#mv1 fic

[innarei17]

Max Emilian Verstappen

Born: September 30, 1997

Nationality: Dutch/Belgian

Location: depends on the F1 calendar

Personality: stubborn, competetive, protective

Dream: Formula 1 World Champion Title

✏️ «I knew it, I knew you»

📖 wattpadd and ao3

Wet lashes. Flushed cheeks. The slight tremble in her chin as she fights to keep herself together. "You hurt me." There's no accusation left

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[oddlydescriptive]

babe wake up new Max Verstappen in normal clothes just dropped

[vroomvroomvroom33]

Second is Losing - MV1

🏎 Max Verstappen x Alexandra Otto !figure skater Lando Norris!ex Previous I Next 🏎

Alexandra Otto learned early that love without loyalty is just noise. 

A Russian figure skater forged by ruthless discipline and grace under pressure. Alexandra gave years of her life to Lando Norris —only to discover that his idea of partnership never extended beyond convenience. Specifically... his convenience. 

He missed her competitions to party. Skipped watching her skate to drink with friends. Left her messages unanswered for days, achievements unacknowledged, victories uncelebrated. While she chased perfection on ice, he chased attention wherever it was loudest.

The relationship didn't explode. It withered. It died slowly. And Lando Norris never once noticed. 

So, when Alexandra discovered he had been cheating, she didn't scream. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She walked—cleanly, quietly—because by then, the love had already been dead. Fame hadn't changed Lando. It had simply revealed him. 

Showed to her that she wasn't worth it to him. That all that mattered was his fast cars, dressed in papaya, and how the world saw him and his fan girls saw him. That she didn't matter unless she was on his arm in the paddock smiling and looking pretty. 

🏎

Jonathan Otto, Alexandra's older brother and one of Red Bull's head engineers worked closely with Max Verstappen, and he had never approved of Lando Norris. Too careless. Too free. Too addicted to the party and the praise. Something that his sister was often against. He knew his sister—knew her ice, her focus, what she wanted—and he always believed she would end up with someone cut from a similar cloth. Someone who was more like her. 

Someone grounded. Someone relentless. Someone who understood how her mind worked. Someone like Max.

Through Jonathan, Formula One became Alexandra's second world. Her home away from the ice. The paddock felt familiar, almost intimate. She was never far from the garage—watching her brother work, absorbing the rhythm of race weekends, existing in the charged silence before lights out. 

And when Alexandra competed, Jonathan returned the loyalty: streaming her performances from the pit wall, surrounded by mechanics and engineers who watched, cheered, and respected her commitment. In a world obsessed with speed, she earned their admiration through precision, through her being perfect.

Max Verstappen and Alexandra Otto found each other in the margins—between pressure and expectation, between obsession and control. They spoke the same language without trying. 

Winning wasn't a hope; it was a requirement. Second place wasn't respectable—it was failure. Neither of them softened that truth. Neither of them needed to.

She was often in Max's garage. Calm. Observant. Unmoved by spectacle.

And he noticed everything.

Old histories linger in Formula One, and Lando's past with Alexandra is far from forgotten. Regret, jealousy, and unfinished tension simmer beneath the surface as she steps back into a world that once failed her—this time on her own terms.

Because Alexandra Otto no longer chased validation of a man. Instead she choose to chase Olympic goal. 

🏎

Max Verstappen had never believed in noise.

Not in love.

Not in people.

Not in anything that mattered.

The only thing that mattered was wining and racing. Winning was simple. You either won or you didn't. You either showed up or you failed. There was no room for confusion, no patience for excuses. Second place wasn't second to him. Second was losing. 

That was why Alexandra Otto made sense to him almost immediately.

She didn't perform for attention.

She didn't orbit the paddock hoping to be seen.

She didn't soften herself to fit anyone else's narrative.

A Russian figure skater built on discipline and pressure. Alexandra carried the kind of quiet intensity Max recognized instantly—the kind that comes from knowing that perfection is earned in isolation, not applauded into existence. She understood that excellence is lonely. That sacrifice is non-negotiable.

Max had known about Lando. Everyone had. But knowing of something and understanding it were different things.

Alexandra had given herself to someone who didn't understand loyalty. Who didn't understand her. Someone who skipped her competitions to chase parties. Who ignored her victories because they didn't benefit him. While she chased flawless execution on ice, he chased validation in rooms full of noise.

Max and Alexandra always kept in touch. Small messages. Little notes. They understood each other because of how they thought and how they reacted to losing. 

He understood her and she understood him.

🏎

Gianpiero Lambiase had seen many versions of Max Verstappen.

The prodigy.

The fighter.

The loser.

The winner. 

What he wanted most for Max, though, had nothing to do with lap times or trophies. GP wanted him to find someone who understood the cost of winning. Someone who didn't need the spotlight, who wouldn't flinch at his obsession racing.. to winning. Who knew that excellence demands sacrifice and that second place is simply another word for failure.

Someone like him.

GP didn't want Max to change with love but instead wanted him to find someone who understood him, someone who he could talk to that wasn't always in the garage and around the noice. Someone who had their foot in the racing world but not so much to where their world revolved around it. 

GP had watched Max grow up inside pressure—engine noise instead of lullabies, expectation instead of comfort. At this point he had been Max's race engineer for two years, and was moving into his third season and he liked to think that he understood max.

He knew how isolating that kind of focus could be. Love, in that world, couldn't be soft or loud or needy. It had to be steady. Loyal. Uncompromising.

That was why GP noticed Alexandra Otto immediately.

She didn't chase the paddock.

She didn't linger for attention.

She didn't bend herself to fit the spectacle.

A Russian figure skater carved from discipline and restraint, Alexandra carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who understood what it meant to dedicate your entire life to being perfect for a few fleeting minutes. She spoke Max's language fluently—precision, accountability, hunger. No excuses. No dramatics.

GP also knew that she had a boyfriend. Lando. GP like most people didn't think that the relationship would last more than a few months. That it was only a silly teenage relationship. 

He had watched from a distance as Alexandra gave herself to a relationship that never truly met her halfway. Lando skipped her competitions to party. Missed her triumphs entirely. Let her victories pass without acknowledgment while he chased applause wherever it was loudest. She skated for perfection; he performed for validation.

GP saw the way that Max and Alexandra interacted.

They challenged each other without ego. Understood that love, like racing, only works when both people show up fully committed. That loyalty isn't optional. That winning demands presence.

GP had watched Max in many moments of triumph, but some of the quietest ones mattered most—the ones where Alexandra sat nearby, unintrusive, observant, entirely herself. No performance. No façade.

Just someone who belonged.

And for the first time, GP believed that Max might have found not just a partner—but an equal. Someone who understood how he thought and how he fought.  🏎

Lando Norris had always believed love would wait for him.

Wait while he raced.

Wait while he partied.

Wait while the world told him he was special. That he was the next big thing. 

Oh, how he was so wrong. 

Alexandra Otto did wait. Longer than she should have.

She showed up for him in quiet ways he barely noticed—watching races, rearranging her schedule, cheering from the edges of his world. And in return, he missed her competitions to go out with friends. Skipped watching her skate to drink and laugh and feel wanted. Let days pass without calling, without texting, without acknowledging what she had achieved.

While Alexandra chased perfection on ice, he chased attention wherever it was loudest.

He told himself it wasn't intentional. That he was busy. That Formula One was overwhelming. That there would be time later.

There wasn't.

The relationship didn't explode.

It decayed.

Slowly. Quietly. In moments he didn't think mattered—until they were all that mattered.

When Alexandra found out about the cheating, she didn't scream. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She didn't even ask why. She walked away with a calm that should have terrified him more than anger ever could. She knew better. 

By then, the love had already been dead.

Fame hadn't changed Lando. It had exposed him. Exposed that he only valued Alexandra when she fit neatly into his image—on his arm in the paddock, smiling for cameras, making him look settled and adored. She mattered when she was convenient. When she was quiet. When she didn't ask for more.

And Alexandra Otto had always deserved more.

Sitting alone in the apartment she'd emptied in a single night, Lando finally understood what he'd done. The parties felt hollow. The attention meaningless. The silence unbearable.

🏎

[annaswritess]

Mistletoe Kisses - Max Verstappen

Summary - A night of wine, warm lights, and relentless teasing turns a long-standing rivalry into something far more dangerous once the party quiets and the mistletoe does its work. (frenemies to lovers) Warnings - suggestive (1.7k words)

Song Choice - Sienna - The Marías

my winter series

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The apartment glows.

Warm light spills from every corner, soft gold threaded with red and green reflections from ornaments hung far too carefully to be casual. Pine clings to the air sharp and clean beneath the sweeter smell of mulled wine and something baking in the oven. Laughter drifts lazily through the room rising and falling like music no one is really listening to.

It is a perfect Christmas party. Too perfect. Which is how you know something is bound to go wrong.

You feel him before you see him.

That awareness settles low and familiar like a stone dropped into water. Heavy. Immediate. Unavoidable. Max Verstappen stands near the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around a glass the other resting against the counter like he owns the space by default. Relaxed in that infuriating way that makes it look like nothing ever rattles him.

You roll your eyes without thinking.

Of course he’s here.

You have known Max for years through mutual friends, shared dinners, crowded after parties, and through endless group chats where he never uses more words than necessary. You have always clashed. Dry remarks sharp smiles banter that never quite crosses into mean but always skirts the edge. Your friends find it endlessly entertaining.

You find it exhausting.

Someone presses a warm mug into your hands before you can retreat. You thank them absently, fingers curling around the ceramic. Cinnamon and citrus rise with the steam. You take a sip to ground yourself and immediately regret it. Strong. Too strong.

Perfect.

Max glances over at the exact moment you look up. His gaze locks onto yours and something flickers there recognition amusement something else he would never name. His mouth curves slightly, not a smile exactly but close enough to feel like a challenge.

You lift your mug in a mock salute.

He inclines his head just enough to acknowledge it.

God. Insufferable.

The night unfolds slowly. People drift in and out of conversations, music hums low beneath the sound of clinking glasses and quiet laughter. Outside snow drifts past the windows thick and unhurried softening the world into something unreal. Inside it grows warmer and louder.

You do your best to keep your distance. You talk with friends, curl into the corner of the couch, kick your boots off, and let the heat sink into your bones. Still you feel him everywhere. The way the air seems to shift when he moves the weight of his presence sliding closer without touching.

Eventually it’s inevitable.

You reach for the wine bottle at the same time he does.

Your fingers brush.

It is barely there but it sends a spark straight up your arm sharp enough to make you inhale. He stills. Looks down at your hand then back to your face.

“Careful. Haven’t you hit your limit for the night,” he says lightly.

You snort. “You wish.”

He huffs a laugh and pulls the bottle back holding it just out of reach.

