#that red bull sweatshirt was not working

[gamsdoodles]

dripped out with gramps

[motorsportbarbie13]

Forbidden - Part 2

In which you go to Max's hotel room to watch a movie. And only watch a movie. ;)

Warnings: alcohol use (but really only if you squint), steamy but not smutty, use of pet names.

Word Count: 2.6k Part One

Master List

AUSTRIA 

You knew you were playing with fire when you sent that text to Max. Judging by how Charlie’s head had nearly exploded when he (quite innocently) caught the two of you catching up on the couch a few weeks ago, you knew that he would lose his mind if he knew you were in Max’s hotel room late at night. Even if it was with the purest of intentions. Because of course it was. 

But, Charlie had left you alone in Austria on a Friday night without anything to do other than watch Austrian TV so really, this was all his fault. Alexandra was at home in Monaco, having some work to finish up at the new art gallery she’s curating. Pierre’s girlfriend Kika, who was fast becoming your other best friend in the paddock, wasn’t going to be here until tomorrow before qualifying, so you were left to your own devices. 

Which is exactly why you found yourself standing outside Max Verstappen’s hotel room at 8 o’clock at night, arms overflowing with snacks and a bottle of wine, knowing that you had everything but watching a movie running through your mind. 

The thing was, you had spent the entirety of today trading glances with Max from his garage three doors down from Charlie’s. It seemed like every time you looked towards the Red Bull garages, Max was already looking at you. He even managed to manufacture a lunch invite from Charlie and Carlos while you were standing right there, so the four of you had gotten lunch in Ferarri’s motorhome today. You were quite pleased that Charlie spent the entire time looking like he had swallowed a lemon every time you and Max even looked at each other. Even Carlos had noticed, asking your brother several times if he was okay. Every time, your brother’s response was a strained ‘yes’.  

But you weren’t teasing Max just to make your brother mad. You knew that. You were genuinely interested in the driver. Ever since the afternoon you two spent catching up in Charlie’s apartment in Monaco, the two of you had been trading random text messages and had even run into each other while out. What started off as an innocent crush had spiraled into something more, even if neither of you had voiced it quite yet. You knew Max was quite shy when it came to his feelings, side effects from growing up as Jos Verstappen’s son you supposed. You’d always been able tell what he was thinking though, ever since you were kids.  

Which landed you here. Tonight you had been bored and feeling a little attention starved, so you had been thrilled when Max invited you up to his suite for a movie night. It was something you had done frequently with friends at the track when you were younger, those movie nights being some of your favorite memories from growing up. 

It took Max a few moments to answer the door when you knocked that evening. He had to psych himself up for it, finding himself suddenly nervous about having you over. It felt like every time he looked towards the Ferrari garage today, he had instantly found you. And more times than not, you caught him staring. Gone was his usual cool facade that he kept so securely in place when it came to you and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t unnerve him. 

“I brought snacks!” You proclaim the moment Max opens the door and he can’t help but feel all the anxiety he’d been feeling moments before evaporate into thin air with a single look at your pretty face, hair tied up in a messy top knot, oversized Ferrari sweatshirt hanging so low just the bottoms of your sleep shorts poked out. It took every bit of control Max possessed not to bit down on his knuckles and groan then and there. 

Max chuckles and you try to ignore the shimmer of pleasure that danced down your spine at the sound. It doesn’t work though. Probably because making him laugh was one of your favorite activities lately and it had all started that afternoon he showed up at Charlie’s door. 

Your brother was going to be so mad. 

“Did you think you were feeding the entire grid, beestje?” 

You shove the bottle of wine at him while rolling your eyes. “Hopefully you have a bottle opener, Maxie or else we’re going to have to go on an adventure.” 

“That sounds like a terrible idea. You out in public without your brother to control you?” 

Max expertly dodges the pillow you lob at his head before taking the bottle of wine to the little kitchenette in his suite. “I’ll have you know I am a whole grown ass adult that has lived on my own in a big city for the last six years, thank you very much.” You snip. 

Spreading the snacks out on the bed, you do your best to ignore the fact that Max is looking so very attractive in a pair of grey joggers and black t-shirt. Seriously, what was it about a pair of slutty grey sweatpants and tight tshirts that got you all worked up? 

“I’m surprised you don’t have a sim rig set up somewhere in this giant room.” You tease, settling down on the large king sized bed that takes up most of one side of his suite. 

Max looks at you, a bit puzzled before saying, “That race isn’t until tomorrow night after quali, I just haven’t set it up yet.” 

The laugh that leaves your lips sets Max’s skin tingling with pleasure and he tries to remind himself that Charles would quite literally kill him if anything happened between the two of you. But with each passing moment, watching you settle back into his pillows on his bed, he’s finding it harder and harder to really care what Charles thinks. You’re a grown woman, after all. Max’s eyes drag over your body, admiring the miles of legs on display for him. Yep. You certainly were very grown up, that’s for sure.  

“Just don’t stay up all night. I don’t want Buxton to have an excuse to call you out in post-race interviews again.” You smirk. 

“That was one time and it hasn’t happened since.” He argues, shooting you a glare that has you giggling under your breath.

You hum in response but don’t respond, needing to focus your attention elsewhere now that Max is searching for the bottle opener and the concentration on his face is making you squeeze your legs together just a bit. 

Max does, in fact, locate a bottle opener and before you know it you’re both settled on his bed, side by side, wine glasses in hand, bag of chips open between you. You try your hardest to ignore the head radiating off of Max and Max tries his hardest to ignore the fact that you’re wearing the tiniest shorts he’s ever seen. Neither of you do a very good job of it. 

“I’m surprised you’re not out with Lando and the rest of the boys tonight. Getting a little tired in your old age?” You tease (always with the teasing, you two) as Max scrolls through Netflix, trying to find something you can both agree on to watch. 

“I went out with him and Carlos last week.” 

You pop a chip in your mouth before responding. “And from what I saw on Instagram, you’re probably still recovering from it.” 

You remember the night he was talking about. The jealousy that washed over you when you saw his private Instagram stories from that night, girls falling over him in a dimly lit Jimmy Z’s, him and Lando on stage with the DJ clearly wasted on his favorite G&T’s, was a feeling you were entirely unfamiliar with. You never got jealous, not over someone you were dating and certainly not over someone like Max Verstappen. Absolutely not. 

“Are you keeping tabs on me, beestje?” Max bumps your shoulder with his as he hits play on the OG Jurassic Park movie. 

You can’t help the pout that materializes on your face. “Stop calling me that.” You whine, unashamed at how bratty you sound in the moment. Frankly, you were tired of being treated as the little sister of the group, never being taken seriously and always being teased. “If you’re going to be mean to me, I’m going to leave.” 

You lean forward to go, not really intending on leaving but wanting to teach Max a lesson. A strong hand wraps around your wrist before you make it off the bed though and he pulls you back so quickly you nearly end up in his lap. “Don’t leave, schatje.” 

Schatje? Oh. Oh. 

Your heart hammers in your chest as you realize Max hasn’t let go of your wrist. Quite the opposite, actually. He’s pulled your wrist closer to him so your hand is resting on his thigh and he’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. He’s only ever called you beestje before. His little beast. You never really hated it if you were being quite honest, thought it was quite cute actually. A name that Max reserved only for you. But he’s never called you schatje and he’s absolutely never called you schatje in that tone of voice before, all husky and raspy like just saying the word does something to him. 

All at once, there’s a fire in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. Something akin to a lion stalking his prey. He knows what he wants and it’s like something finally clicked for him. You sitting there, pouting away at the nickname he’s always only reserved for you, plump bottom lip popping out, just asking to be bitten. He follows your gaze to where you’re staring at your hand in his, giving your wrist a little squeeze to get your attention back up to his face. “Don’t pretend you came up here just to watch Jurassic Park with me tonight.” He murmurs, leaning in incrementally more. He’s so close now you can feel his heated breath fan out over your cheeks. 

“Max.” You whisper, thoughts moving a mile a minute and sluggishly slow all at once. You’d been wanting this exact thing for weeks now, his hands on yours, hadn’t you? So why were you suddenly so unsure of what the fuck you were doing. 

When he tugs you into his lap, bag of chips crunching under your knees, you feel a flush creep up your neck. Knees straddling his thighs, you’re suddenly in a very compromising position and feeling something very…thick pressing into your center. A single roll of your hips is enough to have Max tipping his head back on a groan. 

“We shouldn’t Max.” Where in the hell did that protest come from? Your body practically screams, desperately needing your mind to shut the fuck up just this once.  

“I will happily stop if you want me to, schatje but your hips are telling me a very different story right now.” Max stares up at you and almost shudders at the look on your face. It’s a look he’s never seen on you before, all unabashed want and need and heat and fuck if it does something to him seeing that lusty gaze aimed his way. 

The two of you stay like this for several moments, the movie long forgotten, Max’s hands resting on your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh. It’s almost like you’re both daring the other one to make the first move. You both know you want it, the tension thick in the air. Energy crackles between you as Max drops his gaze from your eyes down to your lips and then back up again. You find yourself slipping deeper into those icy blue eyes of his, unable to tear your eyes away from how he’s looking at you. Like he’s seeing you all at once for the very first time. The sheer awestruck look on his face has you catching your bottom lip between your teeth, a smile begging to be released. 

“I want to kiss you.” Max breathes, voice barely audible but in the silent room, you don’t miss the whispered confession. 

“What’s stopping you?” You probably should be embarrassed at how breathy your voice is, how needy your hips are as they roll into his again. 

And then, it’s happening. He’s leaning in, eyes never leaving yours as your breath catches in your throat, dizzy with anticipation. You’ve kissed people before, of course you had, but never in your entire life has the moment before a kiss been this torturously pleasurable before. 

And if the anticipation of the kiss is enough to have you groaning with pleasure, the moment his lips connect with yours is astronomically better. A spark ignites when he presses a kiss to your mouth, one hand snaking up your body to frame your face as you tip your head down to allow a deeper kiss. The sound that you make when he licks into you the first time is obscene, a throaty purr rumbling out from you. 

Max can’t help but smile against you when he feels you try to press your legs together, the fact that you’re straddling him completely lost on your distracted thoughts. The way you tasted was something straight out of a romance novel and he instantly found himself addicted. He could win every fucking Grand Prix for the rest of his career and it still wouldn’t compare to the first time he got his lips on you. His other hand skates up your slender back, finding heated bare skin under your Ferrari sweatshirt. 

“We’re going to need to get you something Red Bull, I can’t have you in my bed wearing Ferrari colors.” Max grumbles, mouth barely leaving yours. 

You giggle, “In your bed, huh? Someone’s cocky.” You lift an eyebrow at him, liking the frown that tips down at the edges of his mouth when you pull away. 

“Confident, schatje. I’m confident.” 

Your lips find his again and they continue the exploration Max started, your tongue slipping between his lips, teeth first nipping at his lush bottom lip before sucking it back into your mouth. The soothing sensation on his swollen lips has Max’s hips tipping up towards yours, seeking more friction than your grinding hips are already causing. 

When you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt, intending to take it off so you can get your skin closer to his, Max lifts a hand to stop you. The confusion that clouds your face has him shaking his head, “We should stop before we get carried away.”

“What? Why?” You pout. 

Max brushes a calloused thumb over your swollen bottom lip before looking at up at you. There that look was again. Only this time it was like you’d hung both the moon and the stars and were trying to give him both. “Because if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.” 

You blink down at him, somewhat surprised and very caught of guard. “And what exactly is this?” You’re almost too afraid to hear his response, not sure if it’s the one you need to hear. 

“I don’t know but I know that it’s not a one night thing. It never could be with you.” 

You melt into his arms, your head finding its home in the crook of his neck. Dragging in a steadying breath, you allow the clean, sharp scent of Max’s shirt bring you back down to earth. He was right. You knew that. It would be a monumentally bad idea to sleep together so quickly.

“Oh Maxie.” You sigh, wondering what the hell you’ve both started here tonight. 

[bunny-jpeg]

hi can i get profiteroles and honey cruller with hard lemonade with Max Vesrtappen please and thank you, I love your work.

bakery menu

want to submit your own order! i am working over time at the bakery!! the post has more info about fandoms and folks i can write about. i do more than formula one if that tickles your fancy! as for this prompt, i love the combo. the desperation that comes with max wanting the reader to go away with him for a while plus possessive behavior. i hope this order is delish!

profiteroles ("come away with me. for a week, together. anywhere you want, we'll go.") + honey cruller ("i forget how small you are sometimes.") + hard lemonade (possessive behavior)

cw: smut/pwp, possessive behavior, size kink, clingy!max, mating press, unprotected sex, sundresses (and their ultimate sex appeal!), small titty!reader, begging

max was a needy boyfriend. you honestly couldn't blame him. after everything, of course he wanted to hold onto you and let go. it went as far as him sleeping next to one of your sweatshirts when he was away and having a polaroid of you in the pocket of his driving suit.

a reminder that you were always with him when he was breaking records and winning races. you were his good luck charm and he worshipped the ground you walked on.

but by god, was max verstappen a possessive boyfriend.

it started with a sundress. it was july in england and you thought you'd bring a bit of sunshine in a cute sundress. it was blue and white, a loose kind of fabric with thin sleeves that required you to go braless.

"you look beautiful." max said as he opened the car door for you and took your hand. he loved to show you off, with his hand on your hip as you walked toward the paddock.

the sun was shining, even the birds were chirping. it all felt good, you had a great feeling for the weekend in your bones!

and then it rained. and when it rained, it poured. and you had very little to protect you. you also didn't realize how thin the fabric of the dress would become when it got wet. (that was never mentioned in the reviews). so there you were, a shivering wet mess. your nipples poking through the shit fabric of the dress.

max had taken it upon himself to get his red bull jacket off and on you, he had even zipped it all the way to your chin to make sure no one could see anything.

you were beyond flustered, but max found it deeply erotic. even after the practice and the media questions, his thoughts were still on you and how cute you looked. you seemed so small, like max needed to take care of you.

and that what he was going to do when he got you back into the hotel room you were sharing for the weekend. thankfully your dress had dried throughout the afternoon, but max still wanted you out of it.

he wanted it a crumpled mess of the floor. when he got you naked and onto the bed, then he became so needy. his lips on his neck and his clothed cock brushed up against your thigh like a whiny animal.

he was still in his briefs with those strong arms around you, rubbing up against you as to get his scent all over you. in a bite of honesty, it was somewhat cute coming from her. the weight of him on top of you prevented you from going anywhere (not that you wanted to).

his pre-cum soaked the front of his briefs as he moved against you. he groaned, "i forget how small you are sometimes. i could break you in two." his voice was strained. he tried to not put so much weight on you, but you pulled him closer to you.

you kissed him and chuckled, "to die under you is an honour."

"you drive me crazy, schat."

"oh really, and why's that?"

he panted against your skin, "that fucking dress. they shouldn't be able to legally sell that. i could see everything."

you looked over to kiss him on the lips. the kiss was quick before he pulled away got onto his knees in front of you. he took his cock out of his briefs and stroked it a few times as he admired our naked body.

you looked better naked than in the dress, but then again you looked better naked than in clothes. except for maybe his red bull hat, but nothing else!

he grabbed you by the hips and got your knees to your ears and exposed your slick cunt to him. he licked his lips like a man in hunger before he sank his cock into you.

"schat." he groaned.

max was a good partner. even though he was so needy for you. but you loved him so. he was a perfect man for you. he let out a tiny whimper and you grabbed at him.

"max. ah, please. i need to feel you close to me." you moaned as you nails dug into the bed to anchor yourself. you kept his eyes on him as he get flustered in the face.

he pressed his chest up against you as he slid his cock into you. your soaked pussy made it easy for him. he loved the feeling of you around him. he wanted to be as close to you as he could. as he got adjusted to your sweet hole he said, "i forget how small you are sometimes. i could easily crush you." he chuckled as he kissed you gently.

the angle wasn't enough for him, so he pulled out and got your knees to your ears and then started to fuck you again. you were almost bent in half as he fucked you.

he groaned against you, "that's it, that's perfect." he loved you in a good mating press. because that meant that you'd feel it in the morning. that it would deter you from wearing that dress. he loved having his weight up against you, it made his heart race as he pushed his cock as deep as it would go. the feeling of you was painfully erotic. you could feel your heartbeat in your throat as he thrusted into you.

"shit, max. ah!" you whined as you gripped onto the bed tightly to keep yourself stable while he bulled his cock deep into your sweet, beautiful cunt.

the sounds of your fucking filled the room as the two of you rutted against one another. your kisses even both more messy the more you two had sex. it was painfully hot for the both of you.

"never wear that dress again, i don't know how to handle myself when you wear it. you look so fucking cute. it makes me want to keep you locked away so nobody else can see how beautiful you are." he was panting heavily the more he thrusted. the sex was a buzz in the back of his mind.

"i didn't know it would've turned you on so much." you moaned.

he was bent over you, he kissed you once more. his cock up to the base. he could feel a bit of spit against the corner of his mouth as he thrusted heavily.

you groaned, "please, max. shit. i won't wear the dress again." you felt his heartbeat in your throat once more.

he panted heavily, balls deep inside of you. he could feel his heart almost beating out of his chest, his eyes were on your rapid rise and fall of his chest. he said, pathetically, so needy, "come away with me. for a week, together. anywhere you want, we'll go. i need you, i need you in my arms all the time. please." he was almost begging.

you let out a whimper as you felt him continue to thrust into you. his cock nudging against your core, you knew you were going to be sore come morning. he had you knees to your ears and was pressing his weight on you so you wouldn't escape him. as if you would even try to.

"will you?" he asked, he was hunched over you, wanting to kiss your soft lips, "let me spoil you, love you, the way you have for me. please, i just want to hold you. i can't get enough of you!"

you nodded and got your arms around your lover. you pulled him in for a hot kiss and let him continue to fuck you. he was such a desperate man, he wanted to be buried between your thighs every chance he got. you dug your nails into his hair as he bullied your sweet pussy.

he continued to move against you, he shuddered when he felt your sweet cunt grow tighter around him. he could feel the heat down his back as he gripped onto your legs tighter and panted, "i'm close."

you nodded as well, agreeing that you were close to orgasm as well. you couldn't find the words on your lips as he continued to fuck you. you dug your nails into his skin as you finished with a string of sweet moans. a few more heavy thrusts and you whined against your boyfriend and climaxed.

your lover was closed behind you, he finished inside of you quickly and kept you pinned to him for a moment while he tried to compose himself.

he looked in your eyes while he panted heavily. he gave you a small smile as he said, "so, how does a week in france sound? somewhere i can keep you to myself."

you chuckled and pushed the hair out of your face, "i'd love that. more than anything, max." then sealed it with a kiss.

-

the next morning you laid curled up with your boyfriend. he was spooning you, but his grip on you was firm. like he was worried about your running away from him.

he kept an arm around your middle and you idly played with the hairs on his arm as you were half-awake and half-asleep. your legs tangled up in his. his nose was in your hair as you laid there together.

he said in a sleep haze, "don't wear that sundress today. i'll give you something to wear. just put it back in the suitcase and don't wear it out of our home. i don't need them looking at you."

you replied, "i was thinking about throwing it out, the fabric is garbage if it shows that much when wet." then yawned loudly.

he replied, "no, no. i want to see it. no one else. just me." he said with a possessive edge to his voice. and curled up closer to you.

you chuckled lightly and turned in his arms. you kissed his face softly before you said, "fine. for your eyes only then." at least you didn't have to waste the garment! but you will be leaving a scathing review. <3

[coff33andb00ks]

Rule Breaker - Pt 4

max Verstappen x single mom!reader (with logan sargeant)

{masterlist}{prev} {next}

warnings: cursing, minimally proofread, masturbation (m), lando gives wisdom Summary: Max has it all...right? Besides, he's too busy collecting trophies and completing side quests for anything else. Until... You moved across a whole ass ocean to start over, uprooting you and your son's lives to become social media admin for cars that drive in circles. word count: 5682 auth.note: logan girlies frighten me but i love y'all :) spotify: i made a playlist

The alarm started ringing and Max sighed, reaching over to turn it off. It wasn't as though he was asleep. Sitting up on the side of the bed he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, groaning when Jimmy gave a sleepy mew and jumped off the bed. "Ja, early morning," he sighed, switching on the lamp and getting to his feet. His cat didn't care, already slipping from the bedroom with his tail high. Sassy glared at him from the foot of the bed and he sighed again, grabbing his phone and turning off the lamp.

