[ 3 + 1 ].
premise. in which entails your daily life being in a relationship with the one and only eccentric wanderer. (alternatively: wanderer's love for you comes in many forms. you welcome them all the same.)
warnings: established relationship, hurt-comfort, slice of life, wanderer is called kuni. jealousy (wanderer), angst. FLUFF fluff fluff. wanhida family goals
a/n: ITS SCARAMOUCHE WANDERER SEASON his event broke me btw [in tears]
BACK TO MASTERLIST || ASKBOX !
# observation one: unconventionally clingy
early on in your relationship, this side of the wanderer remains quite privy to himself alone. this is because he has a very, very uncanny similarity to an aggressive and guarded cat that hisses when given an ounce of affection.
this does not mean he doesn't like your outlandish and grand displays of affection, though; its actually the opposite. (LOL)
the true crux of the matter lies in his inability to let down his guarded pride to admit that he thinks your affection is his lifeblood. (basically, “ew, affection... do it again”)
he's a menace (affectionate), and if you were one for critiquing that aspect of his character, you wouldn't have been in a relationship with him by now, anyway.
however—there is always a however when it comes to him—this does not mean that wanderer doesn't come across points of anxiousness over the fact that his less than affable personality may be something you will grow sick of one day.
he knows he isn't the best choice of a romantic partner; seriously, what were you even thinking... but when he establishes that you are indeed now an irreplaceable part of his life (which will take a long time, good luck), he clings to you with a fierce desperation underneath all that thorn and bristle.
this is part of his visceral fear of abandonment—you are the one thing that he adores, cares for with his entire being (nahida as a close second), and to watch you slip away from him due to his own misgivings will spell out a death sentence for him.
(so please, treat him gently; cradle his cracked palms and broken psyche, and slowly, emphasis on slowly, but surely, he will learn to return in kind.)
this ‘clinginess’ comes forth in his proximity to you. once he has felt comfortable with your relationship, wanderer is quite unafraid to show how touchy he is in his own way.
whether that is to get groceries in your shared home, following after you like a second shadow when you go to the grand bazaar, or even shooing away people that harass you (tba), the wanderer's gaze and all his efforts are always directed to your will.
(you dubbed this as ‘scary cat boyfriend privilege’—and are rewarded with a painful flick to the forehead. ouch.)
—☆★☆—
“where are you going?” the slender hand that stops you from leaving your comfy bed does little to help your need to fall back into the blissful arms of sleep.
“just going to go get some water, kuni.”
waking up to the sight of the wanderer in all his divine glory certainly isn't one of the things you expected in your life, but you welcome it all the same. leaving a simple kiss to his forehead, you pry your hand away with a gentleness you reserve only for him.
he flushes, a lovely red adorning cheeks, to the span of his neck. oh, how you love seeing him melt.
“you won't take too long?”
he doesn't need to breathe, but he sucks in a breath anyway, face twisting to a deep set frown—your telltale sign that your kunikuzushi had a nightmare.
an unanswered question. you won't leave?
your hand caresses the silky soft strands of his purple hair, that in which wanderer nuzzles into. he doesn't seem keen on telling you, and you respect that. you'd wait for him as long as he'd like.
“of course i will. not going anywhere, silly.”
why would i? you convey in that same gesture. i love you.
the tightness of his face relaxes, his grip on your hand loosening. right—you weren't. (you were not going to abandon him.)
“hurry up and come back, then. it's far too early.” his voice is still thick with sleep, though that doesn't temper his signature sass at all.
i love you too. goes unsaid.
your grin sharpens, teasing. “aww, don't miss me too much, okay?”
anddd there's the signature scowl. “...never mind, don't come back.”
“hey!”
shuffling to hide his face from you, wanderer sports a genuine smile, hidden from your sight.
because in your presence, the wanderer stills, and all thoughts of a doomed eternity fall short of how he commits himself to you—wanderer loves and loves, loves you, for you nestle in the space his heart was meant to be, holding onto the mere wisps of your identity and weaving it into the mosaic of his soul.
it's silent save for when you plop yourself back to the bed, bearhugging wanderer and complaining about waking up early again because you stayed up all night playing tcg with him. (he's at 10 wins and 5 losses and he was not going to be caught lacking).
“you do realize that's entirely your fault, right?” he gloats. “it's not my fault my card bested that lawachurl of yours.”
“what?! no way, mister! my all geo team is still superior, mind you-”
once, wanderer wondered about the concept of infinity.
everlasting devotion. of unabashed care and trust. as he listens to your ramblings as the night falls to day, he figures that what you currently share fits that concept just fine.
# observation two: (very) jealous tendencies
it isn't in wanderer's intention to be jealous. well, so he says.
really, he isn't! after all, what was there to be jealous of? absurd! looks, intellect, an extensive range of vocabulary not limited to insults and creative verbal attacks; wanderer boasts quite the sizable number of pros that get most people falling at his feet. (his outward personality leaves much to be desired, however, but his snark does have a certain charm. probably).
and of all the bashful akademiya seniors and well-intentioned young women (and men), you managed to get into a relationship with this black cat of a derisive puppet. this is an achievement worthy of celebration, for not just anyone can take the wanderer and burrow into his many, many guarded walls and claim the title of being his lover.
yet, wanderer is the more jealous one in the relationship.
he knows that you won't cheat on him, and trusts that you won't look at others in such a way. but still, your boyfriend can't help but doubt. be patient when working out his jealousy, for it is a double edged sword—on one hand, wanderer was so adorable when he was jealous; sulky, clingy, hot you name it! and it was very flattering, knowing that he loved you enough to want to keep you all to himself.
but, the other side was quite... a piece of work. should you attempt to tease him about such a thing, it ends in three ways. one, him flying off to god knows where and leaving you alone (😐), two, restricting you from hugging and giving him affection (😭), and worse, giving you the silent treatment (😨). choose your ammunition wisely.
and from this, be prepared for the wanderer to monopolize your attention all to himself— with said admirers mysteriously off the grid or too afraid to approach you for fear of his wrath. i'll say it once: a jealous wanderer is a force to be reckoned with. (and we love him for it)
(he was chided endlessly by nahida for this; “you're scaring all the researchers that want to do a thesis review with [name]!” she says.
a sly smirk was his only reply).
—☆★☆—
“what, and here i thought he had more bark left in him.” wanderer huffs haughtily, with the researcher dashing away as if his life depended on it.
“you'll get scolded by nahida again, you know. i don't think the dendro archon's trusted aide should boast a terrifying reputation.”
he snorts. “lesser lord kusanali has better things to do than chide me for harassment.”
“but you don't have better things to do than scaring away poor kimiya?”
that gets you an eye roll that could reach massive highs of ‘what about it?’ from your boyfriend. “you're overthinking.” (translation: you're right).
“uh huh, sure i am.”
“whatever. who you talk to and interact with is none of my concern. it's not like i care about such things anyway.” he retorts. “i'm not possessive.”
so he says. “by the way, his pickup line was pathetic—‘are you anemo because your beauty blows me away’? atrocious.”
your eyebrow raises in return. really, who was speaking about “not caring” and then judging right after? well, it's fine because he was kinda right.... cyno would definitely get along with that guy.
“it was sincere! i think he has to be commended for his efforts, no?”
“you call that effort?” his face scrunches to a dissatisfied frown.
kinoya, kimiya—he doesn't even remember his name anymore. wanderer doesn't care for those that waste his time, and more especially to those that attempt to get close to you in particular. honestly, what a cheap trick.
and you! you were seriously humoring that moony researcher earlier. you even smiled at him! wanderer seethes, crossing his arms. “its quite irritating, knowing that they flock to you under the guise of—what was it he said? right, ‘shared academic pursuits.’ it was too obvious.”
“first of all: that's rude, second, he really needed help! anyone would feel sorry for him.” you tut, pinching the smooth of wanderer's palm. you wisely decide not to comment on how he immediately interlocks hands with you.
you snicker. “and he was only asking for advice on his research topic, silly.”
“hah! how nice — you're defending him now.” it's incredible how wanderer has the uncanny ability to be just like an annoyed cat that dunked itself into a bucket of cold water; and the way he frowns at you only makes you let out an even worse fit of laughter.
wanderer drinks in the sound, resonating it with the beat of his soul, your laugh the heartbeat echoing deep within his veins. he is reduced to nothing with you—with you, his face relaxes; wanderer may be indifferent to humans, but with you, your mere existence is enough for him to falter like a human, weaken like a human.
and weakly, perhaps in an attempt to save face, he speaks, “you didn't deny it.”
“deny what?”
“...defending him.” (if he were a cat, his ears would definitely fall flat right now).
you let out another light laugh, but sparing your lover the torment, you cling to the side of his arm instead.
“i never had such intentions.” stating it quite firmly, “i'm only saying that there's no competition to be made, darling.”
he gives you a skeptical look in return. “was there even any?”
“none at all.” you lean closer to him, and the wanderer leans into the touch of your hand on his cheek. “since you're winning.”
the flustered blush you receive and the subconscious squeeze of his hand in yours conveys all you need to say.
that did the trick. wanderer's smile is satisfied—smug. “clearly, you managed to make the right call for once.”
“well, i could hardly resist you.”
afterwards, you note that the wanderer's pace doesn't seem as fast as usual anymore. no matter the jaw dropped stares of others at the two of you cozying up together, he never let go of your hand once.
(the next day, kimiya comes to you with a sheepish smile saying that he'd like to focus on his own without your help.
“was it your doing?” you look at the wanderer by your bedside table fastening his vision in pace, voice deadpanning.
“hah? why would i waste my time over some insignificant mortal?” he replies, but as he's putting on his hat, you see him smile to himself.
that little...)
# observation three: secretly? protective/considerate (green flag!!)
if you ask anyone who knows the wanderer on a personal note, you'd find out that he is, indeed, quite considerate—hidden underneath alllll that snark and aloofness and haughtiness, the wanderer cares for those who have helped him in some way, and with you as his partner (romantic), that care is multiplied tenfold hundredfold.
this quality of his, despite being endearing on paper and practice, is reminiscent of that of an aggressive mother hen; if you count wanderer as a hen that pecks someone incessently to show his care.
he chides you like an exasperated young maiden, but the soft way he handles your bruised arm littered with injuries from your recent run in with some strange fontainian seahorse contradicts his harsh scoldings.
(“bested by a fish? are you serious?”
“excuse you, i needed to get it's horns for materials, okay?!”
“...remind me why i'm stuck with an idiot for a companion.”
“uh, because i have a great personality, and you love me?”
“a decision i've made that's quite hard to defend, honestly.”
you stick your tongue out at him. yes, his habits also become yours.)
or how he tells you you're hopeless at cooking, but always manages to excuse himself to cook for you the moment he notices even the slightest decline in your health. one concern though; he throws the bento towards your head—so minus points for domesticity. (...he has cut heart shapes into the vegetables before and has never been the same since.)
if there's anything you can count wanderer for, he will do it. you could ask him to attempt to pluck the very fabric of reality for you, string together the stars and leave them at your feet, and he will do so, huffing all the while (he never means it). he's just smitten like that; not that he would ever verbalize it—yet. his hushed and vulnerable whispers of asking you to let him stay by your side are your closest road to his admittance.
he will not serenade you with ‘shallow declarations of love,’ as he tells you, but you know that he will always be there for you, for better or for worse.
—☆★☆—
fury is an emotion wanderer was once very accustomed to—it reminds him of electric violet, of three betrayals and of yearning for a constitution he was never fated to reach.
and fury tugs at the strings of his being the moment he sees the droplets of tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision.
“who did it?” something bitter and violent manifests in his countenance, his vision pulsing angrily with gales threatening to harm. (it does not harm you, though. it never does.) “who did this to you?”
his grip on your shoulders tightens the more you refuse to answer, both from anger and fear. you're never this silent; and his panic increases when you opt to bury yourself in his neck. wanderer sighs.
“hey. i'm asking who made you cry like this, idiot.”
“...”
“fine, i won't call you an idiot, then.” but impatient way he speaks the syllables that make your name betrays his worry. “just talk to me.”
“...can we just stay here like this?”
“....”
“sorry, that was a little-” you say, voice strained, pulling away; but the wanderer tugs you close, allowing you to hide from the world that seems so out to get you. (he knows that feeling well, after all.)
it's he who entangles himself with you, listening to the steady rise of your heartbeat, wiping away your tears.
