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cressidagrey · 14 days ago

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System Failure - Chapter 1: Imola

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 but kinda sucks? Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

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

MotorsportGP.com - Toto Wolff to Miss Imola GP for Son’s Graduation

Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff will be absent from this weekend’s Emilia Romagna Grand Prix as he attends his son’s graduation ceremony.

Wolff, who remained in the United States following the Miami Grand Prix, is celebrating the academic milestone of his 23-year-old son, Benedict, who is graduating from the University of Southern California.

In Wolff’s absence, key responsibilities will be handled by the senior trackside leadership team at Mercedes throughout the Imola weekend.

***

Twitter Thread: Ana Wolff Spotted at the Imola GP – Wait, What?!

@/gridtea: Toto Wolff is skipping Imola to attend his son Benedict’s USC graduation. So imagine everyone’s surprise when Ana Wolff showed up at the paddock gate this morning with her headset, sunglasses, and exactly zero sentimentality.

@/gridtea: This is the first time Ana has been seen at a race weekend without Toto also present. She’s usually kept behind the scenes or shows up with her father for powertrain briefings. Today? Solo. Black Mercedes fleece. Hair in a braid. Coffee in hand. Iconic.

@/gridtea: To clarify: she is not attending Benedict’s graduation. You know, her half-brother. The one Toto is flying across continents for. And she’s at Imola. Working.

@/gridtea: No official statement from Mercedes. Reminder: Ana is notoriously private. Doesn’t do press. Doesn’t do media days. And while she was raised with Benedict and Rosa in theory, they’ve never really been seen together publicly. (Except one awkward photo at a family wedding in like… 2016.)

@/gridtea: Is she estranged from that side of the family? Who knows. Does she look like she would rather tune engine maps in a thunderstorm than sit through a USC graduation with family she barely speaks to? Absolutely yes.

@/gridtea: Say what you want, but Ana showing up to a race her father is not attending, while skipping a family milestone, says a lot.And none of it is sentimental.

@/gridtea: Anyway, we salute Ana Wolff: – Emotionally unavailable – Brilliant under pressure – Would rather chase .02 seconds of hybrid efficiency than watch a valedictorian speech – Still scary – Still hot

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max:media day complete. i’ve answered 14 stupid questions, signed 9 hats, and resisted the urge to throw a mic at someone. can i see you now?

Ana:Are you incapable of subtlety?

Max:are you incapable of saying yes without pretending you hate me first, Poekie?

Ana:You are insufferable. And I’m working.

Max:you’ve been “working” all day. even saw you stalking around the paddock like an angry ghost with a torque wrench. just say it.

Ana:Say what?

Max:you want to see me. same as always. thursday. after media. When you are at a race. your routine is practically clinical.

Ana:You are not part of any routine.This is convenience. Nothing more.

Max:and yet… room 507 same as last time. door’s open.

***

Max Verstappen’s Hotel Room, Imola, Italy - 15 May 2025

Logically, rationally, logistically—this made perfect sense.

Ana was already in Imola. So was Max. They were both here for work.

Two consenting adults. With matching schedules.

It was just smart time management.

Ana knocked once. Then let herself in.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know the layout. Same hotel. Same floor. Same Max, half-reclined on the bed like this wasn’t a catastrophic decision waiting to happen.

He looked up from his phone and smirked. "Seven minutes late. Slipping."

She rolled her eyes. “Traffic.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “We’re in Imola. You walked here.”

“Your point?”

He didn’t answer. Just watched her with that look—the one that made her skin itch and her thoughts blur. She hated that he could do that with a glance. That her body responded before her brain could deploy the usual internal firewall.

Still, she stayed in the doorway for a beat too long. Still trying to pretend this was logical.

Because it was logical.

They were in the same place.

That was all.

No distance. No need to pretend they didn’t know how the other moved, how the other breathed, how her name sounded when he whispered it into her collarbone like a secret.

Just… proximity. That’s what it was.

A series of convergences. Track by track. Year by year.

It had started years ago. They were eighteen. Monaco. She was on a summer engineering placement with Renault (2016. Courtesy of Fred Vasseur.) and he was on his second season in Formula 1, impossibly fast and impossibly smug.

He was also the first person she’d ever slept with.

And unfortunately for every other man who had come after him, he’d also been the best.

Objectively speaking.

It was—statistically—excellent sex.

Which would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the fact that no one else had ever compared.

No one else.

Infortunately, for every other man who had come after him, that benchmark had been set far too high.

There had been others, sure.

The Cambridge grad student who tried to explain his research model mid-kiss.

The charming sustainability consultant in Berlin who wore wire-frame glasses and cried during sex for reasons she still did not, and never wanted to, understand.

But none of them had felt right.

None of them had made her forget about seams or pressure points or skin-on-skin discomfort.

None of them had made her safe.

Only Max.

It wasn’t supposed to be good. It was supposed to be a mistake. A one-time experiment. A scratch to itch.

Figuring out why sex made other people stupid.

Well, Ana hadn’t figured that out, because sex with Max made her stupid as well.

It had been her first time having sex and it hadn’t felt like being studied and misread and slowly unravelled under a microscope.

Because with Max… nothing ever scratched. Nothing burned. Nothing set off the bright, buzzing alarm in her brain that said stop touching me now.

And years later—nothing had ever come close to him.

She had long since accepted that sleeping with him was a practical decision.

She stepped further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind her.

Max’s eyes dragged over her—black trousers, black tank top, hair still slightly damp from her hotel shower. He didn’t move to greet her. He never did. He just waited.

And that, somehow, made her feel more undone than anything else.

“I’m not staying long,” she said, even as she dropped her bag and kicked off her boots.

“You never do,” he said quietly.

She climbed onto the bed and into his hands, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hands were warm.

Calloused from the wheel, the gym, years of living too fast—but still warm, still familiar. They found her waist like they always did, with a kind of reverence she refused to name. She climbed into his lap and straddled him, bracing her palms against his shoulders as if anchoring herself against the part of her brain still screaming, this is dangerous.

Max didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

Just looked at her.

And Ana hated that more than anything. The quiet way he looked.

