I’ll Be Waiting

#ExposeFIA

Max Verstappen x forensic accountant!Reader

Summary: when the FIA keeps targeting your boyfriend, you decide to do something about it by digging into their financials and learning what skeletons they have hidden in the closet … nothing could have prepared you for what you unearth or the domino effect that follows

Warnings: corruption, kidnapping, violence, and murder

Based on this request

Max slams the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the hotel room. His jaw is tight, his hands balled into fists as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the back of the couch. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor with your laptop open, spreadsheets and case files scattered around you.

At first, you don’t look up — this is just Max being Max after a bad day — but then you hear him muttering in Dutch, sharp and venomous under his breath.

“What now?” You ask, closing the laptop with a quiet sigh.

Max rakes a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. “The FIA fined me again.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “For what?”

“For cursing!” His voice rises, and he gestures wildly, his frustration spilling out like a dam breaking. “In the press conference. They called it inappropriate. Inappropriate! It wasn’t even that bad — just one word!”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh, but he catches it.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” He stops pacing, leveling you with an incredulous look.

“Max,” you say slowly, rising to your feet, “you do curse like a sailor in every other sentence.”

“Not every other sentence,” he protests, crossing his arms.

You arch a brow.

“Okay, fine. But that’s not the point!” He starts pacing again. “They only do this to me! I swear, it’s like they’re waiting for me to screw up so they can slap me with another fine.”

You fold your arms, leaning against the couch. “How much this time?”

“Fifty thousand euros,” he says bitterly, kicking the edge of the rug.

“Fifty thousand?” Your jaw drops. “For cursing?”

“Exactly! It’s ridiculous!” Max looks at you, his blue eyes blazing with anger and just a hint of something more vulnerable underneath. “Lando swears all the time, and no one says anything to him. This is personal, I know it is.”

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Because, honestly, he’s not wrong.

Max keeps going, his words tumbling out in a rush. “They’ve been on my case all season. The penalties, the warnings — it’s like they can’t stand the thought of me winning again. They want to knock me down, and they don’t care how they do it.”

You let out a long breath, watching him as he paces. He’s like a storm contained in human form, all fire and fury and relentless energy.

“They can’t keep getting away with this,” you say finally, your voice low but firm.

Max pauses mid-step, turning to face you. “What am I supposed to do? Complain? They’ll just call me a sore loser and fine me for that too.”

“No, not you,” you say, a sly smile creeping onto your face. “Me.”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the FIA,” you say, your mind already racing. “You said it yourself — they’re out to get you. So, let’s find out why.”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “You want to investigate them?”

“I’m a forensic accountant,” you remind him. “Digging into shady organizations is literally my job. If there’s something fishy going on with their finances, I’ll find it.”

“And then what?” He asks, skeptical but intrigued.

“And then we use it against them,” you say simply.

He stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You’re serious about this.”

“Dead serious.”

Max exhales, running a hand through his hair again. “You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not your fight.”

“Of course, it’s my fight,” you say, stepping closer. “They’re targeting you. And that means they’re targeting me.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eases. “You’re crazy,” he says, but there’s a trace of affection in his voice.

“Crazy for you,” you shoot back, grabbing your laptop and plopping down on the couch.

He groans. “That was awful.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me.”

Max flops onto the couch beside you, resting his head against the back of it. “What are you even looking for?”

“Anything that doesn’t add up,” you say, your fingers flying across the keyboard. “Expenses that don’t make sense, hidden accounts, payments to people who shouldn’t be getting paid. Everyone leaves a paper trail. Even the FIA.”

He watches you in silence for a moment, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “You really think they’re dirty?”

“I think it’s worth finding out,” you say. “Worst case, I waste a few hours and we’re no worse off. Best case …”

“Best case?” He prompts.

“Best case, we blow this whole thing wide open,” you say, grinning.

Max leans back, a thoughtful look on his face. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Compliments won’t get you out of trouble, Verstappen,” you say without looking up.

He smirks. “Didn’t say I was trying.”

For a while, the only sound in the room is the soft clatter of your keyboard and the occasional frustrated sigh from Max as he scrolls through his phone.

“What if they come after you?” He asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Why would they?”

“Because they’re the FIA,” he says bluntly. “They don’t play fair. If they find out you’re digging into their finances, they’ll find a way to shut you up.”

You pause, considering his words. “Let them try,” you say finally. “I’m not scared of a bunch of bureaucrats.”

Max looks at you like he wants to argue, but then he just shakes his head and mutters something in Dutch.

“What was that?” You ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

“Max.”

“I said you’re stubborn,” he admits, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, your eyes already back on your screen.

He laughs, the sound low and warm and surprisingly light given the circumstances. For the first time all evening, he looks like the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on his shoulders.

“You really think you can take them on?” He asks after a while.

You glance up, meeting his gaze. “I know I can.”

Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then do it,” he says, his voice steady and resolute. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

You smile, a little spark of determination igniting in your chest. “Damn right it is.”

For the next hour, you work in companionable silence, Max occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment or a half-hearted complaint about how long this might take. But underneath it all, there’s a quiet sense of solidarity, a shared purpose that feels unshakable.

By the time you close your laptop for the night, you’ve barely scratched the surface of what you’re looking for. But you’ve got a starting point, and that’s enough.

“You coming to bed?” Max asks, standing and stretching.

“In a minute,” you say, glancing at your notes.

He hesitates, then leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Don’t stay up too late, detective.”

You smile, your fingers already back on the keyboard. “Goodnight, Verstappen.”

As he disappears down the hall, you feel a surge of determination. If the FIA thinks they can push Max around, they’ve got another thing coming. Because they’re not just dealing with him anymore. They’re dealing with you.

***

The apartment is dark and silent, the kind of stillness that only comes in the dead of night. Max is fast asleep, his breaths soft and steady, the rise and fall of his chest a calming rhythm. You’re lying beside him under the covers, your laptop propped on your knees, the faint glow from the screen illuminating your face.

You should have gone to sleep hours ago. You told yourself you’d close the laptop after one more file — just one more. But then there was another, and another, and now it’s nearly 4 AM, and you’re running on pure caffeine and spite.

Max shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent in Dutch. You glance at him, your heart softening for a moment. He looks so peaceful, so unaware of the storm you’re wading through just inches away from him.

“Soon,” you whisper, your fingers flying over the keyboard. “Just a little longer.”

You’ve been combing through every financial record you can find, hacking into databases and piecing together spreadsheets like a forensic puzzle. And then, finally, you see it — a string of payments that makes your stomach turn.

The account is buried deep, hidden behind layers of shell companies and off-the-books transfers. But the numbers don’t lie. Over the past three years, millions of euros have been funneled out of the FIA’s discretionary budget and into a series of private accounts.

At first, it’s just suspicious. Then it’s horrifying.

You zoom in on the details, your pulse racing. The money trails lead to names — government officials in multiple countries, shady contractors with histories of fraud, and even one account linked to a known arms dealer.

“What the hell …” you mutter, your hands trembling slightly as you open another file.

It gets worse.

The payments aren’t just bribes or kickbacks. They’re tied to contracts for military-grade surveillance technology and riot control equipment. The kind of things no racing organization should have any business buying.

“Why would the FIA need …” Your voice trails off, your thoughts spiraling.

And then it hits you. They don’t need it. Someone within the FIA is using their funds as a cover to funnel resources for something darker — something illegal.

You feel a chill creep up your spine as you uncover more details. The timing of the payments coincides with major FIA controversies, including rulings that massively benefited certain teams or drivers. It’s almost as if the penalties and decisions were distractions, designed to shift the focus away from what was really happening behind the scenes.

Your throat tightens. This isn’t just corruption. This is criminal conspiracy on an international scale.

You close the file and lean back against the headboard, staring at the screen in disbelief. Your mind is racing, the pieces of the puzzle snapping together faster than you can process them.

The FIA isn’t just targeting Max. They’re using their position as a global governing body to launder money and traffic illegal goods. And if you’re right, they’ve been doing it for years.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, your heart pounding.

Beside you, Max stirs, his hand brushing against your arm. “What time is it?” He mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

“Uh …” You glance at the clock. “Four thirty.”

His eyes crack open, and he frowns. “You’re still awake?”

You hesitate, your mind still reeling. “I found something.”

He rubs his face, sitting up slightly. “What kind of something?”

You turn the laptop toward him, your hands shaking as you scroll through the files. “Look at this. These payments — they’re using FIA accounts to fund illegal activities. Weapons, surveillance tech, bribes. It’s all here.”

Max blinks, trying to wake himself up. “Wait — what? The FIA is buying weapons?”

“Not for themselves,” you explain, your voice trembling. “They’re covering for someone else. Someone higher up, maybe even multiple people. It’s a money-laundering operation disguised as legitimate spending. And the worst part?” You click on another document. “They’re timing these payments to coincide with penalties and controversies. Like yours.”

He stares at the screen, his jaw tightening. “They’re creating distractions.”

“Exactly.” You meet his gaze, your chest tight with anger. “They’re using you — using all of you — to keep people from noticing what’s really going on.”

Max is silent for a moment, his expression darkening. “This can’t be real.”

“It’s real,” you say firmly. “I’ve traced the accounts. I’ve seen the contracts. It’s all there.”

He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “This is insane. How are they getting away with this?”

“Because no one’s looking,” you say bitterly. “They’ve built a system where no one questions their authority. They hand out fines, penalties, rulings — it’s all smoke and mirrors.”

Max shakes his head, his anger simmering just below the surface. “So what do we do?”

“We expose them,” you say without hesitation. “We take this to the press, to the authorities — whoever will listen. We make sure everyone knows what they’ve been doing.”

He looks at you, his eyes blazing with determination. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” you say, your voice steady. “They’ve messed with you for the last time, Max. I’m not letting them get away with this.”

Max leans back against the headboard, his expression unreadable. “You know this won’t be easy. They’ll come after you.”

“Let them,” you say fiercely. “They’re not invincible, Max. They think they are, but they’re not. And now we have the proof.”

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm and grounding. “We do this together, okay?”

You nod, your resolve hardening. “Together.”

For the first time in hours, you close the laptop. The fight isn’t over — not even close. But for now, you have what you need.

The FIA has no idea what’s coming for them.

***

The findings sit like a live grenade between you and Max for weeks. Every time you try to talk about it, the conversation spirals into an argument that feels more like a desperate plea than a disagreement.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table one morning, coffee in hand, staring at the spreadsheet open on your laptop. Max leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like you’re about to pull the pin and toss the grenade straight into his life.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s trying not to spook you. “You can’t post this. It’s too dangerous.”

You glance up, meeting his intense blue eyes. “Max, we’ve been over this. Dangerous for who? The FIA? Because it sure as hell isn’t safe for anyone else if they keep getting away with this.”

He shakes his head, frustration etched into his features. “No. Dangerous for you.”

You sigh, shutting the laptop and leaning back in your chair. “And we’ve been over this too. If it’s tied to me, and they come after me, it only makes them look worse. They’d be shooting themselves in the foot.”