You step closer without thinking, eyes narrowing. You are enjoying this far too much.

His mouth twitches.

You take the bottle from him anyway. Your shoulder brushes his chest as you do and the contact lingers half a second longer than necessary. His warmth sinks into you slow and undeniable.

You pour the wine with more force than needed.

He raises his glass. “To Christmas miracles.”

You scoff. “Keep dreaming.”

Someone laughs nearby, clearly invested in whatever silent war is playing out between you. You turn away before Max can reply heart thudding harder than it should.

Later the lights dim slightly. Someone has turned the overheads off leaving only lamps and fairy lights glowing softly. A strand of mistletoe hangs crooked in the doorway between the living room and hall clearly placed there with intention.

Your friends are not subtle people.

You notice it far too late.

You step beneath it without looking up and immediately hear the chorus of delighted gasps and teasing voices. “Oh look at that someone sings.”

You groan already knowing.

Max steps into the doorway from the other side and stops short when he sees you. His eyes flick upward then back to you, brows lifting.

“Well,” he says.

“This is ridiculous," you mutter.

Your friends are merciless. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Max tilts his head, studying you like he’s deciding something. “Relax,” he says. “It is tradition.”

You cross your arms. “I do not kiss people I don’t like.”

“That is a shame,” his reply is monotone.

You should push past him. You know you should. Instead you stay rooted to the spot pulse loud in your ears. The space between you feels charged thick with heat and something unsaid.

The chanting grows louder.

Max leans in just enough that only you can hear him. “We can fake it. Let’s shut them up,” he breathes into your ear. Eyes flicking past your shoulders to your friends.

You laugh quietly. “You would enjoy that wouldn’t you.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.

“Maybe.”

That does it.

You step forward, grab the collar of his sweater and pull him down.

The kiss is not gentle.

It is brief, sharp, all heat and surprise. Your lips collide and for a moment. The room disappears, the noise fades, and it is just the press of his mouth against yours and the sudden dizzy rush of what the hell are you doing.

Then it is over.

You pull back first. Breath unsteady. Heart racing. The room erupts in cheers and laughter as someone wolf whistles.

You avoid looking at him.

When you finally do, his expression has shifted. The easy amusement is gone - replaced by something darker and more intent. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw tight.

He clears his throat. 

“Right,” he says softly.

“Right,” you echo.

You escape down the hall before anyone can say another word.

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You end up in the kitchen leaning against the counter staring at nothing. Your lips still tingle. Your skin feels too tight. Like you have been wound up and left spinning.

You hear footsteps behind you.

“I thought you might run,” he says quietly.

You do not turn. “I did not run.”

“You absolutely did.”

You face him then. Eyes sharp. “And you followed.”

Something like a smile ghosts across his mouth. “I always do.”

The kitchen is dim, only the light from the tree filtering in through the doorway. Snow taps softly against the window. The party feels far away now - muffled and distant.

You take a breath. “This was a mistake.”

Max steps closer. “Maybe.”

You glare at him. “Do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Do not look at me like that.”

He stops inches away. “Like what.”

“Like you are about to say something dangerous.”

He studies you for a long moment then exhales slowly. “I am tired of pretending we do not circle each other every time we are in the same room.”

Your stomach flips. “That is ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“We annoy each other.”

“Also yes.” He pushes a piece of hair behind your ears. 

“That is not exactly romantic Max,” you look up at him, blushing.

His mouth curves faintly. “It can be.”

The words settle between you heavy and warm. You think of every look held too long, every remark sharpened just enough to hide something softer beneath it. You think of the way his kiss felt sure. Real.

You whisper. “This is a bad idea.”

He nods. “Probably”

You step closer anyway.

This time the kiss is slower.

Max cups your face with one hand thumb brushing your jaw with surprising tenderness. His mouth moves against yours unhurried deliberate like he has been waiting for this exact moment. You melt into it before you can stop yourself fingers curling into his sweater anchoring him there.

Heat builds low and steady. His hand slides to your waist and pulls you flush against him. You feel his breath hitch when you press closer - the reaction subtle but unmistakable.

When you break apart you rest your forehead against his breathing hard. The world feels soft around the edges, dizzy, and bright.

“We should not do this here,” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “You started it.”

“True.”

He kisses you again just once brief and lingering then steps back. “Come with me.”

“Where.”

“Somewhere quieter.”

You hesitate only a second before nodding.

You slip into the spare bedroom, closing the door softly behind you. It is warm dim fairy lights draped across the headboard casting soft shadows across the walls. The sounds of the party fade into a low hum.

Max watches you like he is memorizing the moment. He reaches out and brushes his thumb along your wrist slow and grounding.

“You always look at me like you are bracing for impact,” he says.

You shrug. “You hit hard.”

He smiles this time real and unguarded. “Only because you never back down.”

He leans in again kissing you deeply this time unrestrained. You respond without hesitation, hands roaming feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the fabric. His hands slide up your back thumbs pressing into your spine like he is trying to steady himself.

The kisses grow heavier slower mouths lingering breath mingling. He presses you gently against the dresser, one hand braced beside you, the other resting at your hip grounding but possessive.

“Max,” You murmur.

He pauses, eyes dark. “Say stop and I will.”

You shake your head and pull him back in.

Outside, snow continues to fall soft and endless. Time stretches, slows, and bends around the sound of your breathing and the feel of him close and strong.

Eventually you pull back laughing softly. “Our friends are going to lose their minds.”

He smiles against your cheek. “Let them.”

You lean into him, contentment settling warm and surprising in your chest. For once there is no sharp edge, no need to spar. Just the quiet understanding that something has shifted.

You glance toward the door. “Mistletoe everywhere,” you say.

He chuckles low. “We will survive.”

You tilt your head looking up at him.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. 

You smile into his chest. “Merry Christmas Max.”

He holds you a little tighter. “Merry Christmas.”

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[gr4cier4cie]

"come pick up your clothes, i have them folded."

or: a one-night stands leaves you stumbling home from an unknown apartment with your heart in your throat. you swore you weren't that kind of person, but there was something about him. something... special. and only when he texts you the next day do you realize exactly who is it. fem!journalist!reader x max verstappen warnings: SMUT. INSANE DARK SMUT. dominant!max, submissive!reader, FLASHBACK SMUT. awkward/darker tension because obviously!! thank you guys for staying w me while i activate and deactivate :( i love you all!!

♡

you don’t realize your shoes are on the wrong feet until you’re three blocks from the building. (it tracks. you’re not exactly making stellar choices this morning.)

the hoodie isn’t yours. it swallows your hands and smells like something expensive you don’t recognize—clean, sharp, a citrus bite you’ll remember later when you’re trying to fall asleep (like his teeth on your neck, you remember, you swear you remember).

you’ve done the walk of shame before, but not like this. not with your pulse trying to jump out of your throat. (he was in the shower when you left. you didn't want to see his face.)

you swore you weren’t this person. you didn't do one-night stands. you didn't get drunk off tequila that cost more than your salary. you didn't let the man across the bar pick up your tab. and you didn't go home with him.

your phone buzzes as you pass a florist setting buckets of tulips on the sidewalk. you don’t look.

(not at first.)

you let the vibration settle, spurring a fresh wave of nausea. buzz. buzz. buzz. three consecutive texts. fine.

come pick up your clothes. i have them folded. you left in a hurry. should've asked me to call you a car.

you stop dead in front of a window full of wedding cakes and ironically laugh—one short, ugly sound that fogs the glass. there's a couple inside, pointing at the sixteen-inch red velvet. you want to throw up.

the number isn’t saved, because why would it be? it's not like you were expecting him. there's no name next to the contact. no photo, either. your fingers shake as you type three letters and delete them. your reflection stares back at you from the window. (there's mascara smudged under your eyes, and a sneaky shot of electricity goes down your spine as you realize there's a purplish bruise right under your jaw.)

you switch to your camera roll. there’s a photo from last night you didn’t mean to take—your manicured hand on a marble countertop, his wristwatch in the corner, out of focus. black face, steel bracelet. you tap the time stamp like it’ll tell you something useful. 1:07 am. your brain does the slow crawl of connecting dots it should’ve connected twelve hours ago. the apartment building (too nice). the elevator (keyed access). the watch (oh god, his hand had been around your throat—). the magazine-catalog bedroom.

the citrus bite catches in your nose again.

you switch back to messages, holding your breath.

i'm really sorry i really wasn't expecting last night could we just pretend it never happened?

you resist the urge to empty the contents of your stomach on the street when bubbles emerge.

do you remember who i am?

he doesn’t send a name. of course he doesn’t. he's going to make you ask. (he likes that. making you squirm.) you take the bait, responding within seconds.

who are you?

he doesn't respond to that. instead, he says:

you also left your earrings in the bowl by the door.

your free hand lifts, grazing the end of each earlobe. bare. you swallow. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. you could ignore him. you could block the number. you could go home, shower until your skin feels new, and pretend the last ten hours didn’t happen.

you open your email just to have something to do with your hands.

your editor's name greets you first. the subject line (ASSIGNMENT: Red Bull feature: season open) makes your head spin.

he included a list of due dates, bullet points, interview targets. a note at the bottom: we’ll try for on-the-record with MV if PR allows—play it straight, keep your distance, you know the drill.

you reread those two letters like they’re not a full person. like they’re not a face on every screen, a set of stats you could recite half-asleep. his fastest lap time, his season points, his grand prix wins.

your phone buzzes again.

did you make it home?

you swallow thickly.

i can't come back i have work

you pause, because your hands won’t stop shaking. you lean your forehead against the cool glass. on the other side of it, a woman in a hairnet places sugar flowers along the edge of a tiered cake with steady hands. you want to break something. you want to sink into the ground. you want his fingers in your mouth and his tongue doing that thing against your neck—

his response is short.

what do you do?

you could lie. you don’t.

i'm a journalist

a beat passes.

for what exactly?

your heart slams so hard you feel it in your teeth.

sports

longer beat. then:

motorsport?

you picture last night. the quiet, assessing way he listened like he was cataloguing you, like he’d separate you into sectors and hunt blood in each one. the way you didn’t ask a single real question because you didn’t want to hear a real answer. then again, you weren't exactly focused on finding answers.

there had been one thing you wanted. (you'd gotten it.)

you don’t respond immediately. you open a new tab and type max verstappen watch into the engine like a lunatic. you don’t even have cell data turned on for safari because you’re trying not to blow your whole paycheck, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of the city sidewalk wondering if a watch worth your entire life had been pressed to your neck last night. the page buffers, then loads.

the logo in the pictures matches the blur in your photo. your heart snowballs into your stomach.

you type, delete, type again. then:

how did you know?

he's quick with his response.

you know how.

you let your head hit the glass very gently. okay. there it is. no denial left to hide in. you slept with max verstappen last night, and you liked it, and now his number is in your phone. your assignment's number is in your phone.

and he folded your clothes.

did you really fold my clothes?

you imagine him laughing.

of course i did. you were in a hurry, evidently.