Like he knew something she didn’t. Like he was cataloguing her expression, the tension in her jaw, the slight tremble in her fingers—like she was a problem he already understood but didn’t want to solve too quickly.

She leaned in and kissed him first. Hard. Deliberate.

Because if she was going to do this, she had to be the one in control.

Or at least pretend she was. (She knew that wouldn’t last for long anyway).

His hands tightened on her hips, and she kissed him deeper, faster, like if she pushed hard enough she could drown out the things his silence made her feel. Max kissed back with the same calm pressure he always had—like he wasn’t in a rush. Like she wasn’t going to vanish again in an hour, wrapped in guilt and cynicism and the emotional armor she wore to every Grand Prix.

She pulled his shirt over his head.

He let her.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, tested the familiar ridges.

Ana told herself to focus on physicality, on sensation: the warmth of his skin, the blunted ache building in her ribcage, the press of his thigh between hers. She kissed him harder.

He shifted, rolling her beneath him as easily as rolling a car onto the racing line.

Max had always been good at physics, leverage, the small, cruel tactics that made him unbeatable in a race and also in matters like these. He kissed her throat with the same patient calculation he reserved for overtakes at the chicane: timing, pressure, relentless focus on the opening.

She breathed in sharply, immediately embarrassed by the sound. He caught it, of course—of course he did—and made a low noise in answer.

She tried to focus on the shape of his mouth on her collarbone, the drag of his short, uneven hair against her cheek, the heat in her chest threatening to blue-screen her brain. His weight pressed her into the mattress, immovable, like he knew she needed something solid on top of her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a sensible subroutine cycled through the consequences: the inevitable goodbye, the way his eyes would find her in the paddock the next day and act like nothing had happened. Like this was just something they did, between races and deadlines, beneath the fluorescent gloom of hotel rooms.

But here, now, her body didn’t care about tomorrow—or anything except the way Max’s hand slid up her thigh, steadying her like a metronome.

She clutched the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. She could feel the heat of his skin, a damp line tracking from his temple down to her collarbone.

There was a rhythm to this—hard then soft, pressure then mercy. He knew exactly how she broke apart, and there was something almost infuriating about it.

Some part of her hated him for it, for reading her like a data set and then bending physics to cheat his way across the gap.

It felt like falling, except it wasn’t.

Falling was supposed to come with panic, but this was closer to inevitability. Like gravity, but a harsher kind.

In this case, falling felt like his broad hands on the zipper of her trousers…like the same hands that stripped her bare beneath him.

By the time his fingers slipped beneath her panties, she was already embarassingly drenched.

Ana’s legs twitched involuntarily—humiliating—and she tried to pull his hand away, but he caught her wrist, pinned her to the sheets with an ease that bordered on offensive.

His grip was firm but not painful, callused pads rough against her skin. She could feel her heartbeat in three places at once: behind her eyes, in her wrists where he held her, and everywhere he touched her, a kind of stuttering, arrhythmic pulse.

He pressed two fingers inside her, slow and heavy and certain. She jerked her hips up, startled at how much she’d missed him, how efficiently he could make nonsense of her resolve. She didn’t dare look at his face. Not when she could already feel the smugness radiating off of him like engine heat.

“Shut up,” she whispered, even though he hadn’t said a word.

He nipped her neck in response, smile dragging against her skin. “You’re the loud one,” he muttered into her skin, and she almost hit him for the accuracy.

Instead, she arched her hips forward, trying to regain the upper hand by grinding down against his knuckles. He let her, watching with half-lidded eyes, and part of her hated the way her body gave itself away so completely. He pushed her further, curling his fingers just so, and she felt her breath stagger in her lungs.

A moment later, he circled her clit.

She bit down on her lip, hard. Metal tang. The room spun around that small, methodical pressure, everything else narrowing to the thumb circling, the flex and release, the coil forming in her lower back and gathering speed. She hated him for knowing; hated herself for needing this, for needing all of it.

Her free hand clawed at the sheets, because she needed somewhere to put the tension, somewhere to anchor the tidal, helpless feeling rising inside her. “Good girl,” he cooed at her. She had half a mind to hit him for real this time.

She didn’t want to make a sound, but she couldn’t—not with his thumb on her, two fingers inside her like that. The pressure flickered and built, tragic and criminal. Fuck. She was so embarrassingly close, and he knew it.

She bit his clavicle. “Don’t,” she warned, half threat, half plea.

He did anyway.

A second later she was coming, harsh and high-pitched and absolutely impossible to stifle, struggling against his grip like it mattered. The aftershocks wrung through her, liquid and humiliatingly sweet, scraping the last rational thoughts from her brain.

He released her wrist and she shoved at his shoulder—a weak, petulant shove, but he just laughed under his breath, pleased with himself. She’d never met a man so addicted to his own competence. It was actually sort of tragic, if she considered it for more than a microsecond.

Max grinned like a wolf, then kissed her slow and sweet, as if it was a reward for finally letting go.

She shoved him, hard, palm to sternum. "Stop acting like you invented orgasms," she hissed, but her voice was more ragged than angry.

He shrugged, a little crooked. "Someone has to do it properly,” he said drily. He cocked his head to the side. “How long has it been, Ana? When was the last time somebody properly fucked you?”

She looked at the ceiling, as if the industrial acoustical tile could supply a better response than her brain. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

He kissed her jaw, gentle, like there was time to waste. “It is always relevant,” he said. He feathered her hair back behind her ear, and for a second her heart panged, senselessly, ridiculously.

He shifted, all smooth confidence, and reached down to pull down his sweatpants. She let him. She could’ve stopped him, easily—could’ve told him to fuck off, or threatened to rewire his entire car with polonium—but she just lay there, loose and too warm, skin buzzing from the comedown.

“I can leave,” she tossed back, but the threat was mostly for show. She felt boneless, her thigh pressed against his hip as if molded there. Because it was easier to be adversaries than—anything else. This was routine, established in the world’s blandest hotel rooms from Abu Dhabi to Austin: fight, fuck, fake amnesia.

She let herself look at him. His cheeks were flushed. There was a bead of sweat at his temple, wicking down where the grey hotel air could not touch it. She wondered if he noticed it, if he cared.