Max pushes off the counter, pacing across the small kitchen. “You think they care about how it looks? These people are untouchable. They’ve been untouchable for decades. What if they don’t care about subtlety? What if they decide to make an example out of you?”

“Then they’ll prove my point,” you counter, setting your mug down harder than you meant to. “Max, they’re laundering money. Funding illegal operations. Covering up fraud. This isn’t just about you or me anymore. This is about them and what they’re doing to-”

“To you,” he cuts in, spinning to face you. “This is about you, schatje. You think I can just sit back and watch them destroy your life? Watch them drag you through the mud — or worse?” His voice cracks on the last word, and it stops you in your tracks.

“Max …”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can take the fines. The penalties. Whatever bullshit they throw at me, I don’t care. But I can’t …” He falters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t lose you over this.”

The words hang heavy in the air. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

You stand, crossing the room to him. “Max.” You reach for his hands, pulling them away from where they’re clenched at his sides. He looks up at you, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with a storm of worry and frustration.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you say softly. “But you can’t ask me to do nothing. Not when I have this.”

He shakes his head, his grip on your hands tightening. “There has to be another way. Something that doesn’t put you in the crosshairs.”

“We’ve talked about this,” you say, your voice gentle but firm. “The longer we wait, the more time they have to cover their tracks. This needs to come from me. Not you, not a journalist. Me.”

Max pulls his hands away, pacing again. “Why does it have to be you? Why not anonymously? Why not through someone else?”

“Because,” you say, your voice rising just enough to make him stop and look at you, “if it’s anonymous, it’s easier for them to discredit. If it’s me — someone with a background in forensic accounting, someone who has proof — it’s harder for them to bury.”

He stares at you, his jaw working, his frustration palpable. “You’re playing with fire.”

“And you’re worth it,” you shoot back, your words cutting through his anger like a blade.

Max looks at you, his expression crumbling. “This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s bigger than that now.”

“I know,” you say, stepping closer to him. “That’s why I have to do this.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Max sighs, his shoulders slumping. “If you do this … if you put this out there …” He trails off, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know the risks,” you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. “But we can’t let them keep doing this. If I don’t say something, who will?”

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. “I hate this.”

“I know,” you whisper.

The next few days are a blur of preparation. You draft the post, meticulously double-checking every link, every piece of evidence. Max hovers in the background, equal parts supportive and terrified, his tension radiating through the apartment.

Finally, the day comes. You’re sitting at your desk, your phone in your hand, the post ready to go. Max stands behind you, silent but solid, his presence grounding you.

“You sure about this?” He asks, his voice low.

You nod, your finger hovering over the “post” button. “It’s time.”

He exhales, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Then do it.”

With a deep breath, you hit the button.

The tweet goes live:

The FIA has been hiding more than bad calls and unfair penalties. They’ve been laundering money and funding illegal operations for years. Here’s the proof #ExposeFIA

The moment it’s posted, your phone buzzes with notifications, the retweets and replies piling up faster than you can process.

You lean back in your chair, your heart racing as the reality of what you’ve done sinks in. Max squeezes your shoulders, his grip firm and reassuring.

“It’s out there now,” you say, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

“Yeah,” Max says, his voice steady. “And they’ll never see it coming.”

***

The world ignites within hours of your tweet.

Your phone buzzes nonstop, the notifications climbing into the thousands. News outlets pick up the story almost immediately. By mid-morning, your name is trending worldwide, alongside “#ExposeFIA” and a slew of related hashtags.

Every major publication, from The Guardian to The New York Times, runs with the story. Formula 1 Twitter is a battlefield, with fans, journalists, and even ex-drivers weighing in. Some praise you as a whistleblower, others call you reckless, but everyone is talking.

Max, watching it all unfold from the sofa, looks like he’s about to break the remote he’s gripping too tightly. “This is madness,” he mutters, shaking his head as he scrolls through his phone.

“Madness is putting it lightly,” you say, typing out a message to your lawyer, who’s already fielding calls from investigative agencies and reporters.

By noon, the FIA releases a statement calling your accusations “unfounded” and “a gross misunderstanding of internal operations.” They promise transparency, cooperation with audits, and a full investigation. It’s almost laughable how carefully worded it is, especially given how many people have already found red flags in the documents you posted.

“They’re scrambling,” Max says, glancing over at you.

“Good,” you reply, leaning back in your chair. “They should be.”

By the evening, things escalate even further. International agencies — Interpol, Europol, and financial crime units from multiple countries — announce that they’ve opened formal investigations into the FIA’s financial practices. Max reads the headline aloud from his phone, his tone a mix of shock and vindication.

“‘Interpol launches probe into FIA money-laundering allegations.’” He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve set the whole world on fire, haven’t you?”

You shrug, though your heart pounds in your chest. “Someone had to.”

But the sense of triumph doesn’t last long. By the next morning, the darker side of the storm begins to roll in.

Your email inbox floods with threats, your social media accounts are bombarded with harassment, and reporters camp outside the apartment building, cameras ready to capture every move. A particularly ominous email arrives from an anonymous account, promising that “justice will come” for what you’ve done.

Max reads it over your shoulder and immediately storms out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back, phone pressed to his ear as he paces the length of the living room. You catch snippets of his conversation. “Former military … no, only the best … round-the-clock.”

When he finally hangs up, you cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

“Bodyguards,” he says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Max says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve hired a team. They’ll be here tonight.”

“Max, that’s-”

“Not negotiable,” he interrupts, his eyes blazing with determination. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care if it feels over the top. If they’re sending you threats, you’re not walking around without protection.”

You let out a slow breath, recognizing the sheer fear underlying his anger. “What kind of bodyguards are we talking about?”

“Ex-special forces,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “They’re the best. Trained for high-risk situations. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, they’ll handle it.”

You can’t help but laugh, though the sound is hollow. “Max Verstappen, hiring a private army. Who would’ve thought?”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he steps closer, his expression softening. “I mean it, liefje. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I know.”

By nightfall, your new security team arrives. Four men and two women, all dressed in plain but professional attire, introduce themselves with clipped, no-nonsense precision. They’re intimidating, to say the least, but Max seems relieved the moment they walk through the door.

The leader of the team, a former SAS operative named Sam, lays out the plan in a low, calm voice. “Two of us will be stationed outside the apartment at all times. Another two will rotate shifts inside. We’ll also have someone following you whenever you leave the building. Discreet, but close enough to act.”

You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort. “Thanks, Sam. Really.”

“Just doing our job, ma’am,” he says with a curt nod.

Max hovers nearby, watching the exchange with hawk-like focus. Once the bodyguards take their positions, he pulls you aside, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Feel safer?”

“Honestly?” You say, glancing toward the door where Sam is stationed. “It feels like we’re in a spy movie.”

Max cracks a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Better a spy movie than a tragedy.”

The following days are surreal. The FIA is in complete disarray, with high-ranking officials resigning or being placed on administrative leave as the investigations intensify. Every news cycle seems to bring another bombshell revelation: hidden accounts, off-the-record meetings, connections to corrupt government officials.

Even Formula 1 teams begin distancing themselves from the governing body. Drivers are asked about it in every interview, and while most offer diplomatic responses, a few — like Lewis and Charles — publicly voice their support for you.

Through it all, Max stays glued to your side, protective in a way you’ve never seen before. Whenever you leave the apartment, he insists on going with you, even if it’s just to grab groceries.

One evening, as you’re scrolling through Twitter, you stumble upon a post from a well-known journalist.

@yourusername’s bravery has set off one of the biggest scandals in motorsport history. But the question remains: how deep does the corruption go? #ExposeFIA

You show the tweet to Max, who nods grimly. “They’re right,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

You lean back against the couch, exhaustion weighing on you. “Yeah. And the FIA is going to do everything they can to bury me before it gets worse for them.”

Max wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “They can try,” he says quietly. “But they’ll have to go through me first.”

You smile faintly, resting your head against his chest. The fight is far from over, but with Max by your side — and a small army of bodyguards watching your back — you feel ready for whatever comes next.

***

Max’s voice cuts through the quiet of the apartment. “Don’t go to Austin, please.”

You look up from your laptop, brows furrowing. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hair is damp from the shower, but his expression is dry — serious, almost pleading.

“I already told you,” you say, your tone firm but calm. “I’m not hiding.”

“It’s not hiding,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “It’s being smart. Let them think whatever they want. You don’t have to prove anything by being there.”

You push your chair back, turning fully to face him. “If I don’t go, they’ll think they’ve won. That I’m scared of them. I’m not giving them that satisfaction.”

Max exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about pride, Y/N. It’s about your safety. They’ve already made it clear they’re willing to play dirty.”

“They’re already under investigation by half the agencies on the planet,” you counter. “They wouldn’t dare try anything now. Not in front of the entire world.”

His eyes narrow slightly, his frustration bubbling just under the surface. “You’re underestimating them.”

“And you’re underestimating me,” you say softly, standing up. You walk over to him, resting your hands on his forearms. “I’m not cowering in fear. I refuse to let them intimidate me.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his hands twitching as if he wants to pull you into him but can’t quite let himself. “I can’t …” He pauses, his voice dropping. “I can’t focus on the race if I’m worried about you the whole time.”

You tilt your head, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Then don’t worry. I’ll be in the garage, surrounded by your team and my guards. Nothing’s going to happen.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the conflict in his eyes almost unbearable. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Promise me you’ll stay close to the guards. No wandering off, no risks.”

You nod, squeezing his arm. “I promise.”

***

The Circuit of the Americas is buzzing with energy as you and Max arrive for free practice. Fans line the paddock entrance, waving flags and shouting his name as you walk toward the Red Bull garage, flanked by two of your bodyguards. Max’s hand hovers protectively at the small of your back, and you can feel the tension radiating off him.

“You don’t leave the garage,” he says as you reach the entrance, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not for food, not for interviews. Nothing.”

“I know,” you say, trying to soothe him with a gentle smile.

Max leans down, his voice low and fierce. “I mean it, schatje.”

“I know,” you repeat, softer this time.

Satisfied, though still visibly uneasy, Max kisses your forehead before heading off to change into his race suit. You settle into a chair near the engineers, watching the monitors as the mechanics fuss over his car. Sam stands just a few feet away, his eyes constantly scanning the room.

Max appears in full gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. He glances at you one last time before stepping toward the car. “Stay here,” he says firmly.

“Go drive, Verstappen,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers on you for a moment before he nods and climbs into the car.

The first twenty minutes of the session pass uneventfully. Max is quick on track, his name lighting up the timing screens. The garage is busy but calm, the sound of the commentators droning faintly in the background.

And then, chaos.

A car bursts into flames on the back straight, smoke billowing into the air. The screens in the garage flicker to a red flag, and people jump into action, radios buzzing with updates.

“Car 23, it’s Albon!” Someone shouts. “He’s out, but the car’s on fire-”

Everyone’s attention is glued to the monitors, watching the marshals scramble to extinguish the flames. The smell of burning rubber seems to seep into the garage, and the noise level spikes as mechanics, engineers, and team officials bark orders and updates.