“i didn't say you couldn't hug me, stupid. it's fine. do as you like.”
if it were a person that did this to you, that would've been better murder was never really out of the table with him, but when faced with something he is unable to solve for you; whether it be a bad day, bad luck, or even something he cannot control, wanderer finds himself at a loss.
because the concept of love, with you, is foreign—terrifying, even. betrayal and scorn were his guiding compass, and to be rid of it and to be seen by you, held by you, and to know that you were not going to follow in the footsteps of those he once clung to was far too good to believe. (yet he tries. for you.)
returning your embrace only passively, he tries to scramble for words of comfort—and when he fails to find the nerve to do so, he does the only thing he can allow himself to do.
with the kindness and gentleness he fostered (still fosters, thanks to you) from his memories as the kabukimono, the wanderer holds you, if only to remind himself of his place by your side, unchanging and adamant—as you remind him of his place beside yours.
he leads you to calm yourself down, albeit roughly as he tells you to stop fussing over trying to help him get you something wipe your tears with—and for all his flushed visage, he lets you cling to him, seeking his comfort.
i'm here, it goes unsaid. wanderer knows you'd pick up on it anyway. please talk to me.
(“if i die from this, i'll come haunt you as a ghost.” you shake like a leaf in his arms, clutched tight and staring at anywhere but the ground. who comforts someone by putting them almost 80 feet up in the air? heights are so not your thing.
“like i'd let you.” wanderer says, rolling his eyes. “and you're shaking too much. just keep your eyes on me, will you?”
“...was that flirting?”
“i will drop you.”
“wait, i'm kidding!” a particular breeze leaves you in goosebumps, with wanderer tightening his grip on you. “don't let me fall, please?”
“are you stupid?” he snaps, but urges you to look at the sight of the sunset on the horizon. his hold is more gentle this time, too. “why would i let you fall? now stop shaking and hold on to me.”
you think you fell just a little harder for him that day.)
—and if you decide to press a kiss to the back of his nape as a way of thanks, you're rewarded with a playful gale and a little zap to deter you in response.
“watch it, [name].” he says, but the shifty eyed way he doesn't meet your eyes isn't fooling anyone here; neither is the red on his cheeks. “you're too close.”
“hehe, sorry, sorry, couldn't resist.”
nonetheless. he supposes the growing smile on your face in place of your tears are sufficient payment for wanderer's efforts. hmph.
he'll let it slide for today.
(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)
# deciding conclusion: totally in love with you (real not clickbait)
saying it outright: being with the wanderer is not a smooth road. it is full of hardships, hurt, and learning. there will be many times when his built in self destruction (read: abandonment issues) will kick in, hurting you in the process.
getting him to say ‘i love you’ will seem impossible at first, and there will be times when his doubt pierces your heart and renders it tattered to pieces. he's doing his best chat, pls help him
he will not be able to utter sweet words of adoration like you do, or return your embrace as easily as you would with him—and there will be many moments when he will feel as if he's not enough.
but nourish your affections, stay consistently by his side, show him that he is worth loving, worth staying for, and like the foundations of a steadily built tower, his trust and love for you too will grow.
(it will sometimes feel tiring, it will feel hopeless, and it's more than what you've bargained for, but it will all be worth it in the end.)
because you know he cares; it's in the way his expression morphs into helplessness when he sees your face fall in an argument, how he doesn't push you away when you kiss him and shower him with hugs, and when his hands lock tightly in yours in a sea of people, with you only in his sights. how his eyes betray him to look at you with fondness and warmth.
(it's wordless whenever wanderer decides to hold you tight at night, hugging you like his last lifeline. especially after a disagreement, with only the quietude of the night to observe.
he said some hurtful words today. that much he knows.
“are you asleep?” his voice is muffled against your shirt, and he may not need to breathe, but he inhales your scent anyway, memorizing the sight of you in his arms like a promise. “...you probably are.”
silence. “i'm sorry.”
“.....”
his lip trembles, his grasp on your arms bruising if not for your non-awareness. there's a wetness growing against your shirt, and small sniffles.
“i'm sorry.” and gently, so gently, wanderer presses his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of your body. “i shouldn't have snapped at you and told you those sorts of things.”
i'm sorry i hurt you.
please stay.
please don't let go of me.
i need you.
i love you.
when morning comes, you wake up to the sight of the wanderer in your bed, face nuzzled in your chest.
there are tearstains on his face.)
getting him to be open and vulnerable is akin to keeping a rusty, torn boat afloat; it will not be easy, no, but you know that he tries, (so very hard) to make it work. that he fights desperately against his own clumsily strung tethers and rebuilds himself anew, if only to understand and perceive you—to love you as you deserve.
and when that time comes, wanderer will cling to you, desperately, completely, and make sure your efforts will never ever make you regret giving him the chance to open up and be with you.
—☆★☆—
“what would happen if we ever broke up?”
dropping such a bombshell in the middle of having the wanderer on your lap was not how he thought things would go to, granted how pleasant the atmosphere was—he'd agreed to going on a much needed date (your words) with you after lesser lord kusanali had just graded him on one of his essay papers. (he got an a, obviously)
you don't think you've ever seen such a distraught look cross wanderer's face—aside from the time you finally beat him at tcg (5 out of 4); and you've never seen him look so angry either.
rather, he looked scared.
“what brought this idea on?” he tries to lodge out the words, trying to act coherent. but underneath, a storm brews—his hands are shaking. wanderer feels like he's swallowed a bag full of needles.
am i not doing enough? was i too harsh on them when i scolded them for fighting that damn mechanical desert robot? he's scared. or... do they really....
the mere idea of you being tired of him—sick of him, and ready to leave him behind leaves an ugly, disgusting feeling. like acid on his skin.
perhaps, you don't love him anymore? wanderer panics, senses going overdrive. was it that argument months ago when he hurt your feelings? he knows you know he apologized, and he's doing everything in his power to make sure he wasn't repeating that mistake anymore—but why would you say this out of nowhere?
or maybe it's because he didn't notice you feeling uncomfortable in your relationship? no, you would have definitely told him if so. then what is it? you don't just say things like this out of nowhere so seriously-
“i mean... at this point, i think i wouldn't ever want to break up with you.”
“...what?” wanderer blinks.
“you heard me.” cupping the sides of his face with your hands, you restate your words with more vigor. eyes determined. “i don't think i've ever loved someone so much as i love you. heck, not even close! kuni, if we break up, i might actually never recover.”
and the wanderer falls. how could you even say such a thing?
“that's... you're shameless.” he states it like an insult, but his hands go up to hide his eyes, hiding his embarrassment from your romantic words. “why would you even say something so out of pocket like that? you utter fool. you almost made me think i-”
- would lose you. even thinking it made him feel nauseous.
“why are we still dating then? but really, i mean it. i love you too much.” you coo, and that, in return, leads the wanderer to release an exasperated, weary sigh. if he were human, he's sure his blood pressure would never be normal because of you.
but contrary to his attitude, he relaxes his face and allows you to hold him. lightens up, even. you continue, rambling on, “be honest, you know you love me.”
“unfortunately.”
and that brings out such a bright and dazzling smile on your face that the puppets sarcastic smile is replaced by a real one when you huff and smack at his head. (all is well.)
“you're so unromantic.”
indeed, being with this strange, eccentric puppet was certainly a challenge in more ways than one. nonetheless, you know he cherishes you—because with you, the wanderer is different. he's bristly, infuriating, and honestly a pain (lovingly), but he cares for you.
he tells you to stop ogling at his pretty face and do the dishes, yet he never minds the attention at all. he tells you that you were a fool for accidentally getting yourself injured by eremites because you wanted to save some fungi, but follows you anyway and makes sure no one messes with you.
he says he probably wouldn't miss you while you're gone, but is always the first person you see when you return to sumeru city. it's these little things that make you love him, and you know the feeling is mutual—even if he'll act indifferent about it in the meantime.
“hey, kuni?”
wanderer's eyes are closed, serene. once he knew that you were not, in fact, going to break up with him, he relishes the feeling of his head resting on your lap. it was safe, warm, and everything to him; but he'd rather let the world burn before he tells you. “what?”
“thank you for letting me love you.”
....
“...idiot.” is all he says. you can feel him shift to the side so you won't see his face. “you don't have to thank me for that. that's so sappy...”
(and if you ever saw the slight sheen of glossiness in his eyes, you keep it to yourself.)
i should be thanking you. he thinks instead. i'm glad you love me.
so many things pop up in his head for this, so many unspoken words—and he may not be able to convey such things to you; he might never be able to, but you know that he loves, loves, and adores you.
because you accepted his past, his sins and his imperfections and treated him with tenderness and care. and you know that no matter how many sides of the wanderer you have yet to explore, you will love each one.
and that is enough for him to never let go.
a/n: IM CRYING I FINISHED THIS RIGHT ON TIME AFTER HIS EVENT and his growth has come so far,,, so proud of him 🥹
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Good Girl
Max Verstappen x Wolff!Reader
Summary: Max wants to take care of you in every way possible, so you let him (much to your father’s displeasure)
Warnings: 18+ content
The muffled sound of raised voices catches Max’s attention as he walks past the back of the Mercedes motorhome. He slows his pace, straining to make out the words.
One of the voices unmistakably belongs to the Austrian team principal but the other is higher-pitched … feminine. Max’s curiosity is piqued as a snippet of the argument reaches his ears.
“But I hate it, Papa! I’m miserable!”
He knows that voice, even though it is now fraught with anguish. Max stops in his tracks, hesitating. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but his concern for you overrides his better judgment.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Liebchen,” Toto Wolff’s gruff tones reach Max’s ears. “This is for your own good. You need to finish your degree and make something of yourself.”
“I don’t want to make something of myself!” You cry out, your words laced with despair. “I just want to be happy!”
Max’s heart clenches at the pain in your voice. He’s never seen you anything less than perfectly composed, always carrying yourself with the poise expected of a team principal’s daughter. To hear you so distraught tugs at something deep inside him.
“Don’t be absurd,” Toto scoffs. “Happiness doesn’t come from idleness. It comes from hard work and achievement.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just marry rich then!” You retort, defiance tingeing your tone.
A surprised laugh bursts from Toto. “Is that what you think? That some wealthy man will sweep you off your feet and give you everything your heart desires?”
“Why not?” You sound small and vulnerable now. “At least then I wouldn’t be so miserable all the time.”
“I didn’t raise you to be some man’s ornament,” Toto snaps, his voice taking on a hard edge. “You’re my daughter — strong, intelligent, and capable. Finish your studies and make your own success. That’s an order.”
There’s a bitter silence, and Max can picture the imperious set of Toto’s jaw, the fire in his eyes when he’s crossed. He feels for you, truly, but he also knows how stubborn and uncompromising your father can be.
You sniffle, and Max’s heart twists imagining your lovely face crumpled with tears. “I … I can’t, Papa. I just can’t do it anymore.”
“Enough of this nonsense!” Toto’s voice is like a clap of thunder, making Max flinch. “I’ll hear no more. Get it together, Y/N. That’s final.”
There’s a flurry of footsteps, and Max instinctively steps back into the shadows as Toto storms out from behind the motorhome, his expression thunderous. He brushes past without sparing Max a glance.
Only you remain, your soft cries tearing at Max’s soul. Before he can overthink it, he rounds the corner towards you.
You’re a vision even with your eyes reddened and cheeks stained with tears. Max has admired you from afar for years, secretly yearning for more than your warm smiles and friendly small talk. Seeing you so undone breaks his heart.
“Y/N?” He murmurs, reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. You jump, gasping at his sudden presence. “I … I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Heat floods your cheeks as you hurriedly wipe at your face. “M-Max? I … you shouldn’t have ...”
“Hey, it’s alright.” His thumb strokes your shoulder in a soothing gesture. “I’ve been there too — feeling crushed under the weight of expectations. It’s okay not to be okay sometimes.”
You shake your head, a watery laugh escaping you. “You don’t understand. My father, he’s … it’s complicated.”
“So uncomplicate it for me,” Max says simply, holding your gaze. “Let me take you to dinner tonight. Get your mind off everything for a little while.”
Your eyes widen, and you nibble at your full lower lip — a gesture Max finds utterly captivating. “Oh, I … I couldn’t. Papa would be furious if he found out.”
“He doesn’t have to know.” The words slip out before Max can reconsider their forwardness. Heat prickles at the back of his neck, but he refuses to look away. “Just take a night for yourself, Y/N. You deserve it.”
You worry at your lip, internal conflict playing out on your expressive features. Max can practically see the warring thoughts flitting through your mind.
“Please,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind your ear. Your breath catches at the gentle contact. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
Something sparks in your eyes — acceptance, resignation … or perhaps a hint of excitement? Max couldn’t say. But when you nod, his heart stutters in his chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, sending Max’s pulse racing. “I’d like that.”
A slow smile curves his lips. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up outside your hotel at 8 tonight.” He takes a chance, reaching up to trace the line of your jaw with his knuckles. “Wear something pretty for me?”