She wondered why she cared. He ran a thumb along her jaw—not soft, not tender, just collecting a sample. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“That a challenge?” Her voice was rough, almost daring herself to get up and leave.

Max just rolled his eyes at her as he grabbed a condom from the bedside table.

He rolled the condom on with the same easy carelessness as everything: like it was not a negotiation, but an inevitability. She hated that she found it reassuring.

On his knees, he surveyed the damage. Her tank top was already rucked up to her ribs, her trousers and underwear pooled around one ankle, her skin still pink and splotchy from aftermath. He paused, something like a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, before he pulled her up on her knees.

“What, and now you want me to do all the work?” she snapped at him.

Max’s eyebrows rose at that.

“Alright, you asked for this,” he told her, a dark chuckle escaping him.

He flipped her over without a forewarning.

The bedsprings gave a traitorous groan as she landed, knees scuffing forward on the comforter. His hands were already on her hips, maneuvering her with one bracing clamp. He didn’t exactly give her time to adjust. It was a quick, hungry thing, almost punishing, and it made her suck in breath through her teeth, the air hissing sharp and cold.

She could feel him at her back, flush as a shadow; his thighs bracketed hers, pinning her in place, a neat physics problem with her at the fulcrum. One hand threaded through her hair, pulling her up just enough to tilt her neck—the exact angle she hated to admit she liked. The other hand clung to her waist, fingers splayed, the pressure more grounding than she wanted to admit.

The first thrust made her knees buckle. It wasn’t pain, not really, more the intensity of being pinned, filled, claimed. He started slow, measured as a metronome, and it was almost worse than if he’d just fucked her rough and quick. Each stroke seemed rigged to drag it out, to make her feel every inch. He held her there, clamped around the waist, like he knew she’d try to get away if he let go.

He set a rhythm and stuck to it, relentless and methodical, and she hated him for making her so goddamn predictable. Her body gave itself away in increments she couldn't hide—the way she clenched down, the way her shoulders tensed, the way she cursed at him under her breath in three languages. Each time she swore, he only pressed harder, like he was collecting receipts for every time she'd run from him in the paddock, every deflecting joke, every sidelong glance handed off in the grid.

She braced a forearm against the headboard, scrabbling for purchase on the battered vinyl, determined not to let him know how close she was again. But he didn't need telling. The man was a fucking computer when it came to her; always had the data, always knew the line, always found the margin. He used it against her now, timing his thrusts to the exact second she'd start to break.

He reached under her, fingers slick and sure, and found her clit again. She bit down on a curse, stifling the sounds in her own clenched jaw. He worked her relentlessly, thumb moving in rhythm with his hips, never letting up, timing it so well she almost believed in fate, or at least the perverse inevitability of physics and chemistry.

She hated how she wanted it. Hated how her body betrayed her, how the tension wound through her like wire, every muscle tight and on the verge. She clawed at the blanket, the headboard, searching for something to moor herself to, something other than him. But every time she tried to squirm away, he simply hauled her back, not letting up, locking her in place with all that muscle and willpower and that certainty that made him a winner on the track, and a goddamn tyrant in bed.

“Fuck,” she hissed, voice gone to gravel.

She could feel his laugh rumble through her lower back, cruel and smug. He wasn’t even out of breath. If anything, he was getting off on how close he had her, like it was a competition only he knew how to win.

“Say it,” he breathed, mouth on her ear.

She nearly bit her tongue. “I’m gonna kill you,” she spat, but the sound was barely more than a gasp.

She lasted three more thrusts. Then everything inside her detonated, sharp and total, the kind of release that bordered on violent. She yelped, hand scrambling for anything to hold, and he didn’t let up, not even a little. He just rode her through, relentless as always, until she finally sagged forward, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face and pillow.

Max collapsed to his elbows behind her, for a moment less a person than a heat source, sweat beading and running from his hairline onto her back. He stayed there, boxing her in, their breaths in rough stereo.

Ana didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her thighs twitched with aftershocks, every muscle registering as static fuzz. She pressed her cheek into the pillow, slow to surface. Through the hotel wall, a faint TV jingle. Down the corridor, a vacuum whined. The mundanity of it almost stung. She counted her breaths to forty before she trusted her voice.

“Get off,” she muttered, words muffled by pillow and pride.

He finally did. Peeled himself back, a slow exhale sliding off her spine. There was a pause while he stripped the condom, knotted it, and dumped it in the trash—no fuss, no show. She heard the squeak of the bathroom door, then the tap run for two seconds, then the plonk of the glass as he filled it from the minibar bottle. He returned with water and a stack of hotel-brand tissues.

Ana rolled to her side and tried to reclaim her sense of self, if not her dignity.

She took the water and drank three gulps—lukewarm, flat, hospital-sterile. It helped. Kind of.

He watched her, still standing, sweat cooling on his chest. He looked saturated with smugness.

It should not have been possible for anyone to look so infuriatingly pleased while still naked. But Max had always managed to exist in the overlap of arrogance and nonchalance, like if you peeled back his skin there would just be a thin layer of Teflon and then pure statistical certainty. Ana glared at him, not even bothering with the pretense that she wasn't watching the way his chest rose and fell, the bright marks her teeth had left at the base of his neck.

He tossed the tissues at her. "You should hydrate," he said, tone too flat to be properly mocking.

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped, but drank anyway.

He grinned wider. "Noted."

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana:Tell Benedict congratulations.

Toto:You could have told him yourself.

Ana:I did. Via text. As one does.

Toto:It’s not the same.

Ana:Neither is pretending we’re a family when we’re all in the same room.

Toto:He would have liked to see you.

Ana:No. I’m pretty sure he prefers it when I’m not there.

Toto:That’s not true.

Ana:It’s not not true.

Toto:Anastasia

Ana:I have work to do.

***

University of Southern California, California, USA - 17 May 2025

The ceremony was beautiful.

Of course it was. Perfect California sun. Perfect speeches. Perfect smiles. Rows of proud parents standing with phones in hand, clapping for futures they felt they helped build.

