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torubug · 18 days ago

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Since Forever

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too

Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays

The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.

And then you walk in.

“Is that-”

“No way.”

“Schumacher?”

You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Christian sees you first.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.

You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”

“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”

“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”

Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”

“Flattering.”

You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.

And then-

“Y/N?”

His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.

He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.

“Max, we’re still-”

“Later.”

He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.

You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.

“Hey yourself,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.

And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.

“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”

“Debatable.”

He grins. “Liar.”

And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.

You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”

That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.

“She called him Uncle Jos.”

“Did she just-”

“Holy shit.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.

“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.

“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.

“You’re your father’s daughter.”

You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”

Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.

“Good to have you back.”

Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.

“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.

“You were already soft,” you reply.

He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.

Because you do.

“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”

“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”

“Close enough,” Max says.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.

You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”

“Max.”

“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”

You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”

“We were always the main act, anyway.”

It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.

And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.

A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”

“Perfect,” you say.

Max doesn’t move.

“Max,” Christian warns.

“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.

You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”

“Try and stop me.”

And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.

And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.

Phones are out. Whispers spiral.

Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.

Max Verstappen is in love.

You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.

“You used to like that about me.”

You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”

And Max?

He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.

***

When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”

He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.

“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.

“You sound like my dad.”

Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”

You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”

“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”

You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“I’ll fix that.”

“You’re not a sleep aid.”

He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”

You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.

“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.

Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”

“In your apartment.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”

You tilt your head. “Do I?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”

You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”

He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”

You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.

“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”

Oh.

The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.

***

You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.

Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.

Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crying,” you snap.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”

Then he takes your hand.

And doesn’t let go.

He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Jos said.

But Michael just smiled.

“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”

***

Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.

“That’s why you left the box?”

He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”

You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.

“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”

“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”

“Next to your helmets?”

He nods. “Next to your letters.”

Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”

Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”

“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”

“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”

You do. God, you do.

***

Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.

You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.

Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.

You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not serious.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”

Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.

“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”

***

Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”

“What?”

“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”

You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.

“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”

You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You were twelve.”

“Still could’ve scared you off.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

***

Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.

Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”

You glance at him. “Who?”

“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”

You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”

“Because I let them see it.”

You frown. “Do you regret that?”

Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”

Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”

You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.

“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”

He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”

You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”

“I want to.”

“You do.”

He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”

You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”

***

You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.

“You’ve always been mine.”

And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.

***

Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.

But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.

Not to Lando, at least.

He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.

“Wait, no fucking way.”

Oscar glances at him. “What?”

Lando squints.

“No way.”

At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.

But then he sees you.

You’re laughing.

Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

And Max-

Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”

Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”

Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.

Lando keeps staring.

“Are they-”

“Looks like.”

“When did-”

Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”

He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.

Max, being gentle.

“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.

Oscar blinks. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”

And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.

***

You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.

“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.

Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”

You look up, grinning. “Hey.”

Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!

“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.

Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’re touching her. In public.”

“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”

Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”

“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.

“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”

Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.

Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”

“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.

“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.

“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.

Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”

Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.

“When did this happen?”

You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”

Lando blinks. “Letters?”

“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.

“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”

“Every week,” you say.

“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.

“And you kept them?”

Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”

Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”

“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”

Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”

A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.

Then-

“Wait. Does Jos know?”

“Of course he knows,” Max says.

Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”

You sip your wine.

“Jos adores her,” Max says.

And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.

Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.

“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

Lando drops his fork.

“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.

“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”

“Perfectly,” Max replies.

Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.

Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.

Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”

***

After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.

“You okay?” He asks.

You glance up. “More than.”

“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”

You smile. “It was kind of funny.”

He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”

His voice is low. Serious.

“Especially that part.”

You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”

“Always have been.”

The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.

And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.

***

It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.

One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.

Jos Verstappen.

Yuki stills.

“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.

But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”

Yuki blinks. A bet?

“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”

Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”

There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”

Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.

“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.

Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.

“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”

There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”

Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.

Ten.

Ten years old.

***

It’s impossible to unhear.

That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.

Except … not.

Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.

And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.

“Give me five.”

The room stills.

The engineer frowns. “You want-”

“Five minutes.”

“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”

Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.

Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.

He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.

“Hey. Did you eat?”

There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.

“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”

“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.

“I’m working.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”

“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”

Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.

Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”

“You are such a-”

“Did. You. Drink.”

You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”

There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”

Yuki practically blacks out.

***

When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.

Except Yuki.

He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.

Then, “So … ring pop?”

Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.

“Where did you hear that?”

Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”

Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.

“She still has it,” he mutters.

“No way.”

“In a box.”

“Oh my God, Max.”

Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”

Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”

Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”

***

Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.

He always does.

“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.

You give him a look. “You checked?”

“I check everything.”

He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.

“I had coffee,” you offer.

“Not food.”

“Coffee is made of beans.”

“Y/N.”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”

Max smirks. “About that …”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He just overheard something.”

“Max.”

He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

“He found out about the ring pop.”

Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”

“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”

“Oh my God.”

Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”

You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.

You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.

“You have kept it.”

He nods, solemn. “Every day.”

***

Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Yuki sidles up next to him.

“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.

Jos glances at him.

“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.

Then he smiles.

Again.

Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”

***

The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.

Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.

He’s not moving.

“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”

GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.

“Talk to me, Max.”

Nothing.

Then-

“I’m fine.”

The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.

“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”

You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.

***

The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.

He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.

And he’s angry.

“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”

“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”

“I said I’m fine-”

“Max.”

Your voice.

Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.

“Schatje.”

You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.

You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.

“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.

“I don’t want-”

“It’s not about what you want right now.”

He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”

He opens his eyes again, searching yours.

“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”

You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”

The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.

Max doesn’t argue again.

GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.

“That was witchcraft.”

You shrug. “It’s just Max.”

“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”

You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”

***

Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.

You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.

He stops just behind you.

“Is he hurt?” He asks.

“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”

Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.

“You got him to agree to scans?”

You nod. “He was being Max.”

“That sounds right.”

GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.

Jos Verstappen. Smiling.

Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You rise. “All clear?”

“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”

Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”

Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”

Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow.”

Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”

Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”

Everyone in the room hears it.

GP actually drops his cup.

Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.

“It’s not tight, is it?”

“No.”

“You’ll tell me if it is?”

“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”

You smile. “True.”

Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”

You nod. “Let them.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You were being impossible.”

“You love it.”

You grin. “I do.”

***

Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.

Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.

And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.

***

Max is late.

Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.

The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.

The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.

You weren’t expecting the letter.

It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.

Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.

But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.

When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.

Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.

And read.

March 5th, 2014

Y/N,

I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.

You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.

I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.

Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.

Your Max

***

By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.

The kind that were never just about the letter.

***

Max finds you like that.

The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.

When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.

And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.

“Hey-”

He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.

“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.

He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.

His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.

You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.

Then he looks back at you.

“You found this?”

You nod. “It was in the book.”

He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“You kept it,” you whisper.

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”

You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.

“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitches.

“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”

You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”

He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”

A pause. Then-

“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”

You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”

He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.

“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”

Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.

“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”

He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”

You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”

“The letter?”

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, unwavering.

“I still mean it.”

You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”

“And I drive like I used to.”

“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”

He grins. “Because you’re here.”

“Because I’m home.”

***

Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.

“I want it close,” he says.

You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”

Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”

You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

***

You don’t notice it right away.

The photo.

You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”

You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.

It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:

So … it’s out.

Your stomach twists.

“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.

You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.

A photo.

Of you.

And Max.

It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.

He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.

It’s not yours anymore.

The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?

Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

You murmur, “Max …“

He doesn’t speak.

You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.

Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.

That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.

His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.

Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?

Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”

Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.

“Max …“

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”

You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”

He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”

***

You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.

But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.

By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”

Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.

You reply. I’m sorry.

His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

You almost cry again.

***

But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.

You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”

“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.

Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.

Max raises a brow. “What about him?”

“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”

You frown, inching closer to see.

The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:

@josverstappen7 About time.

There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.

Then-

Max snorts. Actually snorts.

You blink. “He what?”

“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”

Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.

“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.

You blink. “He’s always liked me.”

“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”

***

The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.

Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.

But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.

***

You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.

The moment.

The question.

The quote that breaks the internet again.

Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.

And then-

A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.

“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”

There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.

Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.

He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.

“She’s not new.”

A pause.

“She’s always been there.”

***

When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.

You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.

The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.

He just tells the truth.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.

He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.

“You saw it?”

You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”

“I meant it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.

“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.

“Let them.”

You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”

“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”

You press your forehead to his.

“They’re going to write stories.”

“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.

***

On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.

Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.

You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “Then be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you every morning.”

You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”

“That’s foreplay.”

You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.

And this time, you don’t care who hears it.

***

The drive is quiet.

Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.

Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.

He probably has.

You definitely have.

You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.

Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.

But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.

You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”

“I remember everything.”

You glance over at him. “Do you?”

Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”

A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.

He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”

You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.”

“Max-”

“He always knew.”

***

The estate hasn’t changed much.

The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.

You hesitate before getting out.

He doesn’t rush you.

Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.

***

Your mother meets you at the door.

She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.

Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.

He hugs back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

Max only nods.

She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”

***

You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)

The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.

And then, you see him.

He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.

His eyes are open. Alert.

Your breath catches.

Max is silent beside you.

You step forward first.

“Hi, Papa.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”

Max takes a slow step closer.

Michael’s gaze moves to him.

There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.

Just … calm recognition.

As if he knew you were coming all along.

“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.

You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.

But his hands are warm.

You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.

“I missed you.”

Max kneels beside you.

He doesn’t say much at first.

Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.

Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”

There’s a pause.

“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”

You let out a breath that trembles.

Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”

Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.

Still no words.

But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.

You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”

You choke on a sob.

Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You don’t resist.

You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”

He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”

“He doesn’t even …“

“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”

You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.

And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:

“I love you.”

Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”

Michael’s hand twitches.

You freeze.

Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.

Max sees it too.

His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”

***

You stay in the garden for hours.

Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.

Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.

You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.

You don’t ask what he said.

Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.

You press a final kiss to his cheek.

Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.

The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.

“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad we came.”

“I am too.”

You pause.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.

“You were all I ever imagined.”

***

Victoria doesn’t knock.

She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”

But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.

It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.

And then stops dead in the hallway.

Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.

She recognizes you instantly.

As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.

The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.

You.

Y/N Schumacher.

And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.

Victoria blinks.

Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.

Because it looks like he’s home.

She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vic.”

You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.

“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”

“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”

“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.

“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.

“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.

You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”

He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”

Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.

Max is … soft.

Not weak. Never that.

But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.

She pulls out a stool at the counter.

“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”

Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”

You blink. “You what?”

Victoria smirks. “You what?”

Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”

“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”

He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”

You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.

Victoria watches with something like awe.

“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”

“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

“You did. Like the noise stopped.”

He doesn’t argue.

You glance at him, puzzled.

Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”

You go quiet.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.

Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”

Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”

“I built you a desk,” Max adds.

Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”

“I made GP help.”

You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”

“They were wrong,” Max mutters.

Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.

“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”

You glance at him.

Max is already looking at you.

“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”

You press your lips together.

He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.

Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Max smiles. “I know.”

But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.

You’ve been through everything.

Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.

But this?

This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.

Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.

You hand her a plate.

“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.

Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”

You look up at him.

So is he.

So is this.

#oh maxie my love #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen

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torubug · 18 days ago

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torubug · 18 days ago

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✶⋆.˚Caught in the Web (Gojo.S)

Summary: Breaking news: Spider-Man has a neighbor problem. By “problem,” we mean YOU. The woman he can’t stop thinking about kissing against walls, rooftops, and kitchen counters….until he does. Oops.

Substance: MDNI!, neigbor!f reader, spiderman!gojo, nerd!gojo, pining, spiderman au, neighbors to lovers, whining, whimpering, semí-public (rooftop), blood mentioned, injuries, dryhumping, cre@mpie’s, making out, reader is suspicious of gojo, gojo is whipped, måsturbation (gojo), thigh-fücking, cosplay (reader), oral fixation (reader receiving), humor, sëx, witty comebacks, gojo will not leave you alone, flirting, fingering (reader receiving), big big DíCK, teasing, reader is just as whipped, happy-ending.

W/C: 13.7k

You’d gotten used to hearing footsteps in the hall late at night, the shuffle of someone coming home just as you were brushing your teeth or scrolling on your phone, and more often than not, those footsteps belonged to Satoru Gojo.

