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[spearheadau01]

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[mv1simp]

requested : dark mafia max!!

Devilish ♥️

Mafia!Max Verstappen x Reader

Girl who you tryna call, it’s a quarter past four, can’t nobody hear you scream right now

The Leeuw of Holland - or Mad Max, as he was referred to in his teen years - is well known for establishing his father's control over most of Eastern Europe. No one would dare to stand up to him for fear of losing their head - until you, the sweet daughter and lawyer of Monaco's mayor - who's determined to protect her small city from the Verstappen familia by putting the Leeuw behind bars.

Leeuw = Lion in Dutch

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, mafia boss! Max falls for mayor’s daughter! Reader, reader is also a boss ass bitch, kidnapping, violence, explicit mention of murder/dead bodies/mutilation, nothing towards reader cuz maxie is a simp 🥰 9.5k WC omg my longest yet

You feel a shiver run up the back of your spine from where you stand in the high court. Knowing exactly who’s dark gaze is raking down your body, taking in your small figure that's stylishly dressed in a tight Chanel dress and matching heels, you deliberately keep your gaze fixed forward. The judge looks like he's about to have a heart attack, sweat dripping down his forehead as he glances back and forth between you - the fiercely passionate lawyer who'd presented the numerous charges on behalf of her father, the Mayor of Monaco - and to the tall, Dutch man who sat watching you with a cocky smirk. The blonde’s large thighs spread wide and the Leeuw of Holland, as he was famously named, looked far too calm for a man who'd just had 76 counts of murder brought forward against him.

You'd had no idea who the Dutch Lion was when you two had first met. You'd just returned with your law degree from college in America, only to find things in a state of disarray in the idyllic city of Monaco. Your father had always struggled to maintain his citizen's safety as the Mayor as the neighbouring Leclerc and Sainz familias battled for territory - but in your absence the now established, much bloodthirstier Verstappen familia had seized control of the profitable area. Monaco's location served as prime real estate to ship all the drugs and black money a criminal could wish for to the rest of Eastern Europe, and Jos Verstappen had personally sent his own son and underboss - Mad Max - to secure your father’s territory.

You'd head rumours, of course, even all the way abroad in the States, of this Verstappen heir. He was known for his rage and callous violence that earned his nickname, the perfect hitman for his cold, calculating father. You’d thanked your lucky stars you had never come face to face with him, because you were sure he would kill you - or worse, you think with a shudder - if he came across the Mayor of Monaco’s daughter. But after coming back home for the last two months and finding things in such upheaval, you became more determined to do right by your family’s citizens. Your mother - who had passed away when you were young, at the hands of a Sainz thug - had been very passionate about helping those who couldn’t protect themselves, so you always lived your life in a way you knew she would be proud of.

So that’s why you spent endless days poring over the city’s legislature and laws, overturning laws that had made civilian’s finances and livelihoods hard and submitting proposal after proposal of new laws that were severely harsh on crime. The locals quickly noticed the change from the Mayor’s office, and you became idolised as Monaco’s princessa.

Your father, bless him, although his heart was always in the right place, he had gotten too old to go head to head with the gangs, choosing to bargain with the gangs instead and buy his citizen’s safety that way. You argued that it was only a matter of time before Jos Verstappen showed up at your family’s doorstep to demand more and more from the city of Monaco - until he owned it himself. You were determined to catch him, or even better - catch his son, the one who’d inherit the Verstappen empire, and put a stop to this rapidly expanding mafia before it grew out of control. Your dedication to do right by your people inspired your father to once again champion for the safety of his city.

And for a while, everything seemed to be flowing smoothly. You’d set up many a new school, local trade centres and businesses, and even medical clinics by using money redirected from paying off the gangs to keep your citizens safe. Life was thriving for the first time in a decade in Monaco. You’d even found your own small peaceful spot of solace in the chaotic city, behind one of your new clinics where a collection of streetcats would assemble. You fed them dutifully, coming daily in your lunch breaks and laughing delightedly when you saw one of them had kittens. But one day when you’d been late due to a court hearing, you’d been surprised to see that the cats had already been happily munching on some freshly ground tuna meat. It was good quality too, very expensive to come by these days, your keen eye noted from being born into the luxury of a Mayor’s daughter. You smiled sweetly and fondly patted the purring cats’ ears. Someone else found you too adorable to resist too, hmm?

From then on, whenever you’d come feed the cats, you’d always look around curiously, wanting to see if you could find that person - but you never did. And then, one day, you stumbled across an impossibly cute scene of a tall blond man, clearly broad shouldered and muscular even though he was casually dressed in a hoodie and jeans. He was warmly laughing as he held one of the cats in his arms while another yowled at his legs, wanting to also be picked up. Oh! You clapped your red manicured hands excitedly as you ran over, all sense of stranger danger forgotten as canoodling with streetcats wasn’t really a common mafia thug activity. The man’s head had slightly tilted towards you as soon as you had appeared on the other end of the street, but he turned to greet you fully as the sound of your dainty Chanel heels clicks against the pavement. You’d energetically started talking about how nice it was to finally meet whoever had been spoiling the cats, wasn’t it so cute how there were even kittens now? But when you finally drew your eyes away from the purring feline in his thick arms, you couldn’t help but blush at the curious blue-eyed gaze on his handsome face.

You introduced yourself, apologising for being rude, and after setting down the cat, he took your small hand in his own much large, warm palm. You flushed again as he raised it to his lips, leaving a gently kiss in a very traditional Monaco fashion, introducing himself as Emilian. You formed a quick friendship with him, eager to talk to someone your age after spending so much time with stuffy politicians all day. You find yourself excited to run into the gorgeous blonde on your lunch breaks, to laugh about some of the playfights you’d witnessed between the cats, or other times talk passionately about the current state of government affairs. Emilian, like many of the jaded younger generation, held a strong disdain for your father’s office and its weak position towards protecting citizens. In a somber moment you’d both realised you’d lost your mothers to the hands of the Sainz familia. But you passionately argued for your cause, remaining fiercely loyal to the goverment office of Monaco, spending your lunch hour easily talking about the many legal and restructuring plans you’d been working with the council to establish that had already improved so many household’s livelihoods. Emilian couldn’t help but quirk his attractive lips as he leaned a head on his palm, content to watch you animatedly talk for hours. The two of you sat across the waterfront, enjoying a late afternoon danish pasty in the lazy Monaco sun. When you’d turned the conversation to him, curiously asking what exactly he did, he dismissed it as per usual, vaguely mentioning something about working in the security business.

You eyed him suspiciously, imagining that like many young men in the area he’d turned to dabbling in underground business to support his family. It always started as selling the occasional party drug for profit or working as hired muscle for a night, sure, but you’d seen innocents with good hearts get sucked into the murderous world of gang violence too often. You definitely weren't just going to sit by and let someone as gentle and sweet as Emilian fall prey to it - the man had 3 separate albums on his phone dedicated to the stray cats, for God's sake! You told him this earnestly, even gently brushing your hand across his as you offered him a job as a bodyguard instead. Your father had been making more public appearances lately as the public perception grew positive of the Mayor’s office.

Emilian had hummed, contemplating, his gorgeous blue eyes glancing at where your small palm had grasped onto his much larger one. Then he’d reached across the cafe table to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, making a pretty blush spread across your caramel sun-kissed skin. So cute, he’d said, his lips quirking into a gentle smile. You promptly forgot all about what you’d been trying to convince him on as your eyes drifted down to his lips instead, the rising fluttering of romantic feelings swirling in your stomach. He’d gotten a phone call then and sighed, telling you he’d see you later, leaving after another kiss to your fingers. You’d pouted, feeling like you were crushing a lot harder on the handsome blonde than he was on you.

Next time when you met him, though, the only feeling you had was panic and fear as you saw him slumped against your stray cat’s alleyway, blood quickly oozing from a stab wound to his abdomen. You’d forced yourself to hold back a scream and avoid attracting attention in the quickly darkening evening, grabbing a hold of Emilian’s soft jumper and tugging him with you to your clinic. He’d held firm, far stronger than you even with a goddamn knife wound that was bleeding so much, oh my god-

He told you to leave, because whoever had done this was likely still in the vicinity, would see you two walking into the clinic and then would target you too. You hissed at him that he was crazy if he thought you would ever abandon him like that and if that’s what he was worried about you’d take the back alley route to your downtown apartment then! He’d finally given in, now looking paler from the blood loss and making you internally freak out. As you guided him into your cute 2nd floor apartment, all warm lighting and trailing pot plants, he smirked and murmured that if this was all it took to get you to invite him back to your place, he’d have gotten stabbed a lot sooner.

Shut up, you’d blushed, setting him down on your bathroom floor and grabbing your extensive first aid kit. Secretly though, you were glad that he still felt well enough to make jokes like that. You miss how his ice blue eyes intently watch you compress his wound, relieved that it hadn’t gone too deep into his body to injure his organs, and biting your lip with concentration as you slowly stitched the wound. Later, when you’d been nursing a glass of whiskey to settle your nerves, your many lamps casting a glow across your face, you’d answered his questions about how you learnt to fix an injury. You told him about how powerless you’d felt when you’d seen your mother be stabbed to death in front of you, how your child sized hands couldn’t stop the bleeding and you had never wanted to feel so useless ever again.

You hadn’t realized your mind had wandered back to that memory, triggered by Emilian’s own blood that you’d scrubbed thrice over from your own hands tonight. When you felt his warm hand run across your clenched ones, soothing the tension, your for eyes focused back to look at his contemplative gaze. You’d never thought you’d see the handsome man sitting in your apartment like this, now shirtless as you’d thrown his bloodied one away. You averted your gaze, suddenly feeling shy despite the desire coursing through you, secretly glad he had declined your offer of your pink pastel knit to cover up with so you could enjoy the view of his broad, muscled shoulders.

Tilting your head back up to look at him, Emilian murmured that he was indebted to you, that you would always be under his protection. His words send a flutter through your heart, although frankly you're not sure how he was meant to protect you when you were the one with access to security resources as the Mayor's daughter. But still, his words have an undertone of assured confidence to them and you find your eyes drifted down to his lips again. You're ecstatic when he breaks the tension and finally leans in, giving you what you'd been wanting for a few weeks now as he captures your lips in a passionate kiss. He definitely knows what he’s doing, and soon you're sweetly moaning into his mouth and grinding onto his skilled, thick fingers that have slipped into your jeans and pulled your panties to the side. He brings you to bliss within minutes, and you can't resist pressing yourself closer to him as you come down from your high. You want to make him feel good, too, but your hands accidentally brush against his stab wound and you don't miss his low, painful hiss. Pulling back immediately, you apologise profusely, worriedly looking over his bandages again to make sure there was no bleeding. He chuckles, telling you he was fine, you were very welcome to continue?

Flushing, you told him that you'd had a slip in judgement and were not going to put his already hurt body through any more accidental pain tonight. He pouted rather cutely as you stood up, grabbing some spare blankets and pillows for him to stay on the couch. Not having your hands on him was far more painful than the stab wound, he says teasingly, making you blush. You felt a little embarrassed at how quickly things had progressed tonight, unable to keep your head on straight around the handsome tall Blonde in front of you. You give him a firm goodnight, but just before you enter your bedroom, you turn to shyly tell him that you’d like to return the favour and make him feel good when he had healed. Grinning at your cute, blushing face, Emilian’s ocean look eyes look at you fondly as he lowly murmurs that he’ll look forward to it, shcatje.

That night you dream about handsome men in mysterious alleyways, who pin you to the wall and pepper your neck with soft kisses that turn hungrier and hungrier. You’re gasping and asking for more, please, please as his strong hands roughly palm your ass, your tits-

You wake with a start in your now empty apartment, Emilian’s name on your lips. Late morning light floods through your windows as you curiously notice the empty sofa, where a blanket is neatly folded up. Your face brightens when you see a note, that reads sorry I left without a goodbye kiss, schatje, the cats were getting possessive.

Rolling your eyes at his usual mysterious antics, you toss his note into the bin. But you’re humming as you went about your morning routine, buzzing with excitement at the thought of seeing the attractive blonde later on. But oddly, Emilian hasn’t been in your usual spot that afternoon, and you look around with concern as the cats meow at your feet, wanting to be fed. When he isn’t there the next day either, or the day after, you’ve started to get very worried now, wondering if something had gone wrong with his wound or worse - the man who had stabbed him had decided to retaliate with more gang members this time. You’d been thinking about it so much that you decide to the police station that day and asking the chief to look for the Dutchman who's found his way into your heart.

It turns out that Emilian’s safety was not something you needed to be concerned with. Because the one who has been in danger was not the mysterious blonde, but instead you, who had unknowingly caught the attention of many mafioso in the area by protecting him. You realised this when you came home from your visit to the police station, only to find your front door unlocked. You'd barely taken a step inside when you’re pushed against the wall by a heavily pierced man you’d never see before. The mocking silver pendant that he wore around his neck, of a horse rearing, signified his alliance with the LeClerc familia. You’d been unable to control the tears running down your face when he'd painfully begun choking you, demanding to know where the hell Max was. When you’d tried to tell them you had no clue what he was referring to, he just tightened his harsh grip on you to slam you against the wall again. You cry out in pain, bruises already forming along your delicate hands from the intruder's grip, as you keep trying to plead and explain you didn't know who they were talking about. A part of you knew there must be some link between this Max they were looking for, and your Emilian - but you sure as hell were not going to tell these criminals a single thing.

You swallow your fear and try to bargain with them, offering money, access to shipping resources, security - all things you could provide in your role as the mayor's daughter, you insisted. But they laughed it off, confusing you when they said currently, you were the most sought after bargaining chip for the gangs in Southern Europe. And everything had faded to black then, after one of them pressed an acidic smelling cloth over your nose.

When you woke up, hours later and with a pounding head, you're in an unfamiliar room. You groggily sit up, and find yourself instantly alarmed by the thick ropes tied tightly around your wrists. At least they hadn't tied your legs, too, you think with relief, sitting up in the dark room - only to come eye to eye with the barrel of a gun. Ah, that explained it - apparently they thought you were such a precious commodity they'd assigned someone to literally guard you with a gun. You're still confused, unsure why suddenly these street criminals seem interested in kidnapping the Mayor's daughter. Everyone knew who really held the power in Monaco - the Verstappen familia.