The corner of your mouth ticks up in a small grin, and Max feels like he could float away at the sight. “It’s a date.”
With a dimpled wink and a last caress of your silken cheek, Max turns and saunters away, already counting down the hours until he can sweep you off your feet — however briefly. He only hopes one night in his company provides a respite from the burdens weighing you down.
You watch Max stride away, a curious fluttering taking wing in your stomach. Despite the turmoil still lingering from your fight with your father, you can’t deny the thrill that courses through you at Max’s tender attention.
There was a heat in his eyes that had your breath catching — a scorching intensity you’ve never noticed from him before. Like he was seeing all of you, the pain and insecurities you typically hide from the world, and accepting it all without judgment.
His gentle touches had set your skin tingling, leaving you flushed and flustered in a way you’re unaccustomed to. You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you the way Max did — like the weight of all his focus was centered on you alone, searing into your very soul.
Despite the circumstances, you find yourself unexpectedly … excited for tonight. To temporarily shed the burdens your father is so intent on piling onto your shoulders. To let someone else take the lead for once, absolving you of responsibility and expectations.
To let Max take care of you.
The thought sends a delicious shiver down your spine. Allowing yourself a moment of selfishness, of disregarding your father’s disapproval, you relish the delicious sense of anticipation unfurling within you.
For once, you think as you head inside to prepare yourself for your clandestine date, you’re going to indulge your own desires — if only for a few hours. Your father may call it idleness, but you call it sanity.
And if Max’s heated gaze is any indication, he seems more than happy to oblige you.
***
Precisely at 8 PM, Max idles his sleek Valkyrie hypercar outside your hotel’s entrance, eagerly scanning the revolving doors. He doesn’t have to wait long before you emerge, and the sight of you has his breath catching in his throat.
You’ve opted for a slim-fitting cocktail dress in a deep burgundy hue that clings to your curves in all the right places. The plunging neckline and thigh-grazing hemline leave just enough to Max’s imagination, stoking a slow burn of desire low in his belly. Your hair tumbles in artful waves over one shoulder, and you’ve accentuated your lips with a sultry red stain that makes Max’s mouth go dry.
He barely registers popping the passenger door and rounding the car until he’s standing before you, drinking in every delicious detail from your smoky eye makeup to the skyscraper heels lending those gorgeous legs an endless line.
“Y/N,” he rasps out, voice thick with undisguised appreciation. “You look … incredible.”
A becoming flush steals across your cheeks at the naked admiration in his tone. Ducking your head shyly, you murmur, “Thank you, Max. I wasn’t sure if this was too much or ...”
“Not at all,” he cuts you off firmly, unable to tear his hungry stare away from you. “You’re stunning. Absolutely stunning.”
Offering his arm, he escorts you to the car and helps you inside before joining you in the driver’s seat. As he pulls away, he has to force himself to keep his eyes trained on the road rather than drifting hungrily over every dip and swell of your body.
Max selects one of the finest restaurants in the city — an intimate establishment where the lighting is dim and romantic. The maitre d’ leads you to a secluded table in the back, discreetly ensuring your privacy.
Once seated across from you, Max can’t resist reaching across the table to take your hand, marveling at how tiny and delicate your fingers feel engulfed in his calloused grip. It’s a heady sensation, being so close and allowed to touch.
One he wants more of.
You go to take a leather-bound menu with a shy smile, but Max simply slides it aside and shakes his head.
“Don’t strain yourself tonight, schatje,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Let me take care of everything.”
Surprise flits across your lovely features, but then understanding and gratitude replace it as you nod mutely. He can sense the relief in you at being temporarily absolved of responsibility, even over something as simple as choosing your meal.
A subtle tilt of his head summons the waiter, and Max orders a selection of the finest dishes and robust wine for you to share — decadent fare perfectly suited to indulging your every whim this evening.
As the waiter departs, Max leans back and simply drinks you in, admiring the elegant line of your neck and curve of your jaw. You seem to bask under his appreciative scrutiny, almost … preening for him. It’s utterly intoxicating.
“How are you feeling, Y/N?” He asks lowly, searching your face. “After everything with your father earlier ...”
Your eyes shutter briefly at the mention of Toto, but you regain your equilibrium swiftly and offer Max a patently forced smile. “I’m alright. Just … trying not to think about it too hard tonight.”
“Good.” He strokes his thumb over your knuckles soothingly. “Because tonight is about forgetting all your cares and letting someone else handle everything for once.”
The promise in his words has your pulse fluttering wildly in your veins. You know you shouldn’t indulge this … whatever this is … with Max. That it could court disastrous consequences. But there’s something about him — about the way he looks at you, touches you, and speaks to you — that just saps your will to resist.
Perhaps it’s the bone-deep weariness you’ve been carrying from your ongoing battles with your father. Or the guilty craving you haven’t allowed yourself to admit to — the need to simply surrender control for once and let someone else bear the burdens weighing you down.
Whatever it is, you find it impossible not to fall headlong into the solace Max is offering so freely.
The waiter reappears with a bottle of bold Cabernet, carefully filling your glass before departing again. Max lifts his in a silent toast, and you mimic the gesture, reveling in the rich notes that flood your senses.
From there, the evening slips into a blissful cocoon of easy conversation and succulent food that Max deftly applies himself to serving you bite by bite. Each time his long fingers brush your lips as you accept a morsel, a frisson of electricity zips through you.
He pays immaculate attention to your smallest reactions, quickly discerning your preferences even before you voice them. It’s uncanny — and utterly disarming — how seamlessly Max seems to anticipate your every need without fuss or demand.
You can’t recall the last time you felt so … cherished. So indulged and seen. Like Max’s entire world revolves around you and you alone in these stolen moments.
It’s heady and intoxicating, this total surrender of control. And as the hours wind down over lingering sips of wine and heated looks, you find yourself all but drunk on the experience … on Max.
Eventually, once the dining room has emptied and the candles burned low, Max summons the waiter to settle the check with an imperious wave of his hand. He declines your attempts to assist, fixing you with a look that brooks no argument.
“Tonight is my treat,” he says simply, dropping a small fortune onto the tray with a casual air. “I’m not done taking care of you yet, schatje.”
A delicious shiver races down your spine at his words, your thoughts growing hazy and unfocused under the scorching weight of his stare. You can only nod numbly, incapable of voicing even token protest.
Pushing back from the table, Max rounds it in two long strides and pulls you to your feet, linking hands with yours. He holds your gaze as he brushes a kiss across your knuckles, letting his lips linger in a way that has heat pooling low in your belly.
“Back to my hotel?” He husks, voice gone rough in a way that steals your breath. “Or shall I take you home, printsesse?”
For a long, dizzying moment, the two of you simply stare into each other’s eyes, the intimate moment stretched taut like a tightrope. Then, as if in a trance, you find yourself shaking your head slowly.
“Your hotel,” you whisper before you can reconsider. It’s utterly mad, this reckless pull you’re surrendering to. But God help you, you can’t bring yourself to care.
A slow, heated smile curves Max’s lips as he nods sharply. Without a word, he tucks your hand into the crook of his elbow and escorts you from the restaurant.
You move almost in a fugue state, allowing Max to lead you with a surety you envy as he bundles you into his gleaming sports car once more. The ride to his hotel passes in a blur, punctuated only by the possessive weight of Max’s palm on your thigh and the fevered glances he keeps sending you from the driver’s seat.
By the time the valet has whisked his car away, all you can clearly process is the burn of Max’s fingers tangled with yours and the thrumming weight of his presence at your side. Everything else — anxiety, obligation, expectation — fades into insignificance under his piercing gaze.
He tugs you into the shadows of the hotel atrium and crowds you against a corner, his free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw reverently. You go pliant against the hard plane of his chest, tilting your head back to maintain the searing lock of your gazes.
“Still with me, Y/N?” Max rumbles, the rough velvet of his voice sending sparks of need ricocheting through you.
You nod slowly, unconsciously wetting your lips — an action which has Max’s eyes riveting on your mouth hungrily. “Yes, Max. I’m here.”
His thumb brushes over the fullness of your lower lip with maddening tenderness. “Good girl.”
Those two words should not affect you the way they do — like a punch to the gut, stealing your breath while simultaneously stoking a raging inferno within. You can’t even begin to process the riot of sensations they provoke.
You simply let yourself be swept away in the wake of Max’s intensity, melting into the solid shelter of his embrace as he claims your mouth in a devouring kiss.
Max’s kiss quickly grows fevered and consuming, his tongue delving hungrily to explore the honeyed depths of your mouth. You melt against him, fingers clutching at the hard planes of his back as you surrender to the dizzying haze of desire he’s stoked within you.
He walks you backwards without breaking the molten seal of your lips, until your back meets the wall with a muffled thump. Emboldened by your soft whimper, Max pins you there with the solid weight of his body, hips tilting into yours as his hands roam feverishly over your curves.
You’re drowning, overwhelmed by the potent storm of Max’s passion. It sweeps away every stray thought, every lingering worry about duty and obligation, leaving you delirious and pliant in his arms. All that exists is the scorching brand of his mouth, the iron strength of his embrace, and the maddening friction of him pressing you into the unforgiving wall.
It’s everything and nothing like you imagined. More intense, more explosive, more overwhelming in its ability to strip away every pretense and doubt until there’s nothing left but raw need.
Max finally releases your lips with a ragged groan, pressing his brow to yours as you both gulp down air in harsh pants. His palms smooth over your hips, up your sides, cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin material of your dress.
“God, printsesse,” he rasps, voice wrecked in a way that has you clenching with fresh desire. “You’re so fucking perfect, do you know that?”
You can only whimper, thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind as he ducks to mouth wet, open kisses along the column of your throat. Every brush of his lips is like a brand, searing into your very core.
“And tonight ...” Another nip at your racing pulse has you arching shamelessly into him. “Tonight you’re mine. All mine.”
His hands slide beneath the hem of your skirt, bunching it around your waist as his fingers trace the lace edges of your stockings. You keen softly at the electric jolt of sensation, nails scoring down his shoulders and back.
“Max ...”
“Shhh, schatje ...” His tongue laves at the hollow of your throat, lips trailing a heated path up the line of your jaw until he’s devouring you again. The demanding sweep of his tongue robs you of breath, of thought, of everything but the exquisite present of his touch. “Just let go. No thinking. I’ll take care of everything.”
His words are like a mantra, a siren’s call urging you to surrender utterly to the exhilarating oblivion he offers. To shed every burden and float away on the current of his undivided devotion.
So you do. With a broken whimper, you sag in his arms, giving yourself over completely to Max’s intoxicating command. The doors of your suite can’t come soon enough.
Max can barely keep his hands off you during the agonizing elevator ride up to his penthouse. As soon as the doors close, cutting you off from prying eyes, he has you pinned against the mirrored wall, hands roaming feverishly over your body.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps against the slick column of your throat. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this. Of having you.”
You whimper shamelessly as his teeth graze the thundering pulse under your jaw, hips rocking helplessly against his muscled thigh that’s wedged between your legs. The delicious friction has sparks of pleasure-pain arcing through your nerves in dizzying waves.
With deft motions borne of practiced skill, Max strips you of your dress, leaving you clad in only a scrap of wine-colored lace before lifting you easily. You lock your legs around his narrow hips as he mouths hungry kisses along the swell of your chest, callused palms kneading the generous curve of your backside.
The elevator judders to a halt and the doors slide open, but neither of you pay it any mind. Max simply shifts you higher in his arms and carries you down the hallway, your shared gasps and muffled groans echoing off the plush carpets and paneled walls.
Finally, he’s nudging open the door to his suite with his shoulder, barely waiting for it to click shut again before slamming you against the nearest surface. You scarcely register that it’s a sturdy oak desk before Max is divesting you of the remaining flimsy barriers between your bodies with sharp tugs and deft fingers.
He stands you before him, towering and scorching with building intensity as his gaze tracks from your flushed face down to where your thighs are already starting to grow slick in anticipation. A punched-out groan tears from his chest.
“Fuck, printsesse,” he growls, palming the rigid length straining against his slacks as he drinks in the sight of you laid bare before him. “So fucking gorgeous. Made for me.”
With a sharp nip of his teeth against the swell of your breast, he urges you back until you’re bent over the desk’s edge. Cool wood presses against the heated flesh of your belly and breasts, making you gasp.
“Max ...” you keen, reaching for him with shaking hands.
But he bats them away with a low rumble, pinning your wrists against the desks’ burnished surface. His lips scald a path down your spine as he looms over you from behind, thick cockhead prodding teasingly at your entrance.
“So responsive, schatje" he praises in a gravelly rasp, free hand gliding down to pluck at your engorged nipples. “Always so ready for me, aren’t you?”
