The sun is just starting to set when you step onto the deck.
The sky is painted in soft gold and fading orange, the ocean reflecting it in slow, shifting waves. The Polar Tang sits steady near the island, quiet for once.
You rest your hands lightly against the railing. Waiting.
He’s not late. If anything, he’d be early. So the fact that you’re the one here first… it makes your chest feel a little too tight.
Footsteps sound behind you, and you don’t turn right away.
“…You’re early.”
You smile slightly.
“…So are you.”
Then you glance over your shoulder.
And there he is, Trafalgar Law.
Something about him is different. Not obvious, but there. Less distant. Less guarded. Like he tried, without wanting it to look like he did.
He steps closer, stopping beside you. Close, but not touching. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The village isn’t far. Small, quiet, tucked between the shoreline and a line of low hills.
You walk in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other. Both of you trying not to smile too much.
The bookstore café is easy to miss.
A narrow storefront, warm light spilling through the windows, shelves packed tightly with books that look like they’ve been there for years.
You stop without thinking.
“…This is your ‘place’?”
“…Yes.”
You glance at him, a small smile forming.
“You took me to a bookstore.”
“…You read.”
“…I do.”
“…Then it’s appropriate.”
You shake your head, amused, and step inside.
“…I like it.”
A pause.
“…Good.”
The air inside is warm. Quiet. Soft conversation hums in the background, the faint clink of cups, the comforting smell of tea and paper.
You drift toward the shelves without thinking.
Law follows. Not hovering. Just… there.
“…You’re going straight for fiction,” he notes.
You glance back at him.
“…And you’re not?”
“…No.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess, medical texts? History?”
“…Occasionally.”
He pauses near a lower shelf. Reaches down and pulls something free.
“…This is… my guilty pleasure.”
You step closer, looking down at the cover.
“…Sora, Warrior of the Sea?”
You look up at him.
“…You’re serious.”
A pause.
“…Yes.”
You study him for half a second.
Then you smile. Not teasing. Just… interested.
“…Tell me about it.”
That catches him off guard.
“…What.”
“You said it’s your guilty pleasure. Everyone has one,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “So what’s it about?”
He doesn’t try to deflect for once. Doesn’t brush it off.
Instead.
“…It’s about a marine soldier who fights Germa 66. The structure is predictable. Clear conflict. Clear resolution.”
You lean slightly closer, glancing down at the page he’s opened.
“…That’s it?”
“…No.”
A pause. Then, quieter
“…He always does what he says he will.”
Something about the way he says it makes your chest soften.
“…You like that.”
“…Yes.”
You nod slightly.
“…I get that.”
He glances at you.
“…You do.”
“Yeah.”
You shift just a little closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his.
“…Read it to me.”
Another pause, but he does.
And you listen. Actually listen.
And somewhere between the lines, between the way he talks about it, you realize you’re not really focused on the story anymore.
You’re focused on him.
The way his voice lowers slightly when he explains something.
The way he gets just a little faster when he’s interested.
You smile faintly to yourself.
He’s… kind of adorable.
“…You’re smiling,” he says suddenly.
You blink, caught.
“…Am I?”
“…Yes.”
You glance back at the page, pretending to think.
“…I like it.”
“…The story?”
You look at him again.
“…Both.”
That stops him. Just for a second.
“…Both… noted.”
A little while later, you’re seated side-by-side. Tea between you. Books scattered across a table.
The quiet feels easy again.
“…Do you have a preference?” he asks.
“…For what?”
“…Fiction.”
You smile slightly.
“…I do.”
A small shift in his expression, almost teasing.
“…Well, tell me about it.”
You lean back just a little, thinking.
“…It’s an adventure romance,” you say. “The kind where they travel everywhere, get into situations they probably shouldn’t survive, and somehow still find time to fall in love along the way.”
He watches you.
“…That sounds inefficient.”
You laugh softly.
“It absolutely is.”
“…Then why do you like it?”
You shrug slightly.
“…Because it’s not predictable.”
“…And?”
“…Because they choose each other anyway.”
Your voice softens without you meaning it to.
“…Even when it’s messy. Or complicated. Or doesn’t make sense.”
You glance at him.
“…They don’t need guarantees.”
He goes quiet for a moment.
“…That’s risky.”
“…Yeah.”
“…And you prefer that.”
“…Sometimes.”
Another pause.
“…I can see the appeal.”
You smile.
“…Can you?”
“…Yes.”
The quiet returns. But this time it feels different. Closer. Like something shifted without either of you needing to say it out loud.