You get your answer then, when the sound of gunshots start filling the air from outside your room. You look up in alarm, and your guard eyes the door warily. He growls at you to not to move an inch as he leaves to go investigate, closing the door behind him. You flinch as more and more gunshots fill the air, accompanied by screams and yells. And then, when it becomes eerily silent for minutes on end, you wonder if this is your chance to escape amidst whatever chaos was going on. You're nervously peering around the hallways, finding yourself in a creepy, abandoned looking mansion - somewhere probably on the outskirts of the Monaco township, if you had to guess. Moonlight is the only thing lighting the way as you try to quietly navigate your way out of the winding hallways. It's strange, there had been so any gunshots but you had yet to see a single person anywhere-

And that's where you saw it, around the next corner. Scattered haphazardly throughout the hallway, illuminated by moonlight shining through the large window, lay body after body, all freshly dead with expressions of terror still on their faces. And then, soft murmurs from the opposite end of the hallways, as three men rounded it - and you finally find your missing Dutchman. Emilian? You whisper breathlessly, half reassured to find him alive and half confused at what he was doing inside a property that clearly belonged to the LeClercs. He stops abruptly, halting the two men behind him as he stares at you with a look of pure relief. He was dressed so differently to his usual casual attire, too, with his blond locks slicked back, wearing a fitted white shirt and dress pants, and an expensive looking black overcoat that highlighted his tall, broad frame. You'd looked puzzled at the large watch on his wrist - a renowned luxury brand you recognised from the many elite charity galas you'd attended. Well out of the yearly income someone like Emilian would make in...what had he said? Security?

You're so perplexed at the sudden appearance of the half a million Euro worth watch that you don't even notice the sleek gun in his hand, until he's raising it up and pointing it straight at you. Don't move, schatje, he murmurs, his deep voice carrying across the hallway. And those ocean blue eyes of his that you'd fallen in love with were now ice cold, without a trace of any human emotion behind them. Your own doe eyes widen in fear, tears gathering, because you have no idea who the man standing in front of you is, just who you’d fallen in love with - and now he's going to kill you. You don't even get time to flinch when he's pulling the trigger. But to your surprise the bullet never hits you. Instead, you hear a thump behind you - and turn to see a body fall to the ground, his own gun that had been raised towards you clattering across the floor.

You'd stood frozen in fear, silently shaking and willing yourself not to pass out from the sheer amount of blood that pooled onto the floor, staining your pretty white Chanel heels. And then a tall figure is at your side, guiding you away from the horrifying sight with a large palm in the small of your back. His warm hands making quick work of the ropes that still bind your hands. His familiar voice is murmuring to you gently that you he was here, you’re safe now, schat and no one was going to hurt you again. You’re finally pulled out of your frozen shock when you feel his touch. You look down at large palms softly rubbing the red marks on your skin from where the rope had dug into your skin.

You're outside now, standing in the moonlit gravel in front of the eerie mansion, with an equally haunted looking garden around you. The chill of the night time air helps you start clarifying your racing thoughts. I don’t think Emilian is your real name, you begin. And for a casual security hire to wear a Patek Philippe watch...who are you, really? You finally ask, your voice surprisingly firm despite fear coursing through your veins. He sighs, draping his thick black overcoat over your shaking figure, the clothing completely dwarfing you.

You’re a very smart woman, liefje, he murmurs lowly, his intense gaze studying your face. He tells you that he's sure you've probably already figured it out by now. Releasing a deep breath, you recount his Dutch origins, clear as day in his deep accented voice and blonde locks, and the fact that he obviously had an established presence in one of the mafioso gangs. Most likely the Verstappen familia, then. He was high up enough to have command of his own group of men, the ones you now spotted through various windows, no doubt cleaning up the piles of dead bodies in the house. He watches you with a small grin on his face, enjoying how even if this frightening situation you were able to gather evidence and form a logical conclusion. And when you told him your theory - that he was not Emilian but Nicolas Hulkenberg, left hand man to Jos Verstappen, he chuckled, telling you almost fondly that you were so close. He was in the Verstappen family, and he was high up in the chain of command - but Nico's my cousin. He'd probably have a hissy fit at being confused with me, the handsome blonde in front of you mused. The new information sends a jolt through you, because even though your knowledge of the gangs is not extensive, if this man was Nicolas Hulkenberg's cousin, then...

Max Verstappen. Your breathless voice gives away the fear rising within you as your doe eyes widen in shock. You instinctively take a step back as the infamous underboss of the Verstappen familia takes a step closer to you, tilting his head like a lion eyeing up his prey, looking very much like the Dutch Leeuw he’s famously named for. Max Emilian Verstappen, he corrects, saying that most people didn't know the middle name - making it a useful nickname in public.

It's certainly more discreet than Mad Max, you reply hotly, rage and betrayal now replacing your earlier fear as you realise just how deceived you'd been. The man standing in front of you was no innocent citizen, or anyone to be protected. No - he was set to inherit the richest and most powerful gang family in the continent. Max's ice blue eyes narrow at your hurt expression, at the tears that are now running down your cheeks as you tell him what as absolute psychopath he was, to use and manipulate you into helping him, just because - you gasp, sobbing uncontrollably now - just because I'm the mayor's daughter? And you wanted to know about my redevelopment plans!? Max's heart aches at seeing you so upset, and he softly tells you it wasn't meant to be like this, you weren't meant to find out so unexpectedly. All of the heated looks and sweet words he’d spoken to you were real, because he’d fallen in love with you, too. But those Leclerc bastards had gotten their hands on you, wanting a bargaining chip and thinking you were something disposable to be used and tied up - A dark expression has taken over Max’s face now, storm clouds in his steely eyes. He'd let your captors off far too easily, he says menacingly. A shiver runs through you as you remember that the man standing in front of you had earned his title not just through family blood, but with his status of a deadly hitman with the highest kill rate this side of the globe.

Well, never mind, he drawls nonchalantly, his observant gaze not missing the fear in your sweet doe eyes that you tried desperately to supress. He was sure the Leclercs had gotten the message that you were not someone they could touch so casually. You were under Max’s personal protection, after all - he was indebted to you. Like he predicted, your Monegasque pride didn't take the offer from your political enemy kindly. You tell him to fuck off, Verstappen, you didn’t need his protections and he could just stay the hell away. He laughs at the fire in your brown eyes that’s returned in full force, glad you no longer had the lost, glassy stare he’d found you with earlier. Refusing to let him drive you home, you demand he hand over the keys to that S Class Mercedes parked in the driveway that you assumed was his, given the outrageous price tags and the bulletproof glass. He presents them to you with a smirk, watching you take off after shooting him a furious expression over your shoulder.

Of course, he wasn’t going to let you out of his sight ever again, not after you’d been hurt. You didn’t know about the guards he had assigned to you at all times, but you did receive a package a few days later. Unboxing the black and white designer wrapping, you tried to remember if you’d ordered something and forgotten about it. But when you see the identical Chanel heels you’d been wearing the night everything had happened, a new pair to replace your old, blood stained ones, you knew exactly who had sent them to you. You shove the box to the back of your closet and scowl as you continue about your research of collating the list of charges to bring against Max Verstappen.

So now, a month later, you see him for the first time since your kidnapping. It’s in the courtroom where you confidently list our your extensive evidence condemning the Leuw of Holland - who’s intense gaze you can feel raking over your well dressed form. You’re stunned when the judge, who’s sweated through his wig and gone through 3 jugs of water from all his nervous gulping, anxiously says that he finds the accused, Max Emilian Verstappen, not guilty. You knew that the Verstappens were powerful, had connections in every place and access to unlimited money - but to buy off the judge of the Monaco Supreme Court, really, Max? Have you no integrity? You hiss at him, much to the shock of onlookers as they see the Monaco Princess go toe to toe with the son of the Verstappen Familia. Good to see you too, schatje, the Dutch Lion croons at you, enjoying the frustrated blush on your face from his sweet nickname. Can’t say I’m a fan of going to jail for offing a few bastards, no. Besides, those Leclerc goons definitely deserved it for putting their hands on my woman. You gasp, stammering out your response as he catches you off guard. You were not his woman, and he had no right to call you that-

Sure, whatever you say, schat. He’d given you enough space - over a month, and he missed having you by his side every day. You’d gotten your revenge with this whole dramatic court case - one that he would never have allowed anyone to go so far with, slitting their carotids well before any court date was set. Now, it was time for Max to have his fun with you again, and this time he doesn’t have to hide behind the mystery facade. Wear that pretty little pink nightdress you wore for me that time I stayed over, hmm?

You flush prettily again, giving him a venomous glare before storming off. Cute, he thinks as your heels click on the marble floor. He admires the view of your lush ass in the tight pencil skirt you wore. He’s thinking about what colour lingerie he should have sent to you to match the heels you’d worn today, all dressed up for him - when the Mayor of Monaco approaches him. Your father looks very suspicious as he shuffled from side to side, asking Max if he would like to join him for a drink that evening.

Max watches him stoically, agreeing to a meeting only out of respect for him as your father. Otherwise, he wouldn’t care less about the puppet leader of Monaco. Everyone knew who the real power lay with, after all. So he isn't surprised when the pathetic excuse of the man who calls himself your father offers you up as a trade in exchange for the return of some of the power the Verstappens have stolen. Your father had heard the rumours of how infatuated the Verstappen heir had become with the Princess of Monaco - and was happy to just hand you over. A political marriage, of course, so that your father was guaranteed to have a familial link into the powerful new family. And if Max was no longer interested in you, then your father was sure there would be no shortage of buyers in the Leclerc and Sainz families who had become aware of the new princessa thrown into their game.

Max narrowed his ice blue eyes at the pitiful father figure in front of him, his attention finally caught with this new threat to your safety. And from your only living family member, no less - the one who you'd painstakingly resurrected from political ruin. God, the Mayor of Monaco was almost as bad as Jos. But then again, Jos had never pretended to be something he was not. Your father, on the other hand, was someone who you loved and cherished dearly. It would break your heart to see him hurt - even though he was now trying to sell you off to become a mafia bosses's wife without your knowledge.

Good thing your daughter got her fire from her mother, the Verstappen heir says coldly, his voice commanding enough that it makes the Mayor gulp nervously. Since her father clearly has no balls. Max doesn't respond well to threats - he much prefers making them, instead. And although he wanted to do nothing more than leave a bullet inside the Mayor's chest, he wouldn't touch your father out of respect for you.

So instead, when he gets word that evening of another secret hit out for you, he takes this as the oppurtunity to take you under his protection - permanently. He wouldn't allow your father to marry you off to one of the many ruthless mafiosos in the region. This time, the abduction attempt comes from the once powerful Hamilton-Rosberg family who were trying to restablish their hold after Max Verstappen himself had tobbled them from the inside. You'd impressed Max by fending off the first few attackers with the handgun you now kept at your bedside, injuring them but avoiding any critical areas as you ran out your fire escape. Good girl, Max thought with pride as his men relayed the situation to him over the phone. But you'd not expected the attackers waiting for you at the end of back alleyway. You were out of bullets, and closed your eyes in resignation as you prepared for what you were sure would be a nasty end...

When that infuriatingly attractive, confident Dutch voice appears at your side. Missed me, schatje? Max Verstappen makes quick work of the men who dared to attempt laying a hand on you. This time he rips one of their heart out, rather gruesomely, before shoving it inside the dead man's mouth. A very clear warning to all others who went after you again - since apparently the massacre at the Leclerc mansion had not been enough.

You're snifling and shaking when Max returns to your side, your back firmly to him to avoid seeing the horrific sight. And when he sighs softly again, draping his familiar, warm coat over our shoulders, you ask him if he was here to kill you, too. You'd realised that many of Max's enemy gangs had started to come after you, hoping to use your connection to the Verstappen heir against him. Of course, for a man as coldly efficient and powerful as Max - it made sense to eliminate any source of weakness to his status. But the enemy Dutch Lion you'd somehow fallen for suprises you once again. Brushing a stray curl behind your ear, and wiping away the tears now gathering in the corner of your wide eyes, Max gently murmurs No, schatje. He was going to marry you.

Shock courses through you, as you gasp at his unexpected confession. But then everything is going blurry, and the last thing you remember is his ocean blue eyes, looking into yours with their familiar warmth and intensity. The next time you wake up, you're in Max's private jet, somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea. You’re panicked, trying to angrily demand that he take you back, but whatever drugs he’d had given to you make your efforts futile. You’re slumping tiredly against his broad shoulders after a few minutes, his strong arms around you, falling into a deep sleep as he murmurs reassurances that he was doing this for your own protection.

And when you wake up again, he’s made sure that it’s goddamn near impossible for you to run away. Because he has you on a godforsaken large private island of the Sicilian Coast, a beautiful place surrounded by turquoise beaches and dotted with ancient temple ruins mixed in amongst trendy Italian boutiques. It’s the sort of place you would normally be enraptured by - but in the week you’ve been here you’ve been plotting escape attempt after attempt.

Of course, you’d argued with Max every night when he returned from whatever shady business he’d conducted during the day, taking his private plane. You put your law degree to good use with the heated debates over the dinner table as he watched you with an adoring grin, finding your ever present energy and passion captivating. It had made you flush and look away from his gorgeous eyes. You stabbed into the deliciously flavoured lobster pasta in front of you, hating how your stomach did backflips when Max looked at you in this way. Your heart and brain felt like they were at odds with one other constantly, torn between the gentle, cat loving Emilian you’d fallen in love with and this protective, commanding Max who you couldn’t deny your growing desire for. Confidence greatly suited the Dutch Leuw, who now came back to the mansion he kept you in dressed in a black suits and wristwatches that was no doubt worth the combined income of a middle class family. But at dinner, with just the two of you over the flickering candlelight each night, enjoying the Italian summer air, he’d be in those cozy soft tees and loose linen shirts you’d always liked because of how they showed off his broad arms. Meanwhile, you pointedly only wear the plainest and drab outfits you could find in the luxurious walk in closet you’d been given. You’d gotten shocked as you opened each drawer in the room, finding it filled to the brim with designer clothes and luxury bags and heels, all in your favourite brand and colours and with matching jewellery in gold - as if it had been curated specifically for your tastes. At least he had the decency to give you private living quarters, you supposed. One night over fresh seafood paella he teasingly asked if you didn’t like all the clothes he’d had ordered for you, schat, because he can have more delivered? You scathingly tell him to stop being such a stalker, did he even know how creepy it was to find all your favourite items in that closet when you’d never even told him about them?