You glance at Sam, who nods reassuringly. “Stay put,” he says.

But in the chaos, no one notices the shadow slipping through the crowd behind you.

A hand clamps over your mouth, and something sharp pricks the side of your neck. Your vision blurs instantly, the world tilting sideways as your body goes limp. You feel yourself being dragged, but your limbs won’t cooperate, won’t fight back.

Sam’s voice echoes dimly in the background. “Where’s Y/N?”

You try to shout, to move, but the darkness swallows you whole.

And then, nothing.

***

When you wake, it’s like surfacing from a deep, suffocating void. Your head throbs, and your limbs feel heavy, almost disconnected. The first thing you notice is the faint hum of fluorescent lights above you. Then the sharp sting in your wrists and ankles — tight bonds cutting into your skin.

You’re tied to a chair, the cold metal frame unforgiving against your back. The air smells faintly of damp concrete, and the room is dimly lit, industrial — like the basement of a forgotten building.

Panic blooms in your chest as you struggle against the restraints, the rope biting into your skin with every movement. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to think, to focus. You remember the race, the chaos in the garage, and then — nothing.

Footsteps echo down a hallway. Steady, deliberate.

Your heart pounds in your chest as a figure steps into the room. The man is immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back, his face a mask of cold disdain.

The FIA president.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says smoothly, closing the door behind him. He walks toward you, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floor. “I was beginning to worry the dosage was too much. I’d hate to have overdone it.”

You glare at him, your voice hoarse as you manage to croak out, “What the hell … is this?”

He stops a few feet from you, clasping his hands behind his back. “This,” he says, his tone almost casual, “is what happens when you ruin someone’s life, Miss L/N.”

Your heart sinks, but you keep your expression steady. “You kidnapped me?”

“I prefer to think of it as … leveling the playing field,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “After all, you didn’t hesitate to destroy my reputation, my career — everything I’ve built over the last three decades. Surely you didn’t expect there to be no consequences?”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and unsteady. “You destroyed your own career by being corrupt. All I did was expose the truth.”

His jaw tightens, a flicker of anger breaking through his calm façade. “The truth,” he repeats, his voice dripping with venom. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The FIA is in shambles. Investigators are tearing through every document, every bank account. Major sponsors are pulling out. Drivers are threatening to boycott. All because of you.”

“Good,” you snap, your voice gaining strength. “You deserve it. Every single one of you who let this happen deserves it.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Do you think the world will thank you for this? For dragging motorsport into the mud? You’ve made enemies far more powerful than you can imagine.”

“I’m not scared of you,” you spit, though your heart is racing.

He smiles, but it’s cold and cruel. “You should be.”

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Then he leans down, his face inches from yours.

“You ruined my life,” he says softly, his tone icy and deliberate. “So the least I could do is ruin yours.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Do whatever you want to me. It won’t change anything. The truth is out. You can’t bury it now.”

He straightens, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps not,” he says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “But I can make you wish you’d never posted that little tweet.”

You don’t respond, your breath hitching as he turns and walks toward the door.

Before he leaves, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Enjoy your stay, Miss L/N. It’ll be your last taste of freedom for a very long time.”

The door slams shut, and you’re left alone in the dim, silent room, your heart pounding and your mind racing. You tug at the ropes again, desperation clawing at you, but they hold firm.

You have no idea how much time you have — or if anyone even knows where you are. But one thing is clear: you’re not giving up without a fight.

***

The moment Max hears the words, it’s as if the world tilts on its axis.

“She’s gone.”

The voice comes from Sam who’s pale and shaking despite his years of military training. The garage is chaos, but Max doesn’t register any of it. The team radios, the mechanics shouting about the car, the fans outside the paddock — it all fades into a dull hum.

“What do you mean, gone?” Max’s voice is low, dangerous, the calm before an eruption.

Sam hesitates, and that hesitation is enough to snap Max’s restraint. He takes two steps forward, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt.

“What. Happened?” Max snarls, his grip tightening.

“She — someone — must have used the chaos to grab her,” Sam stammers, his voice faltering under Max’s fury. “I was right there. I don’t-”

“You were right there?” Max shouts, his voice echoing in the garage. His mechanics freeze, everyone suddenly aware of the storm brewing in the middle of their space. “Then how the hell is she gone?”

“I-I don’t know,” Sam admits, looking down, shame written across his face. “It was fast. We didn’t see-”

Max releases him with a shove, his hands trembling with rage. He feels like he’s going to explode, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe.

“Find her,” Max spits, his voice low and filled with venom. “Or I swear, you’ll regret ever taking this job.”

Sam nods quickly, already pulling out his phone, barking orders to the rest of the security team. But Max doesn’t wait to hear more.

He storms out of the garage, shoving past anyone who dares step in his path. His vision is a blur of fury, his ears ringing. People call his name — Christian, his press officer, even a few reporters — but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

The first FIA official he sees is standing just outside the paddock offices, talking to a group of staff. Max doesn’t even pause to think. He closes the distance in seconds, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him against the nearest wall.

“Max!” Someone yells behind him, but he doesn’t care.

“Where is she?” Max growls, his face inches from the man’s.

The official — a younger man with wide eyes and a trembling mouth — raises his hands in surrender. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Max shouts, his voice raw and unhinged. He tightens his grip, the fabric of the man’s shirt bunching in his fists. “If even one hair on her head is hurt, everyone involved will wish they were dead. Do you understand me?”

“Max, let him go!” Christian’s voice cuts through the chaos as Red Bull staff rush toward him, trying to pull him back.

“Stay out of this!” Max snaps without looking, his eyes locked on the trembling FIA official. “You know something. You all do.”

“I don’t!” The man insists, his voice cracking. “I swear, I don’t-”

“You’re all complicit,” Max growls, his voice low and menacing. “You’re all covering for each other, just like always. But if anything happens to her, I will burn this entire sport to the ground.”

“Max!” Christian’s hands are on his shoulders now, trying to pull him back. “This isn’t helping. We’ll find her. You’re just making it worse!”

For a moment, Max hesitates, his breathing ragged. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he shoves the man away, releasing his grip. The official stumbles, gasping for air, but Max doesn’t even look at him as he turns to Christian.

“They took her,” Max says, his voice breaking for the first time. “She’s gone, Christian.”

Christian’s face softens, his usual calm demeanor tinged with worry. “We’ll find her, Max. I promise.”

But Max shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “Promises don’t mean anything if she’s hurt.”

He storms off again, ignoring the cameras and the whispers that follow him. His mind is racing, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. Who has you? Why? How?

And then the worst thought of all … what if he’s too late?

***

The shed is suffocatingly small, barely more than a wooden box. Its peeling paint and sagging roof make it look like it’s been abandoned for years, forgotten in the middle of rural Texas farmland.

The search had stretched for days, involving everyone from local sheriffs to federal agents to Interpol. Max hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. He’d barely spoken, except to bark orders and demand updates. And now, standing in front of the shed, his heart feels like it might stop altogether.

“Max,” Christian says, his voice a low murmur from behind. “Let them go in first.”

But Max shakes his head, already moving forward. A Texas Ranger tries to stop him, but Max glares, and the man steps aside, the air between them crackling with unspoken understanding.

The door creaks as Max pushes it open, the sound loud in the eerie stillness.

Inside, the air is stale, thick with the scent of mildew and dust. The dim light from the open door spills into the room, illuminating the figure slumped against the far wall.

You.

Max freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

You’re tied to a chair, the ropes biting into your skin, your wrists and ankles raw from the restraints. Your head is slumped forward, but at the sound of the door, you stir, lifting your face ever so slightly.

Bruises bloom across your cheekbone, your arms, the pale skin of your neck. Dried blood streaks your temple, and your lips are cracked, split in places. But it’s your eyes — glassier than he’s ever seen them, unfocused yet somehow still searching — that shatter him completely.

“Liefje,” Max breathes, his voice breaking.

You blink slowly, struggling to process. And then, somehow, against all odds, your eyes focus on him. Recognition flares, faint but unmistakable, and your lips move, though no sound comes out.

Max falls to his knees.

The world blurs around him — voices shouting, footsteps rushing in, hands grabbing for you. But all he can see is you. He crawls forward, his knees scraping against the rough floor, until he’s right in front of you.

“Y/N,” he says again, louder this time, his voice shaking. “I’m here. It’s me. It’s Max.”

Your head tilts slightly, your lips parting as if to say something.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his hands trembling as he reaches for you. He hesitates, afraid to touch you, afraid of causing more pain. “Don’t try to talk. Just … just stay with me.”

Tears blur his vision as he takes in the state of you. Every bruise, every cut feels like a dagger to his chest. He wants to scream, to rage, to destroy whoever did this to you, but he pushes it all down, forces himself to focus on you.

You manage a weak sound — barely more than a rasp — but your eyes never leave his.

“I’m here,” Max repeats, his voice fierce now, as if sheer force of will can keep you tethered to him. “You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe now.”

“Max …” you whisper, your voice so faint it’s almost lost in the chaos around you.

“I’ve got you,” he says, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ve got you, schatje. They’re never going to hurt you again.”

Behind him, medics and agents flood the shed, their voices urgent as they assess the scene. Someone touches Max’s shoulder, but he shrugs them off violently.

“Not yet,” he snaps, his tone deadly. “Give me a second.”

The medic hesitates, then backs away.

“Max,” you say again, a little louder this time, your voice raw and broken. Your eyes fill with tears, spilling over as you look at him.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

For the first time, the faintest flicker of a smile ghosts across your lips. It’s fragile, barely there, but it’s enough to make Max’s chest tighten.

He leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead, his hands finally settling on your knees as he grounds himself in your presence.

“They’ll pay for this,” he murmurs, his voice dark and unyielding. “Every single one of them. I promise you.”

Your head tips forward, leaning against him as the medics finally step in, their voices careful and quiet. Max doesn’t let go, not until they’re lifting you onto a stretcher, not until they’re absolutely sure you’re stable.

Even then, he doesn’t leave your side.

***

Max sits in the darkness of your shared apartment, his fingers steepled, his eyes fixed on the glow of his laptop screen. The names are all there. Every single one of them.

The investigation, spearheaded by law enforcement and fueled by global outrage, had revealed the tangled web of corruption that led to your kidnapping. At the center of it: the FIA president and a handful of high-ranking officials who had conspired to silence you for what you’d uncovered.

Max stares at their faces, the headshots lined up on the screen like a hit list. And in his mind, that’s exactly what it is.

There are many things about his childhood that Max tries not to think about. His father’s cold, unrelenting discipline. The constant berating. The punishments for anything less than perfection. Jos Verstappen hadn’t raised a son … he’d forged a weapon.

For years, Max had hated him for it. But now, for the first time, he feels a grim sense of gratitude. Because Jos had taught him something important: how to be cruel.

Max isn’t naïve enough to think the justice system will fix this. No prison sentence, no public disgrace will ever feel like enough for what they did to you — for the bruises that painted your skin, for the fear in your eyes when they finally found you.