(a mercy. or an insult. you can’t tell which.)

you shake your head as if he can see you.

i can’t come back now

when?

you stare at the blinking cursor like it’s a live wire. your editor’s email sits in your skull like a loaded gun. keep your distance. you lock your phone, then unlock it. lock. unlock.

your phone lights up again before you can decide.

come back tonight. i'll be expecting you.

♡

you're late to your first meeting of the day. you don’t usually get nervous on calls, but when the red bull comms coordinator joins the zoom, your throat closes just as suddenly as your editor rushes to introduce you. you mute yourself, try to even out your breathing as the PR voice reigns bright and flat in your headphones. media windows, no personal questions, keep to racing topics, we’ll let you know about one-on-ones.

"and max's availability?" your editor asks, and you want to bury yourself under the track to keep from hearing that name ever again.

"ten minutes after FP2 if the run plan allows. no promises. and please submit your topics in advance."

you hear your voice like it belongs to someone else. "understood."

the black screen you're left with after you hang up highlights the bareness at your earlobes, the tiredness lingering in the subtle shift of your shoulders. you stare at your reflection in silence, wondering about the state of your earrings, in a bowl by some stranger's front door. (but he's not a stranger. stop saying that.)

you open the document you'd been working on: RB – SEASON OPENER – DRAFT 1. you always write the boring sentences first. car looks planted. long run pace. tire deg. your fingers find autopilot the way they always do. your brain keeps slipping—back to the countertop, the watch, the hand braced beside your hip when you said you should go and didn’t move.

the way he didn’t crowd you. the way you wanted him to. the way his hands lingered in your hair, the way he leaned in to smell the perfume you'd dotted on the column of your neck. the way your eyes had rolled back in your head when he'd moaned.

you last twenty-four minutes before you retrieve your phone.

can i come by at 7?

there is relief in your exhale when he responds.

i’ll have the door open.

you should say no. you should say, leave them with the doorman. you should say nothing at all. the best you can manage is:

thank you

i didn’t do it to be thanked.

you don't ask what he did it for.

♡

the paddock smells like rubber and sunscreen and coffee that’s been burned since dawn. it’s louder than you want it to be (and you’re too aware of your own hands. nothing fits right in them anymore).

you flash your pass, and you're in. (but not even ten seconds later, you feel him. not touch—just awareness. that small tilt in the air, the way everyone else orbits without meaning to. you feel sick. you're wet. you're wearing lace panties. you wish you didn't know why.)

you focus on your job. you ask a mechanics lead about updates. you record quotes. you smile, and wave, and ask your coworker about his new baby. your editor texts a thumbs-up when the comms girl waves you into a scrum. ten minutes or less, she says. you stand where you always stand: second row, third person from the left, recorder angled up. his cap blocks his eyes for the first few answers. neutral. efficient. he says the usual things in the usual tone.

then he looks at you.

not a double-take. not a scene. just a direct, unblinking look that pins you to the asphalt. you feel it in your spine. he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t look away. he answers the next question like you’re not there and like you’re the only person there. (stop looking at me, says the angel on your right shoulder. keep looking at me, says the devil on your left.)

a gap opens. nobody jumps on it. you do.

"you said after testing the car feels 'predictable,'" you start, steady. “isn’t predictability exactly what kills adaptability in race trim?”

(your editor will love this. you love this. max, however, looks like he wants to shove his fingers down your throat.)

the cap tips a fraction. "depends who’s driving it." his voice is low. clear. you want to strangle him.

"that would be you," you respond.

"yes, it would be."

"so what do you think?"

the corner of his mouth twitches. "i think i make the car do what i want." the group laughs politely, eyes darting between the two of you. you don’t join them. you can’t look away. (were his eyes always this blue? was his hair always this gold?)

PR thanks everyone, calls it. six minutes, fifty-three seconds.

your phone buzzes before you’ve even stepped aside.

nice to see you again. in daylight.

♡

you tell yourself you’re only going for your clothes. nothing else.

you tell yourself that again in the elevator, watching the numbers climb—17, 18, 19, 20. your heart overpowers the chime of each floor: you still haven’t changed out of the paddock clothes, press badge clipped to your lanyard, hair stiff from sun and lazily-applied dry shampoo. the irony isn’t lost on you; this is your job, and you’re walking straight into its worst complication.

the hallway is quiet, carpet soft enough to swallow your shoes. his door is already cracked open, just like he said. (like he'd promised. you give yourself a moment to collect your shaking breath, finding that even your hands mirrored the shattering quiver of your diaphragm.)

he’s at the counter when you step inside, henley sleeves pushed to his elbows, glass of water sweating onto the marble. same watch. no cap this time.

"hi," you manage.

"you’re late." no smile. not unkind, either. just fact.

"traffic," you lie. (you're getting good at it, the lying.)

he nods once, tilts his chin toward the folded pile on the leather sectional: wine-red dress, lace tights, your bra laid in half on top, neat as origami. the sight is obscene in its politeness. you stiffen, deepening each breath that enters your lungs.

you cross the room, shove the bundle into your tote. (you're going to burn these clothes later.) "guess that’s it, then."

"guess so." he leans back against the counter. it would take you five steps to be right in front of him, to lean up and nip at the junction between his neck and jaw. to have your lips be exactly where you want them to be even though it's the worst idea you've ever had—

"you ask good questions."

(you wish he'd just let you leave, because every word that comes out of his mouth pushes you closer and closer to a bad decision.) "that's your professional feedback?"

"it’s my personal one."

you turn too quickly, pulse scraping your ribs. your shoes squeak as they drag across the floor. "well, i try not to mix the two."

his mouth twitches again, that terrible half-smile that never reaches his eyes. you want to bite it. "uou already did."

the air goes thinner, if that's even possible. he takes one step off the counter, then two. not threatening. deliberate. like everything he does. like how he drives, like how he kisses, like how he fucks. you should walk away. instead, you let him come close enough that you can count the flecks of green in his irises. (one, two, three—)

"i'm serious about my job," you say. it sounds smaller than you meant.

"i know that." you never realized just how soft his voice goes when he speaks to you. like he's coaxing a spooked animal. "i do."

"okay," you whisper, and you swear his eyes flutter. "that's good."

he’s so close the air tastes like his cologne, the same sharp citrus that’s been living in your lungs all day. he reaches out, and for a beautiful second, you think he’s going to touch you. he doesn’t. his fingers stop an inch from your shoulder, flexing like he’s arguing with himself. (don't do it, you tell yourself. don't lean in. don't, don't, don't.)

then his hand makes a detour, and presses to the bruise under your jaw.

you go catatonic. his thumb stays there, a light pressure against the skin he left marked. recollection comes into his face at the same time it does into yours, vivid images of the night before testing the space between you. you forget how to breathe for a whole second, and when you finally exhale, he watches the column of your neck expand with it.

"does it hurt?" (he's clinical with it, but you know better.)

you shake your head. "not really."

he hums, thumb moving once, slow, like he’s making sense of your answer. making sense of you. "you didn't cover it earlier."

you wince. "rough morning."

"yeah?" he clicks his tongue. "wonder why."

you bristle. "i can handle myself."

“i know.” his breath catches on your collarbone. "you did last night, too."

(his hands on your hips, rough and sure, steering you backward until your spine hit the wall. the shock of cold plaster, his dominant huff of laughter against your throat. his fingers sliding under the strap of your dress, under your bra, under your panties. the wet drag of his mouth down your jaw. the ache crawling up your throat as he pressed his fingers to it, muffling the wet sound of your mouth making room for him. he wasn't even halfway down and you were already choking on it, "poor girl—")

you blink hard and the image is gone. except it isn’t. he’s still there, watching your pupils flicker, watching your breaths shallow. his gaze drops—once, twice—to your mouth, remembering what it felt like. what it could still feel like, if he just... came closer. the thought hits you so hard you nearly sway.

"you should go," he says finally. it's almost kind. almost. his hand drops, and you resist the urge to whimper. he’s still close enough that you can see your reflection in his eyes—wanting. waiting. how easy it must have been for him to have you back here. how easy it must have been to make you want him.

(you just can't help yourself.)

he steps back first. (of course he does.) the space he leaves behind is cold, buzzing with everything unsaid. "good luck with the article."

you freeze. "that’s the job," you suddenly feel the need to clarify. "it’s not personal."

he exhales through his nose, half-smile cutting deeper lines into his cheek. "everything with you feels personal."

you shake your head, insistent. "it doesn’t have to."

"no," he says, voice low. "but it already does."

♡

the club lights strobe hard enough to sear your retinas, all blue and green and acid pink, hundreds of bodies pressed too close, someone’s elbow digging into your ribs. you really shouldn’t have come out: you’re on your third drink and the second occurrence of your left shoe in some ancient, sticky patch on the floor.

but it was better than sitting at home staring at your empty document. you'd gotten three sentences in this morning before excusing yourself to take a forty-five minute, ice-cold shower. which, in your opinion, did nothing to quell the breathtaking urge you had to march right over to max's apartment and slap him in the face.

(and then kiss him. in that order.)

you make an excuse to your friend ("i gotta pee, gimme a second") and escape to the bathroom. the thick bass from outside punches through the walls, fluorescent bulbs flickering just in time to catch you ugly—cheeks splotchy, mouth bitten raw, mascara wet and smudged under your eyes. (no surprise after the week you've had.)

you drop your bag sideways onto the counter beside the sink, and everything inside spills: lipstick, phone, crumpled receipt, those damned silver hoops. you curse under your breath, dragging a hand down your face so hard you nearly scrape mascara onto your chin. you're tempted to burn it. you're tempted to scream. how the things you wish you could do haunted you.

the burning in your throat is a warning: do not text him, do not let him see you like this, sweating out the ghost of his hands.

you open his thread anyway. type:

are you awake

(delete)

where are you

(delete)

come get me

(delete)

god. have some pride. have some self-respect. of course you get dicked down once and can't function for the rest of eternity. of course he's out there fucking god knows who, god knows when—your inner monologue is rudely interrupted when the door swings open, then falls shut. you glare at yourself in the mirror, and there’s no max there. just you. just you, and this viscous want swirling in your irises like a taunt.

your phone throbs in your hand. you don’t think—you haven’t been all night—and before you know it you’re pressing the 'call' button beside his number, pressing the speaker to your ear so hard it aches.

it rings. and rings. and rings.

(you should hang up. you never should have called.)

but he picks up.

fifteen fucking seconds later, he picks up.

static breath, then: "hello?"

your whole body locks, frozen from the neck down. you almost hiccup, swallow a sound that might be a sob, might be laughter, might be his name. you have absolutely nothing to say. you have everything to say.

