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ahqkas · 8 months ago

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“CRY BABY — jason todd.

PAIRING ! jason todd 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! your boyfriend’s here, doesn’t matter if you need him during an important task. you need him now so that’s what he does; he shows up. WORD COUNT! 2.6k WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, mention of reader’s hair + lmk if more found ! NOTES! based on this req.!! header bellow belongs to @/v6que © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE GROCERY STORE WAS UNUSUALLY CROWDED FOR A FRIDAY EVENING, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly as you shuffled through the small grocery shop. You grabbed a cart and slowly pushed it past the holiday display at the entrance. The pine garlands and cinnamon-scented candles filled the air with cheerfulness of the holidays that felt out of place for your mood. The day had been fine, but a little . . . heavy, like the edges of everything you did were frayed. Shopping for groceries was supposed to be routine, calming even, but tonight it felt more like a chore.

You started in the produce section, eyeing the dark red apples stacked neatly in pyramids. Jason liked apples, especially sliced up with peanut butter, and you didn’t have any at home. You grabbed a few, along with a small bag of clementines—they were on sale, and the idea of peeling one later sounded comforting. You added some spinach to the cart, though you weren’t ure what you’d do with it yet.

The next aisle had the coffee and teas. You hesitated in front of the shelves, scanning for Jason’s favorite blend. He always said he didn’t care what kind of coffee it was as long as it had caffeine, but you knew he liked the dark roast with the smoky flavor. So, you grabbed a bag and tossed it into the cart before picking up a box of black tea for yourself.

In the dairy section, you grabbed a carton of eggs and some milk, along with a tub of the fancy Greek yogurt Jason pretended to hate but always ate half of when you weren’t looking. You added a block of cheddar cheese too, because he always complained when you didn’t have any “real cheese” in the fridge.

Finally, you grabbed a loaf of bread and a box of pasta before heading to the candy aisle. You’d been eyeing the peppermint bark in the holiday section earlier but didn’t grab it. Now you plucked a small bar of it off the shelf and dropped it into the cart. A little indulgence couldn’t hurt.

The cart wasn’t full, but it was enough. Enough to get through the week, enough to stock your kitchen for the nights Jason decided to stay over and make himself at home. He didn’t live with you—not officially—but his presence lingered in your apartment like a second heartbeat.

You made my way to the registers, where the lines were moving slowly. It was late, but the store was still busy, the energy of people rushing to finish errands before closing time crackling faintly in the air. You took your place in line, watching other customers inch forward and fiddling with the edge of your scarf.

It wasn’t a bad day, you reminded yourself, just a heavy one. You would unload the groceries back at home, make some tea, and settle in for the evening. Maybe you’d call Jason later, hear his voice and let the rough warmth of it carry you into something softer. The thought made the corner of your mouth twitch up in the faintest smile. And maybe he could even stop by, spend the night.

That thought warmed your heart.

The line at the register moved slower than you expected, giving you too much time to stand there, awkwardly fiddling with your scarf and glancing at your cart. The apples and kettle chips sat next to each other, an odd little pairing that made you think of your boyfriend. He’d swipe one of each, snack in hand, smirking like he’d outsmarted the whole grocery system.

Finally, your turn came, and you pushed the cart forward. The cashier was a lanky teenager with a mop of greasy hair tucked under his name-tagged baseball cap. His name tag read Trevor, but his expression read bored in bold letters. He glanced up at you briefly, his eyes darting over your cart with the kind of disdain only a teenager could muster before going back to his phone.

“Hey,” you greeted the kid politely, smiling despite yourself as you began unloading your groceries onto the conveyor belt.

“Yeah, hey,” Trevor muttered, clearly distracted as he shoved his phone into his pocket. He hit a button on the register with a little too much force and sighed loudly, like the very act of being here was an affront to his existence.

You handed over the loaf of bread first, thinking maybe you could set the pace for a smooth interaction. Trevor grabbed it and scanned it without a word.

“Paper or plastic?” he asked flatly, not bothering to meet your eyes.

“Um, paper, please.”

Trevor reached for the bags, shoving the bread in haphazardly before grabbing the apples next. The bag tipped slightly, the loaf threatening to crumple. You winced internally but said nothing, figuring it wasn’t worth the trouble.

As he scanned the rest of your items, you started to pull out your wallet. Your fingers fumbled for a moment as you searched for your debit card, the silence stretching uncomfortably.

“Do you, like, need the receipt?” Trevor mumbled under his nose, tossing it into the bag before you could answer.

“Um—yes, please,” you said quietly, slipping your card out of the wallet at last.

The teenager rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly. “Next time, maybe have it ready? Kinda holding up the line.”

The words hit you like a splash of cold water. You froze for a moment, face flushing as you quickly swiped your card through the reader. Your hand trembled just enough to make you fumble again, and you could feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up your neck.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, not daring to meet his eyes as you hurried to finish.

Trevor didn’t respond to you anymore. “Next!”

You grabbed your bags as quickly as you could, your vision blurring slightly as you turned away from the register. Your chest felt tight, the weight of the embarrassing moment pressing against the bones of your ribs as you hurried out of the store.

By the time you reached your parked car, the tension had built to a boiling point. You set the bags down in the passenger seat and slid into the driver’s seat, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The space felt safe, isolated from the world, and as soon as you were alone, the tears spilled over.

It wasn’t just the kid or his tone—it was everything. The way the week had dragged on endlessly, the tiny moments of frustration piling up like bricks until this one insignificant encounter became the tipping point.

You pressed your palms against the steering wheel, breathing uneven as the tears came in quiet, hot streams. They weren’t loud or desperate, just a release, a way to let go of the tension that had been weighing you down all day.

After a few minutes, the sobs subsided, leaving you feeling raw but lighter. You wiped at your face with your sleeve, sniffing softly as you leaned back against the headrest. The worst of it was over, but the ache lingered, a reminder of how fragile the balance could be sometimes. What you needed now was something solid, something warm to remind you the world wasn’t as heavy as it seemed.

Reaching for your phone, you scrolled through your contacts, thumb hovering over his name for a moment before you pressed it. The line rang twice before his voice came through, low and rough but tinged with familiarity and care. Jason always had a way of grounding you, his voice a tether when the world felt too loud.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his tone already softer than usual. “What’s going on?”

And just like that, the weight in your chest started to ease.

“Hi,” you said, the word wobbling despite your best effort. “Are you busy?”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that told you he’d caught on. Jason’s voice shifted, quieter but firm, like a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m not busy. You okay? You sound . . . upset.”

You hesitated, the urge to downplay it bubbling up. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, though you knew it wasn’t convincing. “Just . . . had a moment. Nothing big, I promise.”

“Sweetheart,” Jason interrupted gently, his voice like a steady anchor. “Don’t do that thing where you act like it doesn’t matter. Talk to me.”

You sighed, resting your head against the window now. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “It’s stupid. A cashier was kind of rude, and it just . . . got to me. I cried about it in the car, and I feel better now, but I guess I just—” Your voice cracked, and you exhaled shakily. “I wanted to hear you.”

Jason didn’t respond right away, but the silence wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of pause that said he was listening, thinking about the best way to hold you from a distance. When he spoke again, his tone was warm and firm, a voice that could steady mountains.

“First of all, it’s not stupid,” he said. “People can be jerks, and it’s okay to feel what you feel. You don’t have to justify that to me—or to anyone.”

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. He always had a way of cutting through the noise in your head, finding the simplest truth in it all. “Thanks,” you murmured.

“Where are you?” he asked. “Still in the car?”

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Just . . . sitting in the parking lot.”

He hummed softly, the sound almost like a purr through the receiver. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Take a deep breath for me—nice and slow. Can you do that?”

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Yeah,” you said softly, following his instruction. The air filled your lungs like it hadn’t in hours, grounding you.

“Good,” Jason praised. “Now, I’m on my way to you. Sit tight, and don’t you dare think about apologizing for needing me.”

“Jason,” you started, but he cut you off.

“Don’t ‘Jason’ me, sweetheart. You’re my girl. That means if you need me, I’m there. Simple as that.”

The lump in your throat returned, but this time, it was different—softer, less heavy. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“Always,” he replied, and you could hear the faint sound of him grabbing his keys. “Now stay where you are. I’ll be there soon. And when I get there, I’m giving you a hug so big, you’re gonna forget what the cashier even looked like.”

You laughed softly, the warmth of it surprising you. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Jason said, his voice lighter now. “I’ll see you soon, baby. Just hang tight for me.”

The call ended, and though the ache hadn’t fully disappeared, it was quieter now, tempered by the knowledge that he was coming. Jason didn’t just make the world feel manageable—he made it feel safe, like no matter how overwhelming the little things got, he’d always be there to pull you back to solid ground.

Ten minutes later, a sharp, sudden knock on the car window startled you out of your thoughts. You jumped in the seat, heart leaping into your throat as you turned to look—and there he was, standing outside in the cold, his broad shoulders hunched slightly against the wind. Jason’s cheeks and nose were flushed a soft pink from the winter air, and he had one hand shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket, the other gesturing for you to roll the window down.

You blinked, processing his presence as he gave you a small, crooked smile through the glass. “Come on, sweetheart,” he called, his voice muffled but still rich and warm, like it carried all the heat you’d been missing. “You gonna let me freeze out here or what?”

Scrambling, you fumbled with the controls and rolled the window down halfway. “Jason? What are you doing here?” Your voice wavered between shock and something lighter, something closer to relief.

He gave a soft huff, his breath visible in the cold air. “You really think I was just gonna sit around after that phone call? Get outta the car, baby.”

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of the earlier tears still clinging to you, but his steady gaze left no room for argument. With a sigh, you grabbed your scarf and pushed the door open, stepping out into the biting cold.

As soon as you were standing in front of him, Jason’s hands found your shoulders, his touch firm but gentle as he guided you closer towards him. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and earnest, his green eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read all the parts of you you hadn’t said aloud.

You nodded, but the way your chin trembled betrayed me. “I’m fine,” I responded quietly, even though the words felt flimsy. “I was feeling better after we talked, really. You didn’t have to come all the way out here—”

Jason cut you off with a soft, knowing sound, one of his hands moving to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered, his knuckles warm against your cheek. “Yeah, I did,” his tone left no room for debate.

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the cold wrapping around you but unable to penetrate the bubble of warmth his presence created. His thumb grazed your cheekbone, and you realized you had been leaning into his hand without thinking.

“You’ve been crying,” he said softly, the observation carrying no judgment, only quiet understanding. “You don’t have to pretend with me, y’know. Not ever.”

The lump in your throat returned, but it was smaller now, manageable. You took a shaky breath and gave him a faint smile. “I just felt stupid crying over something so little. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Jason’s brows knit together, his expression turning almost stern. “Hey,” he exclaimed, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. “Your feelings aren’t little. And I told you—no matter what, I’m here. You don’t bother me, alright?”

You nodded, swallowing hard as the weight of his words settled over you like a blanket. His sincerity had a way of melting through all the self-doubt you carried, leaving only the quiet reassurance of his steady presence.

“Good,” he said after a moment, his hand dropping to take yours instead. He laced your fingers together, his grip firm and grounding. “Now, give me your keys.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smirked, his nose still adorably rosy from the cold. “You’re not driving, sweetheart. Not when you’ve had a day like this. I’m taking you home.”

“You didn’t bring your bike?” you teased faintly, trying to lighten the mood.

Jason snorted. “In this weather? Hell no. Now quit stalling and hand ’em over.”

Reluctantly, you pulled the keys from your pocket and dropped them into his waiting hand. He gave you an approving nod before tugging you toward the passenger side door.

“Come on,” he said, opening it for you like the gentleman he only pretended not to be. “Get in. I’ll crank the heat for you.”

As you slid into the seat, Jason closed the door behind you and walked around to the driver’s side, his movements easy and confident despite the chill. When he settled in and started the car, the warmth of the heater began to fill the space, and for the first time that evening, you felt completely safe.

Jason reached over, brushing his hand across your thigh in a gesture so casual yet intimate it made your chest ache. “See? Already better,” he said, glancing at you with a lopsided grin.

And as the car pulled away from the parking lot, the groceries safely tucked in the back and Jason by your side, you couldn’t help but think he was right.

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cressidagrey · 3 days ago

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System Failure - Chapter 2: Monaco

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana�� Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Sexism in the workplace. Also definitely NSFW. I wrote Smut filled with Racing Metaphors. Y'all are welcome. Also: Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 21 May 2025

Ana was halfway through running thermal model revisions when her phone buzzed.

She ignored it at first. Most texts could wait until after the hybrid cooling simulation finished processing—except the ones from Jack (urgent), her father (usually technical, occasionally sarcastic), or Susie.

This one was from Susie.

Ana opened it.

SUSIE WOLFF: Invitation on the way to your inbox. Would love for you to come. Big moment for the girls. No pressure ❤️

Frowning, Ana opened her inbox and clicked the attached .pdf.

F1 ACADEMY x NETFLIX WORLD PREMIERE Red Carpet Event – London – 19:30 Formal Attire Required

Her entire body tensed.

Formal.

As in: tight. Scratchy. Structured. Unyielding.

As in: pain.

She blinked at the words like they might morph into "shirt and trainers okay."

The last time someone forced her into a formal outfit, it ended with her nearly clawing the side seam open in a bathroom stall because the lining was too stiff and her skin felt like it was crawling.

Even the Mercedes team shirts drove her mad—polyester blend, no stretch, horrible collar. She always had to wear a cotton tank underneath or risk losing focus the entire day just from how it felt against her shoulders.

And now she was being asked to wear a gown. To a red carpet. With people.

Her natural environment was carbon composite and controlled conditions. Engine bays. Cold labs. Not warm lighting and champagne and reporters trying to figure out what kind of Wolff she was.

Ana didn’t do red carpets. She didn’t do events. She had spent years successfully evading every gala, dinner, and motorsport charity ball thrown her way. (The last time someone tried to schedule her for a media day, she sent back a list of equations explaining how much PU development time would be lost, and they never brought it up again.)

She didn’t do things like that.

Ana did engine bays and dyno runs and spreadsheets that had cells nested six layers deep. Ana did Brackley and Brixworth, and her office, and her laptop and her blue light filtering glasses.

Ana did comfort, because that was the only way she could function.

But this wasn’t just a media circus.

It was F1 Academy.

And Susie.

Susie—who had never once asked Ana to change who she was. Who showed up, quietly and consistently, even when Ana was all sharp edges and avoidance. Who raised Jack with kindness and made room for Ana like it was second nature.

Ana could picture Susie now—standing in front of Netflix cameras in a sharply cut suit, flanked by girls Ana had silently cheered for all season. Smiling like she'd pulled the entire sport two inches closer to where it should be.

Girls who reminded Ana of herself—young, brilliant, not built for the mold.

And Ana thought, She would never ask if it did not matter.

Ana sighed.

Of course Susie made it harder to say no by being kind.

It mattered to Susie.

And Susie had shown up every damn time.

For Jack. For Toto. For Ana.

Even when Ana hadn’t known what to do with it.

So yes, fine.

Of course, she was going to go.

Even if she had to rip the tag off.

Even if she had to pre-wash the dress three times and cut out the lining.

Even if she had to stand there with her arms locked to her sides so she wouldn’t fidget like a nervous wreck.

Even if it meant being visible.

She’d go.

Even if it meant standing in front of cameras and pretending she wasn’t trying to calculate turbine temperature deltas in her head the entire time.

Ana opened her calendar. Cleared the evening. Replied to the email.

I will be there.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Toto: Before you say no, hear me out.

but I’d like you to consider attending the F1 Academy Netflix premiere next week. I know it’s not your scene, and I know you’d rather be elbows-deep in a simulation, but this is important to Susie. And it would mean a lot to have you there.

Toto: You don’t have to stay long. Just… show up. Represent the name. Show the girls what’s possible.

Toto: I’ll owe you a favor. One free turbo tantrum. No questions asked. Just think about it. Please.

Ana: Already said yes.

Toto:… what?

Ana: Check with Susie. I replied to her invite twenty minutes ago.

Toto: I’m just… surprised. I was expecting at least an argument.

Ana: Believe it or not, I am capable of doing things I do not like when it is for someone I care about. Shocking, I know.

Toto: You really didn’t have to, you know. She would’ve understood.

Ana: I know. But she asked.

Toto: She’ll be happy to see you there. So will I.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: Question.

Max: uh oh

Ana: If I sent you three dress options, would you tell me which one looks objectively best?

Max: hold on you’re asking me for fashion advice??

Ana: Yes. Because I know you’ll be honest. Brutally, stupidly, tactlessly honest.

Max: flattered but also you are aware i wear the same red bull polo 200 days a year, right?

Ana: Exactly. You have no agenda. No taste. No aesthetic bias. I trust you to judge this with the emotional detachment of a wind tunnel.

Max: you’re weird i like it you panic so romantically

Ana: I have already tried on six options. Three made my skin crawl. One made me break out in hives. This is my final shortlist before I commit to burning the building down.

Max: well now i have to help send the dresses and don’t forget your murder expression

Ana: On it.

(A minute later, three mirror selfies arrive. Ana in black, navy, and burgundy. She looks stunning in all of them. She’s scowling in each one.)

Max: option 1 the black one you look like a woman who’s about to accept a Nobel Prize and then stab a man for asking a stupid question i’m scared and aroused it’s perfect

Ana:The inside is soft cotton. No lace. No sequins. I don’t want to claw my skin off. So… thank you.

Max: you’re going to look beautiful. no one’s ready.

Ana: Thanks.

Max: anytime, Poekie.

***

Grimaud Karting Track, Grimaud, France - 22 May 2025

The wind cut sideways across the circuit, biting through the sleeves of her Mercedes fleece and whipping strands of hair loose from Ana’s braid. It smelled like rubber and rain and the kind of overpriced fried food sold from trailers with faded signage. The kart engines screamt past in bursts—sharp, twitchy things, all fury and ambition and eight-year-old nerves.

Ana should be home. Or better: back at Brackley, elbow-deep in the calibration program for next week's dyno run.

Ana should be anywhere that wasn’t here, pressed against the fence with her jaw clenched and her boots sinking slightly in the wet grass.

But Jack asked her to come to his Karting Race before the Monaco GP weekend.

And Ana—surprise, surprise—couldn’t say no to Jack.

She never could.

He was her youngest brother. 20 years between them.

A whole life time.

Rosa and Benedict were closer to her in age. Born in 2003 and 2004 to Ana’s 1997.

They hated her.

Well, maybe that was dramatic. Benedict…tolerated her. Rosa ignored her existence entirely.

Ana didn’t fault them for it. They were the products of Toto’s first marriage that had produced a step-mother and step-sibling cold war no one ever formally declared but even Ana understood.

Stephanie had made her opinion of Ana crystal clear from day one: a mistake in human form, dropped off in Vienna like excess baggage from a bad Moscow decision Toto had made nearly a decade ago.

Ana wasn’t theirs. Ana was Moscow. Ana was her. An inconvenient truth they were expected to be polite about but never warm to.

Stephanie had tolerated her presence like one might tolerate a wasp at a picnic: inconvenient, unpleasant, and likely to sting if you got too close.

Rosa and Benedict had followed their mother’s lead.

And Ana? She’d learned to make herself small. Smart. Untouchable. The kind of girl who didn’t need hugs or affection.

Jack though…

Jack had been born when Ana had already been studying at Cambridge.

Ana hadn’t expected to love him.

But she did.

Jack was sharp and wickedly funny and shamelessly affectionate in a way that still made her short-circuit. And he liked her—not the version of her that built engines and fixed telemetry faults and didn’t cry at funerals. Just Ana.

He’d once told her she was the coolest person he knew.

Jack didn’t care about origins or optics.

He didn’t care that she was born out of scandal and silence and a mother who didn’t want her. He didn’t care that she was sharp-edged and chronically bad at small talk. He just liked her.

When he FaceTimed her, it was to ask about combustion cycles and why his kart didn’t have DRS.

He didn’t look at her like she was a reminder of something awkward.

He looked at her like she was his sister.

Maybe because Susie raised him.

Maybe because Jack was eight and still thought the sun rose when someone he loved showed up to watch him drive.

Ana had missed a lot of his early karting meets, always using work as an excuse when really, she wasn’t sure she’d be wanted.

But Jack had insisted. Called her himself. Come watch me race. Please. I want you there. You’re the coolest person I know.

And how the hell was Ana supposed to say no to that?

Her gaze flickered to the small figure in the kart, tackling the chicane like it was nothing. He was good. He got instinct. And he was not afraid of the throttle. A little heavy-handed, maybe, but Ana was already mentally drafting feedback. She would draw it out on his iPad later if he asked.

Behind her, a few parents murmured. Someone recognized her. Wolff. The Mercedes engineer. Toto’s oldest.

But she kept her eyes forward. Locked on Jack.

Because for all the degrees and podium passes and engines she’s coaxed to life with a whisper and a wrench and lines of code, he was the one who saw her. Not as a symbol. Not as a scandal. Not as a shadow of a Moscow mistake.

Just as Ana.

The checkered flag waved. Jack crossed the line P2, which he would no doubt narrate with the dramatic flair of a Netflix monologue later, but Ana saw it for what it was: a smart, clean race.

Controlled. Well judged. Jack was growing into the kart—thinking his way through corners now instead of just flinging himself into them like a dare.

The moment the race ended, the tension in her spine didn’t leave. It never did. But she exhaled through her nose and stepped back from the fence, brushing a smudge of damp grass off her jeans.

"That was kind of you," said a familiar voice to her right. "Coming out here."

Ana turned slightly. Susie stood nearby, arms folded lightly across her chest, her scarf tugged tighter against the wind. The expression on her face was, as always, unreadable but kind.

Ana gave a nod. “Jack asked.”

“I know. He was thrilled.”

Ana glanced down, tucking her hands into the pockets of her fleece. “He did well.”

“He did,” Susie agreed. “He listens to you, you know. About the technical stuff. About everything, really.”

There was a pause. Ana didn't reply, not immediately. Praise hit strange in her ears—like she was waiting for the correction to follow.

But none came. Just the wind, the hiss of deflating tyres, and Jack’s distant laughter as someone clapped him on the back.

“You could come to dinner,” Susie added, offhand. “Jack would love it.”

Ana’s first instinct was to deflect. To say something sharp or evasive.

If she was in Monaco, for the grand prix, she tended to stay at a hotel not at Susie and her father’s apartment. Just so that she didn’t feel like she was intruding into something she had no place to intrude into. And so that she wasn’t going to get any questions if she went back to her room at 3 in the morning after visiting Max.

An overpriced Hotel Room, an balcony, and a dinner consisting out of room service. Alone.

But Susie was asking. Not out of obligation. Just a door, left ajar.

“I will think about it,” Ana said quietly.

Susie smiled.

Then: “No one special waiting for you back at Brackley?”

Ana blinked. “What?”

“You know. A partner. Someone…” Susie gave a vague hand gesture, the universal symbol for emotionally attached nonsense. “Someone who makes you smile when you’re not glaring at engine simulations.”

Ana’s mouth twitched. “No.”

“Really?” Susie asked, more amused than skeptical.

“I don’t—” Ana shook her head. “I do not have time for that.”

Susie tilted her head, amused. “You sound like your father.”

“God, do not say that,” Ana muttered.

Susie laughed. “He said the same thing, once. Right before I married him.”

Ana rolled her eyes. “Well, lucky for you, you’re charming and emotionally available. I am neither.”

“You’re more emotionally available than you think.”

“Do not say that either.”

Susie didn’t press. Just gave Ana’s shoulder a soft squeeze, then turned to wave at Jack as he came running up the pit lane, helmet tucked under his arm, cheeks flushed with joy.

Ana stayed still a second longer, bracing herself. But when Jack launched into a retelling of the overtake into turn 3, grabbing her hand and dragging her along, she let herself smile.