Law glances at you again, then at the books, and for once he doesn’t try to analyze it. Doesn’t try to break it down into variables or outcomes.
He just lets it exist.
Because somehow this moment, with you beside him, the quiet, the conversation, the way it all fits feels… right.
𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: coffee, chaos, coffee all over again (like one, two, three pt. 4)
𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: Max Verstappen is your greatest rival on the track, despite the fact that you’re teammates. Always tenths of a second ahead or behind, angling to steal the inside line, performing insane overtakes that always fuel the fire. It’s purely rivalry on the track between two teammates, reflected when that same fiery fight flares up, in the paddock, in interviews, on livestreams where the race is just on the screen. Except… now it’s more than that to you. And you’re not quite sure, but it seems like it’s more than that to him too. 5.2k words.
𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴: teammate!racer!reader, gn!reader, reader is equally insane as max, verstappen/reader rivalry, ‘25 racing stuff but not ‘25 accurate, racing stuff AGAIN i go craaaaazy w ts if i do say so myself, Psycho!reader
𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺: i love my Psycho!reader universe. alsonim still scared i may have implied fem reader in previous parts so LET ME KNOWWWW. also all of the books named here are real actual books ive read and enjoyed (except one) soooo yeah accidental book recs in the middle of my max verstappen x reader fic on tumblr dot com
The rest of the day after qualis is a blur of boring meetings that you can’t skip, and a lot of nodding at cameras and coming up with BS answers that mean nothing but answer the question anyway. Exhausted, you drag yourself back to your driver room long enough to take off your race suit and get into more comfortable clothes.
Now in a basic t-shirt with equally basic shorts, you force yourself to walk out of your driver room and back to the motorhome where you drop into your usual seat like a stone, your limbs going whatever direction gravity drags them in as your eyes fall shut. Your hands hurt, as usual, and you open your eyes just enough to sigh longingly at the fridge, knowing there are ice packs in there that can soothe your achy joints.
Your eyes fall shut again, and you let yourself relax, tensing up every muscle you can before consciously letting go and melting into your seat. The sound of footsteps gives you exactly zero incentive to open your eyes and see who’s inside. You just listen and sit quietly, letting your brain reset after the hype of FP3 and qualis.
The footsteps move along the floor, vaguely in the direction of the fridge. You hear the sound of a fridge opening, confirming your guess. Then the crunchy sound of something being taken out, and the quiet clink of a mug being set on the counter. Crinkling paper comes next, then the sound of it being torn, and the bubbling of something that’s a bit too thick to be water—milk? Then the quiet shf-shf-shf of something being shaken out of a packet.
The sounds of things being made and used and moved around almost lull you to sleep, the quiet whir of the air-conditioning unit adding to the calming white noise. The sound of a spoon being stirred comes, along with the crunching of whatever had been taken out of the fridge. Then the footsteps start again, drawing closer without hesitation, so it must be someone you know.
The clink of the mug comes again, probably now filled with something as the sound is a little duller. Before you can register what’s happening, there’s the feeling of two towel-wrapped ice packs being placed on your lap, and familiarly warm and calloused hands are taking yours and resting them over top of the icepacks. You crack your eyes open just a little bit, already knowing who it is.
“Thank you, Max,” you mumble, already half-asleep as the ache in your joints is quickly soothed by the cold of the ice packs. Your eyes fall shut again as Max drapes something warm over you—a blanket from somewhere in the room, maybe? You swear his fingers tuck a stray bit of hair behind your ears. And you tell yourself that you’re already dreaming when you feel the soft touch of lips at your temple followed by a quiet, “Sleep well, snoepje.”
When you next wake up, it’s to the shuffling and shushing that comes from a large group of people trying to be quiet. You blink groggily, sitting up properly as you try to stretch out the crick in your neck from sleeping in an armchair. The ice packs are long melted, turned into bundles of cool water. You set them aside, and the blanket slips off of you, pooling in your lap.
You blink down at it. It is not, in fact, a blanket. It is, however, a very large, somehow still warm Red Bull jacket that could not be in any way construed as your size. You pull it on, settling into the warmth of it. And then you lift your head and see half of the paddock gathered in the small living-room-style area of the motorhome, frozen in place as you stare at them.
“What.”
There’s an immediate scramble to escape, mechanics and PR and assistants alike laughing and grinning as they push past each other. You raise a finger, point at the nearest crewmember, and in a sleep-dried voice, call over, “You.” The poor guy stops immediately, his friend patting him on the back with a quiet ‘Good luck!’ before escaping with the rest of the crew who were… watching you?