Blue eyes darken at your bratty note, but you aren’t nervous of Max anymore - even through the Leuw of Holland had been notorious for terrorizing your hometown streets. You’d realised that for some reason or the other, you were more precious to him than you’d ever imagined. It made you hesitate and wonder if maybe there was some truth to the romantic feelings he’d confessed to having for you, the night of the Leclerc mansion bloodbath. Forgive me for wanting you to feel comfortable here, schatje Max responded coolly, drinking from his whiskey glass. You argue back that a girl couldn’t possibly feel comfortable if she was kidnapped and help captive by a man who had technically led to her family’s ruin. And if you expect me to get dressed up for you, so that you can have your way with me…you can forget it! You retort angrily, face flushing.

Now smirking into his palm, Max assures you that despite his reputation, he promises to be the perfect gentleman. He’d never lay a hand on you…not unless you begged him too, first. His cocky tone made it clear he thought you found him impossible to resist. The playful look in his gorgeous blue eyes makes you bite your plush lips as you remember the last time Max had placed his large palm on your very willing body in an intimate way. After all, you'd sounded so sweet when you kept moaning for more when you came on my fingers within minutes, remember schat? The blonde teases you, clearly also thinking back to the same night you were. Standing up abruptly, you hotly retort with a Last time, I'd also been asking for Emilian, not Max Verstappen, before dramatically flipping your thick curls and storming off. The Dutch Lion watches you go with an amused chuckle, once again enjoying the view of your curvy ass even despite the horrid pants you were wearing. Same man, schat! he calls out to your retreating back, to which you respond with a well mannered middle finger in the air.

Your game continues like this over the month. As the days pass, you start to become more relaxed with Max. You still get flashes of the cold eyed Mafioso heir when you catch him on the phone angrily discussing a business deal, or when you spot a fleck of red on his pristine white designer shirts when he returns from being out. But your heart gets confused when you also see the gentle and caring Emilian when he's with you, who chooses to make your favourite breakfast every morning despite the full staffing in his mansion, who feeds and walks the dogs he has running around his gardens and plays with the snarky housecats. And when you'd woken up in the middle of the night crying in terror from the memory of seeing all those bloodied dead men in the Leclerc mansion, Max had been the one to hear your cries and storm into your bedroom. He'd taken you into his broad, warm arms, and you'd buried your sobs in his neck as he murmured reassurances of how you were safe now, you had nothing to ever worry about with him at your side. When you'd woken up the next morning, finding Max's toned chest underneath your cheek from where you'd both fallen asleep in your bed, a bit of your drool on his shirt, your heart swirled with conflicting emotions. You hated how safe and protected you feel in his embrace, knowing that this domestic bliss lifestyle with one of the most handsome and richest men you've ever met was something he'd kidnapped you for.

Still though, as you get more comfortable, you negotiate for more freedom with Max. You're an excellent lawyer, and now that you were temporarily out of your political position, you were going crazy sitting inside the mansion or walking it's beautiful gardens everyday. Max hadn't allowed you to go anywhere else without him at your side, his intense gaze eyeing any potential threat that approached the pair of you. Not that anyone did - the aura the Dutch Lion radiates was so powerful you kept wondering just how you'd thought he was some soft-spoken young citizen needing your help and guidance. So when Max reluctantly agrees to let you go outside without him - it's with the rule of 5 trained bodyguards at all times, of course. You roll your eyes but let them trail behind you as you terrorise the multiple designer stores dotted on the large island with Max's black Amex. It was the least he could do considering he had basically abducted you, you think with a smirk, as you watch the total at just the jewellery store alone add up to over half a million Euro. The Verstappen security guards nervously sweat behind you.

However, their boss has no such qualms. Max lets you spend his money however you wanted, thinking you were finally starting to accept his offer of marriage and coming under his permanent protection. So you surprised him a few weeks later when you finally made an escape attempt. The island was actually much bigger than you'd initially thought, and you found there was a small population of a few thousand elite, rich Italians living on the other side. That's where you headed too that afternoon, having picked a day where Max was away on business. You escaped the watchful eye of your bodyguards and ran towards the first policeman you saw. Confessing that you'd been kidnapped, and you needed help urgently to get back to Monaco where your father was Mayor, you'd been relieved when they guided you into their policecar with concerned looks. You thought they were going to help get you on a plane back to your hometown - but to your shock they drive you back the Verstappen mansion. With a sinking feeling you realised that the influence your captor had went beyond anything you could have thought possible.

You had barely managed to get away for an hour - in fact, Max hadn't even landed back in the island yet. When he did arrive that evening, having been told by his men of what you'd attempted that day, he strides into his private living room to find you. He dismissed everyone standing guard, and for the first time since you'd come here you note that he actually looked annoyed with you. You shuffle your hips nervously, from where you're seated on the low chaise. To your embarrassment, the policemen had even put a pair of handcuffs on you that Max's guards hadn't bothered removing, and they clink noisily in your lap. The handsome blonde towers above your seated figure, tilting your face up with his firm hand as he glowers at you. He's angry, and he lets you know it, telling you how stupid it was of you to compromise your safety like this, did you even know how hard it had been for him to find out when he'd been 3 hours away by plane and couldn't protect you!? Logically, you know that you should feel terrified of having pissed off a cold hearted man like Max Verstappen. But you're tuning his words out, instead biting your bottom lip at seeing him get so passionate over you. You couldn't deny that despite everything, the man in front of you was so attractive with his muscular, tall build and gorgeous light features - just your type, and the object of many a dirty fantasy in the last few months. Even after you'd found out his true identity as a Verstappen - not that you'd ever admit it to him.

But of course, Max's keenly observant gaze doesn't miss a thing. He sees it all - the way you press your thighs together, the delicious thickness easy for him to enjoy with the ridiculously overpriced Prada miniskirt you're wearing. So tiny that at this angle, with his much taller height, he catches a glimpse of your white lace panties - which are soaked straight through to reveal your dripping pussy. He smirks, knowing there was a far more effective way to punish you now. He gets his confirmation when he leans down to huskily murmur in your ear how much of a bad girl you'd been, how he clearly needs to teach you a lesson, thoroughly, so you don't disobey him again. You blush prettily, tits heaving with the gasp you let out as your eyes become dazed thinking about finally letting Max have his way with you, giving up all control and letting him take over, would feel like - after months of agonising tension.

He has you right where he wants, and he doesn't let you forget his promise. Not until you're begging me to touch you, remember liefje? he whispers darkly, his lips barely brushing your forehead as he leaves you pouting in frustration to go take a shower. He'd figured you'd angrily brood over his teasing for a few days, but when he emerges from the bathroom, he finds you sitting on his bed. Max looks especially mouth watering in grey sweats and dripping wet, tousled blonde locks and his broad, muscular chest. Rubbing your plush thighs together again, you hold up your handcuffs, innocently telling him you were only here to get free, nothing else, of course! The raw strength he uses to break the cuffs open with just his large hands has you holding back a breathless whine. God, this man was so insanely attractive, and you weren't going to be able to resist him much longer.

That's why you play back at this teasing game, making sure he's watching you with narrowed blue eyes and crossed arms, biceps swollen, as you strut through the shared door to your own bedroom. You leave the door wide open as you rustle through one of the many overflowing drawers - picking out a sheer La Perla pink nightie with matching lace panties. And when you nonchalantly hum as you make your way back to his rooms, shutting the lights off and leaving the warm bedside lamps on, you slip into his inviting comforter. He watches your whole show with a clenched jaw and unamused expression, telling you that you were playing with fire, schat.

You bat your thick eyelashes at him innocently, tossing your dark curls over your shoulder as you deny any mischief. Just in case I get any nightmares, of course! He doesn't buy it for a second, but still reluctantly slides in next to you. You remain on your best behaviour, reading a novel you'd picked out and ignoring Max, who was trying his best to ignore the skimpy outfit he knew you had underneath the covers and focus on the budgeting spreadsheet open on his laptop. After all, mafia gangs still had to keep track of their finances.

And then, just when he lets his guard down for a second and is typing away, you begin your revenge. Your book is tossed to the side and your manicured hands are running over your sensitive body, squeezing your juicy tits and rubbing your aching cunt through the sheer lace. The Leuw of Holland is left powerless for the first time in his adult life as the covers fall away, exposing your tempting caramel skin, contrasting with the pretty pink lingerie he’d bought for you. Your brown doe eyes are half lidded with desire as you watch him swallow at the tempting display in front of him, his hungry eyes honing in on the way you played with yourself. When he asks you what the fuck you were doing, his voice low and deep, you tease him more by saying he'd never said anything about you not being able to touch yourself, right? Maybe you’d let him touch you, too, if he was the one begging-

He growls like a literal lion, then, making you giggle as he watches you with a desperate look in his eyes that’s making you even more turned on. He gives up when you slip the sheer fabric down over your tits, showcasing your pretty tanned nipples that pebbled in the night air. Liefje, he groans, pressing his lips to your thick curls and his large hand to a rapidly hardening erection, please let me touch you, let me take care of you…

His husky voice sends shivers down your already warm skin, and you can’t deny your need for him any longer either. Wrapping a delicate hand around his much bigger wrist, you slowly guide him over your body, making his intense gaze go dark with desire. You brush his thick fingers over your pink lips, where you teasingly flick your tongue out and make him groan, then down across your neck so he can admire how pretty you look with his hand as a choker, then over your bouncing tits as you breathe deeply. He can’t resist pinching a cute nipple, this time making you moan, but it’s still not where you need him most. And then you’re guiding him over your soft tummy, over your plush hips, and then-

Oh, fuck schatje. Max's intoxicating, accented voice moans into your ear, making you drip even more for him. You’re so wet for me, this sweet pussy needs me to take care of it so badly, hmmm? You whine breathlessly, nodding impatiently as his long fingers brush against your swollen cunny. You’re dripping through your skimpy panties, which are practically stuck to you now. The attractive blonde next to you has no inhibitions about manhandling you easily, ripping the scraps of lace off and tossing the ruined hundreds of Euros to the side. Bringing your slick cunt to his lips, he licks them attractively as he stares up at your blushing face with hungry eyes. You stammer nervously, never having been eaten out before, but he couldn’t care less. He dips his skilled tongue into your soaked pussy, inhaling in your addictive sweet scent as you gasp and moan. His strong hands lock your rocking hips in position as he fucks you with his broad tongue, lapping up the sweet juices your cunny gushes out for him. You’re in tears from how amazing it feels, especially when he buries his large nose or a thick finger knuckle deep, and soon you’re intertwining your pink nails in his blonde locks as he once again makes you scream in name in pure pleasure. This time though, he’s much more satisfied because you’re desperately moaning his real name. Oh, Max! Please!

Days later, when you and him have formed a legal agreement of sorts, where you accept his protection against the ongoing threat of rival gangs and he agrees to let you resume your legal career, you fly back to Monaco with him at your side. He slid a hefty diamond engagement ring onto your finger, and you’re still shocked by how pretty it looks, glimmering in the light. Still, it was only temporary, you had no plans to actually marry the man. A union between the Princess of Monaco and the all consuming Verstappen Mafia heir who’d been responsible for stripping her city of its livelihood was a cursed match!

So when you excitedly run straight to your father’s home when you land, the Verstappen bodyguards in tow as per their boss’s instructions. You fling the doors open, shouting for your papa. The mayor of Monaco looks up in shock, thrown back a bit when you jump into his arms and tell him you missed him dearly, had he been keeping safe? He’d delighted you are safe of course, and tells you so numerous times over dinner, and then later when you two are poring over the city redevelopment plans. You’d been away for over two months now, and a lot had to be caught up with in your absence.

But when he continues that really, when he’d made the offer to Max he’d half expected to never see you again - after all, the Dutch Leuw of Holland was known to be ruthless. When you freeze, papers falling from your hand as you look at him in shock, he realises that your fiancée had never actually disclosed to you the circumstances under which he’d decided to make you his wife.

This whole time I thought he’d kidnapped me, like a madman…but really he was protecting me from you, wasn’t he? Because you were ready to sell your daughter off to whatever man would be the highest bidder? None of the pathetic excuses that come out of your father's mouth are enough to fix the trust that had been broken. Your heart had broken that night, and you’d left your family home and vowed to never look back, tears running down your face. Max had taken one look at you and taken you into his comforting arms, shushing your cries and murmuring that you were not alone, he was your family now, his home was now yours as well. Or rather, multiple properties, it might be more appropriate to say.

This time, you willingly return to the darkness, and you accept his offer of marriage, of protection, and of partnership, and he takes yours delicate hand in his when you walk down the aisle in a beautiful cream gown that same month. Like your now husband had noted when he'd first met you, you were a smart woman, the perfect wife to the likes of the heir to the Verstappen mafia. You understood that if the reigning government council couldn't resist the criminal takeover, it would be better to join them instead. But not with the pathetic bribing the Mayor had done, comprising his citizen's safety and then his own daughter's.

No, your style was far more ambitious than his. You'd gotten your fire from your mother, after all. So when the Princessa of Monaco married the powerful Verstappen heir, your citizens hadn't known what to expect, rumours flying of the whole thing being a forced arrangement. But when you and Max have eliminated both your fathers out of the way and claimed the city of Monaco for yourselves, you're quick to resume it's political redevelopment and advances in healthcare and education whilst running the largest drug smuggling ring in Europe in the underground canals. You had to get the funding from somewhere, and driving neighbouring gang's businesses into the ground to support your own local one seems a good a cause as any. This time, under your partnership, it's done in a much safer way for your citizens, and you firmly believe the means justify the ends.

And time passes in the now flourishing city. The handsome Dutch Leeuw is often seen out for lunch by the beach, laughing with his beautiful new wife in his arms. The power couple of Monaco, your citizens say, admiring your union of the darkness and the light.

______________________________________________________________

A/N: WHEWWWW this was a long one my dearest readers I am so sorry for the wait life has been crazy!! was a bit overwhelmed with work but max winning the sprint was enough to revive me thank you for waiting! lmk what you think! dark max simps do not worry I have many garbage pieces coming your way hehe

[thef1diary]

hey pretty ! more ghost max is a need omg

- hi nonnie! Lemme fulfil your needs 🤭 moving takes a lot of effort and maybe messes with your memory a little. that’s why you had slowly lost all your panties…right? There was no other reason…right? 18+ content below

It started innocently enough—or so you thought. First, a pair of panties went missing from the laundry basket. Then another vanished from the drawer, and you chalked it up to your scattered mind. Life was busy, your routine chaotic, and it was easy to dismiss the losses as your own forgetfulness. But as the days passed, the pattern became impossible to ignore. One by one, your favorite pairs disappeared until the entire drawer felt barren.