Toto clapped. Took photos. Smiled in all the right places.

But his mind wasn’t here.

Not really.

It wandered—out of the stadium, across the time zones, all the way back to Italy. To Imola. To the telemetry desk where he knew exactly where she’d be standing, team polo, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes for too long.

He stood beside Susie on the sunlit lawn while Benedict posed for pictures with classmates.

He cleared his throat.

“She texted this morning,” he said.

Susie glanced over her shoulder. “Ana?”

He nodded.

“She said to tell Benedict congratulations.”

Susie gave a small, sad smile. “Did you tell her she could’ve said it herself?”

“I did.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “She said he prefers it when she’s not there.”

Susie didn’t say anything at first. Just looked back out at the LA skyline like it might offer a better version of the past.

Toto spoke again, softer now. “Do you think I should’ve insisted she come? Put her on a plane. Told her—”

“No,” Susie said, cutting him off. “Let’s not do historical revisionism, Toto.”

He looked at her.

“Stephanie hates her,” Susie said plainly.

Toto winced. “It’s not hate.”

Susie raised an eyebrow. “It’s not love. Stephanie never tried to hide it. And Rosa and Benedict grew up in a house where that was the baseline. You think Ana doesn’t feel that?”

He exhaled through his nose, long and steady. “I thought time would help.”

“No, you thought if you put her far enough away, everyone could pretend she was a footnote.”

That one landed. Not cruel. Not unfair.

Just true.

He thought of 2005.

Vienna. The knock at his door.

Eight years old.

Wiry arms. A backpack and one tattered suitcase. A Russian passport.

Her mother didn’t cry. Just said something clipped and cold—“It’s your turn. You deal with it. I’m done.”

Anastasia didn’t cry either.

She stood in his hallway for nearly twenty minutes without speaking. Just… watching him, like she was trying to solve for x without any of the constants.

Benedict and Rosa had been toddlers at the time. Sleeping upstairs. Stephanie had been out. It wasn’t until two hours later, when she came home and saw Ana sitting silently at the kitchen table, that the house had truly changed.

Stephanie saw her as proof of something ugly. A thing to be tolerated, not embraced.

And Anastasia—Anastasia didn’t speak German. Only Russian. Wouldn’t even say da to him at first. Just stared like she was waiting to be handed back.

Stephanie had made her opinion clear before the day ended.

Toto. This is not my child.

No, she wasn’t.

She was his.

And he hadn’t known what to do with her.

Not really.

He’d tried. He’d bought the books. Hired a tutor.

When Anastasia was thirteen, he sent her to boarding school. The brochure had promised discipline and academic excellence. He thought it would help her focus. Give her structure. A future.

He thought she’d thrive.

She never said otherwise.

Now, in Los Angeles, under a cloudless sky, he watched Benedict throw his arm around Rosa’s shoulder for a photo and felt the emptiness settle like dust in his lungs.

“I tried,” he said aloud.

“I know,” Susie replied, her voice soft.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmured now.

“You thought it would be easier for everyone,” Susie replied. “Including you. But love doesn’t always feel like love to a child who thinks they were dropped off because they weren’t worth keeping.”

Toto swallowed.

“And now?” he asked.

Susie looked at him. “Now she doesn’t go where she’s not wanted.”

***

Autodromo Internazionale Enzo e Dino Ferrari, Imola, Italy - 18 May 2025

Ana didn’t particularly enjoy the Imola paddock. Too many people. Too much press. Too much gravel. She had already seen four engineers track it into the garage that morning and had mentally listed each one like an offense on a war tribunal docket.

And then there was George Russell.

Unfortunately, George Russell was everywhere.

He was already in the garage when she arrived—smiling in that sharp, media-polished way he always did. (She did suppose it made sense that he was in the garage. He was their driver after all.)

And now, George Russell, in all his PR-groomed, permanently polished glory, was hovering next to the coffee machine.

“Morning, Ana,” he said brightly, with that smile that always felt like it had been pre-approved by five brand consultants. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said cheerfully, leaning back like he thought he was in a cologne ad.

Ana didn’t look up from her tablet. “Sore eyes should go to the medical unit.”

George laughed. “You know, sometimes I think you’d be even more well-liked if you tried softening your edges.”

Ana just stared at him. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Just—some people find you a bit intense, that’s all. I’m trying to help you out here.”

She stared at him. “Help me not be accurate?”

George seemed unbothered by the sarcasm. He leaned against the counter like he thought this was a moment. Like they were bonding. “Just saying, Ana. People like someone who knows how to read a room.”

She had no idea what to say to that, so she elected not to say anything at all.

Quite frankly, she had still not figured out what George Russell actually wanted from her.

Probably fix her. Which was never gonna happen.

“You know,” he’d said once, a year or two ago, smiling that neat, politician-in-training smile of his, “you catch more flies with honey.”

She’d looked up from her engine map, blinked once, and replied, “Why would I want flies?”

George had laughed—like she was charming, like she was being cute.

She wasn’t. She just didn’t like insects.

Or George.

It wasn’t that she hated him. Hating him would have required energy. George was just… irritating. Constantly hovering at the edge of her periphery like a well-dressed mosquito with soft eyes and the world’s most exhausting belief that everyone could be “nicer.”

He meant well. That was the problem.

He always meant well.

He’d once suggested she smile more during post-race debriefs. “You’ve got a brilliant mind, Ana. You should let people see how approachable you can be.”

She’d stared at him for five full seconds before deadpanning, “I’m not.”

George had tried again a week later, offering her a book called The Power of Softness: How to Lead with Empathy in Male-Dominated Workspaces. He’d left it on her desk with a Post-it that said Thought of you!

Ana binned it by lunchtime.

The irony, of course, was that George believed he was helping her. Fixing her. Making her better, more polished, more… palatable.

He didn’t realise that Ana had already been broken down and rebuilt—by boarding schools and silence and a stepmother who never learned to hide her loathing. She’d already been shaved into shape. Polished into steel. She wasn’t interested in becoming soft again just because George thought a kinder Ana would go better with the Mercedes brand.

The thing was: Ana didn’t hate George. That would’ve required emotional investment. And George Russell didn’t warrant emotional investment.