It was easier, with him.

It always was.

***

Text Messages: George Russell & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

George: Hey Ana! There’s a private stream for the F1 movie premiere tonight. Toto and Susie are going—I assumed you’d be there too?

Ana: Why would I go?

George: Well… it’s a big moment for the sport! Historic, really. Thought you might want to be part of it. Plus, your family will be there. Could be nice to show your face, yeah?

Ana: I show my face in the dyno room daily. No one’s ever complained.

George: Haha 😅 Sure, but this is more… social. Public-facing. You’d look great dressed up for once.

Ana:I have plans

George: Come on, Ana. Don’t be like that. It’s not about the carpet. It’s about the community.

Ana: Community implies consent. I did not consent to watch actors pretend to fix front-wings with the wrong tools.

George: It’s just a bit of fun. You know, lighten the mood? You work so hard—you deserve a break.

Ana: I took a break. I ran diagnostics from a balcony. It was lovely.

George: You’re impossible sometimes. 😅 Still—if you change your mind, I’ll save you a seat.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

ANA:I am in Monaco. For the race. Obviously. (Just in case your observation skills are at an all-time low.)

MAX: hello to you too 🥰 are you texting me because you miss me or because your father is currently watching the F1 movie with your stepmother?

ANA: Do you have plans?

MAX: i do now. come over. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

ANA: What if I am just coming for dinner?

MAX: then I’ll feed you and take your pants off after.

ANA: Unbelievable.

MAX: can’t wait to see you either, poekie 💙

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Enzo: Max, you gonna ready up or you just staring at your phone again?

Max (mutters): One sec.

Rudy: He’s been on that phone since quali finished.

Jeffrey: Max Verstappen texting like a 17-year-old girl. History is being made.

Chat:MAX DROP THE PHONEis he texting his cat or whatmax blink twice if she’s hot tell her we say hi “one sec” famous last words

Max (grinning): Alright. I’m ready.

Atze: What did she say?

Max: Shut up and drive.

Enzo: OH??

Jeffrey: That wasn’t a denial.

Rudy: Who is this girl anyway?

Max: None of your business. Go green already.

Chat:“shut up and drive” rihanna voice wait he really has a gf?? tell us who it is coward max never posted a soft launch and I feel betrayed

Rudy: Max, you going full race distance?

Max (checking phone again): Mmm. Probably not.

Enzo: Wait, what?

Jeffrey: Man’s bailing early.

Max: I have dinner plans.

Enzo: You live in Monaco. What dinner takes priority over sim racing?

Max (dryly): The kind where dessert isn’t virtual.

ALL: "OOOOHHHHH!"

Chat: MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU DIRTY DOG someone’s getting fed more than data tonight bro logged off for 🍑 not lap times dinner plans?? oh it’s serious max in his softboi era and I support him imagine being the girl who gets Max to quit a sim race whoever she is, she's powerful

Max (laughing as he logs off): Later, boys.

Atze: Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.

Rudy: Which isn’t much, to be fair.

Jeffrey: Tell her thanks for stealing our world champion.

Max: I’m not telling her anything. Bye.

***

Twitter Thread: Max Verstappen’s mysterious girlfriend

@/F1shionista: max verstappen skipping the actual f1 movie premiere streaming watch party but showing up to sim racing just to TEXT SOMEONE and then log off early because he “has dinner plans” is… objectively hilarious.

@/tirewarmersupreme: he said no to brad pitt on screen and yes to being a simp. king behavior.

@/qualiwifey: he didn’t even deny he was texting a girl. just said “shut up and drive.” like ??? max. who is she.

@/enrich_degrader: the team redline stream was basically: – max ignoring everyone – grinning like an idiot – texting for 10 minutes – bailing before race end – saying dessert is not virtual 💀

@/f1_memegirl: max: “I’m not telling her anything. Bye.” also max: literally radiating heart eyes emoji energy for 30 minutes straight

@/MonacoMysteries: imagine being the girl who made max verstappen quit a sim race early you hold the power of a thousand DRS zones

@/fastcurbs: MAX VERSTAPPEN just ditched a sim race mid-stream for “dinner plans” and I cannot stress how unserious that is behaviorally.

@/missdownforce: Sir you said “the kind where dessert isn’t virtual” ON STREAM??? I’m in shambles

@/f1shadequeen: not max saying “later boys” and logging off like a man with a woman and a purpose but WHERE was he??? because he sure as hell wasn’t at the F1 Movie event like the rest of them

@/charlesmeltdownupdates: the verstappen fandom rn trying to figure out if he has a secret girlfriend, a situationship, a cat-sitter or just exceptional takeout

@/gridwivesanonymous: F1 PR departments: carefully coordinating appearances for driver visibility Max Verstappen: leaves mid-sim race to go hook up with a ghost and skips the F1 movie Marketing legend tbh.

@/gridgremlin: Max Verstappen skipping the F1: The Movie premiere but logging off his sim race early because of “dinner plans” is the most Max Verstappen thing to ever happen.

🧃💻🏁 → 🍽️💋 I fear the girlfriend rumors have legs.

@/turntwodrama: everyone else: at a red carpet max: in his apartment texting some girl and bailing on sim racing like a teenage boy in love i am obsessed with whatever this feral little situation is

@/ricciardobestie: “the kind where dessert isn’t virtual” someone PLEASE take this man’s phone away we’ve lost him he’s GONE

***

Verstappen Residence, Monaco - 23 May 2025

Max had tidied.

Not cleaned—he wasn’t insane—but he’d made the bed, cleared the coffee table, and shoved his laundry into a closet. He’d even changed into a black T-shirt that didn’t have a Red Bull logo, which for him was practically a tuxedo.

Because Ana was coming over.

And technically, they’d called it dinner.

But neither of them had eaten the last time they called it dinner, so Max wasn’t expecting much from the food.

The real course would be the kiss hello. The weight of her against him. The sound she made when he pulled her in by the hips and she forgot how to pretend they weren’t a mistake.

But that was before Sassy intervened.

It started the moment Ana stepped through the door.

Max opened his mouth to say something charming. Or smug. Or at the very least functional.

And then—

Sassy launched herself across the room.

Like an arrow from a bow. Or a very fluffy missile. Right at Ana’s legs.

Max froze.

Ana froze.

Sassy purred.

“What,” Ana said, not moving, “is happening.”

“I…” Max blinked. “I think she’s… saying hello?”

“She is rubbing her face on my shin.”

“Affection.”

“I do not “do” cats,” Ana said flatly. “I have never owned a cat in my life. I am a known non-pet-haver.”

Sassy meowed up at her. Loudly. Devotionally.

Ana looked down, visibly baffled. “Are you malfunctioning? Is this a hostage situation?”

Max still hadn’t moved.

Because Sassy—the cat who had clawed Lando Norris, hissed at Daniel Ricciardo, and once tried to climb Charles Leclerc like a tree—was now weaving figure-eights around Ana’s ankles like they were old friends. Or lovers.

Ana crouched slowly. One hand extended, tentative.

Sassy headbutted it like she’d just found her soulmate.

And then—

Jimmy trotted out from the hallway, let out a chirpy meow, and climbed into Ana’s lap like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.

Ana looked at Max, stunned. “She’s purring.”

“She’s never purred.”

“I do not do animals,” Ana repeated.

Max crouched next to her, watching as Jimmy settled contentedly against her leg and Sassy practically melted under her hand like she’d been domesticated by a higher being.

“Well,” Max said, voice low, “maybe they do you.”

Ana narrowed her eyes.

“You are going to make a comment.”

“I wasn’t,” he said innocently.

“You were about to say something about instincts or how even the cats know I am secretly a soft touch.”

“I would never.”

Sassy purred louder.

Jimmy flopped over, exposing his belly like a tiny traitor.

Ana sighed. “This was supposed to be about sex.”

Max smirked. “It still could be.”

Ana leveled him with a look. “With them watching?”

Max looked at the cats. Then back at her. “You’re the one they’ve apparently imprinted on like ducklings.”

Ana sighed again, long-suffering, even as Jimmy nuzzled her side.

“You are enjoying this.”

“Oh, very much so,” Max said easily, sitting back on his heels and watching her like she was a miracle he hadn’t earned.

***

It took thirty-seven minutes for the cats to fall asleep.

Thirty-seven minutes of Max smugly watching from across the couch while Ana sat stiffly, like moving might shatter the spell and result in claws to the jugular. She’d tried to nudge them off—gently, of course—but Jimmy had whined, and Sassy had tightened her grip like a barnacle on a mission.

“I think I have been adopted,” Ana muttered.

Max, stretched out beside her with a water bottle he wasn’t drinking, just grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

She shot him a look. “Say that again and I am leaving.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Excuse me?”

“You stayed through Sassy’s courtship ritual and Jimmy’s cuddle assault. You’re emotionally compromised.”

“I am not.”

Max tilted his head. “You let them stay.”

Ana scowled. “They were warm.”

“And adorable.”

“And manipulative.”

Max didn’t argue. He just leaned a little closer. “So…”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did not have to. You have that face.”

“What face?”

“The I would like to very respectfully ruin your life face.”

Max smiled slowly. “Respectfully?”

Ana looked down at the cats, both curled up like they owned her. She exhaled. “They are asleep.”

“Deeply.”

“Do you think I can move without being murdered?”

“Probably not. But,” Max said, shifting to stand and offering a hand, “I can promise you’ll die in excellent company.”

Ana hesitated. Then took his hand.

They tiptoed out of the living room like fugitives escaping a war zone.

And as soon as the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Ana turned and shoved him.

Max stumbled back, laughing. “That’s how we’re starting this?”

“Do not ever let it go to your head that your cats liked me.”

“Oh, it’s already in there. Locked in. Carved into the wall.”

Ana rolled her eyes. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, voice lower now, hands sliding to her waist, “here you are.”

She hated how easily he did that. Hated how her body leaned into his without permission.

But God, she wanted him.

She always had.

From the moment she was eighteen and overwhelmed and brilliant and he’d cornered her in that stupid Monaco nightclub with that same cocky glint in his eyes.

And he was still all sharp angles and quiet strength, his touch careful despite how badly they both wanted to shatter the silence between them.

When he kissed her, it was hungry. Familiar. Like picking up a story they’d never actually finished.

She let him press her back onto the bed. Let his hands skim up under her shirt. Let herself forget the world outside the walls of his apartment.

Because this was the thing about the thing Ana Wolff had with Max Verstappen: He was sadly the best thing she had ever found to make her brain shut the fuck up.

Just like he did now.

He kissed her, his tongue slipping into her mouth and her mind turned quiet just for a few seconds.

Calloused hands rasped over her ribs, her shirt ending up tugged over her head.

She felt the world blurring to just sensation and the solid, familiar weight of him on top of her, at once foreign and more intimate than anything else in her life.

Her hands splayed across his back, tracing the vertebrae she remembered too fucking well, and she bit his lip—not gently, because he’d like that, and because she did too.

For a moment there was only heat and friction, then Max broke away to mutter, “God, I missed this,” into her neck like it was an apology. He left a constellation of bites from her collarbone to her jaw, and the urge to say something cutting and clever dissolved under his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, pupils almost swallowing the blue, breathing hard, hair already a mess. There was too much in his expression—want, yes, but also that stubborn care that had always made her crazy.

His palm splayed over her stomach, thumb slipping under the edge of her bra. She could feel her pulse there, fluttering, and somewhere in her brain a belligerent committee was making notes about vulnerability—about letting someone in this close, with no secrets in the room except the kind that made her want him.

Ana opened her mouth to banter, to drag them both into safer ground, but he kissed her again, slow and rough at the same time, and all of her quips got lost in the static.

She raked her nails over his shoulder blades, relishing the way his muscles jumped under her touch. He growled, a real goddamn animal noise, and she laughed against his mouth, letting him tangle her legs up with his, knees knocking, nowhere left to go but closer.

He made quick work of the rest—her bra (snapped off with ridiculous, practiced efficiency), her pants (unzipped with a shrug and a wicked grin), and in a breathless, headlong landslide, she was wrapped up in him, lost to the logic she clung to everywhere else.

The meanest things about Max Verstappen was probably that he knew exactly what he was doing.

(And that he liked to be in control in all aspects of his life, from the cockpit of a racecar to the bedroom.)

And still, every time, it shocked Ana how quickly he could reduce her to a shuddering mess.

By the time he shouldered her thigh apart with broad shoulders and ducked his head between them, her back was arching and she had lost at least half her IQ points.

ana also lost her composure—left it somewhere between the rough scrape of his jaw on her thigh and his hands anchoring her, bright spots burning behind her eyelids, heat curling low and brutal.

She bit her lips to keep quiet, but Max clearly had no mercy for her pride tonight. He pressed her right to the edge, then gripped her hip with a bruising possessiveness and let her go hurtling off it.

By the time he came back up, she was gasping, limp, her face squashed into the pillow, the only words left in her vocabulary some unholy mix of Russian, German, and “oh, fuck.”

He looked triumphant and unbearably soft, somehow. His mouth gleamed, his cheeks flushed, but when he kissed her—delicately, just on the tip of her nose—he wiped it all away and started the tally again.

She may have lost count of how often she came, until finally, finally, he gave in and filled her with his cock.

The first thrust nearly undid her again. The blunt force of it, the way her knees automatically locked around his waist, the animal sound she made, half protest, half plea.

Max got into a rhythm, slow at first—smooth and clinical, like he was testing boundaries on an unfamiliar track. Then he picked up speed, gaining confidence, knowing exactly how to push her.

Ana dug her fingers into his shoulders, feeling the hard, corded muscle beneath slick skin. She tried to meet his gaze, but he was everywhere at once—pressing his forehead to her cheek, biting her collar, lacing their fingers together, pinning her arm back above her head. The precision of it would have pissed her off any other time. Now it made her want to shatter.

He drove into her, each thrust measured, relentless.

He kept the pressure up, perfect and awful, watching her come apart until Ana felt hollowed out, nerves twitching like live wires. Her head lolled to the side and her cheek stuck to the pillowcase, damp from sweat or maybe tears—she couldn’t remember the moment she’d started trembling, or if it had ever stopped.

She clamped her legs around Max’s hips, holding on for leverage, enough to give him a run for his money. He answered by shifting his angle, changing the depth, an adjustment so precise Ana could have hit him for it if she wasn’t dizzy with need. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, teeth scraping down to her shoulder.

She said something, a curse or an endearment, voice raw and unfamiliar in her own ears.

Max lost the rhythm for a half-second, just long enough for her to sense him edging closer to the line. He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest into hers,

Then he was gone, shuddering hard against her, buried deep and spilling inside the condom, every muscle straining like he could anchor himself there forever.

Max made a sound, low and almost wounded, and collapsed carefully beside her, catching himself on one forearm so he didn’t crush her flat. For a second there was nothing but the frantic, out-of-sync click of their lungs, the stinging hiss of sweat cooling on skin.

And then, after, when she was sweat-slick and fucked out and the overhead light cast little mangled halos in his sleep-ruffled hair, Ana let herself be soft. For two minutes. Three, at most. She ran her fingers through his damp waves (so unfair, him being allowed waves, on top of everything else), let him press a slow kiss to her temple, let out the kind of sigh she would never have handed over to basic oxygen.

Max shifted, rearranged, then collapsed on his stomach like he'd sprinted a marathon. "You're doing it again," he said, voice muffled by the pillow, but she could hear the smile.

"You have to be more specific," Ana replied. "I have done a lot of things. Just now."

He grunted. "Thinking too loud."

"And you call yourself a world-class driver." She rolled to her side, propped up on an elbow. "Shouldn't you be better at filtering out background noise?”

"What does that say about your technique?" Max said, not bothering to open his eyes. He was already halfway back to sleep. Typical. Ana considered poking him in the ribs, but her limbs felt boneless and pleasant, like she’d been wrung out and left to dry.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Lando: Come out Let’s go clubbing You, me, some tequila, some girls who pretend to know what DRS is 😎

Max: No thanks

Lando: No thanks?? Are you feeling okay? Blink twice if you're being held hostage by your cats

Max: I’m just tired Long day Not really in the mood for noise and fake eyelashes tonight

Lando: You used to thrive on fake eyelashes Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen

Max: Maybe I’ve evolved You ever think of that?

Lando: No, because you're not a Pokémon You sure you're not secretly dating someone? 👀

Max: 🙄

Lando: Oh my god you ARE You’ve gone soft You’re probably watching a documentary with her right now and petting a cat

Max: You say that like it’s a bad thing

Lando: Who is she

Max: Goodnight, Lando.

Lando: You’re the worst A mysterious, emotionally unavailable simp I hope your cats step on your sim pedals

***

Text Messages: Daniel Ricciardo & Lando Norris

Lando: bro be honest do you know if Max has a girlfriend?

Daniel: 👀 why?

Lando: he won’t come out he won’t party he won’t even look at women

Daniel: 😭😭😭 oh young grasshopper you have no idea

Daniel: Max Verstappen has been emotionally unavailable since 2016 maybe even earlier he is the Formula 1 of repression fast, cold, and never explains himself

Lando: so that’s a yes???

Daniel: that’s a “there’s a story i could tell you but i value my life” so no no girlfriend but also yes kind of in a weird, tragic, slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they, psychological drama sort of way

Lando: what the actual hell

Daniel: exactly. good luck 🍀

***

Twitter Thread: Ana Wolff’s rare red carpet appearance

@/f1redcarpet: 🟦🖤 SPOTTED: Dr. Anastasia Wolff makes a rare public appearance at the #F1Academy Netflix premiere in London. The notoriously private Mercedes systems engineer stunned in black, posed briefly for cameras (read: 7 seconds), then retreated to the sidelines with her little brother Jack in tow. #F1 #AnaWolff #WolffPack

📸📸📸

@/tirewarmerslut: if i were ana wolff i too would hide behind an 8-year-old. queen of calculated discomfort

@/brackleyfiles: her face says “I hate being perceived” but her dress says “I will dismantle you emotionally and technically”

@/susiesearring: the way she’s just… standing there like she’s mentally reciting torque ratios to survive relatable content honestly

@/f1archivegirls: Ana Wolff has the vibe of someone who didn’t want to be there, is there, but only for someone she loves and that? that’s more powerful than any glam shot

@/pitlanecryptid: her facial expression was “I could be solving hybrid cooling inconsistencies right now” and honestly? relatable

@/chicaneheart: Ana Wolff really said “fine I’ll show up but I’ll emotionally disassociate the entire time in couture” and that’s art

@/brackleyfiles: me @ Toto Wolff: how did you make a daughter who looks like that and acts like an algorithm with abandonment issues

@/F1DailyTea: 🚨 STOP THE PRESSES. Ana Wolff just gave a quote. To the actual press. On purpose. Asked about F1 Academy and the premiere, she said:

“I don’t usually do red carpets, but Susie asked. And I’m very proud of her. What she’s built here matters.”

Then she walked away and went back to standing with her little brother.

A moment of silence for everyone emotionally unprepared.

@/gridsidegoblin: ANA WOLFF SPOKE. AND IT WAS SINCERE. AND ABOUT SUSIE. and I may never recover

@/motormindsblog: She really said: "I don’t do this. But I’ll do it for her." And now I’m crying in carbon-neutral lighting.

@/paddockhaunts: genuinely. what makes this hit so hard is knowing how rare it is. ana wolff doesn’t do statements. doesn’t do feelings. doesn’t do being seen. but she did this. because Susie matters to her. and that’s everything.

@/gridburnttoast: her voice was so quiet. she said “i’m very proud of her” like she meant every syllable and then immediately bee-lined to jack like he was her handler i want to cry

@/gridsidegoblin: The way Ana smiled at Susie on the carpet???

Not just a smile. Like. A genuine moment of warmth.

If I didn’t see it myself I’d accuse someone of deepfake editing.

@/gridtensionarchive: the way Toto beamed at Ana after she gave that quote??

@/verstappensburner: funniest part of the night was Toto very proudly standing beside Ana for photos while Ana looked like she was trying to figure out if she could hide behind a decorative fern

***

Leicester Square, England - 27 May 2025

Susie Wolff didn’t cry at public events.

Not during grid interviews, not when she was passed over for roles she’d earned twice over, and certainly not when she was being handed microphones by Netflix executives with slightly too-white teeth.

But there was something about seeing Ana standing near the entrance—in heels, in a dress, in the kind of atmosphere Ana normally avoided like it was a contagious disease—that made Susie’s throat tighten unexpectedly.

Ana didn’t look particularly comfortable, mind you.

Ana was tucked to the side, one hand in the pocket of a perfectly tailored black dress, her blonde hair pulled back into something sleek and minimal. She looked more like a very intimidating government agent than an engineer. And she was—very clearly—pretending not to exist.

Her posture was defensive, wary, like she was expecting someone to ask what she was doing there and demand credentials.

But she’d come.

Not for Netflix. Not for branding. Certainly not for herself.

She came for Susie.

A quiet pulse of emotion pushed behind Susie’s ribs.

Jack had a grip on Ana‘s hand like he was never letting go.

And Toto was standing nearby, watching the two of them with a kind of quiet fondness that always softened the stern edges of his face.

Susie hadn’t expect Ana to come.

She had extended the invitation, of course. Sent the formal email, then followed up with a casual message—"No pressure, but it would mean a lot to me".

Ana was… complicated. All ironclad logic and precise distance. A girl raised in the shadows of other people's mistakes, who never asked for attention and recoiled from anything that felt like sentiment.

Susie loved her anyway.

From the moment she had first met her, when Ana had still been a lanky teenager, knee deep into her A-Levels. Quiet and sharply intelligent behind the dark eyes she had inherited from Toto and the kind of mile high walls that Susie didn’t think she was ever going to scale.

Susie had figured Ana would plead engine simulations or “priority dyno data” or some Brackley-related excuse that sounded vaguely plausible but was really just a soft way of saying: this isn’t my thing, Susie. I don’t belong on red carpets.

But still there she was. Hair up. Black dress. Uncomfortable expression barely softened by makeup.

—and Jack tugging on her sleeve with excitement, like he couldn’t believe his big sister was actually here—

Susie felt her throat catch.

Susie stepped closer. She didn’t want to make it a thing—God forbid she emote and scare Ana off—but still, she touched Ana’s arm lightly.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, gently.

Ana didn’t look at her right away. “You invited me.”

“That doesn’t usually mean much,” Susie said with a small smile. “Still. Thank you.”

Tonight she was here. For this. For her.

And that meant something.

“I’m proud of you,” Ana said suddenly, quietly, as if saying it louder would make it too real. “For the series. For the girls. For making something from scratch that actually… matters.”

Susie blinked hard. “Thank you,” she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.

And Ana, who could rewire an engine mid-meltdown but had never known what to do with love freely given, just nodded once.

Like it was no big thing.

Behind them, Toto gave her a knowing look. Jack beamed like he’d just won a championship.

Susie didn’t need a whole Netflix documentary to feel like she’d won tonight.

She had this.

***

Text Messages: George Russell & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

George: Saw you at the F1 Academy premiere last night 👀 You looked great. Really elegant. Didn’t know you did red carpets now 😊

George: Was nice seeing you there with your family. I’ve always thought you should be more visible. You’ve got so much to offer—not just the brains 😉 Maybe next time we could go together?

Ana: I attended for Susie.

George: Of course! Just thought it was really nice seeing you out like that. It suits you, being in the spotlight a bit more.

Ana: It doesn’t. I don’t like spotlights. Or cameras.

George: Just meant you’re too brilliant to stay in the background. You could be… warmer, sometimes. Just a thought.

Ana: I wasn’t asking for thoughts. Good night.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max: 👀 Look at you. Red carpet. Heels. A smile. Who are you and what have you done with my favourite emotionally avoidant engineer?

Ana: Shut up.

Max: No really. I’m impressed. Did you survive all the small talk without spontaneous combustion?