He lived a few doors down, and you’d fallen into the kind of neighborly routine that never felt forced–small talk by the mailboxes, swapping complaints about the ancient elevator, bumping into each other in the lobby when one of you was juggling grocery bags.

He was the kind of neighbor you couldn’t quite get a read on, somehow both nerdy and charming, always in slightly rumpled clothes, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose whenever he laughed.

He wasn’t what you’d expected when you first met him. With hair so pale it almost glowed and a height that made the hallway lights hit differently when he walked under them, you figured he’d be cold, maybe standoffish.

But he was the opposite–talkative, a little awkward, always smiling in a way that made you second-guess if it was just friendliness or something else entirely. You told yourself it didn’t matter. He was cute, sure, but he was a neighbor. The kind of guy you traded jokes about bad landlords with, not the kind you let ruin your sheets.

Tonight you found him leaning against the doorframe of his apartment, balancing a grocery bag in one hand as he fiddled with his keys. He looked up as you walked by, adjusting his glasses with a crooked grin.

“Caught you coming home late again,” he teased, his voice light, carrying that warm lilt you’d come to recognize. “You some kind of night owl, or do you just hate the sun?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, hugging your tote bag closer to your chest. “And you’re out here with groceries at ten o’clock because you love the nightlife?”

“Please,” he said, finally getting the door unlocked but not stepping inside yet. “This is survival. You ever tried to make pancakes at one in the morning and realized you’re out of milk? It’s tragic.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re jealous of my pancake game,” he countered smoothly, pushing his glasses up again with his thumb. “Don’t worry, I’ll invite you over one day. Blow your mind.”

“You say that like you can actually cook,” you shot back, smirking despite yourself.

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” he said, his grin widening just slightly.

You should’ve kept walking, should’ve just waved and left it at that, but something about the way he lingered there–casual, waiting, like he wanted you to keep talking–made you pause in the hallway instead.

The building was quiet, the hum of the lights above the only sound besides the two of you. His eyes, a sharp and startling blue behind the lenses, held yours longer than they should have, and you felt a faint warmth creep up your neck that had nothing to do with the hallway’s poor ventilation.

“You’re weird, Gojo,” you said finally, trying to break the tension.

“Yeah,” he admitted easily, shifting the grocery bag to his other hand, “but I’m your weird neighbor. You’re stuck with me.”

And before you could think of a comeback, he winked.

The hallway smelled faintly of takeout and old carpet cleaner, that signature scent of a building whose landlord had given up somewhere around the Reagan era, but you didn’t mind. It was home, and your neighbor Gojo was leaning in his doorway with a grocery bag like he always had the worst timing, his grin too easy for someone holding what looked like five cartons of eggs and a gallon of milk in one hand.

“Seriously though,” you said as you shifted your tote higher on your shoulder, “what do you even make with that much food this late at night? You’re not feeding a whole frat in there, are you?”

His smile widened as he jiggled the keys in the lock. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Nosy Neighbor.” He got the door open finally, only for the corner of a cereal box to peek out of the bag, bright and childish. “Spoiler alert: pancakes aren’t the only thing I’m good at.”

“You mean you’re gonna eat half that cereal and pass out watching TV,” you teased, arching a brow.

He laughed, pushing his glasses up again when they slid down the bridge of his nose. “Guilty. You caught me. But hey, at least I’m honest.”

You smirked, shaking your head, and turned toward your own apartment door just a few steps down. But you didn’t make it inside before you heard the sudden racket from Gojo’s place.

At first it was just a cupboard slamming, then another, then another, like someone was playing whack-a-mole with his kitchen. You frowned, halfway tempted to knock and make sure he hadn’t collapsed in there, when the sound cut off abruptly. A beat later, Gojo appeared again in the hallway, empty-handed now, as if nothing had happened.

“Everything okay in there?” you asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” he said casually, brushing a hand through his pale hair like it had been nothing. “Just, uh, reorganizing. Cabinets are tricky.”

You gave him a skeptical look, lips twitching. “Sounded like you were fighting them.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug, “we came to an understanding.”

Before you could press him, his eyes flicked to the recliner sitting awkwardly in the hallway just in front of your door–the one you’d been meaning to drag inside but hadn’t managed yet. You’d bought it secondhand off a listing and barely managed to get it delivered, but the idea of actually hauling it through your door by yourself had left you putting it off for days.

Gojo didn’t even ask. He just stepped forward, bent, and hefted the entire thing up in his arms like it weighed nothing.

“Wait–what–” you stammered, eyes wide as you watched him carry it smoothly down the hall.

“You were just gonna leave it out here forever?” he asked over his shoulder, adjusting it easily with one arm before nudging your door open with his hip.

Your mouth fell open. “How the hell are you that strong?”

He smirked, setting the recliner down neatly just inside your living room, then straightened without even the hint of a grunt. “I, uh… lift,” he said, so unconvincingly casual you wanted to laugh.

“You lift?” you repeated, following him in and shutting the door behind you.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing around your apartment as if taking it in. “Groceries. Cereal boxes. You know, heavy stuff.”

You snorted, setting your tote down on the counter. “Uh-huh. Totally believable.”

He ignored your skepticism, wandering a few steps further into your space, eyes scanning the cluttered coffee table and the stack of books on the armchair. He looked too at home for a man who had just barged in with furniture, but you didn’t tell him to stop. You just watched as he shoved his hands in his pockets, still grinning faintly, his glasses slipping again.

“So,” you said after a moment, leaning against the counter, “how’s work going? Still running around for the Bugle?”

He hummed in acknowledgment, finally turning his head back toward you. “Fine. Same as always.”

“Do they even give you a day off?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Eh, not really. Crime doesn’t exactly stick to a nine-to-five schedule.”

The words made you blink, but you brushed it off, tilting your head. “So how do you even get those photos of Spider-Man? Every time I see his face in the paper, it’s one of yours. You must have some crazy connections.”

For a second, Gojo didn’t answer. He just looked at you, his gaze flicking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. It took you a beat to realize why. You’d changed into a thin camisole when you got home earlier, the fabric soft and flimsy, and you hadn’t bothered with a bra. The way you were leaning against the counter wasn’t doing much to hide that fact. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes darting away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You smirked faintly, heat rushing up your chest, but didn’t move to cover yourself. “What?” you asked, pretending not to notice the way his ears had turned faintly pink.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat as he pushed his glasses up again. “I just, uh–” He blinked, buying himself a second, then smirked, though it was a little forced. “I just know what spots to go to. He’s a creature of habit.”

“Mm,” you said softly, pretending to accept it even as you noticed the way his gaze flicked down again, just for a second.

He was thinking something. You didn’t need to know what exactly to feel it, the weight of it pressing into the air between you. His smirk lingered, but his eyes were heavier now, sharper, like he was fighting himself not to say more.

Gojo had intended to make a graceful exit after dropping the recliner in your living room, maybe toss in one more teasing remark about pancakes and then disappear into his own apartment before you could notice the way his pulse had been hammering since you leaned against the counter in that thin camisole.

But you didn’t kick him out. You just stood there, arms folded lightly under your chest, the fabric clinging to your skin in a way that made his glasses suddenly feel too tight on his face.

From your side, you couldn’t tell how much restraint he was using. He looked relaxed–hands in his pockets, easy grin, casual posture–but Gojo’s thoughts weren’t casual in the slightest. Every time your nipples shifted against the outline of the fabric, every little bounce when you laughed or tilted your head, he felt his cock stir harder in his slacks. He’d been in dangerous situations before–dangling off skyscrapers, dodging bullets, webbing up guys twice his size–but standing in your apartment while you obliviously arched your back in a paper-thin top? That was the kind of danger he wasn’t sure he could survive.

He shifted his weight slightly, pretending to glance around your bookshelf just so he could adjust himself discreetly. His cock was pressing against the inside of his zipper now, thickening with every subtle inhale of your shampoo. He clenched his jaw, dragging his gaze upward when it wanted to linger lower, forcing himself to focus on anything else before he embarrassed himself in front of you.

“Still doesn’t explain how you manage to get the clearest photos of Spider-Man,” you said, quirking a brow. “Like, what, do you camp out on rooftops waiting for him to swing by?”

Gojo cleared his throat, forcing a smile that felt tighter than he wanted it to. “Something like that. I’m good with patterns. Guess I know his schedule.”

“Schedule,” you repeated, smirking faintly as you reached for a glass of water. “So what, you’ve got him clocked in like a nine-to-five? ‘Oh, there goes Spider-Man, late for his shift again.’”

He chuckled, shifting again, subtly tugging his shirt lower over his lap as you turned toward the sink. He thought he was in the clear–until you sighed dramatically and leaned your hip against the counter again, crossing your arms under your chest so that the camisole pulled tighter.

“Honestly,” you said, a playful twist in your tone, “I don’t get the hype. Spider-Man’s overrated.”

Gojo’s head snapped up so fast you nearly dropped your glass. “Excuse me?”

You blinked at him, lips twitching. “What? He’s messy. You see the photos you take of him–dude looks like a kid with ADHD and a Red Bull problem. Always leaving webs on buildings, climbing around like a freaky cat burglar. Half the time the news makes him sound like a menace anyway.”

Gojo turned fully then, his face animated in mock offense, though under the surface his blood ran hotter. “Menace? He saves lives. You know that, right? He’s out there busting his ass to keep the city from turning into a free-for-all.”

You laughed, tilting your head, enjoying the way he bristled. “Wow, someone’s passionate. What, are you in love with him or something?”

The question hit harder than you expected. Gojo blinked behind his glasses, throat tightening, heat crawling up the back of his neck as he shifted his stance again, desperate to hide the growing tent in his pants. His cock twitched at the thought of you saying the word “love” in the same breath as Spider-Man, the irony almost enough to undo him completely.

“In love?” he echoed, trying to keep his voice light, but the smile tugging at his lips was strained.

“You defend him like you’re his lawyer,” you teased, sipping your water. “What’s next? You got a Spider-Man poster hidden in your closet? Maybe a shrine? I should check your apartment for webs.”

He coughed, forcing a laugh that came out a little rougher than intended. “Cute. Real cute.” He turned back slightly under the guise of adjusting his belt, but really it was to shift himself again, the outline of his cock pressing harder against the fabric than he could manage to ignore. He could feel his palms sweating as his mind betrayed him, slipping into fantasies of bending you over the counter, tugging that flimsy camisole down, finally sucking your nipples the way he’d been imagining since you first walked in.

He dragged his focus back to your smirk, clearing his throat again. “I’m just saying, maybe you don’t give the guy enough credit. He’s out there risking his life while you’re in here shit-talking him like he’s a… what’d you call it? A freaky cat burglar?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, leaning closer with that spark in your eyes that always made him feel like you were testing him. “Sounds like you’ve got a crush. Do I need to worry about competition from a guy in spandex?”

Gojo’s cock pulsed so hard he thought for sure you could see it now. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, biting back the urge to groan, and gave you a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Trust me,” he said slowly, gaze flicking down one last time before snapping back up to your face, “the only one you need to worry about is yourself.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The city looked different at night. Not just darker, but alive in a way most people never saw. From twelve stories up, the lights blurred into rivers of gold and red, traffic weaving like veins across the concrete, neon buzzing against the low hum of distant sirens. For Satoru Gojo, this wasn’t the hour to sleep. It was the hour to move.

He pulled the mask down over his face with practiced ease, the sharp lines of blue, black, and white snapping into place as the lenses adjusted, tinting the city with a faint glow. He shoved the window open without hesitation, the cool air rushing against his bare arms, and stepped onto the ledge. For a moment, he just stood there, balancing casually on the narrow strip of concrete like it was a sidewalk. Then he leapt.

The web shot out with a sharp thwip, catching the steel edge of a billboard. The line snapped taut, and he swung low, his body carving through the night air with practiced rhythm. It was a dance he could do in his sleep–legs tucked, torso twisting, hand releasing just long enough to fire another line, letting gravity pull him before the next catch. The rush never dulled. The wind whipped against his body, his heart hammering with that mix of thrill and responsibility that kept him out here, night after night.

The call had come from the police scanner he’d hacked weeks ago: an explosion in the warehouse district, reports of armed men in masks scattering through the alleys. Gojo didn’t bother with the details. He knew the type. Gang rats with more firepower than brains, desperate enough to make noise, careless enough to kill civilians without a second thought. He’d been waiting for this kind of break in the lull of small-time robberies.

