Since Forever
Since Forever
Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader
Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too
Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays
The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.
And then you walk in.
“Is that-”
“No way.”
“Schumacher?”
You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.
Christian sees you first.
“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.
You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”
“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”
“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”
Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”
“Flattering.”
You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.
And then-
“Y/N?”
His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.
He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.
“Max, we’re still-”
“Later.”
He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.
You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.
“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.
“Hey yourself,” you say.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.
And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.
“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”
You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”
He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.
“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”
“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”
He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”
“Debatable.”
He grins. “Liar.”
And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.
You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”
That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.
“She called him Uncle Jos.”
“Did she just-”
“Holy shit.”
He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.
“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.
“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.
“You’re your father’s daughter.”
You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”
Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.
“Good to have you back.”
Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.
“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.
“You were already soft,” you reply.
He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.
Because you do.
“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”
“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”
“Close enough,” Max says.
“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.
You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”
“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”
“Max.”
“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”
You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”
“We were always the main act, anyway.”
It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.
And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.
A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.
“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”
“Perfect,” you say.
Max doesn’t move.
“Max,” Christian warns.
“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.
You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”
“Try and stop me.”
And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.
And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.
Phones are out. Whispers spiral.
Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.
Max Verstappen is in love.
You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.
“You used to like that about me.”
You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”
And Max?
He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.
***
When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”
He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.
“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”
“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.
“You sound like my dad.”
Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”
You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”
“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”
You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
“I’ll fix that.”
“You’re not a sleep aid.”
He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”
You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.
“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.
Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”
“In your apartment.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”
You tilt your head. “Do I?”
Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”
You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”
“You didn’t argue.”
“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”
He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”
You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.
“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.
“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”
Oh.
The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.
***
You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.
Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.
Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.
“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”
“I’m not crying,” you snap.
“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”
Then he takes your hand.
And doesn’t let go.
He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.
“She’s fine,” Jos said.
But Michael just smiled.
“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”
***
Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.
“That’s why you left the box?”
He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”
You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.
“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”
“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”
“Next to your helmets?”
He nods. “Next to your letters.”
Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”
Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”
“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”
“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”
You do. God, you do.
***
Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.
You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.
Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.
“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.
You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re not serious.”
He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”
Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.
“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”
***
Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”
Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”
“What?”
“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”
You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.
“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”
You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You were twelve.”
“Still could’ve scared you off.”
You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”
You do.
You really, really do.
***
Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.
Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”
You glance at him. “Who?”
“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”
You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”
“Because I let them see it.”
You frown. “Do you regret that?”
Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”
Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”
You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.
“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”
He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”
“Let them.”
“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”
You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”
“I want to.”
“You do.”
He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”
You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”
***
You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.
The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.
“You’ve always been mine.”
And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.
***
Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.
But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.
Not to Lando, at least.
He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.
“Wait, no fucking way.”
Oscar glances at him. “What?”
Lando squints.
“No way.”
At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.
But then he sees you.
You’re laughing.
Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.
And Max-
Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.
“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”
Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”
Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.
Lando keeps staring.
“Are they-”
“Looks like.”
“When did-”
Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”
He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.
Max, being gentle.
“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.
Oscar blinks. “Why?”
“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”
And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.
***
You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.
“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.
Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”
You look up, grinning. “Hey.”
Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!
“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.
Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“And you’re touching her. In public.”
“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”
Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”
“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.
“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”
Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.
Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”
“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.
“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.
“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.
Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”
Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.
“When did this happen?”
You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”
Lando blinks. “Letters?”
“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.
“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”
“Every week,” you say.
“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.
“And you kept them?”
Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”
Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”
“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”
Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”
A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.
Then-
“Wait. Does Jos know?”
“Of course he knows,” Max says.
Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”
You sip your wine.
“Jos adores her,” Max says.
And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.
Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.
“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.
Lando drops his fork.
“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.
“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”
“Perfectly,” Max replies.
Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.
Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.
“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.
Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”
***
After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.