You can only whine wordlessly, squirming against the delicious torture of his touch as he takes his time mapping every dip and swell of your body. Marking you as his own by searing himself into your senses through each languid caress.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of exquisite torment, Max sheaths himself in one powerful thrust that punches the air from your lungs. He stills for a long moment, buried to the hilt, broad chest plastered to your back as you both shudder and gasp for air.
“Max … oh fuck, Max please ...”
With an animalistic growl, he complies — withdrawing nearly all the way before snapping his hips in a punishing grind that has your nails scoring the desk’s glossy veneer and guttural cries tearing from your throat.
From there, it’s a haze of sweat-slicked skin and desperate keens, of Max taking you apart with lavish, calculating precision. He’s utterly relentless, wringing every ounce of pleasure from your joined bodies until you’re hovering in a blissful state of oblivion.
It’s everything and yet not enough all at once. You’re ruined for anyone else, forever branded by his ferocious intensity. You’re addicted to the escape he offers from your doubts and burdens.
And as Max’s harsh grunts and increasingly erratic thrusts signal his impending release, you welcome the sweeping wave of darkness that accompanies your own shattering climax.
You’re his now. Utterly and completely. And you’ve never felt so free.
Later, with the tangled sheets pooled around your waists, Max gathers you close and strokes idle patterns over your flushed, sweat-slicked skin. Sated and boneless in the aftermath of his lovemaking, you curl into the strong circle of his embrace with a contented sigh.
Idly, Max’s fingers trail through your tousled locks, nails scraping lightly over your scalp in a way that tingles with delicious sensation. You make a soft sound of pleasure, earning a rumbling chuckle from deep in his chest as he presses a kiss to your brow.
“Feel better, printsesse?” He murmurs, voice a low rasp that strokes over you like velvet.
You manage a lazy nod, humming into the heated dip of his throat as you nuzzle closer. “Much better. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, schatje. Truly.”
You lapse into a comfortable silence, savoring the steady thud of his heartbeat under your ear and the soothing drag of his fingertips over your skin. For the first time in ages, your thoughts are utterly quiet, every worry burned away by the man beside you.
It’s like floating in a warm sea, cradled and buoyed by Max’s strength and devotion. Every breath comes easier, your soul unburdened and free in a way you can’t recall experiencing before. You want to bottle this precious feeling forever.
Eventually, Max breaks the tranquil quiet with a murmured, “Tell me why you hate university so much.”
You tense reflexively at the simple question before letting out a shuddering breath, curling closer to Max’s solid frame.
“It’s just … not me. Not who I am,” you mumble, struggling to articulate the turbulent storm of emotions your father’s demands have been stirring within you. “I’m expected to act and think a certain way, to follow rules and meet standards that I can’t bring myself to embrace. It’s suffocating.”
You pause, sifting through your scattered thoughts for the right words. “I’ve never known anything but expectation and obligation, Max. It’s like … being slowly crushed under this ever-increasing weight of being someone I’m not while being denied any chance at discovering my true self.”
Max’s arms tighten around you protectively, his lips brushing over the crown of your head. “So stop,” he says, the simplicity of his words at odds with the complex web of anxiety and disappointment your life has become.
You shake your head wearily. “I can’t. You know my father — he’ll cut me off without a second thought if I so much as breathe about dropping out again.”
Despite the hefty inheritance awaiting you, Toto has always been resolute that his children earn their share through grueling hard work and achievement. To do anything but, even for a moment, is a grievous failure in his eyes.
“No,” Max’s tone brooks no argument, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “Don’t you see? You don’t have to live like that anymore.”
One corded arm slips beneath your waist, rolling you until Max is looming over you, his chiseled features grave and intense. “You have me now,” he states with quiet certainty, words ringing with the weight of a solemn vow. “I’ll take care of you, schatje — no matter what. Even if your father cuts you off.”
The conviction in his voice steals your breath, your heart clenching almost painfully at the naked promise in his eyes. “Max ...” you start to protest weakly, but he quiets you with a brush of his fingertips over your lips.
“Hear me out,” he says, tone gentle but uncompromising. “What if … what if you just dropped out? Quit this half-life that’s slowly killing your spirit and let me take care of you?”
He leans in until his brow is resting against yours, eyes searching the depths of your own. “I know this is new between us. But I’ve wanted you for so long, printsesse. And I know — down to my very soul — that we’re meant for each other.”
A tremulous exhale escapes you, your chest tightening as Max’s words wrap around your heart in a heated embrace. It’s insane, surely — to take such a risk based on attraction and a single incredible night in his arms. But the vision he paints of safety and freedom sings an inescapable siren song you can’t resist.
“I … I don’t know what to say,” you whisper, suddenly afraid to break the delicate spell woven around you both.
“Say yes.” He kisses you reverently, until your lashes flutter shut at the tender onslaught. “Say yes, and let me take care of you, printsesse. The way you deserve to be cherished.”
God help you, but you can feel your resistance crumbling in the face of Max’s single-minded intensity and undeniable allure. He’s everything you’ve been missing — freedom, passion, and hope for something more than the crushing prison of expectation.
So with one last, shaky exhalation, you give in.
“Okay,” you breathe, the dam finally bursting as tears of bewildered relief prick your eyes. “Yes, Max. Yes.”
He claims your lips in a searing, triumphant kiss that leaves you lightheaded and clinging to him. When you part, his smile is brighter than a thousand suns.
“Tomorrow morning,” he vows fiercely against your swollen mouth. “First thing — you’re calling your university and withdrawing. No arguments.”
Your chest clenches sharply at the directive, fear and anxiety lancing through you at the enormity of what you’ve just agreed to. The crushing weight of your father’s disapproval already feels like a lead shroud.
But Max is there, holding you close and peppering your face with soothing kisses. “Shhh, schatje,” he croons, stroking your hair. “Don’t overthink it. This is what you want, isn’t it? To finally be happy and free?”
You manage a jerky nod, melting into the safety of his solid strength. “Y-yes. But ...”
“No buts,” he reproves gently, capturing your gaze again. “It’s you and me now, Y/N. I’ll handle everything else, I swear it. All you need to focus on is finding what makes you happy again. The rest is my problem. Understand?”
You suck in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, wrestling your scattered thoughts into a semblance of order. What Max offers — this safe harbor from all the pressures slowly drowning you from without and within — is everything you’ve been desperate for. Your own private rebellion against the rigid expectations suffocating you at every turn.
If nothing else, you owe it to yourself to take this lifeline.
With a tremulous smile, you curl into Max and nod against his chest. “Okay. I understand.”
“Good girl,” he praises, satisfaction and triumph ringing in his tone as he cradles you tenderly. “Everything’s going to be alright now, printsesse. You’ll see. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
His fingers stroke through your tresses again, the repetitive sweep quickly lulling you into a deep, dreamless sleep. The first of what you hope will be many where you don’t fret and stew over responsibilities and failures.
The last coherent thought that drifts through your mind as you let Max’s strong heartbeat under your ear lull you under is one of bone-deep contentment and relief.
You’re finally, blissfully free.
***
The first faint rays of dawn filter through the gauzy curtains, rousing you from the most restful sleep you’ve had in longer than you can remember. For a blissful moment, you simply bask in the cocoon of warmth and safety enveloping you — the solid weight of Max’s arm draped possessively over your waist, the clean, musky scent of him surrounding you.
Then the gravity of your decision the previous night comes crashing back in a dizzying wave. Your breath hitches in your chest as apprehension and anxiety spark to life once more.
Sensing the shift in your mood, Max stirs behind you with a quiet rumble, nosing aside the tumbled locks at your nape to press a hushed kiss there.
“Morning, printsesse,” he murmurs, voice still roughened from sleep in a way that has something inside you clenching with need. “Sleep well?”
You can only nod, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in your throat as you twist in the circle of his arms to face him. His brow furrows at the clear trepidation playing over your features.
“Hey now,” he soothes, brushing the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone. “None of that, schatje. You know what you need to do.”
Your teeth snag your lower lip in a nervous gesture as you give another jerky nod. Yes, you know. You agreed to call your university this morning and make your break official by withdrawing.
It should be a relief — knowing you’re finally free of all those crushing expectations and obligations. And yet ...
Max must read the swirling doubts and fears etched into the tense lines of your body. Because he simply gathers you closer, cradling the back of your head against his broad chest as his free hand strokes over your hip in a soothing caress.
“I know it’s scary, letting go of everything you’ve been groomed for,” he murmurs, the steady thump of his heart under your ear already working its magic in calming your turbulent emotions. “But this is what you want, isn’t it? To be happy?”
Another nod, this one more decisive. Because despite the trepidation gnawing at your resolve, you know deep down that it will be worth escaping the slow atrophy of your spirit.
“Then trust me. Let me take care of you, just like I promised.”
He tilts your chin up until your gazes lock, his eyes burning with so much intensity and conviction that your breath catches.
“Make the call,” he urges in a low rumble, searing you to your core. “Be brave and take the first step towards your freedom. Towards us.”
Us.
The word reverberates through your veins with dizzying potency, stoking the blossoming embers of hope and longing that have been kindled to life under Max’s tender, all-consuming attentions. He’s right — you do want this. Want him and the scorching promise of something more that he offers.
So with a shuddering exhale, you reach for your phone with trembling fingers and scroll through your contacts. It’s only when you tap the university’s number that the vise around your chest constricts.
You’re really doing this. Cutting ties with everything that’s suppressed your true self for so long.
Before you can lose your nerve, you hit call.
Max soothes you through every stumbling assurance and confirmation that yes, you’re formally withdrawing from your degree program, effective immediately. When the call ends, he cradles your face in his large, calloused palms and simply holds your gaze as you struggle to get your breathing under control.
Then, slowly, a smile blooms over his striking features.
“Well done, printsesse,” he praises, the rough timbre of his tone reverberating through your very bones. “So brave for me.”
And then his mouth is on yours, claiming you in a drugging kiss that swiftly banishes any lingering doubts or regrets thrumming through you. His taste, his scent, his unbridled passion — all of it combines into an intoxicating force that strips everything else away until only sensation remains.
He murmurs silken endearments to you as the desperate, frantic press of his lips gentles into something softer and infinitely more tender. Until finally, he’s simply cradling you close, peppering whisper-light caresses over your brow, your lashes, the flushed apples of your cheeks.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, gleaming with pride as he drinks in your dazed, thoroughly kissed expression. The profoundly peaceful one you haven’t witnessed on your own features in ages. “My brave, beautiful girl.”
And in that suspended moment, everything else — your father’s disappointment, your uncertain future, and the world at large — fades into irrelevance compared to the serenity of being in Max’s arms. Of having his full attention and accepting the release he offers so freely.
A few hours later, Max is escorting you through the familiar paddock with a possessive hand cupping your lower back. There’s a bounce to your strides that hasn’t existed for longer than you can recall, a giddy sense of lightness like all the burdens you’ve been carrying were finally, blissfully lifted away.
You’re practically glowing, the radiant joy suffusing your every pore in a stark transformation from the tense young woman who fought so hard to hide her unhappiness under a brittle veneer.
So caught up are you in the heady exhilaration of your new lease on life that you very nearly don’t register the familiar, thunderous bellow ringing out over the motorhomes.
“Y/N Wolff! Just what in the hell is going on here?”
The blood drains from your face as your father’s irate voice cleaves through the peaceful moment. Beside you, Max stiffens, his palm searing a brand against the small of your back as he half-turns to face the oncoming storm that is Toto Wolff.
Your father is stalking towards you both with the implacable force of an enraged bull, features contorted into a mask of fury that would cow most grown men into instant submission. But not Max. If anything, his shoulders go back as he shifts incrementally in front of you in a subtle, shielding motion.
“Papa, please let me explain-”
“Explain?” Toto roars as he draws up mere feet away, face mottled and spit flying as his blistering glare swings between you and Max. “Explain why I received an email this morning informing me that my own daughter has willfully withdrawn from the university without so much as consulting me!”
You flinch bodily as if struck, guilt and dread roiling sickeningly in the pit of your stomach. No matter how much he’s stifled you or how right this decision feels, your father’s disapproval is every bit as crippling as you’d feared.
“But Papa ...”
“I have half a mind to cut you off without a cent to your name for this unseemly lack of respect!” Toto’s massive hands are clenched into meaty fists at his sides as he fights visibly to regain control over his temper. “You spoiled, selfish girl. All that I’ve sacrificed to give you every opportunity is being thrown back in my face!”
Beside you, Max has gone rigid with rage at the verbal assault being levied upon you. The set of his jaw and rapid flaring of his nostrils are the only outward signs of the barely leashed fury trembling through his frame.
“Toto,” he bites out in a tone of forced calm that still somehow comes laced with subtle menace. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit? Y/N is an adult making her own choices ...”
