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muiitoloko · 3 days ago

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His American Thief

Summary: He crossed the ocean for a fresh start; she never expected to be hunted like prey. But in Judge Turpin’s bed, the line between punishment and pleasure disappears.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, smut, smut, SMUT, Obsession.

Author's Notes: I had this fanfic abandoned in my drafts, and I finally thought about continuing it after seeing a Turpin edit on TikTok, but I got lazy to finish it 😅 But I hope you like it!

Also read on Ao3

The wooden planks of the dock groaned beneath Judge Richard Turpin’s polished boots as he stepped off the gangway, the salty air of the American coast stinging his nostrils after the long, grueling voyage across the Atlantic. The ship creaked behind him, a lumbering beast of salt and rot that had carried him from London to this strange, burgeoning land. He grimaced as the wind tousled his cloak, his hazel eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat.

It had been an exhausting journey—sleepless nights in cramped quarters, the endless stench of unwashed men and seawater, the constant sway of the ocean gnawing at his already frayed patience. What Turpin desired most in that moment was not justice, not power, but simply rest. A real bed. A warm meal. Silence.

And tomorrow, he would begin his search.

That was the reason for this journey, after all. Not business. Not politics. A wife. A proper woman of fertile stock and silent obedience, with hips strong enough to bear sons and lips soft enough to soothe the ache of his long-neglected loins. Someone to replace the disaster that had been Joanna—ungrateful wretch. He clenched his jaw at the thought, forcing her name out of his mind like a foul taste.

He did not come all this way to dwell on past betrayals. He came to begin again.

Beadle Bamford, ever the loyal hound, was already shouting orders to the porters, his voice grating as he supervised the unloading of Turpin’s large mahogany trunk. The Beadle’s cheeks were flushed from exertion, his coat damp from the sea mist. He barked at a young porter fumbling with the latch.

“Mind that chest, you halfwit! That’s Lord Turpin’s robes—worth more than your life!”

Turpin ignored the commotion, slipping a gloved hand inside his coat to check the weight of his coin purse. Still full. Good. Bribes would need to be made. Connections established. American girls were wild, it was said—spirited, unbroken. He’d seen a few already on the docks. Peach-cheeked and wide-eyed, coarse in manner but supple in form. And here, unlike London, his name meant nothing. He was not a judge here. Not yet. But with the right marriage, the right alliance… he could be anything.

“Your Lordship,” Beadle called breathlessly, gesturing to the black carriage now waiting at the curb. “All is arranged. The driver will take you to the Franklin Hotel. I’ve ensured it is the finest room they offer.”

Turpin nodded once, stepping into the carriage with the ease of a man accustomed to obedience. The interior was tight and smelled faintly of leather and pipe smoke. He settled into the cushioned seat, stretching his legs and exhaling deeply as Beadle heaved the trunk onto the back and climbed up beside the driver.

The wheels groaned as the carriage lurched into motion, jolting through the uneven streets of this new world. Turpin peered through the window at the sights: low buildings, signs in crude paint, men in dusty coats shouting from sidewalks. It was a place still rough around the edges, untamed—but not without potential. In fact, it stirred something in him.

He leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes, his mind drifting to tomorrow. To the women he would meet. The soft gasp of a virgin bride on her wedding night. The way her thighs might tremble beneath his hands as he undressed her, layer by layer, while she whispered in that unfamiliar accent, “Yes, my lord.”

His cock stirred at the thought, the tightness in his breeches suddenly unbearable. He shifted slightly, lips curling into a small, wicked smile.

He would make her kneel—on her wedding night, bare and shivering between the bedposts of some grand chamber he’d claimed as his own. Her lips would be cherry-red, trembling as she looked up at him, waiting for his permission just to touch him.

And when she finally opened her mouth, he would slide his cock past those perfect lips with a growl, one hand in her hair, the other tightening at the nape of her neck until she gagged around him. “That’s it, pet,” he would mutter, his voice thick with cruelty and lust. “Learn your place.”

He imagined bending her over the mattress, her wrists tied in silk, her bare arse high and reddened from his belt. She would weep, of course—all first-time brides did—but she would moan too. They always did. His fingers would dig into her hips, bruising the soft flesh as he claimed her slowly, inch by inch, until she sobbed his name into the pillows and begged him not to stop.

Turpin’s fingers brushed the front of his breeches, the pressure there now maddening. Tomorrow. He would find her tomorrow.

For now, he endured the carriage ride with a dark grin, watching the world pass by through the fogged glass, his thoughts stained with silk corsets, parted thighs, and the sound of breathless, obedient whimpers under his hand.

America would give him what England had taken.

And she would be beautiful. And young. And his.

The carriage wheels had scarcely come to a halt before Judge Turpin reached for the door, the sigh that escaped his lips carrying the weight of the long voyage and longer years. The Franklin Hotel loomed ahead—a grand enough structure by colonial standards, though still far from the decadence of London’s elite. Beadle was already clambering down from the driver’s perch when the door swung open.

But the judge never had the chance to set his boot to the cobblestone.

Something—or rather someone—collided with him.

A small, swift body cloaked in a coarse, hooded garment slammed into his chest with surprising force, staggering him back half a step. “Pardon me, sir,” came a meek, almost whispering voice—lilting—before the figure ducked around him and vanished into the bustle of the street.

Turpin blinked, lips curling into a scowl. “Watch where you—”

Then he paused. His hand moved instinctively to the inside of his coat. His coin purse was gone.

“Stop!” he roared, his baritone voice cracking like a whip through the air. “Thief! Stop that whelp!”

The figure was already a blur in the crowd, weaving expertly between carts and passersby.

“Beadle!” Turpin bellowed, already lurching into pursuit. “I’ve been robbed!”

Beadle didn’t hesitate. The man threw down his top hat and gave chase with surprising agility for someone of his girth, the tails of his coat flapping behind him like pennants of war.

But Turpin was ahead, fury lending speed to his long limbs, exhaustion cast aside like a forgotten robe. He hated thieves. Hated the way they slithered unseen through the cracks of honest society, mocking order and justice with nimble fingers and clever lies. But this thief was different—fast, too fast, darting like a feral cat through narrow alleys and winding turns, clearly familiar with the streets of this savage American port.

The judge pressed forward, panting, sweat darkening the collar of his cloak. The thief vaulted over a barrel, ducked beneath a clothesline, leapt with animal grace onto a low wall. Turpin followed, teeth clenched, boots skidding on the uneven stones. He nearly had him just as the thief scrambled up a brick wall to escape.

With a grunt, Turpin lunged and seized the hem of the cloak. The thief kicked back viciously, catching him in the chest and knocking the air from his lungs. He fell to the dirt with a growl of rage, the hood tearing away in his fist.

And then—he saw her.

She turned at the top of the wall, crouched like a wild thing, her chest heaving from exertion. Sunlight framed her figure in gold, her hair a tousled mess tumbling down her back, strands of it clinging to flushed cheeks. Her face—by God, her face—was exquisite, all full lips and defiant eyes, a curve of smirk tugging at her mouth that sent a bolt of something feral straight to his cock.