"hello?" he says again, voice sleep-rough. you imagine someone else's mouth on his, someone else laying next to him, and almost smash the phone on the cracked ceramic next to your shaking hand. you suck in a breath. now or never.

"i—" your voice catches. "i’m sorry. i shouldn’t—this is really—" a laugh crackles out of your throat, hoarse and broken. "this is really stupid."

he doesn’t laugh in return. (somehow, that’s worse.) "where are you?"

you swallow. "out," you say. "doesn’t matter."

another beat, longer this time. "did something happen?"

your exhale is pathetic. "no—not really. i just—" miss you. want you. need you so bad i can't sleep at night, and when i try, all i do is dream of you, so come back and make me see stars. come back and put me to sleep. come back and just be with me.

he says your name into the receiver, just once, and you nearly melt into the floor. "do you need me to come and get you?"

that certainly gets your attention. "what?"

his breath fuzzes through the line. you picture his fingers tight around his phone and remember what they felt like around your throat. your mind floods with shame, then defiance. "no, i’m—i’m not drunk." a lie, technically. "i’m fine."

there’s barely a pause. "then why are you calling me?"

silence follows. why were you calling him? (because he’s the only thing that’s felt real all week, because no one else even comes close, because you’d risk your pride and your job and every last shred of dignity just to be near him, to maybe—no, not maybe. you’d do anything. anything to have him.)

"i don’t know," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant. "i couldn’t—i couldn’t help it."

even through the phone you know he’s already smiling, that impossible almost-smile that drives you up the wall. you hear him shift with a low rustle, the sheets shuffling as he sits up.

"come over."

“now?” you ask, shocked by how quickly you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"yes, now." he doesn’t tease you for it. the line goes dead before you can respond—you're left standing with your phone slipping out of your sweaty hand, your body a traitorous mess alongside it. shame settles sweet at the base of your neck as you stumble out of the bathroom, shuffling toward the exit sign blaring warning-red. you want to blame the vodka, the week, your own lack of willpower, but there’s no point.

there's no one to blame but you.

♡

he's just... there.

you hover inside the doorway, half in and half out, silence stretching between you. max is across the room—back to you, pouring water at the counter like nothing in the world could hurry him. (because he's so damn unhurried, he could care less—)

"come in, at least."

your heart skips. you set a single toe further inside, nerves slicing through your center. your fingers fumble for the lock, the bolt thudding home too loud in the dark. (you wish he'd turn on on a light. you wish he'd look at you.) he doesn’t move. doesn't give any indication that he even knows you're inside his house save for the slight tightness of his fingers around his glass.

"put your bag on the couch." voice flat, a cool command—like you’re interviewing him, not about to fuck him.

you do as he says. the bag drops, leather sighing. your hands hover around your thighs, unsure what to do next. (he's trained you to wait for a command, you realize.)

"shoes too," he says, and his eyes flick up—one glance, blistering. "leave them by the door. you'll track dirt."

you kick them off, sucking in a sharp breath. the floor is cold, nerves raw along the arches of your feet. you tense then relax them, feeling for the cracks in the hardwood. you're barely two steps in when he holds up a hand.

"coat, too." (you could scream. you're not a houseguest, for god's sake—)

"what else do you want me to do?" you lament (to no avail) as you fuss with the buttons of your coat, slipping the fabric off to lay it beside your bag. "come closer? kneel? crawl, even?"

max stills, and for a single second, you regret having said anything at else. he sets the glass down, turns at last—full height, full attention. calm on the surface, of course. he always is. but you know better.

"do you want that?" he asks half-seriously. "kneeling? crawling?"

you huff, righteous all of a sudden. "of course not."

"you had no problem the other night."

you want to slap him. you want to kiss him. "that was different," you snap, arms crossed, chin up. "i was drunk, and you were—"

"what was i?" he cuts in, crossing the room in two slow, deliberate steps. "go on. say it."

beautiful. dangerous. mine, mine, mine. "i-i don't know."

he hums, slow and mean. "i think you do." he takes another step, crowding into your space—not touching you despite the fact that every cell in your body was nearly screaming for him to. you wondered if he could hear the goosebumps emerge on the exposed skin of your arms, the back of your neck, the base of your spine.

"maybe you'd rather leave," max continues, and he could be talking to air with how still you were standing, how slowly you forced yourself to breathe. "maybe you want to fight instead of fuck."

the word lands between you. (so he knows, too. he knows what you want, he knows what you need, and yet, he's making you work for it. a stronger woman would hate him for it.) you glare at him, hope he sees the tremble in your jaw and knows you blame him for it. "yeah. i came all this way to yell at you."

he snorts, mouth ticking. "as expected."

your fists ball at your sides. "you don't know me."

"no." his voice is soft, almost taunting. you could trick yourself into believing the look in his eyes was kindness, sympathy, but you knew exactly where that would lead. you'd traveled this road once—only god knew why you wanted to do it again. "but i want to."

"this is unprofessional," you say to avoid kissing him right then. "a hundred versions of wrong."

"true."

"i just needed my earrings back." you jut your chin, arch your back to stand taller than you are. (it's of no use.) "you didn't need to make it into a thing."

"you're right."

"and—" you inhale when a lock of hair falls across his forehead, train of thought lost. (he needs a haircut. you hope he never gets one. you hope he lets you pull it tonight.) "and you should sit down for a one-on-one with me next week, because my—"

he moves, quick, hand catching your jaw. not hard. not soft, either. his thumb at your cheek, the warmth of his palm sinking into your skin, laced with something mean. "do me a favor," he murmurs, too close. his breath ghosts your lips. "and shut up now."

"don't tell me what to do," you manage, but your voice is barely a whisper. taken. caged.

he leans in, nose brushing yours, and you swear you see stars. "take off your shirt."

(you want to argue. you want to win. you also want to let him fuck you halfway to hell. the choice is easy.)

you tilt forward, balance tipping as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, teeth scraping against his as you pull him towards you, and he grins against your mouth, because he lives for the anger in every slip of your tongue against his, every ugly snarl he muffles with his mouth. he's wearing his watch, the watch, and you shiver when the face meets the underside of your throat.

(he likes that. you know he does.)

one second his hand is on your jaw, the next his other hand is sliding around your waist, dragging you backward until the back of your legs hit the couch. you gasp at the sudden change in height, his palms resting flat on the curve of your hips, pushing you downward, forcing you to stare up at him.

(blue, are his eyes. blue as the ocean, blue as the sky—)

"shirt," he murmurs, almost condescending. "don’t make me say it again."

your fingers tremble, but the lace of your shirt meets the leather of his couch cushions in one pull. (you swear he's categorizing you, then—will you listen? will you fight him? will you make him work for what you both already know you'll give him if he asked?) you barely have time to breathe before he’s lowering himself between your knees, thumb pressed into the delicate 'v' of your trachea. not to cut off your circulation, no, he'd never do that, he likes hearing you talk. (more than he'd like to admit.) your eyes roll back—because you like this. because he remembers what you like.

"no more attitude?" he asks, laugh a broken breath at the back of his throat. "how sad."

"i wasn't giving you attitude," you snap. "you were being a—"

"—polite host." he finishes, mouth meeting your sternum first—open, hot, deliberate. (god, he's doing that thing with his tongue again, that swirling you swear you can feel everywhere.) he's slow enough to make you dizzy, fast enough to make you clench around nothing. (you're so empty, so lonely, so needy, and you're not ashamed, because he's going to fix it, he's going to fix everything—)

his free hand slides up your thigh, slow, almost lazy, until his fingertips find the edge of your skirt. he doesn’t lift it yet. he just toys with the hem, brushing the fabric over your hip. "shaking," he mutters under his breath, a light tsk underscoring your humiliation. "after all that talking."

"i wasn’t—"

"talking?" he arches a brow. "you're right. you were whining. different."

you glare at him, chest rising too fast (too much, too quickly, he's playing with you like a stupid puppet on a string, snap out of it, goddammit). "i wasn’t whining."

"you are now," he says, breath warm against your bare stomach. "poor thing." his knuckles just barely brush between your legs, skimming right over the damp spot he hasn’t even touched properly yet. your exhale leaves you in a rush, unexpected.

"hm," he muses. "all this for me?" you think he's finally going to touch you when your hips twitch upward toward his hand, but he only laughs once, a sharp, incredulous sound. he's delighted. "god, you’re easy."

you shove at his shoulder—more offended than you should be—but he catches your wrist mid-air, grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch halfway out of your mouth. "bad idea," he warns softly. "very, very bad."

your knees weaken. fast. “i’m not scared of you.”

"i know.” his eyes flick up, intoxicated. you gradually realize he's flushed cherry in the dim light, color lining his cheekbones. “that’s why this is fun.” (fun for him. fatal for you. if he gets any closer you’re going to do something really, really stupid—)

"open your legs."

"what?" you make a broken sound you definitely did not authorize (mortifying) as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, bunching the fabric in his palm like he owns it. like he owns you. (he doesn’t. he shouldn’t. too late.)

"you heard me." max's thumb drags up the inside of your wrist, slow enough to count the seconds, slow enough to make you want to sink right to your knees in front of him. "c'mon." he taps the inside of your thigh, like he's berating you. "you can do it."

(you are fighting him. you really are. you're trying, but the air is so thin, and you can barely inhale without drinking down the citrus scent of his skin.)

two seconds.

that’s all it takes for every reasonable thought to vanish. you obey before you process the command, shifting your hips to open around his like he’s wired straight into your spine.

he makes a low sound of pleasure, hooking a finger under the lace waistband of your panties, tugging it aside just enough to expose the soft, soaked center. then he stares. and stares. he stares so long you lift your head to peer down at the way his eyes darken under his mused hair, the way his entire body has gone pointedly... still.

"max?" you whisper, gripping the couch so hard your knuckles ache. "what are you...?"

he doesn't answer you. not at first. not for a solid, terrifying, dizzying five seconds where he just… stares. (stares like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s trying to solve you, like he’s trying to bite you—)

his brows draw together, faint at first, then deeper, like want, then disbelief, then something darker, heavier, something you can’t name.

"max" you repeat, softer this time, chest tightening. you shift, suddenly self-conscious, thighs twitching inward, but his hands fly to your knees in an instant—firm, holding you open exactly how he had you. (you don't even realize how quickly he'd moved until your breath catches. motorsport reflexes, you manage to remember.)

"don’t," he says, and it's the first word he's said in nearly a minute. "just... stay like that."

(you’ve broken him. you've actually broken him. dear god.)

"you’re staring," you whisper.