“Enough!” Toto cuts him off with a contemptuous slash of his hand, bristling with scorn as he glares daggers at the younger man. “I should have known you’d have something to do with this blatant disregard for responsibility. Just like a driver to think only with what’s between his legs rather than his brain!”
A shocked hush falls over the paddock as mechanics and crew alike abruptly still at the team principal’s uncharacteristic loss of composure. Never before have they witnessed Toto’s infamous ire directed towards his own daughter and her … well, whatever Max is to you now.
But Max remains supremely unbowed before the fury radiating from the much larger man. If anything, Toto’s words seem to enflame his quiet indignation into something hotter. His hands clench into white-knuckled fists as he takes a bristling half-step forward, fully inserting himself between you and your irate father.
“No, Toto,” he growls, the timbre of his normally lilting accent gone dark and thrumming with promise. “That’s quite enough. You’ll not speak to Y/N like that again — not while I’m here.”
Toto blinks, seeming caught off guard by Max’s outright challenge … before a bark of disbelieving laughter rips from his chest.
When he speaks again, his words are bitten off and cruel. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose,” he sneers in your direction, mouth curled in an ugly sneer. “You’ve become the useless little trophy that I always dreaded having for a daughter. Just another parasite leeching off a wealthy man’s success while contributing nothing of value herself.”
Your breath leaves you in a painful wheeze, like you’ve been gut-punched. Tears of shame and wounded pride prick hotly at the corners of your eyes. Is that really how your own father sees you?
That’s the final straw for Max. With a vicious snarl, he very nearly lunges for Toto — only stopped by your panicked grasp around his rigid forearm and a breathless cry for him to stay back.
“Max! Please!”
The naked anguish bleeding into your voice seems to penetrate his haze of seething fury. He pauses, still trembling with scarcely restrained wrath, but nods once in silent agreement to your desperate plea. Behind his unflinching glower, you can glimpse the simmering promise that your father will face severe retribution in his own due time.
But for now, he forces himself to remain impassive and immovable by your side. No longer antagonizing but issuing a clear warning all the same.
The elder Wolff eyes Max with open disgust before shaking his head violently and spitting onto the concrete floor. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Verstappen. Just you wait. And you!” He wheels on you with fresh outrage blazing in his gaze. “Don’t think for a second I won’t make you regret this ridiculous, childish display! You’re cut off, Y/N. Not a single cent until you return to your senses!”
His final scathing words slice into you like a blade, reopening all the wounds of disappointment and failure that have long festered under his stringent demands. You curl in on yourself with a soft, pained noise, unable to even raise your head properly.
Until Max is there.
Cocooning you protectively in the scorching circle of his arms, he gathers you to his chest and simply … holds you. One hand cradles the back of your skull while the other strokes over your back, soothing and petting until some of the rigid tension seeps from your frame.
“It’s alright, schatje,” he murmurs against your hairline, voice rough yet infinitely tender in a way that has tears stinging hotly against your lashes. “There’s no need for this. I’ve got you, printsesse. You’ll never want for anything, not while I’m here.”
His fierce promise rings with so much conviction, so much quiet authority that it bypasses all your ingrained doubts and hesitancies straight to the hollow pit of worthlessness that’s been carved out within you over the years. Soothing that profound ache and filling it with the warmth of Max’s oath.
Because somewhere in the eye of this turbulent storm, you’ve found your shelter.
“I won’t let him hurt you anymore,” Max continues in that same low, reassuring tone. One hand cradles your nape while the other settles against the small of your back, grounding you against the solidness of his strength. “Never again, I swear it.”
So you let yourself unravel against him, forehead pressed to the steady thrum of his pulse as years’ worth of tears flow unchecked down your cheeks. For the first time, you don’t feel shame or weakness in surrendering so utterly to another’s care and protection.
He murmurs wordless endearments and soothes your disheveled tresses as the storm breaks around you both. Making promises as uncompromising and eternal as the rising of the sun itself.
“Everything will be alright now, printsesse. You’ll see. I’ll sort it all, whatever it takes. This is our new start together. And I’ll never let you go.”
***
For the remainder of the weekend, you’re practically glued to Max’s side in the Red Bull garage. A permanent fixture nestled against his solid bulk, soaking up the quiet strength and support he provides like a soothing balm over the raw, aching wounds left by your father’s scathing vitriol.
With Max, none of the biting insecurities and self-doubts that have plagued you for so long can gain purchase. He simply won’t allow it — not with the way he gathers you up in his embrace at every opportunity, lips constantly seeking out your brow, your temple, the sensitive skin of your ear as he murmurs reassurances too low for anyone else’s ears.
And when it comes time for the lights to go out, Max doesn’t so much as compete as utterly dominate, blowing the rest of the field into the weeds. You watch with breathless awe from your spot in the garage as he carves through the field lap after punishing lap, pulling out a lead that turns him into a missile disappearing over the horizon in a blur of ear-splitting power.
By the final lap, Max is so far ahead that he simply has to bring his car home for a staggering 42 second victory. You’re one of the first to greet him after he clambers from the cockpit, all but throwing yourself into his sweat-slicked embrace with a joyful exclamation the second his boots hit the ground.
The cameras inevitably flock, capturing the moment Max lifts you clean off your feet in a bone-crushing hug as his team erupts into jubilant celebration around you both. But Max’s eyes only have focus for you, darkened and blazing with the same all-consuming intensity that’s been ignited behind his ribs since the first moment you let yourself surrender to him wholly.
Later, once the press obligations and podium formalities are complete, Max bundles you away with brisk efficiency — not even needing to explain where you’re headed. You simply follow his lead, gripping his hand tightly as he shepherds you to a private airstrip where his jet awaits.
Your heart skips erratically as you settle into the plush leather seats and Max seals you both inside the luxurious cabin, shutting out the rest of the clamoring world until it’s only the two of you in your own private oasis. Even after everything that’s happened between you in such a short span, you can’t quite shake the giddy disbelief that any of this is truly real.
But then Max is there, sinking onto the seat beside you and gathering you into his side like you’re made to nestle against him for the rest of time. His calloused palm curves over the nape of your neck, thumb stroking over the flutter of your pulse as he presses his brow to your temple and simply … breathes you in.
“That’s it, printsesse,” he murmurs, so low you feel the rumbling timbre in your bones more than hear it. “Just you and me now.”
The jet engines whine to life, as Max tips your chin up to capture your gaze. You go utterly breathless under the weight of his scorching stare, the fevered grey of his irises swirling with so much naked promise that your pulse kicks up several perilous notches.
“Where are we going?” You somehow find the means to whisper, unconsciously licking your lips in a gesture that has Max’s eyes riveting there hungrily.
Rather than answering right away, he nuzzles his mouth over the delicate line of your jaw until his lips are brushing the shell of your ear. “Home,” he rumbles, sending delicious shivers cascading through you. “We’re going home to Monaco, schatje. Where you and I can start our new life together.”
Your breath hitches audibly at the raw yearning, the adamant possession threaded through his words. The implication that you — his everything now, just like he is yours — will be shacking up in his private sanctuary away from prying eyes and unending scrutiny.
Just the thought alone has a molten thrill of anticipation blooming low in your belly. To be utterly alone with Max, isolated from the outside world and every toxicity that’s weighed down your every step until now. To finally spread your wings and breathe the first tendrils of long-denied freedom as his partner, unburdened of expectation or judgment for once.
Is there anything you crave more than that?
As if privy to your innermost thoughts, Max shifts until he can cup your face in his palms. The kiss he brushes over your lips is searing yet paradoxically soft around the edges — like he’s sealing an unspoken promise to cherish you wholly. To be your shield from a world too cruel and demanding when left to its own devices.
“Our new beginning,” he murmurs against your mouth, words scalding with the same intensity as his embrace. “I can’t wait to show you our home, printsesse. To have you all to myself for once.”
The plane surges into its takeoff run, leaving the ground behind as Max’s grip tightens incrementally, hands smoothing over the sloped curves of your neck and shoulders. There’s a sense of possession layered into his touch, a heady feeling that twines through your body until everything is gilded in need.
Languidly, he works his way across the cradle of your throat, painting the fragile hollows with the blistering heat of his lips and tongue. You shudder against him, nerves set alight and already keening for more of his undivided worship.
“I have the most gorgeous penthouse overlooking the marina,” he continues on a low purr, lips shaping endearments against your feverish skin. “Sweeping terraces with hot tubs and daybeds where you can lounge and not have a single care, schatje.”
Your lashes flutter closed in a dazed sweep, head tipping back against the plush headrest to allow Max easier access as he lavishes attention along the fragile dips of your collarbones. You can’t process anything beyond the raging heat blazing to life under his coaxing touch, exquisitely overwhelmed in the most delicious way.
“Mmm, and of course it’ll need some changes, no doubt,” Max rumbles, nosing aside the loose fall of your hair to trail open-mouthed kisses along the fragile column of your neck. “New furniture maybe. Whatever strikes your fancy to make it our space.”
He captures your wandering gaze with his own heated one then, a brow cocked in silent invitation. Somehow you gather enough mental function to nod breathlessly, surrendering control over yet another crucial element of your new life to Max’s steady and capable hands.
“Perfect. I’ll have the best interior designers come around to work their magic. That way you won’t have to strain yourself with all those pesky decisions.”
Relief crests through you in an almost dizzying wave at Max’s implicit assurance that he’ll handle everything, as always. That your only role in this brave new world you’ve embraced will be resting peacefully in the shelter of his care and devotion.
As if in reward, Max finally claims your lips in a kiss that scatters what few coherent thoughts still clung to your lust-drunk brain. His hands roam freely, mapping every sloping curve and silken plane as he lays you back against the buttery leather seats to hover over you.
“Don’t worry about a single thing from now on, printsesse,” he vows in a husky rasp, trailing smoldering kisses along the delicate skin over your thundering pulse. “Just let me take the reins and show you a life without all the endless strain and misery you’ve endured.”
His fingers drift up to wind through your tumbled hair, nails scratching lightly over your scalp as your eyes drift shut in blissful surrender. You’re floating, suspended in a state of hazy, unfocused euphoria with only Max’s low timbre washing over you.
“I’ll make sure you never want for anything again. That pretty head of yours won’t have to trouble itself over choices or tedious trivialities any longer.” A searing kiss is pressed to each of your fluttering eyelids, like he’s sealing each promise behind the delicate barrier of bone and flesh.
“No decisions, no worries,” he murmurs, nibbling a path down the delicate arch of your cheekbone. “Just bliss and contentment and pleasure as far as the eye can see. You’ll exist only for my warmth and protection from now on. To be cherished every second of every day for the rest of our lives.”
More kisses, like balms of heated adoration poured over your sensitized skin. You keen softly on each breath, body arching helplessly into his skilled caresses as he worships you with his hands and mouth.
“That’s it, printsesse,” he croons, slowly stripping you down to chase the slope and hollow of your form with his lips. Every fevered, burning press sears his devotion into your flesh, your consciousness spiraling inward until only Max’s raspy declarations anchor you in blissful desire.
“Let it all go. Forget everything but this — us, our love, our new start. Nothing but sweet oblivion from now until eternity.”
You shudder, boneless and needy in his cradling embrace even as serenity steals over your limbs. Max’s heated weight on top of you is an anchor keeping you grounded in a sea of molten liquid pleasure, his impossible heat seeming to bleed into your very bones with each passing moment.
“That’s my beautiful girl,” he praises in a voice like rumbling thunder, lips shaping words of adoration against the swell of your navel as your eyelids sag heavily. “So perfect and made for me alone. To take such good care of you from this day until my last, printsesse. To give you the world and then some.”
Unconsciousness beckons, cradling you in its downy soft embrace until only the sound of Max’s worshipful murmurs penetrates the enveloping cocoon of warmth and safety surrounding you. It’s the sweetest surrender imaginable, floating away on a sea of rippling, indulgent bliss with your beloved at the helm to guide you home.
The last threads of awareness slip from your grasp as Max shifts and settles behind you, pillowing you against his chest. With a contented sigh, you burrow deeper into the furnace of his solid strength and let the rhythmic thud of his pulse lull you under. His fingers stroke idle patterns through your hair, the rhythmic sweeps like a metronome steadying your descent into deepest slumber.
“Sleep now, printsesse,” he commands in that same soft, indulgent tone that wraps around your soul. “We’re headed for our paradise.”
His deep rumble quickly lulls you under again, cradled in the safety of his arms. The last coherent thought spinning lazily through the cozy haze enveloping you is one of profound gratitude and trust.
You know, deep in your bones, that Max will make good on his promise to cherish you without reservation. To shield you from expectations and disappointment alike.