Ana: I only went because Susie asked. It was important to her.

Max: That’s what makes it impressive. You hate this kind of thing. And you still showed up. For her.

Max: You looked good, you know. Uncomfortable as hell. But good.

Ana: It was a dress. It had pockets. Let’s not make this a thing.

Max: It’s already a thing. There are Twitter accounts thirsting over your boobs.

Ana: I will personally reroute your cooling system into your cockpit if you don’t stop.

Max: You’re threatening me. 🥰 All is right in the world.

Max: Seriously though. I’m proud of you.

Ana: I didn’t do it for them. I did it for her.

Max: I know. Doesn’t make it any less impressive. Or any less you.

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: alright boys we have a mission 🕵️‍♂️ Operation: who tf is Max Verstappen dating

Oscar: ??? Is he dating someone?

Carlos: Wait, he told you that?

Lando: nope. that’s the problem. he hasn’t told anyone which means: he’s definitely dating someone because he's acting weird

Daniel: he’s been acting weird since 2017 this is not new behavior

Oscar: Define weird

Lando:

won’t go out

stares at his phone with soft eyes

left a sim stream session early

SAID NO TO CLUBBING IN MONACO

Carlos: Okay that last one is suspicious

Daniel: he left a sim session early??? what did he say?

Lando: said he had “dinner plans” with WHO??

Oscar: maybe he’s just growing up

Lando: no one grows up that fast it’s a girlfriend has to be

Carlos: Maybe he’s seeing a therapist

Lando: if it is a girlfriend she has to be terrifying or a literal ghost or both maybe it’s a celebrity someone from like Dancing With the Stars Monaco Edition

Oscar:How would he meet one??

Carlos: Through Helmut probably. That’s how all terrifying things begin.

Daniel: Listen. I know things. But I also know silence = survival So I will only say this: She’s real She’s brilliant She’s a little scary And Max is so far gone it’s adorable

Lando: WHO IS SHE

Daniel: Can’t say Won’t say Would like to live Enjoy the puzzle 🧩

Lando: lies. betrayal. treason. you're protecting him

Carlos: I cannot believe I opened this chat

Lando: I need eyes, ears, and espionage Carlos, you're in the Williams garage. Observe. Report. Seduce if necessary. Oscar. He talks to you. Find his weaknesses. Daniel. spill. the. beans.

Daniel: I told him I wouldn’t say anything. Also, she’d end me.

Lando: YOU’VE MET HER????

Daniel: ...🤐

Oscar: This is a disaster.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 28 May 2025

Toto knew the lights would still be on.

He found Lorelai—Ana’s long-suffering PA and the unofficial gatekeeper to most things involving paperwork, sanity, and nuclear-grade scheduling—outside Ana’s office, clutching a mug of peppermint tea like it was the last line of defence between herself and meltdown.

Toto raised an eyebrow. “How is she?”

Lorelai didn’t look up. Just sipped and muttered, “She’s in a mood.”

That didn’t bode well.

“I need her signature on the updated testing proposal.”

Lorelai tilted her head toward the office door with the heavy sympathy of someone who had tried. “Enter at your own risk.”

Toto knocked once, then opened the door.

He wasn’t sure what he expected—furious typing, perhaps, or a pit wall model spread out across every surface—but it definitely wasn’t Ana standing stiffly by her desk, yanking at the collar of her team polo like it had personally insulted her.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Her back was half-turned, one hand pressed to her collarbone, rubbing slightly—quick and sharp, not quite scratching, but urgent, like she was trying to erase something that wasn’t there.

He cleared his throat lightly.

Ana looked up, startled but not embarrassed. Just... tense. Her eyes darted to his hand, where he was holding a folder.

“Need something?” she asked.

“Only a signature,” he said, stepping in, holding out the folder. “Unless you’re actively engaged in hand-to-hand combat with your clothes.”

She huffed. “Something like that.”

He handed her the folder, and she set it on the desk with a pen, but didn’t open it right away.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fine.”

That tone again. That clipped, cool precision she used when she didn’t want to explain something. He knew it well. He’d heard it since she was eight years old and refusing to eat mashed potatoes that were the wrong texture.

“You’ve never liked those polos,” he said, trying for casual.

Ana gave a humorless breath. “They’re polyester. They feel like sandpaper dipped in hot glue.”

Toto blinked.

“Wait. Is this a... material thing?”

She glanced at him now, properly. Calm. Unsurprised.

“I have sensory issues, Papa,” she said, dry. “That wasn’t a childhood phase.”

“You still have that,” he said quietly. “The sensitivity.”

Ana rolled her eyes, but the motion was tight.

“It’s not seasonal hay fever. “It doesn’t disappear because I work 80-hour weeks and carry three engineering departments on my back.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she interrupted. “You’re surprised.”

Toto exhaled. “I just haven’t seen it in a long time.”

“That’s because I’ve spent most of my adult life designing around it.” Her tone wasn’t angry—just tired. The kind of weariness that comes from making a thousand invisible accommodations.

He sat down across from her, slowly. “You never said anything.”

He thought back. To the childhood tantrums over tights. The ripped-off school uniforms. The way she always changed into pyjamas the second she got home, even as a teenager. He’d chalked it up to stubbornness. Drama. Even control.

He’d never thought: maybe the world just hurts her more than it hurts us.

She tugged at the polo again, lifting the hem to reveal a thin cotton tank underneath.

“I have to wear something under it or I can’t think straight,” she muttered. “The seams scratch my ribs. The tag makes my neck itch for hours. Last year’s version was worse—I nearly fed it to the wind tunnel.”

Toto blinked. “Why didn’t you request a different cut?”

She gave a small shrug. “Didn’t want to explain it to procurement. Or PR. Or the junior engineers who’d suddenly wonder why I get a different kit. I didn’t want to be that person.”

“Because I didn’t want to explain it to the procurement team,” she muttered. “Or to the junior engineers. Or to the women in marketing who already think I’m difficult because I won’t do branded Instagram posts in heels. Or anyone. I didn’t want them thinking I was difficult.”

“You’re the reason we’re ahead of schedule on a 2026 engine, Ana. You can ask for a different shirt.”

She huffed. “I know. But still.”

He looked at her then — really looked.

Brilliant. Controlled. Composed.

And still, at 27 years old, quietly managing a body that turned against her over collar seams and fabric blends.

Toto reached for the polo where she’d dropped it.

“Let me take care of this,” he said.

Ana raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to… what? Redesign the team kit?”

“I’m the CEO. I can approve a variation. No one’s going to bat an eye if you wear something different. Especially if the alternative is you walking around feeling like your skin is on fire.”

“I’ve managed this long.”

“And you shouldn’t have had to.”

That, oddly, made her pause.

She didn’t get teary. Ana never did. But her expression shifted — just slightly. The kind of crack that showed up in winter steel after too many years of pressure.

“Don’t make a thing out of it,” she said.

“I’m not,” Toto said, gently. “I’m just making it better.”

***

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 29 May 2025

The house was quiet, lights low, the kind of silence that only happened when neither of them was traveling and no engineers were texting after midnight.

Susie sat at the kitchen table, hair pulled back, sipping herbal tea. The newspaper was folded beside her, unread.

Toto dropped into the chair across from her, exhaling slowly. Like the day had finally caught up to him.

She looked at him. “That’s the sigh of a man who found something surprising.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just rubbed his hands over his face and said, “I found Ana half-out of her team polo today.”

Susie blinked. “...I’m sorry?”

“She was pulling it off. Said the fabric felt like glue and sandpaper.” Toto muttered.

Susie raised an eyebrow.

“She said she wears a cotton tank underneath every time. Otherwise she can’t think straight.” He paused. “And I realized… I had no idea she still struggles like that.”

Now Susie just stared at him.

Toto frowned. “What?”

She set down her mug, leaned back in her chair.

“Toto. She has autism. You don’t grow out of that.”

The words hit with a kind of softness that still managed to sting.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “I know. I just—she’s so…”

“High-functioning?” Susie offered, gently.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I thought she just… learned to manage it.”

“She does manage it,” Susie said gently. “Every day. Every hour. That doesn’t mean it goes away.”

He sat down at the breakfast table, suddenly remembering all the little things he’d filed away under eccentricity.

The way Ana flinched at fire alarms even as a teenager.

How she never wore anything new without washing it three times first.

The exact way she layered her clothes before flights — soft inner shirt, always cotton, tags snipped.

The way she never, ever went shopping unless she had to.

“She always hated clothes shopping,” he murmured.

Susie snorted. “She still does. Last time we went, she walked through three stores and bought nothing. Said every shirt was too stiff, or the neckline was too wide, or the sleeves hit the wrong part of her wrist.”

Toto smiled, a little helplessly. “I never saw that side of her.”

“She doesn’t show you,” Susie said. “Because you’re the one she’s still trying to prove herself to.”

That landed like a pin dropped into silence.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Susie said softly. “But she doesn’t need to prove anything. Not to you. Not to anyone. Least of all over a bloody polyester shirt.”

Toto sighed. “I offered to change the team kit.”

“She’d rather claw her own skin off than admit she needs that. Just make it happen. Quietly.”

He nodded.

***

Email Subject: 2025–2026 Staff Apparel Revision

From: Toto Wolff <[email protected]> To: Team Kit Procurement <[email protected]> CC: Claire Hammond (HR), Marcus Reidl (Design Lead)

Dear all,

Ahead of our apparel review cycle for next season, I’d like to formally request some specific adjustments to the standard apparel offerings.

Please ensure the following:

All future team shirts (polos, base layers, technical wear) are available in soft, tagless cotton-blend options as an alternative to the standard polyester versions.

Seam placement and inner lining should be reviewed for individuals with tactile sensitivity.

Ensure at least one collarless option is available.

All garments must be pre-washed or pre-softened during production before distribution.

Additionally, I would appreciate if one of these adjusted prototypes could be expedited internally for review.

This is not a general request. Please treat it as a priority adjustment and handle with discretion.

No external announcement is required. If you need clarification, contact me directly.

Regards, Toto Wolff CEO & Team Principal Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

amelie.procurement: uh did anyone else just get that email from… Toto Wolff?

matt.merchandise: yes yes I did and I am now questioning all of my life choices, starting with why I work in motorsport textiles

sara.branding: “tactile sensitivity” “pre-softened cotton-blend” “seam placement” OH GOD WHO DID WE UPSET

matt.merchandise: no because why is he asking about TAGLESS SHIRTS this isn’t “we made a driver itchy” energy this is “someone he loves flinched in a shirt” energy

amelie.procurement: what if this is about Ana she never wears the standard polos properly she always has that tank top on under it every time I’ve seen her she looks like she wants to punch the sleeves

jess.hr: wait WAIT IS THIS “papa wolff” level protection

sam.transmission: you’re telling me Toto Wolff is quietly reorganizing the entire apparel system because Ana hates polyester???

kayleigh.powerunit: …respectfully iconic behavior

Ellie.electronics: also can we talk about how none of us like the current shirts either?? they’re stiff. they get hot. the zips are aggressive.

lucy.comms: Ana Wolff: suffers in silence for 2 years Toto: snaps one day and burns the teamwear to the ground

Liam.eng-lead: so do we think she asked or like he noticed

nicola.sim: she definitely didn’t ask. she probably rolled her eyes and called it “a textile-based sensory hell” and walked off

amelie.procurement: i am just saying if my dad wrote an email with the words "tactile sensitivity" on my behalf i would crawl into the floor but also cry from gratitude

liam.engine: final verdict: Papa Wolff saw his daughter having a meltdown in a polyester polo and declared war

lorelai.pa: hi yes can confirm she did not ask for the change she was actively trying to rip the polo off in her office while whispering death threats to it Toto walked in. Silence. Eye contact. Five minutes later I got the Outlook ping and a migraine I’m calling it “a win for my sanity”

benjy.data: final FINAL verdict: Thank you Ana Queen of Soft Fabrics Deliverer of Cotton Options Protector of Intern Skin

#max verstappen fanfiction #formula 1 #max verstappen #max verstappen smau #max verstappen fic #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #max verstappen fluff #mv1 fanfiction #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fake instagram #f1 smau #max verstappen social media au #max verstappen x reader #mv1 x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #mv1 fic #f1 grid fanfiction

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vanteguccir · 2 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤICE CREAM AND... MCDONALD'S? * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where Chris has the flu, and Y/N is just a caring, very much worried, ambitious girlfriend.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x billionaire!reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　the flu symptoms, mentions of drugs and cigarettes (not the use of it).

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: yes, I am obsessed with sick fics, so what? 😔✋🏻

A/N³: had this idea out of nowhere and had to write it and post it as soon as I could, hope yall like it 🫶🏻

"He still has that cough." Y/N muttered, mostly to herself but loud enough that it drifted over to the dining table.

She stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves of her oversized hoodie bunched up at her elbows, two black mugs lined up in front of her on the marble counter. Her hair was pulled back in a messy claw clip that had started the day cute and functional but now looked like it was holding on for dear life.

The kettle on the stove let out a soft whistle, not even loud enough to startle her anymore. She had become one with this kitchen over the last three days.

Nick, hunched over his laptop with a pair of headphones around his neck, paused his frantic clicking, and turned his attention toward her.

"He still sounds like that?"

She sighed, pulling two tea bags out of the little ceramic jar labeled 'TEA BAGS' in cursive gold lettering.

"Yeah. And it’d probably be fine by now if he’d just take the damn medicine, but no, he’s insisting he doesn’t need or want it."

Nick raised his eyebrows.

"Wait, he said that?"

Y/N snorted, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain overworking itself inside her head.

"Well, he whined a lot more and said he was super fine with the black bags under his eyes and his voice sounding like he gargled gravel, but yes, he did."

She stared down at the tea, watching the little satchels bloom like sad underwater jellyfish. The minty-chamomile blend was her last hope. It was her fifth attempt at getting something gentle but powerful into Chris’s system since actual medicine was very obviously out of the question.

Matt, flopped across the couch in white socks and a grey set of sweats, didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Have you tried bribing him with ice cream? Or like, getting him McDonald's? That used to work when we were sick."

Nick turned his upper body so he was facing the living room, sending Matt a look, face contorting like he just stepped in something wet while wearing socks.

"You know that he's twenty-one, right? Not five."

Y/N stopped swirling the tea bag in the mug, blinking slowly like something in Matt’s words had just flipped a very important switch in her brain.

"Wait... you think that would work?"

But she didn’t even wait for his answer. She turned on her heels and looked at the little black Alexa speaker sitting innocently by the sink, nestled between a small fake cactus and a fruit bowl that had become purely decorative.

"Alexa." She rasped. "Send a text to my assistant."

Nick’s eyes flicked up warily from his laptop, while Matt perked up slightly on the couch.

"Sure." Came the calm, emotionless voice of the AI. "What would you like the message to say?"

Y/N stretched on her tiptoes to reach the upper cupboard, grabbing the small jar of honey and balancing it against her hip.

"Tell her to buy McDonalds." She paused to pour a bit of the sugary liquid into each tea mug. "Like... the company."

There was a beat of absolute stunned silence behind her.

"I want majority shareholder status by the end of the week."

"Sending message." Alexa said back.

The silence hung in the air for a moment before a clang echoed from behind her, the sound of something solid crashing onto the hardwood floor.

Y/N flinched, startled.

"Fuck, Y/N-" Matt’s voice burst out, filled with panic, getting down to rescue his fallen phone. "That’s not what I meant. Do not buy McDonald's. Buy Chris some McDonald's."

Y/N snorted.

Then giggled.

"Alexa, unsend the message." Nick said flatly, dragging a hand over his face.

Y/N’s snickers turned into full-blown, exhausted laughter as she leaned against the counter to keep herself upright.

"Damn, I need sleep." She muttered, rubbing at her temple with the hand not holding the spoon. "You’d think I’d have, like, immunity to sleep-deprivation at this point."

She looked tired. Not just tired-tired. Worn out.

Her eye-bags had eye-bags.

Nick gave a dramatic sigh.

"A sick Chris is worse than any other thing in the world. Doesn’t matter what."

He was right.

Reading about 19th-century social commentary while negotiating multi-million-dollar branding contracts for a company she was supposed to one day inherit? Weirdly kind of relaxing.

Peaceful, even.

But trying to get her very sick and very stubborn boyfriend to take a pill of Ibuprofen?

That was war.

Y/N rolled her eyes, soft and fond.

"Yeah, yeah." She mumbled under her breath, grabbing a spoon from the dish drainer and stirring both mugs with small, circular movements. The herbs swirled lazily, flecks of mint and chamomile dancing around.

With a little flick, she tossed the spoon into the sink, where it clattered with a delicate ping, and then wrapped both hands around the warm mugs, one in each palm.

The ceramic heat sank into her skin, making her feel marginally more alive. Only just. The bar was very low.

She turned toward the living room.

"Alright." She started, voice soft and determined. "I’m gonna go try to tame the beast again."

Matt chuckled, already half-absorbed in whatever TikTok rabbit hole he was spiraling into.

"Good luck with that."

Nick, still typing with eyes full of focus, looked up just as she passed him.

"Y/N."

She stopped, glancing down at him.

He met her eyes with that older-brother gaze he always had when he was being serious in a way that made you feel like maybe you should sit down.

"Get your boyfriend his meds." He said simply. "And go to sleep."

"I will." She promised easily, nodding once.

But the look Nick gave her in response was pointed. She could almost listen to his thoughts.

'Sure you will. I’ve known you long enough to know you’re lying through your teeth, and you still think you can get away with it.'

Y/N glanced over at Matt, silently begging for backup.

He didn’t even glance up.

She sighed dramatically, being careful with the mugs.

"Okay, fine. I’ll lay down, at least."

Not that she’d be able to actually sleep. That was cute.

She wouldn’t rest until Chris was okay. No more raspy coughing fits, no more dark circles, no more stubborn fake-smile when she asked how he was feeling, and he tried to act like he wasn’t dying from the inside out.

Not until his dumb sick self was back to being his usual healthy, annoying, clingy boyfriend again.

Sleep could wait.

Chris couldn’t.

Y/N elbowed open the wooden door to Chris's room with both hands full. The scent of honey chamomile from the tea drifted upward, somehow mixing with the faint traces of boy-sickness that lingered in the air.

The room was dim, lit only by the laptop at the foot of the bed that was precariously balancing on a pillow and playing SpongeBob episodes with way too much volume.

SpongeBob’s high-pitched squealing made her wince.

Chris was bundled under a mountain of blankets twisted and kicked and cocooned around his curled-up body. His nose was flushed red and slightly crusted, his lips parted from mouth breathing, and his eyes were half-closed, eyelashes clumped together with exhaustion and, possibly, tears.

He looked miserable.

Pathetically adorable, but miserable.

Y/N’s heart cracked a little. She hadn’t seen him this sick since... well, ever, actually. Chris usually bounced back fast, too stubborn and hyperactive to stay down. But right now?

He was down bad.

"Jesus." She muttered under her breath with a wince, approaching the bedside table and carefully lowering both mugs onto it.

She nudged a ridiculous mound of dirty tissues out of the way with the side of her hand, grimacing a bit. Then she turned to him and crouched slightly so she was eye level with his flushed, pillow-smashed face.

"Hey, baby." She said gently, brushing some of his sweaty curls back from his forehead, stuck to his skin like limp noodles. "It’s time for some tea and drugs."

Chris groaned low in his throat, cracking one eye open, glassy, and annoyed at being awake.

The dramatic "I’M READY! I’M READY!" from SpongeBob blasted from the laptop just then, making both of them jump slightly. Y/N leaned over and turned the volume down with a sigh.

"I know, baby, I know." She said soothingly, her fingers carding through his damp hair again as she perched gently on the edge of the bed. "But you have to take the cough medicine. It’s gonna help, okay?"

Chris just rolled his eyes dramatically and let out a congested whine, turning his face into the pillow with the exaggerated act of a toddler refusing vegetables.

Y/N raised an unimpressed brow.

"Christopher."

Another groan. This one was more theatrical.

"Come on, don’t make me beg." She muttered, already reaching for the bottle of cold meds sitting on the bedside table.

She helped him sit up straighter - he was all floppy and uncoordinated, poor thing - and grabbed the smaller mug.

"Look, I’ll... I’ll bring you some ice cream." She tried, a little desperate.

That seemed to perk him up. His eyes, still red-rimmed and watery, locked on hers with the tiniest glint of curiosity.

"I got a... notification." He rasped, voice thick and gravelly like someone who’d smoked cigars for 40 years. "From Alexa. Said you told Lila to buy McDonald’s." His words dissolved into a fit of coughs, chest rattling as he leaned away from her instinctively.

Y/N winced but didn’t move to help yet. Both hands were full, and Chris's coughs were like a mini hurricane. When he finally settled, she tilted her head and gave him an innocent smile.

"I mean... yeah. I was just buying some McDonald’s." She said sweetly, as if they both didn’t know she meant the company, not a happy meal.

Chris stared at her with a look that screamed disbelief.

"You know Nick would kill you, right?"

Y/N rolled her eyes.

"He’s so dramatic. It’s an investment."

"You wanted to buy it because I wouldn’t take cold meds." He pointed out dryly.

She gently shoved the Ibuprofen pill into his hand with a little shrug and held out his tea.

"Details."

"Baby." He sighed, dramatically dragging out the 'Y'.

"Pill. Mouth. Now." She said, way too gently, guiding his hand toward his face. She watched him put the medicine in his mouth and then gave him the mug, making sure he sipped enough to swallow it down completely.

Only when she saw him wince at the aftertaste and scrunch up his nose - adorable - did she visibly relax a little.

"Was that so hard?" She asked with a grin, brushing his hair off his forehead again.

He narrowed his eyes at her, clearly suspicious of her cheeriness.

Then, after a beat, she asked, voice sheepish and teasing.

"Would you, like... want the whole McDonald’s? For yourself? ‘Cause I could-"

Chris groaned, dragging the blanket over his face like she was the problem now.

"I’m sick, not hallucinating." He mumbled from under it.

Y/N giggled, scooting up closer to him on the bed and gently tugging the blanket back down from over his nose.

"You’re used to this by now."

"Unfortunately." He deadpanned, but the little twitch of his lips gave him away.

Y/N just smiled, nudging the still full mug of his tea that he forced to her hands seconds before.

"Sip a bit more, okay? And then I’ll go get you some ice cream. Or like, some McDonald’s. Your choice."

Chris blinked at her, exhausted but undeniably soft, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy to fight her.

Instead, he just muttered.

"You’re insane."

Y/N leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to his temple, her voice all melted sugar and sleep-deprived affection.

"Love you too, baby."

Chris didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He just leaned into her touch with a tiny sigh and took another sip of tea, letting her warmth and the scent of chamomile wrap around him like a blanket.

For now, the beast was tamed.

And she’d definitely earned that ice cream.

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posh--bee · 2 months ago

Text

i'm losing it (all i get is jealousy, jealousy) || Aaron Hotchner

pairing → Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary → You're out on a Friday night, sitting around a table in a cozy bar, enjoying your fruity drink and the presence of your newfound friends in the form of your father's team. But then Derek just has to open his mouth and ruin your night when he mentions her.

warnings → fem!reader, rossi!reader, reader has rossi's last name, (unspecified) age gap, reader being pretty self-deprecating here oopsieee (anxiety, keep on tryin' me…), Spencer and Beth mentioned as romantic interests for reader and Aaron, jealousy jealousy~, misunderstandings, they're still head over heels for each other, but don't talk about it, Spencer being an absolute sweetheart, no y/n used

author's note → This part started out as a kind of prelude to my actual idea for part 2—the gala. But then this scene just developed a life of its own and I decided to just make the cut to really be able to focus on the gala in the next part. A huge thank you to everyone who read, liked, reblogged and commented on the first part!! 💕 I appreciate each and every single interaction so much and it's such a huge motivation to keep me writing because I simply cannot operate on internal motivation alone. That being said, I had so much fun writing this part so let me know what you think about it!^^ I hope you like it <3 (Title, obviously, from "jealousy, jealousy" by Olivia Rodrigo.)

word count → 4.6k

masterlist(s)

series masterlist || part 1 - ⋆part 2⋆ - part 3 coming soon-ish :3

It's a busy Friday night in November for the little bar tucked away in a corner of the city's Downtown district, the bell above the front door tinkling gently every other minute as people exit and enter the cozy but slightly stuffy establishment.