"I know." his eyes flick up, wide and unbelievably blue, pupils blown enough to swallow half the color.

you flush deeper. "you’re—you’re staring like you haven't already—"

"don’t finish that sentence."

his gaze snaps back to your cunt, breath falling out of him on a sound you’ve only ever heard from him inside you. he bites down on nothing, jaw locking. (you want to give him the invitation to bite you, instead, but you know he needs no permission.)

"are you—" your throat bobs with your swallow. "are you gonna eat me out, or are you gonna just sit there and stare?"

silence.

electric silence.

max's eyes lift, just barely, and the look on his face is hunger carved into bone, offense lining the crevices of his mouth. (oh, you think faintly. oh, i've done it now, haven't i.)

"say that again," he whispers, voice wrecked quiet.

you regret every decision that brought you to this very point in your life, resisting the urge to bolt. "max—"

“no, no.” his fingers tighten around the insides of your knees, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. “go ahead and say it again."

your mouth goes dry. "are—are you going to—"

his jaw ticks. once. twice. it’s the only warning you get.

"—eat me out, or—"

the air punches out of your lungs when he grabs your hips, yanking you forward so sharply your spine curves off the couch. the friction of the leather squeaks under you, his watch smacking lightly against the inside of your thigh, cold burning a path over overheated skin. his mouth is an inch from where you need him, so close you swear you can feel the slick slip of his tongue running over his bottom row of teeth.

his voice is mean when it hits you. "you came into my house," he says, low. "then you picked a fight—" his palms slide higher, brushing the crease of your thighs, holding you open wider than before— "and now you want to rush me?"

your face burns. "that’s not—"

"yes, it is." the phrase is worse than mean: it's tender. affectionate. as if he expects a fight from you. as if he wants it, too. "poor girl, thinking she can tell me what to do." (you're not sure if he's even talking to you at this point.) "she should've just kept her mouth shut."

you're about to respond when his mouth finally seals over your clit.

just like that.

the sound you make isn’t human. you clamp a hand over your mouth on instinct—mortified, overwhelmed—but his fingers wrap around the breadth of your wrist with a warning squeeze. stay, you can swear he whispers into your cunt. stay, sit, that's a good girl—

he sucks your clit between his teeth—slow, deep, obscene enough that your spine arches violently off the couch, head snapping back against the armrest. he groans as you shove weakly at his shoulder, scrambling for hot, immovable muscle before your hand flies to his hair, tugging at the strands at the base of his neck.

(he moans. the bastard.)

he pulls back just enough to speak, lips wet, his breath hot against your cunt. "you have a smart mouth," he says quietly, almost conversational. "but this—" his thumb drags through your slick, circling your clit with humiliating precision. "this is what shuts you up."

your throat goes tight around a sound you don’t release in time. "don’t stop," you gasp, and he laughs, a low, dark, fuck-you of a sound that you feel between your legs.

he slides one hand up your stomach—slow, deliberate—until his palm rests flat between your ribs, holding you down with humiliating ease. he clicks his tongue when you whimper, slapping the flesh of your inner thigh with an acute flick of his wrist. (like you're misbehaving.) you yelp, residual embarrassment singing sweetly down your spine.

"i—" (oh, desperation makes you easy.) "i think i'm—"

"no." he licks you once—slow, long, dragging the tip of his tongue along your slit so carefully you feel every microsecond of contact—then pulls back again.

"but—"

"no." his thumb taps your clit twice—scolding, precise.

your breath breaks, vision whiting out. “max, please—” his tongue slides inside you mid-sentence, sudden enough that your mind goes blank—a bright, electric short-circuit behind your eyes. "oh—!"

"god." his tongue freezes mid-kiss to your slit, lifting to huff a breath against your thigh. "you really don’t listen."

"i'm gonna come—" your hips jerk (habitual, at this point), and he immediately places a palm flat on your lower stomach, pressing you down into the couch like he’s pinning a trembling animal.

he opens his mouth, and for one, devastating second, you think he's going to appease you.

he doesn't.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing your slick across his knuckles. then he stands. "get up."

your pulse stutters. "…what?"

"up." he gestures once with two fingers—sharp, impatient. "now."

you want to listen to him. you do. but your legs don't work. you pitch forward as you push yourself upright—vision spotting—and max's hand snaps around your upper arm, turning your body with zero effort, guiding your back straight into his chest. (oh, right. motorsport reflexes.)

"careful," he murmurs behind your ear, infuriatingly calm. "don't fall."

your palms slam flat into the wall as he settles a knee between your thighs. your cunt throbs (painful, perfect) against the cotton of his pajamas as he positions his naval to your spine, and you almost choke on your own saliva. his and snaps to your stomach when you twitch, and you swear you can feel his smile.

"relax," he mutters into the curve of your neck. (it’s not a suggestion. it’s a reprimand.)

your breath catches when he presses closer—chest to your back, the weight of him undeniable, the heat of him dangerous. he fits himself along your spine like he’d planned this exact angle, this exact contact. this exact moment, a million times.

"max—"

"that's my name." he nudges your cheek forward with his jaw, guiding your face back toward the wall. his other hand slides lower over your stomach, then your navel, then the waistband of your panties still stretched awkwardly around your thighs.

"these," he says, fingers slipping lazily beneath the band, "are useless."

he drags them down to your knees with one smooth pull.

your pulse skids into overdrive, fingers clawing at his forearm in response, nails catching in the soft fabric of his sleeve. he tsks, gathering your wrists to press them against the plaster of the wall once more. "stay here."

you nod too fast, too eager. pathetic.

max scoffs, pressing a soft, too-tender kiss to the base of your neck. his hands toy with the elastic waistband of his pants, and you nearly shiver hearing the fabric hit the floor. "say, 'yes, max.'"

a shot of something electric goes down your spine. "yes, max."

"say, 'yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall.'"

you swallow. "y-yes, max, i'll keep my hands on the wall."

there’s another rustle of fabric behind you, soft and efficient, and even without looking you know he’s stripping with that same maddening calm he applies to everything else. no hurry. no nerves. just decisions. he makes them; you live with them.

you feel him before you see anything—heat at the small of your back, the bare drag of his chest against your shoulders, the solid line of his thighs bracketing yours.

"stand up straight," he says.

you force your spine to lengthen, shoulder blades pulling tight, fingers stretching against the wall. (tight, tight, like a live wire, like a puppet. you squeeze your eyes shut.)

"wider." a tap of his knee between yours, guiding, not gentle. "don’t make me do it for you."

you shuffle your feet, muscles trembling with the effort. the position is obscene: you're presenting for him, and he's making you, and you don't have a single bone in your body that has the right mind to turn him down.

"there we go." you hear the smile in his voice more than you see it. “look at you.”

your cheeks burn. "don’t—"

"don’t what?" he crowds closer, his hand flattening at the base of your spine, nudging your hips the tiniest bit back until you’re perfectly aligned with him. (oh, god, he's molding you.) "don’t look at you? don’t touch you?"

your breath stutters. "you’re being—"

"honest," he decides for you. "for once."

his palm slides up your back, vertebra by vertebra, until his hand presses your shoulder blades, holding you there. pinned. placed. exactly where he wants you. your breath leaves you in an exhale as your upper chest meets the wall, hips angled toward him. he rests his cock against the curve of your ass as you tilt back, and your mouth falls open on a silent gasp. (oh. my god.)

"you want to come?" he asks softly, almost dangerously. his hand slides down your stomach, over the faint tremble in your navel, lower, lower, lower—

"i—yes. yes," you whisper. he hums against your shoulder in response, a sound you feel more than hear. a sound you know means good. a sound you know means finally.

"you want me to help you?"

his fingers tighten at your hip, pulling you back a fraction more until the head of his cock slips between your thighs—bare skin to bare skin—cruel and dizzingly hot. his mouth brushes your ear, a lethal intimacy you only let yourself enjoy for the moment. (you're addicted to him now. you can't help it.)

"yes," you breathe just as the heat of his knuckles brushes over the rounded curve of your cunt. "yes, please, help me—"

you're barely done with the phrase before he's tilting your hips upward, angling your shoulder blades towards the wall, and sinking all the way inside in one, devastating thrust.

the sound that rips out of you is high, strangled, punched from your lungs by the force of him. your hands slap harder against the wall, fingers splaying, searching for something to grip that isn’t there. max groans, like the breath has been knocked out of him, too.

"fuck," he mutters into your nape, voice wrecked and angry about it. "you’re—" he stops, inhales once, hard. "—tighter than I remember."

"no—i can't—" you gasp, the stretch burning you open from the inside, filling you so acutely you could barely feel anything but the space where his body met yours.

he chuckles shakily—cruel and approving. "you can. you have." his fingers dig deeper into the crescent-moons of your hip bones, anchoring you in place as he pulls out, the entire length of him dragging against every raw, trembling inch of you. you nearly choke, palms curling into fists.

you whine lowly (embarrassing. humiliating. involuntary), and max's breath stutters. your cunt tightens around nothing, fluttering like it’s trying to pull him back in. "oh," he murmurs, fascinated. "she’s trying to kiss me."

then he thrusts again.

hard.

your forehead hits the wall, a broken moan scrambling for purchase in the column of your throat. "max—!"

“too much already?” he asks, already pulling back for another. "that's a shame." you don't answer—you can't—and your voice breaks clean in half when his hips slam forward again, the slap of skin reverberating through your spine. his hand slides from your hip to your stomach, flattening you against the wall with his entire body weight behind it.

"keep your hands up," he murmurs, and it's then that you realize you're gripping his forearm for dear life. "or i stop."

that’s all it takes. your arms shoot up, looking above your head. (useless, obedient.) he rewards you with a slow, devastating grind—his cock dragging deep, kissing the spot inside of you that makes your vision spark white at the edges.

he hums in approval, fingers sliding lower until he finds the swollen bud of your clit, and you jolt violently when he circles it once, practically vibrating in his hold.

"oh?" he breaths. "sensitive."

"max," you gasp. (you can barely talk, he's got you so dumb, you wished he fucked you like this every night, you'd never have to think again.) "i—i’m close, i can’t—"

your walls flutter around him helplessly as he thrusts deeper, deeper than he's ever been. "i know," he punches out, hair tickling the base of your neck as his head bows forward. "can feel you." he presses a hand into your lower stomach for emphasis, feeling for himself underneath your skin.

your vision flickers white, tears gathering in your lashes. your whole body trembles as his rhythm turns punishing—perfect, relentless, cruelly timed to the way your walls seize around him with every drag of his cock. "max—" your voice cracks. "i’m—i’m gonna—"

"ask."

your breath fractures like glass. "what?"

"ask. me." the command slices clean. he leans in—mouth to your ear, panting against your skin. "ask me to let you come."

(you hate him. you love him. you want to cry. you want to come so bad it hurts. you'd do anything, everything.)