You didn’t blame him at first, not really. After all, how could you? He never made his presence malicious and besides, wasn’t it more likely you’d misplaced them in the chaos of unpacking? At least, that was what you told yourself.

Until you found the stash.

It happened on an ordinary morning. You were rummaging in your closet, searching for a pair of flats, when your fingers brushed something soft yet jagged, buried behind the last row of shoes. Frowning, you pulled it free, and your breath caught in your throat.

Tattered lace, shredded cotton—your missing underwear reduced to scraps. You stared, your cheeks burning as you crouched down, hands trembling slightly as you unearthed the pile. Every pair you thought you’d misplaced was here, ripped apart as though someone—or something—had torn through them deliberately. The thought made your skin prickle, realization dawning in the pit of your stomach.

This wasn’t random. He’d been taking them, hiding them away, destroying them with purpose.

Your pulse quickened as you stood, the stash left untouched on the floor, heat rising in your cheeks as the truth settled over you. That explained why, today, you’d simply given up on finding them and gone without any flimsy fabric covering your cunt.

And it was then—standing there, bare beneath your skirt, your body tingling with a strange mix of embarrassment and anticipation—that you felt him.

A firm, unseen pressure brushed against your thigh, light at first, as though testing your reaction. You froze, your breath catching in your chest, before the touch grew bolder. Fingers—cool, yet achingly familiar—slid higher, parting your legs ever so slightly, teasing the sensitive skin there.

You gasped softly, heat pooling low in your belly as those lifeless touches found your slickness. Bare, wet, and exposed, you couldn’t stop the way your body shuddered when he dragged his fingers through your lips, slow and deliberate.

This is what he wanted.

The silent message was clear in every calculated stroke, his touch firm and unrelenting as he spread you open wider. One finger curled inside you, pressing against that perfect spot, while another flicked over your clit in lazy, torturous circles.

You should’ve been embarrassed, maybe even outraged, but instead, you let out a shaky breath, your lips curling into a wry smile. “Guess I should’ve taken the hint sooner,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Another stroke, another curl of his fingers, and you couldn’t help but part your legs wider, giving in completely to his unspoken demand.

Your body writhed against the invisible pressure, thighs trembling as his fingers delved deeper, coaxing you to the brink. You bit your lip, hands gripping the closet wall for support as waves of heat built in you, each stroke of his touch pulling you closer and closer to the edge.

And then it hit—a rush of release so intense it left you crying out, your body shaking as you came undone around him. Wetness spilled down your thighs, your chest heaving as you sagged against the wall, your legs too weak to hold you steady.

Now, you knew he liked you bare—his touch told you everything. And who were you to deny him?

want more ghost!max? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[nurse-floyd]

F1 and VO2 Max Training

(x)(x)(x)(x)(x)

What is VO2 Max Training and why do drivers do it?

VO2 Max is the maximum amount of oxygen the body absorbs during exercise and can measure aerobic fitness levels. VO2 = Volume of oxygen consumed by the body per minute - it is one of the strongest predicters of heart disease and death. It is the best measure of cardiac and respiratory fitness available.

VO2 is measured in ml (of oxygen) / kg (body mass) / minute

How much oxygen the body consumes - the amount of blood the heart pumps per minute and how much oxygen was taken from it.

Now...why do F1 drivers need this?

Drivers put extreme demand on their cardiovascular, respiratory and overall physical health during races. Their bodies are subjected to enormous amounts of g-force and experience extreme heat and stress. They need a lot of energy to do this and as a result can burn a lot of calories per race.

VO2 max training is a useful measurement to assess a drivers endurance at their maximum during exercise which they are subject to during a race. The strain they're under during a race would require their bodies to be pushed to the max, requiring optimal oxygen intake and energy production.

It can ensure drivers are fit enough to endure the stress they subject their bodies to despite the environment within the car - maximum speeds/ heat. It gives drivers and their teams a greater understanding of how hard they can push their bodies and also how they can further maximise their performance during races.

Want to know a bit more about the science? Read below.

Now the (more) science-y bit - oxygen is used in respiration and as you breathe in oxygen the lungs turn it into energy called ATP (adenosine triphosphate). This powers the cells and helps release the CO2 in the body that's created during respiration when you breathe out.

The greater a persons VO2 max, the more oxygen a body can consume and the more effectively the body can use this to create the maximum amount of ATP energy and the better the body can handle aerobic/ cardio exercise.

During the test the goal is to get to maximum exercise to determine max heart rate, vo2 max and an estimated lactate threshold. The test measures oxygen consumption and CO2 production using a mask to determine values. The goal is to run at a comfortable speed but not too comfortable for around 10 minutes to max out oxygen consumption and heart rate. During the test heart rate is measured using the ECG dots you can see on the chest.

The Fick Equation is used to calculate VO2.

VO2 (mls O2/ minute) = cardiac output (stroke volume x cardiac output) x arteriovenous oxygen difference (difference in O2 content between arterial and venous blood - how much O2 is used by tissues in systemic circulation).

So in short, VO2 is how much oxygen the body consumes - how much blood the heart pumps per minute and how much oxygen was taken from it.

[charlosvibesonly]

Racing Hearts - Part 5

pairing : max x fem! driver/reader

it's the race. no mistakes this time.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The dim light in the storage room painted shadows across Max's face as he cornered you, his presence looming. His eyes, once warm, now held a glint of intensity, and his hands, which once felt comforting, now gripped with an undeniable force. His gaze penetrated deep, and the room seemed to shrink with the weight of unspoken emotions.

"It's this headstrong nature of yours that I really like," Max uttered, his voice dropping into a low, serious tone. The compliment hung in the air, both sincere and unsettling.

"But we can't have two winners. You pull a foolish trick in the next race, and you will regret it," he whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine. The proximity, the seriousness in his eyes, left you momentarily breathless.

Then, as abruptly as he had cornered you, Max released his grip, letting you go. The door closed behind him, leaving you alone in the room. The echoes of his words lingered, and the contrast between the current tension and the shared bond of a few weeks ago felt like an emotional whiplash, almost breaking you down.

The Mexico Grand Prix loomed ahead. This was the race. No mistakes.

As you slid into the sleek cockpit, you caught Max's piercing gaze. His eyes, once warm, were now cold, sending a shiver down your spine. You couldn't afford to let his intensity unsettle you; the race demanded your full focus.

The lights dimmed, and the engines roared to life. The race commenced, the cars hurtling down the track in a synchronized dance of power and precision. Pit stops unfolded, tires screeched on asphalt, and the fierce competition played out in each carefully calculated maneuver.

The Mexico Grand Prix, notorious for its high-altitude challenges, became a theater of strategy and skill. The commentators narrated the unfolding drama, dissecting every move with fervor.

"Here in Mexico, the stakes are high, and the racers are relentless. Verstappen and Y/N are neck and neck, trading positions like seasoned gladiators."

The race progressed, each lap intensifying the struggle for supremacy. As the final laps approached, your heart raced with the anticipation of the imminent showdown. Max, fueled by the warning he'd delivered earlier, clung to your tail, ready to exploit any vulnerability.

Approaching the last lap, the tension reached its zenith. The commentary box crackled with excitement.

"This is it, folks! The Mexico Grand Prix has delivered an edge-of-the-seat experience. Y/N and Verstappen are on a collision course, the finish line drawing near. Hopefully, this race gives us our champion."

The cars thundered down the straight, and Max, with the aid of DRS, closed in. Wheel to wheel, the race entered a heart-stopping crescendo. 

In the cockpit, you held the steering wheel tightly with determination. Beside you, Max's car loomed, threatening to tip the scales with each passing second. The finish line lay ahead, a ribbon waiting to crown the victor. The crowd was on the edge of the seat.

Who could cross it first? 

[billlydear]

Hi ;) It's me again 😅 What about a fic where Reader has her periods and, you know, it's just Billy being there for her to help her get comfortable and taking care of her. 🥺 Maybe she is too embarassed to tell him at first but he notices she isn't feeling well so eventually reader tells him the truth to ease his worries. Like he doesn't get a damn thing about how periods work so maybe he goes to Max and asks her to give him some tips ? I know it's very scattered and a bit over the place, but I figured it would be very fluffy and sweet you know. 🤍 But of course you know best, so really if none of this inspires you be free to just ignore this 😅😂 Thank you so much ! Your fics make my shitty days better. 💕

MOODY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER

W.C 1165 - INBOX (please request !) - GIF CREDIT TO OWNER

A/N: I'm so happy that you like my writing! I hope you enjoy this, too, I'm sorry it's a bit late 😅

Max dreads the sound of Billy's heavy footfalls outside her door. They're light and stealthy when they need to be, but when no one else is home, Billy stomps around like a soldier.

She preps herself for an infuriating conversation before the door even opens, and when it does, it slams against the wall. It tries bouncing back, but Billy's arm stops it as he stands tall in her doorway.

"What?" She demands with narrowed eyes.

"You're a girl."

She fakes an incredulous glance down at her chest, "Oh my god. You're right! All this time, and I've never known."

"Cut it out." He snaps, eyes ablaze, "I mean, you're a girl. So you know how girls work."

"We're not all clones, y'know." She scoffs, "What, are you having trouble with Y/N?"

"Yes," Billy huffs, "She's in a mood."

"So? How am I supposed to help?" Max's nose scrunches, "She hasn't told me anything."

"Because you're always in a mood!" Billy finally crosses the threshold of her doorway, sitting on her bed even when she slams her feet against his leg to try and shove him off.

"Listen, I dunno what's wrong with her, she just gets off in her head or something, and she's all weepy and shit, 'real pissy. She refused to eat any of her lunch today just 'cause one of her chocolates melted and got onto her bag of chips. It wasn't even touching them, it was just on the package. And- and fuck, there's, like, no sex.

"Ew!" Max's mouth falls open, brows furrowing, "Gross! I- God, Billy. I mean, have you ever thought about asking her?" Max stares at Billy, unimpressed, "That usually helps."

"No, Maxine, I have not," Billy gripes, "Because it comes and goes. When I finally decide enough is enough, and I go to ask her, it is enough. She just goes back to normal."

"Well... Is it, like, a recurring thing, then? Like, every Friday or something? It could be a weekly quiz in a class she doesn't like, or a family dinner routine she's not thrilled about."

"Not even weekly," Billy muses, "It's, like, every couple of weeks or something. I dunno."

"Wait." Max finally folds the magazine she was reading shut, her fingers trapped inside to hold her place. She squints at Billy, "Your girlfriend has been getting pissy every few weeks, crying often, having intense mood swings for days at a time, and being... conservative with her body, and then like magic it just goes away one day?"

Billy calculates her words in his head, nodding silently.

"You're so stupid," Max guffaws, resuming her casual flip-through of a cosmopolitan she shouldn't have in the first place, "Go talk to your girlfriend, butt-brain. And whatever you do, don't act grossed-out."

--

"Spill." Billy demands, turning his head to stare at you where you sit in the passenger's seat.

"What?" You look over at him warily, "Spill what?"

"Whatever's making you all sad and shit," Billy waves a hand, and it hooks back onto the wheel despite not needing to. He's parked outside the movie theater, waiting for you to confess.

"I'm not- I'm not sad and shit, Billy." You promise, but the way your eyes widen momentarily makes him realize you're covering up, "Don't worry about it, okay? I got, like, no sleep last night. I'm just really tired."

"Yeah, well, I don't doubt that." Billy murmurs, running a thumb under your eyes. It catches the skin there, sensitive and baggy. "But there's something else. I.. I asked Max, and she said I should ask you."

"Oh." You supply lamely, cheeks burning at the thought of your boyfriend's younger sister knowing you're on your period. "Uh, it's really not anything super important, if you just wanna move on it'll be over in a few days."

"No," Billy shakes his head, curls flying, "I wanna know now. I'm trying to be supportive, don't you want to talk about it?"

"I- I appreciate that you're being supportive," You nearly cry, embarrassment flooding your chest that Billy takes as despair, "It's just.. kind of embarrassing? I'm- I'm on my period, okay? That's all. It's just making me a little crazy."

"Oh."

Billy, admittedly, does think it's gross. Not because of the whole misogynistic-natural-body-processes-are-gross type deal, but because he's only ever seen blood as a result of injuries like cuts, so thinking about it coming from your vagina makes his own parts ache, and not in a good way. Even if he knows you're not cut up down there, that it's natural and that the bloodshed itself doesn't hurt, it'll take a while to reprogram his brain's perception of blood. But he'll get over it, after all, you have to.

"O-kay," He drops one hand from the wheel, reaching out for your own that's laying limp in your lap. "So, like, walk me through this. My mom didn't stick around long enough to have any talks with me, and if Susan tried I'd kill myself."

"I just need to be sad sometimes, or- or irrational. Even if it seems silly to you, don't tell me that, it'll just make it worse. I have to get it out."

"Okay," He shrugs, "I already don't tell you when I think you're being silly, y'know. I'm not in the habit of insulting you."

"I know," You can't help the smile that curves soft over your face, "I just mean, like, stuff might seem really dumb sometimes. But just go with it, okay?"

"Okay." He repeats; a promise, "Oh- and, uh, sex is a no?"

"Big mess," You mumble, cheeks blazing, "Not worth it."

"Well- I think I'd like to be the judge of that," Billy stammers, "I don't mind a mess. I encourage it, actually."

"Not like this," You chuckle bashfully, "You do realize it'll get, like, on you, right? I'll just suck you off for the week, or something."

"That's not fair to you," His lips puff into a frown, "I don't care. Let's just do it, I can trash the sheets if it's really that bad."

"At least use a towel!' You groan, burying your burning cheeks in your hands. Billy isn't quite sure why you're so embarrassed by the prospect of bleeding on him. It's bound to happen eventually, he reasons, a leaky pad or a surprise visit, why not enjoy it?

"Towel. Smart." He grins, teeth shining bright under the dim streetlights outside the car, "So that's our plan, then?"

"That's our plan," You try concealing your smile when you lean in to kiss him, but it doesn't work, and instead you bump grins. He presses his lips to yours as best he can despite his smile, and you let your nose linger against his own for a second longer than you need to.

"Let's just make sure Max isn't home," You worry, but Billy's more preoccupied with peeling out of the parking lot and racing for home, "You owe her, big time for this one."