But she did dislike the way he treated her like she was a problem to be smoothed out.

As if she was a social Rubik’s cube that could be solved with enough small talk and polite smiling.

As if her bluntness wasn’t the reason she was good at what she did. As if her silence needed to be filled with something other than precision and calculation.

To Ana, George Russell was like a LinkedIn notification you never asked for—always well-intentioned, rarely relevant, and fundamentally unable to take a hint.

*** Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max:just found out your dad’s not here this weekend

Ana:Correct.

Max:because of your brother’s graduation?

Ana:Yes.

Max:so why aren’t you there?

Ana:Because I’m working.

Max:bullshit

Ana:Excuse me?

Max:you’re the most terrifyingly efficient person I know you could’ve rearranged your schedule three months ago if you wanted to go you didn’t want to

Ana:Not everything is a conspiracy.

Max:no, sometimes it’s just pain you don’t talk about

Ana:That’s a bold statement for someone who once ghosted Netflix for six months.

Max:Nastya. why didn’t you go?

Max:do you think they didn’t want you there?

Ana:I know they didn’t.

Max:your dad wanted you there

Ana:He wanted the idea of me there.

***

The Townhouse, Brackley, England - 18 May 2025

By the time Ana got back to Brackley, the sky had turned the colour of old steel. Clouded over. Quiet. Like the whole town was holding its breath.

Her suitcase thumped softly against the wooden floor as she pushed the door open and stepped into the stillness of her narrow little house—a weathered red-brick terrace just off the high street.

It was a modest place. One of those old brick rows tucked just behind Brackley High Street—two bedrooms, a too-small kitchen, and a garden that she mostly ignored. She could afford something bigger, of course. But she liked the containment. The privacy. The control.

Home.

If it could be called that.

It was her space. Her rules. Her refuge.

And yet, the quiet sometimes had edges.

Inside, it was exactly how she’d left it before Imola. Clean, quiet, symmetrical. Slate walls. Minimal furniture. A row of shoes placed precisely by the door. Three mugs in the drying rack. The living room lamp on a timer.

She slipped her shoes off—carefully aligned beside the others—and placed her carry-on by the stairs without turning on the light. She didn’t unpack. She never did on race nights. The suitcase would sit by the stairs until morning, half-zipped like a wound she didn’t want to close yet.

The familiar creak of the old floorboards greeted her like a worn-out sigh.

The silence was good. Predictable. Hers.

The walls were clean. Sparse.

Ana didn’t like clutter. Too much noise. Too many edges.

The only visible decoration was a row of bookcases and a framed print of a vintage Soviet space programme schematic in the living room—black and red and faded gold. It reminded her of Moscow.

Or rather, the idea of Moscow. The one she remembered from childhood. The city that existed only in memory now—snowflakes on glass, her grandmother’s tea samovar steaming by the window, the soft hush of Russian lullabies before bed.

A children’ fantasy of Moscow that had nothing to do with world politics and wars, that was untouched by anything but her memories.

Sometimes she missed it so sharply it hurt.

She missed a language that made sense to her bones.

She missed the version of herself that hadn’t known she’d become a burden.

The version of herself that had died at age 8, in the hallway of Viennese apartment building.

She was eight when her mother left her with her father. Eight when her mother dropped her off at the doorstep of her father’s apartment like she was an awkward package that no longer fit the décor of a new life.

“It’s better this way,” her mother had said breezily, straightening her jacket like it was a job interview. “You’ll be better off with your father. He has the means. And the space. And the patience.”

She’d said it like a logic problem. Like Ana was just a term that didn’t balance the equation anymore.

She was eight. Her mother had been wearing pearls. Her suitcase had been read. One of the zipper pulls had been broken.

It wasn’t about patience.

It was about inconvenience.

Ana had been inconvenient—too bright, too rigid, too much. Her mother had been getting remarried. A new husband, a new flat, a new life. There had been no room in that blueprint for a daughter who flinched at certain fabrics and couldn’t bear to wear tights. Who memorized star charts and catalogued her meals by texture and temperature.

Toto had taken her in, of course. With a kind of awkward gentleness she hadn’t expected.

He hadn’t known what to do with her at first. She was small and silent and cried when the tag on her shirt itched. He bought books. A tutor. Eventually, a therapist.

He tried. That was more than could be said about her mother. (Still, sometimes he still looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.)

Her mother had remarried. Started fresh. Sent birthday cards a few years. Then stopped.

Ana hadn’t see her mother in 20 years. Not once.

Ana didn’t turn on the main lights. Just the warm lamp in the corner, casting soft golden pools across the quiet, safe edges of home as she sat down on her couch.

She liked her house. Her sanctuary.

No one here would ask her to “try smiling more.”

No one here would say she was too cold, too clinical, too precise.

No one here would speak to her the way Stephanie always had.

Not cruelly. Not overtly.

Toto had been married to Stephanie. Had two toddlers. Benedict and Rosa.

A storybook life that Ana had crashed.

Stephanie —her stepmother, though Ana had never called her that aloud—was never unkind in ways anyone could point to.

Stephanie was perfectly pleasant in the way that cool marble was pleasant. Civil. Beautiful. Unwelcoming.

Like Ana was a piece of unfamiliar furniture she’d agreed to house, but never touch.

Benedict and Rosa had belonged to that life. Blonde and bright, with matching holiday sweaters and an Instagrammable Christmas card photo every year like clockwork.

Stephanie…she had made it clear that Ana was not part of the storybook family she had planned.

In every glance, every stilted dinner table silence, every subtle scheduling of family things without Ana.

There was a photo on Stephanie’s desk in Vienna once. Just four people in it: her, Toto, Benedict and baby Rosa. Ana had been ten at the time.

She remembered standing there, just looking at it. Quiet. Still.

And Stephanie had smiled and said, “It’s a lovely photo, isn’t it?”

Ana had nodded.

Ana had always felt like the ghost in the hallway.

Stephanie had tried, in her way. But everything about Ana had unnerved her.

Her bluntness. Her silences. The way she flinched at polyester tags and gagged at the smell of certain perfumes. The way she could memorise differential equations at ten but forgot how to look people in the eye at dinner.