These people had tried to destroy you. Max is going to destroy them first.

***

The first one falls within days. A minor official, the logistics director who had helped orchestrate your transport to the shed. He’s found in his sprawling Paris apartment, lying facedown in a pool of his own blood. The police call it a robbery gone wrong, but Max knows better.

The second is a middle manager in finance who’d helped funnel bribes through FIA accounts. He vanishes without a trace, his car abandoned on a lonely stretch of highway.

Each one is different. A tragic accident. A sudden disappearance. A stroke of bad luck. But the common thread is unmistakable. The officials complicit in your kidnapping are dropping like flies, one by one, their fates tied to their betrayal.

Max doesn’t get his hands dirty — not directly. He doesn’t have to. Money buys silence, loyalty, and an army of people willing to do what he can’t.

He watches it all unfold from a careful distance, his heart cold and steady. The guilt, if it comes, is fleeting. These people made their choices. Now they’re paying for them.

***

The FIA president is last.

Max makes him wait.

For weeks, the man is forced to watch as his associates vanish, as the walls close in around him. The investigation has left him disgraced, stripped of his title, his assets frozen. He’s a man on the run, hiding in the shadows of his former power.

But Max knows where he is. He’s known from the beginning.

It happens in the dead of night, in the decaying mansion the president had fled to somewhere in the French countryside.

Max doesn’t send someone else this time. This one, he wants to see for himself.

***

The president is sitting at a desk, the room lit by a single dim lamp. He’s aged years in a matter of months, his face gaunt, his hands trembling as he rifles through papers. He doesn’t hear Max until it’s too late.

The sound of the door closing makes him freeze.

When he looks up, Max is already there, standing in the doorway, his face blank but his eyes burning with a quiet, lethal fury.

“Hello,” Max says, his voice calm.

The president’s face goes pale. He stumbles to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “W-what are you doing here? You have no right-”

“Sit,” Max says sharply.

The man stops mid-sentence, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He sinks back into the chair, his movements stiff and jerky.

“You ruined your own life,” Max says, stepping closer. His voice is measured, even, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air in the room feel heavier. “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to try to ruin hers too.”

The president’s hands shake as he grips the edge of the desk. “I-I didn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Max interrupts, his tone icy.

The man flinches, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape. But there’s nowhere to go.

“You didn’t just hurt her,” Max continues, his voice low. “You left her tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, beaten and bleeding. You thought no one would find her. You wanted her to disappear.”

The president tries to speak, but the words die in his throat.

Max leans forward, his hands resting on the desk. “I’ve let you live longer than you deserve. But this ends tonight.”

The president shakes his head frantically, panic overtaking him. “You can’t do this! I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Max asks, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Run to the police? Tell them what you did? They’d love to hear about it.”

The president’s breathing becomes ragged, his chest heaving as he realizes there’s no way out.

Max straightens, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “You took her because you thought I’d let it go. Because you thought I’d be too afraid to fight back. But you were wrong.”

The room falls silent, the weight of Max’s words settling over them like a storm.

When it’s over, the only sound is the faint rustle of the wind outside.

Max walks out of the mansion, his hands steady, his heart unyielding.

The world will never know what happened to the former FIA president. But Max doesn’t care.

All that matters is that it’s done. You’re safe. And no one will ever hurt you again.

***

You wake with a jolt, the scream clawing at your throat but never making it out. Your chest heaves, your skin slick with sweat, the remnants of the nightmare still vivid behind your eyelids. The ropes, the shed, the bruising grip of strangers. You can still feel it, can still hear the taunts of the man who orchestrated it all.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are. Your hands tremble as you clutch the sheets, the darkness of the room suffocating. But then you feel him.

“Schatje,” Max whispers, his voice thick with sleep and concern. His arms are around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, your breathing erratic as you cling to him like a lifeline. His scent, his warmth, his steady heartbeat — these are the things that tether you back to reality.

“It was just a dream,” he murmurs, his hand running up and down your back. “Nothing can hurt you here. I won’t let it.”

You don’t say anything, but the way your fingers fist the fabric of his shirt tells him enough.

Max tightens his hold, his lips pressing to the top of your head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I let you down. I should’ve protected you. I-”

“Stop,” you croak, your voice hoarse from disuse. You pull back slightly, enough to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are raw, rimmed with red, his guilt carved into every line of his face. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head, refusing to meet your eyes. “Yes, it was,” he says, his voice rough. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve been there. If I had-”

“Max,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.

He finally looks at you, and the weight of his guilt makes your chest ache.

“You didn’t let me down,” you say, your hand cupping his cheek. “What happened was their fault. Not yours.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says, his voice trembling. “And I didn’t. I failed.”

“Max.” You sit up straighter, your other hand framing his face. “You didn’t fail me. You saved me. You found me. You’ve been here for me every second since. That’s what matters.”

He tries to argue, his lips parting, but you don’t let him.

You lean forward and kiss him, cutting off whatever protest he was about to make. It’s gentle at first, a soft reassurance, but then it deepens, your hands slipping into his hair as you pour everything into it — all your gratitude, your love, your need to make him understand.

When you pull back, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “And you didn’t let me down. You’ll never let me down.”

Max’s eyes close, a shuddering breath escaping him as his hands settle on your waist. “I’ll never let anything happen to you again,” he murmurs. “I swear. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“I know,” you say softly, your fingers brushing through his hair. “I trust you.”

The room falls quiet again, the tension melting into something softer as Max holds you close. The nightmare still lingers at the edges of your mind, but with him here, it feels manageable.

You close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you back toward sleep, your head tucked under his chin.

***

The world looks different now. Formula 1 has been turned inside out and rebuilt piece by piece, its foundation gutted, its walls scrubbed clean of rot. The FIA, once untouchable, now stands as a phoenix reborn — smaller, humbler, and watched under a microscope by a public that no longer trusts blindly.

And the man standing at its helm?

Sebastian Vettel.

His appointment shocked everyone, though in hindsight, maybe it shouldn’t have. A four-time world champion with a reputation for integrity, sharp wit, and an inexplicable love of bees, Sebastian had been the last person anyone expected to re-enter the fold. Yet here he was: a symbol of hope and accountability.

And now, sitting in your living room.

You stare at him, still trying to reconcile the fact that Sebastian Vettel is perched on your sofa, a cup of tea balanced in his hand, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. He wears a suit, though the top button is undone and his shoes scuff slightly on your rug — small signs that, for all his new authority, he’s still Sebastian.

Max, seated across the room with his arms crossed, is visibly tense. He hasn’t said much since Sebastian arrived, choosing instead to lean back in his chair and observe. Protectively.

“Just to be clear,” you say, leaning forward, “you want to hire me?”

Sebastian smiles faintly, setting his tea down on the table. “Yes. You.”

“As a forensic accountant?”

“Yes.”

“To audit the FIA?”

Sebastian leans back slightly, his expression soft but serious. “To make sure nothing like what happened ever happens again. To hold us accountable, to make sure every financial and ethical line is crystal clear. You’ve proven yourself, Y/N. The FIA needs someone sharp, honest, and relentless. You’re all three.”

You blink, thrown off balance. You’d been bracing for congratulations or polite pleasantries — not this.

“Why me?” You ask finally.

Sebastian doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re the only person I trust to do it right.”

That knocks the air from your lungs.

Across the room, Max shifts, his brows furrowing. “You’re asking her to put herself in the middle of it again,” he says, his voice low, edged with a protectiveness Sebastian doesn’t miss. “After everything.”

Sebastian turns to Max. “I’m asking her to fix it. If anyone can make sure the FIA stays clean, it’s Y/N.”

Max’s jaw tightens, and you can feel the storm brewing inside him. He’s fought so hard to keep you away from anything that even smells like danger. You know he hates the idea of you stepping back into this mess, even from a position of safety.

But you also know he won’t stop you if this is what you want.

You take a deep breath, turning your attention back to Sebastian. “You understand what you’re asking, right? I’ll find everything — everything. Even the things you don’t want me to.”

Sebastian nods. “That’s the point.”

You study him for a moment. There’s no hesitation in his face, no flicker of doubt. He means it. He’s really here to clean house, and he’s offering you a key role in ensuring that it happens.

Your fingers twist in your lap as you weigh the choice. You could walk away from it all, leave the FIA in someone else’s hands, and never think about its corruption again.

But then you think about the shed. The ropes. The bruises. The quiet corruption that enabled people like the former president to go unchecked for so long. You think about how close they came to breaking you — and how they’ll never get the chance to do it again.

Because you won’t let them.

You straighten in your seat, your voice clear. “If I do this, I want total autonomy. No limits on what I can investigate, no oversight. If I smell anything remotely off, I follow it wherever it leads.”

Sebastian smiles faintly, like he expected nothing less. “Done.”

“And if I say something needs to change, it changes. No delays, no excuses.”

“Done,” he says again.

Max exhales sharply, his frustration rolling off him in waves. “Y/N …”

You glance at him, softening. “It’s my decision.”

He shakes his head, staring at the floor for a moment before looking back up at you. “I don’t want you anywhere near them again. I don’t care who’s in charge.”

Sebastian clears his throat, respectful but firm. “This is her choice, Max.”

Max shoots him a withering glare but doesn’t argue further. Instead, he looks at you, his expression raw. “You just got out of this. Why would you go back?”

You reach across the space between you and take his hand. “Because if I don’t, someone else will. And they won’t be as careful, or as ruthless.” You squeeze his fingers gently. “You don’t have to like it, but you know I’m right.”

Max doesn’t reply immediately. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

“I don’t like it,” he says quietly, “but I’ll stand by you.”

You smile faintly, your chest warming as you meet his eyes. “I know.”

Sebastian, ever perceptive, chooses that moment to stand. “I’ll give you some time to think it over,” he says. “But … I hope you say yes.”

You nod, your decision already made. “I’ll think about it.”

Sebastian gives you both a small smile before making his way to the door. “Take care of each other,” he says as he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you and Max alone in the quiet.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then Max groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sebastian Vettel as president of the FIA? I didn’t see that one coming.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Me neither.”

His hand drops, and he looks at you, his expression serious again. “If you’re really going to do this, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Bodyguards, security — whatever you need.”

“I’m not going to war,” you tease gently.

“You say that now,” he mutters, his voice darkening. “But I know how this world works. You’re making enemies the second you start digging again.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got you to protect me, isn’t it?”

Max exhales, his arms looping around you as he pulls you close. “Always.”

You nestle into his chest, letting his heartbeat steady you, the weight of the decision settling over you. You know what you’re walking into. You know the risks.

But you also know you can’t look away — not now, not after everything.

The FIA has been reborn. And you’re going to make sure it stays that way.

In Every Quiet Moment

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything

The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.

You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.

You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.

You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.

And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.

There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.

A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.

He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.

You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.

It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”

He turns.

Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.

You frown. “Is it hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”

You open the door wider. “Come in.”

He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.

But he steps forward.

The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.

You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.