So you let his softly murmured endearments and the steady cadence of his heartbeat under your cheek sing you into blissful, worry-free dreams of the life he’s vowed to craft for you both.
It’s everything you’ve ever yearned for yet been too afraid to reach out and claim.
Until Now.
Until Max.
***
The early morning sun filters through the curtains as Max stirs awake. His eyes flutter open and immediately drift to you, lying peacefully beside him. A soft smile plays across his lips as he takes in your features — the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair fans out across the pillow. In this moment, you look so beautifully unburdened, free from the worries that so often trouble your mind.
Max reaches out, tenderly brushing a few stray strands from your forehead. You don’t stir, lost in the depths of a dreamless slumber. Good, he thinks. You need this rest, this escape from the harsh realities that have been weighing you down.
His thumb traces along your cheekbone as his mind wanders back to the distressing news a few days prior — your father revoking your paddock access in a bitter act of retaliation. Max’s jaw tightens at the memory of the anguish clouding your eyes when you relayed the email to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Max had said simply, pulling you into his embrace. “You’re with me now.”
And just like that, the tension seeped from your shoulders as you allowed yourself to melt against him, letting his presence anchor you. Max knew then what he had to do — create an oasis for you where none of your troubles could penetrate.
Leaning closer, he presses a feather-light kiss to your temple. “Wake up, schatje,” he murmurs. “It’s a new day.”
You stir slightly, eyelashes fluttering as consciousness slowly trickles in. Max watches, transfixed, as awareness blooms across your features. For a suspended beat, there is only serene blankness, a clean slate unmarred by the demons that so often still haunt you.
Then your gaze finds his, and the corners of your mouth tug upwards in a soft, wondering smile. “Max ...”
“Morning, printsesse.” He brushes his knuckles along your jaw. “How are you feeling?”
You blink slowly, as if trying to grasp at fleeting tendrils of thought. But there is nothing there to catch, only a tranquil emptiness. “Good,” you murmur at last. “Really good.”
Relief washes over Max at the simplicity and peacefulness in your tone. He leans in, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss. You melt into him, pliant and trusting, and he commits every little thing to memory — the warmth of your skin, the faint taste of sweetness on your tongue, and the way your fingers tangle in his sleep-mussed hair.
When you finally part, you are both slightly breathless. Max rests his forehead against yours, searching your eyes. They are clear, untroubled pools reflecting back at him.
“That’s it,” he praises softly. “No worries, no stress. Just … here. Present with me.”
You nod, something vulnerable yet beautiful flickering across your features. Max recognizes it as the look you get when you fully surrender yourself to him, allowing him to take the lead, to care for you in the way you so desperately need.
Brushing his thumb across your lower lip, he holds your gaze. “What would you like for breakfast, hmm? Anything you want, it’s yours.”
You nibble on your lip for a moment before shaking your head. “Don’t know. You choose.”
His heart clenches at the utter trust in your words. Nodding, he leans down to graze another deep kiss across your mouth before slipping from the sheets. As he pads across the plush hotel carpet to call room service, he can feel the weight of your eyes tracking his every movement.
Once the order is placed, Max returns to the bed, stretching out beside you as he pulls you against his chest. You burrow closer with a contented sigh, looping an arm around his waist.
“What do you want to do until breakfast arrives?” He asks, carding his fingers through your tousled hair.
You shrug one shoulder, nuzzling your cheek against the bare skin of his torso. “Don’t care,” you mumble drowsily. “Just … this.”
A profound sort of tenderness blooms in Max’s chest. He knows you would be amenable to anything, so long as it allowed you to exist in this carefree, thoughtless state a while longer.
“Alright, then just this,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to your crown.
The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, lazily trading soft caresses and occasional whispered endearments. Max finds himself lulled by the steady thump of your heartbeat against his ribs, the gentle ebb and flow of your breathing.
He has no notion of how much time slips by before there is a crisp rap at the door, jolting you both from the tranquil bubble. Your eyes widen slightly, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.
“Shh, it’s alright.” Max smooths his palm along the line of your spine. “Just breakfast, nothing to worry about.”
You seem to remember then, the tension melting from your frame as you peer up at him with trusting eyes. He brushes his thumb across the delicate arch of your cheekbone before carefully extricating himself from your embrace to answer the door.
While the server situates the laden cart inside, Max rejoins you on the bed, rearranging the plump pillows behind you so you can sit upright. You immediately slot yourself between his outstretched legs, reclining against his chest. His arms wind around your middle as you both survey the impressive spread laid out before you.
“What looks good?” He prompts, resting his chin atop your head.
You chew your lip for a moment. “I don’t know … everything?”
He chuckles, splaying one hand across your stomach. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to go hungry, now would I? How about we start with this-” He leans over, snagging a ripe strawberry from the platter and holding it to your lips. You part them obediently, eyes sliding shut as you savor the sweet burst of flavor.
Max nuzzles into the crook of your neck, letting his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Good girl,” he praises in a low rumble.
You shiver against him, tilting your head in a silent plea for more. He happily obliges, feeding you bite after bite until the platter is decimated. His free hand roams lazily, mapping every dip and swell of your form through the thin cotton of your oversized sleep shirt. All the while, his mouth works along the exposed column of your throat, peppering fervent, open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin.
At some point, the scattered remains of your indulgent breakfast lay forgotten on the cart as Max rolls you beneath him, drinking in your breathy whimpers and sighs. He takes his time thoroughly ravishing you until you are both sated and deliciously disheveled.
Eventually, you find yourselves curled together amid the tangled nests of sheets, trading languid kisses and basking in the afterglow. Max strokes his fingers through your hair as your head lolls against his shoulder, expression blissfully serene. Your lashes are dark smudges against your flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted on shallow breaths.
“There she is,” he murmurs, drinking in your debauched beauty. “My sweet girl, all relaxed and happy ...”
Ducking his head, Max nuzzles his nose along your hairline, inhaling your comforting scent. “No thoughts, no cares,” he rumbles against your temple. “Just you and me in this perfect little world.”
You make a soft, wordless sound of agreement, snuggling closer in his embrace. He smiles, gathering you even tighter against his chest, relishing the sensation of your heartbeats falling into sync.
All too soon, however, the tranquil interlude must come to an end. Max glances at the clock, silently calculating how much time remains before he needs to head to the paddock. He heaves a reluctant sigh, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Come on, schatje,” he murmurs. “Time to get ready.”
You blink up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, still blissfully adrift in your peaceful daze. Warmth blooms in Max’s chest at your guileless expression. He would move mountains to keep you looking this way forever — soft and sated, basking in the afterglow with your head deliciously empty.
“Don’t worry,” he vows, thumbing away the crease furrowing your brow. “I’ll take care of you. You just let your thoughts stay nice and quiet, hmm?”
The worry lines ease from your features as you nod with implicit trust, allowing Max to guide you from the rumpled sheets. He quickly sets about straightening your mussed appearance, dressing you with unhurried tenderness. All the while, you remain pliant and completely biddable in his hands, seemingly unconcerned with anything beyond the present moment.
Once you’re both fresh and presentable, Max slips an arm around your waist, tucking you against his side. You go willingly, temple resting in the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
“My good girl,” he praises, mouth brushing your hairline. “Let’s go, keep drifting for me.”
You make a soft, affirmative noise, slipping your hand into his as you allow him to lead the way from the sanctuary of your hotel suite. Max is acutely aware of your body listing bonelessly against his own, of the feather-light brush of your lashes against his jaw every few steps.
He knows others might gawk, might question the almost trancelike state you’ve allowed yourself to sink into. But he couldn’t care less about their muttered judgments. His only priority is ensuring you remain in this safe, blissful headspace for as long as possible.
When you finally reach the paddock, Max ushers you towards a secluded alcove in weRed Bull hospitality. He settles you on a plush loveseat, ensuring you’re situated comfortably. Crouching before you, he smooths his palms along the tops of your thighs, holding your drowsy gaze.
“Wait here for me,” he says, keeping his tone low and soothing. “I’ll come get you before FP3, yeah? Just … stay relaxed. Let your mind stay beautifully empty.”
You blink at him, lips curving in an utterly trusting smile. “Okay, Max.”
His chest constricts powerfully at your dreamy, unguarded expression. Rising on his knees, he cups your face in his hands, claiming your mouth in a gentle kiss. You open for him without hesitation, kissing him back with languid strokes of your tongue.
When you finally part, you are both left slightly breathless. Max strokes his thumbs along the swollen curves of your lower lip as you gaze at him from beneath heavy lids, looking thoroughly ravished and compliant.
“I love you,” he whispers fiercely. “I love seeing you like this — free and happy without all those nasty thoughts plaguing you. It’s just us in our own world. Nothing else matters here, printsesse.”
You keen softly in response, nosing deeper into his touch like a touch-starved kitten. He chuckles indulgently, dropping another lingering kiss to your forehead.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promises. “Stay pretty and sweet for me.”
With one final caress along your jaw, Max tears himself away, walking towards the Red Bull garage with purposeful strides. He can feel the weight of your eyes tracking him until he rounds the corner, can picture the blissful emptiness clouding your features.
The thought bolsters him, lending an extra swagger to his step as he readies himself for the day ahead. For once, he finds himself relishing the familiar paddock chaos, eager to simply immerse himself in the visceral thrill of the sport he loves.
He knows his favorite reward will be waiting when the practice session concludes — your warm, pliant form and those trusting doe eyes filled with nothing but adoration.
***
The next morning, Max wakes with a familiar sense of tranquil purpose. Shifting onto his side, he brushes the tousled hair back from your forehead, drinking in the sight of you sleeping so peacefully beside him. A contented smile curves his lips as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, reveling in how relaxed and unburdened you appear.
He knows today will be demanding — race day always is. But that makes moments like these where he can simply bask in your presence all the more precious. With gentle reverence, Max trails his fingertips along the delicate line of your jaw, tracing the bow of your slightly parted lips.
“Time to wake up, schatje,” he murmurs. “Big day ahead.”
You stir with a soft, wordless hum, lashes fluttering. Max feels his breath catch as your eyes open, glassy and unfocused for a few beats before finding his own. Just like that, the furrow between your brows smooths out, leaving your expression blissfully untroubled.
“There you are,” he croons, heart clenching at the naked trust shining back at him. Cupping your cheek, he leans in to brush a soft, lingering kiss across your pliant mouth.
When he pulls back, you’re already chasing his lips with a small, plaintive noise. Max chuckles fondly, combing his fingers through your tousled hair.
“Needy girl,” he teases, though his voice is laced with undisguised affection. “I suppose I’d better take care of that before we have to leave, hmm?”
He doesn’t give you a chance to respond — not that he expects any coherent reply in your current state. No, better to let your thoughts remain deliciously empty as he claims your mouth again in a series of heated kisses.
Max loses himself in the familiar glide of lips and tongue, the quiet whimpers that spill from your throat every time he nips at that sensitive spot just below your ear. He maps every inch of your sleep-warm skin with devoted hands until you are both flushed and panting softly.
Eventually, however, the persistent ticking of the bedside clock drags him back to awareness of the rapidly dwindling time. With a regretful groan, Max tears his mouth from the juncture of your neck, nosing his way along your jaw until he can capture your lips in one final kiss.
“We should get going,” he murmurs against the swollen curve of your lower lip. Though his tone is tinged with reluctance, there’s an unmistakable rasp of command underlying the words.
You blink up at him, pupils blown wide and dark, but give a trusting nod. Max feels his chest constrict powerfully at the easy acquiescence. Brushing his thumb in a tender caress across your cheekbone, he slants his mouth over yours once more, coaxing you through several more drugging kisses until your lips are kiss-bitten and slick.
“Good girl,” he praises roughly when you finally part, both breathing heavily. “You’re going to keep feeling this relaxed all day, aren’t you? No nasty thoughts creeping in, just … blissful quiet waiting for me.”
Something like reverence flashes across your features as you nod jerkily, unconsciously worrying your already abused lip between your teeth. Max groans low in his throat, capturing your face between his palms and slanting his mouth over yours in a filthy kiss, all heat and slick friction and desperation.
When he finally manages to tear himself away, you’re rumpled and utterly debauched beneath him, chest heaving. He has to actively resist the urge to simply drag you back under his body, to lose himself in ravishing you until you’re both sated and boneless.
“Gonna make me late for my own race at this rate,” he chides gruffly, though his heated gaze roams indulgently over your prone form.
Levering himself off the bed with obvious reluctance, Max quickly sets about readying the both of you for the day, tugging you along in his wake with firm yet gentle hands. You follow easily, movements loose and languid and so very pliant under his ministrations.