“You okay?” He asks.
You glance up. “More than.”
“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”
You smile. “It was kind of funny.”
He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”
His voice is low. Serious.
“Especially that part.”
You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”
“Always have been.”
The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.
And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.
***
It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.
One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.
Jos Verstappen.
Yuki stills.
“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”
There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.
But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”
Yuki blinks. A bet?
“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”
Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”
There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”
Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.
“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.
Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.
“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”
There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”
Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.
Ten.
Ten years old.
***
It’s impossible to unhear.
That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.
Except … not.
Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.
And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.
“Give me five.”
The room stills.
The engineer frowns. “You want-”
“Five minutes.”
“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”
Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.
Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.
He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.
“Hey. Did you eat?”
There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.
“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”
“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.
“I’m working.”
“I’ll bring you something.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”
“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”
Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.
Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”
“You are such a-”
“Did. You. Drink.”
You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”
There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”
Yuki practically blacks out.
***
When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.
Except Yuki.
He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.
Then, “So … ring pop?”
Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.
“Where did you hear that?”
Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”
Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.
“She still has it,” he mutters.
“No way.”
“In a box.”
“Oh my God, Max.”
Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”
Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”
Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”
***
Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.
He always does.
“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.
You give him a look. “You checked?”
“I check everything.”
He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.
“I had coffee,” you offer.
“Not food.”
“Coffee is made of beans.”
“Y/N.”
You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”
Max smirks. “About that …”
You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. He just overheard something.”
“Max.”
He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”
“Define fine.”
“He found out about the ring pop.”
Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”
“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”
“Oh my God.”
Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”
You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.
You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.
“You have kept it.”
He nods, solemn. “Every day.”
***
Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Yuki sidles up next to him.
“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.
Jos glances at him.
“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.
Then he smiles.
Again.
Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”
***
The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.
Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.
He’s not moving.
“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”
GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.
“Talk to me, Max.”
Nothing.
Then-
“I’m fine.”
The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.
“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”
You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.
***
The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.
He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.
And he’s angry.
“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”
“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”
“I said I’m fine-”
“Max.”
Your voice.
Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.
He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.
“Schatje.”
You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.
You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.
“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.
“I don’t want-”
“It’s not about what you want right now.”
He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”
“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”
He opens his eyes again, searching yours.
“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”
He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”
You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”
The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.
Max doesn’t argue again.
GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.
“That was witchcraft.”
You shrug. “It’s just Max.”
“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”
“He wouldn’t have.”
“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”
You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”
***
Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.
You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.
He stops just behind you.
“Is he hurt?” He asks.
“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”
Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.
“You got him to agree to scans?”
You nod. “He was being Max.”
“That sounds right.”
GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.
Jos Verstappen. Smiling.
Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.
You rise. “All clear?”
“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”
You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”
Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”
Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”
Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”
“You’ll get it tomorrow.”
Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”
Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”
Everyone in the room hears it.
GP actually drops his cup.
**
Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.
“It’s not tight, is it?”
“No.”
“You’ll tell me if it is?”
“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”
You smile. “True.”
Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”
You nod. “Let them.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”
“You were being impossible.”
“You love it.”
You grin. “I do.”
***
Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.
Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.
And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.
***
Max is late.
Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.
The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.
The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.
You weren’t expecting the letter.
It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.
Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.
But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.
When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.
Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.
And read.
March 5th, 2014
Y/N,
I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.
You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.
You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.
I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.
Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.
Your Max
***
By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.
The kind that were never just about the letter.
***
Max finds you like that.
The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.
When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.
And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.
“Hey-”
He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.
“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”
You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.
He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.
His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.
You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.
Then he looks back at you.
“You found this?”
You nod. “It was in the book.”
He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.
“You kept it,” you whisper.
“Of course I did.”
“I didn’t know-”
“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”
You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.
“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”
Your breath hitches.
“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”
You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”
He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”
A pause. Then-
“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”
You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”
He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.
“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”
Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.
“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”
“Why?”