Not a boy.

A woman.

And not just any woman—a vision. Filthy, brash, disobedient. Magnificent.

“Well then,” she said, her voice low and smoky with amusement, “you’re faster than I’d have guessed… for an old man.”

Turpin sat there in the dirt, dazed, breathless. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak—could only gape at her, disarmed entirely.

The woman shook his coin purse at him with a mocking grin, then brought it to her lips and kissed it with exaggerated flair. “Thanks for the donation, my lord,” she cooed, then blew him a kiss. “I’ll spend it well.”

And just like that, she vanished over the edge, leaving only the sound of her laughter ringing down the alley. Turpin remained on the ground, his fists clenched in the dust, the hood still crumpled in his hand.

Beadle caught up moments later, wheezing, his boots slapping loudly against the stones. “Did you get ‘im, your lordship?!”

Turpin didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His cock was painfully hard beneath his breeches, throbbing with the memory of her voice, her smirk, the sight of her small, dirt-smudged hand wrapped around his coin purse like she owned it—and him. That little vixen, dressed like a boy, grinning at him from atop a wall like some seductive, uncatchable sprite.

He had never felt anything like it. Not even with Joanna.

“You... you saw her, didn’t you?” he finally said, his baritone hoarse, distant.

“Her, sir?” Beadle blinked. “It was a woman?”

Turpin turned to him slowly, his hazel eyes dark and wide with something dangerous. “No,” he muttered. “It was the woman.”

Beadle opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again.

Turpin rose slowly, brushing off his cloak without care. His mind spun with images—her flushed cheeks, the flex of her thighs as she climbed, the wicked glint in her eyes. The way her filthy little fingers had plucked him clean. The sheer arrogance of her.

God, he wanted her.

Not just to catch her. Not to punish her.

He wanted to break her.

To drag her by the hair into a bath, strip her of those filthy rags, and press her down into the steaming water while she writhed beneath him. He’d make her beg. Moan. Weep.

He imagined her mouth, pink and perfect, wrapped around his cock—his cock, no longer aching but buried deep down her throat while she clawed at his thighs for breath. He’d make her sleep on his floor like a mongrel until she earned her place in his bed. He’d tie her down each night and thrust until she cried out in pleasure and rage alike.

“Find out who she is,” Turpin said suddenly, turning to Beadle with a terrifying calmness. “Use the money. Use whatever it takes. Find her.”

Beadle swallowed. “Of course, your lordship.”

Turpin stared at the place where she had stood, his heart still pounding in his ears.

She would be his. Not by courtship. Not by consent.

He would take her.

And one day soon, that same filthy little mouth that had mocked him would whimper his name in the dark.

“My lord,” she would cry, bound to his bed. “Please, my lord, I can’t take anymore.”

And he would only laugh. “You should have thought of that before you took what was mine.”

The streets of New York were loud, teeming with life and filth, the kind of chaos that made your blood hum with the thrill of being alive. You moved like you belonged to it—quick, lithe, unnoticed except by those who made the mistake of trying to stop you. None of them had succeeded. Not today.

Your heart still thundered from the chase, your breath beginning to even as you ducked into the narrow alley that led toward home—if you could call it that. A creaky, one-room garret above a chandler’s shop, the windows drafty, the roof half-collapsed in the back corner. But it was yours, and it was hidden.

The stolen coin purse was still tucked tight to your chest, warm from the heat of your skin beneath the tattered linen of your blouse. You adjusted it carefully, then slipped it back into your satchel and rejoined the main road, strolling now with the easy confidence of someone who no longer feared the growl of an empty belly.

A bakery cart caught your eye—just a crooked old man with flour on his nose and three loaves left in his basket. You paused, rummaged through the coin purse, and flipped him a small copper without a word. He gave you a nod, pressing a warm loaf into your hands.

You bit into it before you’d taken three steps, tearing at the crust with your teeth like a starved animal. It was still soft inside, still steaming. The taste of real bread—not moldy, not stolen, not weeks old—made your eyes flutter shut for a moment. Your stomach grumbled in delight as you chewed, licking the crumbs from your fingers. Victory tasted like yeast and flour and warmth.

The garret was five streets over and two buildings down, reached by a precarious iron fire escape you climbed like a cat. Once inside, you bolted the door, threw off the cloak you’d worn for the theft, and dropped to your knees beside the small cot to finally examine the prize.

You opened the coin purse and spilled its contents onto the threadbare blanket. A clink. Then another. Then a small, glittering avalanche.

You grinned.

Silver and gold mixed together like fallen stars, far more than you’d dared hope. Dozens of coins—too many to count at a glance, and each one gleamed with the soft weight of luxury. Whoever that man was—the one with the sharp baritone voice and the furious glare—he had been rich. English, judging by his clothes. Important, maybe. But that wasn’t your concern.

You could finally eat properly. Sleep in a real bed. Rent a room for a week, maybe even a month. A bath—God, you’d kill for a proper bath. You could still feel the man’s eyes on you from earlier, that silent fury, but it was long gone now. You had won. And tomorrow, you’d look like a new woman.

You shoved a handful of coins back into the purse, enough for today and tomorrow, and hid the rest under the floorboard. Then you stood, pulling off the threadbare shirt you wore as a disguise and tossing it aside. You padded barefoot across the creaky floor, already thinking through your next steps.

A bathhouse. The one near the port, where they heated the water with coal and didn’t ask too many questions. You’d buy a bottle of oil, maybe even a bit of perfumed soap. Your body was sore from running, from the constant cold. You couldn’t wait to sink into steaming water and scrub until your skin was pink and new again.

You paused before the cracked mirror above the washbasin, brushing the tangles from your hair with your fingers. A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, studying your reflection.

Not bad, you thought. Not bad at all. Especially once I’ve had a bath.

You turned away, laughter bubbling in your chest as you dug through your sack for your one good dress—the dark blue one with the mended hem. Maybe, if you had enough left over after food and lodging, you’d visit that secondhand shop on Mulberry Street and see about buying a new frock. One with real lace at the collar. Maybe even gloves.

Maybe, just maybe, you could become someone else for a little while.

Some proper young lady in a new dress, smelling like lavender oil, with clean nails and shoes that matched.

You curled up on your cot with the last of the bread in your lap, a coin in your hand, and a grin on your face.

You’d won today.

You had no idea that a man with a hooked nose, hazel eyes, and a voice like the devil’s own growl was already tearing through the city for you. No idea that he had whispered your face into the dark of his pillow. That he’d ordered a bath drawn in the grandest suite of the Franklin Hotel—just in case he brought you back broken and shivering tonight.

No. For now, you only knew warmth. Victory.

And the promise of hot water.

The tick of the brass clock on the mantel had become a torment. Turpin sat stiffly in the high-backed chair of his hotel suite, his gloved hands clenched around the arms, his jaw locked so tight it ached. The curtains were drawn, the fire had long since burned to embers, and Beadle Bamford stood in the center of the room, sweating in his cravat, shifting from foot to foot like a boy caught stealing sweets.