“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.

You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.

“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.

A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”

You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.

“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”

You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”

“That’s a horrible name.”

“I like it.”

“She’ll get bullied at school.”

“She’s a cat.”

He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.

You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”

“Walking.”

“In this?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”

His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”

You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”

“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”

His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.

You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.

He leaves without giving you his name.

You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.

€2,000 tip.

You stare. Check the name.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You almost drop the broom.

***

The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.

You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.

“You came back,” you say, blinking.

He shrugs. “You were nice.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”

“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.

That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.

You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”

He nods.

This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.

You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”

“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”

“Sounds like love.”

He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”

“Like you?”

“Worse.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.

“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”

You glance up. “You did. With money.”

“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”

He pauses. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.

“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”

He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.

You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”

He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”

Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.

“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re quiet.

You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.

You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”

“Then I won’t rush.”

“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”

“I’ll remind you.”

You blink. “You’re a stranger.”

“I’m Max.”

The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.

You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”

He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”

So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.

Neither of you move.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

***

Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.

He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.

Just sits. Watches. Listens.

You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.

He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.

“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”

“It’s a tiny café.”

“Still good.”

You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”

“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”

You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”

He just smirks into his coffee.

That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.

***

It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.

You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

You glance up.

The man in the red scarf is watching you.

You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.

You look again.

He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”

Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”

He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”

You frown. “Other night?”

“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”

You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”

He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”

You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”

You pull back. “Not for sale.”

He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”

You don’t answer. Just walk away.

And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.

At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.

You turn.

Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.

His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”

You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.

The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”

Max doesn’t blink. “No.”

Your stomach twists.

“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”

The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”

Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”

It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.

You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.

Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”

Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You scared the hell out of him.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”

He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”

You blink.

His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.

You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”

***

The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.

You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”

You snort. “Story of my life.”

He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”

You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.

Then — voices.

A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.

One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”

He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”

“Can we get a photo?”

He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.

They thank him, then run off, giggling.

He turns back to you.

You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”

His voice is quiet. “Good.”

You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”

You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.

Max lingers.

You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”

He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t leave right away.

You hover near the door. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”

“I don’t.”

You study him.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”

Silence.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”

Your throat tightens.

“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”

You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”

He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”

You blink. “You where there?”

He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”

A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”

He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.

***

It’s late when Max asks.

You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”

You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”

“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.

You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”

***

His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.

The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.

And cats.

There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.

Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”

A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.

“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”

A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”

“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”

You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.

Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”

“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.

He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”

You raise a brow. “You cook?”

He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.

You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.

***

You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.

“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.

The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.

Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.

You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”

He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”

“I am peaceful.”

He grins. “Good. That was the point.”

***

Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.

Max eats slowly. Savors things.

You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.

“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”

His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. His smirk grows.

Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.

Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.

“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.

He nods. “When I want it to be.”

You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”

Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.

***

When you wake, the lights are lower.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.

There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.

Then you hear it.

Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.

“No. I said no.”

You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.

“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”

Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.

“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.

“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”

Silence.

You don’t wait for him to hang up.

You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.

He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.

“Max.”

He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.

His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.

“You heard that,” he says flatly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Were they writing about me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.

“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”

You step closer. “And you called them?”

“I made a call, yeah.”

“To shut it down?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”

There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.

You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because I want to.”

You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.

“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”

A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.

Finally, you say, “You care about me.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not going to say it.”

“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.

His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.

But you don’t vanish.

You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.

***

It happens the next morning.

You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.

But it’s not enough.

The flash comes out of nowhere.

One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.

“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”

You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.

By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.

You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

But the whispers start by lunch.

You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.

Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.

By evening, it’s everywhere.

***

Max calls. You don’t answer.

He texts: I’m handling it.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.

By the next day, the article disappears.

Completely. As if it never existed.

A notice appears in its place.

Retracted at source.

Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”

Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”

You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.

A screenshot.

An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.

Another message: Let me do this. Please.

You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.

***

The panic hits later.

Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.

The guilt first — sharp and sour.

He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.

You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.

And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.

So you do the only thing that feels safe.

You pull away.

***

You stop replying.

Not rudely. Just slowly.

A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.

You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.

Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.

Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.

***

He doesn’t chase.

He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.

Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.

It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.

A note, tucked between the teabags.

I’ll wait.

Nothing else.

Not even his name.

***

You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.

You feel stupid.

Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.

You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.

***

Three days pass.

Then four.

By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.

On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.

On the seventh, it rains.

Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.

You don’t bring an umbrella.

You don’t bring excuses either.

You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.

You knock once.

It opens almost instantly.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.

“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.

He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.

He just opens his arms.

And you fall into them like you never left.

His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.

He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.

You don’t speak. Don’t have to.

His chin rests on your hair.

You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

Your breath hitches.

“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”

“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”

Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”

You pull back, just a little.

Look up at him.

His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.

“I’m scared,” you say quietly.

He nods. “So am I.”

You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”

You blink. “Then why …”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”

You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is soft.

No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.

You exhale. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.

***

Max doesn’t say “I love you.”

Not with words.

He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.

He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.

But tonight, he speaks more than usual.

It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.

He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”

You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.

He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.

“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”

You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.

He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.

“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.

Your heart tightens.

“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”

You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”

Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”

You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”

That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.

“Tell me,” he says.

So you do.

You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.

He listens like he has nowhere else to be.

Not just hearing — holding.

Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.

When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.

“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

***

The next few weeks are full of small shifts.

Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.

His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.

Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.

He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.

He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.

You try not to need it.

You try not to expect it.

But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.

***

The comment comes three races into summer.

You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.

You look up when the door opens.

It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.

He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”

Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.

You don’t reply.

He doesn’t give you time to.

“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”

The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.

But Max is already there.

You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.

But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.

Just present.

Heavy.

Silent.

The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”

Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”

Silence.

Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”

The boy opens his mouth.

Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”

The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.

But dangerous.

The kind of promise you don’t test.

Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”

Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.

Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.

“Max-”

He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”

He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”

“I know,” you say again, quieter now.

“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”

You step into him. “I didn’t.”

His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”

The kiss is slower this time.

No heat. No anger.

Just need.

Just want.

***

It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.

You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:

“I want you.”

His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.

“Then I’m going to take my time.”

And he does.

***

It’s not rushed.

Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.

It’s reverent.

It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He never stops looking.

Not once.

He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.

You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And you are.

You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.

He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.

Guiding. Worshipping.

“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”

And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.

The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.

***

Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

The mask is gone now.

For both of you.

***

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.

You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.

Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.

And then you’re holding the future in your hand.

“Max?” Your voice wavers.

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hold the letter up.

He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows.

The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.

You stare at the words like they might vanish.

They don’t.

You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.

“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.

“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Before.

Before him.

Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.

You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.

“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.

“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.

You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”

Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.

Only patience.

Only love.

“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”

You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”

He takes your hand in his.

“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”

You laugh, eyes damp.

He keeps going.

“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”

Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.

Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.

And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”

Max doesn’t speak.

He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.

***

You don’t waitress anymore.

One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.

You open it slowly.

It’s Max’s handwriting.

Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.

PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.

You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.

And you do go home.

But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.

***

At night, the café changes.

The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.

Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.

But word spreads.

You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.

He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.

“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.

You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”

Max smiles, slow and sure.

“I am.”

You meet his eyes.

He means it.

***

You play at the café again that Friday.

The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.

You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.

Before your last piece, you clear your throat.

“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”

You glance at Max.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.

When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.

Then, applause.

But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.

Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.

You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”

He leans in, kisses your temple.

“I like dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”

***

You find the recording equipment a week later.

Just … waiting.

Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.

There’s a post-it on the chair.

In case you change your mind.

You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.

And start writing again.

***

You don’t take the job in New York.

You don’t regret it.

Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.

But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.

What’s real.

Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.

Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.

Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.

And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.

But for now?

For now, you stay.

Because love like this?

You don’t walk away from it.

Not when he’s willing to give you the world.

And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.

Toto Wolff with wife reader. Doing a hot lap and him being concerned about her driving because usually he's the one who drives. Fluff and fun. Maybe suggestive 🫣 Thanks!! :))

WHY DO YOU THINK IT TOOK ME SO LONG?// TW \\ one-shot

pairing: Toto Wolff x wife!reader

description: Someone else sits behind the ˝Hot Lap˝ wheel...

word count: 464 words

warnings: none, a smidge suggestive, toto doesn't trust your driving abilities

Usually, it's an F1 driver that drives a Hot Lap. Yet, here you were, getting into the driver's seat of a Mercedes AMG-GT for the first time. Your husband, Toto, already sat in the passenger seat, laughing at you.

You hated driving. It was the most annoying part of your day. No, you didn't hate the act itself. You hated the slowness and shitty people on the road. So when Lewis and George practically forced you to do a Hot Lap, you weren't expecting you'd be driving the Supercar.

˝You alright, schatzi?˝ Toto asked as you buckled your seatbelt. ˝ I know you hate driving...¨ He continued. The statement made you giggle.

˝I hate the slowness of everyday driving... But this...˝ You say with a smirk, pushing your foot down on the pedal. The car revs and Toto's eyes widened. ˝... is more my style.˝

The car lunged forward, your hands controlling the steering wheel. Toto gripped anything he could, looking over at you.

˝What do you mean by this is your style?˝ His eyes widened. ˝Watch the turns, love!˝

˝Don't worry, I got my eyes on the road!˝ You giggle, expertly avoiding hitting a wall. ˝I wanted to be an F1 driver, ya know?˝ He looks over again, smiling at you.

˝Ja? I can see that... Maybe I should put in next season...˝ He laughs, making you smile.

˝I'll win you the championship, love!˝ You laugh, making another turn, making Toto lean towards you. He laughs and sits up properly in the seat.

˝I'm looking forward to it!... Watch out!˝ He screams, making you turn suddenly. You grunted.

˝Stop yelling! I know what I'm doing!˝ You purposefully swerve the car, making Toto panic and grab anything he could. You laugh and he huffs. ˝How about... I try to donut˝

˝ABSOLUTELY NOT!˝ Toto screams as you already start turning the steering wheel.

˝Too late!˝ You giggle, turning the car in circles. Toto begins to hyperventilate and you laugh at him again. Slowly, you bring the car on a straight trajectory.

˝You are an idiot! We could have crashed!˝ He screamed as the car came to a stop.

˝But we didn't...˝ You step out, taking the helmet off your head. He follows you, rounding the car to get to your side.

˝This only solidified the fact I'll be driving from now on. I'm not getting in the car if you're driving!˝ He said, making you laugh.

˝But you'll let me ride?˝ You say with a smirk, wiggling your brows. He rolls his eyes and walks faster. ˝Hey!˝ You run to catch up with him.

After a few secounds of silence, you decide to speak.

˝Can I ask you something, love?˝ You ask and he hums. ˝Why do you think I failed my driving test so many times?˝ You ask with a smirk, making Toto turn to you with wide eyes.