The first thing he smelled when he swung into the district was smoke. Black and acrid, spilling out of the gutted warehouse like an open wound. Flames licked at the steel supports, casting jagged shadows down the empty streets. He landed on the roof of a van, crouched low, and scanned the scene. Three men in masks were sprinting down the alley, rifles slung, shouting to each other as they carried something bulky between them.

“Idiots,” he muttered, firing a web that yanked the nearest one straight off his feet. The man hit the ground with a yell, the crate tumbling from his arms. Gojo swung down, landing hard enough to dent the asphalt, and swept his leg in a clean arc that knocked another one off balance.

The third raised his rifle. Gojo’s web was faster. It glued the weapon to the wall, and the man’s hands stuck with it before he could fire.

“You boys don’t play well with others, huh?” Gojo taunted, yanking the first one upright by the front of his shirt. “What’s in the box? Please tell me it’s cookies.”

The man tried to headbutt him. Gojo slammed him back into the van hard enough to rattle the metal, his knuckles cracking against the guy’s jaw before webbing him to the hood for good measure.

The second one scrambled for a knife. Gojo grabbed a chunk of debris from the explosion–half a concrete brick–and hurled it just close enough to make the man flinch. Then he swept forward, webbing his legs together and yanking him face-first into the pavement.

The fight should have ended there. But more footsteps echoed down the alley, heavier this time, and a van screeched around the corner with its headlights off. Gunfire split the air, ripping through the brick where Gojo had been perched a moment before. He ducked low, vaulting over the nearest dumpster, webbing the driver’s side window before the shooter could line up again. The bullet grazed his arm as he twisted, hot pain tearing through his bicep, but he didn’t stop. He swung forward, ripped the gun from the man’s hand, and slammed the van door shut on his arm until he screamed.

By the time the smoke thinned, half the crew was glued to the asphalt, the others trussed up along the wall like grotesque marionettes. Gojo stood in the center of the wreckage, panting through the mask, the cut in his arm burning hotter with each pulse of his heartbeat. He wiped blood on the side of his suit and crouched to check the crate. Not cookies. Explosives. Enough to level another block. He hissed through his teeth, fired a quick signal web onto the lid for the police to track, and vaulted back into the night before the sirens grew close.

By the time he landed back on his own building, his arm was screaming. He crawled through the window into his apartment, ripping the mask off with his good hand, glasses forgotten on the nightstand where he’d left them. The adrenaline was wearing off now, replaced with raw, aching pain as he peeled the sleeve back to inspect the graze. Not deep, but messy. He hissed again as he disinfected it, the sound spilling into the quiet room like a groan.

He didn’t realize how loud he was being until the knock came.

“Gojo?”

Your voice.

He froze, the alcohol-soaked rag pressed to his skin.

The knock came again, sharper this time. “Can you–uh–keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

He blinked, realization dawning a second too late. To anyone else in the hall, his low groans and sharp hisses would sound like exactly one thing: sex. Loud, athletic sex. He bit down on the laugh bubbling in his throat and limped to the door, still clutching his arm.

When he opened it, you were standing there in your sleep shorts and that same thin camisole, brows furrowed, lips pursed like you’d been debating whether to knock again.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral, though your eyes flicked behind him like you half-expected to see some woman sprawled on his bed.

Gojo leaned casually against the frame despite the sting in his arm, forcing a grin. “Sorry, neighbor. Guess I got a little… carried away.”

You blinked, caught between suspicion and embarrassment. “With what, exactly?”

He smirked faintly, ignoring the blood seeping into the rag at his side. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Gojo leaned against the doorframe like nothing was wrong, like the blood wasn’t sticky and warm down his bicep, like the rag pressed to his arm wasn’t keeping him from dripping on the hardwood. He was good at this–at faking normal, at playing the dumb neighbor with the bad diet and the too-wide grin. Usually, you didn’t look close enough to see through it. But tonight, you weren’t buying it.

Your eyes narrowed immediately, scanning him from his face down to his bare torso. He hadn’t had the sense to throw on a shirt before opening the door, and now you were staring at the faint sheen of sweat on his pecs, the defined slope of his abs, and the arm he was trying so casually to keep angled away from you.

“Gojo,” you said slowly, your voice firm despite the way your gaze lingered, “what the fuck happened to you?”

He blinked behind the messy fringe of his white hair, his grin crooked. “What, this?” He waved the bloody rag as if it were nothing. “Just got into a fight.”

“A fight?” you echoed, your tone sharp. You reached forward without thinking, catching his wrist and tugging his arm gently toward you. He didn’t resist. Your fingers were warm on his skin, and his chest tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with the wound.

You tilted his arm under the hallway light, brows furrowing deeper at the angry scrape. “With who? You look like you got dragged across concrete.”

Gojo swallowed, searching for something harmless, something stupid enough that you’d laugh instead of pressing. “Uh,” he said finally, deadpan, “the raccoons in the alley.”

You blinked. “The what now?”

“Big ones,” he added, fighting the smile tugging at his lips. “Mean as hell. Real claws on ‘em.”

You stared at him like he’d lost it. “You mean Mister Muffins and his husband?”

For a second, Gojo just stared back, completely blindsided. Then the laugh broke out of him, low and loud and genuine, curling up from his chest until his shoulders shook. “You named them?”

“They’ve been living out there since last summer,” you said, still serious as you let go of his arm. “They’re practically our neighbors.”

Gojo grinned down at you, his chest still shaking faintly from the laugh. God, he wanted to kiss you. To grab your face and taste the amusement on your lips, to press you back against the doorframe and forget about the blood drying on his arm. But he swallowed it down, kept his hands at his sides, and rolled his eyes instead. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Mister Muffins and his husband. Guess they didn’t like me stealing their pizza.”

You hummed, skeptical but letting it drop, stepping back just slightly as his grin softened. The warmth in his chest was dangerous, pulling him toward you, and he knew if he let it go one step further, he’d forget the mask and suit lying crumpled on his floor just a few feet away.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. His glasses were gone, and without them, his eyes were sharper, brighter, like shards of the clearest blue sky. His hair was tousled, falling messily over his forehead, and his body… God.

His pecs gleamed faintly with sweat, the defined ridges of his abs drawing your gaze lower before you snapped it back up, only to be caught by the flex of his biceps as he shifted the rag against his wound. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously, trying to ignore the heat crawling higher between your legs, cursing yourself for standing here in a thin camisole with no bra, nipples hard against the flimsy fabric.

“You need to go to the hospital,” you said finally, your voice firmer than you felt.

“I don’t,” he said easily, brushing it off with a casual shrug that only made his muscles flex harder. “I know how to clean myself up.”

“That looks serious,” you argued, taking a step closer. “You can’t just patch something like that with a wet rag and a joke about raccoons, Gojo.”

“Relax,” he said, smirking faintly even as he leaned more weight on the doorframe. “I’ve had worse. Trust me.”

You glared at him, but the concern twisting in your chest wasn’t enough to push you past the thick, embarrassing wave of attraction making your thighs clench tighter. “At least let me help,” you insisted.

“Tempting,” he said smoothly, voice dropping a little lower, “but I’ve got it handled.”

And before you could argue again, he shifted back and pulled the door toward himself.

“Go back to bed, neighbor,” he said, his grin too soft for the words to sound smug. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

The door clicked shut in your face before you could think of another protest.

You stood there in the hallway, staring at the wood grain, pulse pounding, cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together harder as you tried to ignore the way your body was betraying you. On the other side, you could still hear him moving–too much noise for a man with “just” a scrape, but you didn’t push. You didn’t dare.

Not yet.

The lock clicked softly behind him as the door shut, sealing away the quiet hallway and the sight of you standing there in your thin camisole, your nipples pressing against the fabric, your lips parted like you had a dozen more protests ready to spill out. Gojo leaned back against the door, exhaling hard, the rag still clutched against his arm. For a long moment he just stood there, listening to the faint echo of your retreating footsteps, imagining the sway of your hips, the faint curve of your ass under those sleep shorts.

He dropped the rag finally, letting it fall to the hardwood with a wet slap, and dragged a hand down his face. His cock was already stiffening in his pants, the arousal that had been simmering ever since you leaned against the counter now impossible to ignore. Spidey senses–hell, tonight it felt like nothing but arousal senses. He could still smell you, the faint trace of your shampoo lingering in the air like a ghost. His body was strung too tight to resist anymore.

With a sharp huff, he shoved his sweats down just far enough, his cock springing free against his stomach, long, thick, the mushroomed tip flushed an angry red and already leaking. The sight of it made his breath catch–not because he hadn’t seen it before, but because the thought of you seeing it, of your fingers wrapped around it, had his stomach clenching in need. He curled his hand around the base and groaned low, his head falling back against the door.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word breaking on a moan as his fist slid up the thick shaft.

His strokes were slow at first, deliberate, the pad of his thumb dragging over the slit where precome already gathered. The wetness made the glide easier, slick, obscene, his hips twitching up into his grip as his cock throbbed harder. He squeezed, groaned again, and shut his eyes–and there you were.

Your tits in that flimsy camisole, nipples so hard he could see the outline through the fabric. The way your thighs pressed together, subtle but not subtle enough, when you told him to go to the hospital. The concern in your eyes as you grabbed his wrist, your touch softer than he deserved, your mouth tugging into that little frown that made his chest ache.

He stroked himself faster, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he imagined you looking up at him while on your knees, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks flushed from effort. He pictured your thighs spread across his lap, your tits bouncing in his hands as he fucked up into you, the same frown twisting into desperate pleasure as you whimpered his name.

His head rolled back, sweat beading along his temple as his chest rose faster. The sound of slick skin filled the room, obscene and raw, his hand working up and down his length, squeezing just below the head before dragging down again. He could almost hear you–the soft gasp when you realized how big he was, the breathless laugh when he teased you, the moan when he finally pushed inside.

“God, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips thrusting shallowly into his fist, “you’d feel so good around me.”

The image of your thighs wrapped around his waist slammed into his mind, your cunt clenching as he bottomed out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you begged him not to stop. His cock jerked in his grip, precome smearing down the thick vein as he fucked into his hand harder now, faster, chasing the edge of a release that had been gnawing at him since the moment you leaned over the counter earlier.

His abs tightened, his biceps flexing as his strokes grew rougher, breath coming in sharp pants that echoed through the quiet apartment. He imagined your tits bouncing against his chest, your thighs slick against his hips, your voice breaking as you cried out his name – and that was it. His head slammed back against the door with a ragged groan, his cock pulsing as hot ropes of cum spilled over his hand and stomach, thick and messy, his body shuddering with the force of it.

He stayed there, chest heaving, hand still lazily stroking through the aftershocks as his cock twitched against his palm. Cum smeared warm across his skin, sticky on his abs, and the thought of you licking it off made his cock twitch again despite the release.

When his breath finally steadied, he dragged his hand up to his face, smirking faintly even through the haze. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, imagining the way you’d looked at him tonight, concerned and flushed, completely unaware of how close he was to snapping.

And on the other side of the wall, he had no idea you were lying in bed, thighs pressed tight together, thinking of him in almost the exact same way.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The city always looked different at night when you weren’t seeing it from behind your apartment window. The neon signs bled against the slick pavement, every puddle on the street reflecting a smear of light like paint dragged too far across a canvas. You hadn’t meant to stay out this late– a work thing that ran longer than expected, a drink with a friend that turned into two–but now it was just you, the click of your heels on uneven concrete, and the distant hum of traffic echoing up from the main avenue.

You tugged the hem of your short black dress down as the breeze caught it, teeth pressing into your lower lip as you thought back to earlier in the evening, when Gojo had leaned in your doorway with that easy grin, glasses slightly crooked, acting like the whole world revolved around his jokes.

You shouldn’t have been thinking about him, not while walking alone at midnight through streets that weren’t exactly friendly, but your mind kept drifting to the way his chest looked without his shirt, the way his arm had flexed when you grabbed his wrist. You rubbed your thighs together unconsciously as you walked, shaking your head to clear it.

You were halfway down the block when you heard it–footsteps behind you. At first you ignored it, telling yourself it was just another late-night straggler heading in the same direction. But then there was a laugh. Low. Male. And before you could quicken your pace, a voice called out.

“Hey, sweetheart. You lost?”