Turpin’s hazel eyes, cold and sharp, bored into him. “Two days,” he said softly. Too softly. That low baritone of his always dropped just before he struck. “And still nothing.”

Beadle cleared his throat. “We’ve hired a dozen men, my lord. Local lads who know the streets, the alleys. I’ve paid tavern keepers, informants, whores—anyone who might’ve seen a young woman matching the description.”

“And what is that description?” Turpin growled, rising from his chair like a storm cloud. “Did you tell them she was small and fast and cunning? That she smelled of smoke and salt and sin? That her voice was low—almost sultry—for a gutter rat?” He took a step closer, looming over his lackey. “Did you tell them her mouth curled up when she mocked me? That her hair glinted like gold in the sun and her legs—God help me—those legs moved like a thief’s and a dancer’s all in one?”

Beadle flinched. “Y-yes, my lord. I told them all of it. But this city—it’s a maze. She could be anywhere. They say she’s clever. Changes her clothing. Disguises herself like a boy one day, a washerwoman the next—”

Turpin slammed his fist onto the table, sending a silver inkpot clattering to the floor. “Then find her! Find her!”

Beadle gave a hasty bow and backed out, his apologies muttered into his waistcoat. The door shut. The room was quiet again.

Turpin exhaled sharply through his nose, his chest heaving beneath his silk cravat. His fists trembled at his sides. The fire in his veins would not cool. Not until he had her. Not until he broke her.

He stalked to the tall bed at the center of the chamber, yanking off his coat, his boots, the suffocating layers of civilized restraint. He sank into the mattress like a man possessed.

And he was.

He lay on his back, breathing hard, his breeches tight and aching from two days of unsatisfied need. His hand slid over the front, cupping the hardness beneath the cloth. He was thick and pulsing already, the memory of you vivid and hot in his mind.

“Where are you, filthy little thief…” he muttered to the ceiling, his voice rough with lust and rage. “You dared to touch me… to take from me…”

His hand moved, stroking the length of his cock through the fabric, hips jerking up for more pressure. He closed his eyes. He didn’t see the hotel room. He saw you.

You—perched atop that wall like a cat in heat, your chest rising and falling with breathless laughter, your lips parted just enough to promise sin. Your cheeks were smudged with grime, your hair wild. That kiss you blew him had lingered in his mind like a fever.

He imagined dragging you down from that wall by the hair. Imagined your filthy little mouth gasping as he pinned you against the cobblestones.

“On your knees,” he growled aloud, voice thick with pleasure. “Open your mouth like a good whore…”

His hand slipped into his breeches now, wrapping around the thick length of himself. He hissed between his teeth, pumping slow and rough, imagining your tongue flicking over the head of his cock as you glared up at him with defiant eyes.

“You’d choke on it,” he whispered, hips jerking harder. “But I’d hold you there. Feel your throat tighten. Feel you gag on me.”

He grunted, his other hand gripping the sheets. His cock throbbed under his touch, and he imagined flipping you over—your hands bound behind your back, your thighs spread, your arse bare and marked red from the belt he’d used to teach you manners.

“I’d fuck you until you cried,” he snarled. “Until you begged for mercy with tears on your cheeks and my seed dripping down your legs.”

He was close. The image of you—tamed, ruined, moaning his name in that broken, breathless voice—pushed him to the edge. His teeth clenched as his hips bucked into his fist, the sensation blinding.

With a guttural groan, Turpin came, his cock pulsing hot into his hand, his whole body jerking with the force of it. He collapsed back against the pillows, panting, flushed, sweat on his brow.

His eyes fluttered open, staring into the darkness.

You were still gone. But not for long.

He licked his lips slowly, tasting the echo of your imagined cries. “Soon,” he whispered, voice still ragged. “You’ll kneel for me in truth, little thief. And I will fuck the wild out of you.” His cock twitched again, already hardening.

And Judge Richard Turpin, filthy with need, lay in the dark, touching himself once more.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin

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selene131 · 22 hours ago

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Silence is better together II

Chapter tags/warnings/themes: AU! pirate hunter!Simon, fem!reader, mythological symbolism, slow burn, introspection, angst, hurt/comfort, grief, emotional vulnerability, detailed mentions of violence/blood/death, panic attacks, physical injury and recovery, PTSD, flashbacks, trauma, past abuse, brief mention of animal death, survival elements, fluff, soft!Simon, pet names, domestic vibes

Word count: 5,3k

A/N: Hello everyone! 🌟 This part dives deeper into the characters’ pasts and shows how their relationship is slowly developing. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Let me know if you’d like me to create a taglist for updates 🥰

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Once he leaves you all by yourself, the realization hits you brutally. Overwhelmed by questions, fears, and swirling thoughts, you realize you need to escape - only for a while. You feel suffocated by your own mind and body; it makes your skin itch and burn and your vision is blurry. Quietly, with shaky steps, you are heading towards the door, trying so hard not to let the panic consume you whole. Once you're outside, you take deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling strongly as you work to regulate your emotions and calm your thoughts. Your heart is longing for a place you haven't been in years - a place that belongs only to you and only you. This place brought you so much peace in the past, before everything changed, it was your safe place, your refuge from every little or big thing that was plaguing your mind. You need to go there now.

Your feet guide you to your place, your body moving as if on its own. Even if you wanted to stop, you’d fail. You need to go there like you need air to survive. You must accept fate, the cruel and horrible outcome of what happened. Once you are closer to your destination, your mind is full of images from your past. You fight to keep your mind from playing tricks on you, struggling to hold onto your composure. You don't want to blend the two realities, the one from your past, especially that night, with your present. Your mind is stronger than you think. It gives you glimpses of scenes from the exact place, but from the past time. But no matter how hard you try, the only image burned into your mind is your mother’s cold eyes - once so warm and full of light. She took her final breath in the comfort of your safe place, being cradled by the wind and her skin being caressed by the rain.

Slowly, you approach this place - special and cursed - with careful steps, as if trying not to disturb the dead. In that moment, unexplainable emotions flood you - raw and overwhelming - making your body ache. You kneel in the soft grass - right where she was, right where your safe place used to be. You try to remember what made this place so unique, and then it comes back to you, the moments spent here: mornings, afternoons, and nights reading, watching the ocean, the moon, and the falling stars, wishing for a future that never came.

You sink into the pillowy grass bed, and you press your hands into the ground, digging and clawing at the dirt, craving your mother’s hug and presence. This ground was the last to feel her warm embrace. How foolish it is to envy the earth - a place that absorbed all of her essence: her warmth, her tears, her blood. Her voice, her last breath, her life. Your hands, fingers, and nails ache from clawing at the ground, as if trying to pull her back. You take a deep breath and settle onto the grassy bed, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them in a feeble attempt to mirror her embrace. You stay in silence for a few moments, listening to the soft breeze, imagining it carrying her voice through the distance - a whisper that everything will be fine.

