...snap when you have to. 18+, she/her, Leo, married to Steve Rogers (I wish) || Demi-bi || Lazy (That's not such a great thing to annouce here though) || Foodie || You *probably* came here from my YouTube so you'd know the rest of my bio from there
And Then It Rained (gender neutral!reader) : Steve hates the rain, but you love it.
A Word Portrait of Steve Rogers (gender neutral!reader) : You lose yourself in admiring Steve.
And She Was A Goddess, slight ⚠ (female!reader) : Steve deals with your body image issues
McFlurry [AU] (modern!Steve, gender neutral!reader) : You're having a bad night, but a McDonald's cashier fixes it all.
Little Tired Eye (gender neutral!reader) : Steve is your comfort person. You know that will never change.
Labyrinth (gender neutral!reader, platonic Steve x reader) : You know Steve well enough to know where his priorities lie.
Back Rubs (female!reader) : Period cramps suck, but Steve is happy to help you out with them.
মনের মানুষ - Soulmate (gn!indian!bengali!reader) : your heart is aching for a home that no longer exists. Steve finds you in the middle of emotional turmoil.
F1:
Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz Jr.
be brave about it : Carlos blurts out things he didn't meant to, and thinks he can escape the consequences by hiding inside the FW48 and his garage.
say that we'll be together : Charles' mind was racing with a million different possibilities as to what had gone wrong at this hour, preparing him for the worst, and yet, he opened to the door to the most unexpected sight - Carlos.
Hey 👋🏻 I didn't know if requests are open but can you please do Y/N texting F1 drivers “He's gone, you can come over now?” when he leaves the house and how they would react
cheating prank on f1 drivers
( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request )
★ : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri
★ : genre :: crack
★ : a/n :: fun crack requests make my day
Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
Summary: When your car dies on an empty road at 2:47am, Max Verstappen is the last person you want to call and the only one you know will come.
3.8k words / Masterlist
The screen of your phone glowed against the dark interior of the car, the weak light washing over your face in pale blue.
Three percent.
You stared at the tiny red battery icon like you could intimidate it into lasting longer.
“Come on,” you muttered, tapping the screen as if that would somehow help. “Don’t do this to me now.”
The phone, naturally, did not care.
Outside the road stretched out in both directions, black and empty beneath the dull orange wash of one distant streetlamp. Beyond that there was nothing, you couldn’t see a petrol station or any passing headlights. It was just fields, a narrow country road, and your very dead car sitting uselessly on the shoulder as if it had given up on life.
You had already tried everything.
Turning the key again and again until the engine made a pathetic clicking noise and then nothing. Popping the bonnet even though you knew absolutely nothing about what you were looking at. Standing outside for all of thirty seconds before the silence became too much and you got back in, locked the doors, and pretended the shadows between the trees weren’t starting to look like people.
You checked your messages again.
Nothing. No replies.
Your mum would be asleep, and even if she wasn’t she was over an hour away and would panic so dramatically that you would end up comforting her while stranded in the dark. Your thumb hovered over the emergency breakdown number, but with so little battery and no charger the thought of being placed on hold until your phone died made your stomach twist.
Then your eyes drifted to another name.
Max Verstappen.
You stared at his contact for a minute.
Absolutely not.
No.
There had to be someone else. You scrolled up. Then down. Then up again. As if your contacts might rearrange themselves and present a better option. They didn’t.
You watched as your battery dropped to two percent.
His name sat there, annoyingly available… annoyingly useful.
You knew that he was probably awake and it annoyed you that you knew he would be. Max had always had the worst sleep schedule of anyone you’d ever met. If he wasn’t at a race, in the gym, or chatting with engineers, he was on his sim rig until some ungodly hour, barking into a headset, swearing in Dutch and acting like an online race in the middle of the night was as important as a world championship.
You could practically picture him now, hoodie pulled over his head, hair a mess, face lit by the glow of three monitors. One hand on the wheel, the other probably reaching for an energy drink he definitely shouldn’t be having at nearly three in the morning.
The thought made something familiar and irritating tug in your chest.
You and Max had known each other for years, long enough that the sharp edges between you had worn into something strangely comfortable even if neither of you would admit it.
At first he had been impossible. Blunt and arrogant. Too competitive for his own good. The kind of person who could turn anything into a contest, from lap times to who got to the paddock café first. You’d met him through mutual friends in the racing world, and within twenty minutes he had corrected something you said about GT racing with the kind of smug certainty that made you want to throw your drink at him.
You had called him unbearable.
He had called you dramatic.
That had been the start of it.
Years of bickering followed. Max making sarcastic comments whenever you walked into the Red Bull garage. You rolling your eyes whenever he pretended not to care what people thought. Him stealing chips from your plate without asking. You hiding his cap once before qualifying and watching him lose his mind for ten full minutes before giving it back.