The soft sound of the melting ice cubes clinking against the glass of your drink is almost drowned out by the buzzing atmosphere of the bar as you absentmindedly stir the watered-down remainder of your once fruity and colorful cocktail. You hear the sound of car tires rolling over the wet pavement outside as the door opens again and it seamlessly blends with the ambiance of the bar—music playing over ancient speakers hidden in the corners of the room, people talking and laughing loudly, cheerfully, glasses clinking faintly and chairs scraping over the already worn floor.

Your cheeks are not only warm and glowing from the temperature inside the bar, bravely fighting off the chill from beyond the old brick walls, but also from the alcohol in your system that makes you feel pleasantly buzzed and relaxed. You make yourself even more comfortable on the—admittedly pretty hard and bum-numbing—bench you're sitting on, accidentally nudging Emily next to you who immediately retaliates by playfully shoving you back, a huge grin on her face.

You stick your tongue out at her, giggling at the betrayed face she makes as her hands fly up to her heart—but the rest of her dramatic display is immediately lost on you when you catch sight of Aaron from across the table, listening to something Spencer is animatedly explaining to him, and your stomach does a lovesick little flip.

Tonight, instead of his usual suits and button-downs he's dressed in a black polo shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans, and when he walked through the bar's door earlier this evening you spontaneously forgot how to breathe. It's embarrassing how something as simple as casual clothes can make your heart stutter in your chest when it comes to him, but you can't help it. Especially when his strong arms usually hidden by long-sleeved shirts and suit jackets are shamelessly on display for your viewing pleasure, his forearms casually resting on the table with his fingers interlocked loosely, drawing your eyes to them like a desperate moth to a forbidden flame.

The dim light of the bar only accentuates his handsome and sharp features, the smile lines at the corners of his mouth and the crow's feet around his eyes a beautiful constant of his face at the moment. If you're not careful you could probably drown in the gentle warmth of his brown irises.

Of course, as it was bound to happen eventually, Aaron catches you staring at him so openly, his kind eyes suddenly locked with your startled ones and you quickly duck your head in mortification, heat crawling up your neck, your cheeks and ears already on fire.

It's been four months since the pool incident, the I almost kissed my father's friend and boss I only just met after making him fall in the pool with me incident, and since then these completely inconvenient and utterly inappropriate feelings you caught for Aaron that very day haunt you relentlessly, persistently, only getting stronger with each and every time you see him again.

You cringe inwardly, the whole day burned into your mind forever, the memory of it all still painfully vivid, especially of your inexcusable and humiliating behavior, and the urge to just slip underneath the table and hide there until the end of time gets overwhelming for a moment. You hope your face doesn't show the embarrassment and regret welling up inside of you as the memories from that day replay in your mind for the millionth time, as if you didn't already spend these last few months obsessing over what had happened—dissecting every single word spoken between the two of you, analyzing and weighing even the slightest change of Aaron's expressions and tone until it's the middle of the night and you're half delirious with the lack of sleep.

You're not sure what your overthinking mind tries to archive with this, except torture you during your waking hours and curse you with anxious insomnia at nighttime, making you embarrass yourself in front of Aaron again and again whenever you see him now, stumbling over your words and acting like a lovesick school girl with a cute but laughable little crush.

It would be almost adorable if it weren't so ridiculously sad.

Because, in the end, all you'll ever be to him is that—his friend's daughter who caught completely inappropriate feelings for him and doesn't know how to deal with them like an adult.

You're too young for him, too inexperienced, too immature. Anxious and naive, plain and uninteresting, book-smart at best with no experience of how the real world actually works.

Spoiled and never had to work for all the nice and expensive things in life that you experience and own, not with a father as well off as yours.

Your doctorate a pretty little achievement to show off now and then but amounting to nothing in the grand scheme of things, in the world outside your fancy lab and brilliantly white lab coat. You hide behind your microscopes day in, day out, behind your Petri dishes and test tubes, behind your statistics and test results, comfortably able to overlook the fact that in the end, you're dealing with death, the oftentimes brutal loss of human life—the life of a real person—while there are people like Aaron and your father and the rest of their team out there, risking their lives, their mental well-being to bring peace to the bereaved, haunting these monsters that stole the rest of their entire lives from their victims. These agents work tirelessly, traveling all over the country at a moment's notice, spending their days and nights away from home solving cases no one else but them could, one more dangerous and complex than the next, and not stopping before they do, without complaining, without expecting anything in return.

But you? You simply come home after a day of work to your cozy and spacious apartment that you only found and are able to afford because of your father, slipping on mismatched fuzzy socks and a shirt and pajama pants whose patterns clash mercilessly, eating frozen pre-made meals or take-out food more often than not while turning off your brain in front of the TV or your laptop screen, drinking the expensive wine your dad bought out of mugs because your dishwasher is broken and you didn't have the energy to wash the dishes for multiple days in a row.

It's painfully obvious that Aaron and you live in completely different worlds, your lives ridiculously incompatible, so it doesn't come as a surprise that all your overthinking and obsessing and dissecting only ever leads to one final conclusion—

You will never be good enough for Aaron Hotchner.

As much as it hurts to admit this, your heart clenches painfully whenever you have to remind yourself of this inescapable fact—when the wishful thinking and the juvenile daydreaming become a little too self-indulgent—you know it's the truth.

And the sooner you and your hopelessly romantic little heart can make peace with it the better. Because whatever you thought he saw in you or felt for you that perfect summer day was only an illusion, a trick your overactive mind played on you so cruelly. Someone like Aaron Hotchner could never reciprocate your silly feelings for him, the spark you imagined igniting between the two of you back then was merely a sad one-sided, and completely inappropriate infatuation. You probably didn't look entirely unappealing in your skimpy little bikini that clung to your wet and glowing skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination, so at least you didn't make up everything you thought happened that day, the brief flicker of attraction in his eyes as they roamed over your naked skin flattering and enough to send your heart into a frenzy, but ultimately meaningless, an involuntary and wholly physical reaction of his. And you know better than to let it go to your head; your reflection—plain and boring and strikingly average—setting you right when it pointedly stares back at you in the mirror as you study it on any normal day.

It really comes as no surprise then that after the whole pool incident, Aaron kept a deliberate distance from you whenever the two of you would meet afterwards, still smiling at you cordially, asking about your new job, your new apartment, your research, but never talking to you on your own, only ever when other people are part of the conversation too. And you're not delusional enough to not be aware of the fact that he's simply entertaining you out of politeness, a courtesy he's only showing you because you're the daughter of a friend.

Anxiety presses heavily against your chest when you think about how uncomfortable you must make him with your poorly hidden infatuation for him, how painful it must be for him to see you act like a pathetic fool in front of him, and all of a sudden your heart is thudding painfully against your ribcage, your pulse ringing in your ears, your breath leaving you in short little gasps—

"Hey, are you okay?"

Your eyes snap up to meet Spencer's kind ones, slightly widened with worry, but not like you expected from across the table where he sat when you last looked up. Instead, he's beside you, sliding next to you onto the bench, his face twisted into a frown and his brown eyes searching yours intensely. For a long moment, all you can do is stare back at him, wondering, with burning ears, just how long you spaced out for.

"Do you need to go outside for a moment? I could go with you if you want."

His words effortlessly pull you out of your anxious spiral and after briefly and earnestly considering his offer you shake your head, exhaling a shaky breath that thankfully eases some of the thightness in your chest.

You flash him a grateful little smile before answering, "No, it's okay. Thank you, though."

You unlatch your stiff and cold fingers from where they are still gripping your cocktail glass like a lifeline, wiping off the condensation that's left behind on your palms on your jeans. "My mind just… went a little crazy there for a moment, you know?"

The silly jazz hands that accompany your explanation catch Spencer off guard and he lets out a spluttered laugh that makes you grin in return. You feel yourself relax further just by having him sit beside you, and even more so when he regains enough composure to softly tell you, "I get it. Just take your time."

You're glad the others are all too absorbed in their own conversations as you glance around the table. It allows you to simply concentrate on taking calm and deep breaths as you listen to Spencer launch into a detailed analysis of the last episode of Doctor Who he watched, his expressive hands a worthy rival of your jazz hands.

(Too absorbed by all of this, you don't notice how Aaron is watching you and Spencer from across the table with narrowed eyes, or how Garcia urgently and repeatedly slaps Morgan's arm who's sitting next to her, gleefully nodding her head in the direction of the two of you, not even trying to be subtle about showing off her delightful discovery, or the slow smirk forming on the other man's lips at the incredibly intimate sight of you and your fellow young doctor completely absorbed by your own little nerdy conversation.)

With Spencer jumping from topic to topic, one more fascinating but obscure than the previous, your heart rate slowly lowers from the level of a prey animal being hunted for sport to that of the young woman enjoying a carefree Friday night with a group of friends that you are, happily piping up with your own contributions and fun facts when the genius next to you runs out of air during his endearing ramblings.

When you first moved back to DC after finishing your doctorate you were nauseous with nerves about meeting new people and making friends, worried that you would spend every weekend at your father's place, sipping his fancy wine from a glass while perched on the cold marble of his kitchen countertops, just watching him cook an elaborate dinner from his mother's collection of family recipes, asking if he wants any help with it and being pointedly reminded of what happened last time you were in his kitchen unsupervised. That's not to say that you don't love spending time with your dad—because you really, really do and you're more than happy to be living in the same city as him again, to be able to just hop into your car and drive to his house (sorry, mansion) whenever you feel like seeing him—but you would prefer if your entire social life didn't only revolve around him and your new place of work.

But when your father introduced you to his team during a dinner he hosted and you were immediately integrated into their little work family, every single one of them talking to you like they've known you for years—which it probably feels like to them considering how much your dad talks (brags) about you and your achievements—you felt silly about wasting so much time worrying about nothing at all. Not when there were all these wonderful people just eagerly waiting to meet and get to know you in person. You've never received such a warm and heartfelt welcome ever before in your life and for a few minutes you even completely forgot to agonize over the fact that during that dinner you were also seeing Aaron again for the first time since you fell for him—after literally making him fall in the pool with you.

And now, some months later, summer is only a faint memory anymore and even autumn slowly but surely making way for winter, the team happily invited you to their little end-of-another-crazy-week-catching-serial-killers get-together just like you've always been part of their group—and despite your father not even being with you at the moment.

(Because dear ol' dad ditched you in favor of a reservation at some fancy and exclusive restaurant uptown where he's currently busy working on stepmom number 3—or was it 4?)

(Honestly? You lost count.)

(You didn't. You just love to tease him with it.)

You glance around the table, looking at the happy faces of these wonderful people you're privileged to call your friends, a content smile forming on your face and a pleasantly warm feeling blooming at the very center of your chest. You can't believe how lucky you are to have been welcomed into their tight-knit group readily and with open arms, making uprooting the only life that you've known for the past ten years to move halfway across the country to a city you're not familiar with anymore so much less daunting, helping you to settle in immediately by inviting you to literally anything that they do outside of work.

(Aaron being an integral part of the group makes these casual and carefree meetups decidedly not as casual and carefree for you as you'd like, constantly putting your foot in your mouth around him or figuratively (and sometimes even literally) curling up into a pathetic ball of anxiety when he so much as looks at you. But you're working on that, you really are, learning to come to terms with your unrequited feelings for him which is not exactly going great—if tonight is any indicator of that—but eventually, you'll be able to act like the totally well-adjusted young woman you aspire to be around him.)

(… at least you hope you do.)

You're especially grateful to have met Spencer through the BAU team because if any person out there can be described as your platonic soulmate, it's him. In just four months the young genius has become one of the best friends you've ever made in your life—the two of you just immediately clicking after he refused to shake your hand when your father introduced you to him. You're close in age and if your passionate involvement in academics didn't make you connect instantly your shared interest in everything nerdy and niche definitely did.

You're even more grateful to have him by your side whenever you're confronted with your walking kryptonite that is Aaron Hotchner. You can count on Spencer to sense whenever you get too lost in your own head and to always bring you back to reality, even though he doesn't know that his boss is the cause of most of your anxiety-induced breakdowns—thankfully.

(Ordering food at a place you've never been to before is a strong second contender for that title, by the way.)

You smile at Spencer when he leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a soft whisper so only you can hear him when he gently asks, "Are you feeling any better now?"

In a playful display of your gratitude you nudge his shoulder with yours before nodding your head, answering truthfully, "I am. Thank you, Spence," and letting your hand fall to his arm and gently squeeze it through the soft fabric of his cardigan.

You don't notice how, from across the table, Aaron is so fixated on this simple, purely platonic gesture that he visibly flinches when Morgan scoots over to him on the bench and slings a heavy arm around his shoulder, a wide smirk that's all teeth and mischief splitting his face in half as he addresses his superior. He knows he only gets away with his cheeky nonchalance because of the laid-back and moderately tipsy state all of you are currently in—and isn't above shamelessly exploiting this.

"Hotch, my man. So about that fancy gala next week—"

That fancy gala Morgan so casually refers to is the FBI Agents Association—FBIAA for short—Gala that is hosted once a year on a random Thursday in November in the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center in downtown Washington. It's a fundraising event for the Association's charities, one of them being a fund that would've paid your college tuition if your father had—you feel sick even thinking about it—died while employed by the Bureau, and the whole BAU team, and you as their honorary member, have unanimously decided to attend it together.

And although you were pretty excited about it when Garcia brought the gala up, delighted by the opportunity to dress up for one evening and sip champagne out of crystal flutes while watching the different speakers up on the stage but actually listening to the BAU team's gossip about each and every one of them, the mention of it now makes your stomach drop abruptly.

Your grip on Spencer's arm tightens involuntarily because you know what the next words coming out of Morgan's stupid grinning mouth will be, you were dreading them since setting foot in this bar, were hoping against all hope that at least tonight you would be spared from hearing about her.

"—you didn't happen to run into that triathlon lady—"

"Beth," Garcia helpfully pipes up while casually fishing for the straw of her drink and taking a sip from the most blindingly colorful cocktail you've ever seen in your life.

"—Beth—again, did you? Because a little birdie told me that she would love to be your date for that evening if you just asked her."

Your stomach twists into several painful knots and you quickly reach for your own glass to drown the rest of your cocktail-flavored cold water, hoping it'll wash down the ugly and burning jealousy rising like bile in your throat.

But it doesn't, and you're stuck listening to a conversation you desperately don't want to be a part of, that awful green-eyed monster sinking its sharp claws mercilessly into your tender skin all the while.

Derek's smug grin only grows wider at the unimpressed stare his nosiness earns him from his supervisor, which gives sweet Garcia enough time to voice her enthusiastic agreement, her artfully manicured nails tapping giddily against the tall glass in front of her.

"You should really ask her, you know!"

She's not brave enough to add the well-meaning but meddlesome "You need to get out some more, have some fun and meet more people instead of wasting away in your office every day and night!" that is on the tip of her usually so ungovernable and free-spirited tongue. And even less so the "Getting laid once in a while would probably do you some good, help you relax!" that her brain unpromptedly and unsolicitedly supplied her with one day and has lived rent-free in her head since then.

And before Derek has the chance to actually say these words out loud (and give you the chance to volunteer yourself as a very willing and tragically desperate tribute), you simply stand up, excusing yourself to the bathroom, cowardly but effectively fleeing the scene of the crime.

But you're too hasty, stumbling over Spencer's stupidly long legs in your hurry to get away from this excruciating conversation, too impatient to just wait for him to get up and let you out. The young genius mirrors your noise of surprise but unlike yourself he is quick enough to catch you, thankfully saving you from falling flat on your face (or landing on his lap) in front of the whole BAU team and the rest of the packed bar by urgently grabbing onto your waist to stabilize you.

You lock wide eyes with him, stunned into silence and stillness for a moment before the two of you let out matching awkward little giggles, Spencer immediately pulling his hands back and shoving them between his knees while mumbling an apology that you quickly and equally mumbled dismiss before briskly making your exit to the safe haven that is the ladies' restroom without looking back.

(You can't know that you and your little stunt just saved Aarom from even having to consider how to reply to Morgan's and Garcia's intrusive curiosity as the two peas in a pod immediately stick their nosy noses right into Spencer's alleged love life.

"And you, pretty boy, should really hurry up and ask our dear Doctor Rossi out."

Derek grins smugly from across the table at the clueless young genius who whips his head around, startled by suddenly being forced into the center of attention of their group, his voice rising in panic.

"What? Why?"

"Why?" Penelope parrots back at Spencer, looking at him like he just asked her if fezzes are cool or why people have been shipping Captain James T. Kirk and his First Officer S'chn T'gai Spock since the 60s. "Because you're literally so perfect for each other? You like the same geeky stuff, you're both young geniuses and doctors, you're always talking about some obscure studies and how little creepy-crawlies can help us and our friends in forensics catch the bad guys, and you're literally solving crossword puzzles in the newspaper together like an old married couple?"

She uses her fingers to list and illustrate her arguments, her fierce gaze boring into Spencer's round eyes who uneasily shifts in his seat, his mouth opening and closing in silent protest.

"Should I go on? I can go on," she challenges, not even waiting for anyone to disagree or agree with her. "She instantly remembered how you like your coffee, you were comfortable with letting her touch you immediately and you also—"

"What Garcia is trying to say," Derek gently interrupts his friend so she doesn't run out of air completely while squeezing her shoulder, "is that the two of you are made for each other and that the gala is the perfect opportunity to ask her on a date, boy genius."

Spencer splutters helplessly, looking around the table for support, a spontaneous change of the topic, a family emergency, anything, but the other three agents stay silent. JJ just smiles at him in amused sympathy, decidedly not disagreeing with anything that was said while Emily shrugs her shoulders with a Cheshire cat's grin on her lips, simply enjoying the chaos unfolding in front of her.

Hotch's face on the other hand is completely devoid of emotion, not giving away any thoughts or feelings he may have about the current topic of conversation and gentle teasing.

(But if any of these usually so oberservant profilers had given him and his strained passive face a closer look they would've noticed that his jaw is clenched tightly enough to literally break it if he's not careful.)

"That's not—! That doesn't mean anything. We're just friends!" Spencer squeaks as his last, very weak resort. And he actually means it, knowing that it's simply the truth, that everything between you and him is purely platonic and that the both of you are happily in agreement about it, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

"Sure you are," Derek hums while raising his beer bottle to his lips as Penelope next to him cheerfully sing-songs, "Doctor Reid and Doctor Rossi sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—"

They don't pay Hotch any mind when he stands up and excuses himself as well.)

They also miss when you exit the ladies' room at the other end of the large room at the same time, your head ducked with the remnants of your earlier jealousy still simmering uncomfortably in your stomach.

You wince when the unfiltered noise of the bar and all of its mostly tipsy patrons hit you all at once, trying your hardest not to get too close to these countless strangers when you push your way back to the table near the entrance where your friends set up camp at the beginning of the night.

You keep your eyes on the wooden floor, cringing as the soles of your shoes come in contact with an especially sticky spot when a solid body collides with you without warning.

A startled yelp escapes you, the impact enough to make you stumble, but for the second time tonight you don't land on the floor thanks to someone catching you just in time, a big and warm hand closing firmly around yours and pulling you closer to his warm and solid chest.

The slurred apology of the man who bumped into you promptly fades into the background, just like the rest of the noisy bar, as your gaze snaps up to where you see Aaron already looking down at you, his brown eyes unreadable, his lips set into a thin line.

Immediately, your cheeks go up in flames, the butterfly wings in your stomach transforming into an all-consuming hurricane, and you can't do anything except stare into his eyes with barely hidden longing and quietly stammer your thanks while your hand is still held protectively in his bigger one, your body still pressed closely to his chest.

But Aaron doesn't say anything in reply, his eyes simply fixed on yours while your heart slams against your ribcage traitorously.

Overwhelmed, you have to avert your gaze from Aaron's and that's when he abruptly lets go of you and walks away without a word, leaving you standing in the middle of the crowded room, his comforting warmth disappearing as suddenly as he did.

(You're too busy blinking in bewildered surprise to see the rigid line of his broad shoulders or the pained expression on his face as he forces himself not to turn around and look back at you.

Or the way his hand that just moments before held yours flexes by his side.)

series masterlist || part 1 - ⋆part 2⋆ - part 3 coming soon-ish :3

Thank you so much for reading <3 Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

Feel free to hop into my inbox if you have a fic request or just want to talk ✨

dividers by @/cafekitsune

Tags <3

@iyskgd, @johnp0rk1988, @baddyg, @gfksz, @little-jana, @khxna, @kcch-ns, @softestqueeen, @chenellearose, @chaosofmanyfandoms

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #falling for you series

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reiding-writing · 2 months ago

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can you write about cold!reader where the team finds out they're together? ahh i love them so much!

UNDENIABLY YOURS. /spencer reid/

you pick up the wrong phone.

late s10 cold!reader 2.6k fluff series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | love a good cliche :)

Spencer’s apartment is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels awkward or hollow, but the kind that settles over you like a warm blanket—a gentle hush made of ticking clocks, the occasional hum of traffic outside, and the soft shuffling sounds of a man who’s currently making tea in the kitchen.

You’re on his couch, half-curled under a throw blanket that doesn’t quite cover your feet. The place smells like old books and something herbal, likely the blend Spencer claims is “soothing to the parasympathetic nervous system.” You never asked what that meant. You suspect it’s just chamomile with a marketing degree.

The night stretched longer than you intended. Dinner turned into wine, which turned into a slow tour through his cluttered bookshelves, which turned into another round of debate over Kant’s categorical imperative versus utilitarian ethics.

You were only supposed to drop by after work. A quick visit, maybe an hour. But Spencer always pulls time out from under you like a magician with a tablecloth.

And you stay. Again.

You don’t touch much when you’re with him. Not like you could. He’s all soft eyes and hesitant hands. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t demand declarations or affection you’re not ready to give. And you? You’re good at compartmentalising. At keeping your feelings tucked into corners, neatly labeled and out of reach. It’s safer that way. Less chaotic.

But you always show up.

That counts for something, right?

“Tea,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with two mismatched mugs. He hands you the one with faded cartoon planets on it. You take it wordlessly.

“Still pretending this helps your parasympathetic system or whatever?” you murmur into the rim of the cup.

Spencer smiles. He always smiles when you needle him. Like he knows it’s your version of affection. Like he’s fluent in your brand of emotional repression.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, settling into the armchair across from you. “There are studies,”

“There are always studies,”

“You want me to send you the links?”

“No,”

“You’d like the one from 2009. It discusses—”

“Spencer,”

“Okay,” he says, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “No studies,”

You sip the tea. It’s hot and bitter and tastes like him. Not literally—he doesn’t taste like dried flowers—but something about the comfort of the moment, the soft warmth of the mug against your palm, the way he looks at you like you’re not a puzzle to solve but a story he’s enjoying watching unfold. It’s familiar. Steady.

Which is probably why you’re still here.

“You staying?” he asks after a few minutes, voice casual. Too casual. Like he didn’t spend the last half hour not asking.

You glance at the clock. It’s past midnight. Late enough to make the excuse that you’re just tired and don’t want to drive. You’re already in the oversized hoodie he handed you—his hoodie, not yours—and your shoes are near the door, lined up next to his like it means something.

You should deflect. You always deflect.

Instead, you say, “Yeah,”

He doesn’t react much, just nods, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to examine.

He doesn’t ask for more. He never does.

