had came across an article or two. The air buzzed with conversations, a refreshing change from the interactions of the Met.

As the night wore on, the crowd thinned. Y/n found herself gravitating towards a corner where Lewis stood, deep in conversation with someone she remembered to have seen at some shooting before.

"That's Kelly," Lewis said, noticing Y/n's approach. "A design prodigy. Just landed a gig with Channel"

Kelly's smile widened as Lewis introduced them. "It's an honor to meet you, Y/n," she said, her voice brimming with excitement. "I've been a huge fan for a while now."

They chatted for a while, the struggles and triumphs of breaking into the fashion world. Looking at the young woman's vibrant energy, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in the platform she'd created.

But as Kelly was whisked away by another group, a comfortable silence settled between Y/n and Lewis.

He gestured towards an empty stool beside him. "Mind if I steal you for a bit?"

Y/n accepted the invitation, a playful glint in her eyes. "Only if you answer a question for me first."

"Shoot," he said, taking a swig from his drink.

"This isn't exactly the afterparty I expected," she said, gesturing to the relaxed setting. "Why here?"

Lewis chuckled, a low rumble that made her feel inadequately naïve "Maybe this is the real me," he said. "The part that doesn't crave the constant spotlight."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conversational whisper. "I thought you'd like this kind of party. I like to distance myself from the buzz when I can"

Y/n nodded, a smile playing on her lips. "A safe space."

"Something like that," he replied, his gaze lingering on her for a beat too long.

"So," Lewis began, breaking the building tension "I’m still waiting to hear about your dreams"

And so, for some ungodly pull, at a rather uncomfortable stool, she opened up to a man she had never really expected to create any kind of connection. Maybe, exactly because she never so that coming, it felt so easy to tell him her most guarded hopes.

She spoke of her platform as a way to democratize fashion, to give a voice to those who felt unseen, unheard. She spoke of empowering individuals to express themselves through who they really were, regardless of social status or bank balance.

As Y/n talked, she noticed Lewis's eyes gleaming with genuine interest. He wasn't just listening politely, he interest genuine, his questions insightful and thought-provoking. And she wondered if it was really that unexpected to find this depth hidden beneath him.

"That's incredible" Lewis said, his voice filled with admiration. “You’re giving people the tools for them to tell their stories."

"Exactly" Y/n said, a sense of understanding as he smiled with her. "It's about self-expression, about telling the world who you are."

A thoughtful frown etched itself onto Lewis's face as she leaned into the counter. "You know," he said, pausing mid-sentence, "you're quite a puzzle, Y/n."

Y/n raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Me? A puzzle?”

"There's this incredible fire in you" he continued, his voice low and husky, "a passion for giving others a voice. But then there's this… " he trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"What?" she scoffed playfully. "I always thought I such was an open book."

Lewis chuckled; a dark, sexy sound that surely didn’t go unnoticed. "You talk about empowering others, yet I get the feeling there's a whole story you haven't shared of where that desire comes from"

Their connection had been simmering throughout the night, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Now, with Lewis's gaze holding hers captive, it threatened to tip over.

The conversation around them seemed to fade away, swallowed by the growing awareness between them. Y/n felt his unspoken questions echoing in her mind, a challenge she couldn't ignore.

As the night wore on, the guests gradually dwindled. One by one, they bid farewell to Lewis, leaving him and Y/n alone amidst the empty bottles and scattered laughter.

Y/n found her gaze drawn to him again. He stood by the window, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, his profile sharp and captivating. The urge to break the silence, to bridge the growing gap between them, became overwhelming.

She rose from the stool, her movements deliberate, and walked towards him. He turned, his surprise evident in his eyes.

"Everyone's gone, I should go" she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

"Don’t. Please" he replied, his gaze still locked on hers. "I’d love if you could stay and"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. Y/n cut him off, stopping just inches away from him. The air crackled with electricity, the unspoken desire a tangible force between them.

She glanced at the faint outline of his abdomen in the fabric of his Dior shirt, her fingers tracing invisible circles on the soft fabric. Then, in a bold move, she let her nails lightly scratch across his chest, sending a jolt of heat through him.

Lewis's breath hitched. He pulled her closer by her waist, his eyes burning into hers.

Their lips met in a heated kiss, a clash of urgency and teeth. Lewis's hands roamed freely over her back, his touch numbing her to the surroundings. He was hungry for all of her.

Y/n found herself caught in the current, her own desire rising to meet his. His lips traveled down her neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses.

A dark part of her, a voice fueled by the intoxicating aura of him, entertained the idea of becoming just another name on his long list of conquests.

But then, as his hand reached for her thigh, a wave of clarity put an end to the haze. This wasn't a one-night stand she craved. This connection, potent and undeniable, deserved more.

Y/n broke the kiss, her breath coming out in ragged gasps. "Lewis," she whispered, her voice husky.

He stared at her, confusion, concern and desire evident in his eyes.

"Dinner first," she said, a playful smirk gracing her lips. "Then maybe we can explore this mystery you see in me."

A slow smile spread across Lewis's face, the heat in his eyes softening to amusement. "Dinner it is," he agreed, his voice raspy. "But consider this a warning. I don't give up easily."

Sunlight danced across the Aegean Sea, glowing through the large round window of the yacht's cabin. Y/n stood before the vanity, applying a final touch of lipstick, her reflection a picture of contentment.

Five years. Five years since that MET and Lewis's afterparty, a whirlwind that had swept them off their feet and turned their world upside down.

A soft knock at the door startled her. "Come in," she called out, her voice filled with a hint of anticipation.

The door creaked open, and Lewis stepped inside. He was a vision in his crisp white linens, his hair free from the braids.

But it was the velvety box in his hand that held her attention.

"There you are," he said, a playful glint in his eyes as he walked towards her.

Y/n watched him through the mirror, her heart still skipping a beat whenever he was around. He stopped behind her, his warmth radiating through her back.

"What's that?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"A little something for my favorite fashion journalist" he replied, his breath tickling her ear as he leaned close.

He opened the box, inside, nestled on a bed of white satin, lay a breathtaking piece of jewelry – a floral crown crafted from delicate diamonds. Each petal was meticulously designed, some adorned with tiny thorns, others bursting into bloom.

It was both graceful and powerful. And it wasn’t quite a necklace, nor quite a tiara. It was a piece of art.

"Lewis," she breathed, her voice filled with awe. "It's…incredible."

He took the crown from the box, his touch gentle as he held it up to the light. "Anne Wintour helped me design it," he admitted, a hint of pride in his voice. "She said it reminded her of your outfit at the Met Gala, all those years ago."

Y/n held her breath as she looked at the jewelry. The floral crown, a memory of their initial spark, now reimagined with diamonds. The strength and beauty of their love that had blossomed despite adversity.

"The thorns," he said, her voice barely a whisper, "they represent the challenges we've faced, the distance, the different worlds..."

"And the flowers," he finished after clasping it to her neck, his voice husky with emotion, "represent our love, always blooming, even in the face of those challenges."

He adjust it to her skin, his touch gentle. "It's meant to be worn by someone who sees the world differently, who tells stories with every thread" he said, his gaze holding hers.

He cupped her hand in his, his eyes brimming with love. "Someone who wears her heart on her sleeve," he continued, his voice low and husky.