You turned just enough to see two men falling into step behind you, their grins too wide, their eyes too hungry. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, fingers sliding into the pocket where your keys were tucked between your knuckles.

“No, thanks,” you said curtly, facing forward again.

They didn’t take the hint. Their footsteps sped up until they were flanking you, one to the left, one to the right. The taller one leaned closer, his breath sour. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t falter. “Touch me, and I swear to God–”

The one on your right smirked, his hand brushing against your bare thigh. “What, you’ll stab me with those heels?”

You had the keys in your palm already, ready to jam them into his wrist if he tried again, when a sharp thwip split the air. The man’s arm was yanked backward so fast he stumbled, a thick white strand of web pinning his hand to the brick wall.

“What the–”

Another web shot past you, catching the second guy’s jacket and slamming him against a lamppost. They both cursed, thrashing, but it was no use–the webs hardened in seconds, holding them tight.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat, as a figure dropped from the building above with effortless grace.

Spider-Man.

His suit was nothing like the red-and-blue plastered on the city’s billboards. This one was sharper, darker: matte black panels broken by streaks of deep cobalt blue, white lines cutting across the chest in a sleek, angular design. The spider emblem was painted in silver, its legs stretching long down his ribs. His mask was a seamless fit, lenses glowing faintly as they narrowed toward the men he’d just strung up.

“Wow,” he said cheerfully, straightening from his crouch. “Can’t even let a lady walk home without drooling on her shoes? You guys are giving chivalry a really bad name.”

One of the men snarled, jerking against the web. “The fuck are you–”

“Sticky,” Spider-Man interrupted, cocking his head. “Kinda like duct tape, but cooler. You’ll be fine. Unless you sneeze. Then it’s gross.”

You stood there in stunned silence as he dusted off his gloved hands, then sauntered over like this was all part of his nightly routine.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.

You blinked once, unimpressed despite your racing pulse. “I was handling it.”

He let out a laugh that crackled through his mask speaker. “Oh yeah? With what, that little set of house keys? Adorable.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You done?”

“Saving your life?” He pretended to think. “Yeah, I guess.”

You turned to leave, brushing past him with a shake of your head. “Great. Thanks. Bye.”

But before you could take two steps, he moved, a line of web shooting out to block the narrow alley ahead, his tall frame stepping in front of you. He leaned casually against the brick, head tilted, arms crossed.

“No thank you?” he teased. “Not even a little one?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Oh my God. You did your job. Congratulations. Do you want a cookie?”

He chuckled, lenses narrowing as he leaned a little closer. “Depends. You baking?”

You stared at him flatly, unimpressed. “You sound like you’re in love with yourself.”

“Someone has to be,” he shot back smoothly.

You huffed, stepping sideways to try to slip past, but his arm shot out, barring your path again. “C’mon,” he said, his tone still playful but softer now, more curious. “Just one thank you. You’ll make my night.”

You looked him up and down, from the glowing eyes of his mask to the sleek, muscle-hugging suit, then back up to meet his gaze. “Fine,” you said dryly. “Thank you for tying up two drunk idiots and interrupting my evening walk.”

He hummed like it was good enough, though you swore you could feel the smirk beneath the mask. “See? Was that so hard?”

You rolled your eyes, heels clicking as you moved past him when he finally dropped his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he called after you, his tone warm and teasing, “but you’ll remember me.”

And damn it, you already knew he was right.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You hadn’t planned on staying in Gojo’s apartment that morning. You’d only stopped by to drop off the package the landlord had left at the wrong door, but somehow, twenty minutes later, you were still sitting at the edge of his counter while he moved around the small kitchen, glasses perched on his nose, hair still damp from the shower. He’d thrown on a white button-down that was currently hanging open over a black undershirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the muscle in his forearms, and you were trying very hard not to stare.

Gojo, of course, noticed anyway. He always did. He leaned casually against the fridge, sipping his coffee, his eyes sparkling faintly behind the lenses as you recounted the insane night you’d had.

“…and then he just shows up,” you were saying, gesturing with your hands for emphasis. “Out of nowhere. Webs those guys up like they’re nothing. Doesn’t even break a sweat. And then–” you rolled your eyes dramatically–“he wants me to thank him. Like I owe him or something.”

Gojo hummed softly, biting back the grin tugging at his mouth as he set the mug down. On the surface, he was every inch the attentive neighbor, nodding along, but inside his chest, his heart was thudding. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up so soon–though he should have, knowing you.

He wanted to laugh, to tell you right then that the man in the suit had gone home with your face burned into his mind so vividly he’d had to jerk off against his door to the thought of your tits under that flimsy camisole. But instead, he pushed his glasses up and said lightly, “Sounds like he saved your ass.”

“Please,” you scoffed, crossing your legs. “I could’ve handled it.”

Gojo tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on the smooth stretch of your thigh before forcing them back up. “With what, those heels? Don’t get me wrong, you’d probably make a decent mark with ‘em, but…” He shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt having a little backup.”

You gave him a look, sharp and unimpressed, which only made him want to smirk harder. “You sound like you like him,” you teased. “What, are you secretly a Spider-Man fanboy?”

The comment nearly made him choke on his coffee. He swallowed, masking it with a faint laugh. “Me? Nah. I just think the guy gets a bad rap.”

“Uh-huh,” you said dryly, turning back to the package you’d brought as if to signal the conversation was over. But then you added, far too casually, “He does have a nice body, though. You can see everything in that suit.”

Gojo froze.

You didn’t notice at first, still fiddling with the box, your tone completely nonchalant. “I mean, I get it now. All that swinging around, climbing buildings like a cat–of course he’s built. And the suit? Zero imagination left to the eye. Couldn’t help but notice the… bulge.”

His cock stirred immediately. Heat shot straight through him, so sharp it made his throat tighten. He forced his expression neutral, though his grip on the edge of the counter had whitened his knuckles.

“Damn,” he said finally, his voice lower than he intended. He coughed once, masking it. “You really don’t like the guy, huh?”

You looked up, smirking faintly at his tone. “Didn’t say that. Just said he’s overrated. Doesn’t mean I didn’t notice he fills out that spandex.”

Gojo shifted subtly, turning back toward the counter to pour himself more coffee, mostly so you wouldn’t see the way his cock was already pressing against his slacks. He hummed, feigning casual. “So you were checking him out.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, swinging your leg idly. “Anyone would notice. Suit like that? It’s practically obscene.”

He almost groaned, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Inside his head, his thoughts weren’t neighborly at all. He was picturing you staring at his cock through the suit, lips parted, thighs rubbing together. He imagined pulling the mask up just enough to kiss you, your tits pressed against the chest of his suit, your nails dragging down his shoulders as you realized how right you’d been about the bulge.

Out loud, he only said, “Guess you’re more observant than you let on.”

You smirked, sipping from the mug he’d slid across the counter for you. “Guess so.”

Gojo watched the way your lips wrapped around the rim, and he nearly had to excuse himself to the bathroom right then.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

It started as a once-in-a-while thing, Spider-Man appearing in your path on your late-night walks, leaning against a lamppost or crouched on a fire escape like he’d been waiting. At first you told yourself it was coincidence. The city was big, but maybe your paths just crossed. Then it was every night. You’d step out of the corner store, the plastic bag in your hand still warm with groceries, and there he’d be, mask gleaming faintly under the lights, waving like you were old friends.

By the third night in a row, you crossed your arms and told him flatly, “You stalking me?”

“Stalking?” he gasped, hand over his chest like you’d wounded him. “I prefer the term dedicated escort service. I only charge in smiles.”

“Overpriced,” you muttered, walking past him.

“Brutal,” he said, falling into step beside you as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “But worth it.”

And that’s how it continued. Every night. Him showing up, you pretending not to be impressed, him cracking jokes while you tried not to stare at the way his suit clung to every line of muscle.

Tonight was no different–except it was.

You’d dressed in a short black skater skirt that swished with every step, thigh-high socks hugging tight against your thighs, and a cropped turtleneck that left a strip of your stomach bare. No bra. You hadn’t expected to run into him–not really–but the way his head snapped toward you when you rounded the corner told you he noticed every detail.

“New outfit?” he said casually, though Gojo behind the mask was already fighting the twitch in his cock. The way the fabric outlined your breasts, the way the socks cut into your soft thighs–it was killing him.

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, brushing past.

“Too late.” His voice carried a grin, but his body was already tense. He followed close, closer than usual, and you could feel the heat of him even through the fabric of his suit.

When you reached the quieter part of the block, he stopped suddenly.

“Come on,” he said, and before you could argue, his arms were around your waist.

“Wait–what the–”

The thwip of his web was the only warning before your feet left the ground. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively as he swung you upward, the city dropping away beneath you, wind whipping your hair back as you gasped. He landed smoothly on a rooftop, setting you down gently but keeping one arm snug around your waist as you staggered.

“See?” he said, his voice smug. “Better than a cab.”

You blinked, still catching your breath, but quickly covered it with a scoff. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome,” he countered, still close enough that his chest brushed your back when he leaned forward.

You stepped away, arms crossed, looking out at the skyline. The view was breathtaking–golden lights spilling across the city, the river glimmering like a vein of silver–but you weren’t about to admit that to him.

Instead, you muttered, “How do you even breathe in that mask? Looks suffocating.”

Behind you, Gojo’s cock twitched so hard it hurt. You looked so fucking cute, standing there unimpressed in your little skirt, thighs pressed together like you didn’t realize how much that tiny shift made his brain short-circuit.

“I manage,” he said lightly, though his voice was rougher now.

You turned halfway, catching the subtle way he shifted his stance. “Do you save ‘damsels in distress’ just so you can fuck them after?”

The question was sharp, mocking, but your tone sent a shiver through him. He huffed a laugh, though his cock was already swelling thick and hard, straining against the spandex.

“That’s not true,” he said, too quickly.

You raised a brow, smirking faintly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He wanted to protest, but then you shifted closer, brushing against him without even realizing it, the swell of your ass grazing the hard outline of his cock. His breath caught behind the mask. You felt it–the heat, the pressure–and your thighs squeezed tighter, a faint tremor betraying you as you shifted again, deliberately this time.

Gojo nearly groaned, his gloved hands curling into fists at his sides. He couldn’t help it when one slid forward, brushing against your hip, and you startled but didn’t move away. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and guided it higher, pressing his palm against the front of your cropped top.

“Over the clothes, Spidey,” you whispered, your breath shaky despite your bravado. “Just this once.”

His cock throbbed, precum already dampening the inside of his suit, but he nodded, his voice cracking slightly. “Yeah… yeah.” He almost said your name–the syllables caught behind his teeth–but he bit it back just in time.

His hand cupped your breast through the thin fabric, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over the hard peak of your nipple. You gasped softly, arching faintly into the touch, and his cock jerked again against your ass.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of you even with the fabric between you.

You pressed your thighs tighter, your body trembling as you leaned back against him, your breath catching when his other hand slid down to rest on your hip, holding you steady as you rocked slightly against him.

The heat was unbearable, his cock firm against your ass as you rubbed back, your skirt riding higher with each subtle grind. He let out a shaky groan, his head dropping to your shoulder, and you bit your lip, your hand curling around his wrist to press him harder against your breast.

“Spidey,” you whispered, the word breaking into a gasp as his thumb flicked over your nipple again.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He turned you gently, lowering you onto the rooftop until he was sprawled beneath you, your thighs straddling his hips. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your soaked panties through the spandex, and you ground down instinctively, moaning softly at the friction.

He gripped your waist, guiding your movements as you rocked against him, the sound of your thighs sliding and the faint squeak of fabric mixing with your uneven breaths.

You leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of his mask, trying to tug it up, but his hand caught yours. “Not that,” he said hoarsely, panic lacing the arousal in his voice.

You smirked faintly, leaning closer anyway, your lips brushing against the fabric over his mouth. “Fine,” you whispered. “This’ll do.”

And you kissed him–through the mask, hot and desperate, your hips grinding harder against his cock as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, deeper, until the rooftop felt like it might swallow you both whole.

It was maddening, the slick heat of your panties growing wetter with each grind as you swallowed soft, helpless moans against his masked mouth. Gojo’s mind was unraveling beneath the mask. Every whimper you made went straight to his cock, every shift of your hips had him biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from begging.

He’d meant to keep it innocent–just teasing, just banter–but the way you looked on top of him, thighs spread, skirt riding higher to bare the tops of your thighs… he was gone.