It’s part of the deal.

Instead, he turns on some lo-fi instrumental playlist (he claims lyrics distract his brain when he’s trying to wind down), and you both migrate to his bedroom.

—

You don’t remember falling asleep. Just that at some point, your eyes fluttered shut, and for once, your thoughts didn’t keep you awake. No spiraling worst-case scenarios. No calculating emotional fallout. Just warmth, and the slow, steady rhythm of Spencer breathing beside you. The kind of peace you don’t admit you crave.

Until it’s shattered.

The phone rings—sharp, insistent—and you jolt awake in an instant, heart pounding with the abrupt transition. The room is pitch black, save for the glowing screen on the nightstand. Spencer groans softly beside you, but doesn’t move.

Still half-asleep, you fumble your hand over the nightstand. Spencer’s glasses, unfinished book, rectangle of impending doom. That’s the one.

“Unless there’s an active terrorist threat,” you snap, voice rough with sleep, “there is zero reason to be calling this late.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then, cautiously, “…Wait, who is this?”

You rub your face with your free hand, already annoyed. “Who do you think?”

Another pause—longer this time. And then, sharply suspicious, “…Not Spencer Reid?”

You blink, finally focusing on the phone’s lock screen. It’s not yours. Definitely not yours.

You sit up slightly, stomach dropping. Shit. “Uh—”

Spencer stirs beside you, blinking blearily. “Wha’s going on…?”

And that’s when it happens. A long, slow intake of breath through the receiver.

“Oooooooooooooooooh,”

You try to recover. “Garcia.”

“Oh my god,” she hisses, like she just found the holy grail. “I knew something was going on! Oh my god, I knew it!”

Spencer’s sitting up now, trying to make sense of the chaos. “Who is it?”

“Penelope,” you say flatly, glancing at the screen like it’s radioactive as you reluctantly put the call on speakerphone. “What do you want?”

“I need visual confirmation immediately,” Garcia is saying, way too awake for 2:07 AM. “Is he shirtless? Wait—are you? Never mind, don’t answer that. I respect boundaries. Mostly. Oh my god.”

“Garcia.” you say, trying for a tone of calm, rational authority, but it comes out more defensive than intended. ”What do you want?”

“We have an urgent case my dear lovebirds,” She’s practically vibrating through the phone. Hotch wants everyone in the office. Oh I can’t wait to see everyone’s reactions,”

“Garcia—”

“Nope! Too late! This is the best news I’ve gotten all year. JJ owes me twenty dollars, I knew I saw something in the way you looked at each other during the surveillance briefing last month. I have receipts.”

“We’ll be in the office soon,” Spencer mumbles, already resigned.

“Oh, you better be,” she says, like she’s the one running the FBI now. “Buckle up, lovebirds!”

The call ends with a cheerful “Byeeeeeee!” and a click.

You sit there in stunned silence, phone still in your hand, the screen now dark and judgmental. Spencer groans, collapsing backward into the pillows.

“She’s going to tell everyone,”

“She’s already telling everyone,” you correct, flopping back beside him.

“This is going to be so embarrassing,”

You glance over at him—hair tousled, face flushed, one arm slung over his eyes like he’s trying to hide from the world. It’s honestly… kind of adorable.

You smile, just a little. “Could be worse,”

—

The BAU's conference room is already buzzing when you and Spencer walk in—thirty minutes later, coffee in hand, trying very hard to pretend this is just a normal Thursday.

It is not a normal Thursday.

Everyone is already there. Everyone is already looking.

Garcia practically explodes with smug glee the second she sees you. She doesn’t say a word—she doesn’t have to. She’s vibrating with the restrained chaos of someone who knows they’ve set off a very satisfying chain reaction. Her eyes sparkle. Her smile is enormous. She’s won something, and she knows it.

Spencer, for his part, looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. He’s gone unusually quiet, hiding behind the rim of his coffee cup like it’s a shield. He keeps tugging at the sleeves of his sweater, hands jittery, face flushed, clearly regretting every decision that led to this moment. He won’t look at anyone.

And everyone else?

Well.

JJ’s eyebrows are in her hairline. Emily’s face is frozen somewhere between astonishment and visible mental recalibration. Morgan looks like he just got handed a particularly juicy tabloid headline. And Rossi—bless him—leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and gives you both the kind of slow, impressed once-over usually reserved for rare bourbon.

Nobody says anything.

The silence stretches.

Spencer makes a small noise like he’s about to speak—probably to stammer through some clumsy attempt at clarification—but you beat him to it.

You cross your arms, plant your feet, and deliver the line like a press briefing:

“Yes, we’re dating. No, we haven’t had sex. We’ve been together officially for three months. I will not answer any questions, so don’t ask them.”

It lands like a bomb.

The room goes absolutely silent.

For a few blessed seconds, no one dares to move.

Then, from the corner, Rossi lets out a low chuckle—more impressed than anything else. “Well. That’s one way to do it,”

Morgan whistles low under his breath, shaking his head with an admiring grin. “Damn, kid,” he says to Spencer, who is now actively hiding behind his coffee. “I knew you had game,”

Garcia looks like she’s about to start clapping. You shoot her a warning glare.

“I’m just happy for you!” she chirps, hands raised in innocence. “This is so good for team morale,”

You glance at Spencer—his face still red, lips pressed tight like he’s trying not to die on the spot—and sigh.

Hotch remains blissfully unaffected.

He’s sitting at the head of the conference table, scrawling something on a case file with his ever-present air of detached focus. His pen moves in slow, methodical strokes as if he’s entirely unaware that the team has just been thrown into chaos.

Everyone is staring at Hotch now, waiting for him to react, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t even look up from his paperwork.

Rossi, of course, is the first to break the silence. “You knew about this,”

Hotch finally looks up—barely. It’s almost as if he’s taking a mental note of your existence before giving his usual level of minimal acknowledgment.

“They informed me,” he says matter-of-factly. “HR protocols.”

The silence in the room grows exponentially. HR protocols?

Rossi looks betrayed. So does Emily. JJ blinks rapidly, trying to process the betrayal. Even Morgan stares at Hotch like he just said something deeply alien to their universe.

Garcia’s jaw drops in comically exaggerated shock. “Wait… you knew and didn’t tell us? Hotch!” She looks almost wounded by the injustice of it all.

Hotch, however, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen idly on the table. “I was informed of a change in personal relationships within the team,” he says, as if explaining why his coffee’s not hot enough. “Standard procedure.”

Derek’s mouth twitches with the effort to hold back laughter, clearly fighting the urge to burst into full-on chuckles. “That’s it? No ‘I’m happy for you’ or ‘This changes everything!’?”

Hotch doesn’t even flinch. “Congratulations,” he adds with minimal sincerity, glancing up briefly, before continuing, “but we have an urgent case to focus on.”

Everyone’s collective sense of betrayal is palpable. There’s a beat of stunned silence before Emily, trying to save face, says, “I… I guess we should focus on the case.” She says it with half a smile, but the effort is obvious. “But seriously, Hotch. No heads-up? Not even a hint?”

Hotch simply gives them his patented “this is serious business” look and straightens up. “Focus, everyone.” His voice brooks no argument. “We’re being briefed on a new case, and I need all of you focused. Now.”

And just like that, the air in the room shifts. The humor fades, the teasing subsides, and everyone reluctantly pulls their attention to the matter at hand.

—

The rest of the day passes in a haze of good-natured (and sometimes not so good-natured) teasing. Derek, as always, is the first to crack a joke.

“So, you two gonna make superhuman babies, or what?” he smirks, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he watches you and Spencer in the hallway.

Spencer nearly chokes on his coffee, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Morgan,” he stammers, voice barely above a whisper, “can you not?”

Derek just grins wider. “Oh, I’m just getting started, loverboy,” He winks at you both and saunters off with the most obnoxious swagger imaginable.

Garcia, never one to be outdone, is already planning date ideas before you even step off the jet. “You two should so check out that new fancy restaurant that just opened up down the street,” She nods at you, holding up her phone like she’s already making the reservation.

You raise an eyebrow at Spencer, just to see his reaction. He’s still turning red, but you can’t help a small, satisfied smile at the sight of his discomfited expression.

“No, Garcia. We shouldn’t,”

“Oh come on,” She beams. “I would die to be taken there on a date,”

You tilt your head at her, “You really think we would enjoy a place like that? Really?”

“Well…”

Emily, for her part, is still trying to process what the hell just happened. She keeps glancing at you both, trying to act casual but clearly still in disbelief. “So soon—” She shakes her head. “I’m just—wow. Okay. Good for you, I guess? I’ve gotta go hide from Morgan now, completely unrelated—”

JJ just chuckles, arms crossed. “Congratulations, both of you. I’m really happy for you,”

You could almost thank the universe for the relief of normalcy. You don’t. The universe didn’t do shit. It was all you. And Spencer. Mainly Spencer. “Thank you,”

The day finally winds down, and it’s time to leave. Spencer walks you to your hotel room, still looking like he might burst into flames from sheer embarrassment. You’ve let him be teased by the others, of course, but nothing too much. He’s still wearing that sheepish, half-worried expression as you approach your car, and you can’t help but smirk.

“Well,” you say, glancing up at him as you lean against the room’s door, “Now they know,”

Spencer groans. It’s low, and it carries all the weight of his supposed regret. “Yeah,”

You lean in just a little, close enough that your voices are quiet but not enough for anyone else to overhear. You keep your tone flat, but there’s something soft in your eyes when you speak.

“Could’ve been worse,” you remark, just barely meeting his gaze. A quiet reassurance, a little more tender than the rest of the day has been. It’s not the most romantic thing in the world, but it’s yours.

He’s helpless, standing there, still flustered. But the way he looks at you—fondness in his eyes and a soft laugh escaping his lips—makes everything feel more okay than it probably should.

You reach up a soft hand to brush over the side of Spencer’s face, a juxtaposition he’d never point out unless you asked, and he smiles against you as you kiss him goodnight.

You’re barely parted when he speaks, foreheads pressed together and his declaration a whisper on your lips. “I love you,”

“Thank you,” you nod softly as you separate, “Goodnight, Spencer,”

“goodnight,”

#cold!reader ᝰ.ᐟ #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff

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01zfan · 5 months ago

Text

slope

model!anton x camgirl!reader | 8.9k words

contains: minji from njz is mentioned, reader is a camgirl, hookups and previous fwb relationship mentioned, protected sex, recorded sex, sex at the workplace mentioned

Neither of your jobs were fun. There was never any control in the amount of people that came in, no way of knowing when it’d be busy. There were Friday afternoons where there’s no business and Monday mornings when everyone was packed shoulder to shoulder. There were countless shoplifters that could never be picked up by the cameras due to the crowd and their ability to blend in and disappear.

There was always something wrong with the building itself. The sterile white interior was to hide that last week they found a rat in the food court, and the month before that there was kid missing for the better half of an afternoon. There were several buckets around the mall, picking up water from leaks and wet floor signs that were perpetually propped up.

Behind your register you spent all day handing gift receipts to customers. Over the years faces started to blend together and at this point in the day, someone only stuck out if they made a particularly terrible impression. If they asked about stock you didn’t have or if they needlessly gave you attitude they’d be on your mind for the rest of the day. At home doing dishes and randomly thinking about the tone of a strangers voice and getting so mad you have to leave to clear your head.

Your coffee always ended up becoming lukewarm because you constantly ended up working by yourself. You never had time to enjoy your coffee at the right temperature, and the corporate curated playlist became the worst type of white noise. Your customer service voice was wearing off, and standing behind the register with nowhere else to go was making you restless. Your knees nearly buckled during your last transaction, and you leaned all your weight against the table that the point of sale system rested on.

When the last customer left the store and people were browsing you finally had a moment to yourself. You had your wasted drink and your phone, tucked away beside the register in the place your manager chided you for. But she wasn’t here—she was never here—and the one thing that freed you from your customer service purgatory was stealing quick glances at your phone. Tiny moments of looking mindlessly at your notifications was what got you through the work day, and the act of defiance made you feel like you were in charge somehow.

You steal one glance towards the swinging door leading to the back of house. Your shift lead and coworker were back there, one on their break and the other pretending like they were doing work. When you realized neither of them were coming out even if you were screaming for help you pull your phone from its hiding spot beside the register. You prop up your elbows and rest your head in your hands, trying to hide that you’re looking at your phone and not bending down to stretch your body. You reason that it’s only fair you look at your phone, that’s probably what the two of them were doing in the back anyways. No one was in line to buy something and this was the fourth Shawn Mendes song you’ve heard in the last hour. You deserved to scroll around on your apps for a moment.

The time was what caught your attention first. That rush made the worst half of your work day disappear, and your coworker was due to come back on the floor any minute. You had a text from your annoying roommate about something annoying you were going to ignore until you couldn’t anymore. A notification of a TikTok being sent to you, something about threads on Instagram. You kept scrolling, waiting for something else.

For the past month that’s all that it felt like you were doing. Each time you looked at your phone you were waiting for a text message or a call. You wanted it to be from Anton, who used to work at the clothing store across from where you work. Your arrangement for your breaks was still so engraved in the back of your mind it had become a habit.

While you stare at your old text conversations with him, you see the swinging door open. You shove your phone into the cubby hole the same time Minji comes out. You relax seeing her, the one person who cares less about this job than you do. There’s no reason to play into the employee-of-the-month persona when it’s just Minji. She’s still finishing the food she got on her break and adjusting her uniform while she comes to you.

You didn’t even know what was happening in the store as Minji stood beside the register. You just looked at her, doing a quick scan of the store before reaching over you to grab her watered down drink. She took one last sip of mainly ice and water before tossing it in the garbage.

“You can go on your break.” Minji says.

You pull your phone from its hiding spot just for Minji to put her phone in the exact same place. She swallows the last of her food just in time for two people to wander. Minji greets them, a superficial hello as you grab the rest of your things behind the register.

Wordlessly you traded off with her, signing out from the system so she could sign in. You slide past Minji and she goes to your spot, standing on the anti-fatigue mat your manager got in response to you two begging for a chair.

After that you moved the fastest you had all day to make it to the back of house. Exactly what you expected was waiting for you behind the swinging door. Your shift supervisor was on her phone, looking at you from the side before going back to the loud video playing on her phone.

“Going on your break?” She asked.

There was a time when your shift supervisor was the hardest worker in the store. One step below the manager with none of the benefits, but she used to run the store diligently. Now she seemed to always be in the back on her phone, pretending to type something pertaining to business or ordering something else. Now she watches loud videos and was anal about time management, despite spending the majority of her day not helping on the floor.

But you’re not supposed to be focused on work. For the next thirty minutes you are free, nothing is tying you to work. You are trying to be in and out of the store fast, but your supervisor insists on having a conversation. When she pulls away from her phone completely you have to hold back a sigh, knowing you’re about to get a lecture on something unimportant. You were still pissed from when she took a customer’s side over yours last week, giving her a discount on her purchase even though she was in the wrong and rude. You wondered if she even remembered how the customer talked to you when she checked her watch quickly.

“Make sure you’re actually back in thirty minutes.” She says.

“Alright.” You say.

You don’t look at her anymore after you throw your jacket over your shoulder. From your bag you stuff your keys and wallet into your pockets, and you’re done. Your shift supervisor gets to sit in the back on her ass and get paid for it, but you can’t have a grace period with coming back from your break?

This is the exact reason why you and Minji abuse the fact that no one else wants to work here. You both get to be the worst employees in your own ways. She gives attitude back to the customers and is late almost everyday. You take extra long breaks and have a problem getting off your phone. What matters is that you two are here for every shift, even if you don’t want to be, and you two have been here for a long time. Like this place is purgatory or something worse you can’t escape. So you say okay to your supervisor telling you to come back on time, even when you both know you’re not going to. At the very most she’ll chide you and say something slick about being here on time, and Minji will say something under her breath about being grateful you two are here at all.

“Enjoy your break.” Your shift supervisor says.

“Thanks.”

You push the swinging door a little harder and clear out of the store a little faster. You don’t even look over your shoulder to tell Minji goodbye, and you don’t think twice about another unpredictable rush of people coming into the store. Minji is too focused on helping three customers at once to tease you about coming back on time. The best time to leave was when it was the busiest. If you were lucky by the time you came back the crowd would thin out.

You slip out of the chaos, enjoying the peace you’re going to have for the next twenty-nine minutes. You’re able to block out the grating music and Minji yelling for the next person to come to the register.

If this was a month ago, Anton would’ve been in the food court. He would’ve been sitting at the table right next to the yellow wet floor sign to sit at a table facing your storefront. He would’ve had his messenger bag slung over one shoulder and resting in his lap, eating whatever he munched on from the food court while he waited for you. You left your work in such a rush like he would still be there, looking at his phone but paying attention to who was coming in and out. You looked to the left to see the store Anton used to work at, the constant food traffic was something he hated. People going in meant they were messing with the clothes in the display, unfolding them and leaving it for Anton and his coworkers to fix.

When you found yourself stuck too much in the routine of seeing Anton you look up. On the second floor the images of his face and body sporting a luxury brand knocks you out of whatever trance you end up in. Anton from the past would see you before you saw him, pushing his white chair out from under the table until it grated against the linoleum floor. You can still see him accidentally knocking over his plastic cup from Auntie Anne’s in his haste to follow you. Anton from the past would’ve cut through the endless chatter and walked against the foot traffic of everyone else to keep in time with you. But the Anton now models for Gucci and Louis Vuitton, and his pictures are hanging up on the second floor to advertise the brand.

Still though, you can’t help but think about him. You would always look past Anton fixing his jacket and slinging his messenger bag just to fix it again. You liked looking from side to side in fake contemplation, like you both didn’t know where you were heading to.

Even if Anton isn’t here, you still do some of the same things. You turn on your heel the same way and head towards the exit against the foot traffic of everyone else. You look over your shoulder like he would be there, bobbing and weaving through the crowd to catch up to you. Sometimes you kept a distance other times you two would walk at the same pace, matching strides and everything. Without him there beside you, you imagined him still in the crowd, apologizing to everyone he was bumping into. You could see him vividly mouthing excuse me and sorry while you passed through without saying a word. He’d be moving sideways, trying to be as nimble as you were on your feet. He was too nice. If someone bumped into you, that was their fault. You were on your thirty minute break, everyone else was in your way.

The crowd didn’t thin out until you made it out of the food court. By the time you made it to the kids play area it was sparse. just the few people coming in from the parking lot or leaving the mall entirely. All the children that were ditched at the indoor playground stared at you walking in such a rush. Their mothers were busy shopping and the toys stopped being entertaining a long time ago, you didn’t blame them. But you kept the same pace when you normally would’ve slowed down for Anton to catch up, trying to make it to your car to maximize on your free time.

You looked up to the upper floors of the mall, the elusive place that had better hours and better pay than the stores on the ground floor. Up there they got hour breaks and a bigger staff discount. They also dealt with a different and more refined clientele, while you and your coworkers dealt with prepubescent shoplifters and adults who acted like children.

You looked even further up, until you made it to the glass ceiling where all the natural light came through. Moving up on the corporate ladder here meant being transferred to the higher end stores. But work doesn’t matter right now, you’re on your break.

You refused to slow down when you realized time was still ticking away. At this point, Anton would’ve started working up to a slow jog to close some of the distance. Another look over your shoulder and you would’ve seen he was closer, a hand over the strap of his bag and his other hand in his pocket. You zipped up your jacket. You could already feel the chill from the constant opening doors.

When you made it to your car, you were still thinking about him. You had to stop yourself from crawling in the backseat from muscle memory, and you spent your time in the drivers seat thinking about him. You had a secluded place in the back of the employee parking lot because of him. Your supervisor asked about why you were parked in the back corner of the parking lot all the time. You couldn’t tell her that you were too busy fucking the boy from a few stores down everyday on your breaks so you lied. You didn’t know that saying you had a tendency to bump into other cars would lead to you being quarantined in the back corner. The word spread fast, because even after Anton left and you tried rejoining your coworkers cluster of cars they started avoiding your vehicle like the plagued. So you stayed in the corner and you continued to think about Anton and what you two would do around this time of day.

Since Anton left there wasn’t anything that gave you that rush anymore. Knowing Anton was a couple strides behind you and he was closing in made it feel like you were young, no other worries beyond getting to your car as fast as possible. Getting closer and closer to your vacant car with the close-to-illegal tint blacking out all of your windows. That moment when it would just be you and him in the parking lot. Hearing his feet drag across the gravel in contrast to your light and quick steps. Not looking over your shoulder that one last time but knowing he was practically right there. Looking at his reflection in the window before you unlocked the back door. Crawling inside and closing the door behind you but leaving it unlocked just for him. That moment when you could see him but he couldn’t see you was always the best.

heyyyy

is your number still the same?

Everything else happened pretty quickly. Anton replied within the day and told you that he never left the city, he only traveled to each job.

But there was no way you could tell Anton the truth initially. Despite your previous arrangement, talking about what you did as a side hustle now felt too vulgar, especially because you were convinced he no longer wanted to be associated with the life he lived working on the ground floor of the mall. But something about Anton was so inviting, you couldn’t stop yourself from telling him that you did streams on the side to try and make extra income.

Anton surprised you after you told him. He asked if you needed help. Like you were coming to your workplace hookup and part time friend for help on your camgirl side quests. But Anton campaigned to help you, he was adamant that being a model made him a professional in terms of posing and lighting. Within the week you were sneaking Anton past your annoying roommate into your bedroom to help you take pictures and videos for your new Twitter account.

He was great help. The money started coming in, you gained followers faster than you ever had. You were getting the money finally, and you just needed a little bit more money to finally get a place of your own. The thought of a collaboration came to mind, and when you brought the idea up to Anton he campaigned for himself again, instead of a popular creator you were mutuals with.

You came around to the proposal quickly. The thought of working with someone you didn’t know already seemed crazy, but with Anton you could do it in the safety of your own apartment. So when he offered you agreed, and then you set time off for the weekend to film and asked your roommate politely if she could make herself scarce for a couple days.

“What if we went somewhere else to film?” Anton asked the question while you were putting back on your clothes after another photoshoot. He stood with his back facing you as if he wasn’t taking pictures of your naked body minutes prior. “Just to be extra safe? I think your viewers would like that too.” He added.

You told Anton he made a good point and that night he texted you to pack your bags for the cold and he picked you up directly from work at the end of the week.

The whole ride upstate Anton was adamant about going to a different location. He took his role as your director very seriously. A new location would interest your viewers, everything about it would bring people back. You two decided that a video would give you more money than a stream, and the longevity offered on posting to the platform was unbeatable.

When you and Anton arrived at the ski lodge you tried your best to not be amazed. You stopped mid-conversation to look at the cabin through the dashboard in amazement. Anton was still staring at you for a moment, and then he followed yours through the falling snow. The cabin was beautiful and laid out in a long line of the other cabins down the road.

“How much was all of this?” You ask when he puts the car in park in the shoveled driveway.

The thought of a private cabin in the snow and the cost was already piling on your never ending list of expenses. But Anton shook his head, even when he grabbed your bags from the backseat and let you lead the way to the cabin.

“The model money pays well.” Anton laughs to himself. You walk up the steps to the cabin and open the lockbox. “I came here for a photoshoot and they gave me a discount and everything.” He continues

When you open up the door your surprised again. You know that this is a resort, that it’s supposed to be a home away from home. But even with Anton turning on the light and coming in behind you to drop the bags by the door it’s peaceful. No loud roommate, no expenses, no work. There’s a peaceful stillness, even if you’re here under debauched pretenses.

“I think.” You point towards the common area with the long gray couch and the television hidden away in the entertainment center. “I think here would be a good place for it.” You motion vaguely to the area in front of the head of the couch. Anton walks beside you “We could set the tripod up there, ya know?”

When you look to Anton he’s nodding his head, but then he points upstairs.