She turned and their lips met slowly, a lingering kiss that spoke volumes of their love and shared journey.

"Happy anniversary, Y/n," he whispered, pulling away but not letting go, his eyes shining brighter than any star.

"Happy anniversary, Lewis" she replied, the diamond floral piece catching the sunlight and reflecting a thousand tiny rainbows in their eyes.

______________________________________________________________

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#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton #lh #lh44 #lewis #lewis x reader #lewis imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton x you

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justlemmeadoreyou · 8 months ago

Text

1. prepping (restaurant owner!harry x chef!y/n)

summary: you landed your dream job as a line cook at harry styles' prestigious haus kitchen restaurant in chicago. the tough chef job demands focus, but it's really hard when your boss looks like harry styles.

words: 4.3k

warnings: nothing major in this one

Your palms were sweating as you gripped the steering wheel, driving through downtown Chicago towards your new job. You kept glancing down at the address on the printed directions, double checking that you were heading the right way. The last thing you wanted was to be late on your first day.

Ever since getting your culinary degree, you had applied to what felt like hundreds of restaurant jobs, desperate to get your foot in the door of a real professional kitchen. But very few places wanted to hire someone so fresh out of school with no actual experience.

Finally, after months of dead ends, you had landed a line cook position at Haus Kitchen - one of the hottest farm-to-table restaurants in the city. You could scarcely believe your luck when you got the call saying you were hired.

Haus was the brainchild of Harry Styles, international superstar singer turned chef. After his chart-topping solo music career, Harry had traded in artist life to pursue his lifelong passion for cooking. Using his accumulated wealth, he opened up Haus five years ago to rave reviews, quickly earning a well deserved Michelin star.

You vividly remembered watching Harry's transition from a pop idol to dashing culinary entrepreneur play out in the media. As a teenage girl, you had been obsessed with him during his One Direction days.

Your bedroom walls were plastered with Harry's posters and you had relentlessly played their songs, sighing over his tousled hair and pouty lips. Then as you got older and Harry went solo, your boyband crush evolved into more of an intense celebrity infatuation as he cultivated a cool, rebellious image.

There were countless gossipy blind items about his infamous hellraising, flings with models and socialites, and run-ins with the law. You had followed all the scandalous Harry headlines with rapt attention - from getting papped stumbling out of nightclubs with an endless parade of beautiful women to getting arrested for drug possession outside Soho clubs.

But finally in his late 20s, seemingly bored of rockstar debauchery, Harry had pivoted to reset his image as a knowledgeable culinary entrepreneur. You admired how he transformed from tabloid bad boy into a refined, successful businessman and chef.

He began studying haute cuisine under the tutelage of famous European chefs, traveling abroad to hone his skills further. While continuing to record new musical projects independently, Harry started establishing himself in the culinary world through guest stints on TV cooking shows and food/wine events.

With his brooding good looks, charming personality, and serious culinary chops, the world fell for Harry's new sophisticated image. Before long, he was the subject of breathless puff pieces in food magazines as "the sexiest Renaissance man in the kitchen." It seemed natural when Harry soon opened up his passion project Haus to capitalize on his popularity and love of food.

Now nearing your mid-20s, your teenage fannish obsession had cooled into more of an admiring celebrity crush. You had stayed aware of Harry's journey, but your priorities were focused on graduating culinary school at the top of your class and finding your own big break in the Chicago restaurant scene.

So when you landed a job at Harry's iconic Haus, it almost didn't feel real. Not only would you be working at one of the city's most exclusive spots, but under the same roof as a chef you had admired for ages.

Not that you expected to have any real personal contact with Harry himself, you reminded yourself as you merged onto the exit for downtown. He was an internationally famous mega-celebrity who had to have hundreds of staffers, not to mention being handsomely paid to just be the smiling face of the business while professional kitchen vets like Paul Thomason handled the day-to-day operations.

Still, you had to admit to yourself that a tiny part of you tingled at the mere idea of being in the same building as Harry Styles...hopefully catching a glimpse of that handsome, endlessly charming man in the flesh...

You shook your head dismissively and double checked the directions again, annoyed at getting so easily distracted. This was your big break, your first serious job in the industry. You needed to bring your A-game and focus, not dwell on silly celebrity daydreams.

It was your fantasies of becoming a respected chef that needed to take priority.

You pulled into the parking lot for the restaurant, double checking that you had the address right. The sleek, modern building had a neon "Haus Kitchen" sign glowing over opulent double-door entrances flanked by velvet ropes and cheerful outdoor seating areas.

Taking a steadying breath, you cut the engine and sat for a moment, giving yourself a pep talk. This was it. No more messing around doing coursework or labs - this was the major leagues with all the intensity of a real professional kitchen. You had to bring it all day, every day.

As you climbed out of your beat-up Honda, you smoothed down your spotless new chef's whites, making sure everything looked pressed and presentable. With your knife kit tucked under your arm, you walked towards the entrance with purpose, chin held high.

From the moment you stepped through the doors, it was like being transported into another world. The smell of simmering sauces, roasting meats, and freshly baked bread envaded your senses. Even hours before opening, the energy and hustle for dinner prep was palpable.

Off to the left was the main dining room you had studied photos of online - effortlessly cool with vaulted exposed wooden beam ceilings, brick accents, and casually modern decor. Pendant lighting glowed cozily over tables draped in white linens and rustic chandeliers hung over plush tufted leather banquettes. A lively bar area centered the space, stocked with top-shelf liquors and backed by a dazzling display of custom glassware.

In the distance ahead, you could hear the clamoring of the kitchen in full swing. Your stomach did a nervous flip - this was it. Taking another fortifying breath, you headed through the archway.

You emerged into a large, sleek open kitchen layout, all stainless steel and butcher block islands. Uniformed cooks were buzzing at their stations like a well-oiled machine under the barked commands of an older, stocky man you immediately recognized as Head Chef Paul Thomason.

Despite his gruff reputation, watching Thomason in action was nothing short of mesmerizing. He moved between stations with the easy grace of a conductor, sampling sauces, tweaking seasonings, and directing the workflow with gruff orders. There was no wasted movement or micro-expression as he continually tasted and perfected dishes, alternating between thoughtful contemplation and decisive action.

Though you had only seen Thomason in pictures and television appearances, his fierce focus and mastery were unmistakable. This was what true professional kitchen expertise looked like in the flesh.

Feeling like a mouse that had wandered into the lair of a lion, you hovered near the entrance, uncertain of what to do next. The kitchen team flowed around you in a choreographed dance, deftly ignoring your presence as they prepped and plated flawlessly.

After a few minutes of anxious loitering, the intimidating Thomason seemed to finally notice you. His grizzled features contorted as he scowled, looking you up and down through eyes squinted with decades of kitchen smoke exposure.

"You must be the new kid," he said gruffly, crossing his bulky tattooed arms over his broad chest. Even without raising his voice, Thomason had a rumbling bass that easily carried over the kitchen's clanging din. "Christ, you're shorter than I expected. Think you've got what it takes to keep up around here?"

You nervously clutched your knife kit closer while trying to not look as flustered as you felt. "Y-yes, chef!"

You swallowed hard, hyper aware of everyone around you now watching the interaction. "I, uh...I came ready to work as hard as it takes. Whatever you need from me."