[fereldanwench]

A Personal, and Final, Reflection on A Certain Fandom

Having spent the past week and a half away from the Tumblr side of the C*b*rp*nk community after a resurgence of old wank (not hashing out the details–IYKYK), I heavily weighed the pros and cons of saying anything else. Ultimately, I decided for my own peace of mind and ability to fully move forward, I do want to say a few things (or a lot of things, given how long this is). This blog is my personal archive first and foremost, and I think writing a “final chapter” will help me find closure. I’m also choosing to publish this because, at the risk of sounding presumptuous, I think my mistakes and subsequent revelations might be good learning experiences for others, too. 

Like many of us, just by the nature of when this game was released, I entered this fandom during a very fragile, tumultuous time in my life–Well, sort of, let me back it up a little: I actually initially entered it during a great time in my life. It was July 2021, I had just enjoyed about 6 weeks off from work after quitting a demanding job that had sucked the life out of me for almost 10 years, and I had started a promising new job. I even bought the game with the first paycheck from said new job!

Unfortunately, while I had been told that this position was temp-to-hire, not only was it not a path to a permanent role, but because I completed all the work in my contract over a month sooner than they anticipated (early September vs late October), I was being let go early because they had nothing else for me to work on. I was literally told over the phone, “You did amazing work, you got us caught up through November, but we don’t have anything else for you.”

Cue about 6 months of recruiters ghosting me, exhausting interview processes, demoralizing rejections, and scam upon scam upon scam, all culminating in me returning to the job I had been so happy to leave a year earlier. And while my old coworkers were ecstatic to have me back, I couldn’t help but feel like a complete failure. I took what I thought was a calculated risk, I thought I could do something better for myself, and I couldn’t. It’s something I’m still struggling with today, honestly.

On top of this, I also experienced a debilitating physical health episode in January 2022 which led to me being effectively bedridden for about 3 weeks. [CW: Menstruation, sexual health] I’m not sure of the exact cause–maybe a bad reaction to emergency contraception, maybe unsafe menstrual underwear, but it resulted in menorrhagia so severe I fainted from blood loss. My insurance had literally just ended, another wave of COVID was hitting, and I didn’t want to risk getting infected sitting in an ER for hours only to rack up a few thousand in debt to get a blood transfusion. So rest, iron supplements, and lots of meat and spinach and orange juice was the best I could do.

All of this led to my world becoming very small. I wasn’t working, I could barely do my hobbies or see my local friends, and simple everyday tasks like showering drained me of all my energy. When I was stuck in bed and could barely keep my eyes open for more than a few hours at a time, gossip was a welcome, low-effort distraction from the physical pain and fear that I might either have to put myself in thousands of dollars of medical debt or risk lifelong damage (or worse) from the blood loss.

I also found myself having groups of friends in a way I’ve never experienced before. I’m extremely introverted (even online, though less so than IRL), I have social anxiety, and the handful of times I have been “in��� a group I was never really in it. I was always on the outskirts and usually just close to one or two people, max.

Regretfully, this set the stage for me to get caught up in the culture of rumors and speculation that permeates this fandom more than I think it has any other fandom I’ve been a part of.

Academically, I know about things like groupthink and tribalism, and I could see how those influenced the groups developing in the fandom, but I had no direct, personal experience with those phenomena. I think in conjunction with the other struggles I was dealing with, I ended up being incredibly susceptible to an us-versus-them mentality, which led me to feel justified in being unkind to people I knew had been unkind to my friends, even if deep down I knew what I was doing was antithetical to who I strive to be. 

I don’t share any of this for sympathy points or to smear anyone else or to avoid accountability–I still chose to act like an ass on a couple of occasions, and regardless of what I was going through, that was still inappropriate. I’m still responsible for my own behavior no matter what’s going on. 

But I do want to contextualize my fuck-ups for two reasons:

The first reason is ego-driven, full-stop. Not even gonna gloss it over. I can’t defend being an asshole nor do I want to, but I think it’s normal and healthy to look back on your mistakes and go, damn, why the hell was I acting like this? 

Even on my best days, I can be very stubborn and self-important and pedantic and judgemental, and I certainly can’t say that I’ve never inadvertently offended someone–Sometimes a joke might not land as I hoped. Sometimes I get tangled up in my own thoughts, burdened by an excess of nuance and details, and I express things poorly while I try to account for all sides of things. Sometimes I can get a little too opinionated about blorbo stuff. Sometimes there might just be a full communication breakdown or an insurmountable personality clash–But I can also confidently say that I have acted with good intentions in this fandom far, far more than I have with spite or because of petty rivalries.

And when I did get caught up in the drama and gossip and the wank? I was literally at the lowest point I’d been in a very, very long time. 

Again, because I feel like I can’t say this enough, that doesn’t make acting like a dick in a Discord server any more excusable, that doesn’t mean I didn’t hurt anyone, and that doesn’t mean that someone I hurt during that time has to forgive me or stick around for me to grow. Hurting someone because you’re hurting is still not okay. But I’m pretty sure every single one of us has had a bad day (or two or three or 365 or–) and made an isolated bad decision (or two or three or–) because of it–None of us deserve to be wholly defined by those moments or denied a chance to learn from those mistakes and be better.

And I think the most important takeaway for me personally is that I have learned from these mistakes and I have not repeated them. Some of these mistakes even helped me realize that I needed professional support for my mental health, and they played a role in my seeking medication and therapy last year. I still have a lot of work to do, but the silver lining to all of this is that I am in a much better place today than I was 2 years ago (even if this year also fucking sucks for non-fandom reasons and I would still very much like a goddamn break.)

The other reason I wanted to share my journey of navel-gazing and healing a wounded ego ~*self-discovery*~ is I think there’s a very good chance my story might sound familiar to others in the fandom. Maybe someone else can learn from my hardships and mistakes, too. Maybe you too were dealing with chronic fatigue or mental health issues or financial stress or isolation or all of the above and then some, and it led you to fixate on things that were harmful to you, to form unhealthy relationships with equally hurt people, and to act in a way that you know doesn't reflect who you are. The past several years have been so hard on so many of us, and I think we’ve all brought a lot of pain and misery into the community even if we weren’t trying to.

A somewhat shameful realization I had last year was I could recognize that kind of behavior in other people, but I completely missed it in myself. I could see how people were making this fandom their whole world and how it was so damaging to them, but I was doing the exact same thing and I just let it go completely unchecked because I thought I knew better. It was a brutal lesson in the pitfalls of pride. 

--------

So I was initially thinking at this point, I would take the time to address a few specific lies, rumors, and insinuations that have been said about me over the past couple of years. Because while I was a jerk in a couple of situations, most of the things said about me are exaggerations, if not outright fabrications.

And I did start writing a lot of that out, but as I was doing it, I was just overcome with a huge feeling of OH MY GOD I just don’t fucking care anymore. As one of my dear, long-time fandom friends has pointed out, there’s a great line about just this kind of thing from one of my favorite characters in one of my favorite games: “Why should it [bother me]? They don’t know me. I know me.”

I also really don’t want to run the risk of pulling anyone back into the fray (especially if they’re not even in the fandom anymore or if we’ve talked privately about certain issues) by even alluding to shit that happened years ago.

Instead, I would like to offer three of my big takeaways from the experience of being falsely accused of awful things:

You do not know nearly as much as you think you know about people’s fandom relationships. The one semi-specific thing I will mention is that I had been explicitly named a few times as being in cahoots with people I don’t think I ever even spoke to or that I had already drifted away from–Just because you saw two people existing in the same public space doesn’t mean they’re besties, bestie. Also, friends don’t always have to agree with each other, nor should we be expected to participate in a public spectacle of shaming if we do have a disagreement. People are allowed to resolve their differences privately.  

Not all conflicts/disagreements are inherently abusive or toxic. When you are hurting or dealing with unresolved trauma or starting to confront uncomfortable truths about yourself, the slightest disagreement can feel like a personal attack, but that doesn’t mean it is. Sometimes differences might be irreconcilable, but sometimes they might not be if you don’t automatically assume the worst of someone with a different perspective than you. Sometimes we just need to give the other person a little grace and the benefit of the doubt that they’re doing their best. And sometimes we might need to consider that it’s actually our own behavior driving the conflict and not the other person.

Even in situations when someone has clearly been unfairly targeted/victimized, that doesn’t mean they can’t also be a perpetrator of harassment/abuse to someone else. Victim and abuser are not mutually exclusive roles. I would wager a lot of us are familiar with the cyclical nature of abuse, and to quote a line from one of my favorite movies (admittedly a bit of a flippant line in the context of the film, but it still rings true): hurt people hurt people. Accountability for shitty behavior is never conditional, regardless of the pain we’re experiencing. 

--------

I titled this my final reflection, and I want to clarify what that means:

First of all, I’m not leaving this fandom (don’t everyone clap at once ha ha ha). I’ve been in various online fandoms since the early 00s, and while this has been one of the more challenging communities for me to navigate, it’s not enough to make me give up something I love this much. My blorbos are my perpetual muses, and I feel like virtual photography is the creative outlet I’ve been searching for my entire life. I love this game and hobby too much to stop creating and sharing.

I’m also not leaving Tumblr. While I’ve had this specific account since 2016, I’ve been here since 2010–Tumblr is not just this fandom for me. I have many friends (some I’ve known since my original account in 2010!) from other fandoms, and I’m not losing the best place to hang out with other people who are special to me just because one fandom got a little unpleasant. (I mean, look, I weathered the DA fandom here circa 2012-2015–This ain’t my first rodeo.) I also have a lot of hope for the Tumblr Communities feature, and I’m really hoping the VP community we’ve set up can continue to grow and flourish.

But I am no longer addressing any of this wank. If you have a problem with something I’ve done or said to you and you want to address it with me directly (preferably in a private space just so we don’t keep putting this shit on people’s dashboards), I am open to conversation and apologizing where needed.

Otherwise, this is the last time I’m talking about it anywhere. Tumblr, Twitter, Discord, publicly, privately–I’m done. I’m washing my hands of it. I don’t want to hear anything else about what other people have done or who they’re friends with or who they’re following or what they’re saying about me or my friends or any of it. This bullshit has taken up too much of my time and energy, and I have very important smutty shots to take. 

And I am probably going to continue to be less active in the fandom on Tumblr, at least for a while. You probably won’t see me here much until September at the earliest. This time away has been really good for me, and I think I need to continue with limited Tumblring and making the time I am here more structured. Plus, with some of my other fave video game series returning this fall, my blog will probably shift back to a more well-balanced multi-fandom space. 

I’m also going to need to diversify my dash a little bit more, which means I will likely end up unfollowing some mutuals, particularly if we don’t interact often, if you don’t tag, or if I see any mention of fandom drama–It’s nothing personal, but I know breaking mutualship can hurt a little, so if following me after that makes you uncomfortable in any way, please don’t feel like you have to stick around. I totally get it. Similarly, if it would make you uncomfortable for me to continue to interact with your posts after unfollowing (because I probably will if you post in certain tags), please feel free to block me. 

Okay. Christ, that was long. Shut the fuck up already, right? This is why I can't do social media with character limits. ghdfjgjhkfdgkfdg

Seriously, though, that's it. People are welcome to comment on this post if they want, but I really have nothing else to say about any of this so please don’t be offended if I don’t reply. I’m not ignoring you, I’m just… Well, done.

[mickstart]

Hi! I don’t know if you still take Formula 1 asks but I was wondering after watching the Senna documentary, WHY ON EARTH everyone deems Senna better than Schumacher?!

Everyone always talks about Senna as the greatest, but he can’t be better than Michael Schumacher right? Or better than Fangio or Vettel, and definitely Hamilton.

Which I know Verstappen always says you can’t compare different eras but I can’t understand the hype around Senna,

I mean, personally, I prefer Prost because of how Jenson Button describes his driving style.

But I would like to understand though. I always like your input, so that’s why I’m asking. Thank you!

Have a lovely week!

Hey! yeah F1 will always be a part of my life so I'm always down for F1 asks. Fdfsjfdsghjds as for this it's a... complicated question. There's a lot of stuff going on.

So fair warning, this is going to be a long fucking answer.

For me personally, I totally agree with the argument that you really cannot compare different eras. Like, Max for example having more wins per season means Nothing when there are statistically more races per season. But then does this mean Fangio's statistic of winning the highest percentage of races per season is the real meaningful record, and it means he's better? Well, not in a way you can meaningfully prove, because fewer races per season means fewer chances to lose, or to have a mechanical problem, or a freak accident.

So you see really quickly how comparing different eras is like. Almost meaningless, because the skills needed in each era varied so much. It's not like a lot of other sports where the rules and structure were already consistent more than a hundred years ago and so it's easier to compare across a few decades. The physical demand an F1 race places on the body today would have been absolutely unthinkable to those drivers in the mid 20th century, even in the late 80s. They'd think it was a different sport entirely.

Like to me, The Greatest in F1 is about how they impact you personally. Michael is The Greatest and I don't feel any need to justify that by comparing his stats to others. It's about what he makes me feel in my chest, not his numbers.

And I think that's the crux of the issue w/ Senna. LOTS has been written about his driving style, his accomplishments, his determination. When Michael was peaking people were doing NASA level calculations to explain why Senna would actually always be better than Michael in numbers still. But I think some of that is people's personal attachment to both of them. Michael is a godlike figure to the tifosi and in German motorsport, and Senna is arguably an even more religious figure to Brazilians. Like I don't even feel right explaining here how much Senna means to some Brazilians because I know it is that deep of an emotion he brings out. He was a big donator to charities, he was a public figure representing Brazil on a global stage at a time the country was recovering from various crises. His funeral was enormous because he was arguably the biggest celebrity in the country.

And that mythical status spreads into motorsport as a whole. First of all because of his success, then because of how he himself weaved his religion into his racing - allegedly talking to god during the race and claiming God chose him to be a racer - then because of his rivalry with Prost, and then, finally, because of the impact a champion dying in an F1 race had on safety in F1 and across motorsport as a whole. Today we don't really appreciate how insane it was that F1 went from the death toll it had before Senna's death, to immediately going 20 years without a grand prix race killing a driver.

(Sidenote but I wish Ratzenberger's death didn't go ignored so often in this legacy and I can't talk about it without mentioning him for the sake of not letting his name go unsaid. Imola as a whole sparked change, not just Senna. It was too much tragedy in too short a timeframe for them to ignore it.)