“We should look at the other rooms too.” With his messenger bag over his shoulder and your backpack on his back he starts walking towards the stairs. You take off your shoes and follow after him. ”Just in case.”

Up the stairs you see the other rooms. To the left from the landing there’s one bedroom, then right next to it is the other. Anton follows you into each one, letting you turn on the lights and walk around in each room. When you turn back you see him waiting in the doorway. He’s already seen the entire cabin, he lets you choose the bigger room and brings your things up before he even thinks about grabbing his own things.

“Still prefer the couch I think.” Anton nods but still waits in the doorframe. He follows you like a shadow down the stairs, only creating distance when you sit down on the couch. His hesitation makes you pause. Your laptop is in front of you and so is the camera, and the tripod is already set up in front of you. “Once I’m done with everything up we can get started.” You say.

Anton is still off to the side from the couch, staring at you working. It feels like you’re at the mall again, instead of the food court it’s the wooden floors of the kitchen and your workplace is the living room.

You think about pressing further to see if Anton has gotten cold feet. Worse case scenario you can just have him film you, he’s done it before and you brought toys just in case. You shift on the couch and Anton finally comes closer. He sits on the furthest cushion of the couch and you prepare to hear the worst. Anton draws in a deep breath, and you push your laptop away.

“You’re not tired from the drive or anything?” Anton raises his shoulders and then motions outwards, like he’s trying to show you to let go of the burden. “Should we talk a little bit? Maybe get something to eat so we can clear our heads?”

You have to smile at Anton’s avoidance to look at you. The very first time you two met he was anything but assertive. Avoiding eye contact, delivering something for his manager and ending in a laugh when he realized how quiet he was being. He is better at holding eye contact now, but he still has to avert his eyes when he mentions why you two are here.

“Tryna take me out before we fuck, Anton?” You smile and Anton laughs too, breathy and exasperated before he smiles back. You motion towards your ready equipment. “My head is clear.”

The way Anton’s hands grip his thighs tells you he knows you’re lying. But you two haven’t caught up in forever, and you know he doesn’t want to be presumptuous. You cut him some slack, taking a deep breath of your own and crossing your legs on top of the bed.

“We should probably set some ground rules beforehand, though.”

Anton sits up on the couch and nods.

“I’m going to blur out our faces once we are done filming and we shouldn’t say eachother’s names.”

“What about pet names?”

Flashbacks to the sweaty backseat of your car and Anton moaning that you’re his baby into your ear makes you nod your head. It also makes you avoid eye contact, clearing your throat as you try to remember the other rules you wanted to set.

“I’ll ask before I do anything.” Anton looks from his lap to your face. He’s sincere, lips pulled to a tight line as he nods his head. “It’s your video and you’re in charge.” He says.

You knew Anton was different. When you became a camgirl you were exposed to an entirely different type of men. You saw the things they would say in your streams and on your posts, dirty things that had you wondering what they looked like on the other side of the screen. If you dressed pretty for a video they’d only tell you that it was nice like they knew it’d be coming off later. A setup for a terrible joke that you’d have to fake laugh at. He’s been eying you since he picked you up from work; not like he was tearing you apart but like he was trying to figure you out. No one has tried to figure you out since you started chose your profession.

You would’ve never guessed that Anton was so adamant about having you. Not in the way the other men wanted—he didn’t take you out to a disgusting bar hoping to score by paying the drink tab—but he brought you to a fancy cabin in the snowy hills and offered to take you to a fancy restaurant down the road that you’ve never been to before. He was treating this like a couple vacation. That seemed to be the way Anton wanted to have you. His pseudo-girlfriend, sitting across from him on a couch while you set up your camcorder to film you two having sex.

“Is your manager still an asshole?” He asked.

“Yeah. All she does is play on her phone in the back of house.” You answer.

What you really want to ask is why he hasn’t fucked you yet.

Like the worlds longest game of chicken, Anton has not made a single move on you. You two crossed over that line a long time ago, sometime between you pulling him on top of you during your lunch breaks. You two already talked about how awful your current managers and his former coworkers were, and he knew exactly how you liked to be touched. There was no reason to play this game, it could even be argued that this was all one big distraction from the task at hand.

You weren’t ashamed to admit that at this point in your life you had been around. Even if you were faceless in your videos and your streams that still counted as something. You were sure that Anton needed someone to match his outward demeanor. A shy, sweet girl, maybe he could find a model during one of his gigs. But he seemed persistent about you and getting to know you all over again. His doting wouldn’t stop you from making money, you knew he knew that. Sometimes it seemed like he enjoyed your resistance to his courting, that his shy chivalry didn’t have an affect on you.

Sitting across from him on the couch you still believed it. You were waiting for the moment Anton would start showing his true colors, being a little more like the other people you entertained. You wanted to call him a lover boy and pull at his beanie like you did when you both worked at the mall. You also wanted to tell him that he was doing way too much for you, that being here as his human dildo and photographer was more than enough. You still didn’t know how to possibly thank him for getting this secluded cabin away from your annoying roommate without even having to ask him.

No one tells you how cool girls who stream have to be. Men could be in this line of profession and do whatever they want. They can have no tact and still get laid just as easy. When you’re a girl who does what you do, you have to be indifferent. You have to treat everything like it doesn’t matter and you care less than you do. But you also have to be an angel, permanently with your customer service voice when you stream or interact with people over Twitter. You have to deny the sweet boys advances and lament that you’re too cool for them, even if you know nothing about them.

You also have to pretend like you don’t care that Anton hasn’t touched you since he started helping you with your side hustle. You have to pretend like you’re not so depraved by the thought of him and him alone that you start equating everything he does for you to sex. When he picked you up from work today that was sex. Him opening the car door for you and carrying your bags was also sex, and the way he let you take the biggest room was sex too. You had become so desperate in such a short amount of time that you had set up a system, all while dropping subtle hints you were too busy for a relationship.

You considered for awhile that Anton was seeing other people too. He definitely had to have a roster of his own, pretty models who liked his soft voice and gentle demeanor. You told yourself he was in a long term relationship that you didn’t know about and he was just looking to you for some fun, or helping out a friend. You also considered that he got his first model paycheck and needed a pretty thing to throw his extra money at.

You never asked Anton anything to confirm or deny your suspicions. You were too busy trying to ignore the fact that he hadn’t even touched you before you were searching up his ad campaigns in your free time. No one warns you about how cool you have to be. Treating everyone like another body is all fun and games until the body is young and interesting and kind and funny and hot and familiar and—

“I’m glad we’re here together.” Anton said.

“Me too.”

He closes a little bit of the distance on the couch, coming closer until only a cushion separates the two of you. You think to yourself again why he hasn’t fucked you yet. You would’ve settled for a quickie in the bathroom, or in the parking lot when he picked you up for old time’s sake. You would’ve settled for something as juvenile as grinding and heavy petting, anything would’ve mulled you over. You just needed your fun, that’s what you were looking for and what you were being deprived of because he was too busy treating you like his girlfriend.

Seeing how nonchalant Anton had suddenly become made you even more pent up. Was there something you didn’t know about him, was there something he was hiding? The more you thought about him, the more you realized you knew nothing about him. Just that he used to work a few stores down from you, and he modeled now and you were both pulled from your schedules to be here today.

Everything he did made you cling to his every move. When he moved even closer to you the camcorder was on the tripod now, and you shut your laptop and put it on the ground to move it out of the way.

The two of you are just sitting in silence, side by side. Even though neither of you have a time constraint, it feels like you’re running out of time. You should be pulling him on top of you, the longer you took the more footage you’d have to edit out.

“Are you usually like this?” Anton asks the question even though he knows the answer. He’s been recording and taking pictures of you for the better half of the month, and he knows that you’re never scared to film. But now you’re hesitant, it’s Anton who has to take the first step to put a hand on your thigh.

“I’ve never had to wait this long.” You move back to the corner of the couch so you’re propped against the armrest and the back of the couch. Anton immediately follows after you, turning on the couch to face you completely. When Anton covers up your body too much you put a hand on his shoulder, keeping the smallest distance between you two. But his hand moved to cup your cheek, and he’s grabbing at your thigh. “Why are you making me wait for so long?” You ask.

Anton pulls at you again, and he drags you from the armrest of the couch until you’re completely on your back.

“I wanted to treat you nice.” Anton’s hand guides your legs to wrap around his waist.

“You do treat me nice.” You say immediately. You pull Anton closer by a hand on his shoulder.

“But I also didn’t want you to think I was just around for sex.” Anton looks to the camcorder you propped up in the corner of the living room. The red dot blinks back at him, bright and a stark difference from the warm lighting of the lamp on the tiny table beside the couch. “Will this be in the video though?”

You turn Anton’s head to look back at you.

“Just pretend it’s not even there.” You say quickly. “I’ll edit it all out, don’t even worry about it.”

Anton smiles at you, and before you know it he has you flipped over on top of him. He guides you to straddle him completely, and then he’s pulling at the bottom of your shirt. He helps you push it off your body, and he balls up the fabric to throw it somewhere else in the room.

Even though you and Anton had gone all the way, you have never been put on such a display for him. Despite him recording you in various states of undress for your side hustle, there’s something different about you doing this just for him. Even if your camera records everything, you’re undressed just for Anton, and he’s looking up to you and gripping your chest like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

You don’t rush Anton’s hands. You let him be greedy and you let him take his time. You watch how you fit into the palm of his hand, how he wraps around you so easily.

Anton is holding onto you and then he moves so fast it almost makes your head spin. In seconds his chest is pressed to your front, and an arm behind him is keeping him propped up. He presses his lips to the valley of your chest. A gentle kiss turns into the feeling of Anton sucking at your skin. Your lips part and a tiny gasp slips out, Anton keeps sucking and you wrap a hand in his hair to keep him there.

He pulls away, and you can already tell the patch of skin is going to be ugly tomorrow. Anton is unaffected, instead looking up at you. His lips are still glistening with spit when he pulls you closer.

“Do you think I’ll still be a good fuck?” He asked.

As embarrassing as it was to admit, you knew he would be. Even when you tried your best to not give him all the credit, reasoning with yourself that his height would make him a good fuck on technicality, you knew there was something more to it. Anton had the tendency to be a gentleman, but a specific brand of chivalry that seemed to be an innate part of who he was. He held the door open for everyone without a second thought and he always waited for you to ask for help even if you were visibly struggling. He always offered to pay for anything you laid your eyes on. He knew how to throw his weight around and show off his strength in a way that wasn’t intimidating, but had a way of paying such intimate attention to everyone it made you feel like there was something more between you two. He is attentive, he is kind, he is hot, he is tall, he is strong, and you think about him all the time—of course you knew he’d be a good fuck.

Anton exhibited his strength again when you felt his hands scratch against your scalp, rough and demanding. As some sort of reprieve from the intensity you tried bringing your body closer to his. He was one step ahead of you—like he always was—and pulled you by your hair. You felt the pinprick sensation on your scalp and the tug made more of your neck and chest exposed to him. You could feel his eyes burn a hole the same place on your chest where there’d be a mark in the morning.

“How many people have you fucked?” Anton asked, eyes still on the angry splotch on your chest. “Since we stopped seeing eachother?”

He licked his lips and leaned his head towards the same spot before flickering his eyes up to you. The position Anton had you in currently was compromising and he showed no signs of letting go. By the marks on your chest and the numbness of your lips you could already tell that Anton had some sort of problem when it came to possession. He was clearly the jealous type too, evident in the way the word fucked fell from his lips. Like he had to gag the word out, like the simple thought of someone else touching you like this made him want to vomit.

The way Anton spoke made you think if you told him the truth of how many people you’ve seen there’d be nothing left of you by the time he was done. So you shook your head against the grip he has on your hair, trying to will the bass back to your voice.

“I don’t think you wanna know.” You say.

Your words hitch at the end when his hand palms your chest. Anton’s hands are soft despite the sheer size, but the way he pinches your hardened nipple is purposefully rough. Your sensitive skin is rolled between his middle finger and thumb, before he pulls your tit towards him. You whine from the pain and Anton looks at you eyes narrowed to let you know you gave him the wrong answer.

The answer to his question is much less entertaining, you couldn’t imagine telling Anton about all of the people who you entertain in your chats on your streams or the people that message you on Twitter. You also couldn’t imagine telling Anton that this was a slow week for you.

You finally casted your eyes down to Anton the same time he brought your chest back to his mouth. It was entirely too easy to hold you in the palm of his hand, to move you like you weighed nothing. You felt the absence of autonomy and it frightened you almost as much as it made you want to grind your hips on him again. The restriction didn’t stop you from moaning out when you felt Anton’s teeth graze your nipple, or whimpering when he brought his other hand to harshly pinch the other side.

You already feel an impeding orgasm just from how rough he’s being with you, you can feel your walls seize around nothing as you cause more of a mess on his lap. The feeling churning in your stomach almost made you sick as you looked down at Anton, tears dotting your waterline as it all became too much. He looked up from your chest to see your deep pout and wet eyes. Instead of cooing at you affectionately and asking what he could do to fix it he only laughed at you. With your chest in his mouth and his lips sucking on your skin he laughed. The vibrations made you jump and twist your hand around in his grip, desperately looking for his wrist to push your nails into.

“Were you thinking about me when you were with other people?” He asked. “Thinking about your boyfriend while you were playing girlfriend with other guys?”

You want to tell Anton that he is not your boyfriend and you don’t only entertain men. But once again, the truth seems to be suspended in Anton’s presence. So you nod your head, looking for some sort of reprieve from all the pressure. The fact that you look down at a fully clothed Anton while you’re getting more and more undressed is too much. Your bra came off a long time ago, and when you can get out of Anton’s greedy grip you try to push down at your waistband. You try to press your chest against his to kill two birds with one stone, but his hand that moved from your hair to your shoulder keeps you in place.

“Aht aht.” You could hear the mocking tone in his voice, your eyes refused to let you look down at the smirk that probably played on his lips. Your body unsuccessfully tried closing itself against Anton’s again, just to have his other hand tug on your hair again. “Don’t be embarrassed.” He coos.

Anton prevents you from pressing your body against his. You feel his eyes rake up and down your figure, again and again and you feel dizzy. You clench around nothing again and you whine, not stopping yourself from shaking your head.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

Anton hand released your hair a while ago but you keep it in the same place. You can’t form a thought but the way Anton looks at you tells you he already knows. Still he tilts his head to the side. He gives you the chance to answer, the same way a predator lets it’s prey run away for the sake of the chase.

“Fuck me please.” You say.

When you appear to be the most hopeless, Anton goes for the kill. His hands releasing you completely makes you freeze, like you weren’t fighting against his grasp moments prior. He looks at you looking at him, and then his hands go to resting behind his head.

“Do your thing.” He says.

You reach for the buttons on his pants way too fast. You stand on shaking legs and knees to undo it with hasty hands, completely opposite of Anton’s demeanor. His hands are lax behind him, barely holding himself up while you push his pants down his leg. Your pants are caught like a constricting belt on your waist, the material on your leg rides up more and more with each move you make. You’re unbothered though, more concerned with getting Anton undressed before your own comfort.

The only way Anton moves is to reach into his back pocket as you push his pants down. He grabs his wallet, setting it on the table beside the couch as you continue pushing the denim down. Anton finally helps by lifting his waist off the couch, his fingers pushing his pants down the rest of the way. You follow suit, finally taking your pants off and letting it join the pile of clothes.

When Anton moved to lean against the back of the couch you went to straddle him again, completely naked while he still kept his shirt on. His hands were underneath your ass, kneading the skin harsher than he ever did before. He lifts you up with ease, and brings you back down until your clit bumps against his dick. There’s already a tiny dark stain blossoming at the bottom of Anton’s shirt from the precum leaking out from his tip. You start pulling at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head so quickly it ruffles his hair.

“We never got to do this in your car.” Anton whispers it to you so low that you’re not even sure the camera would be able to pick it up. You’re becoming less and less aware of the camera recording you both, if you cared you would know that this was a terrible angle and it was barely picking up what was happening between the two of you. “Feels like the first time.” He laughs.

“It kinda is.” You look down to his lap, and you work the slimy latex of the condom he put in your hand over his dick. You never got the chance to put the condom on Anton, so you have your fun with him. You’re able to draw out a hiss from Anton and make him buck into your hand, and you’re able to make him lean his head back until he’s melting into the couch. “We get to take our time.”

Anton leans further into the couch and he’s nodding his head helplessly. He’s so different from just a few moments before when he was grabbing you roughly and leaving marks on your skin.

Like you two are desperately trying to make up for lost time you go through everything. You two are oscillating between being dominant and submissive, so quickly it’s almost confusing you both. Something tells you that you should be the dominant one tonight. That’s what your viewers are used to seeing, and technically you are the one on top. But you are at this place because of Anton, he’s the one that called you his girlfriend and meant it, and he was the one that was silently waiting for you to do what he wanted next. He was hard to figure out. He let you continue to jerk him off, letting out tiny sighs as your hand became slick from the lubricated latex.

You look down at Anton just to find that he’s already looking up at you. His eyes keep on flickering down to the mark on your chest, and for a second you think he’s going to lean forward and leave another.

“Can I touch you?” He asks the question while his hands continue to knead your ass.

You nod anyways, and instantly one of his hands is wrapping around your waist and the other is going to your clit. The sight of Anton’s hand superimposing you is intoxicating. The way he knows to apply just the right amount of pressure behind his hands makes you lose the pace you set with your own. He’s too attentive for his own good you’ve decided. When he lifts his hand up quickly to lick the tips of his fingers before going back down you’ve decided he’s dangerous. He makes you pitch forward, and when he presses a little harder you let go of his dick completely to hold the couch on either side of his head for dear life. When Anton speeds his fingers up your huffing in the crook of his neck.

“I always wanted to do this.” Anton whispers directly into your ear before kissing the shell. When you open. your mouth to reply he applies more force, causing only a strangled whimper to escape your lips. “You have no idea.”

All you could do was nod your head. You felt lost, out of breath as Anton continued working his finger on your sensitive bud. He didn’t stop even when your hand went to his wrist to try and stop his movement but he’s stronger than you. He just looks up at you and bites his lip, smirking when you struggle to keep eye contact.

“Does it feel good?” Anton laughs when he sees you can’t speak. “So good, right?”

You start reaching your hand down to grab his dick, desperately trying to convey what you need physically.

You’re grateful he gives in without you having to beg for it, because Anton finally takes his hand away from your clit to grab his dick instead. His other hand lifts you from his lap slightly, lining up at your entrance. His fat tip prods against you, and the way you already feel the burn in your legs. You were a seasoned professional, but with Anton looking up at you like you were the cutest thing in the world left you second guessing yourself.

“You gonna ride me?” Anton leans back on the couch and takes you with him, and you answer him by sinking down on him.

You sigh when you feel him push into you slowly, and when it’s down to the hilt you pull in a sharp breath. You can feel yourself pulsing around him already, and you tilt your head back when Anton moves underneath you.

“Is this for your viewers or for me?” You twist your head to the blinking red light, reminding you that you still are recording every single thing taking place. Anton follows your gaze over your shoulder, bringing you close by a hold on the back of your neck. “I’m your biggest fan, you know.”

You realize there’s no point in recording anymore, because Anton whispers everything into your ear and your body is blocking the view. The only thing the camera picks up is the wet sound of Anton bringing you down and down again on his dick. You don’t put on a show like you used to when it was just you and your toys, this is the real thing. Anton is living and breathing and warm, taking up all of you and getting you to take all of him again and again.

“I watched everything, by the way.” Anton keeps his hand wrapped around your waist, moving you back and forth on him. “You sound so different now, though.”

“No I don’t.”

You start moving your hips the same way Anton guides you, doing anything you can to take back control. He responds by changing the pace, and then bringing your chest close to his mouth again. Right next to the mark he already left he leaves another, that’s angry and even bigger than the one before.

“Yes you do.” It’s pitiful that you squeeze around Anton at the bass in his voice. He’s sincere, and then you’re on your back with Anton looming over you. “I know the sounds you make on your little streams are fake, but you’re not playing it up for me at all.”

The new position lets Anton dig deeper into you, and it lets him go faster and harder too. You’re on display for the camera now , and you’re reaching behind you to find stability in the armrest. Your sounds are unfiltered, slipping through your parted lips. You’re loud and wrecked, and Anton is right. You’ve never made sounds without thinking about them first. Nothing about this is calculated, down to the ferine way Anton is fucking you. He’s crashing his lips onto yours and you’re moaning into his mouth, just when you think you can handle it one of his hands pushes on the back of your thigh.

“See?” Anton is struggling too, his words getting pushed out with each thrust. He looks down between your two bodies where you meet. “You’re never this loud for your fake boyfriends.”

“Baby.” You whimper and he looks to you. The light from the lamp catches the sweat beading at his forehead and the flush on his cheeks. “I won’t be able to use this footage if you keep talking like that.”

Instead of pulling back, Anton smirks again. He speeds up, making your chest move and making you lose your breath again. He holds onto you tight and brings his body closer to yours, strong and solid over you.

“We’ll just have to film again then.” You scratch his back and you can’t even verbalize that you’re close. Anton’s sweaty forehead is pressed to your chest, keeping you glued together. “I got plenty more for you.”

You can’t keep it together long enough to warn Anton. You just move your hand to his head, holding him close to your chest as you cum. Anton stills for you, and you pathetically lift your hips again and again to get more stimulation. You squeeze around him and Anton just coos as you, kissing the flaming skin on your chest and telling you how cute you are even if you’re treating him like a human dildo.

He continues murmuring to you and coaxing you down from your peak until you’re spent underneath him, laying completely flat on the couch until you start melting into it yourself.

Anton’s large hand that was wrapped around your waist moves to your lower stomach instead. Feeling his hand on you causes you to twitch, and when he teasingly applies force you groan and start to writhe underneath him. He laughs at your condition, seemingly unfazed as he backs away from between your legs to sit down on the couch in front of you. The only indication that he’s as wrecked as you are is the way he takes in deep breaths, but even then he is ready while you’re still trying to regain your composure. Anton rubs your knee and smiles at how your limp leg yields to the lightest amount of force.

“I definitely won’t be able to use any of the footage.” You say. You turn your weak head to the camera and Anton follows suit. You playfully kick at his chest with your foot. “I bet the lighting was terrible. And you kept on talking to me all crazy.”

Anton’s hands go to your ankle, wrapping around it. He guides a foot to one side of your body, propping himself between your legs again.

“Well. We do have all weekend.”

#commissionz #01zfan: anton #anton smut #riize smut

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asthedeathoflight · 8 days ago

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My favorite completely inconsequential tmbd headcanon is that one of ART's hobbies is fashion design. Murderbot says in System Collapse that ART made it a custom environmental suit, and in Rapport it's straight up doing textile engineering. I think ART's crew uniforms are like, disproportionately chic and well-tailored for recycler-made clothing but Murderbot never notices because its only reference points for human clothes are media and the Preservation Alliance. Every member of ART's crew gets their uniform tailored to their measurements (obviously) but theyre also all subtly different depending on the crew's job responsibilities and personalities. (Tarik's is the standard recycler pattern. This isn't technically giving him substandard equipment, but everyone knows that's how ART means it) ART is so bored all the time and has so much processing power you know it's doing gnarly textile manufacturing bullshit. Spinning threads which vary ever so slightly in thickness so that when they're woven together certain areas are seamlessly reinforced. Blending stability and stretch according to the flexibility of its crew's joints as seen in their last medscan. Obviously all the superai transport uniforms are nicer than normal uniforms, but its known at the University that Perihelion's crew has the /best/ uniforms, and ART is very smug about this. It absolutely refuses to send along its garment manufacturing files if one of its crew moves to a new transport.