˝That's it! I'm not letting you drive anymore!˝ 

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tumblr user megachrome where are you?? oscar won grill the grid!! lol

anon i always knew he could do it!!! i take oscar's enthusiastic commitment to f1 trivia extremely seriously 🧡🧡🧡

send me an angel - deacon kay x reader

Summary: When the reader gets in danger, Deacon needs being protective of her.

Request by @kenzie30david

Warnings: mentions of threat, swearing

English is not my first language and unfortunately it is not proofread (sorry)

Deacon lost ground as soon as he entered the headquarter, looking at the digital table where there were photos of 14 women, all with name for identification and age below. The only picture that mattered was of him, the woman he loved and that made him lose whatever sanity he had left.

“May I know what that means?” Deacon asks trying to sound as professional as possible.

“They are our possible victims, this morning eight of them received death and kidnapping threats and they all have in common a relationship with someone from SWAT.” Hondo responds.

“How are you sure they all have a relationship with someone from here?” Chris asks.

“The information is from the areas responsible for data collection, we are profiling them to find out who exactly they are with to keep them safe.” Hondo says

Deacon takes one last look at the table and leaves the area to try to call you while the rest of the team continues to work on locating each of the girls. After five failed attempts that took him straight to voicemail, he lets out a frustrated sigh and heads back to where he left the team.

“All are identified, only this one is missing.” Lucca says pointing to his picture.

“She must have been deceived among the others. We can call and check.” Street says, making everyone on the team agree.

"It won't be necessary." Deacon is serious. The entire team turns their heads to him, curiosity brimming on their faces.

"Why not? Do you know something?” Chris asks crossing his arms

"She is my girlfriend." Deacon responds with a sigh.

Silence dominated the environment, no one there knew for sure how to react, no one expected that Deacon would have someone after Annie.

“What do you mean girlfriend? You didn't say anything to us.” Luca says in disbelief.

"I know, I should have told you but she didn't want to and honestly I wasn't ready either." Deacon answers seriously.

Deacon's phone starts to ring, which makes his heart pound in his chest. As soon as he turned the viewfinder towards him, he could read his name on the screen.

"Why didn't you answer me?" Deacon asks.

"Because I was busy." You answer.

"I need you to come here now." Deacon says making you take a long breath on the other end of the line.

“What sudden authority is this? You were never like that.” You say worried.

“Babe, please… I need you to come here. You are in danger.” Deacon says, running an idle hand through his hair.

On the other end of the line you didn't know what to do, you just hung up the call and ran out taking the first taxi that passed. As soon as you get to Deacon, the first thing you see is your photo on the digital tablet.

"What is it?" You ask feeling your heart speed up even more.

"Someone is threatening the fellow SWAT members, we are investigating to find out the motivation but so far we don't have much." Chris says.

You blink several times and feel like you would start to hyperventilate. Deacon also notices and walks over to you, guiding you to a chair.

"I'm going to have to be stuck here is that it?" You ask, feeling tears fall.

“No, no way… we will work this out. I will never let anything happen to you my love, I will always protect you.” Deacon says kissing the top of her head. You really hoped that everything would be okay, but despite your fears you trusted Deacon. He was her guardian angel.

TAME THE WOLFF| T.WOLFF

Pairing; Angry!Toto Wolff x Calm!Wife!reader

Summary; A few scenarios in which Toto is angry and frustrated and you’re there to calm him down and save his poor team from his wrath

Warnings; angry Toto.

F1 Master List

It was no secret that during a race weekend Toto could get a little….frustrated.

Okay, frustrated was putting it way too lightly, the man got way too passionate about his work and when things didn’t go the way they’re supposed to it was like a volcano was erupting in his mind and he just loses all sense of control leading him to his famous actions of smashing headphones.

The Austrian was already intimidating enough with his tall stature and the confidence he eluded but when he was angry he wasn’t just intimidating, he was scary.

The way his dark eyes seemed to turn almost entirely black and how the veins in his forehead throbbed were signs that had the Mercedes team shifting in their seats and the moment he started running his hands down his face was the moment the higher people in the team would get their phones out and call for help.

That help being you.

It had taken a long time for the team to acknowledge the effect you had on their team principle because he never got angry when you attended races but it was when you arrived to races later in the day that they started to see how things changed.

It was one particular day when Toto had arrived to the track already a bit frustrated, whether that was because of your absence or not they didn’t know but the pile up of disastrous events had lead to the team principle throwing things and shouting at the top of his lungs.

Then you arrived.

You certainly hadn’t expected to walk into the garage and be greeted by your husband in a fit of rage and the entire team stood frozen like petrified animals but the sight of fear on their faces had upset you greatly, especially knowing that it was because of Toto’s, quite frankly unnecessary, tantrum.

You walked over to your husband, who hadn’t even noticed you amidst his anger, and gently placed your hand on his arm.

Any member of the team would’ve called you crazy in that moment, walking over to the beast of a man with no fear on your face when he could have easily turned around and launched you across the room without even thinking.

He had been ready to throw a fist at the person who had the gall to touch him before he saw that it was you, his beloved wife looking at him with nothing but love in your eyes even as he was acting like a brute.

The team had never seen him change personalities so quickly in that moment.

You didn’t say anything to him, instead you placed your other hand on his back and guided him away from everyone, you wouldn’t have been able to move him by yourself but he allowed you to guide him away with absolutely no argument.

You opened the door of his makeshift office, saying nothing as he strode straight past you without a glance, steam practically spilling from his ears, you could feel the anger radiating off of him.

Apart from his unsettled shuffling the room was filled with an intense silence as you shut the door, simply watching as his chest rose and fell harshly, you could see that he was trying to calm himself down now that he was in your presence but he was struggling to do so and that was only frustrating him further.

"Sit down," you gently instructed him, nodding towards the small sofa pushed up against the wall of the small room.

He wanted to argue but he stopped himself and did as he was told, sitting down on the sofa he buried his face into his hands.

You walked over to him and wrapped your arms around the back of his head, allowing him to lean into your stomach, you ran your hands through his hair.

"I understand you’re stressed and that things aren’t going the way you want them too but the way you’re shouting is unfair to the team, they are not your verbal punching bag but you’re treating them as they are."

Toto closed his eyes, releasing a heavy sigh, he wrapped his arms around your body to bring you closer.

He knew you were right, you always were and that’s what he loved about you, how you were always there to talk some sense into him.

He didn’t say anything though, he just held you firmly but gently and used your presence to calm him down.

There were many things he needed to be doing right now but he couldn’t find himself to care, right now the most important thing was calming down and spending time with you, no matter how long that took.

When the Mercedes team heard the door to their boss’ office unlock and saw the man himself walk out completely calm with you following shortly after, they were beyond amazed.

It was that day that the members of the team who had your number put you on speed dial in preparation for when an incident like this happened again, which it no doubt would.

"It seems that Toto Wolff is beginning to get a little bit frustrated down in the Mercedes garage."

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the unnecessary commentary that wasn’t helping in the slightest.

Your husband was getting agitated and the nearby team members were nervously glancing in his direction as though they were mentally preparing themselves for him to blow his top.

Instead of waiting for Toto to lose it, you stood behind him and loosely wrapped your arms around him, thumbing at the collar of his shirt.

Everyone around could see the tension immediately release from his body just from your comforting touch.

Toto grabbed one of your hands with his own, stroking his thumb back and forth across your skin, using the motion as a way to ground himself.

The whole garage went silent at the sight of both of their cars spinning off the track in turn 1. What once was going to be a promising race from starting second and third has turned into a disaster in such a short amount of time.

Everyone was utterly speechless as the entire team just sat there staring at their monitors in shock.

But then they actually acknowledged that it was silent and all simultaneously turned towards their boss with confused stares only to see you blocking him from the cameras that were pointing into the garage, leaning down and whispering, what they could only guess were calming, words to him.

Whilst the cameras couldn’t see his face, the team could and they could tell he was, rightfully so, furious as the situation, he wasn’t shouting or throwing things.

He definitely wanted to but he wasn’t.

You weren’t really in the mood to be in the garage today surrounded by so much noise to the point you could barely hear yourself think and the smell of fuel so strong it made you nauseous but you still wanted to support your husband as you weren’t able to accompany him everywhere he went so you settled in his makeshift office on what was possibly the worlds smallest sofa with your laptop sitting in your lap and your headphones placed over your ears to block out the noise from the team outside and the cars on the track.

It had been hours and you were content in the alone time you were getting, it was just you and your music playing in your ears that you didn’t notice the multiple calls you were receiving.

Unbeknownst to you, outside of his office, your husband was kicking off and nothing anyone did or said could calm him down.

The team had never witnessed Toto as angry as he was right now, the veins in his forehead more prominent than ever and whilst most didn’t understand the German words coming out of his mouth, they knew he couldn’t be saying anything nice.

Bono was trying to get a hold of you for possibly the twentieth time and he was still having no luck, he felt the pressure of the teams eyes on him, begging for the news that you’d be coming knowing that he was only one of a few that had your number and the means to find you right now but he wasn’t getting anywhere.

Poor Lewis and George were getting the brunt of the Austrian’s anger and even though they hadn’t a clue of what he was saying, they were starting to question the security of their jobs.

Luckily, a mechanic who had just entered the garage and was completely taken aback by the scene in front of him, awkwardly side shuffled to Bono and questioned what was going on. "He’s acting crazy! I can’t get a hold of Y/N."

"Didn’t she go straight into his office when they arrived earlier?" The mechanic asked.

Bono looked at him in shock and relief before jumping to his feet and wasting no time as he jogged in the direction of Toto’s office.

It was rude but he didn’t bother knocking, he almost cried when he saw you sitting there.

You got the fright of your life as the door burst open but the sight of a frantic Bono caused you to remove your headphones and look at him in confusion.

"Oh thank god you’re here! Toto’s gone mental!"

You released a sigh at his words and pushed your laptop to the side and got up from the sofa. "What for now?"

"I honestly have no idea but if he doesn’t calm down soon then Lewis and George might just start crying and Toto looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel."

The moment you stepped out into the short, narrow corridor you heard your husbands angry German shouting. "Mein Gott," you muttered to yourself.

Entering the main part of the garage you weren’t greeted by a pretty sight at all, Bono wasn’t overreacting in the way he described Toto, Lewis and George and let’s not forget about the rest of the team.

You headed straight for your husband, not acknowledging the looks of relief you saw build on everyone’s faces, especially the two drivers’.

You didn’t even need to say anything to Toto, you just stood in front of him and looked up at him with a stern gaze that soon got him to shut up but his eyes were still blazing with fury as he looked down at you, you knew his anger wasn’t aimed at you, he was just still pent up with emotions.

You nodded in the direction of his office and simply walked away, expecting him to follow after you if he knew what was good for him.

He followed you.

The moment you heard him close the door you turned to him. "This needs to stop."

He looked at you furiously, "how am I supposed to stop when I have two drivers that can’t even get through a lap without crashing into each other!"

"Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Torger!" Your voice cut through the air as you glared at him which soon caused his face to shift from angry to wounded as you scolded him.

"How hard is it for you to simply sit them down and give them a stern talking to, there’s no need for the way you completely blow your top, you’re acting like a child throwing a tantrum."