Ana had always been too much or too strange or simply… in the way.

When she was ten, the psychologist’s report had landed with quiet finality: Autism Spectrum Disorder. High-functioning. Sensory sensitivities. Atypical emotional processing.

Ana remembered that moment in piercing detail—the scent of lemon polish on the table, the itch of her wool cardigan, the way her tea had gone cold before she’d worked up the courage to sip it.

Stephanie had just sighed: “Well, at least that explains why she is like that.” Like Ana had been a complicated equation that now came with footnotes no one really wanted to read.

Toto hadn’t said anything. Just pinched the bridge of his nose like it was a problem with the chassis.

Ana remembered hiding in her room that day.

Nothing changed after that. Except it got worse. Stephanie’s voice a little tighter. The forced patience a little more brittle. Rosa started ignoring her altogether.

“She’ll grow out of it,” Stephanie had said once to a therapist. “We’ll just have to teach her how to behave better.”

It wasn’t said with malice. Just certainty. Like Ana was a glitch to be corrected. A patch in the software.

She never quite forgave her for that. Not even now.

Toto’s and Stephanie’s marriage hadn’t lasted much longer than that.

Ana still wondered if she had been the catalyst that had let to the eventual breakdown. Benedict and Rosa thought so.

So Benedict not inviting her to his graduation hadn’t come as a surprise.

She saw the photos on Instagram: Stephanie in pearls, Toto in sunglasses, Rosa with her film camera, Benedict in robes that looked tailored.

She sent a polite congratulations text. Got a thumbs up in return.

She wasn’t angry. Not really. Just… tired. Of existing at the edges. Of being the wrong shape.

It had never been like that with Susie.

Maybe it was because she had already been a teenager when her father and Susie had become a couple. Had already been at Boarding School in England. Had only been with her father during the breaks.

But still…it had never been like that with Susie.

It was different with Susie. And with Jack.

Susie made room without asking Ana to shrink. She never flinched when Ana corrected her. Never told her she was too much or too sharp or too strange.

Susie was the first adult who saw Ana’s autism as something other than an obstacle.

And Jack—Jack was joy incarnate. He didn’t care about diagnoses or expectations.

God, Jack. Jack, who never cared how weird she was. Jack, who liked that she talked to herself when she did math. Jack, who once told his nanny she was “like a computer but cooler,” and refused to built LEGO without her

Jack was hers.

Jack was the only sibling she actually felt like she had. Not a distant branch of family tree or a polite Christmas obligation. He was her brother. Full stop.

She caught herself, her fingers twitching, tapping the edges of her thighs in that familiar 6/8 rhythm she always slipped into when her thoughts spun too fast and too far.

Tonight it was Shostakovich.

It usually was, when she was unsettled.

It was a form of stimming that no one ever noticed unless they looked closely. One of the quieter ones. The less alarming ones. The socially acceptable ones.

But she didn’t need to be socially acceptable around here.

Her eyes fell on the piano that stood tucked opposite the windows.

She could play.

Her fingers moved to the keys without conscious thought, drawing out the first bars of Prelude in E Minor. Dark and deliberate. The notes fell like footsteps on wet pavement, slow and sure, bleeding grief and logic in equal measure.

Ana wasn’t a performer. She’d never learned for recitals. She played the way some people breathed—mechanically, instinctively, to stay alive.

When she was a child, it had been the only time the world made sense. Notes didn’t lie. Dynamics didn’t require eye contact. You didn’t have to guess what people meant when they were notes on a page.

You just read.

And then, you played.

***

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fayes-fics · 2 months ago

Text

When The World Is Free: Il Fait Bon T'aimer

MASTERPOST

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Summary: Benedict teaches his new wife a new skill.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex teaching, blow job, masturbation, swallowing, orgasms. Romantic, I guess? idk.

Word Count: 3.0k

Author’s Note: One-shot (requested by🪴anon, see next post) set during Ch 12 of When The World Is Free. This scene is briefly referenced in the fic in a non-explicit manner. Hold onto your hats; here’s the detailed version lol. At this stage of their marriage of (in)convenience, they are already hopelessly in love but in denial. Fic title is another Edith Piaf song. Thanks to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta and for assuring me this is worthy of the WTWIF universe. Enjoy! 🫶

On your first night at Aubrey Hall, Benedict sneaks into your room in the early hours while everyone else is asleep. Crashing into each other, he hauls you off the ground into his arms, your legs winding around his hips as you kiss greedily, hungrily—stolen, secret moments together so very precious.

Half an hour later, you are staring at the ceiling, panting, utterly sated as he once again used his mouth to bring you to a shaking pinnacle, your cries muffled into a pillow.

“We must find somewhere private,” he sighs, his face resting on your belly as you card your fingers through his thick hair. “I like to hear you scream…” His wistful, cheeky addition makes you gasp, and you swat him gently on the shoulder. He laughs heartily and crawls up over you on all fours. “We can steal away somewhere on the grounds where no one would find us,” he assures, eyes shining in the low lamplight.

“I shall keep you to that promise, Mr Bridgerton,” you threaten softly, pushing his shoulders until he lies on his back, you hovering over him now. “Do you think you are capable of being as quiet as I was?”

“Why do you ask?” a flicker of confusion over his face, until your hand slides down his flat stomach and lands upon the warm bulge in his pyjamas.

“I would like to return the favour…” you offer, as his breath hitches beautifully. “I have never used my mouth as such, but you will teach me, won’t you? Tell me what you like?”

His groan is like music as you shuffle lower over his reclining torso, looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes as he stares down with utter devotion.

Pitching forward, you rub the tip of your nose over the warm bulge in his pyjamas. He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat that is so enchanting. So you do it again, inhaling through the thin material. Your nostrils fill with that wonderful scent his skin has, but richer here, a little muskier. It makes your mouth water.

You open your mouth and kiss the mass there, and he exhales shakily as you allow your tongue to run the length of his cock through the silk, enjoying its heat and solidity. With his uneven breathing, you know your instincts are right so far.