In the stillness, you break the silence and ask: “What would you say about what I’ve done? Would you be disappointed, reminding me you taught me better? Or would you praise me for carrying on your legacy - for being kind and helping those in need?

A small laugh escapes your lips as no one bothers to respond to your question - the cruel realization hits you: she is never coming back. Her absence has left a large hole in your heart and soul, yet you never allowed yourself to grieve your parents' loss. You did not have time for suffering; your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of survival. You need to learn how to accept their absence; you need to allow yourself to be vulnerable and let your soul grieve.

As you slowly regain your composure from this overwhelming moment, your mind becomes much clearer. Everything makes sense now; your reaction was only natural - you are not alone anymore. His sudden appearance has turned your world upside down, and you no longer know how to function properly. Before this, you only had to worry about yourself; now, everything is different. You still hope you won’t regret this big change - allowing this stranger into your home and life.

While this place may evoke painful memories, it also offers you a sense of clarity. You recall vividly why it once brought you solace; it served as a sanctuary for your soul. You have longed for this sensation - the clarity in your mind, rather than the foggy thoughts. You’ll come back to this place more often; all you need is to summon your courage and endure a mental collapse.

As much as you would like to root yourself in this ground, the sun is harshly kissing your exposed skin, leaving behind a burning sensation. Besides, you need to focus on something different - such as dinner. Now, you have to feed another person, not just yourself. Usually, you take pleasure in cooking and occasionally baking, though it’s challenging to grow specific plants and grains for milling into flour. However, everything has changed - now you find yourself thinking about what to prepare for dinner and what ingredients you might need. Still, a sudden thought comes to you.

Instinctively, your hand reaches for the knife that always rests against your thigh. A small smirk appears on your face as your fingers find it exactly where it belongs. Your next mission is to find a sturdy branch. Rising from the ground, you set off to complete your task. As you move further from your safe place, you glance back into the distance, a sense of regret washing over you for leaving. Yet, your eyes soften, and a smile brightens your face - a tentative promise that you will return.

As you walk, you come across the perfect branch. Reaching for the knife in its leather holster, you begin sharpening one end - it takes time, but you’re satisfied with the result. An analogy comes to life in your mind as you feel a strange sense of power holding your makeshift weapon. You think of Artemis, the fierce goddess of the hunt, whose untamed and protective spirit shelters and guides young women. Artemis embodies a unique blend of strength, ferocity, and softness. With her bow, arrows, and golden spear, she is the ideal huntress, warrior, and guardian. You focus on her essence, seeking her wisdom and assistance - not for your so-called hunt, and certainly not to mock her in such a way. What you truly crave is her presence to ease your fears and grant you a taste of her strength

Suddenly, a clear image of a long-forgotten memory appears in your mind: playing and laughing on the beach with your friends while your father fished nearby. You never enjoyed fishing, no matter how hard your father tried to teach you. Instead, you preferred collecting seaweed for your mother to cook with. You really miss the seaweed soup she used to make - it always tasted better than yours. Your father's favorite fishing spot not only had an abundance of fish but also plenty of algae. Many times, you accompanied him, but he could never convince you to fish alongside him. Now, you regret not paying more attention to his lessons. But how hard could it be?

You regret asking yourself that question - it’s more difficult than you anticipated. You need to be patient, a skill you’ve always lacked. In your childhood, your parents often complained about your impatience. Your father’s words still echo in your mind: “Patience is the key to life!”

You focus on the surface of the water, waiting for the perfect moment to pierce a big fish with your makeshift spear. You watch as fish come and go, but they’re all too small. You refuse to waste a life for nothing. You hope for a bit of luck, not wanting to spend the rest of the day here waiting for a good catch. It seems your prayers are heard; a considerable-sized fish comes into view. Slowly, you rise from your crouched position, firmly grasping the branch as you aim with precision at your target.

You look at the now lifeless fish stuck on the sharp end of your stick and decide it’s enough to prepare two meals for your uninvited guest. Before heading home, you conclude it’s best to collect some seaweed for soup and salad - not only because it’s a versatile ingredient that can be used in many dishes, but also because it contains vitamins and minerals to help him heal faster. But two questions haunt your mind: “How long will the healing process take, and what will happen when he’s completely healed?” For now, you bury these thoughts in the back of your mind

Silently, you step inside the house, not wanting to disturb Simon’s rest. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the room, where his figure lies on the makeshift bed. His chest rises gently with each breath, and soft snores escape from his half-open lips, a clear sign of how deeply he’s sleeping.

As you begin to prepare dinner, your hands move rhythmically, creating a symphony of muffled sounds: the knife meeting the cutting board, the constant stirring of the old pot over the fire, and the herbs being crushed in the wooden bowl. You season the now boneless fish slices with salt and herbs, placing them over the burning wood and letting them cook evenly on each side. In the old pot, the improvised vegetable soup bubbles as colorful pieces of vegetable and seaweed dance beautifully in the boiling water. The pleasant aroma of the cooking food fills the small space of your house, wrapping it in a comforting and warm sensation.

As you finish setting the table for dinner, you hear small grunts and the sound of shifting and turning. You look toward the source of the noise and say, “Such perfect timing. Dinner is ready.”

Simon slowly raises his body, carefully propping himself up on his elbows as he looks toward you. “You can bet this is why I’m wide awake now,” he says with a pained smirk.

You know better than to respond to his remark. Instead, you simply offer a short “mhmm” and approach him with the intention of helping him out of bed. Your eyes meet once more, and you feel a palpable tension in the silence of the moment - a tension defined by unspoken words and thoughts. Yet you have to acknowledge it; you have to break it.

“How are you feeling?” you ask sincerely.

Simon contemplates his response before replying, “Like I nearly had a close call, but a mysterious girl saved my arse. Otherwise, fine. Just another day in life.”

You look at him with a deadpan expression, biting back a retort. You had hoped for an honest answer, but you realize Simon’s personality is full of sarcasm. You’ll just have to get used to it - or maybe find a way to break through this wall of his.

Finally, you ask him if he needs any help getting up. He hesitantly nods. You crouch down to his level and wrap your hand around his unwounded arm to support him. With a little bit of struggle, you manage to lift him. Once again, he rests his arm on your shoulder as you guide him toward the wooden table. He sits on the comically small chair compared to his size and looks at the food in front of him.

Simon’s gaze meets yours once more, and he says, “You made all this food in one hour?”

“One hour? You slept at least three”, you reply with a laugh in your voice.

Taken aback, he mutters, “That long? It can’t be.”

“Look outside - it’s almost night.”

“Don’t be too surprised. I’m amazed you woke up at all,” you confess.

“So you wanted me dead?” Simon asks, playfulness lacing his tone.

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t have bothered to help you, or even go fishing, since I despise it”, you retort.

“Easy, dear. You don’t have to take everything so seriously.”

If only he understood why you take life so seriously, he might not have said something like that. You treat your life and the lives of others with respect; you can’t bring yourself to joke about it, not even before that incident. You honor death and are still in the process of fully accepting it as an inevitable part of nature. Yet, you can’t speak about it as lightly as he does. Perhaps there is a reason for his easy approach to death, but you may learn about it later - or perhaps never.