By the time he’s dressed you and seen to your grooming, your features have settled into that slack, dreamy expression he loves so much — eyes glassy and lips slightly parted, not a single worry line creasing your forehead. Perfection.
“There’s my sweet girl,” he rumbles in approval, reeling you into his arms.
You go willingly, slumping bonelessly against his chest with a soft, incoherent murmur. He smiles, nosing into the tousled hair at your crown and inhaling your familiar scent. For a long moment, he simply revels in the sensation of your body melting trustingly into his own, of the steady throb of your pulse against his ribs.
All too soon, however, the hands of the clock continue their march forward. With a rueful sigh, Max presses one last lingering kiss to your hair before reluctantly disentangling himself.
“Come along then, printsesse,” he murmurs, catching your hand and giving a gentle tug. “Time to go.”
You make a soft, wordless noise of agreement, falling into step beside him without a shred of hesitation. Every few paces, you angle yourself closer until your shoulder brushes his bicep, seemingly seeking his solid warmth.
Max feels an indulgent smile tugging at his lips as he slips a possessive arm around your waist, anchoring you against his side. You immediately slot against him, temple resting in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He can sense the dreamy, unfocused quality of your gaze as it skims over your surroundings, can practically hear the blissful white noise filling your head.
As you exit the hotel and navigate through the throngs of people clustered outside, Max holds you even tighter, letting the murmurs and clicks of camera shutters wash over him in a dull roar. He’s hyperaware of every point where your body molds to his, of the trusting way you tuck yourself into his shelter without so much as a backwards glance.
By the time the two of you reach the circuit, your cheeks are flushed and there’s a becoming sort of dazed softness to your features. Max has to resist the urge to simply tuck you away in some quiet corner, to keep you insulated in this perfect bubble for as long as humanly possible.
But race days are nothing if not a whirlwind of demands and tight schedules. So instead, he ushers you along the serpentine corridors with a sturdy arm locked around your waist, relishing the way you move beside him in that lovely, blissed-out trance.
When you finally reach the motorhome, he deposits you on the leather couch with gentle reverence, taking a moment to situate you with utmost care. You gaze up at him, eyes glassy but utterly trusting as he smooths back the hair from your forehead.
“Wait here for me, hmm?” He murmurs, cupping the line of your jaw. “I’ll be back before you know it. Just keep that pretty head deliciously empty and let me take care of everything else.”
The corner of your mouth curves in a soft, wondering smile before you give a tiny nod of agreement. Unable to resist, Max leans in to capture that gentle upturn between his lips, kissing you deeply until you’re pliant and breathless and unfurling like a flower against his chest.
He has to tear himself away before his precarious restraint snaps. “Good girl,” he praises roughly, drinking in the sight of your dreamy, intoxicated expression before forcing himself to turn away, walking toward the garage with purposeful strides.
The familiar race-day chaos swirls around him in a torrent of noise and movement, but Max easily blocks the distractions from his mind, focusing intently on his preparations. There is something grounding about the rituals, the procedural drive to ready his car and equipment. By the time he emerges onto the grid, he is centered and assured, every ounce of his concentration honed on the inevitable green light.
The race itself is, as always, a heated blur of adrenaline and split-second reflexes. Every nerve ending thrums with that singular focus until he’s drunk on the scream of the engine and the smear of color whipping past his visor.
When he finally returns to parc fermé, it takes Max a disorienting moment to recognize the distant clamor bleeding in from beyond the paddock. Handing his helmet off to a mechanic, he makes his way towards the steadily amplifying sound, chest still heaving from the lingering effects of the endorphin high.
Rounding the corner towards the pits, he’s abruptly met by a scene of utter chaos. People — crews and spectators alike — seem to be converging in a jumbled knot near the Red Bull garage, a strange sort of bristling tension in the air. Max falters for a moment, brow furrowing in bewilderment, when a familiar figure finally emerges in his line of sight.
You.
Your expression is one of naked distress, red splotches staining those beloved cheeks as you seem to shrink in on yourself. Though he can’t make out the words, it’s clear you’re pleading with the imposing figure looming over you.
Your father.
Something protective and ferocious ignites in Max’s chest at the realization. Surging forward, he shoves his way through the ranks of onlookers until he’s at your side, reaching out to splay a steadying hand at the small of your back. You automatically angle into his touch, small tremors wracking your frame. Up close, he can make out the tear tracks streaking your flushed face, the way your lips are bitten and swollen from worrying them raw between your teeth.
“What the hell is going on here?” He demands, shooting a scathing look at your father.
Before Toto can answer, another man steps forward, one Max recognizes as a FIA official. “Perhaps we should take this discussion somewhere more private,” he suggests in clipped tones, eyes darting around at the milling crowd.
A muscle ticks in Toto’s jaw, but he gives a curt nod of assent. Without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks away, clearly expecting the rest of them to follow. Max feels your fingers fisting in the back of his sweat-damp suit, clutching him like a lifeline.
Squeezing the nape of your neck in a silent gesture of comfort, he tucks you against his side before falling into step behind the two older men. It galls him to follow their lead instead of simply spiriting you away, but something in your father’s demeanor warns against open defiance. Better to hear them out.
You’re shown to a secluded room just off the main garage bay, fluorescent lights buzzing harshly overhead. The moment the door closes behind the four of you with a hollow thud, Toto whirls with an expression carved from thunderclouds.
“Get your filthy hands off my daughter,” he bites out, eyes flashing dangerously in Max’s direction.
White-hot fury races up Max’s spine, setting every nerve alight. His grip tightens fractionally where his palm is splayed against the dip of your lower back.
“Like hell,” he growls, edging closer until your slight frame is fully bracketed against his own. “She’s trembling because of you.”
“Oh, of course, I’m sure this has nothing to do with her being half out of her mind with Lord knows what substances,” Toto sneers. “A fine state to be wandering around the paddock in, isn’t it?”
Max feels you flinch violently against him at the blistering accusation, a wounded sound catching in the back of your throat. Something bright and violent surges in his chest at your obvious distress.
“How dare you,” he grits through clenched teeth, voice low and dangerous as he pulls you flush against his body. “She was perfectly content until you came along and started spouting such vile nonsense. She hasn’t touched anything, you miserable bastard.”
The insult hangs in the airless space as Toto’s complexion darkens several shades. He opens his mouth — no doubt to unleash a scathing volley — when the FIA official hastily interjects.
“Enough,” he cuts in sharply. “This behavior is unacceptable. If there has been some egregious violation, I must ask you both to lay out the facts as you know them so we might get to the bottom of this affair.”
Max’s nostrils flare sharply as he draws a steadying breath. He needs to keep a level head if only for your sake, to prevent this from spiraling any further out of control. Dipping his chin, he angles his mouth against the crown of your bowed head.
“Breathe, schatje,” he murmurs, one hand stroking soothingly up and down the quivering line of your spine as he holds your father’s shrewd gaze.
“There’s been no violation apart from Toto coming at his daughter completely unprovoked,” he asserts, voice steady and clipped. “Her current state is simply the result of being relaxed and free of negative thoughts, something I’d think any parent would want for their child.”
Toto scoffs indelicately, folding his arms across his chest. “Is that what you call completely zoned out and unresponsive? Don’t be absurd. I know perfectly well what that vacant look signifies — early morning drinking or worse. Trying to numb whatever guilt she’s wallowing in after throwing away her entire future like a petulant child.”
Max feels you stiffen, your nails digging half-moons into his bicep. Before he can retort, however, the official clears his throat once more.
“Ms. Wolff,” he addresses you directly. “I’m going to need you to confirm the situation from your own perspective. What is the cause of the … condition your father is alluding to?”
For a tense moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing filling the suffocating silence. Then, warm and tremulous, comes your voice muffled against Max’s collarbone.
“I … haven’t had anything. Really,” you insist shakily. “Max was just … helping me relax. Taking care of me like he always does.”
Toto makes a disgusted, disbelieving sound in the back of his throat, mouth already twisting in preparation to unleash another attack. But Max simply holds up a preemptive hand, wholly engrossed in studying the lines of strain bracketing your expression. His thumb grazes the flushed, tear-stained hollow of your cheek as he murmurs a gentle plea, voice dropping into that soft, honeyed register reserved solely for your ears.
“Tell me what you need, printsesse. How can I help chase those nasty thoughts away again?”
You blink up at him, pupils blown wide and irises over-bright, clearly struggling to hold his gaze. Max feels his heart clench at the naked torment written across your features as you falter, gnawing anxiously at that already mangled lower lip.
“I … can’t,” you whisper tremulously, a broken quality entering your tone. “It’s too loud. I can’t keep them quiet when he’s like this ...”
The vulnerable little admission lands like a physical blow, momentarily stealing Max’s breath. Gathering you closer, he brushes his mouth along the worry line creasing your forehead.
“I know, schatje, I know,” he soothes, cradling the back of your skull. “But you’re doing so well. So good for me, my sweet girl.”
Slanting his head, Max claims your lips in a slow kiss, trying to lose himself in the familiar glide of skin and breath. When he finally breaks away, you’re already chasing after him, eyes glazed and lips prettily swollen. He feels some of the knots in his gut begin to uncoil as he traces the delicate sweep of your cheekbone.
“Better?” He prods gently.
You make a soft, affirmative sound, nuzzling further into his palm. Max’s lips quirk despite the tension still coiled in his shoulders, relief trickling through him warm and heady.
“Let’s get out of here, hmm?” He suggests, punctuating the question with another lingering press of his mouth against your brow. “Back to the motorhome, just the two of us. You can fully relax again, keep your thoughts quiet and happy.”
Slowly, giving you ample time to pull away, he begins walking you backwards towards the exit, keeping his motions unhurried and soothing so as not to trigger another spiral.
“No,” Toto barks in a tone like shattered granite. “She is not going anywhere with you, Verstappen. If she is seriously this mentally addled, then she requires proper treatment, not … whatever sick fantasies you’ve allowed to fester in that depraved mind of yours.”
Max feels you shake like a leaf caught in a violent gale against him at your father’s harsh words. Clenching his jaw, he pivots to put himself bodily between you and that callous glare.
“You’re the one who’s sick if you think for a second I’d ever let anything hurt her,” he bites out in a tone laced with venom. “All I’ve done is try to give her the peace and respite she so desperately needs. If that’s a crime, then throw me in a fucking prison.”
Toto sneers, eyes glinting with undisguised contempt. “Don’t play the martyr with me. We both know exactly what kind of sordid games you’ve been playing while her mind is so clearly compromised.”
Max feels his face flush in outrage, desire to throttle your father warring with the need to keep you sheltered away from any further vitriol. He opens his mouth, another blistering retort balanced on the tip of his tongue, when a warm weight presses against his back.
Looking over his shoulder, he finds you peering up at him beseechingly, tears clinging to those thick lashes. Max’s expression immediately crumples into something infinitely softer, gentler around the edges.
“Please … I j-just want to go,” you stammer in a tiny voice, fingers bunching in his race suit. “No more yelling. I can’t … I c-can’t ...”
Your breath hitches in a wounded sound as your eyes skitter away from his, clouding over once more with panic and distress. It’s like a physical blow to Max’s ribs, stealing what little oxygen remains in the claustrophobic space.
Spinning on his heel, he crowds you backward until your trembling frame is braced against the wall. With an approximation of tenderness he hoped you’d find grounding, Max frames your face between his palms as he ducks his head, searching out your skittish gaze.
“Shh, hey … look at me, printsesse,” he croons, ducking to burrow his nose against your hairline. “Just focus on me, alright? That’s my good girl.”
He can feel the fine tremors wracking you even as he gentles your head into the crook of his neck, splaying one broad palm over the rapid flutter of your pulse. Max shushes you through another hiccuping sob, rocking your pliant weight against his as he whispers nonsensical endearments into your hair.
“You’re okay, it’s okay,” he soothes without ceasing the soothing motions. “I’ve got you. Deep breaths for me, there we go ...”
Gradually, he feels some of the tension ebb from your rigid muscles until you sag fully into his embrace, boneless and pliant once more. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Max finds Toto watching you with an inscrutable expression, frustration and something else he can’t quite name churning in those flinty eyes.
Uncaring of his scrutiny, Max returns his attention to mapping the curves of your face with reverent fingers, gentling you back into that headspace of tranquil bliss.
“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs against the seam of your lips. “Let everything else just … drift away. We’re going back to our sanctuary, yeah? Nice and peaceful, with all those thoughts gone quiet where they belong.”
He can see the worry lines slowly beginning to smooth from your brow, tension bleeding from your frame as his words seep in like a balm. Smiling softly, Max dips his head to capture your mouth in a series of deep, lingering kisses, savoring the addictive little sounds you make against his questing tongue.
“Mr. Verstappen,” a gruff voice cuts in, effectively shattering the lush, private bubble.