Feeling bolder, you tap his hip and start to tug down on the waistband, signalling that you wish him to remove them. You sit up a little to allow him the room, and demurely, he yanks them down and tosses them aside.

“I have seen you naked before,” you murmur soothingly as he lays flat again.

“Please don't feel you have to do this…” A sheepish mien as he touches your chin briefly, even as his demeanour screams that he very much desires you to.

“I want to,” you reassure. “I am already aroused by the mere thought.”

There is a light groan at your confession; you lower your face again, his cock radiating warmth as it arcs upright over his body, fully erect and slightly red at the tip. You nuzzle there timidly.

“Guide me, Benedict….”

With a shaky exhale, he whispers. “Anything is frankly wonderful… but umm, maybe use your tongue? Like you did before?”

This bashful version of your new husband is so very endearing.

Starting at the very tip, you trail your tongue slowly down his length, as he suggested, just as you had through the silk, but this time mapping his flesh, its heat and contours. You don’t stop until you encounter his root, his taste strongest there, right by his balls. You swipe a lick over that flesh, fascinated by the different texture of his skin there, rougher, puckered, and he groans loudly.

“Shhh,” you chastise playfully, even as you glow with pride, already addicted to how powerful this feels.

His hand flies to his mouth, expression both comedic and apologetic all at once. It’s so adorable you can’t help but share a giggle, his eyes shimmering with affection. Your smile slides into a smirk as you unfurl your tongue, slowly retracing the path back up his cock, glancing up to see his eyes now rolling as you use a hint of pressure.

“What else?’ you ask quietly, eager to learn so much more.

“Kiss the tip,” he rushes out, reaching to brush your cheek. “Then take me into your mouth a little…. Please…” he quickly appends.

You follow his direction, wrapping your lips around the end of his cock, letting him slip into your mouth a fraction, smooth and hot.

“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that…”

Following his guidance, you spend a few moments sucking lightly on the end, your tongue running over the slit there, which has him inhaling sharply. The only other man you have been intimate with, Stanley, well, his cock was very different. Not that you ever did this for him; you only used your hands. But he was circumcised, whereas Benedict is not. There is a thin, moveable layer of skin enclosing his cock head, and you are keen to learn how to treat it.

“What do I do here?” You question, running your fingers over the ring of flesh.

“You can roll it down gently,” he advises, nodding when you wrap a hand around his shaft.

Delicately, you roll down his foreskin so all of his tip is exposed. It is flushed a very dark pink, especially where it tapers. Wrapping your lips around him again, making them into a tight ring and sinking, taking the whole of his head into your mouth, running your tongue around the exposed groove, him emitting a quiet moan as you do.

“Perfect…” he sighs.

You glance up at his face to see his lower lip caught between his upper teeth; he looks so handsome. So you keep exploring little licks and flicks of your tongue here and there. Experimentally, you kiss his exposed frenulum, then suck lightly upon it. He mutters a curse under his breath as a bead of liquid pools at his slit. You swipe it with your tongue, pausing at its salty, bitter taste.

“Sorry. I know it's not very pleasant…” he blurts out, looking contrite.

You make a noise of reassurance that it’s okay, not a delicious taste, but not terrible and continue to suckle on his head, moving up and down slowly. More familiar now, you glance up at him, wanting to see him in the full flush of arousal, his lips stained darker, a vein in his neck pulsing.

“Use some suction…please…” he entreats softly.

So you suckle harder, closing your eyes to concentrate, using your lips as a tight seal, your cheeks hollowing as you take rhythmic draws—his breathing changes, shallow and staccato. A hand landing in your hair, and you find you enjoy the weight. It’s not pressure, just guidance, his blunt nails mildly grazing your scalp. Above you, he makes little huffing noises.

After a few moments, you take a breath, seeking reassurance: “Is this okay?”

“More than…” he gushes. “Are you certain you have never done this before?”

“No. I’ve never even wanted to… Until you…”

Something about those words lights a fire in his gaze.

“Please take more of me,” he pleads, a tinge of urgency in his tone, “whatever you can manage.”

You hunger to give him everything, to try to take all of him into your mouth, but you will need time and more practice for that. Still, a large part of you burns to do so. A yen to be the best he has ever had, to make him addicted to you, his new wife, and what only you can do for him.

So this time, you sink a little lower, swirling your tongue once around his head, then pressing it to his underside as you take more of him into your mouth, a fullness that has you hollowing your cheek around him, suckling deeply.

A surge of victory in your core as his hips jolt, his fingers clutch your hair, the coolness of his wedding ring dragging against your scalp. His touch is merely a discreet guidance; you respond intuitively to the flex of his digits. Mirroring the pace he provides: following when to draw up, when to sink down. Guiding you like a conductor as he stifles his moans.

Your own arousal is slick between your legs, throbbing for him, yearning to crawl up and sit upon his cock, ride him until you are both screaming into each other's palms…. but you also want him to come from this alone. Excited by the prospect of him unravelling in your mouth, ideally breathless and needy, clinging to you.

Seeking more range of motion, you pause and softly pump him in your grip. “May we rearrange?”

His eyes fly open. “Yes… Anything…. What do you need?” He chatters, constantly so accommodating.

Instead of explaining, you drop off the side of the bed onto your knees, still pumping his cock loosely as you signal for him to twist and sit up; place his legs on either side of you.

He groans when you draw his head back into your mouth while holding his gaze, your eyes wide and unblinking, needing him to see you like this: naked on your knees, your lips stretched around him. Deducing it as a fantasy come true for him.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful….” he praises breathily, him brushing a strand of hair that has fallen over your face, tucking it behind your ear.

That little act of tenderness has you suddenly feverish for this, for him, a craving to have him utterly at your mercy and writhing with pleasure. Maintaining eye contact, you pulsate your tongue against his shaft, teasing him more. His Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow, his lower lip snagging under his incisor as he quells another curse.

Shuffling closer so your knees are under the bed, you break the heated stare, grasping his slender hips and rocking yourself further onto his cock. At this angle, you are more comfortable experimenting with taking him deeper into your mouth. Each pass takes a little more, sucking and swirling, letting your saliva drip down his shaft, lubricating your path lower; something so primal about the thought of him glistening with your fluids.