After you both finish dinner in complete silence, having lost all motivation for small talk as those thoughts consumed your mind throughout the day, you begin cleaning up. You then tell him you need to take a look at his wounds.

“Your wounds are starting to look much better. I just need to change the bandage on the wound on your arm before you go back to sleep, as it bled a little bit through the fabric.”

“Also, do you want some tea? You need to stay hydrated, especially now.”

He looks at with a suspicious look and interjects: “The muddy water one? If yes, I would rather drink salt water.”

“Not that one. You will adore this tea blend, for sure. I discovered it by accident as I was playing around with different dried leaves and flowers,” you say in a happy tone.

You take the improvised teapot and pour some tea. The beautiful golden color fills the mug and its aroma is spreading through the steam of the warm liquid. He gently grabs the mug by its handle and brings it to his face level. Once again, Simon inspects the tea. He sniffs it and a surprised grunt leaves his throat. But he is not too quick to judge it, he needs to make sure it tastes good too. He takes a sip and he lets the tea sit in his mouth, savoring the strong, but pleasant taste.

“So, what do you think?”

“You want my honest answer?”

“Not that you’re not already straightforward, but yes, I want an honest answer.”

His eyes are searching for yours and he confesses: “Didn't expect it to be this good.”

You feel a sudden warmth rising to your face, but you try your best to keep your composure. “See? I told you it's good, especially because it's made by me,” you utter the last words in a false confident tone, just to mask your embarrassment.

“Very modest, also,” he adds with a smirk.

“Enough with this. The moon is already high in the sky and we both need plenty of rest.”

“Yes, dear,” Simon teases you again.

You roll your eyes at his behavior and at the sarcastic way he talks. “Very well, now I will change the bandage. Is that alright?”

He nods as he takes another sip of tea. Once again, your warm hands find their way on his wounded and bruised skin. You undo the knots of the layer that covers the stitches on his arm. As you peel the material from his arm, the wound comes into view. None of the stitches came off, but still, a little bit of blood leaked through. You carefully clean the dried blood with a damp cloth, avoiding the wound itself. Your eyes concentrate on the work you are doing, but his focus is only on you. Simon’s eyes trace the contours of your face before settling on your eyes.

He observes the subtle frown between your eyebrows, telling him how seriously you take what you are doing. He watches the flickering of the candle flame reflecting on your irises, making your eye color more vibrant. Still, there is something that doesn't go unnoticed by his sharp gaze - the sadness and emptiness in them. The deep, dark circles marking your appearance tell him so many stories: sleepless nights, unspoken thoughts, and worries. They say that the eyes are the mirror of the soul; yours narrate a history of a lost, forgotten soul that suffered at the hand of evil people. Yet, the spark of the candle in your eyes seems to accentuate something new - a glimpse of hope.

You break his contemplative state by saying in a playful tone : “Done! Good as new.”

“That fast?” he replies, still lost in his thoughts.

“Yes, I wonder why?” you keep teasing him. “Maybe, it's because you cooperated with me and stopped teasing me,” you continued.

Simon tries to give you a dirty look but fails miserably by responding: “That’s my charm, darling. Don't act like you don't enjoy it.”

“You are full of yourself, Simon,” you scoff at him.

“And you are…”

You interrupt him by raising your index finger in the air: “Enough for now, it's really late.”

You begin to make his bed again, and in the meantime, you explain to him that if he needs anything during the night, he should call for you without hesitation. He nods and stares at you, a subtle pleading evident in his gaze as you walk toward him. Just then, you started to slowly read his almost expressionless face - when he wasn’t wearing that stupid smirk, of course. His eyes speak the most.

“I know. You just need to learn how to ask for help.”

You approach Simon and snake your arm around his unwounded one to support him. He allows you to guide him to the bed. With care, you settle him on the surface of the makeshift bed. You let him get comfortable before you put a pillow under his leg, as it’s beneficial for blood circulation and less swelling.

“Is everything alright? Do you need anything?” you ask him.

“I’m fine, don’t need to waste more of your time on me.”

You let out a soft chuckle, and you allow him to rest, recognizing that you need it too. You prepare yourself for sleep by cleaning yourself with a damp rag, changing your clothes in a dark corner of the room, and bringing a mug of water for later. You don't want to make too much noise and eventually wake him up.

With careful steps, you climb the ladder that leads to your bed. You get under the covers, yet you don’t lay on your soft pillow. You look one more time at Selene that adorns the night sky with her enchanting presence. You always find comfort while watching her; it feels as though she is talking to you, consoling and reassuring you that everything is going to be fine. Still, there are so many thoughts and questions that are plaguing your mind, many about him. You know you should question your sanity for allowing this stranger - a man - to come into the comfort and intimacy of your house. You know it well. You should also consider questioning him as a person; perhaps he is the true villain here, rather than the victim of that devastating fire. But you can't help yourself from thinking about the way he reacts when you touch him. He reacts like a kid whose cheeks were caressed by his mother after he fell or had a nightmare. You recognize those subtle reactions so well - the responses of a touch-starved person who longs for warmth but is too afraid to ask for more. These are the reactions of someone who has not received enough warmth and care in their life.

Maybe you're wrong. Still, you saw the way he refuses to ask for help - except the one time when you found him on the beach, more dead than alive, when he knew he had to walk over his pride. Maybe he reacts like this because he thinks he is not worthy of such care. Yet, you also refuse to only see his exterior - rough, cold, unapproachable, dangerous. You see in him a hurt soul - vulnerable, scared, traumatised. Maybe you read too much into the little things you see in him. In the end, you are afraid that you will be disappointed in what you will learn about him. For now, you don't want to pay too much attention to these wandering thoughts.

Little did you know that he also is in a deep contemplative state while profoundly staring at the moon, thinking and replaying all the events of the past few days. He thinks about the long and tiring chase. He still had the remains of victory's taste on his tongue. But at what cost? There is no one left to celebrate, and everything that reminds him of them are burned and at the bottom of the ocean with the rest of his ship. He thinks about the way he thought he would die, knowing that he fought for those who no longer could - the victory was a bonus in this case. But out of nowhere, you appeared - staring at him with those mesmerising eyes, confused, anxious, but with a sharp tongue. He replays in his mind the way you insist on taking care of him and his wounds. Back then, he wanted to argue with you, but he knew better. With a strong attitude like yours, there was no way he could win the argument. You were the one that had the last word to say - surprisingly, he cooperated. Now, he regrets some of the remarks that he has made. That was just the way he was with people getting too close to him - unapologetic and cold. He needs to refrain himself from doing that to you. You only wanted to help him without wanting something in return. Not so many helped him because they just wished to help.