“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”
He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”
You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”
“The letter?”
“Yeah.”
He holds your gaze, unwavering.
“I still mean it.”
You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”
“And I drive like I used to.”
“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”
He grins. “Because you’re here.”
“Because I’m home.”
***
Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.
“I want it close,” he says.
You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”
Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:
“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”
You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”
He smiles.
“Deal.”
***
You don’t notice it right away.
The photo.
You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.
Once.
Twice.
Then nonstop.
Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”
You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.
It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:
So … it’s out.
Your stomach twists.
“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.
You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.
A photo.
Of you.
And Max.
It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.
He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.
It’s not yours anymore.
The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?
Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.
You murmur, “Max …“
He doesn’t speak.
You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.
Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.
That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.
His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.
Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?
Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”
Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.
“Max …“
“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”
You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”
He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”
***
You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.
But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.
By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”
Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.
You reply. I’m sorry.
His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.
You almost cry again.
***
But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.
You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”
“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.
Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.
Max raises a brow. “What about him?”
“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”
You frown, inching closer to see.
The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:
@josverstappen7 About time.
There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.
Then-
Max snorts. Actually snorts.
You blink. “He what?”
“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”
Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.
“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.
You blink. “He’s always liked me.”
“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”
***
The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.
Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.
But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.
***
You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.
The moment.
The question.
The quote that breaks the internet again.
Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.
And then-
A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.
“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”
There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.
Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.
He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.
“She’s not new.”
A pause.
“She’s always been there.”
***
When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.
You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.
The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.
He just tells the truth.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
***
You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.
He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.
“You saw it?”
You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”
“I meant it.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.
“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.
“Let them.”
You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”
“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”
You press your forehead to his.
“They’re going to write stories.”
“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.
***
On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.
Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.
You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.
“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.
You grin. “Then be nice to me.”
“I’m nice to you every morning.”
You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”
“That’s foreplay.”
You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.
And this time, you don’t care who hears it.
***
The drive is quiet.
Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.
Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.
He probably has.
You definitely have.
You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.
Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.
But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.
“I’m nervous,” you say softly.
“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.
You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
You glance over at him. “Do you?”
Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”
A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.
He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”
You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”
“He knows.”
“Max-”
“He always knew.”
***
The estate hasn’t changed much.
The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.
You hesitate before getting out.
He doesn’t rush you.
Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”
You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.
***
Your mother meets you at the door.
She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.
Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.
He hugs back.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.
Max only nods.
She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”
***
You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)
The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.
And then, you see him.
He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.
His eyes are open. Alert.
Your breath catches.
Max is silent beside you.
You step forward first.
“Hi, Papa.”
His eyes flick to yours.
Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”
Max takes a slow step closer.
Michael’s gaze moves to him.
There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.
Just … calm recognition.
As if he knew you were coming all along.
“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”
There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.
You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”
He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.
But his hands are warm.
You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.
“I missed you.”
Max kneels beside you.
He doesn’t say much at first.
Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.
Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”
There’s a pause.
“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”
You let out a breath that trembles.
Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”
Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.
Still no words.
But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.
You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.
“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”
You choke on a sob.
Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.
You don’t resist.
You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”
He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”
“He doesn’t even …“
“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”
You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.
And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:
“I love you.”
Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”
Michael’s hand twitches.
You freeze.
Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.
Max sees it too.
His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”
***
You stay in the garden for hours.
Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.
Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.
You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.
You don’t ask what he said.
Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.
You press a final kiss to his cheek.
Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.
The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.
“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.
“I know.”
“But I’m glad we came.”
“I am too.”
You pause.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.
“You were all I ever imagined.”
***
Victoria doesn’t knock.
She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”
But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.
It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.
And then stops dead in the hallway.
Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.
She recognizes you instantly.
As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.
The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.
You.
Y/N Schumacher.
And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.
Victoria blinks.
Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.
Because it looks like he’s home.
She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.
“Hey, Vic.”
You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.