You wouldn’t call it friendship, it was something more annoying than friendship, something with a lot of history and not enough honesty.
“You two flirt like you’re trying to kill each other,” Lando had once said, grinning behind his bottle of water.
“We do not flirt,” you had snapped at the exact same time Max said, “As if.”
Maybe you had caught yourself looking at Max for a little too long when he was focused, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, his whole body wired with impossible concentration. Maybe he had once put a hand on your lower back to guide you through a crowded afterparty, and maybe the warmth of it had stayed there long after he’d moved away.
Maybe there had been a night in Monaco years ago when you’d both ended up outside on a balcony, tired of noise and people pretending to be more interesting than they were. You had argued about nothing for fifteen minutes and then somehow talked until sunrise.
He had looked at you differently that night. Then, the next morning, he had acted like nothing happened.
That was how it always went with Max. One step closer, two steps back. A strange almost, a constant nearly. A tension you both buried under sarcasm because sarcasm was easier than admitting anything real.
Which was precisely why calling him now felt like handing him a loaded weapon.
You could already hear him.
Really? You got stranded? How do you even manage that?
You closed your eyes.
The phone blinked at one percent again.
“Fine,” you whispered. “Fine… but if he’s smug, I’m hanging up.”
You tapped his name before you could change your mind.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Your heart thudded harder than it should have.
“What drunk dialling now?” Max’s voice came through low and, yes, smug. “Didn’t take you for the type.”
Instant regret. You squeezed your eyes shut and leaned your head back against the seat. “Don’t flatter yourself Verstappen.”
“Then why are you calling me at…” he stopped, “…2:47 in the morning?”
You glanced out of the window.
Still nothing.
“I’m stranded,” you said.
Another pause.
“Stranded?”
“Yes.”
“As in… emotionally?”
You would have laughed if your nerves weren’t stretched so thin. “Physically, Max.”
“Right.” His tone sharpened slightly. “Where?”
“My car died. I don’t know where I am. I think I took a wrong turn.”
The background noise on his end changed, less amused now, more alert.
“What do you mean died?”
“What do you think I mean? I mean it made a terrible clicking noise, refused to start and now it’s sitting here dead!”
“Okay, okay. Where are you?”
You swallowed and looked down at the dash as though the car might provide an answer. “I took a wrong turn after dropping Poppy off, and then my phone started dying, and now I’m on this empty road with no charger and no idea where the nearest anything is.”
“Can you see anything?”
You peered through the windscreen at the faded sign half-hidden near the bend. “There’s a sign. Something like… Mont Angle? Or Mont Aville. I can’t properly see it.”
“What can you see?” he repeated, firmer now. “Any houses? Signs? Junctions? Anything.”
You sat up straighter, thrown slightly by his tone, and squinting through the windscreen. “A field. Trees. A broken fence. There’s a small signpost near the bend but I can’t read all of it. And there’s a mile marker, I think. B-something.”
“Can you send your location?”
“I can try, but if my phone dies—”
“Try.” He interrupted.
You quickly opened your location, fingers clumsy from cold and panic. The screen lagged and for one terrifying second, it froze completely.
“No, no, no,” you whispered.
Then it loaded and you sent it to him.
“Did you get it?” you asked quickly.
Silence.
“Max?”
“I got it,” he said.
Then the call went quiet again, except for the faint sound of movement on his end. A drawer opening, something being shoved aside, the sim rig audio cut out abruptly.
“Lock your doors,” he said.
“They are locked.”
“Check.”
You frowned. “I’m not five.”
“Check.”
Something in his voice made you do it without arguing and you pressed the lock button again.
“They’re locked.”
“Good. Don’t get out.”
“I wasn’t planning to go for a scenic walk.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell,” you said, softer despite yourself.
There was a beat and when he spoke again his voice was lower. “Stay on the phone with me yeah? For as long as it lasts.”
Then you heard keys. You suddenly felt embarrassed, pressed your lips together, unsure what to do with the warmth crawling into your chest. “You don’t have to.”
“You called me.”
“I know, but I mean… I can call someone else.”
“With what battery?”
You didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m coming.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I called you because you’re the only idiot awake at this time.”
“And yet I’m the idiot coming to get you.”
You leaned your head back, eyes closing for a second. The car felt too quiet around you. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“It’s okay.”
For some reason, that was worse. You opened your eyes and stared out into the dark. “Don’t sound so pleased about it.”
“I’m not.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice changed again. Rougher, almost irritated, but not at you. “I don’t like that you’re there alone.”
Your chest tightened, he said it like your safety mattered to him in a way that didn’t fit neatly into the version of your relationship you both pretended to understand.
“Well,” you said lightly, because light was easier, “I’m not exactly thrilled either.”
“Why are you even out there alone at this time?”
“I told you. I dropped Poppy off.”
“And you didn’t stay at hers?”