He grabbed jeans and a white t-shirt to put on before leaving the room, wondering again why he'd agreed to do this. It was stupid. No one cared what a day in his life was like, he was sure of that, no matter how many comments y/n had shown him on Checo's video asking when they'd get one of him. But it was too late to back out now—

His phone screen lit up and he stood in the bathroom, staring at her message.

-Good morning, I'll be there in ten minutes.

Crisp and professional. Just as it was supposed to be. Just as she had been for a week. When he'd messaged her the day before to bring Kevin over for another Disney movie she'd said yes, and had sat as far from him as physically possible while still being in the same room.

-I'll be ready. I'm up. Ok.

Eight minutes later she was at the door, looking maddeningly well-rested and relaxed and he didn't know why but that only annoyed him even more. He took the camera bag from her, noticing she was wearing baggy pants and an oversized sweatshirt instead of the usual jeans and Red Bull team shirt.

"I'll change before we go to the track," she told him.

He hated that the first few moments he was around her now were a little awkward. "What do you want to get first?" he asked, reaching up to smooth his hair and freezing when she moved to stop him. "What?"

"A day in the life, Max. Let your hair be messy. And you said you have coffee first thing right? So we'll do that – I've got the list you made." She took a sip from the to-go cup in her hand and he smelled coffee. "Kevin said to tell you good morning, have a great practice, and he had fun yesterday."

"I did too," he said. It was the truth. They'd watched a movie, and when that was over y/n had still been working on her laptop so he'd given Kevin a tour of his game room, letting him see and hold his trophies and helmets and even giving him a couple laps in his racing sim. She'd joined them, and for a little while it had been comfortable and easygoing, with her teasing him about his fridge of Red Bull within reach and having so many trophies he was running out of room to put them. He'd been about to suggest dinner, the words on the tip of his tongue, when she'd said it was time for them to get going.

She had the camera out, and so he started his day, answering her questions about trying to keep to a routine. The sun was coming up and she joined him on the balcony, asking about daily habits that stuck with him from childhood. He drank his coffee, watching out the corner of his eye as Sassy, his antisocial cat, jumped up into her lap and settled in for a cuddle.

"She's sweet," y/n said, and though there was a gap of at least six feet between them he could hear the cat's purring.

He made a face. "She hates being held."

Y/n looked at him, then down at Sassy. "Is that true?" she asked softly, running one hand over Sassy's fur.

As though intent on making him a liar, Sassy let out a squeaking purr and stretched, headbutting y/n's chin. Max scoffed, finishing his coffee. "She usually hates being held."

"Maybe you just don't know how to hold her properly," she said, turning her attention fully on the cat.

"I hold her just like I hold Jimmy," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"But you're not Jimmy, are you, darling?" she cooed, rubbing Sassy behind the ears and kissing the top of her head.

Max waited, knowing how much Sassy hated that sort of attention. And, traitor that she was, Sassy leaned into the touch, purring almost ecstatically. "You're making me look bad."

Y/n snorted, lavishing Sassy with affection for a few more moments. She set the cat down and stood, and the cat stayed close to her throughout the rest of the morning, calling and winding between her ankles as she got shots and video of Max doing his morning stretching.

"You do this every morning?" she asked, and Max exhaled with a nod while she got on her hands and knees next to him.

"It keeps me focused," he said after leaning on his knees. "Plus this is just a warmup. I'll do training with Rupert before lunch."

"Strength and cardio, right?"

"Will you be doing that with me too?" he asked, resuming his plank.

"Only if I'll get tequila at the end of the day like I did last week."

He chuckled. "I can do a gin and tonic."

"I've never had one of those," she said, trying the plank again.

"You have to lift your hips up a bit more," he pointed out. "And keep your back straight."

She tried again and he pushed himself back, turning to kneel next to her. His hands were on her hips, guiding them up, one hand moving to rest on her back, before he realized what he was doing. Hearing her shaky breath he paused.

"Sorry—"

"No, you're fine, I want to do it. Or at least be able to say I tried."

He nodded, adjusting her form, somehow able to focus on the exercise and not the sudden fantasies that were flashing in his mind. Swallowing hard, he wondered if they'd start invading his daily life and not just his dreams now. "Keep your head down, otherwise you might strain your neck."

"How long do I hold it?"

"It's your first time?" he asked, finally moving his hands from her.

"Doing a plank or having a guy manhandle me?" she huffed.

"Y/n—"

"Sorry, haven't had all my coffee. Yes, it's my first time."

"Then as long as you can."

"How long do you hold them?"

"Two minutes usually."

"Fucking showoff," she muttered, stretching out her arms and relaxing completely.

"I've been doing them for years," he chuckled. "C'mon, time for breakfast."

He was glad she ate with him, glad he'd picked up a few things from the shop the evening before that he'd remembered she liked. It seemed so normal, chatting with her while he cooked, Jimmy by his feet and Sassy by hers. But it made him homesick, nostalgic for something he'd never had.

"I only cook when I'm home," he said. "During preseason I have my meals prepped for me to get me back on track – turn on the kettle?"

She reached over to switch it on. "If you could have anything for breakfast without worrying about training or meal plans, what would it be?"

"This is where I say a cold Red Bull," he joked. When she rolled her eyes and laughed, he grinned. "Waffles. A stack this high." He held his hand several inches above the plate by the cooktop. "With bacon, the kind you can only get in America. And a large glass of milk."

"Butter and maple syrup?" she asked.

"Lots of butter, and the good maple syrup." Looking at the eggs on toast he was plating, he sighed. "I'll have it during our summer break."

"Two weeks off, right? Do you already have plans?"

"Last year I went to South America. I think this year I'll go home, yeah? Spend some time with my mum." Seeing that she was already fixing their tea, he carried the plates to the table and then fed Jimmy and Sassy. "What about you?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'm hoping to get to go home for a few days." She handed him a cup of tea and sat down. "My family usually gets a cottage at the beach for a couple weeks in the summer, and the break starts the second week they're going this year. Kevin misses his Nana, so I've got to get him back for a visit."

"You're close to your mum?" he asked once they'd started eating.

"Pretty close. We had a falling out when I graduated high school. She wanted me to stay near home and go to the local college, but I wanted to go to a school that had a good program. That led to a fight, especially when I was accepted and announced I was going halfway across the country…" She sipped her tea. "Then I graduated and came back home and… It was weird for a little while? But we both apologized and then Kevin came along, and well. She would have forgiven anything, I think, to be able to be in his life."

He nodded, understanding what that was like. Hadn't he done the same with his father? "Can I—" he stopped when her phone buzzed loudly on the table.

Y/n picked it up with a murmured apology, smiling slightly at the screen before answering. "Hey…"

Max's toast turned to cardboard in his mouth when he saw the name on the screen.

"Yeah, I'm at Max's. Day in the life thing. Yeah." She laughed.

He forced the last of his food down his throat and drank his tasteless tea, carrying his dishes to the sink while she talked to Logan.

"No, Ellie's bringing him. Probably around noon?" She paused and he knew she was smiling even though his back was to her. "You're sweet. I'll see you in a little bit? Yep. Okay, I promise. Bye."

"All good?" he asked, forcing himself to sound as casual as possible. Taking her plate when she brought it to the sink, he saw she was still smiling.

"Yeah, it was Logan. He wanted me to bring Kevin to the track. I'll do the dishes since you cooked," she insisted, waving him away.

He stepped aside, opening his mouth to point out the dishwasher but, knowing she would just wash them by hand anyway, he closed it. Leaning against the counter, he folded his arms over his chest. "How was your dinner with him last week?"

She looked at him in surprise. "It was nice."

He nodded. "About—" The timer he'd set on his phone went off and wanted to send his phone through the window. Snatching it up, he silenced it and ran a hand over his face. "I've got to shower, then we can head to the track."

"Sure thing." She tipped her head. "Alright if I change in your room while you shower?"

"Of course." He pushed away from the counter. "No photos of my closet."

She laughed at that, and he felt the awkwardness drift away. "No photos of the closet, promise. But I can get one of the Red Bull pillow on the bed?"

"Absolutely not," he snorted, her laugh following him from the kitchen. He went to the foyer to check his backpack, making sure all his necessities for the day were packed in it. Leaving his phone beside it, he thought about the upcoming practice, mind on the adjustments made in anticipation of the race. He pushed open his bedroom door so he could grab clothes, lurching to a stop at the sight of the nearly nude woman by his bed.

Y/n whirled around, one arm crossing over her bare chest, eyes wide.

"S-sorry," he blurted, quickly looking away even though it was too late for that. "Just need to grab something."

She turned her back to him, and he saw her hand shoot out to snatch her hoodie off the bed, holding it to her. "I thought you were showering."

"I had to get my things ready," he explained, wondering why he felt the need to defend his movements in his own home. "I thought you were washing dishes."

"It was a skillet, two forks, two plates, two mugs, and a spatula. Hardly a big job."

He quickly grabbed clothes, muttering a few more apologies. About to leave, he saw her turning to look over her shoulder and felt his knees weaken. His hip slammed into the corner of the bureau and he winced, cursing, snatching his gaze from her bare skin and leaving the room as quickly as he could, making sure to close the door behind him.

"Fuck me," he groaned, nearly tripping over Sassy, who was of course waiting right outside the door. Stepping around her, he went straight to the bathroom, trying with all his might to focus his mind on practice. The car. The track. Anything but her, because if he let himself think of her he would only think of how badly he'd wanted to—

No. Not allowed. He couldn't kiss her, he damn sure couldn't lay her down in his bed and learn all the secrets of her body. Couldn't find out how her lips tasted, whether she preferred to be held gently or grabbed roughly. Would never learn if she moaned and gasped or whined and squealed. Could never have the taste of her on his tongue or know how wet she could get.

His body craved her like water and he felt nothing but intense desire as he stood under the showerhead, not even trying to deflect his arousal. Giving in, he set the soap down and grasped his cock. He closed his eyes, letting the fantasies run wild. His hand was a sad substitute for what he truly craved. His mind replayed the split second view of her breasts he'd gotten over and over and he was almost ashamed of how quickly he came, gritting his teeth to keep from moaning loudly while his cum splashed on the tile.

Panting, still craving her, he washed himself, trying and failing to push thoughts of her to the back of his mind. Mad at himself for not being in control of his own body, he dried off and dressed, realizing he was taking more concern with his appearance than usual when he smoothed the pomade Charles had given him months ago through his hair. Cursing, he ran a comb through it, scowling at his reflection as he sprayed cologne. "Stupid," he muttered, pulling his shirt on and snatching the bathroom door open.

"No team shirt? I thought you weren't allowed to wear anything else," she teased when he entered the living room.

He looked down at the white tee, unconsciously smoothing it. "I don't live in team clothes," he muttered. He finally looked at her, clenching his jaw to stop his eyes from dipping to her chest.

She'd put on a bra. Pity.

"It looks good. Jeans and a white t-shirt are classic. Very James Dean."

"Who?" Was that some other idiot asshole talking to her? He knew about Logan—

"Actor from the 50's. According to my grandma, all the women wanted him and all the men wanted to be him." She smiled as she zipped up her camera bag. "I watched his movies. If I'd been alive back then I'd have wanted him, too. Ready?"

He nodded, grabbing a jacket. Said goodbye to the cats and watched her get more affection from Sassy in thirty seconds than he had in all the time he'd owned her. Another fantasy formed, and he wondered what it said of him that he was imagining her in his bed. Instead of a sexual slant, the fantasy was her cuddling his cats. Not used to the warmth it filled him with, he let the fantasy play out while they gathered their things, liking the mental image of Kevin and a faceless little girl joining them for morning snuggles.

The elevator ride was interminable, cramped, and he tried to remember what normalcy was while he breathed in perfume and shampoo and pretended she wasn't touching him.

"Are you wearing cologne?"

"A little." The doors open and he breathed clean air with utter relief. Did she like it? Did it bother her? Had he put too much? Should he—

"Smells nice," she murmured as she stepped into the lobby.

Max exhaled harshly, letting his head fall back against the wall, glancing up at the ceiling. "You've got a terrible sense of humor," he muttered to whatever gods might be listening.

"Did you say something?" Y/n asked.

"No," he lied, pushing away from the wall and exiting the elevator. "Just thinking about practice."

She asked him more questions, about the track, if he considered it at least a little his home track since he lived there. Nodded and listened to his answers as they walked to the dock. And it was all almost normal on the boat ride over, her filming clips to post later and getting photos. Then more normal once they stepped onto the trackside dock, surrounded by people now.

Once they reached the paddock she touched his arm to get his attention, not that she really needed to.

"I'll meet you at the garage? I'm gonna run see Kevin for a minute," she said.

"Of course." He reached for her camera bag and backpack. "You can bring him back for a visit—"

"Mama!"

He swung his head around, smiling at the sight of Kevin through the crowd. His expression soured when he saw who was carrying him, but he managed to keep the smile on his face as Logan walked up, greeting him with a nod.

God, he hated this. Hated the way she smiled up at Logan, hated their easy, familiar conversation while he handed Kevin over and told her Ellie had stopped to chat with Oscar. He hated that he hated it and cleared his throat. "See you in a bit, I've got to meet with Christian."

She nodded, and he made sure to speak to Kevin before walking off. Barely two seconds later Lando fell into step next to him.

"Aw, look at 'em. Like a family, yeah?"

Max had nothing but respect and admiration for Lando, but he would have gladly shoved him off the dock if they'd been close enough. "Who?"

"Your social media girl and Logan." Lando grinned, glancing back. "Should've seen her kid like thirty minutes ago. He worships Logan."

"Of course he does, the guy has the mindset of a three-year-old," Max muttered.

Lando exploded with laughter. "The fuck?" He followed Max into the Red Bull motorhome. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

"No."

"Ah c'mon, it's me. Your buddy. Your mate."

"Don't you have things to do?" Max muttered, waving to people milling about as he made his way to his driver's room.

Lando was close on his heels, and the door hadn't fully closed before he started in again. "So you like her?"

He set her bags down and shrugged off his backpack. "Who?"

"Y/n."

"She's my colleague."

"Colleague. You sound like a pretentious dickhead." Lando dropped into a chair and shoved his feet on the corner of the table. "Tell Lando about it, mate. I'm your friend, I won't judge you, just give you advice."

"I don't need your advice," he snorted, kicking Lando's feet down.

"But it's good advice!"

He groaned. "What is it?"

"First you need to tell me the problem." Lando leaned forward, looking far too excited. "You're down bad for her, aren't you?"

Max stared at him, unblinking.

"She gets you all fired up? Got you picturing her doing nasty, freaky things with you? Leaves you bricked and fighting for your life?"

"Jesus," he muttered, looking away.

"Oh, you're desperate," Lando said.

"I am not desperate," he scoffed.

"You're all dressed up. Isn't today when she spends the whole day with you?"

"I'm not dressed up." He wasn't sure what was worse, how he was feeling or hearing Lando describe them in his ridiculous way. "And yes, for the day in the life."

"You did something to your hair, you're wearing your pussy magnet cologne, and you're not wearing Red Bull." Lando ticked off his fingers. "You. Are. Desperate."

"And what if I am?" he asked.

"Mate… Just fuck her and get it over with it."

He laughed. "Life changing advice, mate, I never thought of that."

"See? I'm good—"

"I can't."

Lando's face twisted in confusion. "What do you mean, you can't?" His eyes widened. "Are you – You know you can get medicine for that? No shame in it nowadays. Happens to a lot of guys. Not me, but—"

"What the hell—" Max groaned, throwing a Red Bull at his friend. "I'm not impotent, asshole."

"Oh. Good, because really I'd be worried. You're not that old—" Lando sent the can back. "So why can't you? Because of Logan? They're not official. Just a few dates. He went to see her at her place, but I think they're just friends."

"How do you know all this?" Max asked, checking the time.

"He tells Osc everything and I have a knack for finding out by asking leading questions."

"You mean you're nosy."

Lando waved one hand. "Yes."

"It's not because of him," he finally said after opening a can and taking a swig.

"Then…" Lando threw up his hands and let them fall dramatically. "Why aren't you putting kids in her?"

Max almost choked on his drink. "Mate—"

"She's a fucking milf—"

"Don't say that—" Max held up a hand. "Stop. I can't."

"Again, why?" Lando gasped. "Mate," he whispered. "Did you try and she turned you down?"

"No, she didn't – I – we work together." He rolled his eyes when Lando snorted. "It's in the contracts, mate."

"You're joking."

"Do you want to see a copy?" he finished the drink and crumpled the can.

"No, I mean, you can't be serious? That kind of stuff is only for doing shit in public." Lando shook his head. "It's an easy workaround. Just do it in private."

"What, like I'm ashamed?"

"No, no, c'mon! Stolen looks? Carefully brushing her hand when you're walking together? Sending her a filthy text before an interview? Then as soon as you're back home you bend her over and fuck—"

"Stop."

"It'll be your dirty little secret. You'd have to make sure the kid doesn't notice but as long as you keep it to hotel rooms and when he's asleep that wouldn't be a problem." Lando smiled, expression smug, as though he'd just solved all the world's problems. "As long as you don't say in an interview that you're fucking her, you're good."

"You're insane," Max muttered with a shake of his head. "I can't—"

There was a knock on his door. "Mister Max!"

He was opening it in an instant, grunting when Kevin ran into him. Y/n was behind him, gently chastising him for being so impatient, and Max waved off her concern, catching the boy and lifting him up for a hug. "You having a good day, kleine maat?"

"Yeah! I got my scooter! Can we ride?" Kevin asked hopefully.

"Of course we can." He met y/n's eyes over the boy's head. "Just a little ways down the track?"

She looked ready to say no, but finally nodded. "I've got to get some posts up. Ellie's getting a migraine so she'll probably want to leave soon—"

"Well then we can have fun without her, can't we mate?" he asked Kevin, who giggled. Ruffling his hair, he set him down and looked at her. "Go ahead and do your work, yeah? I'll keep an eye on him."

Her eyes softened and he knew she wanted to insist he didn't have to. That Kevin could go back to the hotel with Ellie. But she smiled. "Thank you."

"Let's go get your scooter, mate," Lando said suddenly.

"Stay with Lando, yeah?" Max told Kevin, looking at his friend. "Don't let go of him."

"He's such a dad," Lando sighed to the boy, taking his hand and leading him from the room. "Does he tell you to eat your vegetables?"

It's not contagious. Just her migraines are bad right now. I think it's the change in environment. She's not used to the English weather.

She's going to a doctor tomorrow?

Yeah but I don't think they'll have a miracle cure.

Just bring him, y/n. The whole team loves him. We can keep an eye on him when you have to work, and he can stay in the motorhome when it's busy.

Christian said the same thing.

Sometimes he's smart.

You're terrible. Okay, I'll bring him.

Good. Tell Ellie I hope she gets some relief. Is she getting rest?

She just went to bed even though it's only 7. She took a pill that doesn't help the pain but helps her sleep.

She'll be okay, y/n. They'll have something to help her.

Thanks, Max. See you in Montreal.

Safe travels, y/n. Give little mate a hug for me?

Every day. :)

Y/n smiled over the messages and then returned to the messages with Christian. After telling him she would have Kevin with her for the Montreal and getting his assurance that it was okay, she locked her phone, sighing. "Well, buddy, looks like you're coming to Canada."

Kevin looked up from the hot wheels he was lining up on the rug. "Really?"

"Yep. But Mama's gonna be working a lot so we'll be at the track all the time." She hoped this wasn't a mistake. There were countless ways he could get hurt. "You'll have to stay where I tell you."