Senna being "the last death" for such a long time only made his mythical status bigger. The religious wording he'd used about his own career, the way F1 (Brundle) tends to 'valorize' risk and danger, his popularity in Brazil, the mourning his death produced, it all pulled together to create something that's more legend than man. It became less a historical record of a real racer with numbers to his name and more a story about a doomed hero who died too young. When I was watching F1 as a kid - before Jules' death - Senna to me had this image of a martyr now guarding the racers in death and protecting them. That was sort of the 'vibe', I guess, that F1 liked to push.

(There's really something to be said about how Ferrari and Brazil and Italy and Catholicism shaped F1 into a religion with saints of its own I guess.)

Like, I wasn't alive when Senna was racing. I don't consider myself a spiritual person. I don't really even care about Senna, and frankly I know his personal life includes essentially an arranged marriage to an underage girl. But still, I hate it when we go racing at Imola. The whole track feels eerie to me, like it should be left alone, like we're disturbing something. I know that IS superstitious and I never let that feeling out, but it's in the back of my head. That's how strongly F1 has pushed Senna on the fans as a legend beyond questioning, and how it effects even someone who doesn't consider him the greatest and never has.

This ties back into people comparing him to Michael, I promise. I think a lot of the reason people do that, is actually that they're mourning that they never got a definitive answer to the question "Which one is better?" because Senna was killed before the championship could be settled. They try to find other ways to give an answer, to prove it, so they can feel satisfied, so they feel there WAS some sort of resolution to the question and it was just hidden.

But death isn't neat and tidy like hypothetical answers. It just happens. That's natural, and so is resisting the truth of it and the questions it leaves unanswered, or the gaps it leaves in our lives. Senna is framed like a story - F1 is framed like a story - and human nature is to give a story a conclusion with meaning that answers all of our questions - Senna was the best, Michael was the best, Lewis is the best, Fangio is the best, etc - not... nothingness. Not a sudden and abrupt ending to a young life that had nothing to do with the story he was carving out. So Senna's death becomes the turning point for safety in F1, the answer to the question of 'the greatest' becomes something that has already been given, and we create whatever proof we needed to simplify these things down.

In reality, F1 went 20 years without a death from a grand prix because of luck, swift action, and the tireless work of many, many individuals. Stewart, Watkins, Lauda, the drivers who reformed the GPDA after Senna's death and had it up and running by the next race, the people who redesigned Imola to be safer, the FIA circuit grading system, the track marshalls, the medical staff, and hundreds more.

In reality, there is no definitive greatest, and if there is, if we can somehow prove it via mathematics, very few statistics are on Senna's side.

But like. For all that we live in reality, that doesn't inform how we perceive it. When Michael equalled one of Senna's records he broke down crying, and for the rest of his career he always said Senna was the greatest without pause. I'm pretty sure Lewis himself still holds Senna up as the greatest. Because at the end of the day that title isn't something that can be 'proven' to some people, me included. It's not actually about records or statistics or proof. It's about who makes you feel like an awed little kid watching a very brave man in a very fast car.

People don't like to admit that though. People like to be right, and they like it even more when the thing they're right about makes them part of a group. (Senna Fans, Schumi Fans, Hamilton Fans.)

For me personally though, I never like to argue or debate about who is the 'best'. I know nobody will ever change my mind about Schumi, and frankly I don't want to change anyone else's mind about who the 'best' is, and as soon as the conversation starts it always ends up becoming about doing one of those things. I don't see the appeal of it. If someone out there is convinced Maldonado would be a 10 time WDC if he had been in a good car then fine, fuck, sure. You keep believing that.

Sorry. I've rambled a lot and this became more a general treatise on What It Means To Be The Greatest and How Sport Becomes Folklore than an answer to your question. I just didn't feel I could answer without Getting Into It. I hope I've kept this respectful to the drivers of the sport, and it hasn't felt like me lecturing you when I just got super carried away with my theories sfdghfsdhg

TL;DR - I don't think Senna is the greatest, but I think it's purely because of his legacy and myth.

[chrisbitchtree]

Billy knew he shouldn’t have gone to the fucking Byers for their stupid annual end of school year party. It was apparently an even bigger deal than usual this year because Jonathan had just graduated. They were going to have a water balloon fight, and cornhole and cheddar hot dogs, Billy’s favourite.

Almost a year after Starcourt, Billy was still working on not being an asshole to almost everyone around him, and socializing more. According to his therapist, it wasn’t healthy to sit around his trailer alone, only letting Max and Harrington visit him.

So when the two of them had teamed up and begged him to go, he’d relented quicker than he usually would. At least he could tell his therapist that he’d done something that she’d asked of him for once, if nothing else.

He’d had a better time than he’d thought, though. He’d won the water balloon fight, and it turned out that he and Harrington made a decent cornhole team. Only Hopper and El had beat them. Billy had eaten his full of cheddar dogs, breathing onion breath all over Max until she ran shrieking, and washed them down with shitty beer.

Mike Wheeler, the spoiled little shit had been gifted a video camera for his birthday in April, so Max had told Billy, trying hard to keep the jealously out of his voice, and he hadn’t tired of it yet, so he’d spent the whole night shoving it in everyone’s faces, as if he was interviewing them for the news, not documenting a night with friends.

Billy had shoved a hand over the lens, saying “no press” as he slid his sunglasses down over his eyes, and the girls had giggled at his lame joke as Wheeler went in search of his next victim.

Eventually, Wheeler must have gotten tired of lugging the thing around, because Billy found it abandoned next to a bowl of chips and some empty soda cans. Billy still has no clue what possessed him to do what he did next. He turned the camera on, focusing on Harrington standing next to the fire, showing El how to make a perfect s’more. She kept burning her marshmallows, but he wasn’t giving up.

That was the thing that Billy liked most about Harrington, after his perfect ass, that is. His unfailing kindness. He might act like a pissy bitch sometimes, but he was always there to offer a ride or a shoulder to cry on, sometimes literally in Billy’s experience, as he unraveled his complicated emotions about his life so far over beers at the quarry. He would skip the movies to help Mrs. Henderson in her garden, or he’d spend half an hour on s’mores lessons.

Eventually, Billy turned the camera on himself. “I hope you know how amazing you are, Steve. You’re not just hot, you’re sweet and you’re funny, you’re a genuinely good person. I think I’m falling for you, asshole. I know I can never tell you that, but I need to get it out.” He let out a large exhale, already feeling lighter with the confession. He went to join everyone at the fire, another beer for himself in one hand and another for Harrington in the other.

***

The light feeling inside Billy lasted until the next morning, when he sobered up enough to remember the fucking stupid confession he’d made the night before. In minutes, he was on the floor in front of the toilet, barfing up beer and s’mores and cheddar dogs. He couldn’t even be sure if it was panic or the overeating and alcohol that did it, but it was probably a mix of both.

Holy shit, what did he do? Talk to Wheeler, threaten to beat him up if he didn’t fork over the tape? What if he’d watched it already. Billy mentally calculated how much he thought it would cost to pay to get the tape from the asshole.

He was pacing his living room, trying to decide what to do, when there was a knock on his trailer door. What if it was Wheeler, there to demand cash already?

With shaking hands, he opened the door, and wasn’t surprised to find Mike Wheeler standing there, giving him a blank look. What did surprise him was the bag that he held out. Whatever was inside jangled when he handed it to Billy. Curious, Billy looked inside, finding what appeared to be about fifty smashed up chunks of videotape.

“Thought you might want that,” Wheeler said, shrugging, when Billy tried to speak and failed. “You’re not the only one trying to be less of an asshole, asshole. For the record, though. I think you should say something. I think he might surprise you.” And with that, he walked back down the steps and hopped on his bike, peddling away.

Huh. If Wheeler had done such a good job surprising Billy, maybe he should take his chances and see if someone else might surprise him too.

[unionizedwizard]

honestly i think nowadays Irma is spending most of her time in solution nine, which weirdly grew on her even though her first impression was... less than favorable lmao. three reasons:

1). she's currently developing the most severe energy drink addiction alexandria has ever seen (nobody should be able to consume that much Gimme Bat NutriZap! & cie without suffering adverse health consequences. some people are starting to get worried) (spiritually she is a grad student with a collection of empty monster energy cans in her room).

a). since she physically couldnt channel healing magic for most of her adventuring career (up entil post shb/pre ew), she had to rely pretty heavily on 1. carbuncle shields (which she made into a really efficient combat aid) 2. phoenix and its regenerative power 3. her original red mage rapier's contraption (original design and prototype by moenbryda!) which allowed her, through combat, to siphon and store enough aether for 2 to 3 vercures or one (1) verraise, at max capacity. less refined and efficient than actual healing magic, more like the equivalent of a defibrillator and finally

b). 4. various healing potions, enhancing tinctures, regenerative ointments, you name it. she eventually learned enough alchemy to make her supply by herself, though whether she actually joined the alchemists' guild is a bit of a mystery. fun fact: she actually learned about the various alchemically-produced enhancing drugs, especially the illegal ones, and how to make them (which ingredients come into the process, that kind of thing) as part of her training at the arcanists' guild. you need to know about illegal contraband merchandise if you're going to find and seize it...

eventually, as the demands of her newfound position increased, as well as the level of responsibility involved, she boiled-frog'ed herself re: tolerance levels. nowadays only the most potent elixirs will have any noticeable effect on her.

however, energy tonics are (as of yet) an untapped potential, so they still work (even though she started taking the most potent versions pretty quickly). she was really surprised to see that "doping" (?) was a thing (??) and apparently banned (????) in the arcadion.

2) speaking of: the arcadion. she's in need of some outlet for all that pent-up energy and stress, the whole "saving the champions from turbonuclear soul cancer amd releasing stored souls" part is an added bonus but she'd have done it even without that part. the whole "it's not a fight to the DEATH death and is mostly entertainment" part is also rather new to her (she was aware of the concept of gladiatorial arenas obviously but this feels different, somehow)

also, she's pretty much stuck in hypervigilance mode and struggles to sleep (hence the redbull addiction, in part)

3) electrope. finally breaking her lifelong frustration with, and dislike of, magitech; FINALLY something she understands. FINALLY some arcanima material WOOOOOOO!! OBVIOUSLY aloalo is canon for her (thats what she's been doing before 7.0) (she's been spending so much time studying the glyphs that remain on the island. you have no idea) so she's conducting comparative research on electrope etchings and south seas calculations. back to the summoner main she's been all along <3

[spearheadau01]

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[wolfxplush]

Your Honey Under My Skin.

Max and Gary post? SHOCKER. Anyways I’m mentally ill (ANOTHER SHOCKER.)

Max stood in the dim hallway outside the abandoned classroom, his breathing shallow and erratic. The faint hum of the overhead lights buzzed in his ears, drowning out the distant echoes of students heading back to the dorms for the day. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the task Gary had laid before him. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, feeling like a mouse trapped in a maze, with no way out except through Gary’s test.

Gary stood only a few feet away, leaning casually against a locker, his arms crossed. He radiated an unsettling calm, a quiet authority that demanded obedience. His presence was almost otherworldly, the faint flicker of the fluorescent lights casting long shadows that danced across his face. His eyes, sharp and cold, glinted with that strange, knowing smile that always sent a shiver down Max's spine. He looked like he belonged to a higher plane, something untouchable, almost celestial. Max worshiped him for that. Every movement Gary made seemed deliberate, calculated, like the motion of a king watching his subjects from a throne. It made max feel smaller than he was.

Max couldn’t shake the feeling that Gary wasn’t like other people. Other people didn’t have this magnetic pull, this power that made every word feel like gospel. Max had heard stories about gods, about ancient beings that demanded sacrifices and loyalty. To him, Gary wasn’t so different. A god walking among mortals. And gods, Max knew, required proof of faith.

“You believe in me, don’t you, Max?” Gary’s voice, low and velvety, cut through the air like a blade. He didn’t need to raise his voice—every word, every syllable, felt like scripture to Max. It was the only sound in the suffocating silence of the empty hallway. Max’s legs trembled under the weight of Gary’s gaze, but he nodded fervently, unable to meet his eyes for too long without feeling like he was staring directly into the sun.

“I do,” Max whispered, his throat dry, his voice barely more than a breath. “More than anything.” Gary smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who knew their power, who held the world in their hands. “Then you’ll do as I say.”

Max swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go away. He knew what was coming. He’d heard the command before, but it had always been hypothetical, some test of loyalty that he thought Gary used to tease him, to see how far he was willing to go. But now, standing in the dim light with Gary’s eyes boring into him, Max knew this was real. This was the moment he’d been waiting for—the moment that would prove, once and for all, that he was worthy of Gary’s approval. A task that seemed so insignificant, and yet Gary persisted the blonde.

The task hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating: slip alcohol into Mr. Hattrick’s desk. Max felt his stomach churn at the thought. Mr. Hattrick was a strict, no-nonsense math teacher who always made Max’s life miserable. Every day felt like a battle, with Mr. Hattrick constantly calling on him, criticizing his answers, making snide remarks about his work. Max could already imagine the fallout—getting caught with alcohol on school grounds would be enough to destroy Mr. Hattrick’s reputation, maybe even cost him his job. It wasn’t just a prank—it was sabotage.

More importantly, it was about proving to Gary that Max would do anything—anything for his approval.

Gary took a step closer, his presence intoxicating. “It’s easy, Max. You’re overthinking it.” His voice dripped like honey, smooth and sweet, but with an undercurrent of something darker. “All you have to do is sneak in, put the bottle in his desk, and slip out. No one will suspect a thing. And I’ll know you’re truly loyal to me.”

Max’s head swam. He felt lightheaded, dizzy. The walls seemed to close in on him, his world narrowing to the space between him and Gary. Part of him wanted to refuse, to walk away and pretend this was all just some joke Gary wanted to pull on him. After all, costing a teacher their job? Max never worked a day in his life but even he knew the weight of one keeping a career. But another part—the bigger part longed to please Gary, to bask in the warmth of his approval. Gary wasn’t just some classmate. To Max, he was more than that. He was everything. He was a god. And gods required devotion.

“I... I’ll do it,” Max breathed, though his voice was barely audible. His legs felt weak, like they might give out beneath him, but Gary’s approving nod sent a jolt of energy through him, like a surge of power.

“I knew you would.” Gary’s smile widened, and he placed a hand on Max’s shoulder, his touch sending a wave of warmth through Max’s body. His hand lingered just a moment longer than it should have, as though Gary were granting him a divine blessing. “You’re special, Max. I don’t say that to anyone. But you… you understand me.”

Max’s heart soared at the words. He’d waited so long to hear them. His doubts melted away, replaced with an overwhelming need to fulfill Gary’s command, to prove himself worthy of the role Gary had bestowed upon him. Special. That word echoed in Max’s mind, over and over, filling him with a strange, manic energy.