“She had an early flight. I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“You are unbelievable.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You would rather drive alone at almost three in the morning than inconvenience someone.”
“You’re making it sound like I planned to be stranded.”
“No,” he said, and you heard a car door open on his end. “I’m saying you do this thing where you act like needing help is a criminal offence.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Outside wind brushed against the side of the car rattling faintly through the trees.
“I don’t do that,” you said, but it lacked force.
Max gave a short, humourless laugh. “You do.”
Max Verstappen who had made a career out of acting like nothing scared him, who had rolled his eyes at you more times than you could count was getting in his car at almost three in the morning because you had called.
“How far are you?” you asked.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen if I ignore the speed limits.”
“Please don’t die trying to rescue me from my own car.”
“I am not dying. Also this is not a rescue.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“A retrieval.”
You stared at the phone. “I’m not luggage.”
“You are currently stranded on the side of the road and need collecting. Sounds like luggage.”
“Remind me to never call you again.”
“You say that like you call me often.”
For a moment the familiar rhythm returned, the back and forth, the easy bite, the verbal sparring that had always been safer than saying anything with weight.
You listened to the sound of his car through the phone, the faint rush of speed, the occasional click of his indicator. It was strange hearing him like this, Max breathing quietly on the other end of the line, driving through the night because you were scared and trying not to admit it.
“You still there?” he asked after a while.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You keep checking.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His answer came too fast. “Because your phone is dying.”
You smiled faintly despite yourself. “Right. That’s the only reason.”
“You want a better one?"
“Depends,” you said, voice quieter now. “Do you have one?”
Max didn’t answer immediately. For a moment there was only the road noise on his end and the nervous beat of your own heart.
Then he said, “I don’t like not knowing if you’re okay.”
You looked away from the phone like that might make the words easier to bear. “That sounds dangerously close to concern.”
“I am concerned.”
You swallowed. Max rarely said things plainly unless he was annoyed. Or certain. There was something disarming about hearing it without sarcasm wrapped around it.
“Oh,” you said, because apparently your brain had stopped working.
He huffed softly. “That’s all you have?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thank you for your concern, almighty racing prince.”
“There she is.”
You smiled, but it faded quickly. Your eyes drifted to the dark road again.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For calling.”
His reply was instant. “Don’t.”
“But—”
“No. Don’t do that.”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“Apologise for needing someone.”
The words settled hard in your chest. You looked down at your lap. Your hands were cold, fingers curled tightly around the phone. “It’s just… I know we’re not exactly—”
“What?”
“Like this.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes you do.”
“No,” he said, voice lower. “Say it.”
You loathed him a little for that. For making you be the brave one when you were sitting in a dead car in the middle of nowhere and already feeling exposed. You rubbed your thumb along the edge of your phone. “We’re not exactly the kind of people who call each other when something goes wrong.”
Max was quiet for long enough that you wondered if the call had dropped.
Then he said, “Maybe we should be.”
You stared at the screen still somehow hanging onto one percent, still somehow alive, as if even your phone had decided it needed to hear what happened next.
“Max,” you said carefully.
“I know.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Yes I do.”
You almost laughed. “Still arrogant.”
“Still right.”
The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”
“You’ve said.”
“I’ve meant it every time.”
“I know,” he said. “But you still called.”
You looked out of the window again, but all you could see was your own reflection. Wide eyes. Tense mouth. The expression of someone who had spent too many years pretending she didn’t feel anything just because the alternative was too complicated.
“You were the only one I knew would be awake,” you said.
“That’s why you called?”
“Yes.”
“But not the only reason.”
You didn’t reply. Max exhaled through his nose. You could imagine him gripping the steering wheel, eyes fixed ahead, jaw set the way it always was when he was pushing too hard.
“I’m not trying to make you say anything,” he said after a moment.
“That’s a first.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Then you said, barely above a whisper, “I knew you’d come.”
The line went quiet. Your pulse thundered. You wished immediately that you could take it back, but not really, because some part of you had always known that beneath the snark, beneath the stubbornness, beneath years of pretending not to care Max would come if you really needed him.
“Yeah.”
That one word did more damage than a confession.
Finally headlights appeared in the distance. At first you thought you imagined them. Two faint beams cresting the bend far down the road, cutting through the darkness like a promise.
Your fingers tightened around the phone. “I see headlights,” you said.
“What side?”
“Behind me. Coming from the bend.”
“That’s me.”
Relief hit so suddenly your eyes stung. The car slowed as it approached, sleek and dark and unmistakably Max’s. It pulled up behind you with a controlled sharpness, headlights flooding your rear-view mirror as the engine cut off. For a second neither of you moved, then his voice came through your phone one last time.
“Stay there.”
The call ended. Your phone died immediately after, screen going black in your hand.
Max was in a hoodie and joggers, hair messy, face set in a hard line. He looked like he had left in the middle of whatever he’d been doing without a second thought, no cap or jacket. Just keys in hand and concern written plainly across his face before he managed to bury it.