Kevin nodded. "Okay Mama." He rubbed his nose. "Is Mister Logan coming?"

The duality of child, she thought with another sigh. "Yeah, he'll be here soon. Remember to keep it down, though. Ellie's sleeping." She got to her feet and stepped over his cars so she could get the popcorn ready. "Can you get the movie ready?"

"He said Cars is his favorite," her son reminded her.

"He did."

"Mister Max likes it too. But his favorite is Aladdin."

"I thought his favorite was Tiana?"

"His favorite princess." Kevin followed her into the kitchen, pushing his stool to the counter and climbing up. "But he loves Aladdin."

"Why does he love Aladdin?" she asked, taking down the packets of microwave popcorn.

"He says the genie."

"Well, he has a point." She put a packet in the microwave and moved to get a bowl.

"He likes Tiana because she works for what she wants." Kevin spoke slowly, and y/n knew it was because he wanted to make sure he repeated Max verbatim. He even, probably unintentionally, copied Max's slight lisp.

And so it was that when Logan arrived, she and Kevin were in a debate over the work ethic of Disney princesses.

"I'm not saying she held down two jobs, but Cinderella worked," she insisted while she opened the door. "She cooked and cleaned and dealt with everything in the castle – Hey, c'mon in – and you need to remember it was set like two or three hundred years ago, of course she didn't have a job"

"But she only danced," Kevin said as he greeted Logan with a hug. "Tiana turned into a frog, Mama."

"Are we arguing?" Logan asked with a chuckle.

Y/n rolled her eyes. "I'm trying to defend my girl Cindy and he's showing misogyny."

"Am not," Kevin huffed. Tugging on Logan's shirt, he waited for him to lean down before whispering. "What's miss… That mean?"

"I think it means when a man expects a woman to stay home and cook and clean and raise babies," Logan whispered back.

"That's stupid."

"There's my sweet boy again. Go pick up your cars," she told him, laughing when he ran off to do so. Taking Logan's jacket, she draped it over the hook by the door. "Hey."

"Hey," he murmured, smiling.

His kiss wasn't unexpected. He'd kissed her plenty of times since their dinner in Italy. But there was something added in, something she couldn't quite identify but knew she liked. Leaning into him, she hummed softly when his hand lightly cradled her neck, pulling back at the sound of Kevin throwing his cars into the bin.

"Date in Montreal?" Logan asked.

She opened her mouth to say yes, then bit her lip. "I don't know. I have to bring Kevin with me."

"Oh. I thought he was staying here with Ellie?"

"He was, but she's been having really bad migraines since Monaco. She's going to the doctor tomorrow, but I can't just expect her to deal with him and all that."

"We'll still do something fun."

"We will," she promised, leaning to kiss his cheek. "Go on, I'll get the popcorn."

They parted, and she heard him talking to Kevin while she got the popcorn and drinks. When she brought it out he was already on the couch, remote in hand and following Kevin's directions to find the movie, like he hadn't used their TV half a dozen times by now.

"This is his favorite movie that he watches every other day, so he'll be talking along with it," she warned him with a smile once they were settled and he'd hit play. She could already tell that Kevin would be out before the movie was finished, recognizing the way he rubbed his eyes as he snuggled between her and Logan. Picking up her phone so she could check her email, she half paid attention, frowning when a text from Ellie popped up.

Is your boy toy here? I want water.

She rolled her eyes.

He's not my boy toy but yes. I'll bring you some.

"Be right back," she whispered to Logan, pushing herself off the couch and going to the kitchen to fix a cup of water for her friend. Slipping into the bedroom, she closed the door and approached the bed. "Hey," she whispered, setting the cup down.

Ellie groaned, slowly sitting up. "Thanks."

"Pill hasn't kicked in yet?"

"Almost. Logan here?"

Y/n smiled. "Yeah. Watching Cars."

"Romantic." Ellie breathed deeply. "Water?"

Handing it to her, she sat on the edge of the bed. "You're drugged so you'll be honest…"

"Yes, I think you should sleep with him."

She blinked, pressing her hands to her face. "Thanks, El."

"Welcome." Ellie pushed the cup to her. "He's cute and he likes you. And it's been years since you had some good dick. Sleep with him."

She stood and leaned to kiss her friend's head. "Go to sleep, babe."

"Loves you," Ellie mumbled sleepily.

"Love you more." Leaving the cup on the nightstand, she tiptoed from the room.

She didn't want to sleep with Logan, did she? Just because he was cute – which he was, but she preferred the term handsome – and liked her? She did like him. He was good with Kevin, and he was nice. He hadn't been pushy at all since their not-a-date dinner date, but she wasn't blind. She could tell he wanted more than the quick, stolen kisses.

Just as she'd known he would, Kevin was asleep before the movie was halfway through, and she pried him from Logan's shoulder to go tuck him in. When she returned, he'd turned off the movie and put on Netflix, and she reclaimed her spot.

"Is it okay for me to hang around?" he asked, pushing the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table.

"Of course." Smiling, she laughed when he flopped back, one arm draping around her and dragging her close. She barely paid attention to the show he'd turned on, letting herself enjoy the physical closeness. His hand rubbed her arm and she shifted closer, resting her head on his chest.

"Y/n?"

"Hm?" She tipped her head back, surprised – but not really – when he took the opportunity to kiss her. His arm tightened around her, other hand coming up to cup her cheek and she sank into the kiss, whining a little when he pulled back. "Okay?"

"Y-yeah," she breathed, nodding, shifting so she was kneeling, hands gently grabbing the front of his shirt as their lips met again.

"So we can be more than friends?" he asked between kisses.

Y/n exhaled shakily, wondering how he could ask that question when his hand was sliding under her shirt. Or was he expecting her to determine their relationship? "I mean… Yeah? We can just…" It was hard to concentrate with his hand creeping closer to her breast. "Figure it out as we go?"

"I like that," he whispered.

His fingers brushed the outer curve of her breast and her mouth went dry, feeling the flames of yearning in a long time. "I like that, too," she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair. She pulled back just when her lips brushed his again, slightly panicked at the thought of having sex on the sofa. "B-but we don't have to go all the way tonight, do we? I don't—"

I don't want to tarnish the couch my son naps and watches TV on.

"No, no, it's okay. I'm good with just kissing you," he promised.

"We can make out," she suggested, because she needed a little more than kissing. Just the training wheels until she remembered what to do and what she liked.

"Hands above the waist?" he asked while slowly guiding her down.

"Good idea." She had the distinct impression that if his hands went below her waist she'd be begging for more. And she wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Maybe not ever, and as she started to lose herself in his kiss she wondered if he'd be okay with that, too.

Taglist:

@spookystitchery | @halleest | @lyannesworld | @llando4norris | @kravitzwhore | @younxii | @silentreader128 | @samantha-chicago | @mrsbrxkkxr | @cmleitora | @jasons-little-princess | @toldyouitwasamelodrama | @aundercover | @kiwi43-81 | @awritingtree | @voidsfics | @manicpixiemom | @misartymis | (i think i got everyone)

[caesium-55]

—seven days. [ vi.ii ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

author's note: guess who's not listening in her calculus lecture rn. also, wifi is acting funny rn.

tags: @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @eugene-emt-roe @bellezaycafe @barnestatic @theseerbetweenus @wcnorris @notyouraveragemochii @lpab @vildetry06 @a-beaverhausen @formula1mount @loloekie @alucardsdaddyissues @juky-ps @cassianswh0reeee @devotedlycrookeddonut @amberpanda99 @supermaxv1 @evie-119 @spideylovin @harianaswhore @formulaal

masterlist.

2020

There have been a lot of new protocols to follow. Social distancing. Wearing face masks. Races being rescheduled. Australia, China, Netherlands, Monaco, Azerbaijan, Canada, and France are canceled. Vietnam is postponed. The first race of the season takes place in the Red Bull Ring in Austria and Max gets a fucking DNF.

After exchanging Instagram accounts in December, Max has spent a normal amount of time stalking your feed. That's what you do when you’re trapped inside your apartment alone because of a global health crisis, you explore the online world.

It seems like you’ve been operating the account since your university days and a lot of your posts show a side of you that’s different from the manager he knows. He learns that you play billiards competitively. You've even reached an Australian tournament. He learns that you watch NASCAR and motocross and drift racing. He learns that you know how to drive a firetruck. He learns that you like partying in LA and you took up volunteer work in the LA fire brigade around your sophomore year. He learns that you’re particularly fond of taking pictures of the skies at different times of the day and the things you’re studying. He notices that you only post group selfies or low angle blurry selfies of you. You don't take pretty pictures of just you.

The oldest post is a photo of you offering a middle finger while smiling and filling up the gas tank of a truck. You're also wearing a red sweatshirt with the letters USC written at the front and skinny ripped jeans. If you swipe right, the next photo shows a picture of you and your group of friends writing on papers on the hood of the truck. Max sees numbers and scratches and crossed out sketches. Max notices a canned beer on your other hand while you press down on your scientific calculator buttons and shakes his head. You do not change.

The latest post is a photo dump of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix in 2019. A picture of the aerial show, grainy zoomed in pictures of the garage, selfies with the mechanics, a bathroom mirror selfie, and a blurry picture of a beer in your hand from the after party. He presses like in every post, latest to the oldest.

you: fucking stalker

max: fuck you

max: *sent a photo*

max: nice teeth by the way

you: i hate you

you: *sent a photo*

you: ya think im the only one who looks ugly with braces?

Since then, Max’s relationship with you has considerably improved. The two of you spend a lot of nights dm-ing each other on Instagram and sending each other reels.

max: SOS

you: ??

max: I THINK THE STOVE IS ON FIRE

you: the stove is supposed to have fire

max: ITS ON FIRE

You and Max sit on the floor, back against the kitchen counter, chest heaving in quick breaths, shoulders bumping against each other. You hold the fire extinguisher close to your chest and your eyes are closed and your lips are parted a little. Max observes your side profile.

You're not a categorically attractive woman. But with the way the sun rays enter Max’s kitchen window and hit your face at all the right angles, you look like someone worth missing a sunset over. Max allows himself to stare and mentally tries to convince himself that this is a very normal amount of staring at one’s manager slash friend.

He’s crossing the line that divides friendship and something unnamed.

“Do you need me to call maintenance so we can get your stove replaced?”

Max nods.

“Yes please.”

You post a new picture on Instagram after a long period of dryness. Max gets a notification. He checks it out.

The caption reads: meet my full time dog and part time boyfriend

The picture is blurry and grainy but Max can make out your face perfectly. There’s a billiard table. Max sees a person in the background. A man. He's wearing a Williams shirt.

Is that a racer? Max immediately thinks of Nicholas Latifi. You and him are around the same age. But the blurry man in the picture doesn't look like Nicholas. The hair color and the build is different. George, maybe? He’s a year younger than Max. Do you prefer your men younger? Scratch that. That’s impossible. Max knows he has a girlfriend named Carmel or Carmen or something.

max: you have a boyfriend

you: youre fast

max: when did this happen?

you: uh

you: earlier?

Max resists the urge to hurl his phone across the room.

max: details [name]

max: i need details

you: nuh uh kid you havent unlocked that level of friendship yet

you: that's friendship level 8 ur still on level 6

max: i will hunt you down and force you to tell me

max: and don't call me kid i'm one year younger than you

you: id like to see you try

max: i think u forgot im the one who gave you the apartment where u live rn

You introduce Leo to Max a month later.

Leo is a British brunette guy with a face that one would consider mid in Europe but a ten in the US. He is one of the Williams mechanics. You mention that he used to do karting as a kid and even went up to F3 but he’s decided to discontinue his racing career because he thinks engineering and the technical aspects of a formula car is far more interesting than racing.

He’s basically the complete opposite of Max.

He’s a good guy, Max can tell. He’s well-mannered, he’s calm, he knows how to treat you right. Above all else, he makes you the happiest. You have the most genuine and beautiful smile on your face when he comes into your view.

He also handles your relationship very maturely. He doesn't demand. He understands that you work for different racing teams with different jobs and that means different priorities.

The weekly IG posts are also too cute. It looks like it came out of a Pinterest board.

Max will never tell you that he spends a good hour every time you post something with Leo in it like an obsessive freak. He tries to make sense of the feeling in his chest. Something green. Something ugly. Something he can't name.

Max should be happy that you found a guy as great as Leo. But he cannot, for the life of him, be fully happy for you. He doesn't know why.

“PR told me that you received a dinner invite from Kelly Piquet,” you state, sitting down on the empty chair across from him and putting your packed lunch on the table. You carefully lay the folded clothes on the other chair. Max deduces they will be the ones he’ll be wearing for the interview scheduled in about two hours. You already sent him the list of questions in his email but he hasn't opened them yet.

“Yeah,” Max says after swallowing. “She’s been sending invites since two months ago.”

“And you left her on seen?”

Max scoffs, “I didn't leave her on seen. I just…well, I saw them late and declined them politely.”

He knows Kelly Piquet. He’s aware of the history she shared with former Red Bull Racing now Toro Rosso driver, Daniil Kvyat. Max also knows she’s the daughter of Nelson Piquet, retired Formula One champion. He thinks it's rude to take the guy’s ex-girlfriend after he’s taken his seat in Red Bull.

“She’s interested in you,” you claim, opening the tupperware and quickly saying grace before digging in.

Max is not good with dealing with women. Twenty-three years old and he’s still girlfriend-less. But he knows how to recognize people who are interested in him. A significant number of women have tried their chances with him since he began racing professionally and he may have used you as some sort of getaway driver to get him out of all the awkward situations where he has to deal with women who are interested in him.

You have a very scary resting bitch face if you try hard enough. Its efficiency in scaring off people is proven to be, well, efficient.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Are you interested in her?” you question.

Max thinks about it. Really thinks about it.

“Do you think it’ll be good if I get a girlfriend?” he throws you a question instead of an answer.

“You're twenty-three, man. It's about time you start doin’ somethin’ about your empty dating history.”

Max nose scrunches but doesn't say anything because it's the truth. His dating history is hilariously empty.

“What’s your opinion of Kelly?”

“Uh, cool pussy, I guess. Don't really care.”

Max rolls his eyes, “You’re so crude.”

You shrug uncaringly.

“But I don't mind who you wanna date, man. I mean, it's your life. Date who you wanna date. Live the life you wanna live. All the jazz and shedazzle.”

Max accepts the dinner invite.

The 2020 season ends with Hamilton standing at the top, officially becoming a seven-time world champion. Bottas is behind him. Verstappen, like 2019, still stands in third place. Max vows 2020 will be the last year Hamilton becomes a world champion. The team doesn't hold a big afterparty like it usually does and Max flies home to Monaco immediately.

It's been months since he's started seeing Kelly and the woman is pleasant company. Her daughter, Penelope, is the most adorable human being that ever stepped on Earth. Max loves the little bean with all his heart and he himself is surprised that he’s capable of loving a little human this much. He’s practically convinced that he’ll be a shitty father one day. He does not have a good model figure to look up to when it comes to fatherhood.

Little P, Max learns, is obsessed with crocheted things. Max sees her little bags and little hats—all crocheted. Kelly says she pays their housekeeper to make things for little Penelope because she likes them so much.

Max decides he wants to learn how to crochet. He buys the material and learns through hundreds of Youtube videos. His first masterpiece is a bag. It's white and light orange. He shows it to his mum, who questions how on Earth did her son take an interest in a hobby other than racing or anything car-related. Despite that, she compliments it and Max feels confident that you’ll like it, too, now that he’s gotten his mother’s approval.

He finishes making it by the eighteenth day of December and he calls you, hoping he has the chance to give it before you fly down to Texas for the off-season. But you already left Monaco, just the day before and are now spending the first few weeks of the break in New Zealand with Leo.

“So it's serious?” Max asks you over the phone. He stares at the dark sky in Belgium. There's no stars tonight. Only the moon and it’s looking down at him like it's mocking him. Max wonders what the sky looks like in New Zealand right now.

“Of course,” you say.

“Well then, enjoy the holidays.”

“You, too, man.”

The call ends.

2021

Max sees you enter the Red Bull hospitality. The first thing he notices is that your shoes are brand new. Same model—the black and gold YSL Opyum heels, yes he knows the name because he searched it on Google—but brand new. Your bag is also brand new and it’s not the old cream-colored tote bag with peach prints. It's a cream-colored tote bag with Van Gogh’s painting—the Starry Night—printed at the front. You show it to Max excitedly and tell him that it's from Leo, the bag and the shoes, and Max fakes a smile the whole time. When he returns to his room in the evening, he throws the crochet bag he made over December in the trash bin. Kelly sees it but she doesn't question it.

“PR suggests that you film a Tiktok.”

Max groans, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes to the back of his head.

“Tell them no.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” you encourage him, shaking his shoulders. “There's a lot of dance trends right now.”

“I said no, [Name].”

“Max.”

You throw your hands on your waist, looking at him pointedly with your lips pursed. Max returns the stare.

He gives up after five seconds.

“Fine.”

You huff in triumph.

“But you’re doing it with me,” Max bargains.

“Oh come on,” you throw your hands in the air.

“Now you know how it feels. Tell PR that I’m not going to film a Tiktok unless you film it with me,” Max smiles cheekily.

You're not going to film a Tiktok video with him. He knows you hate filming yourself and posting it for the public. There's a reason why you avoided cameras as if it’s the sun and you're a vampire and had all your social media accounts in private.

You pull an unexpected move and you nod your head.

“Fine.”

Max’s smile drops.

You film a Tiktok using Red Bull Racing’s official Tiktok account. A simple dance. Max does not know the title. The steps are simple and it's easy to memorize. He believes he can do this fairly easily. You don't look like you’re having fun while memorizing the dance steps but you're not overly struggling.

You film the video in three takes. When Max sees the final outcome, he cringes. His long limbs look awkward as he performs the steps despite thinking that he’s doing fine while filming it. You, on the other hand, look fine.

You look good while dancing actually. There’s a certain grace that accompanied your movements.

“You dance good,” Max comments.

“It’s the Latina in me,” you claim, raising your chin a little.

Max snorts.

You show the draft video to the PR team. Without hesitation, they scratched it.

“Why?” Max asks, brows furrowing.

“Apparently, they're too tired releasing statements that we’re not dating. They're afraid that the Tiktok video would bring back our dating rumors,” you roll your eyes. “They’ve decided to just make you do a Tiktok filter game.”

Max does the one filter where he has to solve the simple math equations projected on the screen. He has to tilt his head to the side where the right answer is placed and he needs to do it quickly.

Max is not bad at Mathematics. He’s not good at it either. He’ll say that he’s just average at it like every human being on Earth.

You sit beside him, barking him the answers before his brain can even process and perform the required operations.

“60 points. That's not good enough,” he says.

You nod, “Damn right. You're not tilting your head to the right answer fast enough.”

“Maybe you're not giving the answers quick enough.”

The video gets more than ten takes. The two of you don't stop until you get the perfect score.

Monza is a disaster. To summarize: the 53-lap race is won by Daniel Ricciardo, who has now moved to McLaren. He capitalizes on a good front-row start and the crash between Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton to take the race lead. Lando, Daniel’s teammate comes in second with Mercedes' Valtteri Bottas in third. Max and Lewis—DNF.

Max doesn't remember the last time he’s been that angry and the anger doubles when he sees the seven-time world champion celebrate on the tracks. Max then decides that he’s going to be more risky, especially now that he knows how safe the car is. Max is willing to risk his life for number one.

Max lies in the medical bay and he hears voices outside. Too many voices. He’ll appreciate it greatly if the voices disappear. He's too angry right now that the noise of the outside world is too much.

“Max?”

The voices disappear and it's only you he can see, he can hear, he can feel. You're everything.

You said it. His name. It sounds even better than he imagined.

“[Name].”

After making sure he’s okay, you tell Max that you wish to go to Danny and congratulate him for winning. Max grabs your hand, unwilling to let go.

“You're not his manager anymore,” Max reminds you. “You're mine.”

He’s very much aware that he sounds like a child who refuses to let his older brother borrow his favorite toy but he cannot find himself to care. Screw Daniel.