One of his gloved hands slid down from your waist, fingers brushing the edge of your panties through your skirt. He didn’t even wait for permission this time–you were already grinding so desperately it was answer enough. His palm cupped you firmly, the heat of your cunt soaking through the fabric as he pressed slow, steady circles against your clit.

You gasped, arching into his touch, your nails dragging over his chest through the suit. “Fuck–”

“Shit,” he groaned, his cock twitching violently beneath you. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through the gloves.” His voice was rough, cracking in your ear, but his tone still carried that cocky edge. “I swear, I’m never washing this hand.”

You let out a breathless laugh between moans, smirking faintly even as you ground down harder against him. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Hot, though,” he countered immediately, rubbing harder against your clit, the friction making your thighs shake as you bit your lip to hold back another moan.

Your hands slid up his chest, tracing the hard ridges of muscle beneath the suit, down over his abs, and then back up to grip his shoulders. He groaned again, his hips bucking up to meet yours as he muttered, “God, you’re killing me.”

The rooftop was filled with the wet sound of your panties sliding against his suit, your gasps mingling with his rough groans as his cock throbbed, leaking inside the spandex. He was so close–too close–twitching with every grind, his mind spinning with filthy images of tearing that skirt off and burying himself inside you.

“Spidey–” you moaned softly, breathless, your body trembling as his thumb pressed harder against your clit.

He bit back a groan, the words almost slipping–your name on his tongue, his mask nearly lifted–when it hit him. That sharp, electric jolt down his spine.

His Spider-sense.

Gojo froze, the sound of your ragged breaths still in his ears as his body tensed. He knew the feeling too well: danger, close, immediate. His cock throbbed angrily at the interruption, but adrenaline surged hotter, overriding even the need pulsing in his lap.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, sitting up so fast you fell backward off his lap, your thighs spreading instinctively as you hit the rooftop with a soft gasp.

“Are you kidding me?” you snapped, glaring up at him, your chest heaving. “What the hell, you asshole?”

He was already on his feet, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet with restless energy, scanning the skyline. ADHD energy mixed with the rush of instinct, his body practically vibrating as he muttered, “Shit, I’m sorry–”

“Sorry?” you shot back, pushing your skirt down with a flush. “You don’t just–ugh!”

He glanced back at you, his chest tight at the sight of your legs still open, thighs trembling, your lips flushed and swollen. He wanted nothing more than to drop back down and finish what he’d started. But the distant boom of an explosion cut through the night, orange light flashing against the buildings several blocks away.

His jaw clenched behind the mask. He crouched low in front of you, hands on your waist, and before you could shove him off, you were in his arms again, the world spinning as he leapt to the ground below with one clean swing.

He set you down gently, his voice hurried and hoarse as he backed away. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear–”

“Asshole!” you yelled after him, breathless and flushed, as another thwip launched him back into the night.

Gojo’s cock ached as he swung toward the fire, the memory of your heat grinding against him still burning in his nerves. He muttered under his breath, voice rough inside the mask, “God, you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

And you stood on the sidewalk below, thighs pressed tight together, still trembling from the way his gloved hand had touched you, cursing yourself for wanting him to come back already.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The storm had rolled in fast. The city’s usual hum was drowned in the crash of rain against the streets, the wind whistling between buildings with enough force to rattle your window frames. You hadn’t seen Gojo since the morning before–a quick exchange at his door, his glasses fogged from the shower steam, his grin lazy as he told you not to work too hard. Then nothing. No sound through the thin walls. No telltale slam of his cabinets. Just silence.

By the time night fell, the storm was in full swing. You tugged on your thin nightgown–the one that barely brushed mid-thigh–and shoved your feet into slippers, grabbing the trash bag before it started to stink up the whole kitchen. The hallway was empty, the air faintly damp from the rain sneaking through the old building.

You shoved the bag into the bin behind the complex, hugging your arms against the chill, and tilted your head at the sound of something above. Not thunder. Not rain. A thud.

Your gaze snapped up, hair plastered against your cheek as the downpour blurred your vision. And there–on the fire escape leading up the side of the building–a figure. Crawling. In the storm.

Your breath caught, heart thudding as the figure moved toward a familiar window. Gojo’s window.

And the suit–black, blue, white–clung tight to every muscle as the man climbed inside.

Spider-Man.

“What the actual fuck,” you hissed, your shock boiling into rage before you could think.

Without hesitation, you bolted back into the building, your bare legs slick from the rain, your nightgown clinging to your body as you pounded up the stairs. Your slippers slapped against the steps, your breath coming fast, fury drowning out the thunder.

By the time you reached Gojo’s door, your pulse was roaring in your ears. You slid in front of it, nearly tripping, and slammed your fist against the wood.

“I know you’re in there!” you shouted, breathless, your hair dripping onto your shoulders. “Don’t you dare ignore me!”

Inside, Gojo cursed under his breath.

He was soaked through, the rain making the spandex cling uncomfortably tight, his muscles burning from the night’s patrol. He’d only just crawled through the window, mask dragged halfway down, sticking to his skin and refusing to come off fully with the water plastering it to his face. His pale hair was plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes, and his chest heaved as he tried to pull the fabric off.

Then he heard you.

He froze, eyes darting to the door as your pounding rattled the hinges. “Shit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Not now.”

The door slammed open before he could bolt the lock.

You stepped in, soaked nightgown clinging to every curve, eyes blazing as you slammed the door behind you. Your chest rose fast, your breaths ragged from the sprint up the stairs. And then you saw him.

White hair plastered to his forehead. The mask dragged past his nose, still covering his eyes. Suit clinging to his chest and arms, droplets of rain dripping down the sharp lines of muscle.

You stopped dead, your whole body going cold despite the storm.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” you said, your voice low, sharp, deadly serious.

He froze, mask halfway off, lips parted, caught like a kid in headlights.

“Satoru!?”

Gojo swallowed hard, chest still rising fast, every excuse he’d ever crafted evaporating from his mind as your voice cut through the thunder.

“Uh,” he said finally, voice cracking under the weight of the silence. “Surprise?”

You stared at him, fury and disbelief swirling in your chest so fast you could hardly breathe. Your fists clenched at your sides as you took a step closer, the storm hammering against the windows behind you.

“Surprise?” you repeated, your tone rising with every syllable. “That’s what you’ve got? Surprise!?”

He dragged a hand through his soaked hair, grimacing as the mask clung to his cheek. “In my defense,” he muttered, “you weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “No shit.”

He looked at you then–really looked. Your nightgown clung translucent to your thighs, your hair dripping against your flushed skin, your eyes lit with fire. And despite the mess, despite the panic, his cock twitched against the cling of the spandex.

Gojo’s throat bobbed as he forced a grin, though it was weaker than usual. “So… guess you’re not a Spider-Man fan after all, huh?”

You glared at him, heat rushing up your neck even as your thighs pressed unconsciously together.

“Don’t you dare try to joke your way out of this,” you snapped, your voice trembling with adrenaline.

And behind the mask, Gojo’s mind was a mess of panic, desire, and the quiet, sinking realization that there was no taking this back.

The rain was still pouring when you stepped closer, your bare feet soaking against his floorboards, the thin fabric of your nightgown clinging wetly to your skin. Your pulse was wild in your chest, your anger and adrenaline and the raw shock of what you’d just walked into mixing until your hands were already on him before you realized what you were doing.

“Are you hurt?” you demanded, palms sliding over his soaked chest, down his arms, searching for cuts, bruises, anything. Your fingers skimmed the hard lines of muscle beneath the clinging spandex, water dripping between your knuckles as you shoved at him to turn his body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Gojo muttered, his grin cocky even as he winced when your thumb brushed a tender spot on his ribs. “You trying to cop a feel, or is this the world’s angriest check-up?”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your hands sliding up to his face, gripping his jaw. His mask was still dragged halfway down, covering his eyes, but you could see his smirk curving beneath it. Your chest heaved as you shook your head. “You left me high and dry yesterday. Do you even–do you even know how humiliating that was?”

He flinched at that, the grin faltering for the first time. “I–yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

“You’re such a prick,” you hissed, your nails curling against his cheek. “Showing up every night, getting under my skin, and then just–”

He cut you off before the words could spiral further. His gloved hands came up, framing your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the pounding storm outside, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was hot, deep, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his soaked chest pressed hard against yours. You tried to protest, tried to push him back, but your hands betrayed you, clutching at his cheeks, pulling him down as his mouth devoured yours.

You gasped into the kiss, your fingers sliding up into his damp hair, tugging at the white strands as he groaned against your lips. The sound was filthy, desperate, his body thrumming with pent-up hunger as he pressed you backward until your spine hit the wall.

His mouth trailed down your jaw, hot kisses dragging to the base of your throat, and then further, teeth grazing your collarbone as he shoved your nightgown up and over your head. You gasped as the soaked fabric hit the floor, leaving you bare in the storm’s cold air, your nipples tightening instantly in the chill.

Gojo groaned like he was seeing the sun for the first time, lips closing greedily over one hardened peak. “Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, tongue flicking, teeth nipping just enough to make you arch. “Dreamed about this.”

Your hands clutched at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair as he lavished your breasts with open-mouthed kisses, groaning softly with every taste. He palmed your ass with one large hand, squeezing firmly, grinding his cock against your hips as his other hand shoved between your thighs to feel the heat of your soaked panties.

“Over the clothes,” you gasped, echoing the rooftop, your thighs trembling as he rubbed hard against your clit through the thin fabric.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, groaning again as your body arched into his touch. “God, you’re soaked, baby. You’re gonna ruin this suit.”

“You already ruined it,” you hissed back, moaning as his teeth tugged at your nipple.

“Not ruined enough,” he growled, rutting harder against your hip, the outline of his cock thick and throbbing through the spandex.

The storm cracked outside, thunder shaking the windows, and you nearly cried out as he lifted you suddenly, slamming your back gently against the wall as he held you up effortlessly, your thighs wrapping around his waist. His mouth claimed yours again, desperate and sloppy, as he dry-humped you hard, each thrust rubbing his cock against your soaked panties, the friction maddening.

You gasped against his lips, trying to breathe. “You–you really save damsels in distress just to fuck them, don’t you?”

He pulled back enough to smirk against your mouth, breath hot. “If that’s the job description, I’ll take the overtime.”

You rolled your eyes even as you moaned when his fingers pressed harder against your clit. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he groaned, biting your nipple again, “but you love it.”

Your thighs squeezed tighter around his waist as his gloved hand rubbed rough circles against your clit, your wetness soaking through the fabric. You were trembling, your voice breaking as you gasped, “Satoru–”

He kissed you hard again, whispering against your lips, “Say it again.”

“Satoru,” you moaned, hips grinding desperately.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his cock jerking as precum leaked inside the suit.

Without another word, he carried you into his bedroom, dropping you gently onto the bed. The storm raged outside, lightning flashing against the walls, but his attention was only on you. He crawled over you slowly, deliberately, his mask finally tugged off with one hand.

You froze, breath caught.

Satoru.

His face was more beautiful than you’d ever let yourself imagine. Sharp cheekbones, jawline strong and wet with rain, mouth flushed from kissing you raw. But it was his eyes–that impossibly bright, crystalline blue, now bare without his glasses–that made your breath stutter. They were electric, alive, drinking you in like he’d been starved.

You didn’t get a chance to speak. His mouth was back on you, kissing down your neck, biting lightly at your collarbone, trailing lower. He licked and nipped at the curve of your breasts, groaning like a man possessed, before dragging his tongue down your stomach. You whimpered, your thighs pressing together, but he pried them apart, kissing along the soft skin until his mouth was at your hips.

He tore your panties down your legs in one quick motion, groaning when the scent of your arousal hit him. “Fuck, baby,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I’ve been dreaming about this pussy.”

He pressed his face between your thighs, groaning loudly as his tongue licked a slow stripe over your folds. You gasped, your hands flying into his hair, tugging hard as his mouth latched onto your clit. He moaned like he’d been starved, rutting his hips against the mattress beneath him as he ate you out, tongue sliding deep inside, nose pressed against your clit.