Thomason grunted, squinting at you for another long moment in consideration. Then he jerked his head towards the back. "Get changed out quick and meet me back here in 5. I'll get you started on prep and we'll see what you're made of. Don't keep me waiting."

"Yes, chef!" you responded immediately, wincing at how high your voice had gone up an octave.

Without another word, Thomason turned and strode back into the controlled chaos of the line, immediately redirecting his attention to sauces and garnishes. Letting out a shaky breath, you scurried towards the changing rooms, heart jackhammering.

Well, you were officially in the thick of things now...

You hustled back out to the kitchen, trying not to look frazzled from your rushed change. A young Hispanic line cook spotted you and waved you over to his station.

"You the newbie?" he asked, not unkindly. When you nodded, he jerked his head towards the walk-in refrigerator. "Thomason wants you to start by breaking down some of the produce delivery for prep."

"Got it, thanks," you replied, eager to prove yourself. The line cook gestured you through the door into the immense chilled walk-in.

You blinked as your eyes adjusted to the cold, taking in the sights and smells of the impressive stockpile. Shelves upon shelves were stocked with an array of fresh seasonal produce - crates bursting with leafy greens, bushels of root vegetables, flats of vibrantly colored tomatoes, exotic fruits, and mushroom varieties you had only read about.

Your culinary school had humble basics for ingredients, nothing like the bounty of locally-sourced, meticulously selected provisions that Haus Kitchen demanded. You felt a thrill at getting to work with such an extraordinary pantry.

Respirating clouds puffed from your mouth as you scanned the inventory tagging system. You had been taught similar protocols in your food safety courses, but there was something exhilarating about putting that knowledge into practice in a real professional environment.

Grabbing a stack of plastic totes, you made a game plan for which items to start prepping first based on perishability levels and what would be needed for that evening's specials. Though you started out slow at first, you steadily built up a cadence of meticulously cleaning, trimming, and sorting into appropriate storage containers.

By the time Thomason stuck his head in to check on you an hour later, you had developed an efficient system and made solid progress through a mountain of deliveries.

The head chef grunted in approval as he inspected your neat stacks of prepped produce, crossing his arms as he looked you up and down with a critical eye.

"Not bad, kid," he rumbled. "Clearly know which end of a knife to use, at least. C'mon back out, got some protein fabrication for you to tackle next."

You diligently followed Thomason back out to the main kitchen, wiping some sweat from your brow with your sleeve. Despite the industrial cooling system, the heat blazing from the ovens and range tops made the open kitchen feel like a furnace.

As Thomason led you to a stainless steel butcher's block island, you couldn't help but gawk at the array of gleaming knives hanging from magnetic strips overhead. The blades were works of art - sleek, razor sharp, and clearly extremely expensive.

Gesturing you over, Thomason grabbed a boning knife and twirled it deftly before handing it to you. "Let's see how you handle breaking this down."

He gave the block a solid smack with his meaty palm, indicating for you to get started on the glistening slab of beef tenderloin before you. Taking a steadying breath, you gripped the bone-handled knife firmly and leaned over the cutting board.

"Yes chef," you murmured before carefully piercing the thick cut of meat, angling the blade with practiced precision from all your training.

Around you, the kitchen bustled with the usual rattling pans, sizzling ranges, and Thomason's occasional barked orders. But as you fell into the rhythm of deftly separating fat and sinew, the noises began to fade from your awareness.

You were completely focused on your knife work, confidently sawing through the tender flesh as you reduced the tenderloin down to portions and trimmings for other stations to further break down. It was meditative, almost hypnotic, the way you instinctively slid the blade along rendered paths of butchery.

After your initial intimidation of the intense Haus environment, you started to find your groove and calm amidst the choreographed insanity surrounding you. You were so laser-focused on the satisfaction of properly executing each slicing technique that the rest of the kitchen chaos became mere white noise.

You had no idea how long you stayed absorbed in the butchery, but eventually you became aware of a presence at your elbow. Glancing up, you nearly jumped to see Harry Styles watching you work with an unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his slim-fitting slacks.

His dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows and the fitted cotton fabric clung to his toned arms and chest, a few chest hairs peeking out of his slightly undone top button. A single necklace rested in the divot between his sculpted collarbones, drawing your eye to the alluring hollow of his throat as he swallowed hard.

You froze mid-slice, mesmerized by watching the tendons in Harry's wrist and forearm flex as his hands flexed restlessly in his trouser pockets. After a beat, his pillowy lips curved into an easy smile, crinkling the delicate crow's feet at the corners of his kaleidoscope green eyes.

"Afternoon," Harry said in that lazy, husky drawl that used to make millions of fans swoon. He flicked his eyes down to your handiwork before bringing them back up to your face. "Looking good there, newbie."

You blinked, not trusting your ears for a moment before realizing with a jolt that Harry was very much real and quite close. Like, unnecessarily close for your over-stimulated brain to handle.

"Uh...I-I, um...th-thank you?" you croaked out, wanting to cringe at how lame you sounded. Get it together, this wasn't the time to geek out–you instructed yourself.

But Harry didn't seem to notice your fumbling, simply giving you a dimpled half-smile before reaching around you to snag a stray piece of trimming from the butcher's block. He inspected it contemplatively before popping it into his mouth, those plump lips wrapping obscenely around the bite as he chewed and ruminated with relish.

"Perfection," he declared after swallowing, shooting you another crooked grin like you were co-conspirators sharing an inside joke. With a subtle wink, Harry pivoted on his boot heel and sauntered off, whistling a jaunty tune.

As he retreated, you risked a glance down at his form-fitting trousers shamelessly admiring the way the fine fabric cupped the ample curves of his pert backside. Even at his age, Harry Styles had the muscle-toned body of a man decades younger - long, lean muscles taut under golden tanned skin.

You blinked hard and shook your head, annoyed at catching yourself ogling your new boss like a drooling fangirl. Pull it together! This was totally inappropriate and unprofessional. You had zero business daydreaming about someone who gave you your paycheck, no matter how obscenely famous and heartthrob-ishly handsome they were.

Firmly re-focusing on your knife work, you determinedly put Harry from your mind and tried to re-immerse yourself in the rhythm and refuge of the butchery. But the memory of his distractingly lush mouth so close kept replaying over and over, preventing you from recapturing your previous sense of meditative flow.

Dammit, you needed to get a grip! This kind of inappropriate crush on your employer was exactly the kind of silly, immature behavior that would make you look like a unprofessional joke in a serious kitchen environment. Blowing an opportunity like this was not an option.

Later, as you untied your apron strings and joined the team in breaking down the last stations for cleaning at closing, Thomason sidled up alongside you. You braced yourself for more of his typical gruff rebukes or criticisms.

Instead, the veteran chef simply gave you a long, considered look before saying gruffly, "You did good work today, kid. I can already tell you got the stuff to handle it around here if you keep your head down."

You blinked up at him in surprise before managing a small smile. "Thank you, chef. I really appreciate that."

Thomason grunted noncommittally before wandering off, likely to oversee something else. As you tidied your workstation, you couldn't help feeling a small glow of pride. Despite the craziness of your first day, you had seemingly passed this initial trial with flying colors.