You sink to the lowest you've ever been, his tip nudging your soft palate. His touch is gone from your hair, grasping the sheets around him in his fists, emitting a guttural groan.

“Shhh!” You pull up quickly to chastise him again, your fist taking over with a slow pumping action.

“I cannot…” he whines, almost sounding defeated, his fuzzy, muscular thighs rippling slightly from the curl of his toes into the rug on either side of your hips.

”I want you to come in my mouth, but we risk being interrupted if you are too loud…” you remonstrate logically.

His cock pulses heavily in your hand as he stares down at you slack-jawed, having seemingly lost the power of speech.

“What?” You shrug, feigning innocence.

“Y-y-you want that?” He finally stutters, disbelieving.

“Of course I do,” you answer, twisting your wrist slightly, maintaining a light tease with your palm. “I have done so upon your tongue, haven't I?”

“Yes… but…”

Another bead of pre cum leaks over your knuckles as he flounders; you squeeze him gently in an upwards sweep. Instinct takes over; you dip down to lick your fingers. A strangled moan from him as your tongue swipes through the slightly viscous drop. That tartness blooming on your tastebuds is somehow sweeter than before.

You return suckling upon him, a new determination in your movements, more courageous with each passing moment. Using your grip at the base of his cock to add extra sensation. That thrumming dampness between your legs makes you want to frottage something, your hips flexing without you cognisant of such.

“Are you okay?:” he huffs out, perhaps concerned that your movements are borne out of discomfort.

“More than,” you assure, garbled around him.

“You are squirming….”

His sweet concern has you reluctantly release his cock with a wet pop and looking up at him, beguiled by his flushed cheeks.

“This arouses me, Benedict, very much,” you confess quietly, unable to be anything but truthful with him.

His nostrils flare; his face a picture of desire, his blown pupils glittering. “Touch yourself, please, y/n… fuck… touch yourself…” he stumbles, looking at you so intensely you could blister.

Almost under a spell, you do as he tutors, burrowing between your legs, fingertips sliding into a pool of wetness as you return to your ministrations, your lips sealed tight upon him.

The friction against your engorged clit has you moaning, him stuttering a curse at the responding vibration around his cock. You discern he is holding back, a tremor in him that is both excitement and muzzled restraint, a simmering urge to thrust a little, to buck into you.

You are sucking him earnestly now, moving up and down his shaft in determined draws, running your tongue tip into his slit as you reach the head. In your peripheral vision, you watch him scramble and grab his discarded pyjama top, wadding a bunch of navy silk into his mouth and gagging himself. He swears and babbles into the silk, the sounds now muffled, his moans louder and more insistent, his hand in your hair again. The twitching in his being and his heaving breaths - all his tells from when you rode him before - give you the sense he is approaching his peak.

You plead for him to break, your words unintelligible as you drool around him, your mouth full, your lips tingling, a slight ache in your jaw. You don’t want to stop, craving for the moment he breaks, utterly undone by you. Fingers sliding over your clit urgently, spiralling yourself high too.

“Look at me…”

It’s a ragged, almost frantic plea, slightly hoarse, as he yanks the material from his mouth.

Every fibre of his being is on a precipice while you gaze up at him. His skin flushed a deep pink, his neck corded, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple from his hairline, his pupils blown, encased in a cerulean ring, panting hard. That captivating sight is what catalyses your second orgasm, your pussy clenching in waves, craving his cock as you redouble your efforts to bring him to completion with you. Even fuzzy with the pleasure races around your body, you fight to keep going, allowing your moans of completion to reverberate loudly around his cock. And it works that carnal call and response too strong for him to resist.

“I…I am coming,” Benedict warns staccato, eyes screwed shut, his face contorting in rapture, all his little motions ceasing, his thighs constricting either side of your body.

His hand falls from your hair, likely expecting you to pull your mouth away, but it just spurs you on. Sinking, taking more of him, a strong pulse up his length, he nearly howls, hunching forwards over you and stuttering your name and so many words, some not even English, as he floods your mouth. All while you stay still, fighting the urge to cough, to take a breath. His taste is so much more than the preview. Salty, bitter, sweet, acidic. And copious. So much so that the reflex to swallow much of it kicks in before you even realise it.

His fingers lace with yours as you unwrap your grip from around his cock. With a gentle kiss to his tip, you withdraw, resting your head on his thigh to gather your breath, his taste strong in your mouth, and a lightness bubbling inside that you were able to give him this.

“Did you…?” He stumbles, and you instantly know what he is asking, so you just nod.

“You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” you assert, letting him haul you back up onto the bed.

He surrounds you in an embrace, his body flushed warm, a little dewy.

“That was…” he trails off, again lost for words, his lips hot on your temple as he crushes a fervent kiss there. “Thank you,” his inflection so sincere it makes your heart melt.

“It was wonderful for me too, Benedict,” you assure, nuzzling into him. “I came too,” you add quietly, that reflex to always be honest with him kicking in as ever.

He grabs your chin, staring deep into your eyes with an intensity that seems to strip your soul as bare as your body. He may not even realise it, but the fingers of his other hand trace over your wedding ring as he keeps scrutinising you, as if reading all your layers. Unspoken words seemingly dancing on the tip of his tongue. He finally draws you into an earnest kiss that telegraphs what he cannot voice—tingles down to your toes. Even as you squeak in surprise when he is unphased by the taste of his release, perhaps even enjoying such.

Settling together, you lay entwined for untold moments, the ticking of a mantel clock and your shared breaths syncopating the only sounds, lulling you into drowsiness.

“I may need to be gone before anyone awakens,” he points out reluctantly after you stifle a yawn. “But that doesn't mean I don't wish for you to fall asleep in my arms…”

With a sated smile, you wordlessly burrow into him, your nose lodged into his neck, his heartbeat strong under your skin, his fingertips tracing soothing patterns on your flank, and his breath warm in your hair.

That, indeed, is how you fall asleep: in the arms of your new husband, already knowing this new dynamic will be impossible to resist.

WTWIF masterpost • masterlist • wips • taglist

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