“God–” you moaned, thighs trembling as his gloved fingers gripped your hips, holding you down. “Satoru–”

He groaned into your cunt, rutting harder against the bed, his cock straining as he inhaled the slick heat of you. His hands slid down, pushing your thighs up, locking them against his head until you were practically suffocating him.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, pulling back only long enough to slide a gloved finger against your entrance. “Gonna finger you open, sweetheart. Wanna feel you come on my hand.”

You whimpered as his finger slid inside, thick and deliberate, curling just right. He added another, stretching you slowly, his tongue circling your clit as your back arched. The storm roared outside, thunder shaking the glass–until a sharp thwip sounded, and the window slammed shut, his web sealing it tight.

“Need to hear you,” he muttered against your clit. “Can’t miss a single sound.”

You moaned louder, your hips rocking helplessly into his mouth as his fingers pumped deep, curling against your sweet spot while his tongue worked your clit mercilessly. Your hands clutched his hair, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against you, rutting harder into the mattress, lost in the taste of you.

“Satoru–” you gasped, thighs squeezing around his head, your body trembling violently as the pressure built.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your cunt. “Come for me. Wanna drown in it.”

The wave hit you sharp and blinding, your orgasm tearing through you with a cry as your thighs shook around his head, your cunt fluttering around his fingers. He groaned like he was coming with you, his cock rutting desperately into the mattress as he licked you through every spasm, every aftershock, refusing to let you go.

When you finally collapsed back against the sheets, panting, your hands still tangled in his hair, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His mouth was wet with you, his eyes burning with hunger, and his grin was wicked.

“Not bad for a prick, huh?”

He was still panting against your thigh, lips wet with your release, when he shifted back, fumbling with the edge of his suit. You propped yourself up on your elbows, sweat dampening your flushed chest, your breath uneven as you watched him struggle.

“Fucking–” he muttered, yanking at the fabric. “Piece of shit–sticks like a goddamn–” He growled, tugging harder, the wet spandex clinging stubbornly to his chest and arms. His abs flexed beautifully as he twisted, muscles rippling with every frustrated movement, and you bit your lower lip without meaning to, heat curling in your stomach again as his cock twitched visibly beneath the suit.

“You good over there, hero?” you teased softly, smirking despite your breathlessness.

“Shut up,” he hissed, jerking at the zipper that refused to budge. “I swear this thing’s cursed. Who the hell thought full-body spandex was a good idea?”

You laughed, low and teasing, until his growl deepened and he yanked so hard the seam popped. “Fucking–dammit!” He cursed louder, finally collapsing half-off the bed with a grunt as he fought the top half down.

Your laughter bubbled out before you could stop it, the sound bright in the storm-muted room. But it didn’t last long.

Because when he finally shoved the wet fabric down his hips and his cock sprang free, long and flushed and heavy against his abs, you forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, eyes wide, lips parting as heat licked sharp through your veins. “It’s always the nerds.”

Gojo’s grin was feral as he shoved the ruined suit down the rest of the way, kicking it off impatiently. “Yeah? Still laughing?”

You swallowed hard, thighs pressing together instinctively as you shook your head faintly. “Not even a little.”

“Didn’t think so,” he muttered, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking once, slow, his head tipping back with a low groan. Precum glistened at the tip, sliding down the thick vein as he pumped lazily, his eyes hooded as they fixed on you.

Your thighs clenched tighter, your breath shallow as you watched his hand glide up and down, his cock twitching in his grip. He climbed back onto the bed, his body looming over yours as he captured your mouth in another searing kiss, your moan spilling against his tongue as the blunt head of his cock brushed your soaked entrance.

He groaned your name, broken and needy, his lips trembling against yours. “God, baby–”

You gasped as he pushed in, the stretch sharp and overwhelming, your back arching off the bed as his cock slid deeper, inch by inch. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your mouth falling open as the fullness robbed you of words.

“Fuck–” he whined, the sound raw, his hips trembling as he sank fully inside, buried to the hilt. “You’re so–so tight, I can’t–”

You cried out, your legs bending instinctively as he sat back on his knees, bracing his hands on the tops of your thighs. He pulled back slowly, then slammed forward again, the wet slap of his hips echoing through the room as you arched and moaned.

“God, yes,” he groaned, his head tipping back, his cock driving deep inside you. “So good–so fucking good–”

Your thighs quivered as he pounded into you, the stretch burning, perfect, your walls fluttering helplessly around his thick cock. He was whining now, shameless, his voice breaking as he thrust harder, faster, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise.

When he leaned forward again, your knees bent up toward your stomach, his thrusts went deeper, sharper, your breath catching with every snap of his hips. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, his chest pressing against your shins as he pounded harder, his lips dragging against your neck.

“Fuck–I can’t stop–” he groaned, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed hard against your throat. “You don’t know–don’t know how many times I–fuck–fucked my fist thinking about you in those little tops. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

You gasped, nails raking down his back. “You–you perv–”

He laughed breathlessly against your skin, the sound breaking into a moan as your cunt clenched tight around him. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. And you love it. Don’t even try to lie, baby.”

Your body betrayed you, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, your moans spilling shamelessly as his cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you.

“God, you feel–so good,” he whined, his thrusts growing erratic as his body trembled. “So fucking perfect–I’m not gonna last–”

You gasped, the tension coiling tight in your belly as his pace quickened, his cock slamming deeper with every thrust, the sound of your wetness filling the room.

“Come with me,” he begged against your mouth, his tongue tangling with yours as he pounded harder. “Please, baby–want to feel you–fuck–want to feel you break on me.”

Your orgasm tore through you with a cry, your body arching violently, your walls clenching tight around his cock as you shook beneath him. He groaned loud, desperate, his hips slamming forward one last time as he spilled inside you, hot and messy, filling you until it leaked around his cock.

He collapsed against you, chest heaving, his lips brushing your ear as he muttered, breathless and grinning, “Guess that’s not the only thing white that shoots outta me.”

You smacked his shoulder weakly, still trembling. “Shut the fuck up.”

He laughed against your neck, his still cock twitching inside you even as he kissed your jaw, grinning like the menace he was.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

It didn’t take long for “neighbors” to stop being the right word.

Every time Gojo saw you now, he couldn’t resist. In the hallway, he’d press you against the wall, kissing you so hard your knees went weak before you could even fumble for your keys. On rooftops, after swinging you breathless above the city, he’d land with you straddling his lap, your thighs squeezing against his hips as his mouth devoured yours, his cock straining inside the suit until he had to pull away before he ruined it. Even in his apartment, when you came over under the flimsiest excuse, he’d corner you in the kitchen, lifting you onto the counter just to kiss you until you forgot why you’d come in the first place.

It wasn’t casual anymore. It wasn’t just banter. Every time, it was hungrier, filthier, his lips tasting of desperation as if every kiss was the last he’d ever get. And every time, you let him. You wanted him. You needed him.

So by the time Halloween rolled around, you decided to test him. It was a perfect mimicry of his – the same sleek black, blue, and white design, the same silver spider emblem across the chest. Only yours was paper-thin, clinging to every curve, the high cut of the legs revealing the swell of your thighs, the zipper undone just enough to frame the valley of your breasts.

The second his door swung open, you knew you’d nailed it.

Satoru stood there barefoot in pajama pants and a loose tee, his glasses perched low on his nose. He was mid-yawn, hair sticking out in messy tufts, looking every inch the lazy neighbor you’d always pretended he was. But then his gaze landed on you, and the yawn died in his throat.

His jaw went slack. His glasses slid further down the bridge of his nose as his eyes widened, and you saw it–that split-second flash of hunger that told you he wasn’t seeing just a Halloween costume.

You tugged the flimsy hood back, letting your damp hair spill out as you smirked faintly. The black, blue, and white spandex clung skin-tight to every curve, the silver spider stretched taut across your chest, the thin material leaving little to the imagination. The zipper dipped just enough between your breasts to make your nipples push faintly against the suit.

“Trick or treat,” you said softly, trying for smug, but your voice came out a little breathless.

Gojo didn’t answer. He grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, slamming the door behind you so hard the frame rattled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. He crowded you against the counter, eyes raking over your body in the clinging fabric, and his cock was already swelling against his pajama pants. “You–fuck. You’re in my suit.”

You arched a brow, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse stuttered. “Relax. It’s Halloween. Last-minute costume.”

“Uh-huh.” His grin was feral now, wicked and knowing, his hand already tugging his pajama pants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang heavy and flushed against his stomach, the blunt head glistening as precum smeared over the soft fabric of your suit when he pressed forward. “Last minute, huh? Then why’s it so… fucking accurate?”

“Coincidence,” you muttered, bracing your hands on the counter as he slid between your thighs, his cock gliding over the thin spandex covering you. The heat of him seared through the fabric, the pressure of his thickness undeniable, and your breath hitched despite yourself.

Gojo groaned, his head tipping forward to rest briefly against your shoulder as he thrust again, rutting slow and heavy between your thighs. “God–this suit’s so thin I can feel everything. You’re not wearing a damn thing under it, are you?”

You bit back a whimper, pressing your thighs tighter together as his cock dragged with delicious friction over your covered cunt. “Maybe I like the breeze,” you whispered.

He groaned loudly, grinding harder, his cock smearing precum into the flimsy fabric. “You’re fucking soaked,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He rocked his hips again, faster now, every thrust sliding his cock perfectly between the squeeze of your thighs, the heat of your pussy beneath the suit. “Gonna ruin this suit before the night’s over.”

You gasped, bracing yourself against the counter as your legs trembled. “You’re–unbelievable.”

“You’re a fan,” he groaned in your ear, biting lightly at your neck as he rutted harder, his cock twitching violently with each pass. “Don’t even try to deny it. You came here dressed as me, sweetheart. That’s obsession.”

You rolled your eyes even as a soft moan broke free. “You’re delusional.”

“Delusional and about to make a mess all over your thighs,” he shot back, his breath hot as his hips snapped faster, rutting between your covered legs like a man possessed. His cock slid against the damp patch spreading between your thighs, his precum soaking through until the spandex clung wetter, tighter.

“God, you feel–so good,” he groaned, his hand sliding to your hip to hold you still as his cock fucked harder between your thighs. “So soft–even through this fucking suit–fuck, I can’t stop.”

Your breath stuttered, your thighs squeezing tighter as the friction built, your body trembling as he groaned in your ear.

“Tell me you’re not a fan,” he muttered, his cock jerking against you as his pace grew ragged. “Say it. Say you don’t think about me when you wear this.”

You gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, and whispered, “You’re insane.”

“And you’re dripping through this fucking suit,” he countered, rutting harder, groaning when your thighs clenched helplessly tighter around him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sound of his cock sliding through the soaked fabric, his breath hot against your ear as you moaned softly despite yourself. He smirked, teeth grazing your jaw as he thrust faster.

“Yeah,” he panted, “you’re a fan.”

Gojo’s cock was still sliding between your thighs through the damp fabric when his restraint finally snapped. His groans were ragged, his hips snapping harder against you, but the suit was too thin, too teasing. He needed you–bare, wet, wrapped tight around him.

His gloved hands slid up your ass, squeezing hard before dipping between your thighs. You gasped when his fingers pressed against the slick heat beneath the spandex, his breath hot in your ear as he growled, “Fuck this.”

The sound of fabric tearing split the air, sharp and obscene, as his fingers ripped through the seam between your thighs. The flimsy material gave way easily, splitting wide to reveal the wet heat he’d been rutting against.

“Toru–” you gasped, your hands clutching the counter, your back arching as his cock brushed bare against your folds.

“Couldn’t wait another second,” he groaned, lining himself up and thrusting inside with one hard, desperate push. You cried out, your back bowing as the stretch filled you, his cock sliding deep, thick, splitting you open as your body clenched around him.

“God,” he panted, his hair sticking damp to his forehead, the nape of his neck tingling as his whole body trembled. “So tight–fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

His hand slid up your body, gripping your jaw to tilt your face back. You gasped as his mouth claimed yours from behind, his kiss deep and messy, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hips slammed forward. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass filled the kitchen, wet and sinful, mixing with your moans as he fucked you harder.

“I’m so–fuck–I’m so in love with you,” he groaned against your lips, his words broken by the force of his thrusts. His other hand slid up to squeeze your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple through the stretched suit as you whimpered against his mouth.

“Ah, hnngh Toru–” you moaned, your body trembling with every deep stroke.