“What was that?” you ask of the guy, still a little too groggy from just waking up to start demanding things. The guys just shrugs, his grin returning. “Nothing at all,” he answers, very vaguely, before skittering off to wherever his spot is. Probably PR, since you know most of the names and all of the faces in your garage.
You shake your head at the absurdity of it, standing with the jacket still wrapped around you. You don’t zip it up, adjusting it just enough to make it look more like ‘I accidentally picked the wrong size but it looks good anyway’ rather than ‘I’m wearing Max Verstappen’s jacket.’ And, well, that’s the only logical conclusion, right? That Max had come in while you were half-asleep, set up ice packs so your hands wouldn’t be achy when you woke, and draped his jacket over you…
Oh. And then he’d tucked your hair behind your ear gently, and kissed your temple, and whispered, “Sleep well, snoepje,” in a voice so soft you’re tempted to lie to yourself and say it wasn’t Max. You know better, though. So you make your way out of the trackside motorhome and begin the short walk to where the private motorhomes are parked.
You find the quiet field where a series of RV-like trailers are parked, each in different styles. You can almost immediately spot Lando’s—decorated in a very bright fluoro yellow that’s very him. Charles’ (and now Alex’s) is simpler, something that you would expect to see on the roads, with cute little plants in the windows (clearly Alex’s touch). And then you spot Max’s, laughing softly to yourself as you walk towards it.
It’s completely undecorated, straight off the lot (or wherever you get these kinds of house-cars with whole Turkish saunas inside of them). You knock on the door tentatively. Is Max even here? Should you be bothering him on this off time? Maybe you should just go back to your hotel, you find yourself thinking when you hear nothing from inside. You’re just about to do that when you hear Dutch cursing (or at least, that’s your guess) and the sudden sound of footsteps approaching. You take one step back just in case the door opens outwards.
“Who is it, I was—oh.” There stands Max, in nothing but a pair of straight-fit jeans that you’d finally put him onto. Clearly, he’d been in the middle of getting dressed and ready, if the towel around his shoulders catching water from his still-wet hair is anything to go by. He tilts his head at you, and you realize you’ve been silent for a little too long.
“Brought your jacket back,” you say, before Max can open his mouth and get on your case about staring or something stupid, because you’d never stare at your teammate. Ever. Not even the water droplets that roll slowly down his neck and over his Adam’s apple—you snap your gaze back up to find Max giving you that same old infuriating grin, and the tension melts out of you. It’s just Max and his stupid smug face as usual. (Just, now you find that stupid smug face good-looking.)
“Keep it,” he tells you, stepping aside to let you in. “Busy?” he asks. “Technically, yeah,” you answer, moving past him. The door clicks shut behind you, and now you’re officially inside of Max’s motorhome. Despite the money that you’ve come into yourself, you haven’t gotten yourself one of these. The level of luxury you live in regularly now is something you’re still getting used to, and you can’t bring yourself to buy something that costs millions of dollars.
“Sim rigs?!” you exclaim, immediately walking over to the twin pair of rigs inside of the vehicle. This is ridiculous. “You’ve got a whole personal network in here?!” you ask. “Everything?” You run your hands over the wheel. Max laughs at your shock, nodding as he dries his hair with the towel around his shoulders. “Join up,” he tells you, dropping into the seat next to you.
You shrug off his jacket, draping it over the back of your chair and then taking a seat. “Monaco?” you ask, flicking through the track options. “Or here?” You see the Japanese circuit and immediately ooh at it. “Let’s do Suzuka!” you exclaim, glancing over at Max. “We’ve run the Red Bull Ring enough in our cars, let’s relax a little.”
Max hesitates, then nods. “Suzuka it is,” he agrees, selecting the track. You do the same, and wait for Max to join a lobby. You copy the code into your sim rig carefully, then join. Out of the 9 circuits you’ve competed in so far (Australia, China, Japan, Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Miami, Canada, Monaco, and Barcelona) Suzuka has been your favorite.
With 18 turns (5 of them back to back) and a crossover bridge, it had been the most exciting race you’d competed in besides Monaco. The countdown on the sim rig starts, and you relax into your seat. The lights go out, and then it’s just you versus Max, the two of you leaving the rest of the players in the dust as you burst past the traffic and fight for the lead along the first straightaway.
“Ha!” you exclaim as you take and hold the lead into Turn 1. Max doesn’t even glance at you, too focused on the circuit. It’s true, then, that Max treats GPs and sim rigs with the same terrifying focus. You hold the inside through Turn 2. Then you realize—this is the perfect time to practice that cut-across strategy that had surprised even Max.