He walked to your window and knocked once as you unlocked the car. His eyes moved over your face, your shoulders, your hands, like he was checking you for damage.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His jaw flexed. “Really?”
“Yes, Max.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Only then did some of the tension leave his shoulders.
He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. “Jesus.”
You blinked, surprised by the raw edge in his voice. “I told you I was fine.”
“You told me you were alone on a dark road with a dead car and no battery.”
“Well. When you say it like that.”
He shot you a look and you gave him a weak smile.
Max crouched slightly beside the open door, one hand braced against the frame. “Do you know how stupid that was?”
Your spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Driving alone at this time with no charger.”
“Thanks. I really needed a lecture.”
“I’m not lecturing.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m saying you should have called earlier.”
“My car died five minutes before I called you.”
“You should’ve had a charger.”
“I usually do.”
“Usually doesn’t help now.”
You glared at him. “Are you always this charming when rescuing people?”
“I told you, retrieval.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re the one stranded.”
“And you’re being insufferable about it.”
For a second, his mouth twitched, then his eyes softened. “I was worried,” he said.
You went silent and Max seemed to realise he’d been too honest. He looked away, jaw tightening, gaze fixed somewhere over the roof of your car.
“I mean,” he added, too late, “it's not exactly ideal.” He straightened, glancing towards your bonnet. “Pop it.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually know what you’re doing?”
He gave you an offended look. “I know cars.”
“You know Formula One cars.”
“Still counts.”
“This is a very sad little road car.”
“I can see that.”
“You said it.”
You popped the bonnet and got out, wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold hit properly. Max immediately looked at you.
“Where’s your jacket?”
“In the back.”
“And you didn’t put it on?”
“I was a bit busy trying not to be murdered by the countryside.”
He rolled his eyes but moved before you could protest, opening the back door and pulling your jacket out. Instead of handing it to you he stepped close and draped it around your shoulders himself.
The movement was quick but his hands lingered at your collar, tugging the fabric closed around you.
You looked up. He was close enough that you could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the sleep-creased side of his face, the focus in his expression that had nothing to do with engines or racing or winning.
“Better?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved, the cold air curled between you and his hands dropped away slowly.
Max cleared his throat and stepped back. “Bonnet.”
“Right,” you said quickly.
He inspected the engine like he could forcce it into behaving. You stood beside him watching with absolutely no useful input. After a minute he sighed and lowered the bonnet.
“What?” you asked.
“I think it’s the battery.”
“I told you it was dead.”
“I meant the car battery.”
“Oh.”
He looked at you.
You looked back.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
“I was thinking many things.”
“Like?”
He wiped his hands on his joggers, glancing once down the empty road before looking back at you. “Like I’m taking you home.”
Your stomach gave a small, stupid dip at how easily he said it.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Max raised a brow. “Your car is dead. Your phone is dead. And you're standing on a road that looks like the opening scene of a crime documentary.”
You roll your eyes.
“I can wait with you until recovery comes.”
“At three in the morning?”
“You’re here now.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “So get in my car.”
You gave him a look. “Bossy.” The corner of your mouth twitched before you could stop it.
He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call someone to sort the car. You can deal with it tomorrow.”
You looked back at your car, sitting abandoned under the weak glow of his headlights. “I hate leaving it.”
“It’ll be fine.”
There was something steady in his voice, something that made it hard to argue so you didn’t, you just pulled your jacket tighter around yourself and nodded.
“Fine.”
Max’s expression softened a little, like he knew that was the closest thing to surrender he was going to get from you.
He opened the passenger door for you.
You stared at him. “Are you seriously doing the gentleman thing?”
“Get in before I change my mind.”
“Too late. I expect princess treatment now.”
He snorted. “You are a nightmare.”
“And yet you came.”
The words slipped out lightly, almost teasing.
But Max didn’t answer straight away he just looked at you, the humour fading from his face.
Then he exhaled through his nose. “You’d have done the same.”
You paused, fingers resting on the open car door. “Would I?”
Then, almost too quiet to catch, he said, “Yeah. I think you would.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
It was warm inside his car, and smelled faintly of his hoodie, his cologne, and the late-night world he seemed to exist in better than anyone else. Max shut the door walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
You glanced over.
He kept his eyes forward. “Don’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say thank you.”
His hand rested on the gearshift for a moment before he looked at you.
“Okay,” he said. “You can say that.”
You smiled faintly. “Thank you Max.”
His gaze flickered over your face, just briefly, before he turned back to the road.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Anytime.”
Anytime.