As you left through the back entrance into the quiet night air, you took a deep breath and allowed yourself a satisfied smile. Maybe, just maybe, you really did have what it took to succeed in this highly competitive environment after all. For tonight at least, you had handled the punishing pace and standards. Tomorrow was another day to prove yourself all over again.

***

Your day started before sunrise the next morning, brewing a strong coffee and reviewing the notes you had taken the previous evening about which menu items needed prepping. By the time you arrived at Haus, reinvigorated by the crisp morning air, the kitchen was already a hive of activity in preparation for lunch service.

The intense scrutiny under which you worked only amplified with the daylight. Every slice, every sauté was carried out under the watchful eyes of Chef Thomason and his steely gaze. More than once, you felt his presence looming over your shoulder, inspecting your work with the same critical eye as a diamond cutter examining a flawless gem.

"This slice is uneven," he barked, startling you. You flinched, resisting the urge to make excuses as he continued, "The portions all need to be identical for plating. Paying attention to details like that is the difference between a sloppy meal and a stellar one. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, chef," you replied tightly, making a minor adjustment to your knife work. Though his words stung, you had to admit Thomason was completely right. In a restaurant of this caliber, any minor imperfection could spell disaster.

You redoubled your efforts, pouring all of your concentration into each preparation, each plate. By the time the end of your shift rolled around, you were drenched in sweat, your feet screaming from being on them for 12 hours straight. But you had successfully made it through day two without any major mishaps.

As the whirlwind of dinner service finally calmed to a stopping point, you stood in the kitchen obediently waiting for Thomason's inspection and inevitable critique. But to your surprise, he merely gave a curt nod of approval before waving you off.

"Not bad, newbie," he grunted. "Get a good night's rest. We'll need you back bright and early tomorrow."

Those few gruff words of acceptance warmed you more than any high praise could have. For Thomason, a man of very few words, his small nod seemed to indicate you were, for the moment, living up to his exceedingly high standards.

The high from that small victory buoyed your spirits as you made your way towards the back exit, already dreaming of the few hours of sleep you might be able to grab before starting the cycle over again. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts that you nearly bowled someone over coming around a corner.

"Whoa there!"

You froze, looking up into the grinning, mirthful eyes of Harry Styles himself. Up close, the force of his charm and magnetism practically crackled in the air around him like a physical force. His sweater clung distractingly to his lithe, muscular frame and his chestnut hair was casually tousled. A pair of small diamond studs glinted in each ear.

"Sorry about that, H-Harry," you stammered, resisting the urge to take a flustered step back. You were vividly aware of just how little physical space separated the two of you. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

If he noticed your frazzled state up close, Harry didn't let on. His pink lips merely curved in an easy, dimpled smile. "No need to apologize. I don't usually make a habit of lurking around blind corners, to be fair."

You laughed before you could stop yourself, surprised at how easily he was putting you at ease despite your elevated heart rate. Up close, Harry's eyes weren't just green - an entire kaleidoscope of colors ranging from jade to emerald to amber seemed to shift and dance in his gaze. It was...dazzling, frankly.

Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to take a subtle step backwards, putting a more professional amount of space between the two of you. The last thing you needed was to do something wildly inappropriate that would get you fired before the end of your first week.

"Still, I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings," you replied, aiming for a respectful, levelheaded tone. "It's been a really intense couple of days just trying to stay on top of everything."

Harry nodded in understanding, arching one perfectly sculpted brow. "Thomason hasn't let up on you at all, I take it?"

When you shook your head ruefully, he chuckled. "I know that seems like his permanent state - gruff, perpetually unsatisfied, and grumpy as a hibernating bear. But honestly, the fact that he hasn't fired you already is a good sign you're doing well."

You blinked at him in surprise. "Wait...really? But he critiques everything! I feel like I've gotten nothing but corrections so far."

"Exactly." Harry's dimples flashed as he grinned. "That's how you know he sees potential in you. If Thomason didn't think you had what it took, he wouldn't waste his breath giving feedback. He'd just cut you loose and hire someone else to start over."

His words were like a soothing balm on the anxiety and self-doubt you'd been carrying around for the past couple of days. You hadn't realized that Thomason's critical approach was actually a twisted form of acceptance and mentorship. The revelation caused the hard knot of tension between your shoulder blades to finally release.

"Huh," you exhaled, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips as you finally understood Thomason's tough love. "I guess I should take that as a compliment then."

"Absolutely," Harry agreed with an approving nod. Then his expression softened around the edges, growing earnest as his gaze searched yours. "Look, I know it's a huge adjustment and the pace here can be absolutely brutal starting out. But for what it's worth...I think you've got what it takes to be something really special in this kitchen."

You felt yourself flush at his unexpected praise, your stomach fluttering with a swarm of nervous butterflies. Harry held your eyes for a lingering moment before seeming to mentally collect himself.

Clearing his throat, he flashed you one more crooked grin. "But don't take my word for it - the proof will be in your work. Stay focused and trust the process. I've got faith you can handle it."

With that, he brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours in a way that made your entire body buzz with friction. As Harry sauntered off down the hallway, you couldn't stop yourself from turning to watch his retreating form - the easy, rolling gait, the tantalizing sway of his hips below the slim cut of his trousers, the tousled waves of his chestnut hair.

You let out a shaky exhale, feeling off-balance and electrified all at once. Get a grip, you scolded yourself firmly. That was your boss - your incredibly famous, wealthy, and wildly attractive boss. Daydreaming was a one-way ticket to catching inappropriate feelings and potentially torpedoing your entire career before it even started.

And yet...you couldn't quite silence the part of your brain reliving Harry's velvet tone and intense eye contact as he professed having faith in your abilities. Just the casual warmth of his voice and proximity had set your heart pounding in a way it hadn't since you were a hormonal teenager, utterly dazzled by his rock star persona.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to turn on your heel and head for the exit. Overthinking could only lead to dangerous territory. You needed to stay laser-focused on your work - that was the only way to succeed at Haus and make your culinary dreams a reality.

As you stepped out into the fresh evening air, you paused for a moment on the deserted back stoop, closing your eyes and taking a few centering breaths. When you opened them again, you felt the last fluttering tendrils of Harry's heated presence dissipate, replaced by a familiar sense of determined calm.

This job was your priority now, not silly schoolgirl crushes or indulging fantasies about your wildly unattainable boss. You knew better than to get distracted by daydreams that could only lead to self-sabotage.

With a decisive nod, you strode towards your car with renewed focus. You would prove yourself at Haus through your skills and work ethic alone. No other agenda, no unprofessional entanglements allowed.

Your passion was cuisine, creating nourishing dishes that delighted - that had to remain your sole priority. You couldn't afford any distractions from that lest you squander this incredible opportunity. Steadying your breathing, you looked forward with fresh clarity and resolve.

Tomorrow was a new day to earn your place in Harry's formidable kitchen. And this time, you vowed, you were utterly prepared to meet the challenge with your complete and undivided focus.

♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡~~~♡

tell me if you like this! this is an idea for a new series that will probably have 6 parts??? i guess. but do tell me if you like it! because there's no use in writing when nobody reads 😭😭

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wordsnstuff · 1 month ago

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Standing Water: Wordsnstuff Writing Challenge [in collaboration with RUNT magazine]

Welcome to RUNT Magazine. We are an indie print publication celebrating visual art, literature, and the distinctions that make us human. Our aim as a magazine is to cultivate a vibrant community that promotes exploration and creativity instead of stifling it.