You give him a long look but follows his demands anyway, “We’re gonna congratulate him later whether you like it or not. He’s our friend and he just got P1. We’re gonna be happy for him 'cuz that's what friends do. I’ll drag your ass to his hotel room if I have to.”

Jos Verstappen is not happy. When has he ever been happy with Max anyway? He calls Max after the Monza race and proceeds to yell because that’s all he ever does with Max. He yells. Max is embarrassed that he’s twenty-three and he’s still getting yelled at by his own father.

“Your Dad’s an asshole,” you stated after he ends the call. Max knows you heard his father’s voice even though he has not put the call on loudspeaker.

“Don't talk to my Dad like that,” he reprimands, though not unkindly. “But yeah, he is.”

You snort, “You okay?”

Max lets out a shaky breath, nodding weakly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You would think that after all this time I would get used to it but I don't know. It still makes me feel so uncomfortable and like I'm doing everything wrong even though I've been doing that for such a long time now and I've achieved so many things he asked for."

Your gaze softens and Max mentally begs that you stop looking at him like that. He does not want your pity. Pity is for the weak. Max is not weak.

You open your arms, “Rein it in, big guy.”

“What are you doing?”

“You need a hug.”

Max hesitates but he invites himself to your arms anyway. He allows himself to melt. In your arms, he feels like he's home and that he's good enough.

The breakup happens two race weekends later. Max is not dumb nor is he so emotionally indifferent that he cannot sense if a person is going through a breakup especially if that person is someone so close to him. He already knows there’s something wrong and he knows exactly what’s wrong and yet he still asks, “What's wrong?”

“Nothin’,” you say a little too quickly as if you already know that Max is going to ask the question.

“[Name],” his fingers circle around your wrist. “It's not nothing. Your eyes are red. Have you been crying?”

He wants you to open up. He wants you to say something. He wants you to share the heartache you carry so it won't feel heavy on your shoulders. He wants to be someone who’ll carry your problems with you when the world feels too big and you too small.

You sigh shakily, forcing a polite smile. Your hand comes up to squish Max’s cheek in between your palms and Max’s brows rise slightly at the action. Your hands feel cold and they’re trembling slightly and Max wants to point it out, but he sees how your lips wobble and his mind just blanks, “It's not important. You only have one thing to think about and that is to win. You hear me?”

Max considers marching to the Williams Racing livery and demanding for Leo Stark but he chooses not to. You won't want him to, anyway.

Max never realizes how horrifying blood is until he sees it dripping down the side of your head. He watches as your face changes from shock to realization to absolute anger. It’s like watching you transform from human to a rabid animal who wants to shed blood. At first, he tries to pull you away and calm you down. When he sees the girl’s boyfriend appear, Max joins the fight. No man is allowed to hit you. Not on his watch.

The higher-ups are not the happiest when they learn of what happened. The PR team is having a field day as well. Someone captured the event in video and posted it online. Max has been given a script for the video he’ll have to do to save his image but it’s written differently. Different in a way that the way the words are arranged feels odd to him unlike the way you write your scripts for Max. You write the scripts as if Max is the one who writes them. You write the script in a way Max will write them. Because you know him enough to know what kind of words he wants to use and how he’ll phrase things. You choose words that are easy on his tongue and you structure the sentences so that he can memorize them easily.

Helmut is the one who says, “She should leave the team.”

“If you fire her, I’m leaving,” Max decides.

Christian narrows his eyes at him, “You won't dare.”

“Try me,” he challenges. “I am willing to pay millions to leave if she leaves.”

The other teams want him, Max knows. They know he’s rising to stardom, a racer who can stand equal to Lewis Hamilton in the right time. Red Bull is too afraid of spitting out their star now. Not when Max is already giving Lewis Hamilton a big run for his money this year. Not when Max just showed the world that he’s capable of more than just being third place.

The wretched Hamilton fan decides to sue and Max calls upon his mother’s help to find the best lawyers to fight for you. Sophie willingly helps him.

Max is going to protect you, like you always do to him.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Hey! Love your fics! Have just finished The Taste of Temptation 🥵 a small idea popped in my head where Daniel is away and his Kitty is spending time with other drivers on a yacht. The aussie sees the pics, his blood starts to boil but then he sees the pics where she's putting on his DR3 or Enchante merch on

Temptation Snapshot || DR3 {1}

A/N: there will be a splattering of little snapshots of moments between Danny and his kitten from The Taste of Temptation universe.

F1 Masterlist Story: One || Two || Three || Four || Five Snapshots One || Two || Three || Four || Five

“Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?”

Lando looked offended at the question and purposefully hit the waves in the wake of Charles' boat, launching the JetSki into the air. Your arms tightened around his waist as you lifted from the seat and your heart rose in your throat at the height of the jump. It was instant karma that he winced at the deafening scream of terror you made but it wasn’t enough to drown out the men laughing at your expense on the yacht.

“Where are you going?” Lando asked with a laugh as you abandoned him and jumped into the sea.

“To change my underwear, you dingbat,” you joked as you swam towards the Monza, making Lando nearly tip over as he tried to turn around while doubled over laughing.

When you reached the Monza, Charles offered his hand to help you up since Pierre was too busy cackling to himself. “Did that use up one of your nine lives, kitten?”

Charles arched an eyebrow in disbelief as he looked at his friend who had been taking pictures all day just to annoy Daniel. “Mate, do you have a death wish?”

“He must have, especially if he posted any of those photos.” You reached into your bag and grabbed the powder-blue oversized Enchantée sweatshirt you had stolen from Daniel. Pulling it over your body was the closest you could get to one of his hugs when he was busy with work and when you took a seat there was enough room to tuck your knees up inside it too.

“They are very good pictures,” he defended himself as he took another couple of Lando pulling up alongside the boat, Charles at the helm and you watching the sun reflect on the shimmering surface. “I could be a photographer, I am an artist.”

You looked at Charles and rolled your eyes. “He took one decent photo of Kika, who is the most photogenic person on the planet, and now he thinks he’s Kym Illman.”

“I’ve taken more, but she would kill me if I showed them off,” Pierre admitted with a smirk.

“Oh my god, mate,” Charles groaned a laugh. “That is not smart. Think, if you get hacked, then what?”

You gave Charles a little clap at the point he made but Pierre just laughed it off without a care. “You worry too much.”

Red Bull Training Facility

Sweat drenched the singlet Daniel wore but he pushed himself to finish the last rep knowing a break was coming as soon as he was done. The routine physical fitness test was never fun but the fact it was taking him away from time with you left him in a sour mood. He was doing his best and results were better than ever because he knew the sooner he finished then the quicker he could head home to Monaco where you were waiting.

“Alright, good work. Take a breather, get a drink, and be back here in 10.”

Daniel was quick to grab his phone with his bottle of water and took a seat on the Swiss ball. His lips tugged up into a smile when he saw the messages from you, wishing him well and how much you missed him. He replied to them first, promising everything he would do to show you just how much he missed you too.

Seeing a tonne of notifications on Instagram, he opened the app next and his jaw clenched at what he found. All through his dashboard were images of you wearing next to nothing with the two-piece swimsuit he gave to you. He was surprised the sweat on his body didn’t turn to steam the way his blood boiled.

The whole day had been caught in a series of photos Pierre had posted. There was one of you standing at the bow of the Monza as she pulled out of the marina, you diving off the back and swimming to Lando who had followed on Max’s JetSki, you sitting behind the British driver with your arms around his waist. Every swipe to the next image left him feeling hollow and empty as he watched his kitten’s smile grow with each one.

Until it was gone.

Daniel cursed as he found a picture with terror clear on your face. Lando had launched the JetSki over a wave and you had held onto him for dear life. That was the last photo on the vessel and he sighed with relief when the next photo erased every chaotic thought he had had. You were snuggled into his sweatshirt and watching the sun like you did at home. Daniel would often find you in a similar state most mornings as you sat on the balcony overlooking the sea, a hot tea in hand and his clothes on your body.

Daddy Ric: Stealing more of my clothes, kitten?

Kitten: They look better on me.

Daddy Ric: They’d look even better on the bedroom floor.

Kitten: Then hurry up and come home.

“Break time is over, this isn’t summer camp.”

Daddy Ric: Soon, kitten. I’ll see you tonight.

Click here for another snapshot.

[captainnameless]

hi! i was wondering if i could request some soft little Max? you and bean are my absolute favorite authors and blogs and since i am not blessed with the writing gene i was hoping you would bless us with some little Max to hopefully cheer bean up a bit too.

aw! you can always request little Max, i adore my boy. and i think this is very cute, hope you’re ok <3 @33max

- -

Daniel struggles fitting Max’s foot into his sneakers, Max’s entire body seemingly still soft and noodle-y post nap.

“Muffin,” Daniel hums, gently squeezing Max’s ankle. “Can you help Daddy, please?”

Max lifts his neck to face Daniel from where he’s flopped onto the couch, cheeks still flushed and lined with the imprint of the sheets. “Huh?”

“Your foot,�� Daniel lifts Max’s ankle and wiggles it in his view, electing a soft giggle from the boy. “Has to go in your shoe, bud.”

Max sits up a little straighter so he can get his weight behind it, rubbing at his eyes and letting out a soft yawn.

Daniel resists the urge to coo, and the magnetic pull that wants to wrap Max up in a cuddle in a makeshift blanket fort and stay there for the foreseeable future, makes quick work of fitting Max’s shoes on and tying the laces.

It is a nice thought, the cuddle fort, but it’s been raining in England for the two days they have already spent together, and finally the sun has peeked to the grey clouds, and Daniel intends on soaking up some of those vitamins.

“All done,” Daniel hums as he pushes himself up, then holds out both hands for Max to pull himself up on. He does and then flops into Daniel’s chest, burying himself in the soft material of Daniel’s new enchanté sweatshirt.

Daniel smiles, wraps his arms around Max and presses his face into the messy mop of hair that he hasn’t fixed post nap. Secretly he loves the disgruntled look it gives Max, especially when they have nowhere important to be, and it just looks so cute now that Max hasn’t trimmed his hair in a bit.

“As much as I love this cuddle,” Daniel hums into Max’s dark blonde hair. “We should probably go chase the sun before she goes into hiding again.”

Daniel can feel Max make a face, the little guy also unimpressed with the amount of rain they’ve had and the strict rules that Daniel had enforced about not playing in it. Usually Daniel doesn’t mind, but their immune systems are down after the triple header, and Max would be very upset if he’d had to miss GoodWood if he were to fall ill. It had already been difficult keeping him and Lando separated post Silverstone after Lando had come down with the flu.

“Quick,” Max says already wriggling out of the hug and skipping off into the hall where their jackets are.

They’ve opted for casual wear, Daniel pleased with convincing Max out of the Red Bull windbreaker in hopes to not attract any attention on their walk, the area surrounding their AirBnB quiet anyway, but he doesn’t want to tempt fate.

Max is sporting the tote bag this time, Leo tucked inside, Max still weary of bringing him along but upset if he leaves him behind, the tote provides the perfect shield from prying eyes but it doesn’t stop Max’s babbling about everything they’re seeing.

“There’s a puddle, Leo.”

Daniel keeps a little bit of a closer eye on Max, slowing down from where he was a couple steps ahead.

“But we can’t jump in it cause we’ve got regular shoes on.” There’s a defeated sigh and Max stomps his foot away from the puddle to proof his point.

“Because,” Max adds, looking at Daniel now. “Daddy put the wrong shoes on.”

Daniel bites back an amused smile and watches as Max continues his conversation.

“Right?” He says, as if the plush is conversing with him, shaking his head as he walks past Daniel. “Silly Daddy.”

Daniel snorts, reaches out to poke at Max’s side as he passes him, something Max squeaks at and dances away from. “He’s going to get us!”

Max darts off ahead then, the dirt kicking up behind him as he speeds off further into the forest.

Daniel curses his age then, definitely enjoying their slow paced stroll up until know and wills his knees into shape as he chased after Max.

Max is definitely faster than Daniel, luckily, this version of Max is a little less speedy, more clumsy and Daniel catches up quickly enough, wrapping his arms around Max from behind and lifting him briefly. “Gotcha!”

Max bursts into a fit of giggles as he squirms out of Daniel’s hold, adjusting the tote bag on his shoulder and making sure Leo’s face can peak out again before he fits himself against Daniel’s side as they continue their stroll.

“Love.” Max hums, patting at Daniel as Daniel wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Right back at ya.”

[waspenned]

scenes from an italian restaurant • part ten • peter parker

in which you and peter clear the air • 5k

warnings: language as per usual, angsty

now playing: bleecker street by simon & garfunkel

part one / the ao3 version

a/n: long time no see!!!!!! full update in the notes of the ao3 post but what a crazy year

You’ve been stood in front of Peter’s door for five minutes now.

That’s on top of the five minutes you spent working up the courage to go inside the building, and then the other ten minutes you spent pacing the block - just to try and shake some of your nerves out onto the pavement. It’s just knocking, just seeing the same face you’ve been seeing nearly every day for months now, but it feels bigger. 

You hadn’t been to a coworker’s place since the fire; not gone for coffee after a morning shift, or drinks after close, or a Red Bull run before the open. It made things easier to deal with. Sometimes it stung a little more than usual, especially when most of them were particularly inclined to come in all hungover and messy on a Saturday, with a whole new roster of inside jokes - but it felt safer, somehow. You’d been friendly with a few of them at some point, close almost, and even though they kept inviting you out with them, they all eventually stopped asking. Some understood, some didn’t - and once you'd overheard Sal hushedly call you ‘troubled’ to somebody through the gantry hatch, you were basically the point of no return. 

But Peter, as always, is different.

You glance at your phone. Seven minutes. Some awful part of you twists at the idea that maybe he’s wondering where you are, if he’s waiting for you; or if he’s being normal about it, like a normal person. Peter’s more normal than you, he wouldn’t take seven- no, EIGHT minutes to knock on someone’s door, even if his hands were clammy and his heart was thumping so loudly in his ears he thought his eardrums might burst. You’ve still got your earphones on even though you paused whatever you were listening to long ago, the sound of your breath thrumming through your head. When you move to finally take them off, you fumble and swear as they clatter loudly to the floor. 

Immediately, you cringe, wanting the floor to swallow you up as muffled movement stirs behind the door in front of you. You’ve probably got about ten seconds to pull yourself together and appear fine enough for him not to be immediately concerned - a difficult task, considering that you have dark circles the size of plates, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got some sort of stress-related rash breaking out on your hands, but the door is already opening, and life (as it turns out) isn’t merciful.

All of a sudden, Peter is there, and you’re on the floor, frantically chasing your earphones as they scatter across the lino. When you look up at him, you’re suddenly relieved to find that he’s mostly just confused. Lamely, you flap your mouth for a second, and then blurt out the first thing that pops into your head. 

“I was just about to knock.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Peter’s apartment smells like Peter - which is obvious when you think about it, but it didn’t cross your mind until this moment how painful this might be. There’s his soap, his deodorant, the faint oil fryer smell of any Joe’s uniform, which is currently half hanging out of a laundry basket near the door. It was like you were seeing him properly for the first time; this new, unknown Peter who exists beyond the confines of a kitchen. This isn’t the Peter you know or Spider-Man - this is Peter outside of Joe’s. Peter who does laundry. Peter who has a coffee mug on the drying rack that says ‘World’s Greatest Pop-Pop’, and some complicated calculations splayed out in sheets on the rickety little dining table. 

“It’s a bit of a mess right now, I haven’t had time to clean up, because of the-“ He’s babbling and flitting about, picking up different bits of odd clutter only to put them down again. His hair is damp against the collar of his sweatshirt; shiny and dark and curling up in little spirals around his ears that you had the sudden urge to wrap around your fingers. You step inside, and Peter’s pottering about the kitchen, preparing mugs and rooting through his cupboards. When you make your way into the main space of the apartment, barely a separate room, Peter looks up at you through his hatch and brightly chimes, “Would you like anything to drink?”

You quirk your brow. Suddenly, whatever haze had fallen over his face dissipates, and he blinks, dazed.

“I’m still in Diner Mode.” Peter rubs his eyes, then rakes a hand through his hair, disturbing the wet clumps of curls. No wonder it's always so frizzy, with the amount of times you've seen him tug and ruffle at it. The movement exposes the tips of his ears, shiny from the moisture, and their usual shade of flustered pink. He’s back into the cupboard in an instant, searching through boxes and jars before he finds what he’s looking for. “Okay, so I have coffee and…”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“…Actually, that’s it.”

“Then I guess it’s my lucky day.”

You can’t help it, but your voice comes out dry and flat, and his eyebrows knit, something shifting in his expression. Your fingers go numb, and you remember what you came here to do - you just didn’t think you would get into it so quickly. Peter sets his shitty instant coffee on the side (and you would know it’s shitty, because you buy the same stuff) and just looks at you. You’re not sure what sort of look it is, something between his usual awkwardness, and some entirely new face you’ve never seen before. He’s planting his hands on the counter now, squaring his shoulders, and your breath hitches.

Maybe, you think, this is the face behind the mask. 

“I don’t know what to say.” It sounds awful and croaky, and it’s nowhere near covering the sheer amount of thoughts currently rushing through your head, but it’s all that comes to mind. 

What is there to say? Nothing much had really happened; coworkers hook up with each other all the time (granted, usually not on shift), but even then, you never even had sex. You can’t call him a ‘hook up’, he was somehow both more and less than that - just some guy you’ve kissed a couple times. Whatever the hell the two of you have been doing for months has never been labelled anything past ‘friends’, which you’re now quickly realising is nothing like what you actually are. You’ve been tormenting yourself, tormenting him, all because you couldn’t suck it up enough to admit to yourself that you care about him more than you want to, and because it’s easier to live with the possibility that something could, might happen. 

And now a new, worse feeling is looming over you; the possibility that Peter might not feel the same way about you.

Deep breath. Push it down. Bury it. 

“Then let me say it.” Peter is clearing his throat now, your heart rate spiking like a hummingbird, your teeth clenched shut. It takes one, two, five, seventy drips of the faucet before he speaks again - or maybe he doesn’t hesitate at all. 

“I’ve been thinking about something you said a while ago, before…” He trails off. Before everything. You grimace a little, suddenly feeling nauseous when you remember how rude you were to him, all the times you’d snapped at him when he was just trying to help. He’s the kind of person who helps people, and you’re the kind of person who pushes them away, apparently. All of the hate and grudges you’d held against him, all of the resentment, instantly falls onto your shoulders. You punished him for the crime of being happy and content, when his other job is being beaten to a pulp and worked to the bone, and you were stupid enough to not realise it was only because you hated yourself. 

“You said something about how shit happens, and Spider-Man won’t always be there. How I’m ‘just some guy’.”

“Peter, I-“ Your lungs are burning so hot you think you smell smoke again, and you try to hold your breath, even though you currently feel like you’re suffocating, “I didn’t… I don’t think that anymore. I’m-“

Deep breath. Push it down.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m fucked up.” You’re laughing, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, or Peter’s. 'Fucked up’ is an umbrella term, apparently, for having nightmares about a fire that happened over a year ago, shutting everyone out of your life, smelling smoke in every dark corner or pantry. ‘Fucked up’ covers being so desperately lonely that you have to compulsively hurt the first friend you make after isolating yourself for so long; stringing him along in some ‘will-they-won’t-they’ bullshit and letting him down every step of the way. He probably wants to cut you off. It’s probably better if he does.

“You’re not fucked up,” His face is soft, like ricotta against your tongue. Like the skin across his collarbones. “I just… About the fire-“

He’s not broken eye contact with you until now, but his gaze flicks to the dish rack, the walls - he fiddles with the faucet for a fleeting moment. You wait.

“I want to apologise for everything,” It’s slow to start, but once the dam is broken, it all comes out in a rush and drowns you. “I know we didn’t know each other then, but I want- I need you to know that I’m sorry. It’s my duty to protect people, and I didn’t protect you, and I’m sorry.”