He remembers the soft touches with which you cleaned, stitched, and bandaged his wounds. But one thing he does not remember - when was the last time someone did that to him. He only knows the rough punches, kicks, and sharp sensations of the cold knife blade. Your touches were the opposite - delicate, warm, and kind. Even when you stitched his arm, an action that was supposed to hurt, he could sense your good intention. Your touches spoke a poem of apologies for the pain they inflicted; yet, he could only feel a cleansing sensation washing over his body. It’s intriguing to see the way you behave towards him, in compensation with how life treated you, if his assumptions are right. But there is still time to discover more about you; isn't that right?

And there you were - both in the same place, both gazing at the moon, both contemplating the near future, and both falling asleep thinking of each other.

The sun's rays welcome themself through the window, illuminating the interior of your house in a golden hue. Your closed eyes react to the light, and you slowly open them. You try to adjust your vision to the brightness, blinking multiple times. Your body aches and feels heavy. You are in a state of confusion, unsure why your bed feels so uncomfortable and solid. Then, the strong realization hits you as you feel the burning sensation of someone’s gaze focused on you. You lift your gaze, looking for the other person's eyes. You are met with Simon’s brown, tired eyes that soften when you acknowledge him. “So, it wasn’t a dream?”, you think to yourself.

“You are the one with a staring problem.”

“Good morning to you too. You look worn-out,” he replies with a smirk on his face.

“So do you,” you say with a matching smirk.

You spend a few more seconds staring at his brown eyes being bathed in the golden gleam of the morning sun. Finally, you raise with a sigh, stretching your sore body. When you are on your feet, you see the mess around you: a bowl of water, many pieces of cloth scattered all over the place, his makeshift bed that was once nicely arranged is a chaos and damped in perspiration. You remember now.

“Are you feeling better?”, you ask with concern in your voice.

“Yes, much better.”

“I will make some tea. Do you want some?”

Simon slightly nods, and with that you went to the kitchen area to prepare the tea and reheat some leftover bread from yesterday. While the tea leaves are infusing and the bread is cooling down for a bit, you decide to clean the mess. This was bringing you back to the event that occurred last night.

In your deep slumber, you heard various disturbances: the sounds of grunts and groans of discomfort, restless movements, and the persistent rustling of sheets. You got up to look over the commotion source - Simon. You called out his name multiple times, but there was no response. You thought that maybe he was having a nightmare, but his lack of awareness concerned you. You went fast to him. His skin was shining in the moonlight from the perspiration he emitted. You placed a hand over his forehead. He was having a fever. In a hurry, you gathered everything you needed. You’ve lost count how many times you've placed the cold, damp cloth over his forehead, arms, and chest. You knew from your mother that having a fever was good. It was the way the body was showing it was fighting against infections. But it was another thing when you lay almost unconscious. You were too anxious to even try to sleep on your own. You feared that he would lose this battle. You did not want to bury another person. Yet, your body gave up after countless moments spent trying to bring down his temperature. You fell asleep with worries on your mind.

The moment you were aware that Simon was alive, staring at you with compassion in his eyes, a wave of relief washed over you. You can’t lie to yourself. You were happy that he was well, and it seemed that his attitude wasn't affected at all.

Absently, you are washing some pieces of fabric and then squeezing the excess water. You hear sounds behind you as Simon is trying to lift his body from the bed. You close your eyes and take a deep breath in, and think: “This man is unbelievable.”

You let out multiple “tch” noises, indicating your disapproval of his actions and amplifying it more by adding: “You really need to learn how to ask for help.”

As a reply, you get a scoff, paired with an eye roll.

“What a child you are.”

“Not better than you,” he joins your game.

“Just let me help you. You don’t need more injuries than you already have.”

He accepts your help, more forced than willing. As you help him over to the chair, you notice that his clothes are still damp. You need to search in the clothes that you were able to save back then. You were certain that you had some men’s clothes that could fit him.

“Enjoy your tea as I am looking for something.”

With that, you begin to search into the wooden box hidden beneath the ladder that led up to your bed. As you rummage through it, you uncover fragments of your past - memories concealed into a container, out of sight. You know why you had placed them there a long time ago to shield yourself from suffering even more. Inside, you find tiny squares of fabric from your parents, friends, and people's clothes. Some are still covered in dust, dirt, and blood, serving as a reminder of your past. Tears are filling your eyes, but you wipe them away.

“Aha, I found them!” you say in a false cheerful tone.

He takes his eyes from looking at the ocean through the window, and looks at the pieces of clothing that you are holding while raising an eyebrow.

“I think these will fit you perfectly.” you say continuing with: “I will warm up more water so you can clean yourself and change into these. They are a little bit dusty, but they are better than the ones you are wearing”.

You do as you say. In a matter of minutes, you place a half basin of warm water, a piece of soap and a clean cloth in front of him.

Before you can say anything, he announces: “I will manage to do it myself.”

“Alright, I will be outside if you need anything.”

You lie on the chair placed on your little veranda. You hold the mug of tea between your hands, letting its warmth envelop you. The salty, chilly wind of the morning feels refreshing against your skin. You close your eyes and deeply inhale the fresh ocean air filling your lungs with a blend of melancholy and freedom. As you exhale, a sense of calm hugs your body. But your relaxed state is soon disturbed by the loud sound coming from the opening door.

And there is Simon in the doorway, one hand supporting himself up while the other holding his cup of tea.

“Enjoying the beautiful view, are we? And all alone, I see,” he banters.

“You are…I can’t even find a perfect word to describe you,” you add with surprise in your tone.

“Because they haven't invented words to describe me, not yet.”

“Not yet? Eventually, they will come up with one.”

He lets out a deep chuckle, and you just look at him in disbelief. You never meet someone so stubborn like him, not that you met many people, still. You just know that he will get hurt because of his stubbornness and pride.

You place your mug on the porch ledge as you approach him, taking his mug from his hand and setting it down next to yours.

“As you said, the view is beautiful. Join me. The fresh air will do you some good.”

With a low sigh, you help him settle into the wooden chair. He’s definitely a big guy, and your back and shoulders are already aching from all the times he’s leaned against you. Yet, you can’t complain; you agreed to offer him your help and hospitality.

As you look at your cup, an unrecognizable emotion begins to bubble in your chest. It’s something raw and painful - a fresh, open wound, bloody, and sensitive. It’s the cruel realization that you are not alone anymore. Beside your cup sits another - his. The cups mirror your current state - side by side, like you and Simon.

Finally, you snap out of your introspective mood and reach for both cups. You hand Simon his mug, and as he takes it, your fingers lightly brush against each other. You’re not sure why this simple gesture affects you so deeply. Heat rises to your cheeks, and a silly smile spreads across your face. This time, he doesn’t tease you. With a nod, he raises the mug in the air as if to offer a silent toast. You do the same thing and break eye contact. Deep down, Simon was also affected by this innocent gesture; a warm feeling is blooming in his chest, but he doesn't know what it may be.

Minutes pass by, yet you both remain completely silent. You both share this peaceful moment, admiring the painted sky of the morning. The soft song of the wind is accompanied by the smooth sound of the ocean waves hitting the shore in a rhythmic tempo. You begin to reflect on the situation and quickly reach a conclusion you never thought you’d embrace after everything that happened: Silence is better together.