He was still beyond angry, you could see it in his eyes and the way he shifted on his feet and he was about to retort but you cut him off. "I don’t want to hear you right now, I want you to sit down in silence and calm down before a single word comes out of your mouth."

He pursed his lips, not at all happy but he did as he was told and sat down in the chair behind the small desk, you didn’t spare him a glance as you sat yourself back where you were before Bono came searching for you, pulling your laptop back onto your lap to finish what you had been doing.

It was a good 15/20 minutes later when you heard him get up from his seat and make his way over to you. He sat beside you and rested his head on your shoulder causing you to roll your eyes but a smile grew on your face at his actions, you were glad he couldn’t see it though.

You continued to carry on with what you were doing, letting him decide how he wanted your conversation to go and so it remained silent for a few more minutes with you and Toto simply sat there, him resting against you simply soaking up the comfort of your presence.

He shifted and pressed a kiss to your temple before returning back to his position. "Are you mad at me?" He asked when you remained silent.

You closed your laptop and put it away before shifting the both of you so you were up straight and looking at each other. "No," you told him honestly, "I just wish you wouldn’t let your frustrations get the best of you all the time."

He looked down at your words before looking back into your eyes with a sincere look, "I’m sorry."

"It’s okay," you smiled at him, reaching out a hand to brush his hair back. "We just need to find a way for you to keep yourself together."

"You’re the way," he replied immediately which stunned you and he was okay with that. He pulled you into his arms and you both just sat there.

You could be quite the opposite at times but you were content with that because you would always be there to ground him whenever his emotions got out of control.

Here's what I'm consumed with today. How much Carlos lost absolutely everything when he and TK broke up because everything good in his life is connected in some way to TK. He temporarily lost the person he loves but he lost so much more than that. Carlos has to live alone in the place that was supposed to be their home. He found a second father in Owen, who was there for him before his own father was, and that would've been gone after TK was gone. Carlos has a better relationship with his parents because of TK. He needed to hear them both say they're proud of him so much and he needed it for years and he finally got it from them both in connection to something that happened with TK, and now he has to distance himself from them because he has to lie to them about TK breaking up with him. Carlos probably liked his job better because there was always the chance he might run into TK, and now that's become something he dreads. All of his friends were TK's friends first, and Nancy keeps inviting him to hang with them because she's kind but how long realistically would she have kept asking when she knew he was gonna say no? Carlos needed community so badly and he got it because of TK and now that's gone. He gets Grace as a friend because of TK. He gets Paul, another queer person, as a friend because of TK. He gets to indulge in his love of cooking and feeding people because of TK, he would have started to resent cooking after TK was gone because there was no one for him to cook for. Literally everything good Carlos had in his life was connected in some way to TK and it's just all gone after they break up and I get so damn heartbroken thinking about how truly alone this soft man was.

Why don't they make intros like this anymore 😞😞

Salt in the wound

a/n: go and listen to Salt in the wound by Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus.

summary: After Stephen's accident you try to take care of him but he constantly crosses the line with you. One day he adds too much salt into your wound.

pairing: Stephen Strange x f!reader

warnings: angst, angst, angst, hurt no comfort.

You walked into his New York apartment where the now-familiar smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey hung around. Piles of dirty and mostly broken dishes were the only thing on the kitchen counter. The man you loved was sitting at the table struggling to hold a pen.

“Let me help you” you said softly and approached him.

“No!” he yelled at you. You weren’t used to this, to him treating you like this. “Go. Away.” he snapped.

“I brought you some food” you sighed. You placed take-out Chinese food from his favourite restaurant in front of him. “I’m gonna clean a bit so you can rest” you send him a shy smile.

“Are you deaf or supid?” for the first time in a few days his eyes connected with yours. “You graduated from medical school at the top of your class so I suggest that you should visit a laryngologist. Dr Cronan, right?” you have never heard so much hatred in his voice. You stood there practically speechless.

“Stephen, I-, look” before you were able to finish he interrupted you.

“Can’t you form a fucking sentence?” he shouted “Poor y/n, feels the need to take care of the guy who she’s been fucking for a few months. Watch out, I might even cry” he continued.

Cruel silence filled the room, the only sound was coming from cold rain beating on large windows. You analysed his face and immediately realised that there isn’t even a slight sign of regret. He meant exactly what he said.

“Look” You took a deep breath “I know that your job was what gave your life meaning, something that made you feel complete, but there are other things that can give your life meaning” you said and came a little closer to him and tried to touch his face but before you were able to do so he pushed your hand away.

“Like what? You?” he scoffed. “You don’t mean a thing to me!” he yelled into your face. A loud thunderclap echoed in the room at the same moment as your heart broke into pieces. You loved him, you truly did. He used to be a beam of light in your day, but now, you couldn’t recognize him.

“This is the part where you apologise” you said.

“This is the part where you leave” he responded.

You took a few steps back and leaned against the wall. You closed your eyes and felt a tear falling down your cheek.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

Eight months ago, after a thirteen hours-long operation, two brilliant neurosurgeons, you and Stephen, sat down on the floor of the operation room and laughed about the facial expression of the guy they just saved.

“God, I'm starving” you said in between laughs.

“Would you like to get out of here? I know a phenomenal Chinese restaurant a few blocks away” he offered.

“Only if you are paying” you playfully smacked his arm.

“It’s a date then” he smirked and helped you to get up.

It was late November night, and the streets of New York were almost empty. You walked next to him chatting about stuff you two liked. You were surprised you two had so much in common. Even though you were extremely tired, the night went smoothly and the food was truly phenomenal. When you two finally decided to leave the restaurant you noticed that the snow was falling.

“It’s the first fall of snow this year” you smiled and he came a little closer to you. Slow music from the restaurant you just left was playing in the background.

“Before you go, may I steal one dance from you?” he asked.

“How could I refuse such an offer?” you smirked.

He placed one hand on your waist and with the other grabbed yours. You were slowly dancing around, pretending that the world did not exist. He watched your face and how it glistened as the snow fell on it. He let go of your waist and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Y/n, can I kiss you?” he asked shyly. Instead of saying anything, you leaned in. That was the beginning of it all.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

“Loving you Stephen is a prison and I was willing to buy my own chain” you whispered “I tried, I really did but I can’t handle this anymore” your eyes locked again with his. “This is a goodbye” you stated.

Deep down you wanted him to say that he’s sorry, that he’s going to change, that he needs you. You wanted to hear once again how much he loves you and how important you are but you knew that this is not going to happen. You grabbed your bag from the counter and left his apartment, walked into the lift and sighed deeply. Your world had just fallen apart but the one around you had to maintain peace. You put your sling ring on your fingers and drew a portal Sanctum Sanctorum where you were Master of the Mystic Arts and more importantly Sorceress Supreme.

MASTERLIST

Cuffing Szn

Max Verstappen x MidSize!Reader

it's cuffing season and all the girls are leaving to get a big boy (I need a big boy, give me a big boy)

As Max Verstappen's new girlfriend, you're one of the few WAGs on the grid who isn't a model and the only one, you think self consciously, who doesn't look like a model either. Good thing your big, strong boyfriend is here to set the record straight about how much he disagrees with you.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, trigger warning: explicit discussion about eating disorder and body dysmorphia, dom!max, sub!reader, size kink, this is just a shameless excuse for me to write smut about max's thighs

When you'd delivered one of your favourite patient's 3rd baby, handing over the healthy, crying pale blob (after thoroughly wiping it down because, you know) with a congratulations, Victoria, its a boy! you hadn't expected to catch the eye of the patient's very attractive, tall older brother at her side.

But as you walked off down the hallway once the baby checks were done, you were surprised to find Max stopping you with a large but gentle hand on your shoulder. You'd seen him a couple of times in Victoria's pregnancy, accompanying her and her husband at the ultrasound checks leading upto the delivery. You'd secretly thought he was so adorable with the way he handled his nieces and nephews patiently while his sister got scanned.

You'd also thought he looked positively delectable in his white linen shirt that highlighted his broad shoulders, and skinny jeans that clung to some of the thickest thighs you'd seen a man be blessed with. But making bedroom eyes at patient's hot family members was generally frowned upon (although not explicitly prohibited in the Hippocratic Oath, one could argue) so you promptly forgot about the handsome blonde 5 minutes later when the emergency bell went off.

But he stood before you that day, looking every bit as attractive as you remembered, even more so with a pink dusting on his cheeks as he asked if this was the last time you'd be looking after Victoria?

You tilted your head quizzically at him, your neck a little strained from looking up at his 6 foot frame from your 5"1 one. Yes it is, you informed him, and because new families often got anxious, you sweetly added that it was a good thing, to not see you again, because it meant darling Victoria and her baby are both healthy.

He confuses you again by saying that he was hoping to see you again. Oh! You smile excitedly, are you and your wife expecting? You pull out your clinic card and tell him that you're actually all booked out for the year but you'll make an exception for Victoria's brother.

His blush deepens. (Somewhere in a hospital broom cupboard, Lando Norris was filming this scene unfold and cackling.) Max rapidly explained that he's not expecting. Oh, and he's not married. And also he doesn't have a girlfriend. Basically, I'm single - he finally stammers out. (Rizzless and bitchless, Lando texts him). Thankfully, at this point you had caught on that Max was trying to ask you out, and after a quick phone call to the legal team to confirm you were clear, you turn back around to inform him cheekily that he could pick you up at 8pm Friday night for dinner. (Wait, this actually worked? a flabbergasted Lando now texts.) The emergency pager then goes off so you gently tug on Max's shirt to hint that you want him to bring his face down, give him a goodbye kiss on the cheek, and sprint off to Ward 6.

The dinner goes perfectly, with Max's charm returning in full force after a G&T - Sorry about earlier, schat, you're such a gorgeous woman and a very smart doctor, it makes me nervous - leading to a 2nd date and then a 3rd and then to a weekend trip in a romantic Nice winery, where you can't resist jumping into his muscly arms after a glass of wine and demanding he have his way with you. (He does. Very thoroughly. Multiple times that night, and the morning after. Thinking about it still has you blushing.)

6 months later, you two are officially going out and you're making your first appearance as his girlfriend at the races. You had carefully dressed in a classy Mirror Palais dress, complete with matching heels to save your poor boyfriend having to bend down too much. You'd also become rather turned on at seeing your normally soft, gentle cat dad of a boyfriend turn into an absolute menace once the Redbull suit is zipped up, terrorising his way all the way to P1 and living up to his nickname of the Dutch lion. As his assistant guides you to the podium ceremony, you're stopped by various fans who compliment your outfit and ask for pictures. The media attention is very new to you, as Max had been very insistent on protecting your privacy as you two established yourselves as a couple. But everyone had been so nice today - until you started noticing the dirty looks thrown your way, glaring up and down your form. And then, a couple of snide comments from passing fans about how you were very confident to wear such a body hugging dress, especially with your curvy figure.