Turn 3 approaches, and Max cuts across you to take the inside for the turn. You go around the outside, staying on the outside and letting Max have the inside for Turn 4 as well. But now there’s a gap between the two of you as you take the inside for Turn 5. The gap grows wider as you hug the inside line as closely as you can.
At the last possible second, you turn your wheel, cutting directly across Max’s path where he was trying to take the inside. A perfect maneuver. Max is forced to fall back, and the look of surprise on his face, though it quickly melts into determination, is worth it. You let Max take the inside line again as the two of you pass through Turn 7, with the gap between you and the rest of the pack already at 12 seconds.
Max will have to cut across you again to take the inside for Turn 8. You don’t let him, going as fast as you can without flipping your sim car over. You see the wheels of your sim car bounce up onto the curb, but you hold your line anyway, growing the gap again. 0.7 seconds. You take turn 9 and immediately cut across to the inside again. 0.9 seconds.
Turn 11 sees you nearly crash, though you slow down just in time around the hairpin curve to avoid oversteering directly into the barrier. It’d happened during the Japanese GP—someone, Alex Albon if you remember—had turned into the hairpin too hard. The VSC had been deployed, and you lost your 5-second lead on Kimi Antonelli. It’d been a hard battle against the Italian rookie, but you’d fought well and kept your place.
The sim rig race goes well in your favor until lap 50 out of 53. One of the other racers (you don’t care to see what their handle is) T-bones you. How? You have no idea, and you’re too busy laughing so hard you cry as you watch your car flip and flip and flip in real time. You’ve let go of the wheel, which is now jerking around in response to the crash.
Max keeps racing, though you can see him trying not to laugh in response to your own laughing fit. As he finishes the race, both of your stats pop up on the screen. To your (still amused) surprise, you’d set a fastest lap, but Max had beaten it soon after you crashed. “Good game,” you tell him, voice still shaky with laughter. Max nods at you, his own lips curving into a grin that matches yours.
“Good game, [name],” and the use of your real first name again nearly has the smile on your face growing idiotically lovesick, but you tamp it down enough, pushing yourself up and out of the sim rig. “Your jacket,” you answer, holding out the Red Bull jacket he’d draped over you. And, because you can’t stop running your mouth, for some reason, you ask, “What does snoepje mean?” And yes, you butcher the pronunciation a little.
Max purses his lips. “Little licorice,” he translates. “It is a diminutive of snoep, the word for candy, but licorice is a very Dutch candy.” He doesn’t explain anything else, nor does he ask why you’re asking. Well, you suppose he already knows. “Keep the jacket,” he tells you as he stands, plucking the jacket from your hand to drape it around your shoulders again. He lets his hands linger, adjusting the collar that doesn’t need adjusting. “It looks better on you.”
Before you manage to do anything stupid (like ask for a kiss???) you nod. “Thank you.” Then you turn, wave at him over your shoulder, and escape back to your hotel room, cheeks pink. And when you run into Lando, the papaya driver has the gall to give Max’s jacket a meaningful glance and waggle his eyebrows at you. You blush, scowl at him, and continue on your way.
Back in your hotel room, you take off Max’s jacket long enough to change into your pajamas, then wrap it back around yourself as you settle into your bed just like yesterday. Speaking of, laying in bed with snacks and a show feels like forever ago, even though it was just last night. You do the same thing tonight, surrounded once more by your favorite snacks (yes, some of the opened packets from yesterday) and your show.
The familiar episode fills the air, and you try to focus on it. Try being the operative word, because no matter what you do, your thoughts drift back to Max. Specifically, how he’d taken care of you yesterday, made you a mug of something that you’d hadn’t drunk and had magically disappeared by the time you woke up. You sigh, shake out the final bites of one of your snack packets, and push yourself out of bed.
This time, you don’t bother to change out your pajamas, thankful that you’d brought long pant bottoms. You pull Max’s jacket around yourself tighter, grabbing what you need (your phone, wallet, and room card). You pull on your sneakers, and debate texting Max. Would he come along for another late night walk? It might mess up his sleep schedule… You open your thread with him anyway.
You grin down at the near-instant response. Even as you purse your lips and try to rationalize—he might’ve already been on his phone, maybe he’s just bored—your heart flutters again as you feel the giggle-inducing rush of having a crush. You reply to him, maybe with a bit more excitement than you really should be having about your teammate (who’s jacket you’re still wearing…).
You step out of your hotel room with a pep in your step, quietly humming some random audio off of TikTok that’s now stuck in your head. The elevator dings open, and then you’re humming along to the elevator music with a smile on your face that probably looks really, really stupid, but you don’t care, because Max agreed to hang out with you.