#pirate hunter simon #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost angst #ghost cod #simon riley x female reader #female character #call of duty fanfic #call of duty #cod fanfic #cod x reader #cod mw2 #au

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pyre-of-pages · 2 days ago

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My first WIP Wednesday!

Thanks so much @skyrim-forever for my first ever fandom tag for this! I was hoping I'd be included soon! I don't know enough people to tag. Maybe next time!

Work and culinary school has not let me rest for legit two weeks -- it's been two full-time jobs that I've been struggling to keep afloat. So Part 2 of "Shallow Roots in Eroding Soil" has been on the back burner for way, way longer than I wanted.

But I wanna get it right. Chapter 1 was written more in a distant tone of voice, mostly because I didn't want to write out several long immersive scenes. I kinda sorta regret it now, but Part 2 is the first bit of writing that delves deep into the immersive action -- which is how I prefer to write my stories.

Anyway, here's the opening of the next/last chapter. Shit is about to get dark:

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

When Elur heard the knock at the door, she did exactly what her mother had told her to do. She grabbed a knife. It was late afternoon – too early for her mother to return. Besides, her mother had the only house key; there would be no reason for her to knock. Although the handle of a blade was an unsure fit in her hand, Elur had been taught to slash the palms of any unwanted guests should they attempt to grab her. With the weapon hidden behind her hip, the teenaged elf unlatched the door and opened it enough to peek through. A tendril of cold air reached through the crack and chilled her face, smarting the still-raw skin of her Clanmarking. “Yes?” Elur asked, blinking against the sudden gust of winter air. “Are you the only Wood Elf that lives here?” the man at the door asked without introduction. The emblem of a yellow stag on his chainmail marked him as a member of the Bravil Town Guard. “No?” Elur opened the door further with a slow glide. She’d been told to never be visibly armed in front of a member of the Guard, so she slipped the knife behind her back to her opposite hand and then onto a nearby shelf behind the door. “Can you describe your household members, please?” the guard continued in a casual, almost emotionless, tone. Elur furrowed her brow. “Must I?” The guard’s expression didn’t change. “Describe your household members.” “It’s . . . just my mother and I, sir.” The lines around the guard’s mouth creased. “Is your mother at home with you?” Elur shook her head. The cold crept past her legs like a housecat, slipping through the small opening in the door while dragging an icy tail over her shins. “Um . . . she’s out hunting.” The guard unfolded a page of parchment, looked it over for a moment and refolded it. “Is your mother missing a hand, by chance?” Elur creaked open the door further, uncaring about the heat from the fire getting out – nor the waves of cold getting in. “Her left hand. What is this about?” Without a word, the guard reached into a pocket on his belt and withdrew a piece of worn leather. Taking it revealed to Elur that there was cut stitching around the edges and slightly smudged lettering inked into the hide: “I have a daughter at home. If you are reading this, please retrieve her.” The message was followed by their house address. “I’ve been asked to escort you to Skingrad,” the guard said. “The Guard must speak with you there.” “Skingrad?” Elur asked, wringing the leather in her hands. Her chest thumped. “What is she doing in Skingrad? Oh, gods! Has she been arrested?” The guard cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, as if trying to look as professional as possible. “There was an incident early this morning, miss. The Guard needs you to identify a body.” Needles pressed into Elur’s skin from the inside out, breaking her whole body into an instant sweat that froze in the winter air. “A . . . a body?” The young Bosmer hugged herself as a subtle tremor began in her shoulders – felt, but unseen. “Whose body?”

#tes WIP Wednesday #tes #elder scrolls #tes skyrim #tesblr #the elder scrolls #elder scrolls skyrim #skyrim #elder scrolls fanfiction #The Ice-Blooded Dragon

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qkmlh · 20 days ago

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On a superficial level, I get Amelia because Sam Winchester?? Very very pretty with certain attributes that make him an appealing man. That being said. That same man also has soooo many blaring red flags that do NOT make it worth it from a long term, especially romantic, partnership stand point.

That is to say, I did indeed judge her choice in choosing to go to the motel to meet Sam and it’s this feeling of oh. Honey. You can do so much better please you are the Other in his questionable everything with his brother and y’know, you’ve seen, what his brother meant to him because he understood you as a widow on a mourning and bleeding heart level. Please. He deadass packed his bag and left you with the dog without even saying goodbye. (Did he even tell you what it was?? The Something that wasn’t even fully about your own husband coming back, the Something Else that was even more the reason he left??)

You think about him all the time GIRL HE WAS RUNNING!!! HE WAS RUNNJNG JUST LIKE YOU!!!! TWO WAR WIDOWS FINDING SOLACE IN UNDERSTANDING AND CARNAL ATTRACTION!!!! SURE IT WAS LOVE BUT BESTIE GIRLIE SWEETIE I’M SO SORRY THAT LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH THAT LOVE IS ONLY A FRACTION TO THE PSYCHOTIC IRRATIONAL EROTIC CODEPENDENCE

#THERE’S SO MANY DAMN LAYERS TO THAT MAN AND HE NEVER REALLY TOLD YOU MUCH ABOUT HIS PAST OR WHAT HE DID AS A TECHNICAL JOB GIRL WAKE UP HE #IS HAUNTED IN WAYS THAT 100% GOTTA MAKE YOU QUESTION #Sam and Dean and their whole situeverything really leaves victims all over the place huh #I know I’ve seen fans call this the cheating season but OMIGOSH is it indeed the cheating season #They really did all that congrats on calling the divorce off after all now onto y’all once again trying to make the partnership work #Also for over all SPN context I’m midway through S8 and this is the first time I’m doing a full on complete watch of the show #so while I know bits and pieces of what happens in the bigger narrative there’s still so much that’s brand new to me #Sam Winchester #Amelia Richardson #Dean Winchester #In spirit and as an extension of Sam and vice versa cause the narrative man #Supernatural #Ani Rambles #Idk if anyone will even read the tags but to be clear this isn’t hating on Amelia either btw because he was a woman in deep grief & mourning #It is simply so fascinating to me that characters will pursue romantic relations with either of the brothers with the intention for longterm #partnerships and really for even a moment full on believe that they could stand a chance #The Winchester brothers and their Drama only leaves room for so much else that doesn’t fit in their bubble and regardless of what they may #want in the moment unless both men are out or one is dead and can stay dead truly and fully there is no space that welcomes any Other #It’s endlessly interesting really but it does leave its mark and with good reason

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medusa-was-innocent · 6 months ago