You roll your eyes at their clearly jealous tones, and walk over to the podium ceremony to greet your boyfriend. He breaks into an adorable grin when he sees you, his whole face lighting up as he easily scoops you up for a deep kiss. The cameras around you two go crazy, but don't pick up his whispers when he sets you down and leans in, telling you that you looked so pretty today, schat, he'd been staring at you so much GP had to tell him to focus, and how was your first race? nobody gave you a hard time, did they? You don't miss the way his eyes are attentively focused on your face, clearly still worried about the damage he had warned you about before you agreed to go public.

You aren't going to spoil his win over a couple of snide comments. Not at all, baby you reassure, before whispering back that he looked really hot in his tight fireproofs, could he pretty please bring them home later when you give him his reward for such a good performance on the track? The tip of Max's ears go pink as he struggles to maintain a straight face for the cameras. Giggling, you press a kiss to his cheek and murmur you'll see him after his interviews.

Later though, when Max is in his interview across the paddock and you're being introduced to the other WAGs, you can't help but notice how different they all look in their body hugging dresses compared to you. Although you wouldn't be called fat, you aren't slim either, and you're nowhere near the tiny, trim figures the other girls maintain. Once the seed of insecurity is planted, it's very hard to stop it growing out of control - and at each race or public event or launch party you attend at Max's side, you start to pick apart more and more insecurities about yourself. How you're so much shorter than the numerous models on the grid, making you feel childish and round compared to their lithe gracefulness. How their delicate collarbones and ribs can clearly be seen at all times, but yours only if you twisted your neck a certain way. And they're all so lovely, chatting eagerly with you and interested to hear about your work, asking if you'd take so-and-so on as a patient, you had a great reputation already even though you were a new doctor in Monaco! The conversations distract you from your worries for a bit.

But afterwards, when you'd be laughing at cat memes online and sending them to your boyfriend, you'd come across the paparazzi pics of you speaking to the WAGs and felt sick to your stomach at how huge you thought you looked compared to everyone else, clearly standing out as the plainest one amongst their flawless faces. Some of the comments agreed, saying that it was just sad that the best driver on the grid had the ugliest girlfriend, and couldn't Max buy his gf some ozempic with all his tax evasion money? Comments that would have made you laugh at the originality now suddenly had you sobbing, and you're glad you hadn't stayed at Max's tonight and had to explain the state you were in.

When you'd been younger, in college, you'd started struggling with managing your stress levels given you were a perfectionist working towards a very difficult medical degree. Having always been a stress eater, you frequently binged on junk food, and obviously ended up gaining quite a bit of weight. Your family and ex boyfriend had ridiculed you endlessly, and so the year after you had to work hard and lose it all, which you had managed to do. You'd mentioned this to Max in passing, a couple months into dating when he'd spotted an old college picture of you and muttered so fucking cute, pocketing it.

You didn't tell Max about how you'd lost the weight though - with a vicious binging and purging cycle for the better chunk of a year. You'd grown out of that "phase" once you'd left college, or so you thought - because it was almost too easy to slip back into it now, to enjoy the sick pleasure at barely eating all day and seeing the weight drop on the scale, then bingeing on whatever you wanted because it didn't count, you'd throw it up anyways. You had to be very careful with it this time round, because your boyfriend's attentive gaze had been fixed on you even more so than usual - noting how you've been wearing higher heels, how your dresses are still as gorgeous as ever but never body hugging anymore, how you spend hours before a race now perfecting your makeup instead of joining him in the garage and don't spend the nights at his anymore. You weasel your way out of his questions when he asks you repeatedly if everything was okay, schat?

But you weren't able to fool him any longer after attending a charity gala for one of his sponsors. You'd actually been happy with your appearance for once, pleased with your slimmer waist this month, but as the night went on you started to feel the fatigue of starving yourself catching up, leaning more and more into Max's side as he glanced at you with concern. Rubbing your back soothingly, he asked if you wanted to leave early, but you shook your head, murmuring you were okay, your feet just hurt a little is all. He frowned then, hating to see you in pain just to be dressed up for some stupid event he couldn't care less about. Bringing you to the empty lobby, he told you he was going to grab your coats and have the car brought round, end of discussion, you need to rest, okay liefje? You didn't have it in you to protest any longer so just nodded. You hadn't realised just how much you'd been leaning on him until he left, and as stars started entering your vision, Max returned just in time to catch you before you stumbled.

You felt him firmly grab your waist, fully supporting your weight as he led you out to the car, lowering you gently into the seat and even buckling you in. You started feeling a bit better inside his Aston Martin with the aircon on, nibbling on a high protein low calorie bar you'd stashed in your clutch. Regaining your alertness, you notice the tense atmosphere, with a stormy expression on Max's face as he drove rather furiously through the Monaco streets, his hand not even resting on your thigh like it usually did but gripping the wheel tightly. Maxie - you begin uncertainly, hoping to diffuse the tension and ask why he suddenly seemed upse, but he cuts you off with a terse Don't. Let's wait till we're home.

So you wait, until you're both walking in through the front door. Max rips off his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves, but he still doesn't talk and instead heads to the kitchen. You follow him, sitting on a barstool to admire how he still looked so handsome in the fitted sky blue shirt and tight navy pants, even when he was clearly mad. As Max starts cooking, his back to you, he tells you about how growing up his sister Victoria had to go to therapy for a long time because she wouldn't stop throwing up every time she ate because their father told her she was too fat (despite looking like a buffalo himself, Max snorts as he sets down a simple but delicious plate of chicken pesto pasta with salad in front of you), about how Max has seen countless girlfriends on the paddock purposely avoid eating all day, including his already stick thin model exes, and how Max himself would be called fat every month or the other by some trashy gossip magazine, because the media is just fucking toxic, he hisses. This is why I wanted to keep us hidden away from the cameras. He glances pointedly at your plate, where you've eaten the salad and chicken and not touched your pasta. You sigh and pick up your fork, slowly working your way through the food as you tell him that you suppose your diet had somewhat...spiralled out of control, but honestly, Max, I'm completely fine, and you two can't avoid the cameras forever given how he's the frickin F1 winner at all-

Don't tell me that you're fine. Do you really think I don't know what's going on? Max demands tersely with crossed arms. Finally finished with your meal, you hop off the stool to neatly place your plate in the sink, ignoring his question. Standing behind you, he watches you wash the dishes, still not even reaching his chin, even in those damn 6 inch heels you're still wearing. You do respond when he asks you just why you're putting your body through such torture.

C'mon, Max you say with an eyeroll, You know why, I need to lose some weight, I'm so much heavier compared to all the other girls and all your exes, and you deserve to have a girlfriend who looks-

Don't tell me what I do or don't deserve, schat. I always want the best and that's why I picked you. You're really gonna question the choice of a world champion, hmm? Max's deep voice is now right by your ears as he leans down behind you. You feel a shiver run up the back on your spine as he curls his huge arms possessively around your waist and thighs. He continues his whispers, his hands roaming up to your plush tits and another squeezing your ass, telling you You're so goddamn pretty. Every single part of you, just for me, making you bite your lip and breathily moan from his affections - it'd been a while since he'd had his way with you with all your avoidance, after all.

You feel him slowly unzip your dress, and the silk easily falls to the ground, leaving you only in your stiletto heels and a deep red lingerie set he’d gifted you for your 3 month anniversary. You tense, already feeling self conscious, but before you can say anything Max has wrapped a large hand around your waist and easily flipped you around to sit on the kitchen counter. You gasp from the action, hands automatically going to rest on his broad shoulders as your face comes level with his.

I haven’t made it clear just how lucky I am to have such a beautiful girl all to myself, schat, Max says huskily, before pulling away to unbutton his shirt, his blue eyes darkening as they roam over your pretty tits spilling over in the lacey bra, over your cute plush tummy, and over those deliciously soft thighs he adores. His hungry stare is really starting to drive you wild now, and you beg at him to hurry up and finish undressing. Chuckling, he throws his pants to the side as well, now only wearing his tight boxers. He pulls you forward on the counter so you're flush against him. See what you do to me, sweet girl? Hmm? he grinds the very prominent bulge in his boxers against your own damp core, making you gasp. You get me so hard and you haven't even touched me yet, that's the kind of power you have over me.

At his words, you don’t hold back from running your hand all along Max’s well defined chest. Your boyfriend is so much bigger than you and it's incredibly sexy. He towers over you easily with his 6 foot frame, all wide shoulders and swollen biceps and muscled thighs, and you don't hide the hypnotised look in your eyes as you trace from his thick neck down to his slutty waist, desire and desperation coursing through you, replacing any inhibitions you'd had earlier.

He grasps one of your wandering hands in his own, his larger palm easily dwarfing your tiny one and making you bite your lip at the difference in size. His attentive gaze doesn't miss this either, and with a low hmm he brazenly asks if you found it as hot as he did, the fact that you were the perfect size for him to snap into half if he wanted? He knows he's got you right where he wants as your pupils go wide with desire, breath hitching at the thought of your big boyfriend using his strength against you for once.

Then he's pulling apart your pretty little set, lace ripping and a large hand easily wraps around your entire throat, pulling you into a breathless kiss that has you moaning at his skilled tongue. You barely have time to collect yourself when he suddenly lifts you up by the waist, biceps flexing, and you widen as you're lifted impossibly high in the air and find yourself straddling his thick shoulders, his face now at the perfect height to bury his tongue into your dripping pussy right in front of him. Max! you squeal, utterly ruined by his impressive display of strength. You're desperately scrambling for purchase at the cabinets behind you, head banging back against the wall as he relentlessly thrusts his wicked tongue into your puffy folds.

And he only sets you down after you cum obediently all over greedy lips like he demands you to do, then gently carries your shaky form to the bedroom to show you multiple more examples of how you were just made to take him, truly the perfect girl for him, weren't you? You'd been too blissfully fucked out by that point to form a coherent response.

Needless to say, you find yourself caring very little next time strangers had anything to say about the way you looked, thanks to Max's hands on affections (he'd also taken you to therapy like the supportive boyfriend he was, bless him.) He'd quickly formed a personal favourite method to prove to you just how desperate he was for you and how you had the world champion in the palm of your hand, whenever he saw that look flicker into your eyes from time to time. He'd take you back home, make you undress yourself for his hungry gaze, then lift you up into his arms, folding your thighs up against your waist from where he held them. You’d moan as he slid into you, bouncing your whole body onto his hard cock like you were a ragdoll, making you scream his name endlessly as he fucked you mid-air.

And sometimes, when he was feeling particularly possessive, he'd flip you around, pressing your back to his toned chest, as he made you watch with him in the mirror how he obscenely slid in and out of your dripping pussy. Whispering in your ear that see, like he had told you, he had such good taste, don't I, schat? And as you met his heated gaze through the reflective surface, clenching around him when you saw the pure love and raw desire in his eyes, you couldn't help but agree.

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A/N: guys can you guess I have a thing for boys who are big. Big boys, if you well. Someone just let me sit on Max’s lap goddamn 💸💸 as always lmk what you think and if u have any requests!!