Speaking of, the man himself is in the lobby by the time you get down (how?!). You make your way over to him, waving hi. “So, where to this time?” you ask, falling into step beside him. He shrugs. “Wherever we find first,” he answers bluntly. You nod in response, and a comfortable silence, filled by the sounds of a city night, surrounds the two of you.
Eventually, you find yourselves on a calmer avenue, lit by the soft yellow glow of streetlamps and filled with the chatter of people just hanging out. In the dark, with the same Red Bull caps on your heads, the two of you aren’t Psycho number 27 and Max Verstappen number 33. You’re just you and Max, two friends out on a nighttime walk.
“Bookstore plus cafe,” Max muses to himself, staring at the little storefront along the street. You follow his line of sight and find a sign that reads The Hidden Chapter: Bookstore + Cafe. “Oh, oh, let’s go!” you exclaim, taking his hand into yours and pulling him across the street, laughing as someone honks at you.
“We’re on the crosswalk!” you shout back at the driver, not really caring if he hears as you do a little half-walk and half-jog over to the front. Your fingers are still intertwined with Max’s as you hop up the two little steps to the door. A little shopbell jingles as you swing the door open, and the comforting scent of new books and brewing coffee washes over you. “This is going to be fun,” you murmur, lowering your voice to match the ambience of the shop.
Your and Max’s footsteps are softened by the carpet underfoot as you make your way over to the built-in cafe in the back. To your surprise, it’s not just a local shop, it’s a full-on illy caffe, the high-quality and equally exclusive brand. “Oh!” you exclaim quietly. “I want to try everything!” Max chuckles softly beside you, squeezing your hand. “That much caffeine can’t be a good idea, liefje.”
Ah. A nickname again, making your chest feel warm and your cheeks turn red. And the squeeze of your hand reminds you that you’d dragged him behind you, but you make no move to let go. “Let’s both get something!” you suggest. Max scrunches his nose. “I’m not much of a coffee person,” he admits. You gasp in mock offense. “Not a coffee person?” you ask dramatically, pressing a hand to your heart. You laugh at the look on his face, waving it off. “It’s fine, they have a lot of other stuff,” you inform him.
You let go of his hand reluctantly to take out your wallet from the pocket of your jacket, stepping up to the counter. You scan over the menu for a moment, then nod. “Can I get a medium almond rose caffe latte?” you ask the barista, and she nods. Max steps up behind you, pointing at one of the pastries in the glass cabinet. “One vanilla and one blueberry lemon scone as well,” he tells the barista, his black card already in hand. “Can’t drink caffeine on an empty stomach, liefje.”
“Hey, you got it last time, I can do this,” you protest, ignoring how your cheeks burn red as you hip-check him. He doesn’t budge an inch, giving you a look. “I’m paying,” he answers with a finality that only makes you more determined. The barista clears her throat, and your attention snaps back to her. “Yes, that’s all,” you answer her, but before you can even take your card out of your pocket, Max is sliding his into the card reader.
You swat at his hand like you can undo the payment, but it’s done, and with a sigh, you put your wallet away. “I’m paying next time,” you tell him, and he gives you a look filled with a fondness that makes your chest tighten. “Next time,” he agrees, though the smirk playing on his lips says something different. You take the receipt, memorizing your order number before tucking the paper into your pocket, a reminder to pay him back.
Max follows you as you wander off through the aisles of the bookstore. It’s neatly organized, and of course, you find yourself in the fantasy section soon enough. A particularly pretty book catches your eye. The cover has an intricate hourglass, with a dying tree at the top and petals pouring onto a sakura tree at the bottom. The fore-edges are painted black with pink roses, and the title is written in imposing white font. “Immortal Consequences,” you read, and Max leans over your shoulder as you flip open the cover to read the blurb.
The sudden warmth of him at your back has your shoulders tensing, and you’re unable to focus on the blurb properly, understanding a few words that draw your interest, but only Max is muttering them into your ear. “Magical trials… Wren, her arch-rival, Augustine… Irene, her only friend, Masika… Olivier, stop Emilio… fates worse than death…” Max steps back just enough to give you a little space, and the fog in your head clears.
You scan over the blurb quickly, then tuck the book under your arm. When the weight of it disappears, you turn to catch it, only to realize it hasn’t fallen. Max is… holding it for you? You blink at the book in his hand, then at him. “Thanks,” you murmur, moving along and scanning over the books. Another one catches your eye, this time a bright blue cover with gold on the fore-edges. You’re running into an absolute trove of pretty books today.