Tearing his lips from yours with obvious reluctance, Max twists to slant a scathing glare at the FIA official. He keeps one arm locked securely around your waist, refusing to relinquish an inch of the soothing skin-to-skin contact despite the interruption.
The official holds up a placating hand. “I’m going to have to ask you both to exit the premises for the time being. At least until whatever … this situation is has been resolved to a reasonable degree.”
Max opens his mouth to protest, but you choose that moment to whine softly, nosing against his jaw in search of his lips once more. A hot lance of protectiveness surges through his core. Swallowing back the words on the tip of his tongue, he gives a terse nod.
“We’re leaving. Don’t try to touch her again.”
He punctuates the thinly veiled warning by curling possessively around your smaller frame, tucking you against his side as he propels you towards the door with urgency. You keep up easily enough, still deliciously pliant and soothed by his touch if the lingering glazed look in your eyes is anything to go bye.
As the heavy door clicks shut behind you, Max doesn’t spare a backwards glance. His sole focus is getting you back to the sanctity of his private quarters, away from the scrutiny and toxicity currently swirling in the paddock. One hand splays protectively over the dip of your waist as you move, the other coming up to shelter the back of your head.
“Nearly there, schatje,” he murmurs into your hairline as he blankets you in the solid warmth of his body. “Just a bit further and we’ll be all alone, just how you like it.”
You hum in what he chooses to interpret as agreement, pushing up onto your toes to nose along the sharp line of his jaw. Max groans low in his throat, slowing his strides so he can tug you abruptly into his chest. Your mouth falls open on a soft gasp, which he eagerly swallows with a filthy slide of his tongue.
When he finally wrenches himself away, you’re panting and glassy-eyed, lips bitten and swollen to a lush pout. Tutting under his breath, Max traces the abused swell with the pad of his thumb, pupils darkening to fathomless black pools as he drinks in your wanton appearance.
“Need to stop doing that, sweet thing,” he chides in a low rasp. “Don’t want to tempt me into having my way you right here in the corridor, now do we?”
Twin spots of color immediately bloom in your cheeks as you emit a strangled little sound, thighs clenching convulsively for a dizzying heartbeat. He chuckles, low and wicked, before slanting his mouth over that sinful jut of your lower lip, sucking the swollen flesh between his teeth.
“Soon,” he vows roughly, nipping at the tender skin. “We’ll be alone and I can take care of that delicious ache properly. Would you like that, printsesse? To let me coax all those nasty thoughts back into pretty oblivion?”
You make a small, wanting sound against the sweep of his tongue, fingers clenching convulsively in the fabric of his race suit. Max hums in wordless approval, momentarily losing himself in reacquainting his senses with every lush corner of your mouth.
It isn’t until Max feels the hard planes of his driver’s room door against his back that he bothers dragging himself from the sensual haze. Panting harshly, he brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair from your flushed brow, unable to resist dipping in for one more searing, open-mouthed kiss.
“Inside,” he growls when you part with a trembling inhale. “Now.”
You nod jerkily, eyes glassy and unfocused even as you chase his lips with a tiny, needy noise. Max gentles you backwards over the threshold with firm, steadying hands until you’re situated within the blessedly muffled quiet of his temporary sanctuary.
Distantly, he registers the faint sounds of celebration filtering up from the track, but they seem muffled and inconsequential compared to the rapid beat of your pulse beneath his palms.
Trailing one hand up the slender column of your throat, Max tilts your chin until your gaze meets his own. “You’re alright now, sweet girl,” he soothes, tracing the line of your lower lip. “Just us, safe and sound away from all the noise.”
You make a soft sound of agreement, instinctively pressing closer until your bodies are flush, every pliant curve molded to his hard planes. Max groans at the exquisite friction, hands spanning your waist to tug you even tighter against his burgeoning arousal.
“That’s it, stay right here with me,” he rumbles against the swell of your parted lips. “Let everything else drift away until there’s nothing left but my voice in that pretty head.”
Slanting his mouth over yours, Max proceeds to chase every lingering thread of tension from your frame with deep, indulgent sweeps of his tongue. He maps every intimate detail until you’re pliant and breathy in his arms once more, limp and trusting as a ragdoll.
“Good girl,” he praises roughly when you finally part, resting his brow against yours. “You’re doing so well, staying nice and floaty for me even after … everything.”
You blink up at him, that soft, dreamy haze already stealing back over your features. Max’s chest constricts powerfully at the naked adoration shining back at him, the implicit trust written in every fluid line of your body.
“Max ...” you breathe, the single syllable somehow encompassing a wealth of devotion and longing.
He hushes you gently with another toe-curling kiss, reveling in the way your mouth instantly softens and opens for the insistent sweep of his tongue. When he finally pulls back, the rigid lines of strain have melted from your expression, leaving only that beloved, blissful tranquility in their wake.
“There you are,” Max rumbles in approval, thumbing away the dampness still clinging to those long lashes. “My sweet, gorgeous girl. Nothing but beauty and peace between those lovely ears.”
You make a small, incoherent sound of agreement, already drifting back into that lush, thoughtless headspace under his ministrations. Unable to resist, Max ducks his head to mouth along the line of your throat, laving hot, openmouthed kisses over the wildly fluttering pulse point.
“I’ve got you, schatje,” he mutters between kitten licks and nips. “Not going to let a single ugly thought spoil this lovely blank canvas. You’re perfect like this, all soft and sweet with nothing rattling around in that pretty head but oblivion.”
His words seem to spur a full-body tremor that ricochets through your slender frame. You whimper brokenly against the crown of his hair, hips stuttering forward in mute pleading as your nails score desperate half-moons against the taut cords of his biceps.
“Please,” you whisper in a wrecked tone that goes straight to Max’s groin. “Need you ...”
“Soon, printsesse,” he promises in a low rasp. Though it takes every ounce of his negligible restraint, he continues blazing a scorching path down the exposed column of your neck and across the elegant jut of your collarbones instead of hauling you against him. “Let me take care of you properly first, yeah? Want you floaty and boneless for me.”
You make a whimpery sound of agreement, one hand uncurling to fist in the damp hair at his nape. Max hisses at the sharp sting, retaliating by capturing the pulse fluttering in the hollow of your throat between his teeth. He nips at the tender flesh until your breath is coming in shallow, hitching gasps, every muscle turned liquid and quivering in his arms.
“Good,” he croons in approval once you’re thoroughly debauched, sparing a moment to take in your wrecked appearance with heated appreciation. “My perfect girl, so prettily unraveled for me already.”
With exquisite care, he traces the bow of your lips with the calloused pad of his thumb until they part on a shuddery indrawn breath.
“Stay just like this,” he rumbles in that same dark timbre. “Let your mind drift. Never been more beautiful than when your thoughts are gone all hazy like this.”
You blink up at him, plush lower lip caught between your teeth in that completely docile way. Max rewards your compliance by angling your head to the side, nosing at your neck as he breathes deep of your tantalizing scent.
His hands skate down in blazing trails until they settle with light possessiveness at your waist, bracketing you fully against the solid wall of his chest. You keen softly at the contact, arching on pure instinct as you go pliant in his embrace.
“That’s it,” Max praises, hot and heated against the sensitive hollow below your ear. “Just let it all drift away while I make you feel good.”
Dipping his chin, he seals his mouth over yours in a series of drugging kisses, spine going liquid at your breathy whimpers. He loses track of everything — time, the muted noises of celebration filtering in from outside, even his own name — as his entire universe narrows to the slick glide of your tongue, the warmth of your body twining insistently around his own.
When he finally drags himself back from the precipice of mindless want, you’re boneless in his arms, flushed and trembling and so exquisitely unraveled. Max rakes his teeth over his lower lip as he takes in the picture you make — hair hopelessly tousled, lips swollen to an obscene pout, eyes glassy and dazed as they struggle to focus on his face.
“Look at you,” he husks in mingled awe and possessive pride. “Gone all sweet and floaty again, hmm? Not a single thought left in this little head of yours.”
As if in confirmation, you slur out a low, affirmative hum, butting your flushed cheek against his sternum in search of more contact. The sight sends a hot pulse of want ricocheting through Max’s veins. He barely tamps down a groan as he crushes you closer, driving your pliant body into the solid surface at your back.
“Beautiful, inside and out,” he rasps against the slick curve of your throat. “Every inch of you is perfect like this, schatje, and I’m the luckiest bastard alive to be the one allowed to see you come so utterly undone.”
***
Three Months Later
Toto rounds the corner onto one of Monaco’s picture-perfect side streets, the warm afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy of leafy trees lining the cobblestones. His strides are clipped and purposeful as he navigates the throngs of lingering brunchers and slack jawed tourists.
He’s due for a terse meeting with several FIA officials in half an hour’s time to hash out the latest regulatory adjustments for next season. Not exactly how he’d envisioned spending his free weekend in the principality, but such was the relentless reality of his position.
As he approaches a charming little bistro tucked into a sunlit alcove, something within the open-air seating area snags his peripheral attention. Toto’s steps falter as a very familiar figure swims into focus — a beautiful young woman with features he knows better than his own.
You.
His stomach churns violently as he instinctively follows your line of sight to the man tucked intimately against your side. Max freaking Verstappen, of course, lounging there like he hasn’t a care in the world with one arm slung proprietarily across the back of your chair.
Toto feels his jaw clench harder with every passing second as he reluctantly catalogs the scene playing out not twenty paces away. You’re turned towards the Red Bull driver in clear invitation, chin tilted up and lips slightly parted in apparent submission as he lifts a forkful of food to your waiting mouth.
Despite the simmer of nausea roiling in his gut, Toto can’t seem to tear his gaze away, some morbid fascination taking hold. He watches, bile burning at the back of his throat, as Verstappen tips the bite between your lips with a gentleness that borders on reverence. A blissful sort of smile curves your mouth as you chew, eyes drifting to shut in an expression of utter serenity.
When you finally swallow, Verstappen leans in to chase the lingering crumbs from your lips with a series of indulgent, smoldering kisses. You allow it with blasé ease, cheeks flushing prettily as he nuzzles deeper into the cradle of your throat.
“Sickening,” Toto mutters through gritted teeth, only to have the words choked off as your breathy giggle floats across the open space between you.
He’s frozen in place, jaw clamped shut and eyes blazing, as Verstappen captures your face in one broad palm with a wicked curl to his lips. Leaning in until your noses brush, he appears to rumble something too faint to carry over the ambient chatter.
Your responding smile is incandescent enough to momentarily steal Toto’s breath. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen such pure joy light up those beloved features — not since those early summer afternoons when you were barely tall enough to see over the mechanics’ workbenches, giggling as he spun you in looping circles around the garage.
The imagery dissipates like smoke in a strong wind as Verstappen slants his mouth over yours, mercilessly chasing every last vestige of warmth and innocence until you’re left utterly ravaged. You drink him in with all the unrestrained fervor of the desperately parched, breaths coming in harsh little pants between every slick glide of lips and tongue.
Toto can only look on in mute revulsion as the Red Bull bastard sets about methodically staking his claim. One broad palm spans the curve of your jaw to better angle your head while the other strokes in bold caresses down the line of your arm and hip, searing brand of possession seared across every inch of skin. You arch into the contact, boneless and malleable beneath his sure ministrations.
When Verstappen finally releases you, your lips are bright and bitten, pupils blown wide into unfocused pools. Max clucks his tongue in wordless approval, thumbing away the dampness clinging to your lower lashes before dipping in for one more lingering peck.
A strangled noise startles from Toto’s throat despite his best efforts. Instantly, those predator’s eyes swing towards him, glittering with something perilously close to challenge.
Your gaze follows a moment later, drifting over Toto’s rigid stance in lazy, disinterested consideration. He expects a flicker of chagrin, even fleeting shame to ripple across your expression at being caught so indecently compromised. Instead, your lips curve into that same serene, soppy beam as you burrow deeper into Verstappen’s side.
The world seems to tilt sickeningly sideways as Toto watches his own flesh and blood regard him like a stranger, a foreign entity to be blithely disregarded. Verstappen, for his part, tilts his head in an almost confrontational motion as his fingers begin carding through your hair with a revolting air of indulgent possession.
Toto wants to scream, to rage and howl until someone — anyone — understands the utter travesty of what he’s just witnessed. But something has knotted itself viciously around his vocal cords so that all he can seem to produce is a low, garbled rasp.
So he turns on his heel instead, gritting his teeth against the swell of fury threatening to choke him from the inside out as he stalks away. Every step rebounds through his hollow ribcage with echoing finality, punctuated by the sickly sweet chime of your laughter ringing in his wake.
He can’t even recognize his daughter anymore. And, much to his disgust, you seem to prefer it that way.
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