We’ve put together these prompts to hopefully inspire you to submit to our upcoming issue with the theme of STANDING WATER [click link for more info!]. If you feel inclined to express yourself in a different media, we accept all forms of writing (fiction, non-fiction, essays, poetry, etc.), photography, art, or anything that moves you! There is no submission fee and we encourage you to submit as much as you like.

The deadline is December 31st, 2024 and we can’t wait to see what you come up with! Submit for free here!

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

Write from the perspective of a favored toy of your childhood.

If future you met present you, what would you talk about? What would you think of each other?

Your hometown has mysteriously disappeared. As you stand looking where it once stood, what memories come to mind?

You’re aging (spoiler alert). Write dual perspectives about one character who embraces that fact and one that rejects it.

You wake up in your childhood bedroom, magically a child yourself. You get to experience a Christmas as a kid again. Describe what you’ve missed about this as an adult, even down to the smells.

It’s been MANY years since you’ve stopped aging. You’ve watched friends and family pass on, never letting yourself fall in love or get attached. You spot someone that you remember from your childhood, also unchanged. Who is it? Do you say anything to them?

You’ve just discovered you were switched at birth. What do you imagine the life you could’ve had was like?

Tell a true story about your childhood. The first one that comes to mind. Maybe even the one you don’t think is even worth writing about at all.

You’ve spent decades running from the small town that labeled you a weird kid, but when you find an old yearbook and see your old self staring back at you, you realize you’ve made a nightmare of the only person who understands you. Make amends with the younger version of yourself, you were just a child.

Every morning, you sit at the same desk, doing the same work, feeling your potential slowly wither away, but you convince yourself it’s fine. What would happen if you stopped telling yourself that this is all there is?

Write the day in the life of an inanimate object that feels it is not being used to its full potential.

Write your first break up from the other person’s perspective.

Your spouse is a writer and has been incredibly secretive about their current book. It’s been published and as they’ve finally allowed you to read it, you’re slowly realizing this all sounds far too familiar.

You awake with your eyes closed, but you don’t remember falling asleep. “It wasn’t your fault,” you hear a voice say. What do you see when you open your eyes?

A once famous person reflects on their career as they slowly being to feel they are being forgotten by the public.

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

Check us out on Instagram.ᐟ

Submission Link

⟢ no fee ⟢ no limit on submissions ⟢ any type of writing or art medium

RUNT Website

#writing #writing challenge #writing prompts #art magazine #literary magazine #magazine #submissions #independent magazine #independent publishing #art #photography #visual art #poetry #RUNT

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 2 months ago

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“I’m-im sorry. What?” You stuttered out, widened eyes blinking dumbly.

“We want you both to fake a relationship.” The director repeated as if he was telling you the weather. Why is this happening??

“It wouldn’t be forever.” Peter’s manager said, most likely noticing the looks of complete bewilderment on both your faces. “Just for the rest of the shooting, the press tour and release. Probably a couple months post-release just so it looks believable, then we ‘accidentally’ leak that the two of you broke up.” He continued, putting up air quotes as he rambled. Still, the look on both of your faces shows very clearly that neither of you were convinced.

Is this a normal thing for this industry!?

“Look, (Y/N).” Your head turns to face your own manager when he places his hand on your shoulder. “I know this whole thing can be…a lot-but-think about what it could do for your career.” He must do this type of convincing a lot for the words to come out of his mouth so easily.

“I’m not sure if I like the idea.” You replied, hands awkwardly playing with themselves under the table as you tried not to buckle under the pressure of all the people looking at you and your co-star with almost pleading eyes and the feeling of another pair burning into the back of your skull.

“Yeah I’m not sure either.” Peter agreed, making you almost let out a breath of relief. Instead, you reached out to grab the little water bottle they had on the table in front of you. Wanting nothing more than to help ease the bundle of nerves you felt in the pit of your stomach. “After all, my divorce only happened three years ago. I’m not sure how well the media would take it if I’m suddenly in a new ‘relationship’.”

“Well give both another fifty percent increase in both your salaries.” The director said bluntly, making you almost choke on your water. Peter’s hand quickly came up to pat your back as you coughed.

“I’m-I’m sorry…” You mumbled as you placed the bottle back on the table once you got yourself to stop choking.

“It’s alright.”The director said with the slightest of smirks as he noticed the look of disbelief in your eyes from the sudden promise of a wage increase, already knowing that had to influence your initial hesitation. “But it’s entirely up to you both.” He finished before going to grab two thin stacks of paper, passing them over to the both of you.

The large words “non-disclosure agreement” printed on the front as your manager handed you a pen. And as you glanced over to your co-star, you couldn’t help the feeling of that oh-so familiar sensation of a burning glare increase while you opened the contract.

—

Part 6 <

Sorry this took so long, not proofread.

Word count: 460

Taglist: @ladysimp @juneonhoth @Tatatida (join here)

#miguel o hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara au #spiderman 2099 x reader #astv spiderman 2099 #astv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara fanfic #miguel o’hara blurbs #miguel ohara blurb #bodyguard!miguel #miguel ohara spiderman

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concerningwolves · 2 years ago

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Amazon are upping their print costs for books, which means some (possibly many) self-pubbed authors may have to also up the cost of their book(s). I'd like to say now, to make it crystal clear for the record, this is not authors being greedy.

I think someone who looks up the royalty rate for KDP and sees "60% for exclusive publishing and 40% for non-exclusive" would think "Wow, these authors are getting paid good money!" but once you calculate the amount of the list price that Amazon eats after printing costs, that percentage can be literally pennies. The minimum, and I mean the absolute bare minimum that I could sell When Dealing with Wolves for after the changes is £12.48 – and if I did that, I would make £0.00. That's zero money. No royalties.

I repeat: 40% royalties on a book listed at £12.48 = nothing.

I currently have WDWW up at £14.00. My "40% cut" from that is £0.76. After the printing cost changes go into effect, I'll make £0.61 from each sale instead. I really don't want to up my prices, because frankly it enrages me that Amazon won't let me list my book for anything under £12, when the standard price of a fiction paperback in the UK is usually around £8.99 – but writing isn't my priority job, so I have that luxury. I'm not trying to make a living off my writing so much as using it to supplement what I make from the freelance career, which is a choice I made because I knew I could never cope with the workload required for a ""serious"" self-pubbed writing career without sabotaging myself. The £0.15 difference in royalties from one book sale isn't going to be the difference between me eating or not; it just really really annoys and disheartens me. (And, also, is further proof that I can't sustain a full-time writing career, because I'd run myself ragged for too little gain and then I wouldn't be able to eat).

But there are plenty of authors who are writing as their primary source of income, either because they can't do anything else or because they took the plunge they're building their career (and it shouldn't matter to you why someone is writing full-time, by the way. You want fiction media to interact with, then you need writers, and writers need to be paid in order to live in order to make more media). It's these authors who will have to up their book prices, and I feel in my bones that it's these authors who are going to face the backlash.

So, if you must be pissed off at someone, be pissed off at Amazon. The authors are probably pissed off, too (I certainly am!), so you'll be in good company.