The call of your order number has you turning. You look at the book longingly, then turn to go get your order, but Max rests a hand on your shoulder. “Stay,” he tells you, the warmth of his hand lingering long after he disappears between the aisles to get your coffee and the pastries. A silly smile curls your lips, and you pick the book up.
Your thoughts wander to Max as you examine the cover. There’s a black-and-white pencil sketch of a visibly Asian-American girl on the cover, though it’s beyond you to guess exactly where. Her hair is beautifully drawn in the same black-and-white, and she’s wearing a beautiful hanfu, cluing you in that it’s at the least Chinese-inspired. She’s also holding what looks like a calligraphy brush. There’s a shadow dragon and gold dragon drawn around her, obscuring her body from the chest down.
The title is written in clean white font over the bottom. A FORGERY OF FATE. You flip open the cover to read the blurb. Gifted art forger, ability to paint the future, marriage contract with a mysterious dragon lord? You’re sold on it. By the time you’ve tucked the book under your arm to continue meandering through the aisles, Max is back.
With a branded tote over his shoulder, balancing a coffee cup on top of the pastry box.
You can’t help it. You laugh, putting a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound in the quiet of the bookstore. Max scowls at you, though his expression smooths into an equally amused smile after a moment. He holds out the coffee cup to you. “Almond rose latte,” he tells you, taking A Forgery of Fate from under your arm and placing it in the bookstore tote (presumably alongside Immortal Consequences.)
One sip of the coffee has you melting. The flavor is unmatchable, and you’re pretty sure you’re ruined for any other type of almond-flavored coffee. “This is so good,” you mumble, holding the cup up to Max. “Try some!” you tell him. He leans back, shaking his head fondly. “Not a coffee person,” he tells you, even as he takes the cup. He brings it to his lips, taking the tiniest sip, and nods. “Not bad,” he murmurs, handing the cup back to you.
Indirect kiss?! is the first thought in your head, and you turn back to the shelves of books. Your eyes land on yet another pretty cover. You sip at your coffee as you pick it up, shaking your arm to push back the sleeve of Max’s jacket. This book is simpler than the other two—no fore-edge painting. The cover is white with a rose in the center that’s dripping blood, a pirate-style sword stabbed through it with the hilt visible at the top. The corners are stylized with swirling, vine-like red designs, and the title is written in loopy gold. “Oathbound,” you read aloud.
Max steps a little closer, still holding the pastry box and the tote. You’re practically trapped between him and the shelf, and if you took a tiny step forward you would really be trapped. Somehow managing to not let your nerves show, you flip open the cover. “Beware the waters. The dangerous deep brings ruin to all,” you read, and despite (or maybe because of) the theatrics of the sentence, you find yourself already invested.
You go to tuck the book under your arm, but Max plucks it from your hands and gently places it into the tote. “Three books in…” Max checks his watch, “fifteen minutes. That’s pretty good,” he quips, stepping back. Again, you immediately miss his warmth, even as you continue down the aisle. “What time is it?” you ask offhandedly as you pick up another book, only to immediately snap it shut when it flops open to a particularly nasty smut scene that has your cheeks burning red.
Max laughs, and the only way you can describe it is rich and low. Like your books. “What happened?” he asks, opening the pastry box and breaking off a piece of the vanilla scone. He hands it to you as he continues. “Someone die, or what?” You laugh, a little awkward as you replace the book. “Something like that,” you answer vaguely as you pop the piece of scone into your mouth, looking back at the title—Pretty Pink Poison—and memorizing it to make sure you don’t pick it up again.
He purses his lips, clearly fighting back a smile. “Something like that,” he parrots. You think he’s let it go, and you take another sip of your coffee—only to swallow it too fast and choke as he picks up the book. “Yep, yep, something like that,” you yelp, snatching the book and replacing it too fast to be nonchalant. The page number and the scene is unfortunately pasted into your brain now.
Max picks the book back up, and you resign yourself to your fate, awkwardly hovering not quite close enough but not far enough either. Heat burns up the back of your neck and over your cheeks as Max’s eyebrows climb. And climb. After exactly forty-five seconds of reading, he too snaps the book shut, pink dusted across his cheeks.
“I should’ve taken your warning,” he mutters, taking a piece of the blueberry-lemon scone and chewing it like it personally offended him. You nod, pursing your lips as you turn. “Oh, right, what time is it?” you ask again. Max checks his watch. “11:45,” he answers, and you startle. “We need to get back to the hotel, get some rest, the race is tomorrow!” you exclaim. You reach for the tote, but Max just adjusts it on his shoulder.