You turned your head towards the window, watching your dead car shrink in the side mirror as he pulled back onto the road. For once the silence didn’t feel like a fight and behind the wheel Max kept both hands steady, driving you home like it was the easiest thing in the world to come for you when you needed him.
unstoppable force (f1 scheduling next year so that max can't participate because they look like clowns rn to everyone who watches racing) vs immovable object (nurburgring 24h will move to accomodate max because the amount of publicity he brings will off set any cost of the movement)
Asa is becoming more and more secure in their relationship, and Anthony is gradually discovering the different facets that make up the bookseller’s personality.
Notes
Includes: flannel pajamas, wool socks, hot cocoa, and lots of fluff.
On Ao3
Rating G - 1877 words
It was almost 10 p.m., and Anthony still hadn’t got in touch.
Asa put down the book he was reading and settled more comfortably onto the couch.
Half an hour earlier, as evening wore on, he’d changed into his flannel pyjamas and thick woolly socks.
He’d hesitated a little because it wasn’t the most elegant outfit with which to welcome his lover.
However, he’d remembered Anthony’s words about being himself rather than who he thought Anthony wanted him to be, and told himself that if that kind of outfit scared Anthony off, then he wasn’t the man Asa thought he was.
His phone vibrated in his hand, startling him.
It was, of course, Anthony.
I know it's late, but can I still come over?
As if Asa would say no.
Who said earlier that what's written is written?
Of course you can! Actually, you have to!
The answer came almost immediately and caught Asa off guard.
Then open the door for me.
Asa hurried over to press the button to open the ground-floor door. Then he opened the door to his apartment and waited for Anthony to arrive.
He heard his lover's quick footsteps before seeing him rush toward him.
"Aaaah, the light at the end of the tunnel."
Anthony pressed a light kiss to Asa’s lips before Asa took his jacket and bag to set them aside.
When he returned to Anthony, Anthony ran a finger along the lapel of his pajama jacket and said gently, "At least you were comfortable while waiting for me."
"Yeah, I know. Not very glamorous, right?"
Anthony wrapped his arms around Asa, pressed his face against his neck, inhaled deeply, and then straightened up. "Who needs glamour when I have such a warm and cozy welcome?"
A little embarrassed, Asa said, "I made some cocoa. Want a mug?"
"You’re perfect, you know. A real treat after that boring meeting."
Asa brushed Anthony’s hair back and gently stroked his cheek, noticing his tired features.
"You should go make yourself comfortable on the couch while I get the mugs."
"Hmm, that sounds like heaven."
Asa chuckled softly as he headed toward the kitchen. Meanwhile, Anthony took off his shoes and walked over to the couch.
He practically collapsed onto it, rolled up his shirt sleeves, undid a few buttons, and let out a satisfied sigh.
Just then, Asa returned with two mugs. He handed Anthony one and sat down next to him, holding his own.
Anthony blew on his mug before taking a sip and grunting with delight.
Asa asked, showing genuine interest, "So, how was the meeting?"
As they sipped their cocoa, Anthony talked about his meeting, answering Asa's questions. Then, he asked Asa what he’d been doing while waiting for him.
"Nothing extraordinary, really. Just dinner and enjoying a book on my couch."
Anthony shook his head and replied, "Still, your cozy little routine sounds a lot more interesting than my meeting."
He emptied his cup, set it on the coffee table, leaned back against the sofa, and stretched his long legs out in front of him with a grimace.
Asa finished his cocoa too, but instead of settling onto the couch, he pulled a cushion from behind him and placed it on the table in front of Anthony, whose eyes were following him, a confused expression on his face.
Asa then lifted Anthony’s feet and placed them on the cushion, making Anthony moan in contentment.
"Glamour, yeah, right. Who needs glamour when you’ve got this?"
He turned to Asa, opened his arms, and beckoned him to come closer. Asa didn’t need to be asked twice, climbing onto the couch to snuggle up against his lover. He curled up against Anthony’s chest, a position becoming more and more familiar, as Anthony’s hand buried itself in his hair, gently stroking it.
"Anthony?"
"Hm?"
"Is it always this easy?"
Anthony brushed Asa’s hair back, kissed his forehead, and answered gently, "I couldn't tell you. I've never known anything like this."
Asa looked up at Anthony, who brushed his lips with another kiss.
"Me neither," Asa whispered back. "And..."
"It's a little scary," Anthony continued.
Asa nodded. "It is, but then I think about something Derek told me yesterday. That it didn't always have to be complicated. And that’s it. From the start, which is technically only three days ago..."
They chuckled together.
Then Asa continued, "Ever since we've known each other, everything's been falling into place little by little. No matter how much I tell myself we should take it slower, I just can’t. I’m a little weird, aren’t I?"
Anthony chuckled softly. "Then I am too because I feel the same way, you know? I've come to the conclusion that the speed doesn't matter if we're both in it together. At our own pace."
"Put that way, it sounds a lot less scary."
Anthony hummed, his mouth against Asa’s hair, and they stayed like that for a little while longer in silence before Anthony started to move.
He sighed. "I really don’t want to, but I’m going to have to think about going home."