"please," you manage, barely a sound. "max, please, i—i need—"

"wrong." his hand slides up your front, palm closing gently—obscenely—around your jaw, tilting your head back until you’re breathing open-mouthed against the wall. "that’s not what i asked."

your pride dies right there on his floor. "max," you gasp, high and breaking and involuntary, "let me come. please. please, let me—"

max pulls out an inch before sinking deeper in response, shifting to spread your legs further. your cunt clenches then releases as you force yourself to breathe through the intrusion. (don't come, don't come, don't come, maybe the punishment is worth it, oh, god, i'm going to come—)

max looks down at the slick swallowing his shaft, breathing out a low, astonished laugh. “look at her." his hips snap forward once, brutal. "she heard you.”

you barely open your mouth before you're shaking, orgasm hitting so violently your knees buckle, vision blacking out at the edges, palms smearing down the wall, useless. a high whine leaves you as you tilt your head back, just in time to catch max's mouth in yours. your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to pull him inside your lungs, heart beating a war-drum in your chest.

“fuck—” max gasps behind you as he thrusts once, twice, then folds over you completely, breath crushed into your shoulder. warmth spreads inside your cunt, and you shiver at the familiar sensation. (inside, you'd begged him last time. come inside, always come inside.) you're still twitching when he drags his hand from your stomach to your mouth and forces two slick fingers past your lips, pulling at your inner cheek.

you're not sure if you imagined it. but you could swear he whispers 'god, i love you' into the crook of your ear as your cheeks hollow.

♡

A Weekend with Max Verstappen: Red Bull's Season Opener is One to Watch. By: [Your Name]

There’s a particular stillness around Max Verstappen that you don’t notice until you’ve spent enough time in the paddock.

When I spoke to him after Friday practice, he called the RB21 “predictable.” The word is deceptively boring. He used it casually, as if describing a weather forecast, not the machine he relies on at more than 200 miles per hour. But watching him drive, you understand that predictability, for Verstappen, is not about ease. It is about obedience.

The car doesn’t just respond to him; it anticipates him. Most drivers adapt to instability. They learn to feel the tremors in the floor, the twitch in the steering column, the subtle warning signs that a corner might bite. Verstappen reads those signs, too, but with something closer to disdain than fear. It is not aggression. Aggression is sloppy. What Verstappen does is assured. He takes the track in pieces—sector by sector, curve by curve—until the circuit becomes something he understands viscerally.

You get the sense he does this with everything in his orbit.

Even in interviews, his restraint is not caution—it’s confidence. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t elaborate unless he chooses to. He gives nothing he doesn’t intend to, and somehow, it feels like enough.

That control—measured, unhurried, unapologetic—is what sets Verstappen apart. Not just as an athlete, but as a presence. You walk away from him with the distinct impression that he knew exactly what you were going to ask before you opened your mouth. That he’d already decided which parts of himself you were allowed to see.

And perhaps that’s the most telling thing about him: the certainty. The quiet, unnerving certainty of someone who has mastered not just speed, but himself.

♡

note: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU FOR READING!! seriously i love you all SO MUCH thank you for staying w me!!!!!!! BUT i’m back, i’m unwell, and i’m writing again!! mwah mwah mwah kisses from gracie i love you always!!!

[amnesia-sc]

max verstappen master list

spice 🌶️ fluff ✨ angst 🥀

requests open!

enjoy the silence ✨🥀sorta? (spy!max x fem!reader)

[scrib-belle]

MASTERLIST! ✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

BULL IN TOWN! [mv1 x kpop!reader]

ᯓ★ max verstappen is cool, collected, focused. he's here to race, and couldn't care less about the media and pr stunts that go hand-in-hand with being a celebrity. be that as it may, his life is thrown into a tailspin when he has to chase down a frantic k-popstar that is insisting to record a sample of the RB21 for the F1 Movie OST.

on the other hand, you just really want to play the guitar and make good music. everything else (including max) is a happy bonus.

oblivious!reader, smitten!max, crazy stans, reader is half filipino half korean, reader is female presenting, reader has physical descriptors, disclaimer: i am not a guitarist or blues expert so pls bear with me <3

content warning: this fic briefly discusses and mentions some traumatic events in the reader's past, such as e.d's, sexualization as a minor, suicide, colorism, racism, and the like. nothing is described in great detail, and cw for each chapters are posted at the top. mild swearing is used. please be advised.

addendum: reader is female presenting and asian in ethnicity, but aside from that specific mentions on her appearance will be kept to a minimum, unless it directly serves the plot. in the future i'll wrote more ambiguous reader-inserts, but for now, this one goes out to all my asian girlies

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags: @bunnisplayground @h-rtsnana @artyyjia @hlmzsbl @coral7161 @hlydia111 @reidsworld @alessa-the-enchantress @thechosen-neo @darlingdxll

let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Spotify playlist for Bull In Town

part 1: reader meets max

part 2: reader records bull in town

part 3: reader goes to new orleans

part 4: reader plays at the sugar bird for the first time

part 5: reader has an argument with max

part 6: reader goes to london

part 7: reader attends the premiere of the f1 movie

part 8: reader arrives at the austrian gp

part 9: reader attends race day

part 10: the day after

part 11: what does it mean to be great?

part 12: going to Monaco

[scrib-belle]

BULL IN TOWN! [mv1 x kpop!reader]

ᯓ★ max verstappen is cool, collected, focused. he's here to race, and couldn't care less about the media and pr stunts that go hand-in-hand with being a celebrity. be that as it may, his life is thrown into a tailspin when he has to chase down a frantic k-popstar that is insisting to record a sample of the RB21 for the F1 Movie OST.

on the other hand, you just really want to play the guitar and make good music. everything else (including max) is a happy bonus.

oblivious!reader, smitten!max, crazy stans, reader is half filipino half korean and experiences some racism because of that (external stakes!), reader is female presenting, reader has physical descriptors, disclaimer: i am not a guitarist or blues expert so pls bear with me <3

ᯓ★ [masterlist]

sky banner by @fae-and-wolf

—TWITTER!

@last-sighting-of-snow.

It’s officially been 548 days since we’ve heard from the Filipino-Korean maknae of COSMIX. Come back to us, @cosmix-snow. We need you. The world needs you. (jk take all the time that you need queen)

RCA Studio A  Nashville, Tennessee ✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You weren’t quite sure why you were in RCA Studio A at 2:43 in the morning. Maybe it was because it used to be the usual haunt of legends like Elvis Presley and Dolly Parton, and you were trying to chase that magic. Maybe you were trying to run away from your own record label– nevermind the fact that they were on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, in Seoul. But the truth of the matter was this: you were messing around with some melodies on your guitar and lost track of time. You’d have to end up paying more for the studio that you booked, and you’d have nothing to show for it. But it was all whatever– what’s the point of making bank as a k-pop idol if you couldn’t be fiscally irresponsible every once in a while?

But it was 2:43, and you wanted to sleep. Or, at the very least, wanted to go back to the hotel room and continue messing around a bit more with that beat that you’ve been playing with. It had a bit of a jump and sizzle, but you had no idea what to do with the sound. And besides, you thought to yourself grimly as you packed your guitar back into your bag, it wasn’t like your label would let you release a folksy blues song as a single. 

Your label didn’t really let you do anything if you were being honest, and there was a part of you that recoiled at the thought of them making money out of any song you’d release. You were living life in a stalemate: writing and chasing ideas and recording, but shelving them almost as soon as they became something worthy of a final round of revisions.

The studio had been alive when you came in that morning to book a session; country music singers and producers shared inside jokes and stories, some of them wearing cowboy hats, all of them with accents. With your waist-length jet black hair and pale skin, you felt out of place. You were used to being the only Filipino-Korean in most spaces, but it was odd to realize that you were the only Asian after working in a predominantly Asian music industry for almost a decade.

But as you closed the door of the studio behind you, the familiar weight of your guitar on your back, you noticed that there was no loitering in the halls. It was empty and quiet, which is why you picked up the sound of someone else in one of the booths, strumming along on his own acoustic guitar.

I think it's my responsibility To tell you, I'm just as bad as I used to be

It definitely had a bit of its own funk to it, but as you continued to listen in, something about it made you frown. There was something… missing. With lyrics like that, the guitar needed to be dripping with charisma. But there was a certain formulaic flavor in the melody, something that your ear could spot right away after years of being forced to perform hyperpop formulaic songs.

Your feet moved on their own, and as you grew closer to the booth, you could recognize the voice of the singer: Chris Stapleton. Eleven time winning country artist, if you weren’t mistaken. The door to his booth was open, which was why the sound was able to escape. You were just about to come to your senses and leave, until a sharp thwack cut through the song, ending it prematurely.

“Fuck.” 

You peeked inside the room, recognizing the sound of a broken string anywhere. The guitar on his lap looked like a Gibson J-45, which was similar enough to your own. You knocked on the door.

“Sounds like you broke a string,” you observed drily. “I’ve got extras if you need some.”

“Thank you kindly,” he replied. “Though I think this may be my sign to head home.”

“Song’s not yet done, though. And I hope you don’t mind me saying that it doesn’t sound done.”

Chris Stapleton gave a tired smile, proof of his whole day’s work in the dark shadows under his eyes. “Are you calling my song bad, kid?”

You shrugged. “Just missing a bit of flavor, that’s all.”

Chris gave a laugh, before pointing at the guitar that you had on your back. “Gotta put your money where your mouth is. What would you have done different?” 

You step into the room slowly, taking care not to close the door. You’ve heard many horror stories of girls getting taken advantage of in places like these, and truth be told, you had expected to be cussed out of the booth. Instead, Chris offered you a seat on the couch while he stayed seated on a stool, elbows propped on a nearby table.

“Been having a hard time giving it some personality,” he admitted. “Hate making stuff for the Big Guy, but I’ve got to make a living, you know?”

You nod, knowing the feeling only a bit too well. “Can I see the chords?”

“Better yet,” Chris said, standing with a stretch. “I’ll play you what I’ve got so far.”

He walked over to the wall, which had a variety of guitars. You suddenly felt embarrassed at the thought that you could offer him extra guitar strings– of course he’d have an entire wall of guitars, ready to be played. 

“Planning on having it played on the electric guitar, have a harmonica thrown into the mix.” He selected another Gibson J-45, and nodded at the guitar that you were holding up. “That’s a Maton?”

“EA80C,” you nodded. 

He whistled low, appreciating the instrument. “Don’t talk much, do you?”

“Not really,” you admit sheepishly. “I’m shy.”

That gets a laugh out of him, but he doesn’t say anything else as he takes his seat again and tunes the guitar. Once he starts, you can definitely start feeling the formula of the song, what it needs to do so that it stay cookie cutter crisp. But it was a song about being bad, about staying bad, and about not apologizing for it. Without really thinking about it, your hand reached for a thumb pick, slipped it on, started playing with him too, trying to dig into the blues.