“We’ll get these and head back,” he tells you, resting a hand on your back and guiding you towards the counter. His calm demeanor calms you in turn (a little bit, you’re still worried about getting enough sleep for the GP tomorrow). The two of you reach the register, and you set your coffee cup down to pull your wallet out as the clerk scans the books. You can still feel his hand on your back through his jacket.
When you go to hand your card over, again, the clerk shakes his head. “Sorry, he already gave me his card,” the clerk tells you in heavily accented English. “Max!” you exclaim, swatting his arm. Max shakes his head at you. “Can’t let you pay,” he shrugs, ignoring your protests as he picks up the complimentary tote of your three new books. You pick up the box of scones before he can. “Let me carry this much at least,” you plead, turning back to grab your coffee.
Max relents. You take the last few sips of your coffee, tossing the now empty cup in the trash. Your thoughts are swirling—he’s acting so gentlemanly, holding the bag and paying and walking with you—”Wo-ah!” you exclaim as he loops his arm around your waist. Max pulls you across him, settling you on the inside while he walks closer to the road.
You nod, pursing your lips. “Thanks,” you murmur, trying to open the lid of the box of scones. Your fingers are already shaking slightly. Max sighs, adjusting the tote over his shoulder and taking the box from you. He pops it open, breaking off another piece of the vanilla scone and handing it to you. You reach out to take the piece, but he shakes his head, a mischievous smile curling his lips.
“Say ahh,” he tells you, and your cheeks burn red. Is he for real?! You clamp your lips shut, reaching out again, but all he has to do is raise his hand and the piece of scone is out of reach. You hop up, fruitlessly trying to get the piece of scone, but Max just clicks his tongue. “C’mon, say ahh,” he repeats. And, well, it’s not like you’re against it…
With a sigh (that’s completely performative, you want to and you know it), you open your mouth. Max feeds you the piece of vanilla scone, and for some reason it tastes even sweeter. How corny of you to think that. You chew the bite of scone, savoring it before reaching over and breaking off another piece. Your smile matches Max’s when you repeat the same words at him. “Say ahhh…”
To your surprise, he does, even leaning down to make it easier for you. His teeth scrape over your fingers in a way that makes the back of your neck burn even as you yelp and snatch your hand back. “Thank you,” he tells you in that same infuriating (and now, you have to admit it) yet attractive tone. You huff at him. “Keep your teeth away from my fingers,” you bite back, though you’re smiling.
All the way back to the hotel, sharing the vanilla and the blueberry-lemon scone, all the way back to where he walks you to your room (and only then hands you the book tote), and even as you flop into bed, still wearing his jacket, you’re still grinning like an idiot. That? That had to be a date.
Right?
𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘺: BOOKSTORE DATE BOOKSTORE DATE i KNOW all of yall on here want ts frfr </3 anyway ENJOY DARLINGS I HAD TOO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS
Logan Howlett x GN!Reader where the reader is a somewhat introverted person that has a passion for drawing, and when Logan asks to see one of their drawings, the reader shows them a drawing of a Wolverine (the animal :3)??
Author’s Note: Okay this is probably one of the CUTEST requests I have ever gotten! I’m also an introverted artist, so this might be somewhat self indulgent… Anyway! Thank you so, so much for the idea anon! I love it <3
New Tag List Sign-Up!
CONTENT WARNINGS: Reader is able-bodied, Reader is pretty shy but not excessively, Logan drives a truck instead of a motorcycle in this fic, use of the pet names bub and darling, speeding in a car (no harmful intent/consequences).
Logan knocks on the doorframe with a soft smile on his face. “Hey, bub,” he greets before jingling his car keys and raising a brow. “Wanna head to the book store with me? I don’t got anything else to do today. I thought it’d be nice to take you out somewhere,” he proposes in a knowing tone. You nod your head yes—of course you agree to go! He’s known you too well for too long. You raise your eyebrows and let out a low whistle before turning to your bedside table. “Let me grab something really quick,” you tell him. He hums in acknowledgment while walking away from the door. “I’ll go get the truck started. The weather out there isn’t the best right now,” he calls out to you before the door shuts behind him. You’re quick to pick up your bag and pack it with whatever you need, including your sketchbook and some materials to draw. You smile to yourself as you get an idea of what to draw while you and Logan relax at the bookstore. You zip up your bag and walk down the hall, then outside to Logan’s truck.