He growled low, kissing you harder, rutting into you like he couldn’t get close enough. “You drive me insane–every little thing you wear, I can’t stop–fuck–I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The noise was obscene, the wet slap of his hips, your slick dripping down your thighs, his grunts and your breathless moans echoing in the storm-muted apartment. Your knees buckled, but his arm wrapped firm around your waist, holding you steady as he pounded deeper, each thrust rougher, needier, his cock twitching violently inside you.

“Shit–” he gasped, teeth grazing your neck as he kissed down hard, leaving marks against your skin. “I’m not gonna last–”

You gasped his name, your nails clawing at the counter as your walls fluttered around him, the pressure coiling tight in your belly. His hips snapped faster, desperate, his cock slamming deep as his hand clutched your breast tighter.

The orgasm hit you hard, your body arching violently as you cried out, your pussy clenching down around him. Gojo groaned loud in your ear, his hips jerking as he pressed deep, his cock pulsing hot inside you as he spilled, pressing his seed as far as he could with each ragged thrust.

He nearly tore the whole suit off you in the frenzy, his fingers clawing at the spandex, but stopped himself, panting, before tugging you around. His lips found yours again, swollen and desperate, kissing you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t let you breathe without him.

When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, sweat and rain dampening your skin, you glared weakly. “That was a fifty-five-dollar suit.”

Gojo smirked, still catching his breath, brushing his thumb along your swollen lower lip. “I’ll make you a new one. One that doesn’t tear.”

You scoffed, still trembling, cum dripping down your thighs. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again with a grin. “We’ll cosplay. Take some cute couple photos.” His grin widened, wicked and smug. “Next Bugle headline: Spider-Man Has a Spider-Woman?”

You smacked his shoulder, still panting. “You’re ridiculous.”

He only laughed, kissing you again, his cock still twitching inside you.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆

Daily Bugle – Special Halloween Edition “SPIDER-MAN: HERO OF THE CITY… OR JUST WHIPPED?”

The grainy-but-clear front-page photo said it all.

Spider-Man, clad in his sleek black, blue, and white suit, hung upside down from a thick strand of webbing, his mask tugged down just past his lips. His body was taut, muscles visible even through the spandex, his arm bent to steady himself as he dangled with the effortless balance only he could manage.

Below him, standing firmly on the slick pavement of the city street, was you–in a sapphire-blue dress that clung to every curve like it had been painted on. The plunging neckline drew the eye, but it was the way you cupped Spider-Man’s face, tilting him toward you for a kiss, that had every reader double-taking.

Your lips met his with shocking tenderness for such a scandalous scene, the city lights glowing off the sheen of rain on your dress. His hand gripped your waist through the webbing’s swing, his cocky posture only half-masking the intensity of the kiss.

The caption beneath the photo read:

'Caught in the web of romance? Spider-Man spotted locking lips with mystery woman in midnight sapphire. Sources say the hero’s heart might finally be as captured as the criminals he webs up.'

And in smaller print at the bottom, a snide add-on from Masamichi himself:

'Is Spider-Man putting his love life before saving lives? Find out on page 3.'

A/N: okay who the hell REPORTED this post :( also need tonycries to notice me lmfao

Do not plagiarize my work. Do not translate or reupload on any other sites. Reblog. Follow. Like. Support your local writers. Check out my other work.

#gojo smut #gojo satoru

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torubug · 20 days ago

Text

WITH LOVE, VERSTAPPEN.

A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?

pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.

warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).

YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.

One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.

And then you met him.

He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.

The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—

Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.

───

You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.

His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.

You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.

A ring.

On his left hand.

Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.

Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.

And there it was. The same ring.

Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh fuck.

Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just a piece of paper.

It was a marriage certificate.

You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.

You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.

You married him.

You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.

The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.

Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.

Max Verstappen.

And then your screen exploded with results.

Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.

“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”

“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”

“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”

You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.

There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.

And okay. You could admit it.

Your husband? He was hot.

Like, really hot.

Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.

“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.

Incoming call: my girl xx

You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.

“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”

You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”

You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”

Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”

“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me— and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”

“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”

You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.

Then—two soft knocks.

“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.

You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.

Your husband.

Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.

You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.

There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.

You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”

You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.

You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.

Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.

“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.

He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”

You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”

“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.

Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.

You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”

Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”

Your brain stopped working.

You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”

Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.

Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.

You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.

It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.

And yet… it didn’t sound bad.

Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.

“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”

Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”

You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”

He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”

You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”

You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”

Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”

You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.

───

The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.

You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.

“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”

The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max — other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.

Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”

You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.

“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”

You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.

Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.

And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.

And because you couldn’t help yourself — because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet — you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.

“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”

Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression — not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.

“That’s what some people say, yeah.”

You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.

It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone — not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.

You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.

But deep down — and you’d never admit it out loud — you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.

“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look — the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”

The way he said it — so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done — made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.

You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.

“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”

You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.

Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really — how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.

“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.

But that got a reaction.

Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”

You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”

Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.

“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias — the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”

Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.

“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.

You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.

You loved every second of it.

───

You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.

So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.

Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”

Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”

“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.

“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”

“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”

He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.

“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”

You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.

“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.

You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”

He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.

The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.

“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.

You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.

Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.

He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.

And in that moment, something shifted.

You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.

Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.

When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.

“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.

Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.

Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.

And then you saw it.

Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:

Max + Y/n, always and forever

Your heart did a little flip.

You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.

You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.

“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”

You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”

───

One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen — he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.

The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.

Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend — the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.

You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.

“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”

“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips — the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”

You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.

You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.

Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug — not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.

“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”

Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”

Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.

Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling — that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.

Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”

You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.

Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.

You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much — engines roaring, tires screeching — but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.

“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”

You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”

And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast — the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings — it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.

Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too — like it was automatic now.

Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry — Max is even worse.”

You blinked. “Really?”

She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”

Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?

Your heart did a little flip.

Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.

“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”

Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”

“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”

You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.

Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”

There was something in his tone — playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.

You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too — the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”

“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark — soft, warm, grounding.

You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?

“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.

Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face — confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”

Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it — not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.

You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.

The countdown lights began to flash in front of you — red, red, red — and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.

The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you — not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”

You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.

“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”

You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise — it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”

You barely had time to process anything — the speed, the noise, the curve ahead — before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.

“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”

You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”

Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”

You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter — because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.

The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won — with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.

Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.

You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.

Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them — like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.

Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping — slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.

Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”

You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.

───

People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do — besides win races and make your heart race — it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.

It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.

You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.

Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.

You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.

You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.

“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”

Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”

You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG — or whatever — shelf — and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.

“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.

Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”

You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”

He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.

“Oh.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”

Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”

You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”

That made him pause.

His eyes flicked to the mess around you — screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.

“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.

You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.

Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”

You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”

Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”

You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”

He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”

You snorted. “Deal.”

Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.

Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”

───

The whole evening had felt strange from the start.

You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.

And then there was you.

You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.

And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.

You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.

And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.

You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.

Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”

You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.

Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.

“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.

“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”

You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”

You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“

He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.

You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”

You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.

A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”

You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”

“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”

You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.

─── FEW MONTHS LATER

You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.

Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.

And then—ding-dong.

You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.

You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.

Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.

You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.

You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.

“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.

The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”

Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”

You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.

You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:

Max.

You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.

As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.

Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.

I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.

babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗

taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx

#max verstappen #max verstappen fluff

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torubug · 23 days ago

Text

Title: “You’re So Easy to Tease”

Pairing: Luca x Reader

Setting: Cozy weekend afternoon at Luca’s flat, soft sunlight filtering through his curtains, a kettle whistling in the background.

Tone: Fluff, playfulness, domestic warmth, soft tension.

⸻

Luca had been texting you since the night before. Nothing intense—just little soft reminders that he missed you.

LUCA:

I’ll make pasta from scratch if you come over. Like the first time.

Miss your face. Come over tomorrow?

It’s almost 2 PM when you show up at his flat with zero warning, arms full of snacks and an iced coffee with his name scribbled across the plastic. You hear him inside, humming some old Italian tune you pretend to hate but secretly find charming.

You set the coffee down on the kitchen counter with a thud just loud enough to make him turn. He’s wearing a white shirt with flour smudges on the hem and sleeves, curls pulled back haphazardly. His eyes light up the moment he sees you.

But you’re already grinning like a menace.

“I changed my mind,” you announce, tossing your keys into the little bowl by the door. “I don’t wanna hang out with you anymore.”

Luca blinks. “What?” He’s holding a wooden spoon like it’s a mic drop moment.

You shrug dramatically, slipping off your shoes and flopping onto his couch. “Yeah, sorry. You’re just… kind of annoying, you know? Always smiling. Always cooking things. It’s exhausting.”

His mouth quirks. “I’m exhausting?” He wipes his hands on a towel and follows you into the living room, standing over you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “That’s rich, considering you just brought half the Tesco snack aisle and a coffee with my name on it.”

You keep a straight face, chewing your lip just to keep from smiling. “Habit.”

“Right. So you just accidentally showed up at my flat with snacks and caffeine?” He leans in slowly, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Didn’t wanna hang out though?”

“Nope. Total accident.” You flip through the TV remote like you didn’t spend the entire Uber ride giggling to yourself about this exact moment.

Luca drops to his knees in front of you and rests his arms on your thighs, chin tilted up, face so close your breath catches for a second.

“You’re lying,” he says softly.

“No,” you say, even softer.

“Yes,” he hums, inching closer, brushing his nose against your cheek. “You missed me. I can see it in your eyes.”

You snort. “Gross. Get your face away, you clingy freak.”

He bursts out laughing and collapses onto the couch beside you, stealing the remote and pinning your legs beneath his. “Admit it. You love hanging out with me. You’re obsessed with me, actually.”

You fake a groan, covering your face. “Ugh, you’re so cocky. No wonder I said I didn’t wanna hang out.”

“But you did,” he says, pulling you toward him until your back is against his chest and his arms are wrapped loosely around your waist. “And now you’re here. Trapped. Can’t escape.”

You shift dramatically like you’re trying to get away but don’t actually move. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then your temple, then right below your ear—until you finally sigh, melting against him.

“Fine,” you mumble. “Maybe I like you a little.”

Luca smirks against your skin. “A little?”

You pause. Then turn in his arms just enough to look at him. “A lot.”

There’s a long pause, just breath and quiet and soft sunbeams painting the room golden. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and close.

“I knew it,” he whispers.

“You’re unbearable,” you say, but you’re smiling now, completely soft, completely his.

He pulls a throw blanket over the two of you and kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. But you still hang out with me.”

“And I always will,” you whisper into the quiet.

The kettle whistles in the background, but neither of you move.

⸻

Writers Notes : This is one of my newer works with a better description. I have many old ones that I have yet uploaded and are in my notes but you’ll be seeing a mixture of them. these imagines a prepped out I have so much to post just working on editing and scheduling now I will be cutting back to 2-3 instead of my usual 4 just because I have a lot to edit as of right now…. Like share comment

#chef luca fluff #chef luca #will poulter

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torubug · 24 days ago

Text

just a taste

premise: meeting luca after work doesn't usually end up with the two of you in an intense lip lock, both of you knowing once you start it's hard to stop. but that's what offices are for, right?

pairing: luca x (f)reader

word count: 3.1k

contents: literally barely any plot here, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v, coming inside, established relationship, doing it at the workplace, teasing, dirty talk, pet names.

note: i know the bare minimum about this man because i’ve never seen the bear but those tattoos, the accent, the hair?? fill me like an eclair is all i have to say ok!

The cool breeze of the night air almost makes you regret not just heading straight home and slipping under the steam of a nice long shower and grabbing the first blanket you see on the sofa and planting yourself there for the rest of the night. Await your boyfriend's arrival under the comfort of cotton and cushion that he’ll surely plop down next to you on after he’s kicked off his shoes. His cold fingers finding you under the blanket to pull you close to his side, a string of kisses pressed along the side of your neck before finding your lips. The smell of yeast and sugar—embedded in his skin at this point—making you bury your nose into his collarbone.

But this was a ritual for the both of you.

You finishing your studies and then meeting him after work.

The two of you walking home together, barely making it through the threshold of your place before lips and clothes were being pressed together and thrown to the floor. Luca’s soft laugh at needing to shower. Thus always leading to your face pressed into the wall of the shower and Luca’s fingers digging into your hips as he thrust inside of you.

So that nibble of regret doesn’t last long when you come to a stop in front of his work. The makings of anticipation pull at the corner of your mouth as you grab your phone from your bag and start to text him to let him know you’re out front.