Without another word, Max turned and crept toward Mr. Hattrick’s classroom. Each step felt heavy, his legs trembling beneath him, but the pull of Gary’s gaze was stronger than his fear. His hand shook as he reached for the door, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a boulder. But behind him, he felt Gary’s eyes, urging him forward.

The door creaked open. The classroom was dark, silent, save for the faint light filtering in through the windows. Desks sat in perfect rows, the scent of chalk dust lingering in the air. Max’s footsteps were barely a whisper on the tile floor as he made his way to Mr. Hattrick’s desk. His pulse raced in his ears, a steady, frantic drumbeat.

Max’s hands trembled as he reached for the drawer handle, his fingers twitching with hesitation. Was this really what Gary wanted? Was this really what would prove his loyalty?

A voice from the hallway broke his thoughts. “Max.”

Gary. His tone was soft but commanding, a reminder of what was at stake. Max’s resolve hardened. He pulled the drawer open slowly, the wood groaning softly in the silent room. With a trembling hand, he reached into his backpack, pulling out the small bottle of whiskey Gary had given him earlier. It felt cold in his hand, heavier than it should have been, like it was loaded with the weight of his decision.

Max placed the bottle carefully in the drawer, the gleaming label standing out against the papers and pens inside. His heart raced faster as he closed the drawer, his hands slick with sweat. The reality of what he had done hit him like a punch to the gut, but the thought of Gary’s approval made the fear … bearable.

He hurried back to the door, every step feeling like he was one inch closer to freedom. Gary was waiting, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as Max stepped out into the hallway. The light flickered overhead, casting shadows on Gary’s face, making his expression unreadable. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” A smirk playing at his teeth.

Max’s chest swelled with pride, his earlier fear vanishing in the glow of Gary’s approval. “I did it,” he murmured, a slight tremor in his voice. “For you.”

Gary nodded, his eyes softening in a way that made Max feel like he’d just received the most precious of blessings. “You’ve proven yourself today, Max. You’re one of the few who truly understands what it means to serve.”

Max felt the weight of those words settle deep inside him, like a sacred vow. He was one of the chosen. And he would do anything to keep it that way. As they walked down the hallway together, the school empty and quiet around them, Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d passed some divine test. Whatever came next, whatever Gary asked of him, he knew he would obey. Because Gary wasn’t just a friend. He was a god. And Max was his most loyal disciple.

I’m not sane.

[robfinancialtip]

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[batsplat]

On the one hand I definitely agree that Marc’s absence doesn’t take anything away from titles won but on the other I would absolutely understand if Joan and Fabio especially (Pecco less, I think… the bike… they all know about Honda beginning to fail, right? At some point ig you could say even a pre-Jerez Marc Marquez wouldn’t have ridden that to a championship and it is in Pecco’s best interest to put that point into 2022) would forever consider their titles borrowed off “luck” because I also think everyone ASSUMING if Jerez didn’t happen, Marc would have won 2020 and likely also 2021 isn’t exactly wrong. He won 3 whole races in 2021 (however he did that), that’s more than anyone else but Pecco and Fabio who finished second and first… as Max said, if is a stupid concept in sport, but the if in question is not a regular “if”, and the whole grid knows it. Hell, we are all aware that had Jerez been simply milder instead of the horror it became, Marc’s achievements would look different at this time… So that’s definitely very interesting to me, that any winning done in Marc’s continued absence from the top seems asterisked by the riders’ own attitudes. That him being on that Ducati this year helps, even a little, to alleviate a bitterness that seemed settled whenever he missed a race. It’s a true win only if you beat Marquez, because Marquez is the one to beat. I wonder if that’s what 2010 felt like to the then-grid, when Vale broke his leg… that winning didn’t even count properly, bc Valentino was not there to make it real.

yeah, listen, if marc had been uninjured in 2020, he would have won the title. I'm not arguing that bit, I'm saying it doesn't matter. marc's injury wasn't some kind of freak accident... it was unfortunate, but it was also unsurprising, and his comeback going wrong even more so. this is what you have to remember about sports but especially motorcycle racing: you are placing heavy demands on your body, and sometimes the excess demands are directly correlated to your success. in this post, there's some quotes from 2019 about how 'lucky' marc is... because he was crashing so so much outside of races to find the limit of the bike - and yet it didn't hurt his results (obviously he was still injured a lot, yearly off-season surgeries and all that). this was part of his approach and it was obviously a very successful one. and in some ways it is also one that was necessitated by the characteristics of that honda, which at this stage only he could tame... but it is true that if a lot of other riders crashed at that rate, they would've been considerably worse off, and it was a part of the process that allowed him to be so successful. and it did already make a lot of people very uneasy at the time, because it felt like eventually it just... had to go wrong. it's also worth noting that... yes, marc's achievements would look different if the injury hadn't been that bad. but the initial injury wasn't 'that bad' relatively speaking - it was his decision to come back that really fucked him over. I strongly believe he shouldn't have been allowed to race, but it was still his decision, and it was part of a tradition of ridiculously fast injury comebacks that had also helped make him so successful in past years (though fwiw this one immediately felt like a bad idea, zero hindsight needed I promise you). so let's put it like this: if you keep putting your body under incredible strain even by motogp standards to reach the level of success you do, and eventually your luck runs out, eventually you land badly on the wrong side of the risk/reward calculation... then how is it fair to say your competitors should be handed asterisks in your absence?

in 2018-19 everybody (including valentino) expected that marc would surpass valentino's titles. few expected him to last at the top of the sport for as long as valentino did. valentino during his prime crashed far far more rarely than marc did and was battering his body considerably less... for marc, there was always the question of how long this could last. he was punishing his body for his particular brand of brilliance, but this always had to be a trade-off. it wouldn't have been surprising if his career had ended through injury, though of course how 2020 played out still ended up being a shock. but!! at the end of the day, even without marc's particularly risky style of racing, you wouldn't need an asterisk. the comparison to 2010 is an interesting one, because you can tell that jorge was at times extremely eager and determined to stress that he wasn't just benefiting from valentino's absence. in the dorna-produced docu for his title, he emphasises that he was already leading the points when valentino broke his leg at the fourth race of the season... which is true, but a) valentino also wasn't leading the championship in the early stages of the two previous years either, and b) valentino was already managing injury. the eruption of that icelandic volcano meant motegi had to be rescheduled, which gave valentino the opportunity to go and get his shoulder injured in a motocross accident (again, for the question of training risk/reward see the post I linked to above). it was this injury that quite probably caused the next one... and troubled him more in late 2010 and early 2011 than the leg did. it also set off the chain of events that allowed jorge to gain ascendancy internally in yamaha, which is part of the reason why valentino decided to go to ducati and essentially took himself out of title contention for... well, two ducati years, and another year where he still wasn't quite up to speed on the yamaha. stop the volcano from erupting and motogp quite plausibly looks very different for the next few years

the question of whether valentino wins the 2010 title without injury is far more open than whether marc would've won 2020, but at worst you have to call it about 50/50 - and even with the troublesome shoulder valentino was getting the better of their actual wheel-to-wheel fights in late 2010. so that title fight too was severely influenced by one rider's bad luck, one that you can't even trace back to a particularly risky riding style... but on the other hand, eventually everyone's luck runs out, and valentino had been relatively lucky for a long time. he was also getting older, which in itself will affect recovery time. this is how athletes' competitive life cycles go, right - yes, you might lose your physical edge, yes, you might struggle to find the same fire, but you have also demanded a lot from your body for a very long time and eventually you pay the price. eventually, every athlete's era has to end... and unfortunately in grand prix motorcycle racing, a lot of the time that era ends with injury. schwantz and rainey were long-time rivals, with rainey winning three consecutive titles at the start of the nineties. in 1993, they were again locked in a title fight - until rainey crashed and was left in a wheelchair, his career ended and the title handed to schwantz. that was schwantz's only title, but he's still considered one of the greats of the sport. doohan and criville were teammates when doohan was dominant, and it took doohan's career-ending injury during the third race of the 1999 season for crivi to finally win the title. kenny roberts jr won the title in the following season in what was a chaotic year not dissimilar to 2020... from the young star who wasn't quite ready to put together a title charge to the underdogs at suzuki eventually claiming the big prize. this is how it goes... what a champion needs on their side as much as anything else is luck. jorge wasn't crashing as much as marc was in 2013, and yet somehow he ended up with the broken collarbone at assen that severely damaged his title chances - because sometimes, it only takes one crash for it all to go wrong. does that mean marc is an undeserving title winner in 2013? of course it doesn't!

in the case of 2020, when it became increasingly clear marc would not be winning this title, it's not like everyone's minds immediately went to mir. the favourites were dovi, fabio, vinales... the thing is, right, it was an absolute mess of a season (that was also of course seriously impacted by the pandemic), but someone had to be the one to take advantage. the suzuki was a well-settled package and mir after a strong rookie season was the one to put in the consistent results to claim the title. he was already highly rated going into motogp, and he was absolutely seen as a potential star of the future. for his sake and his reputation within the sport, of course it would've been preferable to win a more emphatic title... and in some ways, his 2021 on a lagging suzuki is more impressive than the 2020 title. it's an incredible shame how his career has gone since then, mostly not through his own fault, and you still want to hope he'll have the opportunity to dispel a few more doubts - both from the fans and quite possibly himself. then again, hayden won two races in 2006, kenny roberts jr three in 2000... at the end of the day, the main thing new fans know now is that they were champions, and so it will one day be for mir too. moving on to 2021, it's worth remembering that by then the honda was already a bad bike. yes, marc would undoubtedly have been the title favourite - but two of his three wins that year were at his specialist circuits that also still suited the honda, basically the places where he could win with his eyes closed. at the very least, you have to believe 2021 would have had a proper title fight and wouldn't just have been a stroll in the park for marc - yes, quite probably he would have prevailed anyway, but it's really not so cut and dry

THAT BEING SAID. I do agree with much of this ask! it is interesting that it's asterisked in the riders' minds! but it shouldn't be - that's the devil talking, you need to stand up for yourself and ignore all the doubters and get on with it. jorge had enough self confidence and stubborn belief in his own ability that this discourse in 2010 did nothing but piss him off. in 2007, casey was incredibly sick of people talking down his title because of how good the ducati was that year and the tyre difference between him and valentino. yes, casey was on the better package that year, and valentino did clearly benefit from switching tyres in 2008. does that in any way detract from casey's title? no! it doesn't!! he was right to be annoyed - imbalances are part of the game, and casey was very good that year. he deserved that title! valentino also faced the bike merchant allegations in spades of course, but young champions are particularly vulnerable to this kind of discourse. they're less established in the sport, more likely to attract detractors who are determined to prove they can't live up to the legends of the past... after 2006, everybody more or less agreed that it was a bit of a lucky title, but hayden was so popular and people were so pleased for him that it was just treated as a feel-good story - which it wasn't in the same way with surly young casey. no matter! who cares what people think! if your opponent has a bad day, you need to take the opportunity presented to you and press home the advantage. if your opponent has a bad year, even better. no sitting around worrying whether history is going to take your accomplishments seriously... it's like hayden said at assen 2006 when valentino broke his right hand and left ankle. from the oxley reference book: '[valentino] finished the race in eighth, which put him 46 points behind hayden. "when that rossi guy is down, you gotta jump on him!" he grinned'. brutal, but that's the game

also, I'll say it: I reckon both joan and fabio have probably had their fair share of bad luck to compensate by now. enough

[umnitsa]

Want

Summary: You just need to tell Maxwell what you need. And if you can't, he'll help with that.

A/N: We all love Maxwell as a whimpering mess, but how about powerful, dominating Max? As the Dreamstone? This is confident, calculating Maxwell Lord! <3 Banner from @cafekitsune

Written with unholy eagerness and no proofreading!

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x f!Reader

CW: Fingering, squirting, mentioned masturbation

Maxwell knew he could play the Dreamstone on the long run. He understood such a powerful thing would take it’s toll on him, and he could control it.

He learned his lesson with Simon Stagg.

He took what he wanted from him, he got some oil, he got some power, and he felt the toll on his body. It was good for then.

He kept testing and he realized small wishes took less from him. And he still would get some advantage. Maxwell trusted himself to keep the voice of the Dreamstone at bay, the voices in his head that demanded more power, more wishes.

Max gave the voices a little something, he got a little something.

He perfected manipulating conversations, words perfectly crafted to avoid triggering his power.

Maxwell realized that even without using the power, he was like the stone, giving and taking, negotiating events into reality.

The stone gave him the start, but he made the rest happen.

Maxwell Lord was the most powerful man in the world. He had everything, money, power, a whisper of his could set revolutions.

And that’s when he met you. Little you, who worked at the office. Little you, who did your work so dutifully, and watched him with starstruck eyes. Little you who, when he prompted for your wishes, said you didn’t want anything, you were happy.

He wanted to devour you. He wanted to have you naked and sweaty under him, begging sweetly for him to grant you one single wish. And he would happily grant it, with his mouth, his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Over and over.

He rubbed his eyes, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

“Mr. Lord.” He heard your gentle voice and raised his head with a smile. “Papers… for you to sign.” Your smile was so cute.

Maxwell nodded, combing his hair in place with his fingers.

“You can call me Max, I already told you many, many times.” He opened a huge, warm smile to hide his dirty thoughts, to distract himself from the dirty images that kept running in his head. Max was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice how sad you sounded, but he could see your expression. “Something happened? Come here, you know you can tell me.”

Max tapped his desk and pulled back. You approached hesitantly, around it.

“You know the drill, sweetheart.” He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Life is good. But Maxwell Lord can make it better!” He moved his open palm to present his desk. You blushed, and stood in front of him, placing the papers somewhere, your ass propped on the desk, your hands together over your thighs.

Max pushed closer, trapping your legs between his. He placed a hand on your thigh, his warm palm against the side of your leg. He squeezed the flashy meat of your thigh, his touch at the same time soothing and unnerving. Maxwell smiled at you, a toothy promise of pleasure and better times.

“Now tell me, dear. What happened?”

“Just a bad date, Max.” Your voice sound sad, as he gently rubbed your thighs over your skirt.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” He worried his voice betrayed his pleasure with the information, so he turned on the puppy eyes, softening his voice. “You don’t deserve that.” He patted your thigh gently. “What kind of bad date, baby? The boring kind, or did the man make you promises he couldn’t keep?”