But like. On a more serious note. Garment manufacturing is one of the only public-facing responsibilities ART has where it can assert its personhood and competence. It's still a fine line to walk, but PortSec is much less likely to notice that Iris's crew jacket has circuitry patterns woven into it than they are to notice ART speaking in full sentences. This is the only part of it that gets sent into the outside world, that other people get to see. Of course it's going to pour all its protective frustration and affection and ego into making sure its people have clothing that flatters them, that keeps them safe and at the top of their game, that helps them do their jobs. What other hobby is a super transport going to have?

#in other words: i have a lot of feelings about art trying to win over mb in network effect with a sweatshirt #asshole research transport #perihelion #tmbd #smth smth about art not having a physical body so this is the way it holds its crew

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 2 months ago

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2026 Pontiac GTO

The 2026 Pontiac GTO is a highly anticipated revival of the iconic muscle car, blending classic design elements with modern performance and technology. Drawing inspiration from its predecessors, the 2026 model features a sleek, aggressive exterior with bold lines and a prominent front grille. Under the hood, it boasts a powerful engine lineup, including a 6.2L V8 engine delivering impressive horsepower and torque. The interior is designed for comfort and performance, with premium materials and advanced technology features. Safety is a priority, with the inclusion of modern driver assistance systems. Overall, the 2026 Pontiac GTO aims to honor its legacy while embracing the future of automotive engineering.

#pontiac gto #pontiac #gto #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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a-magpie-in-gravesfield · 1 month ago

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I upgraded my Toon Boom from Advanced to the Premium version and took some lessons to learn the nodes system and THIS IS HARD XD

But it's really interesting and I have to get used to the nodes for work anyway now, so working hard to keep learning ahah. The storyboard images were real deleted boards from the show (so not drawn by me), I have a bunch more but I'm pretty much doing an exercise to re animate some of those deleted boards and I'll see if I can blend them in seamlessly in the show (I also saved some of the music suites from Youtube, so far it's working just fine) I have some voice actors doing dialogue for these too :) The scenes will also have backgrounds, I just haven't drawn them yet.

I wanted to have something I could post before my big episode that could also be an animation exercise from me so my channel isn't dead for almost a year lol. The other one I'm working on now is the alternate version from the "The trees there are green" scene from Eclipse Lake. I'm trying to re animate the movement from the show but changing the dialogue and the poses very slightly to match the storyboards more, I know it's not super creative but it's a really good practice thing to do.

(This one is VERY unfinished still - those hair lines are killing me lmao)

I'm also recording my animating process for these, but also to put as a disclaimer : I'm using the storyboards as a main guide like this but as you can see the boards aren't exactly on model so I'm eyeballing the actual show as reference and I'm re drawing the frames from the show from scratch (I have a ref from the show playing on the side)

So for example here his scars will look like they do in Eclipse Lake and not like they did in the storyboards etc. For the King's Tide one above I kept the line under his eye because I felt like it still worked and also added a lot to the expression

I will post my full process video etc after I finish all those scenes :)

#philip wittebane #emperor belos #belos

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cressidagrey · 19 hours ago

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System Failure - Chapter 4: Brackley

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Ana has a meltdown. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025

She didn’t expect anyone to notice.

It was just a shirt.

A black Mercedes team polo — same logo, same structure, same sharp lines.

Only it wasn’t.

It was softer. Cotton. Hers.

The first time in years she’d walked into the engine lab without feeling like her skin was crawling under her collar.

She was reviewing tire temperature data on her tablet when she felt it: eyes.

Not staring. But… watching.

First from one of the junior mechanics, a man with his hair tied in a tight braid and sweat forming under the high-poly collar of his regulation kit.

Then from Fatima — PR, usually glued to screens and two phones, now blinking owlishly at Ana’s sleeves.

Then from a second-year aero analyst who tugged at the hem of her stiff-fitted polo and kept looking away like it hurt to stare.

Ana tapped a graph.

Waited.

Finally, Fatima stepped closer, voice pitched low. “Sorry — can I ask something?”

Ana glanced over. “You just did.”

Fatima grinned nervously. “That shirt. Is it… different?”

Ana paused.

Then nodded once. “Cotton blend. Custom seams. No tags.”

Fatima exhaled like someone had just opened a window. “God, I knew it. You don’t look like you’re dying.”

One of the mechanics — Leo, Ana remembered — leaned in. “I get rashes from these sleeves every race week. Yours look… soft.”

Another person joined. Then a fourth.

“Do you think they’ll make it standard?” someone asked. “The… your version.”

Ana blinked.

She hadn’t thought of that.

She hadn’t thought about anyone else when the prototypes arrived. Just getting through a day without feeling like she was battling her own clothes.

But now she looked around and realized: they were all tugging at their cuffs.

Unbuttoning their collars. Picking at the embroidered tags inside their necklines like they were trying to scratch out a secret.

Maybe she hadn’t been the only one suffering. Just the only one who refused to normalize it.

“I don’t know,” Ana said slowly. “But I’ll ask.”

Fatima smiled, wide and unguarded. “You should. It’d be the first time teamwear didn’t feel like armor.”

Ana didn’t say anything to that.

But later — in her office, with the door half-closed and the polo still loose against her skin — she opened her email.

***

Email Subject: Cotton Blend Uniform Feedback

From: Dr. Anastasia Wolff <[email protected]> To: Team Kit Procurement <[email protected]> CC: Toto Wolff (CEO) Claire Hammond (HR), Marcus Reidl (Design Lead)

Dear All,

Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.

If we can accommodate wider distribution, please proceed.

Also — suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.

Regards, Dr. Anastasia Wolff Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025

Toto read Ana’s email twice.

Then a third time.

Then he slowly took off his glasses and set them down with an almost reverent sort of care, like the weight of the message had finally sunk in.

He hadn't expected this.

He thought the clothing issue was singular. Specific. Ana-specific.

He thought — wrongly — that this was about her and her alone.

But then he reread the line:

“Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.” “Recommend trial sizes for track staff and junior team members.”

And another:

“Suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.”

He leaned back in his chair.

God.

How many people had just quietly endured because they thought complaining about a shirt made them sound soft? Weak? Replaceable?

How many of them were right to be afraid?

He looked over at his assistant, who was sorting emails across the room.

“Leonie?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Can we… get feedback from staff before we finalize the 2026 team kit?”

She paused. “You mean from the senior leads?”

“No,” he said, frowning. “I mean… everyone.”

She blinked.

Toto tapped the desk absently. “Anonymous if necessary. Ask what they actually want to wear. What bothers them. What doesn’t work. Give them options. Not just sizes — materials. Seam styles. Fastenings. Tag placements. Everything.”

Leonie opened her laptop again, rapidly typing. “I’ll draft a feedback form today.”

He nodded.

Then, softer: “I don’t want anyone on this team to feel like they have to earn the right to be comfortable.”

She glanced at him, surprised.

“Not after this,” he added, motioning toward Ana’s email.

And he meant it.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

lorelai.pa: GUYS THE FORM THE FORM JUST DROPPED THIS IS NOT A DRILL

sam.transmission: wait the anon team kit feedback form??

jules.elec: YES check your inbox “2026 Apparel Feedback – Optional & Anonymous” Toto’s name is on it. He wants our thoughts.

jess.hr: this feels like that scene in Les Mis where everyone’s like “do you hear the people sing” but about polyester

ellie.electronics: someone’s finally listening 😭 i’m going to cry over a cotton-blend hoodie

fatima.pr: entered “the polos give me existential rage and also chafe my neck like I’m being strangled by a team sponsor”

nicola.sim: I said: “I have a recurring dream about removing the inner tags with fire” follow-up question was “any preferred materials?” i said: yes. soft.

rachel.aero:I just want a version of the rain jacket that doesn’t make me sound like a pissed-off bag of Doritos when I move

Sima.calibration:I said we should bring back zip-off trousers for variable pit lane conditions

you’re all laughing now but you’ll thank me at Monza when it’s 37 degrees

Lucy.comms: I asked if we could have those polos with the half zips again but in bamboo this time don’t judge me

leo.mechanic: I said “please no more fitted sleeves that cut off circulation like a blood pressure cuff from hell”

liv.strategy: I literally typed “I want to wear my team kit without itching like a Victorian ghost girl with TB”

benjy.data: someone’s gonna read this and be like “we’ve made a terrible mistake”

kayleigh.powerunit: seriously though do we think this is because of Ana? 👀

zahra.aero: 100% she wore The Cotton Polo and now we have a form she is the revolution

jules.elec: she suffered so we could be free

leo.mechanic: I still think Toto saw her pick at her collar once and commissioned an entire line of custom-engineered knitwear

lorelai.m: give that man a dad medal wrapped in organic bamboo jersey

tom.sim: if we get a fleece-lined travel hoodie that doesn’t trap heat like a dying star i will get “w21 lives forever” tattooed across my knuckles

***

Twitter Thread: Max to Mercedes?? Let’s Talk About It

@/F1Whispers: 🚨 Hearing whispers that the Max-to-Mercedes conversation isn’t just paddock fantasy anymore.

Apparently someone from Verstappen’s camp had an informal sit-down with a senior Mercedes figure post-Spain.

We’ll be watching this one very closely. 👀

↳@/charlottechicane: “Informal sit-down” = espresso and ruin. I am so ready.

↳@/pitlanecryptid: no bc imagine Toto walking into that meeting like “so are you finally done pretending Red Bull isn’t imploding?”

↳@/DataLapDan: i know we’re all excited but if max actually goes to mercedes i’m gonna be insufferable like "my world domination au is CANON" levels of unbearable

↳@/verstappensburner: this entire fanbase is going to emotionally combust if max shows up to silverstone even looking at the Mercedes hospitality

@/laurensleftshoe: you’re telling me that in the same season Red Bull fumbled strategy, pissed off Verstappen, and Mercedes quietly fixed their engine?? oh this is SILLY silly season.

@/PaddockWhispers: Not saying anything definitive (yet), but there’s a vibe shift happening. Hearing from more than one source that Mercedes talks with Max Verstappen aren’t as dead-in-the-water as they used to be. 👀

@/javi_ontrack: you mean to tell me we’ve entered the “what if Max leaves Red Bull” timeline in THIS economy????

@/amberflagf1: Reminder: Max has a Red Bull contract until the end of 2028. Also reminder: contracts in F1 are written in pencil and everyone knows it.

@/formula_flirt: I cannot emotionally handle Max Verstappen in Mercedes silver. I would combust. Respectfully.

@/f1firestarter: Max Verstappen to Mercedes would be the biggest defection since Lewis left McLaren. This sport hasn’t known peace since 2007 anyway. Let chaos reign.

@/deaddownforce: Christian Horner if this actually happens: 👨‍🦲🪑😭📉📉📉📉📉

@/helmutvision: Toto’s going to sign Max out of pure spite and call it “a long-term strategic investment.”

@/emiliapits: just saying… Max Verstappen looks one engine failure away from handing in a transfer request #SpanishGP

@/tirewearupdates: We are entering that delicious stage of Silly Season where the rumors go from “lol imagine” to “wait is that actually happening” Max to Mercedes is no longer a meme it’s a threat

@/f1teaaccount: 👀 multiple paddock sources are now saying that Max has “not ruled out” a conversation with Mercedes about 2026 Red Bull’s collapse + Mercedes’ 2026 PU project = ✨spicy✨

@/wheresthegrip: red bull’s falling apart, toto’s wearing that tight smile like he knows something’s already signed, and max looks 4.6 seconds away from choosing violence every sunday we’re so back

@/karunactually: Look, it’s all smoke until there’s fire, but I’ll say this: Mercedes’ power unit development is the most locked-down I’ve seen it in years. And Max is asking very smart questions about 2026 aero.

@/engineerera: If Max goes to Mercedes and GP goes with him… I will simply combust. Red Bull who? I don’t know her.

***

Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman

Kimi: OLIVER. Have you seen Twitter.

Oliver: Always a good start to the day Which bit this time?

Kimi: VERSTAPPEN TO MERCEDES??? People are saying it's real now Like meetings and talks and performance clause drama levels of real

Oliver:

Lmao yeah.

That’s just a rumour. Chill.

Kimi:NO YOU DON’T GET IT If it’s true I’m SCREWED I’m a rookie George has won races They’re not going to fire the guy with media training and four trophies They’ll fire me

Oliver: Okay. One: You haven’t even done half a season. Two: You literally out-qualified him in Miami. Three: You are Toto’s investment. They’re not firing you.

Kimi: I saw Toto smiling in the paddock after Spain Like a knowing smile Like a “I’ve just offered Max Verstappen a multi-year deal” kind of smile I’ve barely been here five minutes. I just stopped getting lost in the motorhome. Toto’s going to be like “you’ve had a nice gap year, off you go.” I’ll be back in F2 by Spa.

Oliver: Toto is not sending you back to F2.

Kimi: He’ll send me to Formula E. Or worse. Endurance.

Oliver: Please breathe.

Kimi: He’s going to call me into his office. And I’ll walk in and he’ll just gesture at a Mercedes shirt and be like “This is for Max. Pack your things.”

Oliver: Kimi.

Kimi: I JUST STARTED UNPACKING MY THINGS

Oliver: Kimi.

Kimi: Do you think Red Bull would take me? Do you think I could learn how to smile for their videos?

Oliver: You hate their social media team.

Kimi: Yes but I love not being unemployed.

Oliver: You're not getting fired. You're 18 and terrifyingly good. Max to Mercedes isn’t about you. It’s about Red Bull imploding.

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: GUYS WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

Oscar: It’s 6:14am. What is wrong with you.

Carlos: You better be dying

Lando: HAVE YOU SEEN TWITTER check your feeds right now go go go

Oscar: Oh. Wait. What.

Carlos: Oh qué coño “Verstappen to Mercedes 2026”? Are they serious???

Lando: HE’S JUMPING SHIP MAX. TO. MERCEDES. I KNEW SOMETHING WAS OFF

Daniel: ...what did I just wake up to

Lando: I KNEW HE WAS HIDING SOMETHING and now he’s packing his bags and heading straight into Toto’s loving arms??? THIS IS A GRID-LEVEL EVENT

Oscar: There’s no confirmation. Could just be speculation.

Carlos: You don’t switch teams because of one bad race. That’s not Max.

Lando: that’s what you think but I think… it’s the girlfriend 😐

Oscar: No.

Carlos: Lando.

Daniel: God.

Lando: what if she’s a Mercedes girl what if he’s been SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY THIS WHOLE TIME what if she's one of Toto's engineers or like. his race strategist or his cat sitter, I don’t know, everyone in that team is suspicious

Oscar: This is why no one tells you anything.

Daniel: I know for a fact she’s not Toto’s cat sitter. BECAUSE HE DOESN’T HAVE A CAT

Lando: SO YOU DO KNOW HER WE’VE CIRCLED BACK CONFESS

Carlos: Can we stay on topic

Lando: I am on topic Max is leaving red bull for love for romance for goddamn affection, carlos

Oscar: Or maybe for stability and a better engine

Lando: you’re no fun

Daniel: You really think Max Verstappen would switch teams because of a girlfriend?

Lando: Yes. Do we need to stage an intervention???

Carlos: You’re acting like he joined a cult.

Oscar: I’m muting again.

Daniel: Same.

Lando:

YOU’RE ALL BLIND

HE’S DEFECTING

AND HE’S TAKING HIS SECRET GIRLFRIEND WITH HIM

OPEN YOUR EYES SHEEPLE!

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Raymond: I just got three missed calls from Helmut. One from Christian. And one from someone in communications asking “how hypothetical this all is.”

Jos: 😂

Raymond: You think this is funny?

Jos: A little. They’ve spent the last year ignoring him. Now they remember his number?

Max: I got a text from Christian. Just said: “Are you free to talk later today?” Didn’t even put a smiley face.

Raymond: Yeah, they’re rattled. Now everyone’s watching every move you make.

Max: Good. Maybe now they’ll realize “next year” isn’t a plan. It’s a stall.

Jos: Told you this would get their attention. Should’ve done it back in Hungary.

Raymond: They’re already trying to spin it internally. Said you’re “frustrated but committed.” Which is rich, considering you’ve barely committed to a sandwich lately.

Max: I’m not saying anything to them until we decide what we want. Let them sweat.

Jos: They deserve to sweat. They built an empire around you and assumed you'd never walk away.

Raymond: You sure you’re ready for the chaos if this keeps escalating? Sponsors. Media. Internal leaks. They’re going to start dangling upgrades and favors like candy.

Max: Let them. I'm not interested in words. I'm interested in performance. And in options.

Jos: He means Anastasia Wolff.

Raymond: Oh for god’s sake

Max: I mean winning. And maybe a competent power unit.

Jos: Just admit it, you want a new car and the girl to match.

Max: I want a future that actually exists.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 9 June 2025

Ana didn’t usually pay attention to gossip.

She didn’t have the time. Between engine simulations, thermal load mapping, and trying to outsmart the very laws of physics that governed engines, her brain had better things to do than scroll through rumor threads or listen to whatever the hell the factory gossip mill spat out between coffee breaks.

Gossip was for bored comms interns and second-tier Twitter accounts and the anonymous message boards she refused to acknowledge she read. Gossip was an inefficient use of processing power, and she had an engine to build.

Well—part of an engine.

Ana was deep in the work. She liked that about engines: either it ran, or it didn’t. It didn’t hide behind charm or half-truths or the kind of smile that curled just at the corner like it knew what your heartbeat did at 2 a.m. when it whispered your name.

She was elbow-deep in the systems diagnostic interface when it happened.

“...bet Toto’s buzzing. I mean, Verstappen in Mercedes? That’s headline stuff.”

Ana didn’t look up immediately. The interns chatted all the time. She’d learned to tune them out like background static.

But then someone laughed.

“That’s the thing, though. Apparently the talks are real this time. Like, post-Spain. Horner looks ready to combust. Heard Max’s team asked for a second round of briefings already.”

Her fingers froze. Not stopped—froze. A full system hang. The kind that required a hard reboot.

She stood up too fast, knocking over a container of diagnostic strips. “What are you talking about?”

Three junior engineers blinked at her like deer in carbon-fibre headlights.

“I—uh—sorry?” one offered. A kid. Probably twenty-three. Probably didn’t know the laws of thermodynamics, much less the laws of personal space.

Ana’s voice came out cold and precise. Like dry ice instead of fire. “You said Verstappen and Mercedes. What talks?”

He hesitated. “It’s just, um, what people are saying. Apparently he’s… not thrilled at Red Bull. And with the new regulations—”

“What talks?” she repeated, sharper now. “With who? When? On what basis?”

Silence. Someone coughed.

Another engineer—Liam—spoke up, clearly trying to calm the waters. “Ana, it’s probably nothing. Just paddock noise. Silly season stuff.”

“I don’t care if it’s silly season or the Book of Revelations,” she snapped. “You don’t bring that name into this building without—”

She cut herself off.

She had not meant to sound that emotional. She didn’t do emotional.

Emotional was messy. Emotional got you left in a cold Vienna apartment when you were eight years old and didn’t understand why Mama never came back. Emotional got you 10 years of therapy and a lifelong fear of letting anyone close enough to notice that your heart beat out of time when Max Verstappen so much as looked at you.

“Forget it,” she muttered, already crouching to pick up the diagnostic strips. “Get back to work.”

She tried to focus again. Truly, she did.

But all she could see was him.

Max, in a Mercedes fireproof. Max, in her garage. Max, here.

That wasn’t just gossip.

That was personal.

And she had to find out from watercooler gossip that he might be walking straight into her father's garage next year?

She dropped into her chair, jaw tight.

She was going to kill him.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

liam.engine: okay so… ana just full-on snapped because someone mentioned max verstappen in the breakroom

tom.sim: like snapped snapped?? or ana-normal snapped??

liam.engine: diagnostic strips were flung. her eye twitched. she pulled rank with a voice that could’ve cut titanium.

kayleigh.powerunit: i was THERE. i thought she was going to throttle poor benjy. he looked like a ghost.

tom.sim: to be fair benjy always looks like a ghost. poor child lives on vending machine coffee and hope.

ellie.electronics: wait wait back up. what about verstappen?

liam.engine: someone mentioned the rumors he’s been in talks with merc and she lost it. like. visibly rattled.

sam.transmission: are we… not supposed to know that? because we all know that.

jess.hr: you didn’t hear it from me but… there have been board-level discussions. like actual meetings.

kayleigh.powerunit: george is going to combust. first his championship dream, now his dream girl?? mans cannot catch a break.

ellie.electronics: okay first of all. ana does NOT know george exists in that way. he flirts, she blinks and changes the subject to engine temperature mapping.

tom.sim: yeah but he tries. like, tragically hard. someone should tell him.

liam.engine: we have. multiple times.

sam.transmission: i think he genuinely believes if she just softens a little she’ll like him.

jess.hr: spoiler alert: trying to “soften” Ana Wolff is a career-limiting move.

liam.engine: but imagine…george losing both the girl and his seat to the same man. brutal.

tom.sim: “he came, he saw, he took your garage and your girl” – max verstappen, probably

kayleigh.powerunit: no but seriously, if verstappen joins next year…ana is going to short-circuit.

liam.engine: she already has. i swear i saw her hand shaking when she went back to her desk.

ellie.electronics: …do we think they’ve got history?

tom.sim: mate. that wasn’t “history.” that was “I will end you for not telling me yourself.”

liam.engine: also. george absolutely walked past Toto’s office ten minutes ago and didn’t even look inside. he knows.

kayleigh.powerunit: press F for george russell. he’s not getting the girl. he’s not getting the seat.

sam.transmission: this team is going to be absolute chaos next season.

liam.engine: so…basically. max to mercedes: 90% confirmed george: 90% doomed ana: 100% about to kill someone

kayleigh.powerunit: can we get hazard pay?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: You unbelievable, reckless, arrogant bastard.

Max: Hi Poekie 🥰

Ana: Don’t you dare call me that. is it true?

Max: you’ll have to be more specific. i do many things. most of them well. 😏

Ana:Is it true you’re talking to mercedes?

Max: define “talking” Like… theoretically, if a man was tired of his car dying every other Sunday and wanted to drive something that didn’t sound like a blender full of nails and steers like a shopping trolley, would that be so shocking? Was wondering when that would land in Brackley. Impressive it took this long, honestly.

Ana: You think this is funny?

Max: I think it’s adorable that you're this worked up. Is that a little engine rage I sense? Or something else?

Ana: You’re unbelievable.

Max: You say that every time I make you come.

Ana: You’re smirking through text. I know you’re smirking. Wipe it off your face or I swear to God I will personally rig your MGU-K to explode.

Max: You threatening to blow me up is the highlight of my week. I wasn’t hiding it. Just… hadn’t mentioned it yet. It’s not official. I haven’t signed anything. But yeah. I’m thinking about it.

Ana: Why?

Max: Because Red Bull’s a shitshow. Because the car’s not where I want it. Because 2026 is a clean slate. Because Mercedes has the best shot at nailing the regs.

Max : I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. You know. When you weren’t actively building the engine I might end up driving.

Ana: You absolute—

Max: Careful. You call me enough names, I might think you miss me.

Ana: You were going to let me build that engine and not say a word?

Max:I think it’s poetic. You building the engine I win my next championship with.

Ana: You’re not funny.

Max: A little bit. Also… If I do come to Mercedes, I’d get to see you more. You sure you want to complain?

Ana: Max.

Max: Ana.

Ana: This isn’t funny.

Max: It’s not meant to be. It’s serious. I’m serious. This team. This future. And you.

Max: You can throw everything you want at me, but I’m not pretending this isn’t personal.

Max: You and I never weren’t personal.

Ana: Stop flirting with me.

Max: You texted me first. Angry. You’re always hottest when you’re mad.

Ana: unbelievable.

Max: you should see how good i look in silver might need you to help peel the fireproofs off after practice. for research. obviously.

Ana:I hate you.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Are you seriously considering Mercedes or was that just a fever dream I saw on Twitter this morning?

Max: Depends.

Victoria: MAX. Are you actually considering it??