(And if you can, buy the ebook version because we get better royalties, or see if the author has their own store where you can get the book, since they'll have more control over their own prices there).

#this is okay to reblog btw #i am venting but also royalty talks are something that's important for writer communities to have #writeblr #self publishing

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harrysgal · 7 months ago

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I DIG YOUR CINEMA (4)

harry styles x yn aspiring filmmaker — social media AU

I am actually a little bit nervous about this part, so I hope you enjoy it.

About the smau: yn starts posting videos on youtube and is trying to build a career as a filmmaker. Things are going pretty well for her and she starts getting more attention when she creates content about shows she goes to. She’s also a fan of Harry’s music and some of his fans start getting suspicious when his team starts interacting with her.

Disclaimer: The story it’s set in 2021 and it will follow their relationship through the LOT leg in the US. Since this is nothing but fiction, I will be following some of the real timeline but also adding my own stuff. On top of that, I won’t be basing myself on Harry’s actual posts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART 3 — DENVER // MASTERLIST

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I DIG YOUR CINEMA (PART 4) — THE VIDEO

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liked by bestfriend, anthonypham, mollyjane_x and 59,302 others

yourinstagram im sorry its taken me so long to show up. i thought time would give me the ability to find some words to say, but as it turns out im much better at telling things through a camera than through a pen (or a keyboard, in this case). when i posted my first video on youtube, all i wanted was to find myself again after finally getting free from a relationship that drained the fun out of me. making movies is something that ive always been passionate about, so i thought — why not? three months later, when i posted my first video at a concert, all i wanted was to tell the story of a woman who, after raising two kids and giving everything she had to make everyone around her happy and safe, finally had the opportunity to make one of her most “innocent” dreams (seeing shania twain) come true. fast forward to this week, as i post my latest video all i want is to tell the story of a man who has the entire world in the palm of his hand and yet lives his life as if he’s merely another ordinary soul on earth. what happens now, and what you do with this story (or with any other ive already told), its not up to me anymore.

that all being said, thank you harry for trusting me with this story. it wasn’t mine to tell, but you allowed me to do it anyway and i’ll always be grateful for that. so, again, thank you.

ok i will stop typing now.

actually, im just gonna add that i hope you all enjoy this video as much as i do (but if you don’t, thats fair, and i’ll accept it just as much)

ok, now im done :)

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lookitsnyoh 👑👑👑👑👑 harryfan9 this was so much more than we’ve asked for 🙏🙏🙏 user1 its been almost 24 hours since you posted this video and im still 😲!! YOU’RE INCREDIBLE user5 absolutely amazing! unexpected, captivating, touching… 10/10! yourbrother Kinda sucks that I don’t even feel like teasing you this time. I’m just proud.

↳ sisterinlaw Printed and framed already. ↳ yourinstagram … i dont even know what to say right now ↳ yourinstagram ＠sisterinlaw i’ll need a copy of that pls

harryfan your mind is so brilliant im so in love with this and i know i speak for the entire fandom when i say: THANK YOU 😭

↳ harryfan5 no really bc we’re so used to getting practically nothing that she coulve just done anything and we would’ve still died… and yet she gave us THIS? ↳ harryfan7 yn deserves the best in life period ↳ harryfan54 c’mon… it’s not THAT good

harrystyles 😲 so this was my story you were telling?

↳ yourinstagram i kept my side of the promise, didnt i? you were supposed to keep yours ↳ harrystyles fair enough. you’re welcome x ↳ yourinstagram 😌😌😌😌😌 ↳ yourinstagram thank you ↳ harrystyles you’re welcome x ↳ harryfan25 OMFGDSGFUAGFBH ↳ harryfan11 ＠yourinstagram ＠harrystyles sorry guys do you want us to leave you two alone? ↳ harryfan51 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ↳ harryfan17 wdym you kept your side of the promise??? what did you promise????? what is it?????

harryfan10 pls we need more harry content already user7 Don’t go missing again, we miss you here!

Sep 9, 2021 •

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liked by yourinstagram, bestfriend, jefezoff and 5,187,031 others

harrystyles I’m honored to say ＠yourinstagram has turned the beginning of this new chapter into a lovely short-movie, one you can watch right now on her youtube channel.

Thank you Yn for being so caring and respectful about everything and everyone involved in this project. To watch this idea turn into reality has been nothing but inspiring.

Welcome to the team, it’s too late to back out now. x

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bestfriend this moment is all mine. 20+ years of friendship are FINALLY paying off.

↳ user3 you’re so unserious i love it fgajdujn ↳ yourinstagram im doing it just for you <3

harryfan5 noooooo I can’t do this my heart can’t take it pls stop 😭😭 harryfan23 I CANT BELIEVE YNS FIRSTS WORDS TO HIM WERE SHUT THE FUCK UP HAHAHAHAHA annetwist What a wonderful job you’ve done dear ＠yourinstagram 🥰

↳ yourinstagram ❤️ ↳ harryfan54 🙄

harryfan66 who are you and what have you done to the real harry? 🧐

↳ harryfan14 for real tho lmao ↳ harryfan74 yup. ive been saying it: another strategy just to get a random famous on harrys back. as usual.

harryfan9 NOT HARRY EXPOSING THE FIRST TIME THEY TALKED????

↳ harryfan3 and the fact that HE texted her first??? ↳ harryfan9 pls!!! molly gave me your nUmBeR 🤪🤪

harryfan15 oh you’re so sick for this AHDUAJHDJ yourinstagram THOSE messages? REALLY???

↳ harrystyles I’ve been explicitly forbidden to post a picture with you so I had to improvise. ↳ yourinstagram ok but did you also have to conveniently leave my next message out of it? ↳ harrystyles Yes x.

Sep 9, 2021 •

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

— — — — —

PART 5: FROM SAN ANTONIO

— — — — —

#harry styles fake ig #harry styles fake instagram #harry styles fake social media #harry styles smau #harry styles social media au #harry styles writing #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n

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i-was-today-years-old-when · 1 year ago

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i learned who is the most accidentally famous person ever

Imagine you're a regular 70 year old Hungarian guy, who, after a satisfactory career as an electrical engineer, has finally retired and is spending his days in peace. I know I'm asking you to get bored even in your imagination but bear with me. It's about to get fun…

So this one day, some photographer, who happened to see a picture of you vacationing, on a social media site, approaches you for a photo shoot and you comply, because there's nothing much to do.

You then proceed to upload some of your photos on Google, to see how stock photos work…

..and who uses it. (Uh oh) Because now, things start escalating…

While you're sitting in your home, punctually maintaining your routine of getting bored, there's some random guy on some random part of the world, who looks at your stock photo and finds immense potential in it, in your face, in your smile. (And no, he's not gay)

The potential for the next revolutionary meme. He posts it on Facepunch.

And fortunately for him (unfortunately for you), the meme clicks. So much so, that a Facebook page called “Maurice”, springs up, which gets 10k likes in no time.

When you first see your meme, you find it offensive, but there's nothing you can do about it, so you let it go (thinking that it'll die soon). But you duly warn your acquaintances to be more wary the next time they upload their photos on the internet.