“Peter-“

“Hold on. Last night, when you were talking about how it was your responsibility to-“ His voice wavers. You realise you’re still holding your breath. “How you had, like, a sense of duty towards Joe’s, and you were so brave, and all I could think about was how I let you down. Even before I knew you, it killed me just knowing that there was someone who needed me, and I didn’t come through for them. It- It messed me up.”

There’s a pang where your heart used to be, when you realise he’s not talking about you specifically, but just someone in general. Some poor citizen needing to be saved. There’s nothing else there, just hollowness and cold, stretching back and back into you like an abyss. This must be what heartbreak feels like, you realise; you’re not special to him, you’re just something else on his plate. Maybe, something in the back of your head leers, maybe you’re nothing to him after all.

Spider-Man, your coworker, is staring into you so intently that you can feel the weight of the city on his shoulders. 

“I nearly quit.” His voice hangs like a loose thread - like the ones on the diner tablecloths that if you pull, make the whole thing unravel. You twist your finger around it and tug, even though you know you’ll come apart too.

“Joe’s?”

“Being Spider-Man.”

“Oh.” 

Peter huffs a breath, twirls the faucet knob between his fingers with the same dexterity and fluidity he demonstrated between your legs last night, and your gut churns. The pipes groan to life, and he shuts it off again before any water has the chance to flow through. Then, he’s coming around the corner, out of the kitchen, and all of a sudden you’re in Peter’s living room, with Peter, and that's what he looks like at home. There’s no pretence, no uniform, no employee code of conduct between you. 

“I want to be just some guy. More than anything.” He’s so close to you now that you can smell lime body wash and shampoo, see a drip forming at the tip of that one curl at his left temple that’s more like a ringlet than the rest of them. And you only know it's there because you haven’t stopped thinking about him, looking at him only when his back is turned and no one could catch you staring. You can barely hear him over the shame spinning in your ribs like a catherine wheel.

“But after the fire, I sort of took it as a sign that I was meant to be Spider-Man. You were there, you lived it. It’s my responsibility to stop that from happening.”

You can’t help it, but your eye twitches. It’s the same thing that’s been bothering you about Spider-Man since before; the promise of selflessness and responsibility and duty that Peter is now forever bound to. Before last night, you would have told yourself that you hated Spider-Man because you felt like he abandoned you, because he broke some kind of stupid, city-wide promise - but now that you know it’s Peter behind the mask, blaming him feels too harsh when the world gives him enough shit to begin with.

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the beatings, or the sleepless nights, or the working minimum wage just to go home to an apartment that will only get more expensive to rent. And all it does is make you angry. It’s unfair - everything’s unfair - and now it feels like your life, your near-death, was the event that made him keep giving himself and getting nothing in return. At the end of the day, you’re both just two twenty-somethings, trying to keep their heads above water.

It’s your fault that he’s still here, still hurting.

He’s still staring at you when you realise you’ve been silent for some time now, your mind blank and stuttering as Peter just looks on, almost concerned. The vice that’s been slowly tightening around your chest for months gives one final clench, and some long-buried string in your heart finally, finally snaps. 

You’re so tired. 

You knew it would happen eventually; that you’d run out of steam, or your knees would give out, and you wouldn’t be able to keep this up anymore. You’d always expected it to be while you were alone, or in Sal’s office, when you wouldn’t be able to keep up with all the silly little lies you’d been telling yourself - but not here, not in front of Peter, and not like this. 

And you’re not sure you’ve ever said any of this out loud - but the same tug in the back of your head that wanted to protect him last night is now thrumming away like a rubber band pulled taut. That pull, that itch, that simmers in your lungs and makes you feel like you’re responsible for him, or that he’s responsible for you. 

When you think about it, it’s guilt. Guilt that burns hot and acrid at the back of your tongue - guilt that puts you in debt to him, to everyone at Joe’s. You don’t just owe him an apology for lashing out, and running around the diner like a shithead; you owe him the truth. 

Deep breath. 

“Peter, I have to tell you something.”

Your voice sounds miles away - echoing in his box apartment, or maybe just in your head. You try not to notice the way his face twitches, or the way he stiffens slightly, or his eyes darting over you. His voice is tense, but not quite strained when he speaks. 

“What is it?”

Something scratches at the back of your throat, squeezing, constricting, scratching. This is it, this has to be it. 

Say it. 

Say it.  

“The fire was my fault.”

You weren’t sure what was going to happen. Sure, you’d imagined this scenario multiple times, all of them ending in various, and increasingly wild forms of punishment - losing your job, being arrested, getting cut off from the people who had been your whole life for years - but you’d at least imagined some form of relief. Perhaps the relief was the driving force of this whole confession, laying yourself bare and raw and bleeding in front of Peter in the hopes that he’d do something about it, take it all away, and still like you enough to speak to you afterwards. 

Only now, in practice, the relief never comes, and Peter just keeps staring at you. Instantly, you want to vomit. 

"What?”

You can’t read his voice. You can’t read his face. To compensate for this, your brain cedes all control, and your mouth keeps moving. 

“I was smoking out the back door and Sal called me in for some stupid reason - something about the pans or the sauce, or whatever - and I forgot to stub it out, and-“

That’s done something. Peter holds his hands up, eyes drawn wide, as if you were some sort of wild animal. Maybe you are. Maybe this is all some sort of twisted defence mechanism - spilling out the one thing you swore you would never tell anybody, in one last-ditch attempt at pushing him away. 

“Hey, hey-“

“I didn’t get to see the full report, but I’m not stupid. I know it started near the back door, and that some- some spark, or something, caused it. If I'd just-“ Your voice sticks like glue in your dry throat, like you’re trying to swallow cotton. “I nearly killed people. So much of it was destroyed - stuff that had been there for decades, family pictures, wedding presents.”

You think he says your name. You don’t hear it. 

“That burn on Sal’s arm is only there because of me. Because- Because he tried to get me out of there.”

It’s all too much now - even here, even in Peter’s apartment, you can smell the smoke, feel the heat. Through the hatch into the kitchen, you swear you can see a flame, licking up the walls, swimming in your vision like molten glass. It’s burning in your eyes, curling in your throat and nostrils, burning and burning and 

“Please, look at me.” 

When you finally make eye contact, a breath forces its way past your lips. His hands are steady and warm on your forearms, slipping down to clutch at your palms, as if weighing you down to reality. It’s as if everything else had slipped away, and he’s in the middle of it all, grounding you like a tether. You cling to him. 

“I’m sorry.” It tumbles out like an impulse. Peter shakes his head, soft and smudged in the lamplight. 

“Don’t be.” He says, firmly. Every wet curl shines and shimmers as he shakes his head, and the smell of soap pushes the soot that little bit further away. Maybe if you were to look out of the window, you’d see plumes of dark smoke rising from a building a few blocks away, but your gaze is stuck to Peter’s like a magnet. “You didn’t do anything wrong."

“I did,” The awful creature that’s been churning in your chest rears its ugly head again, “I caused so much hurt. And I’ve been hurting you, too - holding a grudge for something that was my own fault. You- You don’t deserve-”

“No.” Peter hasn’t let up, watching every twitch and flicker on your face. Is this how he speaks to the maniacs he fights in the street? Is this how he handles every catastrophic responsibility that falls into his lap? “You didn’t.”

“Peter, I did-“

“You didn't.” He says again, only this time, something sticks. The look on his face, the sadness in his eyes - it snaps your mouth shut. It’s the way he hovers around it, the unsureness in his face, that almost confuses you. “I… After the fire, I did some investigating.”

Your feet have gone numb. So have your hands, and arms, and legs, and just about everywhere else. When you don’t protest or interrupt, Peter continues tentatively. 

“I got access to the NYPD files, I watched the clean-up like a hawk, I-“ He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. His fingertips worry over your knuckles, back and forth, like a pendulum. “I did some stuff I wasn’t necessarily allowed to, but I needed closure. Joe’s was- It was one of the last things I had left of Ben’s, and…”

“What do you mean?” Your voice comes from another room, another planet. How could he know something you don’t? How could he have answers that you don’t have? Sal never told you anything about the report, about the cause, about any kind of investigation. Something is clawing inside your stomach. How? How? “Peter, what are you saying?”

His voice is softer than anything you’ve ever heard when he finally answers. 

“It was a fault with a fryer. Some electrical issue.” You can barely hear him, but he keeps talking anyway, even though it sounds like he’s on the other side of Manhattan. “Suppose it’s why Sal is so insistent on fryer training now, and- hey-?”

It takes a moment to register what you're doing, but you realise that you’re laughing. You can’t help it, but you’re laughing. Peter's utterly lost, his eyebrows tangled into that familiar furrow, the one you only see when you've completely perplexed him.

All this time, all this energy, spent tying yourself in knots and swallowing bile - and it was all the fault of a fucking fryer. Even now, the relief doesn't come, doesn't take all of the pains and aches of it away. Instead, it melts and morphs into something new - awful, burning, searing shame. And there's Peter in the middle of it all, just waiting for you, wanting the best for you. There's something hot on your cheeks, and it turns out that your laughter has quickly merged into crying.

You're actually crying. In front of him. You'd probably prefer being vaporised into a million pieces by whatever supervillain is calling themselves Spider-Man's arch nemesis these days.

"Oh my God," You blurt out, every cell trembling. It sounded like the beginning of a sentence, but any other words dissolve on your tongue.

Something warm wraps around you, and of course, it's him. He's holding you, and while you've had the odd bit of skin contact with him here and there - hands clapping on your shoulders, fingertips as he passes you ketchup bottles, lips pressed to yours in the snow - you'd never expected it to be like this. This close, you can hear his heart pounding away, the scent of his deodorant drowning out any scrap of smoke or burning oil, and your hands - against your will - fist into the back of his t-shirt.

You stay like that until it subsides, whatever it is, Peter murmuring things you can't quite hear with your ears muffled by his arms. Eventually, though, he pulls back, and fixes you with a look you can't really identify. It's the same one from last night, where he'd stood in the middle of your apartment in his spandex and his mask, wanting something from you that you aren't sure you can give him.

"I know that doesn't... fix it," He says, his voice rumbling through you like a wave - like you were one of his webs, and you can feel his feet tugging at the threads, knowing exactly where he was, and how far away, with one tiny movement. Even if you weren't a web, if you weren't coworkers, if you weren't people (though you suppose, he technically isn't, at least not all the way) you'd probably still be able to find him. "But it's the truth."

Even if you could dredge up something meaningful and coherent to say, you don't think you'd be able to actually say it - not with your tongue feeling so heavy and sluggish in your mouth. You settle on the first thing that comes to mind - the onlything your mouth can remember the shape of.

“I’m sorry.”

Peter shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

Your diaphragm is still convulsing with the aftershocks of tears, and your breath trembles in your lungs. It's all coming out now, and you don't think you'd be able to stop it if you wanted to - not now that dam is broken, and Peter hasn't gone running for the hills. Apparently, that's given your brain the go-ahead to spew out pure, babbling nonsense.

“I was awful to you.”

"You really weren't."

"I, I just-" Your breathing hitches again, your face burning hot and bleary, “God, this is pathetic. I’m supposed to be apologising to you.”

You're bowing your head, avoiding eye contact, but you can hear the way his face looks, just from the gentleness in his voice, the concern that soaks the room like gasoline, threatening to be set alight.

“You really think about yourself like this?” 

“I’m- I really am sorry Peter. I was so mean. You don’t deserve that.” 

It’s instant. It's genuine, and it's absolute. “I forgive you.”

There goes that familiar feeling again, the one that claws at you from the inside, and hates how nice he is, how soft he is when the world is so hard to him. You swallow thickly, forcing it down, and choke out a dry laugh, your face scrubbed raw from the heels of your hands. You probably look awful, but he's still looking at you like he always does - whatever that is.

“You know you’re allowed to hate me. You don’t have to be nice to me just because I’m snotting all over your couch.” 

“I could never hate you.”

There's a pang in your chest, and you're bent double, winded, by the gentleness of his tone. It hurts like a knife. 

“Don’t-“ Another shaking breath as you shake your head, “You can’t say things like that.”

“Look, I don't-" He begins, before he reshapes the words in his mouth, shuffling them like a pack of cards. That's how he's better than you, you think, he thinks before he speaks - he approaches things with kindness and care, instead of months of anger and resentment towards nothing in particular. "With the fire, even if we didn’t know each other then, when I think about what could have happened, if, if you-“

There it is, the unspoken part. The part that keeps you up at night with nightmares and the smell of ash in your hair that you can’t scrub out. Peter looks almost pained, his face screwed up as he debates between speaking his mind and holding his tongue - he seems to go on a whole journey in his head that’s plain as day across his face. He’s tense and strung tight, hands wringing themselves over and over and over, like he’s cleaning the countertops at the diner, and all of a sudden he’s your coworker again, and you think you taste bile. Eventually, he makes a decision, and speaks. 

“I guess I'm trying to say that I would miss you."

You’re almost winded by it. He says it so plainly, but it stabs you through the chest like a knife. Whatever emotion you’re experiencing right now is entirely new to you, and hurts like a bitch. 

Peter would miss you. He saves your life, he kisses you at work - and he would miss you. He just says it like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t knock the air out of you. 

It’s stupid - whether it was because he frustrated you, or confused you, or made you get that funny, swooping feeling in your stomach, you haven’t stopped thinking about him since you met him, and you’ve never even stepped foot in his house. And he looks like an angel by lamplight. And he would miss you. 

You don't remember much of the rest of the evening, between mumbles and awkward sips of shitty coffee, and the city growing louder outside as the sun sinks below the horizon.

Perhaps this is why people go to church, or believe in something bigger than themselves - in pure, desperate hopes that despite whatever they've done, there will be someone at the end who will forgive you, and treat you kindly. But Peter isn't one for spite, and his kindness is all the more special to you because of that. His forgiveness, however, is something closer to sacred - washing you over in its totality, its absolution. For the first time in a while, Manhattan's clatter and din isn't overwhelming, or undercutting all the shit going on inside your head, it simply exists; cutting through the wind and rustling the trees, like the pigeons that scavenge the back end of Joe's for pizza crusts and stray fries.

It's been a while, but when you leave Peter's, and take in another deep breath on the steps of his building - it feels clean and new. It's only on the walk home, when his voice is pinging around inside your head, that you realise - and it hits you like a train. 

He’s been more than a co-worker this whole time. 

How could you not have realised that? You used to have your head screwed on, the sensible one, and here you were; only just realising how absolutely, positively stupid you’ve been. Of course everything has felt so frustrating and complicated - you’ve been so blind to your own feelings that the realisation of it practically knocks the air out of you.

You’re not even sure when the world started looking brighter and the city started smelling sweeter, and you’re not even sure when that feeling became so all-encompassing and vast and deep and hot and cold all at the same time - but you know it’s all Peter’s fault. You want to hate him for it, at first, but you’re not sure that hating Peter would even be possible. Not when there’s no one in the world that looks at you like he does, no one who goes out of their way to make you smile. He makes you feel special, special enough for you to wonder why no one else has been looking at you like this all along. It’s not that the job has gotten easier, or the fancy coffee you can afford with your pay rise; it’s just that you’ve been stupid enough to develop stupid fucking feelings for the stupid guy you work with. 

Realising this feels like falling off of the Empire State Building. A familiar feeling, yes, when you tally up all of the emotional turmoil you’ve experienced - except now, there’s a small part of your brain that really, truly believes that Spider-Man would catch you.

Somehow, that was scarier.

[verslxt]

"sunnnaaaa my feet hurttt" you complained looking up at your husband suna rintaro. you two have been dating since about 2nd year of high school, he preposed to you on the court (newww storryy ;) after his game against MSBY. suna glanced down at you

"well princess, you shouldn't have work heels to a team brunch, that you wanted to walk too" he smiled down at you, as you glared up at him

"asshole." you said as you pulled out your phone and saw that atsumu got engaged "atsumu got engaged" you showed suna the instagram post

"i actually hate his fiancee" suna admitted as you two reached the brunch place. you looked up at suna "why?"

suna looked down at you "shes whitewashing you, remember how you used to get your hair all done and stuff, and like you didn't always straighten your hair, you got more insicure about your skin and shit-8 please" suna told you getting cut off by the waiter asking how many people were going to be there

~that night~

you felt sunas hands snake around your waist as you were showering "awww look at that my pretty girl is looking more pretty girlie" he smiled and pressed a kiss to your temple. you smiled and washed the conditioner out of your hair "so i need to talk to you after you get out of the shower, just come downstairs". suna smiled and kissed your lips "alright pretty girl"

you got out of the shower grabbing your hair stuff, you grabbed out some lacy panties, a sports bra, an old sweatshirt from high school and some nike pros (shorts, spandex ion really give a fuck). you went down stairs after you got dressed and waited for suna.

suna got out of the shower and went downstairs to see you, with a coconut red bull in your hands and your phone in your other. he smiled at you

"hey there pretty girl" he sat down by you in some grey sweatpants "so what did you wanna talk about?"

you looked up from your phone, you also set it down. you sighed "is yuki really whitewashing me?" you looked really sad and suna noticed it

"yes, she really is, remember when you used to go get your hair done with arans wife, and you two would go get your nails done together and you used to call tank tops wife beaters and now you rarely get your hair done, you still get your nails done, but they don't look that good, they really belong on a white girl, not the prettiest mixed girl that i've ever seen, and now you rarely wear tank tops, baggy jeans, and talk with your cute little southern draw, love, she whitewashed you" suna reached over and dried some of your tears that fell "now what would you like, hugs, cuddles and a scary movie, should we both kinda like drop atsumu, wanna go over to osamus and and see the baby, and your literal best friend? choice is yours pretty girl, choice is yours"

you smiled as suna dried your tears "can we just cuddle and talk, kinda like how we did in high school?"

suna smiled "of course we can pretty girl, of course we can"

[aerodaltonimperial]

Hi hello, almost kisses that are interrupted by a third party for junglecorpse pls 🥰

Nick has a singles match in his first PPV, and Shayna throws a party. It's good; Nick's worked his ass off for this, and it's a huge honor to get somethin' like that so damn young. And mostly, it ends up being an excuse to get a bunch of the roster that they like over and hyped up, and Darby can respect that. They deserve to have this happiness. It's been long enough, the house is too quiet.

And at least Shayna gave Darby some spots on the invite list. As many as he wanted, probably, because that's just what she does, but in the end, he only wrote one name down. She might not even really have noticed with all the planning, since she never said anything. He was reasonably sure she'd corner him and ask about it, given... everything.

There's quite a bit of booze. That's kind of a staple at shindigs like this, really. He's pretty sure Orange is on, like, his fourth beer already, and the man has barely even blinked. Fascinating. Darby weaves through the raucous laughter and Nick back pats and shop talk to get to the kitchen where he finds his guest of honor, sitting quietly with a Red Bull clutched between his palms like a lifeline.

"Hey," Darby says.

"Hey," Jack returns. He looks terribly out of place, but maybe it's the leather jacket and the aviators and all the bullshit he seems to enjoy so much lately.

Darby opens the fridge, stares at the rows of bottles and cans. Jack must've found one of Nick's stash, since the fucker is still underage. Darby ends up choosing nothing and closing the door again. "Having fun?"

Jack eyes him for a minute, a sardonic sort of smile on his face. "I, uh, I'm not really sure why I'm here."

That's an opening, and oh, Darby's great at taking those. He grins, arches his eyebrows, and asks, "You wanna see the ring out back?"

Another beat. Then, Jack says, "Sure."

Jack follows Darby out the back door and into the cool air. Seattle's kind of perpetually moist, the sort of place that's always holding just a little bit of rain in reserve. There's really only the one motion-sensor torch between the back door and the garage, and it clicks on as they pass, flooding the grass with yellow. Darby pulls open the door and only hits one of the mounted lanterns, so it's still fairly dark inside.

"This is it, huh?" Jack asks. He makes a circle within, but the ring takes up most of the available space.

"This is it," Darby agrees. He watches—mostly because the way the light catches on Jack's stubble beard is enticing, and the way the man turns, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, bears some of his discarded personality traits. It's hard to describe him as soft now, but Darby can still see the tendrils of it when he squints. "Spent a lot of time here."