Max: I’m thinking about it. New regs. New challenge. New team that isn’t Red Bull collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Victoria: So that’s a yes.

Max: It’s a maybe. A serious maybe.

Victoria: And what does your situationship think about this?

Max: She’s not my situationship.

Victoria: Max.

Max: What?

Victoria: You’ve been sleeping with the same woman since 2016. You once skipped a Red Bull sponsor dinner because she had the flu. You got into an argument with Charles Leclerc because he flirted with her. You remember what day her mother left and make sure not to say anything soft around her that week.

That’s textbook situationship energy.

Max:No.

That’s Ana refusing to process any emotion stronger than mild caffeine withdrawal energy.

It’s different. She’s not my situationship. She’s the love of my life. She just doesn’t know how to be loved yet.

Victoria: Oof. That’s devastating. And also weirdly poetic. Have you told her that?

Max: She’d run.

Victoria: So you’re just gonna… casually defect to her team and hope the proximity therapy works?

Max: Basically, yeah.

Victoria: You’re unhinged.

Max: She’s worth it.

Victoria: Jesus.

Victoria: Fine. But I’m getting front row seats when she inevitably explodes at you in the Mercedes garage and you just stand there like a golden retriever in love.

Max: She already threatened to rig my MGU-K. Does that count?

Victoria: God. She so loves you.

Max: I know.

Victoria:I reserve the right to say I told you so if she makes you cry in an airport again though.

Max: That was one time and I was jetlagged

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025

The thing about working for 48 hours straight is that eventually, the code starts humming. Not metaphorically. Literally. The numbers pulse on the screen like they're breathing. The engine model almost sings.

It was beautiful. Or maybe that’s just the hallucination talking.

Ana hadn’t meant to do this. Not really.

But the rumours wouldn’t shut up.

Every thread. Every whisper in the office. Every poorly disguised hallway conversation that cuts off when she walks by. They all hum with the same goddamn thing:

Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.

So Ana did what she’s always done best: work.

And then kept working.

And then kept working past the part where most people would’ve gone home, or taken a nap, or consumed anything other than coffee and three-day-old protein bars.

The Max-to-Mercedes rumors had detonated in her skull like a landmine, and the only solution was to outpace the noise. To code faster than she could think. To simulate until reality bent around the dyno and all that existed was pressure ratios and heat recovery systems.

Ana had not slept in—well. She couldn’t quite remember. Forty-eight hours, give or take. Possibly more.

Sleep was inefficient. Feeling things was inefficient. If she could out-engineer her central nervous system, maybe she wouldn’t have to think about him walking into her garage wearing her team kit and asking her to act like they were nothing more than a very well-documented HR violation waiting to happen.

Nope. Absolutely not. Rejected.

It was fine.

Totally fine.

She stayed.

Skipped lunch. Skipped dinner. Drank whatever sludge passed for coffee in the staff kitchen. Ate two protein bars and a half-bag of Haribo from someone’s drawer.

By hour 36, her eyes twitched when she blinked. By hour 38, One of the CFD renderings had started to look like Max’s smile and she’d closed the window with so much force the monitor flickered. By hour 42, she had a conversation with the exhaust flow diagram.

Ignoring your feelings via work? Ten out of ten. No notes.

The door to the systems lab opened, and James—sweet, anxious James—peeked in with the caution of a man trying not to get yelled at.

“Hey, uh… Ana? You’ve been here a while.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah. No, I see that. It’s just… someone said you haven’t gone home since Monday?”

“I took a nap during the CFD cycle.”

“You mean the thirty-two-minute cooldown window?”

She adjusted her monitor. “Power naps are valid recovery strategies.”

James stepped back like she was radioactive. “Okay. Yeah. Coolcoolcool.”

***

There were a few things Lorelai had learned about Dr. Anastasia Wolff after working as her PA for years:

She did not like phone calls.

She did not tolerate inefficiency.

She did not, under any circumstances, do emotional meltdowns.

Which was why Lorelai was… confused.

Because there was currently a meltdown happening. A very quiet, very clinical, very Ana-coded meltdown. But still—an undeniable one.

The first sign something was off: Ana had skipped her 2 p.m. apple.

Now, most people wouldn’t clock that. But Lorelai kept receipts. Not metaphorical ones—literal, detailed, colour-coded records of Ana Wolff’s habits. Not because she was creepy (debatable), but because being Ana’s assistant was like managing a billion-dollar Formula 1 car that had decided to develop sentience and reprogram itself with C++ and repressed trauma.

And now Ana had been in the systems lab for forty-eight hours.

Which is why Lorelai—personal assistant, keeper of the calendar, shepherd of wayward engineers—was deeply, profoundly concerned.

Forty-eight hours.

Straight.

No shower breaks. No meal breaks. Just coffee, simulations, and whatever slowly crystallizing protein bar graveyard she’d built next to the dyno monitor.

And the thing was… no one knew why.

At first Lorelai thought maybe it was a tight deadline. A design review. A manufacturing delay. Ana loved a crisis, thrived on impossible timelines like a cryptid built from caffeine and elite academic trauma.

Something was wrong.

And it had started the exact same day the rumors about Max Verstappen coming to Mercedes had hit the media cycle like a wrecking ball dipped in silver paint.

Lorelai had seen the slack channel, of course. Heard the whispers. Everyone had.

Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.

A little gossip grenade tossed casually into the Slack channels and now rolling around under everyone’s desks.

Still, she didn’t get it. Ana didn’t even like Max Verstappen. Or… well.

She never talked about Max Verstappen.

Which, knowing Ana, might’ve meant something entirely different.

Now, Lorelai wasn’t stupid. She’d worked at Brackley long enough to know that F1 was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and gossip. She’d been in procurement for four years before Ana had stolen her during a lunch break by asking, “Would you like to stop being bored and start being indispensable?” And frankly, that had been the sexiest job offer she'd ever received.

But she’d never—never—seen Ana like this.

Forty-eight hours in the lab. No sleep. No food except Haribo and the kind of protein bar that tasted like bark. No interactions with the outside world except for three short, sharp emails, all time-stamped between 3 and 4 a.m., and all featuring increasingly unhinged demands about airflow telemetry and torque mapping for 2026.

At first Lorelai thought it was just a normal hyperfixation spiral. Ana had those sometimes—one moment she’d be designing cooling systems in her head, the next she’d be elbow-deep in CAD software muttering about slipstream efficiency like it owed her money.

But this?

This was personal.

Which didn’t make any sense, because Ana didn’t do personal. She did spreadsheets. She did systems.

And yet here she was.

Working like her brain was on fire.

Refusing food.

Snapping at poor James from aero like he’d suggested they reintroduce porpoising for fun.

And most concerningly…

Whispering to the exhaust flow diagram.

Lorelai watched her from the doorway, nursing her third espresso and wondering how many HR policies were currently being violated by pure sleep deprivation.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds

Private Channel. ~30 members.

james.aero: okay so question hypothetical if someone’s been working for maybe 48 hours straight and won’t make eye contact and is whispering to the exhaust flow diagram should we… like… do something?

liam.engine: oh no is it Ana please tell me it’s not Ana

james.aero: uh how long has Ana been in that lab?

zahra.aero: Since… Monday?

james.aero: It’s Wednesday evening.

ellie.electronics: Guys. She just asked the exhaust rendering if it wanted a break.

daniel.it: ok but like in a normal voice or a soft voice

ellie.electronics: a soft voice like it was a hamster

mira.simulations: Jesus.

felix.eng: Should we… call someone?

daniel.it: like who? HR? Her dad? Her exorcist?

ellie.electronics: I vote Toto. This feels above our pay grade

felix.eng: No offense but I’d rather arm-wrestle a live inverter

daniel.it: Wait what if it’s the Verstappen thing You know… the rumor. Max to Mercedes? 2026?

mira.simulations OH MY GOD

james.aero: Wait wait wait are we suggesting that Ana Wolff —Dr. “emotions are for the weak” Wolff— is spiraling because of… a driver transfer rumour?

ellie.electronics: what if they used to date

daniel.it what if they still do

mira.simulations she did flinch when someone said “Red Bull” in the hallway earlier

james.aero: i thought that was about the drink

mira.simulations: she called it “synthetic capitalist battery acid” and kept walking

felix.eng: idk guys she’s brilliant but she’s acting like someone just told her her pet died and the pet was responsible for aero performance

sara.branding: ok but why does she care so much about Verstappen joining? she’s literally never mentioned him

jess.hr: maybe she’s secretly in love with him like that weird Wattpad slow burn where the ice queen and the golden retriever fall in love after ten years of mutual pining

matt.merchandise: first of all: I’d read that second: why is that so specific

nicola.sim: does anyone know if they’ve ever even spoken????

james.aero: i once saw them pass in the paddock she nodded he blinked it was the most emotionally loaded 0.7 seconds of my life.

amelie.procurement: guys. if Max Verstappen signs with Mercedes Ana is going to have to see him every single week

james.aero: …should we start updating the fire protocols now

liam.eng-lead: does this mean we’re in an enemies-to-lovers arc or a “do not engage unless you want the hydraulics to burst” arc

kayleigh.powerunit:

yes

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max: so hypothetically if someone were to show up in Brackley wearing silver and looking criminally good in it would you throw a wrench or just ignore them

Max: also asking for a friend: is rigging an MGU-K to explode technically a war crime

Max: …ana?

Max: ok you’re mad. that’s fine. you’re cute when you’re mad. well. terrifying. but also cute.

Max: is this you icing me out for flirting too much? because i can do more flirting like a lot more no one’s stopping me

Max: okay you’ve never taken this long to respond even when you pretended to “accidentally” leave your phone in a Faraday pouch because you were “busy” mapping thermal decay

Max: (yes i remember the exact phrase. no i don’t forgive you)

Max: ana please just text me that you’re alive i’m starting to imagine really dramatic things and you know my imagination is unhinged i saw you break a torque wrench once with your bare hands i believe you could disappear into a server rack and never come out

Max: i know you’re not answering because you’re working. but 36 hours without sleep isn’t working. that’s crashing.

Max: okay. seriously. this isn’t funny anymore. are you okay? did something happen?

Max: Nastya. please just let me know you’re okay. i don’t care if you’re mad. i don’t care if you’re busy. i care if you’re breathing.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025

Toto Wolff was not a man easily rattled.

He had survived backmarkers, boardroom politics, and the 2016 championship. He had learned to speak calmly while millions watched his drivers threaten to kill each other in front of national cameras.

But nothing—nothing—quite sent ice through his bloodstream like hearing Lorelai say, in her deceptively calm tone:

"I think there’s… a concern. About your daughter. From a safety protocol perspective.”

He looked up from his laptop.

Lorelai stood in the doorway to his office. Immaculate as always. Her glasses perched at the edge of her nose. Her iPad hugged tightly to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from losing her grip on reality.

“She hasn’t left the building since Monday. And she’s… uh… talking to herself. In at least three languages. Possibly four.”

Toto sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll handle it.”

He didn’t ask why no one had handled it sooner.

Because he knew the answer.

People didn’t tell Dr. Anastasia Wolff what to do. They let her work, in awe and slight terror, until she disappeared again like some kind of ghost of the dyno bay—brilliant, brutal, and untouchable.

He strode through the corridors with long, purposeful steps.

Anastasia was exactly where he expected her to be: hunched over the control interface, surrounded by code, still wearing that black fleece with the fraying cuff. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair braided but unraveling, and she didn’t even glance up when the door opened.

Toto felt that ache in his chest again—the one he always got when she was like this. Too quiet. Too still. Too close to the edge of something brittle.

He still remembered the first time he saw her.

Vienna. 2005.

Anastasia Yelena Volkova had arrived on his doorstep like a misdelivered package—tight-lipped, red-eyed, nearly eight years old, wearing a coat two sizes too small and clutching a Soviet-era suitcase with her initials stitched inside in Cyrillic.

Her mother hadn’t come in. She hadn’t even looked back.

Just a stiff nod, a clipped explanation in Russian that amounted to your turn, and then she was gone.

Anastasia had only spoken Russian back then. Refused to answer in anything else. It had taken months for her to say “yes” instead of da. A year before she started using “Papa.” Two before she stopped flinching when someone raised their voice.

And even now, nearly two decades later, Toto still wasn’t sure she believed she belonged.

She’d grown into someone sharp and strange and brilliant. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask for things. She lived in the folds of logic and simulation code and thermal maps, and most of the time he let her stay there. Let her be who she was without trying to shape her into something softer.

Because Toto was a smart man.

He knew his daughter was clever—anyone with two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate was clever.

But Ana wasn’t just smart. She saw things. Solved problems that hadn’t been named yet. She treated the 2026 PU like a living thing, coaxing performance from it the way some people coaxed birds into their hands.

He didn’t always understand her—but he never underestimated her.

Now, nearly twenty years later, that same girl was barricaded in a dyno bay surrounded by code and caffeine and emotional landmines he still didn’t know how to read.

He walked in and saw her hunched over a workstation, hair fraying from her braid, muttering in a furious whisper about battery drain cycles like the fate of the earth depended on it.

She didn’t even flinch when the door opened.

He used the only thing that still worked.

“Anastasia Yelena Wolff.”

She froze.

Like a gunshot. Like the echo of a childhood too sharp around the edges.

Slowly, she turned. Her face was pale, eyes glassy and over-bright, like someone walking the tightrope between clarity and collapse.

“Papa?” she asked. Quiet. Distant. Like maybe her brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“Anastasia,” he said more gently now. “You need to stop.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “I’m just—working through the module delay. If I can get the compression sync to balance before the next sim—”

“You’ve been awake for two days.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

She didn’t answer.

Toto stepped around the desk and crouched down beside her chair, like he had when she was small. He’d always been a tall man, but he’d never once tried to loom over her. It never would’ve worked. Even at fifteen, Ana had stared him down like she was the one writing his performance reviews.

“You need to sleep,” he said softly.

Anastasia looked away. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?”

Her jaw flexed. Silence.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he stood and held out a hand.

To his surprise—she took it.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak much on the drive, either. Just curled into the passenger seat, like her bones had finally remembered they were tired.

When they arrived at his house, she walked in automatic. Like the muscle memory never left. Same bedroom. Same old lamp.

Toto handed her a bottle of water and told her to brush her teeth.

She didn’t even roll her eyes.

When she curled up under the duvet, he pulled it gently over her shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure if she was asleep yet.

Then she whispered, “Thanks.”

He paused.

“Always.”

He sat there a few minutes longer, watching her breathe.

Still brilliant. Still so sharp it scared him sometimes.. Yet he still wondered if her mind was something even bigger than what she let people see. Something that frightened her, too.

She was lethal.

Not just degrees. Not just intellect.

A mind like a scalpel.

And a heart she kept padlocked, duct-taped, buried somewhere beneath layers of grit and code and engine schematics.

He stood.

Turned off the light.

Closed the door behind him.

And told himself—once again—that he was doing his best.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff

Toto Just brought Ana home. She was in the systems lab. Forty-eight hours. Maybe more. Lorelai says she didn’t leave since Monday.

Susie: Oh no. That’s a full bender. Did something trigger it?

Toto:I don’t know. No one seems to know what triggered it. She wouldn’t say. Just kept muttering about engine logic and simulation lag and something about thermal sync ratios. She looked… hollow. Not angry. Not manic. Just gone. Like she disappeared behind the code and forgot how to come back.

Susie Was it the 2026 revisions? The PU development?

Toto I asked. She just said she was working. You know how she gets. That thing where she locks in and forgets she’s a person.

Susie And you think it’s just work?

Toto No. I think it’s something. But she won't let me see what it is. She never has.

Susie: Poor girl.

Toto: Her brain doesn’t stop. Not like other people. She doesn’t feel things in real time — she just stores it somewhere deep and then short-circuits under the weight of it.

Susie: You’ve always said she runs like an engine.

Toto: Yes. High power. No governor. And when it overheats, she doesn’t shut down — she redlines. Quietly. Efficiently. Until she crashes.

Susie: You did the right thing bringing her home.

Toto: I hope so. I don’t always know how to help her. She’s brilliant. But it’s like she’s made of glass sometimes. The high-grade kind. Sharp edges. Carries voltage.

Susie: You help by being there. That’s always been the way. She came home with you, didn’t she?

Toto: Yes.

Susie: Then you’re doing fine.

Toto: She thanked me. Before she fell asleep.

Susie: Then she knows.

Toto: Knows what?

Susie: That you love her. Even if you don’t always know how to say it.

Toto: … I hope so.

Susie: She’s not broken, you know.

Toto: I know. She’s just wired differently. And sometimes… I think the whole damn world should rewire itself to match her, instead.

***

Toto Wolff’s House, Brackley, England - 12 June 2025

Ana woke to the uncomfortable sensation of… stillness.

Not quiet, exactly — her brain didn’t really do quiet — but a kind of post-storm silence. Her skin felt too tight. Her throat dry. Her tongue like the underside of a radiator cap. Muscles ached in places she didn’t even remember using.

It was bright. Too bright. Morning light spilling past gauzy curtains that weren’t hers, across a room she hadn’t slept in for years.

Her old room.

Her father’s house.

She groaned, curling onto her side, eyes scrunching against the sun like it was personally trying to shame her. Memories came back in flashes — the hum of the dyno bay, the way the monitor had started pulsing, the battery flowchart she’d argued with at hour 45. The moment she’d looked up and seen Toto there, like a conjured hallucination.

Except it hadn’t been.

He’d come. Scooped her up like she was still eight years old with a head full of Russian grammar and trauma. Sat her in the passenger seat. Put her to bed.

Now she was here.

And she felt awful.

Everything in her body was slow. Her brain was fogged with something like grief and guilt and tech fatigue. And under all of it — beneath the espresso crash and cognitive flatline — there was shame. Deep and bone-quiet.

He’d used her full name.

And she had gone with him.

God.

Ana sat up slowly, wincing as her body protested the motion. Her hoodie was twisted around her like a straitjacket. Her braid had mostly unraveled and clung to one side of her face. Her glasses were missing. Probably lost in the chaos. Her socks didn’t match.

Everything hurt.

She dragged herself to the kitchen by muscle memory, following the smell of espresso and something warm and toasty.

Toto was already there. Reading something on a tablet. A second coffee sat waiting beside a plate of toast — buttered, crusts cut off, just like she used to eat it when she was too tired to argue with food.

He didn’t look up when she entered.

“Good Morning,” Toto said, still reading.

“Is it?”

“You’re upright, so that’s progress.”

She sipped the espresso, wincing slightly. “My brain’s still buffering.”

“You were arguing with a bar graph last night.”

Ana gave him a tired glare. “It was slow.”

Toto set his tablet down and looked at her properly. His expression was unreadable in the way that always made her bristle.

“You look terrible,” Toto added.

“That’s not comforting,” she rasped.

“I don’t do comforting. I do espresso and early exits.”

Ana smiled. Brief. Real.

They lapsed into silence.

Eventually, she spoke. “I’m sorry.”

Toto didn’t say anything.

Then, softer: “You came to get me.”

Toto met her eyes. “You’re my daughter.”

After a moment, she said, very quietly, “Do I… scare you?”

He looked up.

Ana didn’t.

“I scare myself sometimes,” she murmured. “When I get like that. When I forget to stop. It’s like—if I pause for even a second, everything will catch up.”

Toto exhaled. “You don’t scare me.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Confuse me. Force me to Google terms I’m pretty sure you made up. Yes. But you don’t scare me.”

Ana looked away. “You didn’t even know I existed until my mother dumped me at your door.”

Toto’s voice softened. “I didn’t know you existed, no. But the moment I did, you were mine. There’s a difference.”

Ana looked away. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t know what to do with me.”

“Most of the time,” Toto said bluntly. “But that’s not the same as not wanting to try.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I don’t always know what to do with any of you,” Toto said. “You just require… a different operating manual.”

She glanced up. “German or Russian?”

He smirked. “It’s in Hieroglyphs. I’ve given up trying to read it.”

Ana huffed a laugh, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

He slid a plate across the table. Toast. Buttered. Cut into quarters.

Ana stared at it.

“I’m not eight,” she muttered.

“You’re acting like it,” he replied, sipping his espresso.

She snorted. Picked up a piece. Ate it.

Then after a pause: “Thank you. For coming.”

Toto nodded.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added quietly. “Whatever this is.”

She didn’t answer.

But she finished the toast. Drank the rest of the coffee. Sat there just long enough for him to believe — maybe — that the worst had passed.

And maybe, just maybe, it had.

***

Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Susie: Hey love. Just checking in — how are you feeling?

Ana: Hungover. Except without the alcohol that usually causes it.

Susie: So the 48-hour no-sleep, Haribo-and-coffee-fueled science bender finally caught up with you?

Ana: Might’ve run out of caffeine before I ran out of coping mechanisms. Or the other way around.

Susie: Ana. Darling. You do know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even difficult things. Especially difficult things.

Ana: I didn’t want to think about my feelings. I wanted to out-engineer them. Put them in a box and simulate them into submission. It worked for 47 hours and 17 minutes.

Susie: And then the crash?

Ana: Then the crash. And the hallucinating of a CPU diagram that was smiling at me.

Susie: Oh Ana. That’s when you close the laptop, sweetheart.

Ana: I was hoping I could outpace it all. The noise. The feelings.

Susie: You're not a robot. No one’s asking you to be.

Ana: I have too many feelings, actually. They just… don’t like being perceived. Especially not by me.

Susie: You are so your father’s daughter it’s terrifying sometimes. You know I love you, right? Even when you’re a sleep-deprived raccoon in fleece.

Ana: Thanks, Susie.

Susie: Next time, text me before the Haribo hallucinations kick in, okay? I’ll bring tea and non-emotional distractions. Like British Bake Off reruns.

Ana: Deal.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr.Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: I’m alive.

Max: you’re texting which means you didn’t die which is fantastic news for my blood pressure

Ana: Calm down.

Max: Calm down?? Ana, are you fucking kidding me right now?

Ana: I just woke up.

Max: You disappeared for three days, ghosted every message, probably rewrote half the powertrain manual, and now you want me to act normal?

Ana: Yes.

Max: absolutely not. I thought something happened. I thought you collapsed at your desk or got electrocuted or walked straight into a jet fan because you were thinking about combustion ratios and forgot how walls work.

Ana: …only one of those is remotely plausible.

Max: Which one.

Ana: None of your business.

Max: You scared the shit out of me.

Ana: I didn’t mean to.

Max: Then what were you doing?

Ana: Not thinking about you. That was the plan. Didn’t work.

Max: You pulled a 48-hour lab lockdown to avoid your feelings for me?

Ana: I didn’t say that.

Max: You really need to work on your emotional repression outlets.

Ana: You’re the one making everything complicated.

Max: I texted you that I might change teams. You started hallucinating torque values and drinking Red Bull like it was IV fluid.

Ana: Max.

Max: Ana.

Ana: …my father had to tuck me in, you asshole.

Max: 😭😭😭😭

Max: god i wish i had a photo framed. on my wall. above my sim rig.

Ana: I’m blocking you. Papa took me home. Tucked me in. It was deeply humiliating. Do not make it worse.

Max: i’m going to make it so much worse you got papa’d. your dad tucked you in like a little burrito. this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Ana: I hate you.

Max: it’s horrifying for you i understand

Ana: Do not send me memes. I’m still rebooting my brain.

Max: too late [attachment: “YOU WORKED 48 HOURS STRAIGHT? BABE YOU’RE A BIOHAZARD 💅” meme.jpeg]

Ana: I should’ve stayed asleep.

Max: i missed you. next time, disappear for less than 12 hours or i’m coming to Brackley and starting a dramatic scene in the simulator bay

Ana: That’s not a threat. That’s workplace misconduct.

Max: Try and stop me. You scared me. You don’t get to do that again.

Ana: I didn’t think you’d care that much.

Max: I do. ***

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