“Got everything?” he asks. You nod your head and mumble a soft “yep,” the hum of the engine almost silencing your voice. Logan pulls the stick and reverses the vehicle while looking over his shoulder. You snicker, and the man groans. “What’s so funny? Did I do somethin’ stupid?” he questions while shifting to drive. You shake your head while covering your mouth. “You always look behind you when you pull out as if anyone lives close to us,” you explain in a half-sigh, half-laugh. Logan chuckles softly as he begins to make his way to the bookstore. “Pfft. Alright. I’m just trying to make sure I don’t hit any trees. This baby might be paid off, but I plan on keeping her as long as I can,” he tells you. You exhale deeply as you cross your arms to your chest.
After a few minutes of somewhat awkward silence, you state the obvious: “It’s way too quiet in here.” Logan hums in agreement as he gently taps the leather of the steering wheel. You pick up your bag from the floor of the truck, unzip it, and pull out your small CD holder. “I’ve got a few burned CDs with our favorite songs. What are you in the mood for?” you ask sweetly. The mutant looks at you and shakes his head before focusing his attention on the road once more. “Oh, please. You should know this by now,” he teases. You roll your eyes at him and pick the one that has “LOGAN’S ‘DAD’ ROCK” written in sharpie. You put it in the player and go through the songs before he pushes your hand away. “Ah, ah. No. We’re listening to this,” he states in a slightly stern tone. It’s one of his favorite songs that you catch him singing or humming while you make dinner for him: Self Esteem by The Offspring. You lift your hands up to your chest in defense while widening your eyes. “Alright, old man. We’ll listen to it,” you groan despite enjoying the song yourself. You and Logan both get into the lyrics and find yourself relishing in the moment. The windows are down, he’s driving almost 10 over with barely any other cars on the road, the music is blasting, and the wind in your face feels so amazing.
Eventually the two of you arrive at the large bookstore. You pop the CD out of the player and put it back in the case as Logan parks and turns off the truck. He walks over to the passenger side and opens the door for you as you finish zipping up your bag. “Thank you, kind sir,” you say in a fancy accent. He smiles at you as you take his hand to step out. “But of course, darling,” he says in an equal manner. The two of you share a snicker before approaching the double doors of the bookstore. You’re both hit with the memory-filled atmosphere of the shop; the scent of wood, carpet, and fresh paper, the soft chatter scattered around, and the sound of clinking dishes at the café. Logan releases a deep sigh before his eyes set on you. “I’ve got a bit of extra money,” he says in a bit of a whisper. You look at him with a wide smile, grabbing onto his hand tightly as he walks with you towards the café. “How ‘bout you go find us a spot, bub?” he asks as the both of you enter the line. You nod softly while turning to go find somewhere to sit. You look around carefully, anxiously sticking to Logan’s side until you find a cozy corner area. Once your gaze settles on it, you make a plan in your head on how to get there without moving behind people, tripping, or being in someone’s way. You carefully make your way over and sit down. Logan looks over at you and shoots you a half smirk as you give him a thumbs up.
About five minutes later, your scruffy partner comes over holding a sweet treat in two waxy-looking brown bags. “Got us a little treat. Hope ya’ like it,” he says. He sits next to you and sets your bag in front of you before opening his own. He got the two of you delicious, glazed croissants. You guys have been getting them for the longest time, despite Logan saying he’ll surprise you with whatever he orders for you. You look at him and smile sweetly. “Awe! Thank you, Logan. I really do appreciate when you get me sweet things like this,” you slightly ramble. He hums in acknowledgment before lifting your hand to kiss it, causing you to blush. He chuckled as he felt your flesh warm and saw the way you froze up.
Once the croissants were long gone and thoroughly enjoyed, Logan sat next to you while scrolling through his phone. You, on the other hand, were drawing a little something for your partner. You hummed softly as your pencil skipped across the page to create a picture. Logan raised his brow suspiciously upon seeing your goofy smile. “What’re you drawin’ there, bub?” he asks as he sets his phone on the table. You shrug and chuckle softly. “It’s nothing! I promise,” you tell him shyly. He doesn’t falter and tilts your sketchbook down. “Let me see this,” he mumbles as he looks down at it. “What is that thing?” he asks with furrowed brows. His eyes look to you in search of an answer, and you fidget with your hands. “It’s a—a wolverine,” you whisper. He fixes his posture before wrapping an arm around you, pulling you closer, and kissing the top of your head. “I love it, bub,” he whispers in return. You blush once again as he displays his affection for you in the comfy corner of the café.
I wish some handsome individual would take me out on dates to get coffee and roam around used bookstores to look for old copies of our favorite books and albums to trade so we could listen to each other's favorite music while we're apart.