Jack's gaze flits to Darby's face. "Does everyone get a tour?"

"Nah," Darby says, and grins. "Just the lucky ones."

Jack goes to the apron and raps his knuckles on the ring surface beneath the ropes. He seems unsure, so Darby makes the decision for him. "Going up?"

That seems to be all Jack needs. He hops up and ducks between the ropes. Then he bounces a bit near the center, knees snapping. Darby follows him in. He's not dressed for this, with his sweatshirt and jeans, but neither is Jack, and besides, Darby doesn't want to actually fight the man. It's just intoxicating to be here with him, in this place. With no one else.

"You invited me?" Jack says, and it's not a question. Maybe he's catching on, if the way he's taken his hands out of his pockets and flexed his fingers is any indication.

"Well, don't read too much into it," Darby replies. "I invited Sammy, too."

Jack's eyebrows arch. "Really?"

"No. Fuck that guy."

Jack laughs: loud and bright, and oh, man, it's been awhile since Darby heard that. There's something about the way Jack laughs, too, that warms him from the inside out. And Darby lunges at him, tries to catch him off-guard in the tail end of it. Misses, but not by much, and Jack has to skip off to the side to avoid it.

"Kind of an asshole, you know?" Jack says. "You haven't talked to me in months, and then, what... you throw an invitation in here?" Jack drops, leg outstretched, and almost knocks Darby over when he swings it across the ring surface. "How badly did you want me to show up?"

"More than Trent," Darby replies. He grabs for Jack's arms, gets one for a few seconds before Jack wriggles free. "More than Ricky, for sure."

"Too easy," Jack says. "Try something harder. More than Sting?"

He ends up going down again, gets his legs around Darby's calf and topples him. At least Darby was sort of expecting that move; he hits the mat with both palms and flips, taking Jack over with him as he falls. Ends up on top of the man, knees on either side of Jack's legs.

"That's not a fair comparison," Darby replies, and fuck, he's breathing fast. His heart's stuck up in his throat, all swollen and clingy.

"Why not?" Jack asks, before aiming for Darby's shoulder with his elbow. If he'd hit, that might have really hurt, but Darby grabs his wrist, slams it down onto the ring. Gets his other hand, too, for good measure, and it probably sinks in slower than it should that he's got Jack's wrists pinned, hunched on all fours over the guy.

Jack's staring up at him, too, with those wide fucking eyes that gleam impossibly bright.

"Different categories," Darby murmurs, and their faces are close enough that he can feel the heat of Jack's hitched breaths.

"What does that mean?" Jack whispers. He isn't trying to get out of the hold any longer, but Darby can feel his muscles trembling all the same.

Darby leans closer, gets his mouth so it skims across Jack's jaw when he replies, very low, "I don't wanna kiss Sting."

Jack sort of groans. Sort of, because it's strained and not unhappy, and he shifts his arms just enough to slide their palms together, tangling their fingers. His eyes are so fucking dark and so fucking big, and he smells like a tang of aftershave, and all Darby wants is to lick his way into Jack's mouth, which he's nearly close enough to do, and Jack's got his lips parted, leaning up to meet him, and—

"Oh, goodness!" Shayna, from the entry. Darby scurries off of Jack's form as she's got her hands on the door. "I didn't know you were in here! I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Then she directs her index finger towards him, all business. "Ten minutes, Darby, and you bring him inside for a proper introduction."

Darby's never had a hard-on shrivel that fast before. He grimaces into his hand as Shayna struggles the door closed again, and Jack, the absolute shit, pushes up on his elbows. He's laughing.

"That felt like getting caught by your mom," he says, with the widest, most obnoxious smile.

"That was worse than getting caught by my mom," Darby moans. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Jack gets up onto his feet, and then holds his hand out to help Darby up. "You lack follow-through on the planning."

"Shut up," Darby grumbles, but he does accept the hand.

Jack pulls him up, and, without warning, keeps tugging, hauls Darby forward further. Gets their mouths mashed together with his fingers wrapped around Darby's, and he tastes like Red Bull. Darby does lick into the corner of his lips just to get a stronger burst of it. Fuck, he really loves the way Jack kisses his mouth apart, demands more just to pull away again.

"Come on," Jack murmurs, close enough that Darby gets the bristles of his beard dragging across his chin. "You have to go introduce me. Better make it good. What're you gonna go with?"

"An asshole," Darby laughs, and only half means it.

[ladytauria]

JAYCEST UNTITLED 👀👀👀👀

i started writing this one after talking to @this-was-a-terrible-idea <3 who also sent me a perfect prompt for it xD

fem!jason is stuck in canon!universe and spends like,,, a week with jason before she's like: is anyone going to fix this? no? okay

and by fix this she means fuck him <3 to teach him about self-care, obviously

i've shared some snippets of this before--it used to have a title but then certain plans changed and i've decided to keep that title in my back pocket

past snippets: the very beginning | random snippet 1 | random snippet 2

have a longer version of that first snippet!

“You know, I’m pretty sure I told you to rest,” Jacie says as she clambers out of the window. One day she’ll figure out how Richelle manages to look graceful doing it, because she sure as hell doesn’t. Jason spares her only a brief glance before he takes another drag from his cigarette. “I didn’t ask you to mother me,” he growls. He’s leaning against the railing of the fire escape, dressed in a sweatshirt that’s seen better days and sweatpants tucked into his Docs. Jay rolls her eyes. “Stop needing mothering, then,” she says, matching his rough drawl. She plucks the cigarette from between his fingers and raises it to her own lips, ignoring the way he splutters. Her male counterpart reminds her of Fitz, her pit bull rescue. Sweetest little lamb now, but when she first brought him home? All snarls, biting the hand that fed him before it could hit him first. Jason is the same way. Loud and brash, bristling at any perceived insult. His uniform design only makes the image stronger; a face mask like a muzzle over his mouth, the red lenses of his domino glinting in the dark like some feral creature’s eyes… It’s an angry kind of pain that makes her fingers itch with the desire to stroke his hair the way she’d stroked Fitz’s fur, and tell him everything would be alright. She’s here now. She’ll keep him safe. …fuck. She really is mothering him, isn’t she? Jay takes a drag off of her bummed cigarette, feeling the smoke fill her lungs before she exhales, letting the cloud join Gotham’s ever-present smog. “I don’t need mothering,” Jason grumbles, crossing his arms. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t. Jay’s been in his shoes before. She remembers what it was like, to be a revenant instead of a person. Fitz had been what changed that; the reason she started to carve herself a new life, one slow step at a time. Now she has a dog, and a window garden, and an almost-girlfriend. A place to come back to, when the violence was done. Jason doesn’t have that. He hasn’t found his reason yet. According to Constantine and his counterpart in her universe, it’ll be at least another two weeks before they have a workable way to send her home. Until then, Jason and she have to stay close. Constantine fixed it so that they would work as each other’s ‘anchor,’ keeping them—and their dimensions—stabilized. For now. That means she has plenty of time to, perhaps, nudge him in the right direction. She takes a second drag off of the cigarette, and then offers it back to him. He’s still scowling at her when he plucks it from her fingers, raising it to his mouth to take a drag of his own.

there was a line that got caught about how jay was positive that the two constantines were fucking & i still stand by that

also fun facts: fitz is named after fitzwilliam darcy bc i love the name darcy but also i thought jacie might want a slightly subtler reference... and then i was like: a pit bull mix named fitz? adorable

so. xD here we are

[ wip ask game ]

[samwpmarleau]

fic: angel in blue jeans

whumptober day 11: convenience store masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Skye does a double-take when the man in the white-striped leather jacket stalks through the doors, she’s only marginally ashamed to say. She doesn’t get a lot of lookers that come in at three a.m., though his truly impressive RBF makes the odds of a sparkly personality unlikely.

She notices him when he walks in.

She notices everyone, if for no other reason than because she works graveyard and there aren’t a whole lot of people who come into the 7-11 at this time of night anyway. It’s an easy way to entertain herself. Greet whatever zombie-eyed soul who walks in and decide why they’re there, what might have happened.

Maybe nothing special — they’re a nurse finishing up a sixteen-hour shift, or a fellow graveyarder on their lunch break. Maybe something happy — an elderly man buying a card for a new birth, or a teenager buying NyQuil for no other reason than because it’s their eighteenth birthday. Maybe something sad — a woman in an oversized sweatshirt and tear-stained cheeks buying a bottle of wine, or a father buying ear infection medication for his wailing son.

Whatever the cause or the person, Skye catalogues it all. She doesn’t usually have regulars, so getting invested in people’s made-up lives is often the only way she can actually be perky enough to not get fired.

The man in the white-striped leather jacket comes in on a particularly dead night, which all by itself makes her excited to see him. There’s only so many times you can watch a Seinfeld rerun with closed captions that are three seconds behind. She does a double-take when he stalks through the doors, she’s only marginally ashamed to say; she doesn’t get a lot of lookers that come in at three a.m.

But he is, all scuffed-up Vans and mustache he actually pulls off, though his truly impressive RBF makes the odds of a sparkly personality unlikely. Oh, well. She can work with that. Hollywood wouldn’t be half as successful as it is without handsome, broody biker-types.

No, not a biker, she amends as she spies the ride in the parking lot: A Charger in mint condition straight out of Fast and the Furious. Not exactly the normal caliber of cars that frequent this place. Vanity purchase or inheritance? she wonders. Possibly both. Possibly neither, depending on the name on the pink slip.

But she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. She is not in the mood to be held at gunpoint today.

She watches him head down the first aid aisle for some bandages, then down to the cards-and-toys aisle, where after some deliberation he selects a teddy bear, then to the refrigerators where he grabs a Red Bull. Could be any number of reasons for those items, she muses. A new father? College student who uses a stuffed animal as a sounding board instead of a rubber duck? An average joe trying to win back an ex?

He doesn’t stay long, nor does he talk much. The stitched-up gash on his face and slight limp explain the bandages, at least.

“Cute bear,” she says as she scans it.

A noncommittal grunt is all she receives in return. Fine. Made-up story it is, then.

“That’ll be $15.21,” she says. “Cash or card?”

“Cash.”

He gives her exact change from a beat-up wallet. She hands him the plastic bag with his items with a, “Have a good night.”

“Thanks, Skye.”

She blinks at him in alarm. “What?”

There is the slightest bit of amusement on his face as he clarifies, “Your name tag.”

Her cheeks go red as she realizes that she is, in fact, wearing a name tag and he wasn’t being creepy. In her defense, if she had a nickel for every creepy man who came in during her shift, she would no longer be working here.

“Oh. Right.”

He leaves with a nod and a slight chuckle that she tries not to be insulted by.

She forgets about him. Mostly. Days pass with no indication of seeing him again — not that she particularly expected to — and she studiously continues inventing stories for each customer. She prevents two poorly-thought-out shopliftings and allows a third, pretending she doesn’t see the too-thin woman pocketing a couple cans of Chef Boyardee. The store can handle a few bucks’ worth of shrinkage.

What she doesn’t forget is coming out of the break room at six a.m. ready to go home, only to slip on someone’s spilled slushie — cherry, for maximum staining — and fall like a damn villain in an Acme cartoon. She has enough wherewithal to not crack her skull open, but it means she cracks her wrist instead, and she cries out in pain.

“Sorry,” says some teenager who doesn’t really look all that sorry holding a half-empty slushie cup.

“Watch what you’re doing,” she snaps. She’s not on the clock, she doesn’t have to be nice. The kid turns around and leaves without so much as an offer to clean up the mess.

Miriam, her sixty-seven-year-old Comptonite coworker whom Skye’s seen first-hand point a pistol right back at an armed would-be robber with an expression of such I-will-shoot-you energy that he scampered right out the door, reaches down to help her up.

“You all right, honey?” Miriam asks.

“Apart from the broken wrist? Yeah, I’m super.”

“Need me to take you to the hospital? I’ve been here longer than Dave’s been alive, if he gives me guff, I’ll tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

Skye laughs. She has no doubt Miriam would do just that, and that their boss would capitulate. “I’ll be all right. I broke my wrist, not my legs.”

“All right. Let me know how you’re doing once they get you squared away.”

“Will do.” Blandly, she jokes, “Cleanup on Aisle 5.”

“Oh, get outta here,” Miriam laughs.

It figures that she’d hit traffic when she really, really does not want it. A fifteen-minute drive turns into thirty, and by the time she pulls into the lot outside the hospital, she’s not only in throbbing pain but a terrible mood. Doing her best to remember it’s not the receptionist’s fault, she approaches the desk and reports, “Pretty sure my wrist is broken.”

The woman peers over her desk to see what Skye’s talking about. “Any bleeding or other injuries? Concussion?”

“Not that I know of.”

“In that case, you’ll have to take a seat in the waiting room. We just had a bus crash come through that takes precedence.”

Skye takes a deep breath. “Got an ETA on that?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Awesome. Can I at least get some ibuprofen or something?”

“Sorry, sweets. I can’t dispense any medication.” She hands Skye a clipboard with a check-in questionnaire. “Fill this out and bring it back up here once you’re done, please. What’s your name?”

“Skye. No last name. My parents were hippies.”

It’s not true (or, she imagines it’s not), but it’s the easiest way to avoid questions. The receptionist clearly remains confused, but either she’s not paid enough to probe further or she’s seen enough “no last name”s in this part of town to assume something shady happened and doesn’t want to get involved.

Skye takes the clipboard and sits in the only seat available, between an old man with a hacking cough and a pair of twenty-somethings death-glaring each other, one with a developing black eye, the other with a split eyebrow. She tries to make herself as small as possible, undecided as to whether it’d be better to contract whatever illness the old man has or piss off a pugilist.

She waits, and waits, and waits some more.

And some more.

“I’m sure it’ll be soon” is the answer she receives when she gets up to check for an update with the receptionist.

It’s been an hour! she wants to yell. But making a scene likely would only worsen things, and she knows the receptionist can’t do anything.

She heads off to the vending machines instead in search of a muffin or breakfast sandwich or something. She hasn’t eaten anything since her break at four.

As she’s deciding between chips or a granola bar (neither muffin nor breakfast sandwich in sight), she hears shoes squeak to a stop a few feet away. She glances up and freezes. She wonders at first if she’s hallucinating; maybe she actually had hit her head. Because it’s Jacket-and-Charger Guy, from weeks ago. He looks almost sallow in the awful hospital lights, but it’s definitely the same guy.

“Skye,” he says, as surprised as she is.

“Uh, hi … you.”

“Robbie.” His eyes run from her head to her toes, which normally she’d take issue with, except he’s got a frown the whole time and, well, she is in a hospital. “What happened?”

She also becomes abruptly aware that she must look awful. Hoodie splattered with Red Dye #6, hair haphazardly tied into a ponytail, makeup at the end of its staying power. She holds up her wrist. “Fell. You?”

At his lengthy pause, she almost tells him he doesn’t have to answer, except he’d asked her first, so it’s only fair. “My little brother’s here. We got into a car accident a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks ago and he’s still here? That doesn’t sound good.

“That’s unfortunate,” she says. Then, it clicks — “That’s who the bear was for?”

“Yeah. I knew he’d think it was lame and that it’d cheer him up.”

“Glad I could help. Took a lot of effort to ring all that up and make an idiot out of myself.”

“I wouldn’t say idiot.”

She intends to dispute that — thinking he was someone to call the cops on because she forgot she was wearing a name tag? Yeah, that qualifies. She doesn’t get the chance to, however, as over the PA system, she hears the receptionist call out, “Is there a Skye here? We’re ready for you.”

Reeling a little, she says, “That’s my cue. Took them long enough.”

“Hey, wait,” says Robbie before she can turn around. “I know this is a weird place to ask, but … could I take you out for coffee sometime?”

Of all the things she might’ve guessed he’d say, that was not among them. “Could you — what? You don’t even know me.”

“Well, that’s what the coffee would be for. Running into you here is a pretty crazy coincidence.”

“And you think that’s some sort of sign?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“No, just … another chance.”

She can’t say he’s wrong about meeting him again being an odd coincidence. God knows she’s done more for less, and it would mean she could get a real story out of him rather than making up one.

The receptionist calls her name again, adding that she’ll lose her spot if she doesn’t respond. Robbie’s provided a nice enough distraction, but her arm still does hurt like hell. “Coffee, then,” she agrees quickly. From her purse she pulls out a pen and scribbles her number on his palm. “Call me. Or text, whatever.”

Robbie smiles. “Will do.”

As promised, several hours later when Skye finally gets back home, arm in a cast and a week’s worth of Vicodin for the pain, she pulls out her cell to text Miriam.

“Wrist broken but ok,” she types. She bites her lip in consideration, then adds, “And I sorta got a date out of it.”

Miriam’s text gets straight to the point: “Tell me everything.”

[motorsportbarbie13]

Forbidden - Part 3

In which you finally get what you've been begging for.

Warnings: smut. a lot of smut. nearly 4k words of smut. Minors DNI PLEEEEASE. swearing. unprotected sexy time (wrap it up loves). oral (fem receiving). p in v sex. did i mention smut?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader Words: 3.8k

Part 1 Part 2 Master List

BELGIUM

“Get in here.” Max growls, yanking you into his drivers room before anyone has a chance to do a double take and realize who you are. The moment the door snicks closed, he shoves you against it, pinning you there with his hips. He doesn’t give you a moment to even take a breath before his lips are on yours, tongue slipping into your mouth in a searing kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

He’s been doing that a lot lately, making you breathless from the heat of his touch. Ever since that night in Austria, every spare moment the two of you get is spent hidden away making out like a couple of teenagers. You haven’t had this much fun in years. 

“Ow, Max.” You whine against his lips when his fingertips dig what you’re sure will be bruises in the morning into the flesh at your hips. Nipping at his bottom lip, you try to warn him away from marking you like that. You can’t imagine what your brother would do if he happened to see finger shaped bruises anywhere on you, especially if they were from Max. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, dropping his head to the crook of your neck where he licks at the heated skin there. “I’ve been forced to watch you galavant around the paddock all fucking day with Kika and Alex in that fucking dress and haven’t been able to do a damn thing about it.”

Your hands wind up his body before locking together behind his neck, pulling him even closer to you. “Oh, so you like the new dress?” 

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t worn the daisy yellow gingham dress with him in mind because you totally had. You had picked it up in London earlier in the week while on a shopping trip with a few of the girls and had known instantly that it would torture Max. It was dangerously short with a ruffled hem and a bow that sat right in the valley of your chest, calling attention to the tanned skin there. You had certainly gotten more than a few lingering looks from several of the drivers and engineers that morning but the person you had been trying to tease had fallen straight into the trap. 

“I don’t know if I should tell you to change into sweatpants and a giant sweatshirt or kiss you in front of everyone just to get them all to quit looking at you.” He grumbles as you shiver from the scratch of his scruff brushing against your neck. 

You roll your eyes, knowing he wouldn’t do either. The two of you had come to an agreement somewhere between Austria and Hungary that whatever was happening between here was something that should be kept secret. Not because either of you were ashamed of the other. It was quite the opposite. If Max had his way, he would have you draped in Red Bull navy and red all weekend but there was a little issue you both had to contend with: Charles. 

You knew your brother was becoming suspicious, which worried you. Every time you slipped out of the garage during race weekends, or would go hours without returning his calls or texts while you were in Monaco during the week, he pestered you for an explanation. Most of the time you thought quick enough, using work as an excuse but you knew that wasn’t going to last forever. You knew that eventually, if this thing turned into something…more, that you’d have to spill the beans, which would probably result in World War Three between him and Max. But for now? Now you were just enjoying the thrill of sneaking around with Max Verstappen. 

You two still hadn’t slept together, much to your chagrin. You understood why Max had put the breaks on that aspect of your relationship but you were growing needier by the day. Most of the time you were both on the same page, wanting to make sure that this thing between you was real. In between the make out sessions that you were able to steal away for, you had movie marathons and hours long talks covering just about everything and anything the pair of you could think of. He insisted that he wasn’t with you for a quick fuck and you believed him but a girl had needs and it was getting frustrating. 