Max could feel the hunger bubbling inside him, pooling on his cock. You seemed taken aback by his question but he knew you would answer. He was a good salesman, and the first thing he sold you the moment you entered his office was intimacy, trust. He knew he was going to fuck you the moment you were introduced to him and shook his hand. He knew how to prepare the terrain.

He felt lucky that he was finally having a good chance to make it happen. And he knew you would say yes. He was that good of a salesman.

“The second kind.” You blushed, squeezing your thighs together.

“That is terrible.” Max played with the hem of your skirt. “There’s nothing worse than men who can’t keep their word. What did he promise you, baby?”

“That’s not a conversation for us to have.” You giggled, blushing and shaking your head. Your hips shifted, and he tickled the back of your knee, just to feel your skin under his fingers.

“Oh.” He smirked, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Those kinds of promises. I’m sorry.”

He hoped he didn’t sound insincere this time. He was sorry. A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t go about life sexually frustrated.

“It’s ok. It was just bad.” Your voice came out breathy, soft. You couldn’t stop thinking of the warmth of his hands against you.

“No, darling, it is a catastrophe.” Max sighed standing up and pressing his body against yours, one hand resting by your side on the desk. He raised his other hand, counting the reasons on his fingers. “First, because he broke his word. That’s a no-no.” He waggled his finger. He wanted to laugh at the irony of his words, but he just continued. “Second, because… What kind of man leaves his date frustrated? That’s horrible!”

You giggled again, flustered.

“I sense you have a third reason.”

He laughed.

“I can’t believe he had the chance to please you, and failed.” He grabbed your hips, one gentle squeeze, leaning, so his face was closer to yours. “So many better man wanted his place and he didn’t give a fuck. What a waste. But his loss is going to be your gain.”

“How so?”

“I can fix it, kitten.” He licks his lips, looking at yours, then back into your eyes. “I can give you the orgasm he denied you. You’ll go back to your desk in wobbly legs, your mind clean and your body rested. I just need my fingers. Would you like that?”

“Maxwell...” You exhaled, breathlessly. “We shouldn’t…”

“I’m not asking if we should. I’m asking if you would like to come with my fingers inside you.” His almost was almost a growl, his body tense. “Forget what you should do. Don’t think of my answer, of consequences. Focus on what you want right now.”

You squirmed, looking down, but otherwise not making a movement to push him away. He cupped your face with his hand and raised it, making you look into his eyes. He leaned, lips right over yours.

“I’ll ask again, doll.” His breathing over your lips was almost a caress. “Would you like to come on my fingers?”

“Please…” The whine burst from you, as you close your eyes. Your body trembled, his body so close, and yet not touching you the way you want him to.

“Please what, doll?” He sounded something between loving and condescending, his true colors shining through. He didn’t tease you much; you haven’t even touched you, and you were already whining. He smirked, his lips pouting slightly. “Tell me clearly.”

“I want to come on your fingers, Max.” You looked at him wide eyed, suddenly afraid of what would happen now your desire was out in the open.

“I’m glad you want that.” He brushed his lips against yours, teasing just a bit more. “I want it too.”

The tension snapped between you two the moment your lips touched. You buried your fingers in his hair, tugging desperately. He moaned, then chuckled.

“Calm down. I’m a man of my word.” He petted your cheek, looking into your eyes. “So desperate and I didn’t tease you much. At least I don’t think so.” He hooked his fingers on your skirt, pulling it up slowly. “And you didn’t look that desperate before I started touching you… You want me so much, don’t you, doll?” You nod, and his expression turns sweeter. “Since when?”

“Since I first saw you in person.” You sobbed.

“Poor little thing. Spending your days with your hands between your legs, thinking of me.” He moved, sliding a bit to the side. His cock, hard, pressed against your thigh, he cupped your pussy, hissing in pleasure as he felt your panties wet, your warmth through the fabric. “Imagining how would I feel, daydreaming about my cock, isn’t that right, doll?”

You nodded, feeling his fingers pushing the panties aside. He rubbed, gently, getting his fingers wet. His eyes were on yours, watching your expression. He licked his lips, between smiles. He rubbed slowly, pressing his fingertips lightly against your hole, and your clit, with each pass.

“Whatever your beautiful little mind imagined about me… I’m better.” Chuckling, he pressed his lips to your ear. You whined, hips pressing forward. He angled two fingers and just let your move slide them in. “Ooooops.” He chuckled at your gasp. “Sorry, it’s not time for that yet, it was just an accident…” He teased, pulling his fingers out.

“No!” You shouted, pushing forward, chasing his fingers with his hips. “No, Max, please… Please, don’t…”

With a smirk, he pushed his fingers deep inside you, to his knuckles. You gasped, wide eyed, his thick fingers stretching you without pain, just this intense feeling of being full.

“Is that what you wanted, doll?” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. You squeezed his fingers and he just couldn’t wait to feel that pressure on his cock. Not now.

He wanted to see you wrecked, looking up wide eyed. He wanted you to fluster when he entered the room, your mind filled with images of this.

You moaned, trembling against him, and he used the heel of his hand to put some pressure on your clit. You mewled as he wiggled his fingers experimentally.

“Greedy pussy, didn’t even want some petting, some teasing… Just wanted to be stuffed.” He kissed your cheek, then your lips, as you turned to him. His fingers started moving, slowly, but firm strokes. “It’s ok, you can have what you want, doll. I’ll give you.”

You moaned, eyes fluttering close. For one moment, he thought about the noise, and the fact that his door wasn’t locked. You looked lost to everything. Good.

He didn’t mind if he got caught with you. Not with you. He wasn’t ashamed of how much he wanted you. And now it was time for him to get what was his.

He would prefer it to be with less scandal.

“It’s going to be hard but I want you to be very quiet now, doll. Ok?” Maxwell kicked his chair away and repositioned himself. Maybe giving you one of those orgasms in the first “date” was overkill, but Maxwell Lord was nothing if not a giving man.

“Here it comes…” His fingertips pressed inside you, he hammered relentlessly the spot that makes you see stars. His fingers move in short powerful thrusts. You look desperate, wide eyes filled with tears, as if that kind of pleasure was foreign for you. Max kissed you deeply, devouring your moans. A fire agonizingly grew inside you; it pulsed, repressed, threatened to consume you from inside out if not released.

It burned anyway, shooting through your legs like lava, splashing the floor of his office, soaking his hand. Your body spasmed, noises choked in your throat. Your eyes, open and glassy, focused slowly on Max’s smile as he pulled back.

“Look at that. How beautiful.” He had a giant smile on his face. Max sucked on his fingers, watching the carpet, your wet thighs. He sighed as he appreciated your panting. With a sweet smile, he grabbed some tissues and started cleaning your legs. He looked up, smiling, then kissed your mound, a gentle peck. You trembled under his fingers. “There, doll. Did you know you could come like that? Feels good, right?”

You nodded, taking deep breaths, moving your body, slowly, as if you were coming from a dream. Max offered you a hand, helping you stand up, then he leaned, pulling your skirt down and smoothing it over your hips and your ass.

You would be back. He could feel it in the way you grabbed his hand, how you hesitated to leave, how you looked into his eyes. But now it was time to leave you wanting.

To let you simmer in your desire, drown in it, now you had a taste.

He smiled, hand on your lower back, leading you slowly to the door. He smiled at your stained cheeks, stopping to wipe them.

“Smile.” He prompts, softly, and you open a big bright smile as an answer. “Just like that.”

He kisses your cheeks, then your hand, gently. You opened the door and stepped forward, looking almost dizzy.

“Don’t forget, life is good…”

“But you can make it better.” You said, smiling.

“Anything you want, doll.” He blew you a kiss and you shook your head, stepping away. ”Anything.”

Max closed the door quickly, with a grunt. His cock was throbbing in his pants and he was lucky enough to pocket your panties.

He sat on his chair, huffing. He tugged his cock out of his pants and placed your panties on his nose. He licked the wet patch on your panties, desperately trying to get a taste, his cock stick with spit and precome. He grunted, coming with your panties wrapped around his cock.

Maxwell Lord couldn’t wait to take his time with you.

[lostheretics]

anywhere but home

‘ everything i’m used to for a while, i want to go far away from there. — anywhere but home, seulgi

✵ racer!yunho x racer!reader

✵ fluff, slight angst but ends nice i just want a ride with yunho and maybe ride yunho afterwards what a dream

there’s this magical feeling, filling you up from head to toe. the engine vibrating beneath your feet, the rumbling sound its making, the night sky, and the smell of geosmin entering your lungs from the previous rain,

everything feels just right.

just the right amount of good circumstance, a fine ride though with no real direction. the ghost is, once again out for the night.

your foot steps on the gas, the car engine roaring against the silent night and your heart beats fast, filled with adrenaline. the cold air blows against you but you felt hot; a pit of fire burning within you.

nothing like a night ride.

it didn’t last long, though. or is it?

so you thought, as another roar of a car catches your focus. its light got caught by your rearview mirror as it get closer, tailing right just behind your own car. out of your giddiness, slight baseless fear (in case they’re not who you think they are), and pride, you step on the gas. the speedometer goes high and higher in little amount of time, running away from the car behind you.

and to your guess, the car choose chase after you. of course he did, you thought.

for the past five minutes the car gave into your game of cat and mouse, chasing after your tail, feeding into the adrenaline rushing in your blood. you swerve left and right, trying your best to block it. you are an excellent driver, learning straight from the pro whose chasing you right at that moment.

but the cat has finally decide it’s time. the car behind you quickly swerve, one move that you couldn’t dodge from and easily outdrive you, now being the one leading the race. the car waste no time in stopping abruptly, making you step on your brake to its max, your head almost kissing your steering wheel.

“what the fuck, yu?” you yell.

the said man steps out of his car, standing by his door and staring at you with his soft brown eyes. the black shirt looks like it was made for him, fitting him just perfectly when in reality it’s merely a loose black tshirt. the wind blows against his overgrown brown hair, might be cold but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all.

you were almost speechless, anger long forgotten.

he walks closer to your side, his long legs takes him there in no time. he chuckles as he’s leaning against your door. “you really thought you could beat me with this baby of yours?” he says, implying the porsche you’re driving.

“i beat you before, i’ll beat you again.”

“you were driving your beast. i could beat your rx-8 with my skills and have 50-50 chance of winning, but this? no chance against my boy.”

you realize he was right, and you have nothing to counter his words. so you huff, “what do you want?”

he steps one feet away from your door and pulled the handle, opening your door.

“i want you to step the fuck out and move to the passenger side,” he demands, “i’ll be the one driving tonight.”

you raise an eyebrow, “this is my car.” you state.

“do i look like i care?”

“you’re leaving your car in the middle of nowhere?” you fight back for your seat still.

“san’s taking my car.”

just after he said those words, choi san emerges from the passenger side of yunho’s car quickly moving to the driver’s side. he gives you a light nod, stepping into the car after he said, “i’m heading out now. i wouldn’t wanna make him angry, y/n.”

then he just left, leaving you and yunho alone, in the middle of nowhere, on the empty highway. you can say no, of course, but truthfully, what chance do you have against the king himself?

so you moved to the passenger side, per his request —or, demand.

what more do you expect from the king?

he drives like a calculated madman, hence the title of ‘king’ he received on the road, and he never lost a race (unless that one or two race against you and your beast). but with you, always a gentlemen he is, driving softly as if you’re going through cottons. he knows every road, every path that exist in the country —yet the question remained; how did he found you so well every damn time? you’re sure you had nothing in your car, no tracker no gps, none of that stuff.

you kept moving, and he kept finding you still.

“told you i’d drive you around for this,” he breaks the silence, “what happened?” he asks, ever so softly.

you give no answer, opting to stare at the empty road outside your car, enjoying the darkness as your view. yunho sneaks one of his free hand to your side, looking for yours to intertwine with.

“y/n…”

maybe it was god’s work.

god’s work when they made jung yunho. to lace his voice with such persuasion that you could never resist him.

“just… drive, please?” you could only plead.

you’ve lost both to him and yourself, as you feel the darker side of yourself winning the inner turmoil, turning you into putty. preventing you to speak out your own thoughts, unable to mend your own broken parts.

you’re hurt, and that’ll stay as the only highlight. hence, running away, and hence, the endless night drive, trying to soothe the pain away as much as possible.

“i will, baby,” he assures, “do you have a place to stay in tonight?”

you let out a bitter chuckle, “they usually lock the house since ten. and if we count the car out of it, i can start calling myself homeless at this point.” you say, “i don’t think i ever have it, anyway.”

however, you keep forgetting to realize that yunho’s there, lock and loaded, ready to kill whatever’s killing you inside.

“you always have one in me, i guarantee that.”

even if it means he has to kill your living, breathing killer.

“pack whatever of your stuff there and come live with me. leave them.” he growls.

“and then what?” a tear slips out of the corner of your eye. you couldn’t help but laugh, “become actually homeless? this isn’t some high school musical shit, yunho, i’ll actually die on the street without my parents.”

“bullshit.”

the chained elephant syndrome is a real one here keeping you behind, but you’ve stood your ground for so long you didn’t know how to walk out of it.

you sigh. “i have one free day, and i wanna spend it to the fullest. i have school the next day, and that alone is already serving as a headache without my parents intervening so can we please not talk about this?”

“we’ll have to, eventually.” he murmur, but then he quickly pull your hand to his lips, kissing it lightly, “but for now, i can do that. whatever you wanna do, baby, wherever you wanna go. i promise.” he smiles.

you stare at his brown eyes again, those warm brown eyes, and you let yourself melt into them. you let yourself melt into jung yunho, as you lean against his arm, tightening your hold in his hand.

you smile against his skin, murmuring a small, “thank you.”

there’s this hellish place that you have no choice but to call home; since it was where you came from. all your life you want to run away from there, up until now.

however, is there anything outside the home?

outside the comfort zone in which far than comfort at all.

outside the fence.

you’ve been told anything outside the fence is dangerous, and will kill you in an instant. that it’s way more hellish than the hell you were already living in.

but maybe they’re wrong. maybe, just maybe, there’s a speck of heaven in between the fiery pit, a speck of heaven worthy to run for and to call home.

in between billions of people jung yunho exists and somehow crossed path with you, and you couldn’t help but to think if you could ever make a home out of him.

you and yunho drive across the darkness of the night, hand in hand, and once in your life, you do feel like at home.

—•—

the things an 8-hours train ride could do to me instead of SLEEPING. that, and seulgi’s voice in anywhere but home istg the whole red velvet members are MOTHERS