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Wow this sucks

#I’m literally gonna cry wtf #I’ve been trying to get back into writing so I was going through some old journals and reading the poems I wrote back in 2015 #and I left my favorite pages sitting on top of my notebook on my bed and my family’s dog came in while I wasn’t looking and destroyed it all #like they’re completely gone #some of the few pieces of writing from my teenage years that I’m actually proud of and wanted to revisit and it’s completely destroyed #I’ve found 2 scraps and they’ve got about 4 words in total #this was multiple pages full of writing #this is so discouraging I don’t even want to write anything now #like I started taking an online poetry workshop last week trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and maybe possibly move in the #direction of trying to get some of my poems put out there #and I’ve been in a huge writing slump for the last like year #and I was hoping this might get me out of it but now I don’t have any motivation to do it #I just wanna cry #I can’t go back to being a teenager again I can’t rewrite the way I felt back then #and now it’s really gone forever #I’m so sick and im working 3 jobs and I just want to be creative again but I’m tired #and I’m about to get hit by this giant hurricane #I’m really overwhelmed I think this was just the straw that broke the camels back #brb gonna go cry myself to sleep over lost poetry #sorry this is me venting feel free to ignore this #vent post #will probably delete after I’ve gotten more than 5 hours of uninterrupted sleep

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fortune-maiden · 30 days ago

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On the sorta topic of fanwork commissions, is the “digital artist” plague on ff dot net going to end anytime soon >.>

#I know they’re bots but the wording of their messages also feels so pathetic #‘I like your fics pwease pay me to make fanart of them’#haha no.#don't mind me having a moment #I’ve seen them on ao3 as well but at nowhere near the same scale #and usually by the time I open ao3 to report them they’re already gone #ugh I really need to go through my ff bookmarks and save my faves #I really worry about the future of that site #and on a side note a young woman’s political record is finally finished there (sans epilogue)#now I can finally read it in full >.<#(I really wish the author would crosspost that one to ao3)#(it deserves a wider audience)#(and a more stable website lol)

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mycological-mariner · 2 years ago

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And a hint of this character’s trauma, and a pinch of this character’s inferiority complex, and a touch - a light touch - of homoeroticism

#I’m reading back through what I’ve written today #I didn’t MEAN for these two to have some lil gay thing going on but now we’re here I guess #but sometimes begging for someone to help kill you can sound gay #oh now I feel only slightly bad about making these people suffer #it’s gonna get so much worse than this #cannot wait for a certain character to have her full on page intro #I love her sm #she’s technically already showed up like twice #I do I love her #writing today bc if I keep drawing wood grain I’m gonna cry

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supersaiyantist · 2 years ago

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I made very good progress on Dance With The Devil today…and by that I mean I finally moved a cute scene along

It only took me several hours 🥲 but it’s okay, the brain fog was defeated today

Tomorrow, who knows

#super balance out the time you spend on each hobby challenge: IMPOSSIBLE #my brain can only handle one or two tasks in one day #if I’m not working that is #my days off are spent on maybe 2 things max #I’ve got like 3 things that I’m writing #a book I’m reading and taking notes on just for fun #and 2 crochet/knitting projects #one of which will def take several months so god knows if I’ll be able to pull through #at this rate…oof lmao #and I’ll finally be starting a full time job soon so uh i guess I’ll have even less free time now ahaaa #anyway #not dbz #writing

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spikeisawesome456 · 2 months ago

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#Well I just had an unfortunate experience with my (now former for reasons that will become clear) dentist office #Apparently my insurance plan through my dad expired on December 31st and the dentist didn’t bother telling us before I had my cleaning and #x-rays done. Despite us ASKING THEM MULTIPLE TIMES if I was still on my dad’s plan #Instead I got a phone call today saying that the insurance wasn’t working since I had a filling scheduled for Wednesday #I mean at least they checked before THAT.#But even though I canceled that appointment I a) still have a cavity that needs to be filled #And b) now have to pay 185 fricken dollars for the X-ray and cleaning that I hadn’t anticipated #Luckily I do have the money so it’s not going to bankrupt me or really affect me too badly #But I also have other unexpected expenses that I have to pay for and all of that adds up fast #And I bought some frivolous things recently that I wouldn’t have had I known about these unexpected expenses #The only good thing is that I got a promotion at work recently but I don’t know when that starts #And it will give me prolly only like… ¢50 more an hour since I already get paid a decent wage in my current position #Unless they’re actually fair with the wage increase but I would doubt it #I also might be getting another promotion as a counselor at my job but that wouldn’t be until AT LEAST next school year #IF they can find the funding for it #And even then I’m positive they’d only take me on for like… $36000 a year since I said I’d accept that #It’s not nearly what I’m worth but I’m hoping that if I do it at a lowered rate they’ll be more inclined to go up later on #And if not then at least I’ll have experience to get a somewhat better school counseling job than if I had no experience #Honestly $36000 would seem like an obscene amount of money considering I got only $18000 after taxes last year #Thank god my grandpa pays for my family’s rent so I don’t have to worry about that #But my grandma is sick now so he has to pay for her care and can’t afford to help my family as much #Which is fair since he has paid for our rent and most of the bills for decades #(My mom is disabled and my dad is her caretaker. My grandpa pays for her care willingly since my dad is pretty much her full time caretaker #and can’t get a full time job even if he wanted. And since I still live at home I get that benefit at least.)#All of this to say that things are Not Great right now. -.-#I really hope my job accepts me as a counselor for next year. I really do… While the pay wouldn’t be great #It at least would be an improvement. And it beats trying to find another counseling job that could be absolute chaos the first year #I’ve been told multiple times that the first year is the hardest. If I can circumvent that a little by working at an after school program #That would be preferable. Plus the hours would be much better #Anyway I reached 30 tags apparently so I’ll be done now. Ugh. Thanks for reading y’all.

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exopelagic · 5 months ago

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outgrowing characters is the weirdest thing

#like age I mean. I’m thinking abt check please again it comes back periodically #but like I read this comic the first time when I was what. 15? how the hell was it that long ago??#I was either 14 or 15 bc I can’t remember exactly where I started and the update I’m pretty sure I finished with when I read it would make #me 14 and that’s just. what the hell. that can’t be right #AND that would mean I’ve been with these characters for 7 fucking years now. HOW has it been 4 years since the comic ended #but man like my point is I started off reading this when I didn’t honestly understand what college was and these were adults #I’m now older than dex ever gets in canon. the comic ends when he’s a junior.#having the framework of bitty’s story has been wild as I go through uni honestly. I’ve been matching stuff up as I go and he’s obviously #a fictional character in an idealised story but it’s still a personal story and a reflection on college anyway yknow. i #it’s been really nice to hold it as I go through #but god being a little older than the characters now makes it feel different #especially bc like. my feelings have changed. stuff got better or different or worse but it’s not like how it used to be when I got into it #and first met all these characters and fell in love w the story and the way I look at it has changed #and MAN they’re kids!! I’m rereading my favourite fic (potentially just. favourite fic. full stop. love made visible - likeshipsonthesea)#and I’ve read the first chapter when they’re freshmen and like! that’s such a specific time! you’re a baby still!!#I’m sure I’m gonna come back and feel the same way abt myself rn in a few years #idk! rereading this I just can’t help but map my own experience of college onto it now and it makes it read so differently #I think I’m also just having feelings about being a different person now than I used to be. trying to figure out how I feel abt him #anyway william dex poindexter I love you. this story is going to make me insane and I GOTTA write one of these fics I have knocking around #luke.txt

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pucksandpower · 26 days ago

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The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

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