“What do I have to do to convince you to fuck me on that massage table right now?” You whisper in his ear as his tongue laps against your collar bone, a shimmer of excitement shooting down your spine at your boldness. Your drag your hands through his hair, tugging at the blond locks hard enough that his mouth is forced away from you, icy blue eyes hitting you with a stare so intense your knees nearly buckle. 

Max shakes his head, a chuckle starting deep in his chest. With him at a bit of a distance now, you finally are able to get a good look at him for the first time since he pulled you into the room like a rag doll. Qualifying was starting in less than 30 minutes so he’s already in his fireproofs, the tight white fabric clinging almost obscenely to his muscled chest. His racing suit is peeled down to his hips, the sleeves of the navy blue suit dangling down close to his feet. You’d never seen him look hotter. 

“If you think I’m going to fuck you for the first time in this tiny room where you can’t be as loud as you want when I make you come, you are insane, schatje.” 

If there was one thing you were discovering about Max, it was that he had the dirtiest mouth on him and that mouth had ruined several pairs of your skimpiest panties already, and you had barely gotten past second base with him. 

You don’t get a chance to respond though, your retort interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. 

“Max! Horner wants to see you before quali, he’s kind of on the war path.” GP calls from the other side and you’ve never been more thankful that Max’s race engineer is polite enough not to enter a room without knocking. 

Max rests his forehead against yours, frustrated at the interruption. “Be there in 5.” He groans, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Wait here for ten minutes, then you should be good to leave. Turn left out the door and you can sneak out the back.” 

You nod, suddenly not really liking the whole clandestine sneaking around you two have been doing. Sure it was fun but a little part of you wanted to be able to go out into the paddock with him. “Good luck then. But not enough luck to out qualify Charlie.” You say with a wink, pushing aside the annoyance of what you had to hide for now. You didn’t want to think too deep into things, the vulnerability that would be required for going public with Max not something you were sure you could handle. 

With one last kiss on the forehead, Max shuffles around you, tossing a wink at you over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a sharp click. 

************************************************

“I nearly ended up in the god damned wall three times this afternoon, you had me so distracted.” Max murmurs later that night. 

It had taken some maneuvering getting away from Charlie and Carlos that evening with the way they kept insisting that you needed to stay for just one more drink or one more story. It was almost like they suspected that you wanted to be somewhere else instead of out at dinner with them. Which was absolutely true but they couldn’t know that. Finally, you had to fake a migraine to get out of the fifth round of drinks so you were able to escape back to your hotel room. But you hadn’t gone back to your hotel room, of course. You had come straight to Max’s. 

“Maybe I should stay away from you on race weekends then.” You say cheekily, earning a sharp smack on your ass from Max as he hauls you towards his bed. 

“Absolutely not, schatje.” Max’s gaze goes feral at the suggestion. “You have no idea what you do to me. I’d be worse off if you were gone.” 

And it was the truth, which scared the shit out of Max. He was desperately trying to figure out what was going on between the two of you, trying to figure out how keep his feelings for you reigned in while simultaneously needing to spend every spare moment he has with you. He’s never been one for romantic attachments, much preferring one night stands or time alone. But that was before you came waltzing back into his life. He was just trying to figure out how to tell you he was falling head over heels for you without scaring you off or causing your brother to go into a murderous rage. 

He was still working on both. 

You preen under his affection as he tugs you towards the bed. You feel that need deep in your belly once again, hoping that tonight will finally be the night Max doesn’t slam on the breaks mid-makeout session. The sight of him climbing out of his car after putting it on pole was undoubtedly one of the sexiest things you’d ever seen. You feared what your body would do if he won tomorrow. 

“Why Max Verstappen, it sounds like you have a crush on me.” Your voice is low and raspy, embarrassingly needy. 

Max grabs you around the waist, pulling you down on top of him causing you to squeal in delight. “I have much more than a crush on you.” His confession has you grinning down at him like a fool. 

With one swift movement, you find yourself underneath Max, his strong arms pinning you down into the mattress. The heat the floods your belly travels down to that spot between your legs, making you squeeze them together. The look Max gives you says that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He rocks his hips into yours, seeking the friction that he’s been craving since earlier in the day when you had the quick make out session in his drivers room. 

“Kiss me, Maxie.” You beg. The neediness in your voice sends a jolt of electricity shooting down Max’s spine, landing straight in his already hard cock. There was no way he was going to be able to stop himself tonight. Not after all the teasing you two had been doing for the past however many weeks. 

Max obliges, dipping his head so that his lips capture yours in a heated kiss. He’s been dying for this moment all fucking day. A thrill of pride floods his system when you moan into his mouth, tongue slipping past his teeth to lick up against his. “Fuck.” He groans. “I need this dress off of you right now.” He orders, sitting up so you can follow suit. 

Without a second thought, you practically rip the dress off your body, tossing it across the room while Max lifts his team polo up over his head. You’ve seen Max without a shirt before but every time feels like the first time. You can’t help but admire the lean muscle that hides under his clothing, thrilled that you’re the one that gets to touch him so intimately. 

You’re left squirming below him now, left only in bits of white lace and satin. If Max had less self control, he would have plunged into you right then and there. But he was a patient man and knew that he wanted to make you come before he got anywhere near you with his dick. 

“Lay back.” He orders, an air of authority causing you to listen obediently. “I want to taste you.” 

You practically groan at the thought of his tongue in between your legs but you don’t have to wait long before that thought becomes reality. With your head resting against one of the fluffiest pillows you’ve ever felt, you watch Max shimmy down your body with heavy lidded eyes. His long fingers slip beneath the waistband of the white lacy panties you picked up on the same shopping trip as the dress, pulling them down achingly slow. “Max.” You breathe, squirming under his touch. 

Before you know it, you’re completely bare underneath him, save for the white bits of lace covering your chest and Max is nestled between your legs, staring up at you like you’re something to be devoured and savored at the same time. One finger dips into your center, an obscene sound causing you to gasp against his touch. “Look at you.” He murmurs, voice full of awe. “You’re so wet, pretty girl.”

You nearly come from Max calling you ‘pretty girl’, Lord help you when he actually fucks you.

“Have you been like this all day? Poor thing, all soaking wet and needy for me. Can I help you take care of it?” His voice drops an octave, a deep raspy baritone that sets your skin aflame. 

All you can do is whimper in response, nodding your head vigorously. 

Max lowers his lips to your skin then, nipping at the delicate skin at your thighs. Your hips lift on their own accord, a faint buzzing in your head taking over all coherent thought. Your entire existence stutters down to the sensation of Max’s scruffy face between your legs. When he finally brings his mouth up to taste that slick wetness that’s been begging for his attention all fucking day, you bow up off the bed, desperate with the need to have something, anything touch you there. 

“Max.” You gasp, hands fisting the creamy white sheets beneath you. Never in your life has anyone made you feel the way he does right now. “Oh my God, Max.” One hand finds it’s way to his head, tugging on his hair so hard Max can’t help the moan that escapes his lips. 

You know you sound so pathetically needy, whining and whimpering as Max licks and sucks and eats at your soaking wet pussy, obscene sounds filling the quiet hotel room. 

“Do you like that, schatje?” He asks, voice muffled a bit because he refuses to move away from where it’s buried between your legs. “Do you like my tongue between your legs? What if I added a finger or two? Do you think you’d like that, sweet girl?” 

It’s all you can do to simply nod, your voice suddenly non-existent. Max is true to his word and as soon as you’re done nodding, he slips not one but two fingers inside you. Your hips snap up off the bed once again at the sudden intrusion, overstimulation now threatening to make you collapse. Legs trembling, you squirm under his touch. 

“That’s it. Look at you, taking my fingers so well. I can’t imagine how well you’re going to take my cock. Such a good girl.” 

The words are just too much but when Max latches his mouth onto your clit finally, you hurtle over the cliff that he’s been pushing you towards for weeks now. Your orgasm is swift and hard, your body going stiff for a split second before you languidly melt into the mattress, riding out the waves of pleasure as Max continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, coaxing more pleasure out of your body than you thought was even possible. 

“Jesus fuck, Max.” You sigh, looking down at a very smug Max who is still settled between your legs. You’re practically boneless, limp against the soft duvet beneath you. 

Max scrambles up your body, lips swollen and glistening with your slick arousal. He kisses you hard, the taste of you on his lips so utterly intoxicating you don’t know what to do. Without thinking, you reach behind your back, unhooking your bra so you can get more of your skin in contact with his. Max groans appreciatively seeing you completely bare underneath him. He palms one perfect breast while lowering his lips to the other, sucking the already hard nipple into his mouth. The hum of pleasure vibrates against your skin, sending waves of pleasure skittering down your spine. Max rocks his nearly painful erection into your center, the friction from the thick material of his joggers rubbing against your sensitive skin so deliciously you nearly come a second time. 

“Max.” You pant, fingers sifting through his thick hair. “Max, please fuck me.” 

Max smiles up at you, your second nipple now caught between his lips. “Someone is needy tonight.” 

“Always needy for you.” You whimper. 

Max’s sweats are off his body so quick you barely register what’s happening but the next thing you know, the head of his hard cock is sliding in and out of the mess between your legs. He pumps himself a few times with his strong hand, looking down at you with the most tender look on his face. “You sure? There’s no going back after this. You’re mine after tonight if we do this.” His tone is serious, like what’s been building between the pair of you is coming down to this very moment. 

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my entire life.” You tell him, hand coming up to frame his strong jaw. 

When Max sinks into you the first time, the sting of his size has you digging little half moons into his back with your long, Ferrari red nails. The moan that comes from the back of your throat is downright pornographic but Max has never heard anything better. He gives you a moment to adjust to the fullness of him, wanting to make sure you’re okay. You are so achingly full with him, it’s almost too much. He’s everywhere all at once, covering your body with his lean frame, filling all of your senses with nothing but his scent, his body, his touch. 

Max eases into you slowly, inch by aching inch. It’s just as much for his benefit as it’s for yours. If he goes to quickly, he knows he’s going to embarrass himself. He wants this, needs this to last as long as humanly possible. His eyes flutter shut at your blinding tightness, breath stuttering out of him in quick bursts. “Christ, schatje. How are you so fucking tight?” He murmurs in your ear, bracing his arms on either side of your body. 

You’re completely speechless underneath Max, the sensation of being stuffed so full of him tearing any ability to speak away from you the second he’s inside you. 

Max struggles to control himself for a few moments before he slowly begins to move inside you. The strokes start out slow, so achingly slow that you can’t help but whine underneath him. “Faster.” You pant, despite your desire for this to last for the rest of your life. “Faster, Max.” You beg. 

 The pair of you find a rhythm so easily it’s nearly scary. It’s almost like your bodies were molded at the same time with each other in mind, that’s how easily you come together. Max rocks in and out of you, significant length hitting that spot deep inside you every time he pushes deeper inside you. You lock your legs around his back, bringing him even closer to you. All the while, Max’s gaze never leaves yours and you sink so deeply into their depths you momentarily think you might be completely lost to him. You’ll realize hours later, as you fall into a gentle slumber against his naked body, that you are completely lost to him. They say sex complicates things. But with you and Max? With you and Max, sex only makes things clearer. 

The hotel room is quiet save for the moans coming from the both of you. Slick skin slapping against heated flesh is so erotic, you can’t get any words out you’re so distracted by the sound. Max pumps in and out of you, setting a blistering pace that has the both of you hurtling towards release. 

“So. Fucking. Close.” He grits out, lips attaching to your collar bone in desperate need to get closer to you. “Are you going to come again, baby? Going to come on my cock? I love how messy you are beneath me.” Max continues the string of obscene chatter in your ear, allowing you to hurtle towards your own release with him. 

“Oh my God, Max. Don’t stop. Please never stop.” You beg, nails leaving deep scratches in his back. That was going to be hard to explain to his physio tomorrow. 

Max grunts once, twice, three times before he flings himself over that cliff but not before he grabs your hand and yanks you over with him. His release is sudden and strong, painting your insides with his hot pleasure. He groans in your ear, that sound being the last thing you hear before you’re spasming around his cock, velvet walls gripping him so hard he can’t move for a few moments. 

Max melts into you once he starts to come down from the high you brought him, dick remaining inside of you as long as he can manage. His breath is labored, filling his lungs in quick spurts. He can’t remember the last time he had orgasmed that hard, if ever. 

Your legs are still locked around him but eventually, after what feels like hours, Max gently pulls out, his cum mixing with your own slick mess. The evidence of what the pair of you had just done leaks down your legs in one of the most erotic images you’ve ever seen. Rolling onto his side, Max pulls you along with him so your back is flush against his chest, sweaty skin sticking to yours. 

You’re quiet for a while, brain too foggy with pleasure to say much of anything beyond a murmur of satisfaction here and there. Exhaustion plays at the edges of your mind, desperately wanting to slip into that tranquil state now that you are fully satisfied. “Max.” You breath, enjoying the way his arms curl around your body. “That was…” you sigh, struggling to find the words. 

“Did I fuck you speechless, pretty girl?” 

“I think so.” You murmur, snuggling even deeper into his arms. “I think so.” 

“Good.” Is all he says before pulling you impossibly closer. “Now sleep, we’ll clean up in a little bit, okay?” 

Not having the energy to argue or do much of anything other than nod, you simply agree before closing your eyes, basking in that post-orgasm bliss that had settled over both you and Max. 

Tag List (send me a message if you want to be included!!) @shelbyteller

[deada55]

(WIP) To Absent Friends

for kloktober day 30 and 31: HALLOWEEN!!! and creator's choice.

synopsis: Ten-year-old William Murderface goes out with Stella for Halloween (Incomplete work.)

tw/cws: none yet

The sun went down orange past the trees of the trailer park behind the misty gusts of wind. The leaves, too wet to flutter, piled up around puddles and slicked up the sparse gravel and gray, sandy dirt that wound through the lots. Groups of parents and little kids sojourned through the misery with as much jubilance as possible. Little princesses holding their dresses up like Cinderella and little superheroes and animals splashed in the shallower puddles.

“William, quit moping! I’m taking you trick-or-treating in just a minute, dammit!”

“Aw, Grandma! I wasn’t!” The knot in his stomach tightened as he pulled his red sweatshirt down and his red sweatpants up over and over, alternating between the two. Neither of them fit right, but they were the only red things he had that made sense to wear with the plastic devil horns Stella had picked up from the grocery store. His fork was a barbeque fork spray-painted red… that was his favorite part, because he was allowed to do it himself, but the paint was already chipping off the thin sides.

He faced the window at an angle, away from the decorative mirror in the corner to his right. His shirt kept riding up, but this time he let his lower be cold. To his left, Stella turned Thunderbolt on his side and brushed the sores on his shoulderblades with iodine with a spare oral sponge.

“Pull your damn shirt down. Don’t leave your fat meat out like that, it’s not polite.”

William reached behind himself and shoved it down.

“Don’t get an attitude with me or I won’t take you nowhere!”

When some kids he recognized from school appeared walking up the road towards his trailer, he ducked away from the window and started towards the bathroom.

“William, wait. Dump the urinal while you’re at it.”

“Jesus Christ…”

He bent down to get the full urinal from under the bed and Stella smacked him on the back of the neck. “Don’t be nasty like that when I ask you to do something! When I ask you to help out, you do it. Don’t run your mouth, you hear me?!”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You need to go back to speech class… Remind me to talk to your principal about that. Go dump that out and do whatever you gotta do.”

He came back with a rinsed urinal and set it back under the bed. Thankfully, his classmates had gone by, and the only people he could see through the window was a girl, her father, and their pit bull with grease paint on his face and body to make him look like a skeleton… at least his front half.

When it was time to leave, Stella slung her heavy, rattling purse over her shoulder and grabbed her cane. Without a word, William unlocked the door and made his way out, holding the outer door so Stella could back down the rickety aluminum stairs without scratching herself on its the sharp corners of the door’s trim. When she was out, she handed him her keys and he ran back up to lock it, and then they went to the car.

Her car was an old Oldsmobile that bled coolant when it was parked downhill. Stella lit a cigarette as they went down the road and the smell slowly steeped into the air in the crumbling, beige cab until it was hot and smoky, not only musty with dry rot. He laid his head against the window though the vibrations made him carsick. His Halloween pillowcase was empty and smooth in his lap napkin at a church banquet. The rusty trailer park became dusty town, the dusty town became the moldy suburb, and the moldy suburb became grassy fields and tracks of land where loggers had cleared the forest naked. The hills faded into black dunes between piney graveyards, full of stumps in place of headstones. Stars poked through the sky. Back at the park, little kids were probably no longer traipsing through the neighborhoods. It was the time for the kids in scary costumes to run amok. Going with Grandma was better than getting a bucket of creek water poured over him, and better than sitting at home. At least Grandma’s friends had candy.

When they got to Denise’s stuffy pink cottage, Stella made him ring her sun-faded doorbell. A little dog barked and howled at the other side of the door. Stella moved off the front step with William and back at the sidewalk so she could lean more comfortably on her cane without teetering backwards. The dog carried on and on.

Denise wore a nursing jacket and an embroidered floral sweatshirt on top of some purple sweatpants and cotton slippers. A spot of canned chili stained her knee.

“Say it,” Stella prodded his heel with the shoe of her cane.

“Trick or Treat?”

“I think you’re too old for that.”

“Denise-“

“Oh, Stella! Hi! I knew you were coming by, but I didn’t remember when.”

“This is my grandson, William.”

“Okay,” Denise glanced at him then held the door open for Stella. William stepped aside and followed her in through the house. Nothing was particularly clean. Dusty candles and overflowing ashtrays lined her hall table, coffee table, dining table, corner tables… The pictures and paintings on the cream wallpaper were bordered by an orange, fumey stain.  The dog’s puppy pads were tucked behind or under almost every piece of furniture and well-decorated with waste. The scratched pink-and-green camelback sofas were reasonably clean, and Denise sat in an impression surrounded by tissues, catalogs, toffee wrappers, generic pill bottles, and Chapstick, with Stella catty-corner on the other sofa, and William on Stella’s other side, by a stack of dingy newspapers.

They talked for a long time. The wedding clock on top of her TV cabinet was stuck somewhere around 3:00 from what William could see. He sat there with his hands on his pillowcase and his pillowcase in his lap, shirt riding up and pants inching down. The longer he looked at the carpet, the hairier it got. Shed fur built around the legs of the sofa like spiderwebs.

His grandmother and Denise began the talking waltz of trying to leave, but Denise was clearly cutting it shorter than usual by the suddenness Stella was compelled to stand. Her knees popped loud enough for William to hear as she picked up her fallen cane and handed it to her… and Denise was already opening her front door! Of course, the plastic outer door wasn’t open yet, so all the wind could do was shake it against its frame.

When they got back into the car, Stella grumbled to herself, burped, and looked into her rearview mirror at William while she shifted out of park.

“That was nice, wasn’t it? What candy did she give you?”

“Nothin’.”

She stopped the car right there and sat quiet. Then, she dug a hand into her purse and pulled out a couple strawberry jelly-filled hard candies.

“Here, sweetheart.”

[seitmai]

I have so many thoughts (once again)...

You drove Bradley's Bronco back to his house, dragged yourself back inside, and climbed back in bed. You cried so hard when you watched him carry his duffle bag into the airport, you had painful hiccups for twenty minutes afterwards. Now you were emotionally drained and on the cusp of a headache, and this was only the first day.

Coming back to the empty house is the worst 🥲

You were tempted to call Natasha, but if you couldn't even make it a handful of hours without Bradley, you didn't think she would be able to help you.

Call Nat! She wouldn't mind and she probably knows that she (and Bradley) will struggle

"Thank you, Sir," he replied, even though he was far less than thrilled to be back in Virginia at all. The prospect of a change of station could not have come at a worse time when he spent the flight from California looking at engagement rings on his phone.