A text that’s barely on the last word when the breeze of the door is hitting you and making you look up, “you can go in. He's in the back.” a co-worker you’ve met a dozen times, but his name slips your mind as you give him an appreciative smile and thank him as you slip through the doors as he walks out.

You could enter the kitchen a dozen times—a million, a billion—your nose filling with that sweet aroma, Luca bent over a table, a dish, fingers deep in a ball of dough, the monochromatic uniform making his tattoos stand out on his skin like the most beautiful canvas, and you’d never get over the view.

Over how your insides react when you see him in his element.

See him doing what he loves.

It’s like the first time every time.

Just like the first time he dragged you into the kitchen after your tenth date. Showing you his own version of paradise. His love. His joy. The way his face lit up when your eyes brightened when you bit into the scone he had made—saved—for you. The euphoric sweetness a good dessert can do to one's brainstem is still a scientific mystery to you, but you’d gladly leave the research to the experts if you could experience it forever.

Taste Luca’s creations forever.

That memory seems like ages ago. Now well into two years of your relationship.

Nothing seems to fade with Luca.

Your first times feeling just as tortuous to your fluttering insides as the tenth or twentieth time around.

It knocks you off kilter in the best way.

And when you look over at Luca after dropping off your bag and sweater in an open chair, you can not help but laugh when he finally looks up from cleaning off the surfaces of the metal tables and that stone look of him being in chef mode falls from the creases of his face and his features melt into something soft.

He doesn’t say anything until his arm is around your midsection, drawing you in. “Hi, beautiful.” He smiles as your lips meet in a long kiss. Kissing you as if he hasn’t seen you in days, as if he has spent the entire day waiting for this moment and this moment alone. “How was your day?”

“Not as good as it is now,” you tease. Hand in the back of his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours.

The hum that makes your lips buzz and that lands on your tongue as he backs you up so your back is pressed into the doorframe makes anything you could tell him about what happened in your day lackluster. Incomparable. How could you possibly think of anything worthwhile—how could anything be as worthwhile—as his tongue moving along your bottom lip, his hand at the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing a small circle into your skin?

It couldn’t.

"Let me finish cleaning up," he smirks. Thumb and pointer reaching for your chin, squeezing it, luring you in for one last kiss before returning to cleaning and leaving you dazed in the doorway.

And if you didn’t know how seriously Luca takes this, from the ritual of making pastries to maintaining a stern, clean kitchen, you would tell him to hurry. Complaining that it is not fair for him to kiss you like that and then make you wait for him to finish, but the payoff was always worth the wait. And you love Luca’s love for his craft. Love him in this element—watching him and seeing him go into that little part of his brain that makes him go into boss mode.

The stern gentleness of it all.

It’s breathtaking to watch.

It’s art.

He’s art.

So that’s what you do.

You push off the doorframe and enter further into the kitchen just to watch him.

“How was your day?” You ask while watching him write on the white board in the corner.

“Good. We got a new guy who came in.”

“Is he any good?”

“Better than he thinks he is.”

“I bet you brought out his best. You always do.” You smile at him when you watch him shrug off the compliment, not missing the twitch of the corner of his mouth. Ever so modest.

Wordlessly, he puts the cap back on the marker and sets it against the metal of the board, walking over to one of the refrigerators and pulling out a small bowl of something green and white.

Something that looks too beautifully crafted to eat, let alone eaten by someone who might not fully understand what went into making something so decadent—something that looks like it would be served to someone with a gold card, not someone who eats boxed mac and cheese for dinner twice a week (which Luca always tries to make fancier than Kraft ever could).

Luca hands you a spoon, “told him the only critic that mattered was sharing a bed with me.” You make a face, the both of you knowing how outlandish that sounds when the food genius himself is standing in front of you. The critic who mattered to a lot of people more than the girl who was sharing his bed.

But it still brings a smile to your face.

“Did he think you were utterly insane for such a statement? I think eating greasy takeout two nights in a row is five star dining.”

He chuckles, “you’re the only critic that matters to me.” His palms come down on the edge of the metal table between you as he leans against it. “The only important one at least. Try it.”

The swoop that runs through you from his words, from his eagerness to hear your thoughts on a dessert you do not even know the name of, but know you will appreciate more than anyone else because it came from someone he admires, makes your cheeks heat up.

And when it touches your tongue, when that euphoric sweetness overcomes your tastebuds, you don’t think the English dictionary could come in handy with describing the taste. The goodness of it. Compliments, which you know Luca and his fellow chefs have heard many times before and then some. But still bring that artist's joy to their chests when your eyes widen and you look at them in something akin to shock.

The moan you let out makes him grin.

“Good?”

“Is he single?”

“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” His arms cross over his chest, a playful brow raised.

You take another bite of the dessert, “I think you might want to start looking for another job.”

“And a girlfriend?”

You nod, “with something that tastes this good, I would give him my social security number easily. Oh my god.” You dramatically moan around the spoon, the action doing little to hide the simpering look on your face.

“Here I thought I was the only one who could make you spill such confidential secrets.” Luca strides across the table, coming to stand at your back. His lips pressing against the back of your neck and the top of your shoulder.

Finding its home where your collarbone meets the junction of your throat, where he lets his warm breath blow against the known sensitivity there, then presses his lips to it. Making your back push into his front, your body melting against him.

A soft noise lays dormant at the tail end of your throat, making a ghost of a smirk etch against your skin from his mouth as he murmurs, “and the only one who can make those noises come out of you.”

Your voice is breathy when you say, “so much for being humble.”

"When it’s the truth, I do not need to be humble." His lips trailing to your ear, fingers running up the back of your exposed thighs, pulling up your skirt until they are at the apex of your hip, skating forward and close to your clothed mound. “Am I wrong? Should we see?”

The spoon in your hand lucky you don’t have superhuman strength because it would be crushed in your grip right now.

Luca’s fingers splay themselves across your pelvis, toying with the top of your underwear. “Hmm, awfully quiet now. Where’d my mouthy girl go?” An airy chuckle tickles your ear as he lets it out, “humbled are you?”

There’s a teasing sneer forming on your mouth before it does a 180 and morphs into an ‘o’ as Luca’s fingers push into your underwear, the pad running through the clear as day arousal that’s been making your thighs clench uncomfortably since your kiss in the doorway.

When the finger moves against your clit there's no covering up the gasps that fall from your lips. Or the way your ass grinds against the erection that’s pressing up against it.

“Who’s humble now?” He teases. A cheeky grin on his face when he pulls his hand out from your underwear, bringing his finger to his lips and sucking it into his mouth. Making your cheeks heat even more when you turn to look at him. Your teasing turns needy as you give him that look, the one that always makes him drop whatever he is doing and have his body on yours within seconds.

You both know that making it home now will feel ten times longer. Ten times more agonizing in the cool air with your warming bodies.

With you soaking your underwear and him hard against his zipper.

So when he says “office”, all you can do is chew on your bottom lip in eagerness as you make a beeline towards it. Luca closer behind you than you expect when you hear the door shut seconds after you’ve entered and his mouth immediately on yours, your ass hoisted onto the nearest surface.

Luca’s fingers making quick work to pull down your underwear, your skirt bunched at your hips. You fully expect him to pull himself up from his knees after slipping the lace from your ankle and tossing it to the floor. You expect him to come back up and slide inside of you quick and easy, but instead he’s trailing kisses and bites into your thighs.

Blue eyes look up into yours, and he must see the need in them—that glint that tells him all you want is for him to be inside of you right now. The heady woes of foreplay just torture at this point.

His teeth sink harder into your flesh, making you gasp. “I’ve worked hard all day; don’t I deserve a treat? A taste of the best dessert out there.”

And how could you argue with that?

You can’t.

Not when his tongue runs from the bite mark in your skin to your wetness. Spreading you around him as he licks a stripe up your pussy. Your grip on the metal your ass is under hard and tight enough to leave marks against your palm.

And as crude as it makes you sound, as obscene and cocky as it comes off your lips, you will never hold back from telling Luca that his talent as a chef will never outweigh how good he is with his mouth and cock.

He’s multi-talented and it’s a blessing and a curse to your insides.

“Oh, fuck. Luca,” your head hangs between your shoulders. Your fingers in his hair, the heel of your shoe pressed against his back—his apron long gone, leaving him in that navy blue—his fingers digging into the side of your thighs as he keeps you against his mouth.

The mouth that’s switching between sucking your clit between his lips and rolling his tongue against it. Eating you like you’re the best dessert his tongue has ever had the pleasure of tasting.

It never takes him long to get you there. To make your chest heave and your nerve endings light up, as if they are about to make you panic from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure that is completely taking over your body.

His fingers have created beautiful, mouth watering food, just as they’ve made you completely lose your mind. Your legs shaking around his head. Your back involuntarily bows until it hits the metal surface of the desk you’re perched on.

It’s when he slips two fingers inside of you that you completely lose it. The sob that pulls itself from your lungs feels red-hot in your throat as your fingers grip the strands of his blonde hair as you come against his mouth. Your hips riding out your high. Rolling against his tongue in a languid way, drawing out the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Your body still reeling and alight with that desire-train that still has it wanting more. That heavy ache between your legs that wants to be filled. To be fucked by something bigger and thicker than a finger.

Your mouth comes down on the tabasco tattoo below Luca’s wrist in a gentle kiss, one of your favorites of his, when his hand comes to cup the back of your head to pull you up to him.

His thumb runs from your cheek to your chin, where he pushes it up, so you’re looking up at him and he’s looking down at you as he stands between your legs. Your nails run along the tattoos along his arms, up his bicep, and to the nape of his neck. A fire burning in his eyes when your fingers run between the strands back there.

“Tell me,” he says close to your lips. He’s checking in. Seeing if you’re too spent for his cock, seeing if there's more you want. If you want to wait until you get home. If you’re ready for him now.

“It’d be cruel to not fuck me now.” You say it in a half-tease-half-serious tone.

“Ooh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “I don’t want to be cruel.” You can feel his other hand move between the two of you, undoing the button of his pants and messing with the zipper until he’s pulling himself out of them, hard and leaking. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t give my girl what she so desperately needs?”

Luca smirks when you laugh into his mouth, “the worst kind.”

With one last kiss, lick, and nip at your lower lip, he’s rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, making your thighs shake. Nails dig into his skull as he soaks up your oversensitivity to coat himself before going lower and slipping inside of you in one slow, fluid motion.

Your mouth hung open at the stretch, and your breath caught in your lungs. Your foreheads resting against each other as you let your walls accommodate his girth, both of your breaths heavy. The pounding you can feel between your legs—that you’re not sure is coming from him or you or something more poetic and overwhelming like your conjoined bodies aching as one, like a heartbeat aches for a chest cavity when it’s torn from a body.

The two of you need this.

Need each other.

When Luca starts moving, you know the two of you are both completely fucked. Spent and so full of desire that you know your time in this office is just the start of a long night of tangled limbs and wet mouths.

The sounds you are making against each other's mouth are breathy and intoxicating. His tongue in your mouth swallows every mewl and moan he coaxes from your body with each stroke of his cock.

His fingers find the back of your head again, not allowing you to even think about leaving his mouth.

You think you see stars when his palm finds the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher on his hips. Think you could let this man completely consume you, and you’d still never be satisfied. Never get over how good it feels to feel his hips drive deeper into you, to feel the head of his cock hit that spot inside of you that makes his name roll off your tongue like a prayer.

“Who’s pussy is it, baby?”

"Mm'fuck," you are not sure if he is still playing the game of you leaving him for the new chef or if his filthy mouth is attempting to completely destroy you—which is nothing new when he has you coating and tightening around his cock like this.

When you say his name, when you whine it into his mouth like a pathetic desperation, the erotic noise that it’s met with makes you cling to him tighter. Makes you press yourself closer to him. The movement makes the outside of his pants grind against your clit.

“So beautiful,” Luca murmurs. The octave of his voice grows lower and choppy with heavy breaths the closer he gets. Neither of you lasts much longer when his pace picks up. The grip the two of you have on each other is hard and rough, enough to tear and leave marks that you’ll later kiss with gentle lips, unlike the passion that’s coming through with the hard kisses your mouths are giving as you both come.

“How’d I get so lucky?” He breathes into your mouth, twisting your insides even more.

#chef luca #chef luca smut #will poulter

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