Chris realized what you were trying to do, and the two of you tried to work it out in real time, listening to each other and building on themes and licks. You got a bit lost in it, swimming in the melody, not really realizing that at some point he was keeping tempo and singing the lyrics, letting you run loose with riffs and ad-libs. At one point, you think you heard him give a surprised laugh, but you weren’t quite sure. You just kept following where the song wanted to go, it led you to a swampy, gritty, slower beat. Chris followed the new tempo, fitting the lyrics to the new song the two of you made. At some point, he stopped.

You looked up.

“We’ve got it, kid.” His smile was warm, and it felt like he would have given you a bear hug if you both weren’t seated across a table. “Now that’s a real banger, a show-stopper. Where did you learn to play like that?”

“I’m still learning,” you shrug. “That’s why I’m down here. Hoping to listen around, pick up a thing or two.”

“I think you’ve got tons of potential, kid,” Chris said, stretching his hand for you to shake. “I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m Chris.”

“I know, Mr. Stapleton,” you admit, sliding back to the formality and PR training that was drilled into you since your trainee days. You reach across the table and shake his hand. “I’m Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N, you’re going to have to give me your number. I want you to play the guitar solo on this song. Think we can manage that after a night of sleep?”

You smiled, but it was sour. Your label would eat this up, and you didn’t want them to have a piece of this pie. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

Chris shook his head. “Kid, when you get an opportunity, you take it. I promise, no strings attached. I’m a happily married man.”

“It’s not that,” you say, maybe a bit too quickly. “I mean– I just have other engagements, you know?”

Something sharp and understanding gleamed in his eyes. “Got some exec dragging you down, huh?”

You shrug. “Something like that.”

Chris sighed. “Well, at least let me get a picture with you. I want to say that I got to meet you before you made it big.”

That got you to laugh. You didn’t think twice before you agreed.

The Stapleton Residence Nashville, Tennessee ✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Everyone was used to the odd hours that Chris kept, which is why his daughter Waylon didn’t bat an eye when he emerged from his room the next day late in the afternoon. She was seated in her usual spot in the kitchen, on her phone and scrolling the app formerly known as Twitter.

“Another late night in the studio?”

Chris nodded. “Yeah. Had some problems with that F1 song I’m supposed to write, but I met this kid– really something. Great talent. I swear she’s going to make it big one day.”

Waylon nodded, busy on her phone. Her dad was always happy to talk about the new artists that he would meet, said that it was nice to see how country music was still interesting to her generation.

“Had a real instinct for the blues,” Chris mused to himself. He turned the coffee maker on. “Had a Maton with her; kid has some taste, for sure. Started out as a jam session, but at some point an old timer like me knows when to take a back seat and let someone work an idea out in their head. Knew exactly where the song wanted to go; she could follow it like a bloodhound.”

Waylon kept scrolling. Taylor Swift got engaged. She knew that already, but she liked the post about it anyway.

“Uh huh. Sounds great, dad.”

“Gonna make it big someday,” Chris continued. “I’m sure of it. Got a picture of it and everything. Give me a minute… here.”

Her dad shoved his phone in her face, and Waylon was about to protest until she saw the girl in the picture, holding an acoustic guitar and smiling awkwardly at the camera. 

She knew that pinstraight black hair. She knew that smile. Waylon didn’t notice her phone falling to the floor– she grabbed her dad’s phone and zoomed in.

“OH MY GOD,” she said calmly. “OH MY GOD DAD. YOU JUST MET SNOW?”

Chris frowned. “She told me her name was Y/N.”

“OH MY GOD,” she said. “YOU DID MEET SNOW.”

“Is she already famous?”

Waylon shrieked. “Is she famous? She’s only, like, a member of COSMIX, that K-Pop girl group that I’m always talking about? The ones that I love almost as much as BTS? The queens of K-Pop that haven’t been sighted for almost two years? Six time winners of the MAMA Awards? Cultural legends and icons? She’s here? I mean– my bias is Rayne, but Snow is definitely wayyyyy up there too, it’s too hard to choose.”

Chris blinked slowly. “So she’s like Rosé? From Blackpink?”

“Yeah?” Waylon thought for a bit. “Technically Rosé is older than her, but Snow has seniority because she debuted in 2015, when she was just fifteen. That’s a year before Rosé debuted with BP. But they’re besties. COSMIX and BP hang out all the time.”

“Huh.” Chris scratched his chin, an idea coming to mind. He really didn’t expect a K-Pop idol to have such keen instincts for the blues– that was something a person had to be born with, or live through. 

“Maybe she could also make a song for the F1 soundtrack,” Waylon suggested. 

Chris’s paternal instincts knew that it was mainly because his daughter wanted to see her favorite artist release a new song, but he didn’t disagree with that idea. Why not? This Snow kid had a feel for the guitar, and he’d find a way to get her to agree to record a song that showed that. The blues was cool. Maybe it would take a newer face on the block to make it mainstream again.

Chris took the phone back from his daughter’s clutches. “I’m gonna make a call.”

—WATTSAPP: foodsè (Rosè) + rockstar (Snow)

Foodsè: missed call

Foodsè: missed call

Foodsè: missed call

Foodsè: wake up rockstar. chris stapleton apparently wants you to join us in the F1 soundtrack?

Rockstar: weh

Rockstar: yeah right

Foodsè: sends pic

Rockstar: i know photoshop when i see it

Foodsè: wake up

Foodsè: you are an award winning artist, not a nobody

Rockstar: idk i dont want to do it

Foodsè: why?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!! The opportunity is literally being served to you on a silver platter

Rockstar: im not giving my label any more money

Foodsè: touché. 

.

.

.

—VIBER: Rosè from BlackPink + Chris Stapleton

[transcript of call]

Rosè: Y/N is in a difficult position. She’s in the middle of a legal battle with her label, and she doesn’t want to release any songs while she’s still under contract with them. I’m really sorry, but her situation right now is messy, and I think her decision is what’s best for her right now, too.

Chris Stapleton: Oh, I think I understand. Is she in a similar contract as the one Taylor was in?

Rosè: It’s not the same situation. 

Rosè: Normally, I would say that this isn’t my story to tell, but it’s public information.

Rosè: In their last concert together as COSMIX, Y/N was allowed to do a guitar solo during their last song for the night. When she got handed the guitar, she realized that it wasn’t connected to the speaker, so she stopped playing while the backing track continued. Their manager was yelling at her through the earpiece to continue, but she ended up smashing the guitar in front of the audience as the show was ending.

Chris: Oh. Wow.

Rosè: Yeah. It gets worse.

Chris: How does that get worse?

Rosè: One of the label execs was there with the manager, and he was standing in front of a live wire, and he said some… really rude and racist things about Y/N, and the entire stadium heard it.

Chris: Fuck. 

Rosè: Exactly. The group and the fans have demanded an apology, but the label refuses to issue an apology, since the exec was ‘right’ to be angry at Y/N for throwing a tantrum onstage. 

Chris: So now she won’t release any song until the label apologizes?

Rosè: Yeah. There’s an ongoing case for defamation, but the lawyers back in Korea somehow are able to keep postponing the hearing.

Chris: So that’s why she doesn’t want to record.

Rosè: Yeah.

Chris: She still wants to play music though. If she gave up on music, she wouldn’t be in the middle of Nashville.

Rosè: She does. It’s all she talks about.

Chris: Would you happen to know where I can get a copy of that contract? Maybe I can have her listed as a producer or songwriter instead. I’d get my lawyers to take a look at it.

Rosè: I’ll ask Rayne and Y/N about it, first.

.

.

.

—WATTSAPP: foodsè (Rosè) + rockstar (Snow)

Foodsè: *sends pics*

Rockstar: ????

Foodsè: are you mad i told him

Rockstar:no?????? Why would i be mad

Foodsè: cos that was literally a traumatizing event in your life????

Rockstar: meh

Rockstar: he would find out eventually?

Foodsè: being insulted in front of thousands of people isn’t nothing

Rockstar: girl im literally over it

Foodsè:uh huh

Rockstar: i am. Serious. Went to therapy for it and everything,

Foodsè: and im sure that this hasn’t made you stop loving music

Foodsè:which is important

Foodsè: i really have a good gut feeling about this btw

Foodsè: chris is nice, and you could branch out a bit. You could use your government name?

Rockstar: who said i didnt want to do this?

Foodsè: you??? Literally just 5 minutes ago??????

Foodsè: ok so wait

Foodsè: are u on board for writing and/or producing?

Rockstar: sure. Why not

Foodsè: admit that ur excited

Rockstar: ……

Rockstar: fine

Rockstar: a bit

Foodsè: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Foodsè: WE GET TO WORK ON THE SAME PROJECT

Foodsè: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rockstar: it would be nice to have some money for hotels

Foodsè: pls tell me ur not still backpacking the US

Rockstar: …….

Rockstar: doesn’t mean that I don’t say it, that it’s not true

Foodsè: i dont know why youre doing all that, but fine

Foodsè: i trust you to take care of yourself

Rockstar:: thank u ate rosè i wuv u 

Foodsè: ew

Foodsè: i wuv u 2

.

.

.

—WATTSAPP: Rosé + Rayne 

Rosé: RAYNEEEEEE

Rosé:hi 🫶

Rayne: hi diva 💙 what’s up? 

Rosé: tl;dr of a situation going over here in the US… Chris Stapleton has been wanting to get Snow on the F1 OST, maybe for writing or production? 

Rayne: does snow know about this already? 

Rosé:yeah they run into each other at a studio in Nashville and had a jam session

Rayne: does snow want to do it? 

Rosé: didn’t want to at first because of label drama, but you asked me to look out for her, and I’m trying to look out for her

Rayne: thanks so much for that <333333

Rayne:and I think we all know that snow would never admit that she wants to do this… 

Rosé: yeah 🥲

Rayne: my lawyers mentioned a loophole to me some time back. I’ll contact them again, but I think production credits or instrument playing isn’t part of our idol contract 

Rosé: great 

Rosé:I’ll forward to you the email of his legal team? 

Rayne: sure!!!!! tysm for everything Rosé

Rayne: we appreciate you looking after our baby sister 💙

Rosé: of course!!!! if we dont watch each other's back, who will?

—TWITTER!

@last-sighting-of-snow.