Asa turned his face into Anthony’s chest and muttered, "You could stay."
Anthony gasped.
"What did you say?"
Asa lifted his head and repeated in a firmer voice, "You could stay." Then he added, "To sleep."
Anthony nodded and asked playfully, "On the couch?"
Asa tapped him on the chest and said, "Idiot, I have a big bed."
"By the way, you haven't shown me your bedroom."
Anthony gave him an exaggeratedly suggestive wink. The potential seduction was ruined, however, by a huge yawn, which triggered a burst of laughter from Asa.
Asa stood up, held out his hand to help Anthony up, and led him to the adjoining bathroom. After they'd each gone in to get ready for bed, Asa handed Anthony a pair of his sweatpants and a soft, worn cotton T-shirt.
Asa sat on the edge of the bed and watched Anthony change, taking off his pajama top and leaving him in just the T-shirt.
After all, Anthony had a gorgeous body, and it would be a shame not to look at it.
Just as Anthony slipped his head through the T-shirt, he looked at Asa and winked, letting him know he was aware that Asa was watching. But, instead of looking away, Asa kept watching. Blatantly.
With a soft smile on his lips, Anthony said, "Once again, you're so brave."
Asa replied with a wink, "I'm learning."
By the time they finally slipped into bed, the atmosphere had grown slightly more awkward. Asa was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding. It had been years since he’d shared a bed with anyone, and old anxieties about propriety and boundaries flashed through his mind, but they vanished the moment Anthony moved.
Without hesitation, Anthony shifted, pulled up the comforter, and drew Asa close in one fluid motion, as if they were two puzzle pieces finally fitting together. He slipped behind Asa, wrapped an arm around his waist, and pulled him tight against his chest.
Asa bent his knees slightly and snuggled up against Anthony in the spooning position, comfortably nestling in the hollow of his chest. The slight panic that had begun to overwhelm Asa evaporated, replaced by a deep sense of peace as he relaxed against his lover.
Anthony’s breathing was steady, and Asa could feel his breath in his hair.
Anthony brushed a kiss against the nape of Asa’s neck and whispered, "Good night, sweetheart."
Asa's heart leapt at the endearing term.
"Good night, Anthony."
Only a hum answered him, and the weariness of the day finally carried Asa off right after Anthony, into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
The dim morning light filtered through the curtains, and Asa stirred, feeling a gentle, indescribable sense of contentment wash over him before he was fully awake.
A warmth against him.
Anthony.
He must have been awake, too, because Asa felt his fingers in his hair, caressing it with a delicacy that took his breath away.
Asa let out a soft hum of pleasure and surrendered to the gentle touch.
"You know," he murmured in a sleepy voice, "this is probably the best way to wake up. I think I could get used to this."
He felt Anthony smile against his neck and heard his amused chuckle vibrate through his chest.
"Maybe that's my plan, then," Anthony replied softly. "Maybe I'm doing it on purpose, just to make sure you can't stand being apart from me."
Asa turned in his arms, careful not to break contact until their noses touched.
"Anthony," he said, raising his hand to stroke Anthony’s jaw with his thumb. "It's a little late for that. I don’t think I can be away from you anymore." Anthony said nothing, simply leaning forward and closing the last centimeter between them. It was a slow kiss, a lazy exploration. They moved together with a fluid, natural ease as if they had always woken up like this.
They stayed that way for a while longer, entwined in the sheets and savoring this new closeness and step in their relationship. Until a rumbling from Asa’s stomach reminded them that it was time to get up.
After freshening up and getting dressed, they made breakfast together. Asa marveled once again at how easily they moved together in his small kitchen.
A little later, as they sat at the table, Anthony asked, "What time do you have to be at the bookshop?"
After taking a sip of coffee, Asa answered, "Derek's opening up today, so I don't need to be there until ten."
Glancing at the wall clock behind Anthony, he continued, "I've still got about an hour before I have to leave. What about you?"
"Not much. Just preparing for class and unpacking a few more boxes."
Asa slid his hand across the table and placed it on Anthony’s. "Is it too much to ask if I say I'd like to have dinner with you tonight?"
Anthony traced the back of Asa’s hand with his index finger and replied, "Is it too much to ask if I suggest we have dinner at my place tonight?"
They shared a knowing laugh.
"Your place," Asa agreed. "I'll bring the wine."
"And I’ll make sure the couch is ready for another round of quality cuddles," Anthony promised, delighted by the giggle that escaped Asa’s lips.
"Well, I’m going to head out so you can get ready in peace."
They stood up together, and as Asa walked Anthony to the door,
Anthony kissed him tenderly before stroking his cheek. "Have a good day, and see you tonight," he said. Then he turned to leave.
"See you tonight," Asa repeated.
He stood rooted to the spot until the sound of Anthony’s footsteps faded into the distance.