But alas, you're already on your way to the list the most famous memes of all time. There are people on 4chan, who, in a thread dedicated just for you, start theorising that you must be some sad old man who has to work as a stock photography model. Then, an Imgur user goes on to compile notable quotes from the above 4chan thread into a gallery post titled “Hide-the-pain-Harold”, which garners more than 8,80,000 views in just three weeks.

You are now a classic meme template.

Eventually, you decide to publicly recognise yourself on a Russian social media site called “VK”.

You transcend from being bits on the Internet, to actual prints on a coffee mug, on a skirt! Documentaries are made, and articles are published about you. There's a random Quora user who nominates you as one of the most accidentally famous person from Hungary.

People start recognising you on streets. Some of them now want to get a picture taken with you. You're a celebrity for wrong reasons. After having lived 70 peaceful years as a harmless guy, you've become world famous - as a painter, as a singer, as whatever the next notorious meme maker wants you to be.

You are Arató András, the meme guy. Every single time a stranger recognises you, you acknowledge it with a smile, but there's an inevitable pain which just cannot be hidden.

So you smile like this,

I feel your pain Harold.

Hide your pain, Harold.

#today i learned #facts #truth #history #memes #meme

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wolfythewitch · 1 year ago

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This is a bit cringe honestly, but my mom and I are absolutely OBSESSED with your work. We have both been for years. We don't connect on a lot of things, but your art is on the things we just mutually adore.

I was just looking through old text messages, and I saw my mom praising your work a ton. I remember when she got me my WACOM art tablet, and Clip studio subscription, she said, " I checked out that Wolfy person's speedpaints and this is the program they used! " She was so excited

I remember I saved up to buy some of your art prints, and my mother ended up going shopping with me to get the perfect picture frame for it. It took a LONG while since the measurements were a bit odd, but she helped me find the right ones.

They both hang right in front of my face at my art desk.

She would look through your socials and excitedly show me whenever you posted. My middle aged mother who had mostly.. not art stuff on her feed had your stuff sprinkled in there too, yknow? it was reallt neat to witness.

It was a world she didn't really understand, but the sheer beauty of your art was able to pull her into it.

I had begun my career as a digital artist a few years ago, because of the support I was able to get from my mother. She was opened up to this whole world, and understood it, partially because of your work.

I'm remembering all of this because I had a friend come over recently, and she pointed out one of my prints and asked about it.

Thank you. I'm hoping to save enough to purchase your art book soon. You're a brilliant artist 💞💞

THAT'S NOT CRINGE AT ALL THAT'S SO SWEET. This actually made me tear up omg. I'm glad you both could connect through my art that's so cool!!! I also hope she follows my more tame social medias haha I just remembered how much bullshit I post on some sites

#junijupi #wolfy tedtalks

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vladdyissues · 14 days ago

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saw your hc about how long itd take for Vlad and Danny to openly date. a detail occurred to me: how do you headcanon them explaining anything? besides the age gap, their biggest commonality has to do with both of them being half-ghosts, and even danny's mega-haunted hometown only stopped calling the fenton family delusional once the ghost attacks reached a certain, televised point

Explaining, like, to the public? Oh, I don't think they'd have a problem with that. By this point in his high-profile career, Vlad would have probably taken a page from the British Royal Family and adopted the motto of "never complain, never explain" in response to anything scandalous. And one of the richest men in the world suddenly not hiding the fact that he's

gay, and

dating a teenager

would certainly be a scandal, no matter how you look at it. But Vlad would have his PR guys all over this. He'd probably even pay the paps to leave him alone, or at least take only the best photos of him and Danny—enjoying quiet time on his private island, attending charity balls, going incognito overseas, always smiling, always smitten with each other—endearing him to the general public. He'd probably do the same with the news media, telling them exactly what to print and say while outwardly maintaining an appearance of complete indifference. Any non-compliant media outlet would be accused of trying to unfairly vilify them, and if public scorn doesn't get them singing a sweeter tune, Vlad's lawyers certainly will.

Oh, I expect after the initial sensation has cooled—after all, how many powerful celebrity men have dated, married, and had children with women young enough to be their granddaughters? This is not a new phenomenon—Vlad would "agree" to an exclusive interview, and he and Danny would sit down with a five-star journalist, hands clasped (a united front; optics are very important), and paint whatever charming backstory they like.

"Mr. Masters is so brave," and "So that's why he was single for all these years," would reverberate through the court of public opinion. People who once hated Vlad would change their minds. "That Fenton boy is a good influence on him. He's so mature for his age. Vlad needed a nice down-to-earth partner. I wonder if they're going to get married?"

Vlad and Danny would have to be on their best behavior for a while, but once the excitement fades—and it always does, especially if they don't feed it—then they could continue on with their lives as normal.

Well, as normal as two ghost hybrids in love can be.

#asks #pompous pep #vlad masters #coming out #meta #headcanons #i realize now i didn't touch on any ghost stuff but #if the world was aware they were both half ghosts then i think it might go even better for them #superheroes and sweethearts #what could be more american?#gay ghost william and kate #as long as they keep their dirty laundry out of public view they're going to be adored

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redgoldsparks · 27 days ago

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Podcasts I love and recommend

I spent a truly extraordinary amount of time listening to podcasts this year, including my perennial faves and some new discoveries! I wanted to write up a bit about each of the ones I recommend the most highly, and give them some of the same attention and love I put into my book reviews. Recs below the cut. (This post brought to you by my patreon).

MATERIAL GIRLS- This is, hands down, my favorite podcast of all time. Friends and scholars Hannah McGregor and Marcelle Kosman take on a new pop culture subject in each episode and examine the material conditions and historical setting that made their subject of the week zeitgeisty. They bring an expansive feminist lens, different types of critical theory, and tons of humor to each topic. I feel like I am slowly getting a media studies degree one episode at a time as I listen to this show. Some of my favorite episodes tackled Jurassic Park, Dopamine, Twilight, Taylor Swift, Bridgerton, and Queer Eye. I have guested on this podcast and also support them on patreon so I can get all of that sweet sweet bonus content! (This show uploads full transcripts but they lag behind the audio episodes in updates).

GENDER REVEAL- Journalist, writer, and now small-press founder Tuck Woodstock interviews trans folks on a wide range of topics. A characteristic episode includes some deeply intimate or tender moments mixed with wild tangents, extreme silliness and irreverence. I listen to every single episode and also back them on patreon for the extra episodes; some recent conversations that have really stuck with me include Colby Gordon, a founder of Early Modern Trans Studies; trans historian Susan Stryker; Jewish anti-Zionist comic author Solomon J Brager; writer Lucy Sante; and multimedia artist (and friend of mine) Shing Yin Khor. This podcast gets a special award for recommending more books that I actually end up reading than any other podcast. This year alone I’ve read at least 6 books by authors Tuck has interviewed (I Heard Her Call My Name, Heavyweight, Hijab Butch Blues, Transgender History, Boys Weekend, Practical Anarchism, Falling Back in Love With Being Human) and I have more on my TBR (The Prospects, When Monsters Speak). (This show also uploads full transcripts).