THIS IS NOT A DRILL. IT'S BEEN ONE DAY SINCE WE’VE HAD A SIGHTING OF OUR MOTHER @cosmix-snow-official.  Snow attended the Miami Grand Prix with Blackpink’s Rosè and Lisa. The girls have always been close, so they’re probably having a fun day at the races. (or a collab is coming…. unlikely, but a girl can be delulu)

a few days before THE MIAMI GRAND PRIX ✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

For anyone’s information, it was Rosè’s fault as to why you were currently trailing behind her in Ferrari’s hospitality. You had made plans to go down to New Orleans after hanging around some country bars in Nashville for almost two months, feeling like you’ve breathed in everything you needed to. An old lady with a thick Southern accent had given you some pointers on bluegrass, and you were happy to pack your bags and leave the state behind.

That was, until Rosè had shown up in the motel you were staying at, hands on her hips, trying not to look too shocked at the fact that you were only bringing a small hand carry suitcase with you.

“That’s it?” She had asked, trying not to sound alarmed.

“My bigger suitcase got stolen in New York,” you admitted. “It’s a good thing I keep my money in my underwear and my laptop in my guitar case.”

“You’re a nutjob,” Rosè muttered. “You’re definitely taking this whole gap year thing too seriously. Do you even have something to wear to the Miami GP?”

“What?”

That got her to grin. “It’s a good thing that Lisa always brings too many clothes. You need to go. It’s part of your contract for artists to go.”

You frowned. You had read the contract. “No, it isn’t.”

Rosè sighed. “Please. Think of it as a vacation or something. I want to treat you to something nice and fancy.”

You couldn’t say to Rosè for long, which is why you now found yourself in the blessedly airconditioned room of Ferrari hospitality, where everything was in sleek reds, blacks, and whites. 

You were introduced to Lewis Hamilton, who was happy to talk to you and Rosè. It was mostly small talk, and both you and Lisa were glad to have Rosè there as a buffer; you hated the PR side of the business, and Lisa was a naturally shy person, despite the fame.

“I think I heard someone mention that you helped Chris out with a song,” Lewis said, turning to you. “We really wanted that sort of Cars vibe for the soundtrack.”

“Rascall Flatts and Sheryl Crowe?” At this point, someone from the production side of things had explained the plot of the movie to you. “Someone like Sonny Hayes definitely needs songs that are more swampy.”

“Swampy?” The seven time world champion tilted his head, looking a bit like a puppy. It was a bit cute.

“Yeah, you know like… okay, maybe not swampy. Something gritty, something with a growl. Like…”

You were about to mention Stevie Ray Vaughan or Blues Saraceno or maybe even Big Al Carson, until you heard the roar of something guttural and animalistic. Your head whipped around at the sound, hair hitting someone’s face.

“That,” you said instantly. “That, exactly. Exactly that.”

Rosè glanced nervously at Lewis Hamilton, who was startled by your outburst. “That’s the RB21,” he explained. “The RedBull garage is just beside ours.”

You grab your phone, opening the voice memo app. “I need it. Now.”

“She’s an artist,” Rosè explained, glancing at Lisa, who only shrugged. 

“Snow is like this all the time,” Lisa said. 

Lewis nodded. “Well, maybe later we can arrange–”

But you were too far gone. You could imagine the song now. Full of grit and teeth and… no that wasn’t claws. It wasn’t a typical predator. The song was a large, unwieldy beast full of muscle and meat. It was a towering sound. It pounded the ground, it shook the earth. Your footsteps were quick and sharp, body turning and mind in some far off place that no one could follow. Your voice app was recording already, trying to catch as much as it could.

The engine revv’d again, and you could hear the lyrics. You saw the flash of a picture– something red, something with horns— yes, the song was a bull. And what was it that guy said? Something about grit. And what bull didn’t know grit?

With each step, with each vibration of the engine, you could see the song in your mind. The empty town, the mid-day sun, the humidity. A lone ranger walking into town, only to be met with a bull. Yes– and then a chase. A bull that always wins… Maybe. Maybe this was it.

You hummed the tune to yourself, cursing the fact that Rosè didn’t let you bring your guitar. You could write the song right now, if you had it. But you needed to get closer— needed to understand the hum of the engine better. 

“Ma’am? I’m sorry, but you can’t come any closer–”

You look up. “Huh?”

“You can’t come any closer,” said a stranger wearing navy blue. He grabbed your wrist. “This area is closed to guests right now.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Ma’am,” the stranger repeated, pulling you away. “I’m sorry, but I’m just an engineer. I don’t make the rules, and I can’t bend them.”

Your irritation spiked. “I’m losing the fucking song now—”

“It’s fine,” cut in a heavy accent. “She’s with me.”

The stranger let go of your wrist, and you charged forward. The melody returned. Yes— this would require a Fender, you thought to yourself. And it would be best to record with a live band— but as for the character of the song? You could meet him now. He was standing in front of you, dressed in blood red and black. 

You crouched low, beside the car, the sound of the engine a bit too loud but you could feel a beat rising in your chest, a tempo building. You nodded along to a beat, and before long, the lyrics came to you.

You ever walk a long dusty road Aching for a sound? Walk on, lonely soul And hear those hooves hit the ground The sun is never easy And greatness ne’er free Good hands are always greasy Good things come in three’s Misfortunes been your calling And last I’ve been around I’ve walked around, I’ve walked around This sad and lonely town Boy, you better watch your walk, Doncha know there’s a Bull in town? Got the horns and everything, Faster than the speed of sound Boy, you’ll never win Not with this Bull in Town Got a mean and easy grin Faster than the speed of sound You ever walk a winding road Just to meet your fears? You ever walk with both eyes closed You ever tried switching gears? Winning is never easy And you couldn’t do it here Not with this king, with this fiend Not in this town Not as long as he’s around We all know, we all know About the Bull in town Walk, yes boy, you need to walk Walk right outta town You won’t ever win in here Not with the Bull in town.

By the time you finish, you look up to see clear blue eyes staring down at you.

“Done?” He asked, stretching a hand for you to shake; you took it, noticing the callouses on his ungloved hand. “I’m Max, and Lewis told me to look for some runaway popstar that suddenly got obsessed with the RB21. Do you know where she is?”

You stared. “Oh my god. This is so embarrassing.” Realizing everything going on, and that they’ve stopped warming up the car’s engine and all the engineers were pretending to not notice you, there was only one thing left to do: turn bright red. 

“You match the car now,” Max teased. He squatted down next to you. “Is that for the trashy movie?”

You huffed a laugh, feeling your cheeks becoming warm in real time. It could be the heat, but it could also be the fact that it was a bit unfair for his blue eyes to look so electric. “Yes. Oh my god. I can’t believe I just embarrassed myself. I’m so sorry, I promise I have manners.”

“At least one of the songs will be good,” Max joked. “Since it's about RedBull.”

“This is so embarrassing,” you mumbled, hiding your face in your hands. Didn’t you just cuss at one of his colleagues? Were they both engineers? Hell needs to open up and swallow you right now.

“It’s fine,” he repeated patiently. “We all do weird stuff. I have to jump into a cold bath after races, and that’s led to some bit of weirdness.”

That was weird, why would an engineer need to take an ice bath?

“I hate cold baths,” you mumbled into your hands. 

“Me too. The worst.”

“Absolutely.”

You two were quiet for a beat until you felt the need to stand. You hated awkwardness. You needed to go. 

“I should probably leave,” you say hurriedly. “Since, like. You know. I already took so much of your time. And you need to, I don’t know. Do race stuff. Tune engines. It must be hard being an engineer, I’m sure you’re busy.”

“An engineer?”

“Bye Mr. Max–”

“Verstappen—”

“Mr. Vertstrappen,” you amended, tripping over his family name. His brow raised at your mispronunciation, but he closed his mouth quickly. Feeling weird about him giving his full name, you decided to offer yours, too. It was the polite thing to do. “I’m Y/N Mendoza. And I really need to go. I’m not always weird, I promise, but right now I need to get to a studio. And maybe a Fender. Maybe a fiddle. A fiddler. A fiddle player. I sound like such a pick me. Or a manic pixie dream girl. Oh my god I want to die. Anyways. Good luck to you and whoever is driving!”

And before Max could correct you and say that he was the one driving, you ran out like hell’s flames were licking the back of your ankles.

—TWITTER!

@last-sighting-of-snow.

SOMEONE PINCH ME WHY WAS MISS Y/N MENDOZA AKA SNOW OF COSMIX AKA THE QUEEN OF MY HEART AKA THE BEST MAKNAE TO EVER EXIST ALLEGEDLY SPOTTED WITH HER IPHONE CLOSE TO HER MOUTH IN THE REDBULL (?) GARAGE??????? WHY WAS THEIR STAR DRIVER CROUCHING BESIDE HER???????? 

retweets:

@snow.queen.cosmix. retweet NEW SONG? NEW SONG? NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?NEW SONG? NEW SONG?

@snow-fairy-fan retweet WAIT WHAT. WHAT. SHE WAS CROUCHING? WITH THE MAGIC VOICE MEMO APP OPEN? THE LEGENDARY APP? THAT BROUGHT US BANGERS LIKE SUPERNOVA AND BLUE SKY? 

@princessa-paddock retweet K-pop? In my RBR garage? I guess it’s more likely than I thought…

@cosmix-superstars-nova retweet SCREAMING. CRYING. THROWING UP. But like srsly. Lets not spread rumors guys. Snow has been private and quiet for a long ass time and we all know the reason why

@verstappie-happie retweet What is happening? Why did this pop up in my tl?

@last-sighting-of-snow. [author] retweet @verstappie-happie COSMIX is a k-pop girl group consisting of Rayne (the leader), Astra (the main vocals), Aries (the main dancer), Luna (the main rapper), and Snow, who was the member sighted in the RBR garage. Snow is known to be the group’s maknae (youngest member) and the all-rounder, though she is known to be very good at the guitar.  The group’s been on a serious hiatus since the Spring Concert Scandal, when an exec called her rude and racial slurs for everyone in the concert to hear. @raynes-biceps-official made the most comprehensive thread explaining what happened. I’ll link it down below!

@verstappie-happie retweet @last-sighting-of-snow Naw that’s messed up. Thanks for the info! Also til that cosmix is the group behind blue sky. That was my summer jam

@last-sighting-of-snow. [author] retweet @verstappie-happie Very messed up! Hope you listen to more of their songs! My personal favorite is Tomorrow Ends

translation notes: "ate" (tagalog): big/older sister

[A/N: i have no idea how this happened. my hand slipped, i swear. i was writing this, absolutely catatonic, for 4 hours straight. this is what i get for listening to the blues, reading the magic strings of frankie presto, watching a lot of katseye and kpdh edits, and keeping up with f1....

unedited and un-beta'd; if the timeline is iffy, pls let me know. im also not a blink, so if there is anything ooc about rosè and lisa, pls let me know! same goes for chris stapleton-- i literally used that guy as a plot device... please know what you think! i've got an idea for a part two, but idek if this was any fun to read lol!]

ᯓ★ [masterlist]