He gently closed the door, turned toward the living room, and saw the two cocoa mugs from the previous evening on the coffee table. He tidied the cushions on the sofa, took the mugs to the kitchen, and put them in the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes.
sick to death of people giving up on their fav athletes bc they have bad bouts of performance . i will stay delusional until the very end. they will win it all. they are the goat. best to ever do it. in the game forever. never ever doubting them. hashtag my losing dog 4ever
Steve Rogers Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Pairing: pre-serum Steve Rogers x F!Plus-Sized!Reader
Word Count: 1777
Series Summary: Steve and our Reader, Sweets, have always been a bit unlucky in love. However, that all begins to change with the help of a forgotten sketch and some meddling best friends.
Chapter Summary: You find a sketch that calls to you enough to leave your number. A small detail soon has you questioning that decision though.
Warnings: allusions to Reader's past relationships (not all great) and Steve's own dating history
A/N: And we're finally here with the first official chapter of our renamed Bucky's Best Friend fic with a whole new beginning for our two sweet beans. It's my hope to post a new chapter each week, but I'll do what I can to keep you updated if that needs to change. I hope you enjoy this story as it unfolds.
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I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.
It started with a forgotten sketch.
You’d come into the community center when you came across the sketch left on an easel in the corner of the room.
It’d been a rather simple sketch, but the lines spoke to you. It didn’t take an expert to know that the lines had a fluidity to them, speaking to the person’s hours of practice to perfect. The way those same lines had been shaped was as rough as it was purposeful. You could just make out the building they’d been sketching. A newer building in the city that had everyone abuzz, and clearly, it had intrigued this artist to recreate it.
A closer inspection had you spying the artist’s initials in the corner.
S.R.
They gave nothing more about the artist, but it was a start.
Grabbing a sticky note from the stack keep in the instructor’s desk of the room, you wrote: Love your work. Hope to get a chance to see more of it one day. You signed it and set it on the back of the paperboard.
At the last second, you decided to add your number.
Before your students began to trickle in, you took the piece to the center’s main desk.
“Hey, Sharon, mind storing this somewhere safe? I wouldn’t want anything from my class or the others to ruin such hard work.”
“You got it.” Sharon took the piece from you with a smile. It widened as she took in the piece and the little note you’d placed on the back. “Steve will love knowing someone likes his stuff. He’s usually pretty private with it. Actually kinda surprised he forgot this one. Must’ve been distracted last night.”
Not sure what to say to that, you simply shrugged and headed back to the classroom. After all, you had your own class to set up, and students would be coming soon enough. You didn’t like keeping them waiting if you could help it.
As soon as your class started, you quickly forgot about the sketch and the artist himself.
Teaching canning and jarring was something well within your wheelhouse.
It’d been a household normality growing up with your grandparents, and it was something you continued into your adulthood. Well, that and tending to the small garden you’d managed to eek out of the tiny balcony of your shared apartment with your best friend. Gardening and canning/jarring went well together, and you enjoyed the work.
While you couldn’t say it was such a normality any longer, you enjoyed it still as a hobby that helped save you a few extra dollars each year. You got the chance to share your bounty as well with neighbors, food pantries, and even make a few extra dollars on the side at one or two craft shows. Not only that, but you got to experiment with different flavors in the jams, jellies, and preserves you especially favored over other canning goods.
Your class did well with their latest canning journey.
Several of them came up to you after class, hoping to get a few pointers.
The little pack of them kept you from seeing the dark-haired man standing in the doorway, watching you with a keen eye. He missed nothing as he watched you answer questions patiently and with a kindness he didn’t often see much. His eyes continued to study you even after the last of your students filed out, excited about your next class already. While he caught some of their excitement, he continued to watch you as you moved with a grace that bespoke comfort within your surroundings.
In the end, he could only nod.
You might just be the one his friend has been looking for.
With that thought, he finally walked away.
Unaware of the man who’d been watching you, you moved to gather up your stuff and head out for the evening. A smile flitted along your lips as you recalled how much your students had grown into their knowledge of canning and jarring these past few weeks. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be graduating on to other classes outside the community center. The thought should’ve saddened you, but you took heart instead. It would mean you’d done your duty and you’d soon be welcoming a new set of students.
You could live with that.
Besides, it wasn’t as if your previous students didn’t pop in now and then. A lot of them did, actually, and you loved every second of learning what more they’d learned in their hobby journeys. Some of them had even gone on to do what she did with jarring and canning for a bit of extra money on the side. It never failed to make your heart soar at seeing them so proud of themselves.
Checking to ensure you didn’t miss anything, you stepped out of the classroom and moved toward the main desk.
Sharon glanced up as you did and shot you one of her more devious smirks.
“That sketch you saved?”
At your nod, she continued, “Well, Steve’s BFF dropped by to collect it. He might’ve seen your note and asked you keep the sketch. Said since you liked it so much, then you should have it. He did say he’d make sure Steve got your note. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a little smitten with you. He probably watched you for a good five minutes before finally leaving.”