Of course he is looking at engagement rings lol

As Bradley sat down, the older man said, "We never wanted to lose you to the Pacific in the first place, so I'm sure you can understand why you'll be staying on the east coast after your seven weeks on the Gerald R. Ford is complete." His heart sank to his feet, and he felt like he was going to throw up. "Sir?" Bradley asked. "That's it? There's no chance of me returning to North Island?"

No, no, no! 😬

"Admiral Walker," Beau Cyclone greeted, voice as stern as ever. "You never returned my calls, and red eye flights the week of Christmas are not something I find endearing."

👀

Bradley could hear Cyclone's knuckles crack as he watched his eye twitch. He was somehow caught in the middle of this, but it looked like the Top Gun admiral was in no mood to be outmaneuvered and lose a member of his team. Bradley silently goaded him on while he stood there completely still.

Literally Bradley:

The admirals seemed to be in a competition to see whose face could get redder. "Admiral Simpson, I'm sure you'll find my rank alone is reason enough for-" "You do not outrank me," Cyclone interrupted, voice loud but calm. Then he turned toward Bradley with his jaw clenched and said, "Lieutenant Bradshaw. You are dismissed. Please board the USS Gerald R. Ford on time for your deployment."

Are they, gonna kiss? Jk I would like to see this play out with a bucket of popcorn in hand lol

He made it down two hallways before a loud voice echoed off the walls around him. "Lieutenant Bradshaw." When he turned, Admiral Simpson was heading his way, face so red it was almost purple. Bradley's heart sank. "Yes, sir?" The other man pulled his composure together, sighing like an angry bull. "While you will be under the command of Admiral Walker for this deployment, you will fly directly back to San Diego when you return to port in Norfolk. You'll be presented with the paperwork today." Bradley's jaw dropped open. "I'm returning to the Pacific Fleet, Sir?" He got one firm nod in response. "I told you last week that I would do what I could to retain you."

Cyclone heard my threats, I made the past couple chapters 😌 that angry man really put his whole cyclonussy into this 😂 getting a flight around Christmas holidays this short notice? That's some real dedication, goo job 👏🏻 🫡

While you got dressed and ready to go, you couldn't help but put in just the bare minimum amount of effort. What was the point when your boyfriend wasn't even here to give you kisses along your neck and call you Gorgeous? You pouted at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and put the cap on your lip gloss before even using it.

🥺🥺🥺

"You look nice," Nat said as you climbed in the front seat of her car. You turned to look at her with one eyebrow raised. "I'm wearing Bradley's old sweatshirt with a pair of leggings that are starting to get a hole in the crotch." She started cackling as she pulled away from the curb. "Well, you still look nice."

Nat is the best 🥹🫶🏻

"Don't worry about it," she replied smoothly. "You'll be back to work in a few days, but in the meantime, we've got merlot and chardonnay to keep your mind occupied." "Sounds like you're talking about two hot French men," you said with a laugh.

This cracked me up

"When he was twenty-two, he probably weighed a hundred and twenty pounds," she said with a smirk. "He was such a nerd, too. God, it was so bad." You were trying to stifle your laughter as she added, "Once he really started working out and grew the mustache, he thought he was hot shit. He's still a fucking nerd."

But we love the fucking nerd and you do too Nat

"Natasha! We need to come back like four more times," you said as you signed the slip. "I don't see any issue with that," she muttered, leaving cash for a tip. "I think I'll write Bradley an email and thank him for funding girls' day so he can read it when he gets back to Norfolk."

Haha I agree with Nat 😅

"Bradley," you gasped, tears filling your eyes as those familiar butterflies zoomed and swooped around in your belly. You'd been so upset about missing out on his letters, he sent you a whole box of them. There were dozens of envelopes and little treats filling the box nearly to the top, but a neon orange envelope with OPEN ME FIRST written on it caught your eye. You pulled it out of the box and tore into it.

You flopped down onto the couch and kicked your feet in the air. "Bradley!" you shrieked, voice breaking as you started to cry. You hugged the letters to your chest and let the warm feeling of being loved wash over you and fill your heart. He was unbelievable. He was perfect. He was everything you wanted. And somehow you loved him a little more and missed him a little less with this box on the coffee table.

Skicking your fee, shrieking and crying are the approved reactions 🥹🥰

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 20 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley gets the update he's been waiting for. You get something you weren't expecting. Neither of you can tell the other how you're feeling.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, romantic Bradley, 18+

Length: 3700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

You drove Bradley's Bronco back to his house, dragged yourself back inside, and climbed back in bed. You cried so hard when you watched him carry his duffle bag into the airport, you had painful hiccups for twenty minutes afterwards. Now you were emotionally drained and on the cusp of a headache, and this was only the first day.

With your cheek on Bradley's pillow, you pulled the covers over your head and took a few deep breaths. He didn't know much about his deployment, but the communication blackout was designed to keep you from learning anything. If something happened to him, it might be weeks before you heard about it. Your heart ached as you thought about how lonely he was going to feel after he made it a point to tell you how much he loved getting mail from your class last time.

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket, and you scrambled to get it out.

About to take off. I love you, Gorgeous. I'll let you know when I land.

Well, you had about six hours to kill until you would hear from him again, which felt bad enough. Then seven full weeks after that. You typed back to him with fresh tears in your eyes, and then you tried to sleep, but the hiccups came back. When you moved to the couch, it felt too cold. You were tempted to call Natasha, but if you couldn't even make it a handful of hours without Bradley, you didn't think she would be able to help you.

It would start to get better. It would have to. When your winter break ended, you'd be back in your classroom with your students. You could dive into your lesson plans for the new year. You could focus on teaching. You could do this. Because if you found out the hard way that you couldn't, then you had no business being with Bradley.

--------------------------

Bradley was given a tiny room in the barracks on base in Norfolk, and he spent the entire night talking to you on the phone. Literally six hours straight before he passed out, sound asleep, hanging halfway off the bed with his phone connected to the charger. One of the last things he remembered you saying was, "As soon as you know if it's San Diego or Norfolk, let me know. I love you."

The following morning, he was so exhausted, he was practically dizzy as he met with his commanding officer, Admiral Walker, for this new special deployment. Even his arm felt heavy as he saluted Walker in his office. It was barely seven o'clock which equated to four in the morning in San Diego, and he knew it would take him a few days to get caught back up on sleep at this point. But every second of talking to you was worth it.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw. Welcome back to the Atlantic Fleet," Walker told him, gesturing to the empty chair in the office. 

"Thank you, Sir," he replied, even though he was far less than thrilled to be back in Virginia at all. The prospect of a change of station could not have come at a worse time when he spent the flight from California looking at engagement rings on his phone.

As Bradley sat down, the older man said, "We never wanted to lose you to the Pacific in the first place, so I'm sure you can understand why you'll be staying on the east coast after your seven weeks on the Gerald R. Ford is complete."

His heart sank to his feet, and he felt like he was going to throw up. "Sir?" Bradley asked. "That's it? There's no chance of me returning to North Island?"

When the response he got was a raised eyebrow, Bradley pressed his lips into a line. This man wasn't going to give a shit that he owned a house in Coronado or that he was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world who happened to work in Mira Mesa. Something told him that keeping his mouth shut was the better option right now, even though he felt like punching a hole in the wall and flipping the desk.

Walker shuffled some papers on his desk. "Plans still need to be finalized, but it is our goal, and the goal of the US Navy, to change your station to Norfolk."

The words echoed in Bradley's mind. He couldn't decide if he should tell you about this yet. It wasn't like he had signed paperwork in his hand. Until he did, as far as he was concerned, he was going back to Top Gun and the love of his life. He knew you were stressed and concerned enough as it was, and he didn't want you to have to dwell on this unless it was finalized. 

"Once aboard the carrier, mission details will become available to you and the other aviators," Walker informed him. "I have a folder with your bunk assignment and some more information that you can take with you right now. You'll have access to your phone for about another hour, but as soon as you report to the carrier, it will need to be shut down and locked up. Are we clear, Lieutenant?"

Before Bradley could even respond, there was a sharp knock at the door. Walker heaved a weary sigh as his gaze left Bradley's face, and he barked, "Come in."

Of all the faces he knew from North Island, Bradley wasn't exactly sure if it was a friendly one, but when the door opened, Admiral Simpson came strolling inside in his service khakis. He couldn't fathom why his meeting was being interrupted by Cyclone, but he sat quietly with the folder in his hands. 

"Admiral Walker," Beau Cyclone greeted, voice as stern as ever. "You never returned my calls, and red eye flights the week of Christmas are not something I find endearing."

Walker stood behind his desk with all of his accolades hanging on the wall behind him, and Bradley jumped to his feet as well. "Admiral Simpson," Walker replied, voice dripping with disdain. "There was no need for you to fly out in person to release your pilot to my fleet."

Bradley could hear Cyclone's knuckles crack as he watched his eye twitch. He was somehow caught in the middle of this, but it looked like the Top Gun admiral was in no mood to be outmaneuvered and lose a member of his team. Bradley silently goaded him on while he stood there completely still.

"I'm not releasing anyone to you. That's not how this works," Cyclone barked. "If you can't manage your fleet, you don't get to poach from mine."

The admirals seemed to be in a competition to see whose face could get redder. "Admiral Simpson, I'm sure you'll find my rank alone is reason enough for-"

"You do not outrank me," Cyclone interrupted, voice loud but calm. Then he turned toward Bradley with his jaw clenched and said, "Lieutenant Bradshaw. You are dismissed. Please board the USS Gerald R. Ford on time for your deployment."

"Yes, Sir," he replied, saluting both men before walking back out into the hallway on slightly unsteady legs. He paused, hoping to hear some more of their conversation or an outright blow up that would give him a clue as to what the fuck was going on, but instead he walked the rest of the way to the barracks to collect his duffle and head to the docks. 

With his phone in his hand once again and his bag slung over his shoulder, Bradley called you. He knew it was early and he'd be waking you up, but time was tight now. And your voice was the only thing that would keep him sane at the moment. 

"Bradley," you sighed a second later, and he pressed his phone tighter to his ear. 

"Baby, I miss you so much," he promised, heart aching. He swallowed hard and decided not to bring up anything that was going on since he didn't have a completely clear understanding of it himself. "I'm about to board the carrier."

He could hear you crying, and he wanted to kick himself. "Just come back safely. That's all I want. As long as you're safe, that's all that matters to me, okay?"

He was having a hard time keeping his own tears at bay. "Me, too. We'll figure out the rest of it later, Gorgeous. Take care of yourself. Write in the journal. And don't forget to check the mail."

"I love you, Bradley!"

"I love you so much."

As soon as he ended the call and turned off his phone, he had to walk through a small building for security screening. It was there that his bag and phone were taken from him. When he exited the other side, his duffle was handed back to him, but his phone was not.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," the petty officer told him with a shrug when he glared. "I'll tag it for you and return it when you get back to Norfolk. At least it's not a long deployment."

Bradley couldn't even argue with that. It wasn't that long in the grand scheme of things. He'd been overseas for a full twelve months at a time when he was younger. This should have felt like nothing, but he knew it would feel like the worst one. He hefted his bag higher on his shoulder and started to head for the bunk that would be his for the duration. There was no sense in standing on deck when there was nobody who would be looking for him to see him off.

He made it down two hallways before a loud voice echoed off the walls around him. "Lieutenant Bradshaw." When he turned, Admiral Simpson was heading his way, face so red it was almost purple. Bradley's heart sank.

"Yes, sir?"

The other man pulled his composure together, sighing like an angry bull. "While you will be under the command of Admiral Walker for this deployment, you will fly directly back to San Diego when you return to port in Norfolk. You'll be presented with the paperwork today."

Bradley's jaw dropped open. "I'm returning to the Pacific Fleet, Sir?"

He got one firm nod in response. "I told you last week that I would do what I could to retain you."

This was honestly the best case scenario, and Bradley could feel some of his tension melt away. "You weren't kidding," he mumbled before clearing his throat. "Thank you, Sir. Being in San Diego is important to me."

"Fly safely, Lieutenant. See you in seven weeks," Cyclone barked before turning on his heel and walking toward the ramp back down to the dock.

Bradley pumped his fist in the air. "Fuck, yeah," he whispered, spinning on the spot. He would get to go back to the station he preferred in North Island as well as his friends, but most importantly, he would get to return to you. There would be no stress of packing and moving and hoping you were still willing to come with him. He could stay in Coronado.

When he slid his hand into his pocket to get his phone out to call you back, he froze. "God damn it."

------------------------------

If waiting for emails and letters was bad before, this was torture. The early days of getting to know Bradley through written notes left you with constant butterflies in your tummy, but now it felt like you were walking around with a lead weight instead. You constantly caught yourself reaching for your phone to text him before setting it back down in frustration. 

You hadn't heard from him since before he stepped onto the aircraft carrier, and that was four days ago. Today was New Year's Eve, and at least you had the wine bar with Natasha to look forward to. While you got dressed and ready to go, you couldn't help but put in just the bare minimum amount of effort. What was the point when your boyfriend wasn't even here to give you kisses along your neck and call you Gorgeous? You pouted at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and put the cap on your lip gloss before even using it.

"You look nice," Nat said as you climbed in the front seat of her car. You turned to look at her with one eyebrow raised.

"I'm wearing Bradley's old sweatshirt with a pair of leggings that are starting to get a hole in the crotch."

She started cackling as she pulled away from the curb. "Well, you still look nice."

"Thanks," you said softly, watching the houses go by. 

As Nat turned toward the highway to head up to Oceanside, she asked, "How are you making out?"

You pressed your lips together for a few seconds, trying to make sure you weren't going to cry. "I'm just having a hard time being off from work while he's gone. It's... harder than I thought it would be. I can't wait to return to my classroom in a few days."

"I'm sure that will make it easier," she agreed. "You'll be so busy, time will start to fly by. Oh, I forgot to ask if you got any interesting mail at Bradley's house since he left?"

You shook your head. "I barely remember to check the mailbox most days. Why?"

"Don't worry about it," she replied smoothly. "You'll be back to work in a few days, but in the meantime, we've got merlot and chardonnay to keep your mind occupied."

"Sounds like you're talking about two hot French men," you said with a laugh.

"I could be! You don't even know!"

Now both of you were laughing. And you were still laughing when you actually did order a glass of merlot and a glass of chardonnay. You and Nat enjoyed some wine flights and cheese platters, and she regaled you with stories about Bradley from flight school.

"When he was twenty-two, he probably weighed a hundred and twenty pounds," she said with a smirk. "He was such a nerd, too. God, it was so bad." You were trying to stifle your laughter as she added, "Once he really started working out and grew the mustache, he thought he was hot shit. He's still a fucking nerd."

"He kind of is," you agreed through your giggles.

"But he's a good one," she promised. "Wears his heart on his sleeve too often, but I don't think he has to worry about you breaking it."

You ran your hand along the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "Never."

Once the two of you were filled with cheese and sober enough to get back in the car, you paid for your adventure with the gift card Bradley gave you, only to find out it had five hundred dollars on it.

"Natasha! We need to come back like four more times," you said as you signed the slip.

"I don't see any issue with that," she muttered, leaving cash for a tip. "I think I'll write Bradley an email and thank him for funding girls' day so he can read it when he gets back to Norfolk."

"I think he'd like that."

You started thinking about the journal sitting on the nightstand in his bedroom. Every night before you fell asleep, you'd been pouring your heart and thoughts out into the thing, but even the mention of the word Norfolk had you fretting again. You managed to keep up the conversation with Bradley's best friend as she drove you back to Coronado, but perhaps you should keep most of your things packed after you moved your stuff to his house. What if you had to move to Virginia when the school year ended?

"Thanks for driving," you told her when she pulled up to Bradley's driveway to let you out.

"Anytime," she said, waving you off. "We'll go back up again soon." When you leaned in to give her a hug, she told you, "Don't forget to check the mail."

"Okay."

You weren't sure exactly what her deal was since Bradley couldn't send you anything, but if she wanted you to, then you would. You already promised your boyfriend you'd keep an eye on anything unusual that arrived, so as you walked up to the front door, you took a peek inside the mailbox. Empty. Just like the house. You curled up on the couch with the journal and started to write your daily entry.

I heard from a very reliable source (Natasha) that you were and still are a nerd. I'm going to need to see some pre-stache photos of you when you get home. Your best friend is a wealth of information when you get some wine in her, and I had a great time with her today. 

But I miss you. So much. Sometimes it knocks the breath out of my lungs. Your house is too cold and quiet without you here, hogging the couch and eating snacks. I'm looking forward to school starting up in a few days. It'll be a little less lonely when I have eighteen kids telling me what they got for holiday gifts. Of course I'll have to tell them they won't get a visit from their favorite aviator for a while. We'll just be nineteen sad pen pals.

---------------------------

On January second, you were working on your lesson plans while wearing Bradley's gym shorts and eating potato chips. Tomorrow you'd get back into a routine with work, but first you were going to allow yourself one last day of being kind of pitiful. You bit off more than you could chew with Bradley, and now you were paying the price. 

You sporadically started crying at random times throughout the day, and it was only made worse by the overwhelming feeling of being alone. If you could barely make it a week without hearing from him, how were you going to make random deployments with no communication your lifestyle? Why did you even think you could?

While you were crunching your way through some potato chips, you heard something thump on the front porch. The sound made you jump on the couch, and you set your snack down on the table and crept to the front door. When you peeked outside, there was nobody there, but when you cracked the door open, you saw a box. A fairly large box. Addressed to you.

"Oh my god," you gasped. It was from Bradley. According to the date stamped next to your name, he somehow sent a box from the post office in San Diego last week. "Oh my god!"

You grabbed it and kicked the door shut, almost tripping on your way back to the coffee table. When you tried to claw at the tape, you almost broke your nails. "Scissors," you shouted, running for the kitchen drawer by the sink where your boyfriend kept a random assortment of junk. Then you walked quickly back to the couch and started to cut into the box.

Natasha had to be behind the arrival of the box, but you couldn't fathom what could possibly be inside. If Bradley wanted you to have something, he could have simply given it to you before he left. Your heart was pounding as you set the scissors down and looked inside.

"Bradley," you gasped, tears filling your eyes as those familiar butterflies zoomed and swooped around in your belly. You'd been so upset about missing out on his letters, he sent you a whole box of them. There were dozens of envelopes and little treats filling the box nearly to the top, but a neon orange envelope with OPEN ME FIRST written on it caught your eye. You pulled it out of the box and tore into it.

Hey, Gorgeous,

I'm thinking about you right now. Guaranteed. It doesn't matter when you get this box or when you read this note, I'm thinking about how much I love you. And if I'm asleep, I'm dreaming about us eating Thai food on the beach in front of a sunset that is nowhere near as beautiful as you.

I hope you realize there was no way you weren't going to get some letters from me while I'm deployed. I would never let that happen. Somehow, you fell in love with me this way in the first place, and more than anything, I want you to feel as loved as I do. So I filled this box with little notes and long, rambling love letters and things I thought you might like. When you read the individual envelopes, you'll know what to do.

Please fill that journal up for me. I can't wait to read it in seven weeks. I'm missing you like crazy, and I selfishly hope you're missing me just as much. I love you.

Yours Truly,

Bradley

With shaking hands, you set the note down on the orange envelope and swiped at your tears. You never dreamed you would meet a man this romantic, but somehow you did, and he became your boyfriend. "Oh, Bradley," you whispered, picking up a stack of envelopes and reading what was written on each one.

Open me when you've had a bad day

Open me when you really want some coffee

Open me when you need a laugh

Open me when you're in bed

Open me when you need a girls' night

Open me with your class

You flopped down onto the couch and kicked your feet in the air. "Bradley!" you shrieked, voice breaking as you started to cry. You hugged the letters to your chest and let the warm feeling of being loved wash over you and fill your heart. He was unbelievable. He was perfect. He was everything you wanted. And somehow you loved him a little more and missed him a little less with this box on the coffee table.

------------------------------

He's so romantic. He's taking care of Gorgeous from afar! He's coming home to San Diego, but she doesn't even know it! Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls and @daggerspare-standingby

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