PUBLISHING RODEO- This is a new fav! I discovered this podcast over the summer and binged all 44 available episodes in about a month. Hosts Sunyi Dean and Scott Drakeford are friends and fellow Tor authors. In 2022, they both released debut novels in the same genre, in the same year, with the same publisher, to very different results. They are remarkably candid about the nuts and bolts of their publishing deals, and in each episode interview another author, usually one early in their publishing career, on signing agents, selling books, the size of their advance, resulting royalties and more. I have learned so much about the publishing industry from this show- I’ve sold 3 books, and yet it turns out there’s still loads I don’t know. I’d recommend starting with the intro episode in which Sunyi and Scott introduce themselves and then you can jump around to any interview which interests you. Their recent conversation with Chuck Tingle was especially delightful. (This show also uploads full transcripts).

PRINT RUN PODCAST- Another new discovery, also about the publishing/writing industry. Hosts Laura Zats and Erik Hane are both literary agents at a small agency they founded together. They discuss current events in the book news world or focused single subjects, often for early career writers. Because this show is more focused on current events, I haven’t dived super far into their back catalog, but listened to a handful of episodes from the past two years and plan to continue listening as new episodes are released. Laura and Erik also have a very cool patreon special bonus offering- they will critique query letters and first pages submitted from listeners. I haven’t written a query letter since probably 2017, so the refresher course was extremely valuable! I’d recommend the episode The Books That Made Us as a good starting point in this show. (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

FIC CLIQUE- This is an old favorite I have recommended before. In a standard episode, the three hosts Nic, Reid, and Brenna each bring one fanfiction to read and discuss book-club style. In the past year, I’ve been particularly enjoying some of the mini-episodes that break this format. If you want to give it a try but you’ve less interested in hearing people talk about a fandom you aren’t in, I’d suggest the episodes on Mapping Fannish Migration, Books and Fandom, and Genre and Subgenre in Fanfiction. (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

FANSPLAINING- Tragically (for me), this beloved long-running show wrapped this summer with its final standard format episode after 9 years and 200+ episodes. However, there’s still more to look forward to! Fansplaining has shifted to become primarily a publisher of fandom related journalism, and they’ve been releasing audio versions of each article along with the text, generally recorded by the author. I find these so charming, almost like new mini episodes of the show. Find a full list of their articles here; I especially loved the recent ones on The Beatles RPF fandom (still going strong!) and Bringing Fanfiction into the Classroom. (This show has full transcripts).

SHELVED BY GENRE- In this show, the three hosts re-read popular sci-fi or fantasy book series and record long rambling episodes which both summarize and analyze their current texts. When I say they ramble… most episodes are over 2 hours, some pushing 3 hours. I started on this show when they began reading the Earthsea series by Ursula K Le Guin, which I have read multiple times in past years. I skipped their episodes on Gene Wolfe, who I haven’t read, as well as some movie and horror focused episodes. But I happily dived back in for the unit on Mercedes Lackey’s Last Herald Mage Trilogy, which was perhaps the first book with an out queer character I ever read; the queer host on the show, Michael, similarly remembers this as a foundational queer text from his teen years. I am very happy that the next author the hosts plan to discuss is William Gibson, who I might re-read to keep pace with the show. I recommend checking out their 40+ back episodes to see if there’s something you are interested in! (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

STUFF THE BRITISH STOLE- I found this 3 season podcast sometime in the middle of the year, hosted by an Australian journalist following the trail of objects (or sometimes animals or people) the British stole during the height of their colonial reign. The episodes generally run 35-45 minutes and feature interviews, history, and usually live records of the host seeing the item, whether it’s currently in a museum, a private collection, a random high school, or the site of a foreign grave. You can jump around to whatever topic that interests you, but I can definitely recommend the episode Blood Art as one of very few in which an item is repatriated! (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

LIVE LIKE THE WORLD IS DYING- A Margaret Killjoy and a group of queer anarchist friends rotate the hosting of this show. Once a month they release a “This Month in the Apocalypse” update which I started listening to in November and plan to keep up with going forward, but probably won’t listen to back episodes of as it’s very current-events focused. However there are other conversations/interview style episodes released between the monthly updates. Two recent interviews that really stuck with me were Spencer Sunshine on his zine “40 Ways To Fight Fascists” (which I subsequently downloaded and read) and Henri Feola on their zine “The Veil Between Worlds is Plexiglass”, which chronicles some of their experience spending 96 days in jail after being arrested protesting Atlanta’s Cop City and the police murder of Tortuguita, a protester defending the Weelaunee People’s Forest. I have a friend in Atlanta who was arrested at the same protest so I’ve been following this case; this conversation felt important and needed, as I expect there will be even more arrests of protestors in the coming years. (As far as I can tell, they do not release transcripts.)

BORROWED AND BANNED- The Brooklyn Public Library released this 7 episode limited run podcast on book bans, book challenges, how it’s affecting teachers, students, librarians and authors. I was one of several authors interviewed for the show, and you can hear my interview as a separate bonus episode; but I highly recommend listening to the whole thing because it’s a very close and personal look at these national issues- which I expect to get worse under the Trump administration. (This show has full transcripts).

SOLD A STORY- This is a 10 episode limited run podcast about how a misinformed educational specialist’s incorrect idea of how children learn to read damaged the literacy of a whole generation of school children. This podcast explores different research on reading, how sweeping educational policies like Bush’s “No Child Left Behind” impacted schools and how textbook companies pushing expensive reading-kit book sets have all negatively impacted schools. The later episodes contain messages and voicemails from parents, teachers, and students reacting to the show and some hope of change on better educational resources. I’ve probably made this sound dry but it’s genuinely a very emotional journey- as someone who really struggled to learn to read, I found this show riveting. (This show has full transcripts).

THE REDEMPTION OF JAR JAR BINKS- This 6 episode limited run show is hosted by Dylan Marron, better known as the host of Conversations with People Who Hate Me and for his role as Carlos on the podcast Welcome to Nightvale. Marron was the target of a fair amount of internet hate himself, which made him interested in how people express hate towards public figures online, and why. This led him to investigate what is possibly the first ever case of cancellation online: the rage directed at the character Jar Jar Binks in the Star Wars prequel series which began releasing in 1999, and how that hate destroyed the mental health of and nearly ended the acting career of the young Black actor who voiced and helped develop the character. Marron is a deeply compassionate interviewer, and a good researcher. He finds and talks to fans who built “kill Jar Jar Binks” websites in the days of the early web, he interviews the actor, Ahmed Best, he interviews folks involved with the production on the Star Wars prequels. I am a lukewarm Star Wars fan at best (lol) but I loved this podcast. (This show has full transcripts).

WIND OF CHANGE- I picked up this 8 episode limited run podcast because it was researched, written and hosted by Patrick Radden Keefe, the author of Say Nothing, one of the best nonfiction books I’ve ever read. In this show, Keefe digs into rumors of the CIA using cultural productions, especially pop music, as propaganda weapons against the Soviet Union during the Cold War. In particular, he’s interested in one song, “Winds of Change”, by German rock group The Scorpions which became an anthem of change shortly before the fall of the Berlin Wall and then the end of the Soviet Union. Keefe is friends with someone who does a lot of recruiting of ex-CIA folks and has also written a whole book on the CIA, so he’s not without background or connections on this subject; but the question he most wants an answer to might not be one he can ever answer. This was gripping and intriguing, and made me think a lot about soft power and propaganda more generally. (This show has full transcripts).

#podcasts #podcast recommendations #podcast recs

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