“He was watching me?”
You couldn’t help glancing around to see if the man still remained despite Sharon’s words.
To say you were more than a little disconcerted with being watched would be an understatement. You weren’t someone people typically went out of their way to watch, but it wasn’t as if you didn’t garner attention now and again, either wanted or unwanted.
“Not in a creepy way,” she offered, sensing your growing discomfort. “He was just a bit intrigued. Curious, even. It’s not often, like I mentioned earlier, that Steve gets a lot of attention. I’m sure his friend just wanted to get an idea of you, that’s all, and I’m not helping, am I?”
You gave a short shake of your head.
Sharon deflated a little, but she seemed determined to erase your fears, even if just a tiny bit. “I swear they’re not creeps. I’ve known them for a few years now. They’re both good guys, and I know they respect others’ boundaries. Just not every day that someone takes note of Steve is all. He’s not what you’d call eye candy. Bucky tends to get more attention because he is definitely some pretty eye candy, even after his accident. He really was just curious about you. That’s all. He would never dream of bothering you. So, please, don’t think you’re getting a stalker or something, okay?”
At her clearly distressed diatribe, you finally allowed yourself to nod along.
Sharon would never deliberately lie to you. Not about something like this. No, she was one of your staunchest supporters since you first started teaching at the community center. If anything, she was just as protective of you as your best friend was.
Maybe though, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to let said best friend and roommate know about this.
You were fairly sure that you wouldn’t feel quite so comfortable teaching your next class without an extra pair of eyes.
And no way were you going to accept that art piece.
Not under these circumstances.
To your everlasting gratitude, Sharon didn’t fight you on it when you told her as much though she did say, “I’ll keep it here just in case, okay? It’ll be safe in our director’s office.”
"Yeah, okay. I'll, uh, see you next week."
Sharon nodded, already moving towards the director's office with the piece in tow. She'd keep her word though you couldn't say that it'll do a lot of good. If only you'd thought better about giving your number to the artist, but then, there was nothing to be done, was there?
Hopefully, Sharon was right about him and his friend.
You really, really hoped so.
"I'm not calling or texting her. Drop it, Buck," Steve practically shouted even as Bucky waved the sticky in his face. "Sharon already said you creeped her out. Better to leave her alone."
"But she's perfect for you. I know it. She's the one," Bucky countered, trying valiantly to shove the sticky note into Steve's hand.
"You act like we're in some Disney movie or something. She's not a princess to break a spell placed by some evil witch. She's just a person who wants to live her life without being bothered, I'm sure, by jerks like you. Besides, I'm fine with the way things are. I don't need or want more than what I've built for myself."
Those last words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he refused to give in to Bucky's pleas.
The truth of the matter was he did want to find the right partner for himself. His unluckiness in love did bug him. Why wouldn't it? He'd seen his share of friends finding their life partners and their happiness. Why wouldn't he want a piece of that for himself, too?
"You should at least text her a thank you," Bucky insisted, pulling Steve from his thoughts. "She deserves at least that acknowledgement for her note."
Shaking his head, Steve met Bucky's imploring gaze, the sticky note still stretched between them.
"Will that get you off my back?"
Bucky nodded. "For now, yeah."
"Fine," Steve sighed, taking the sticky note from Bucky's hand. He pulled out his old cell and waited for it to respond to his wake-up command. It took another minute to put in her number and type out the simple text: Thank you, S.R. When he finished and hit send, he turned his phone so Bucky could see the sent text. "Happy?"
Bucky shot him a rare wide grin. "Ecstatic. Thank you."
"All right, jerk. It's late, and I've got an early morning tomorrow. If we're done here, I'm going to bed."
"Yeah, we're done. Night, punk."
It was only as he slid under his covers that he heard his phone ding with a new message.
You're welcome, it read.
Nothing more, nothing less.
He would leave it at that, too. No sense in pushing his luck after sending that other after learning everything from Sharon earlier. If you wanted to get to know him, then fate would have to bring you two together. Maybe fate would intervene, especially if Bucky was right about you being the one for him.
A guy could hope, couldn't he?
I don't do tag lists, but you're more than welcome and highly encouraged to check out/follow my fic archive, @callasficlibrary for all updates on stories. It's all that goes there.
i will never forgive the marvel writers for separating steve and bucky a second time after all they went through just to be together and have each other again.
I told you, you heard me: I told you never to follow me into Hell. Now I’m not vain enough to think that’s why you’re out here now — if there’s any person in what’s left of this God forsaken planet who’s part of a bigger picture, it’d be you. But I’ll keep saying it until it sticks. You got nothing to prove. I’m not worth much, I damn well know that, but I’ll ask you anyway…
— The Thirteen Letters x
Dear reader, bend when you can... @stevestappen - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