“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”
“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”
“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.
Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.
Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.
“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.
“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.
You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”
He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”
Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.
Max is … soft.
Not weak. Never that.
But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.
She pulls out a stool at the counter.
“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”
Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”
You blink. “You what?”
Victoria smirks. “You what?”
Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”
“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”
He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”
You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.
Victoria watches with something like awe.
“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”
“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.
“You did. Like the noise stopped.”
He doesn’t argue.
You glance at him, puzzled.
Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”
“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”
You go quiet.
He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.
Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”
Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”
You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”
“I built you a desk,” Max adds.
Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”
“I made GP help.”
You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”
“They were wrong,” Max mutters.
Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.
“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”
You glance at him.
Max is already looking at you.
“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”
You press your lips together.
He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.
Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”
Max smiles. “I know.”
But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.
You’ve been through everything.
Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.
But this?
This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.
Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.
You hand her a plate.
“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.
Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”
You look up at him.
So is he.
So is this.
More Posts from Pauxf013 and Others
delicate | king!sukuna x concubine!reader
betrayal
summary: fate let's king!sukuna down, once again. enjoy the king being the big, beefy brat he is. side stories based off of defiance. genre/warnings: established relationship, sukuna and reader already have a child together, labor, child birthing, fluff, papakuna
wc: 1k
masterlist
“Papa?”
“Hm?”
“Mama die?”
His jaw nearly drops from that absurd question. “No, Mama not die.” He had to hold himself back from scolding her, Sumire’s way too young to even understand the depth of her question. Where the fuck did she even learn that word?
Like the relaxed child she is, she shrugs and goes back to playing with her dolls, while the king goes back to internally panicking because you looked like you were about to die. He wasn’t there for Sumi’s birth and wanted nothing more than to be there for the birth of his son, but you ended up getting mad at him and kicked him out of the room.
Apparently he sighed in annoyance.
He didn’t.
He was just nervous for you and took a deep breath to relax himself– and that's when you started hurling profanities towards him. He forgives you of course, but he’ll never forget it.
The way you looked, that is. The sweat building up on your forehead, the strained yelling, you telling him this was all of his fault. But he gets it, you were in the process of birthing the prince, it couldn’t be easy.
He couldn’t believe it, after all these years, he was getting a boy again. Gone are the days of being outnumbered by you and Sumi, he loves her with all that he has, but she’s honestly really mean sometimes.
He was trying to get her attention the other day, offering her some snacks he brought back from his trip to one of the districts, and she sighed at the sound of his voice. Like full on snapping her head back to glare at him, rolling her eyes, and sighing as if she just got done working all day in a fucking rice field.
She gets it from you.
But a little boy will solve all his familial issues, because they can just ignore you two together.
He watches his daughter continue to play with her dolls and smiles at the thought of his son ripping their heads off one day. Just you wait, Sumi.
“My King?” Hayami steps into the room after knocking with a smile across her face. “The baby is here.”
Sukuna abruptly gets up and nearly runs out of the room, leaving his daughter in Hayami’s care. It’s fine, that’s basically her auntie at this point. Hayami just shakes her head at his sudden giddiness– everyone felt bad for him for once when you yelled at him, but then they remembered the way he threatened the doctor and midwife, which led to them quickly justifying it. Maybe the next child… but with the way this pregnancy and birth was just as difficult as the last, if not even more, they doubt you’d want another.
He stopped right at the door and braced himself, hoping you still weren’t mad at him. “Dovey?” He gently knocked. “Can I come in?”
“Yes my love.” You sweetly answered, it’s terrifying how quick your mood changes.
He enters the room and is met with your smile, tired but warm as always. You have little bags under your eyes but he thinks you look as beautiful as always– the love of his life, the mother of his children.
The doctor, midwife, and your ladies in waiting all want to sigh in awe at the sight, there's always nothing but pride and admiration in his eyes when he looks at you. He takes a step closer, ready to tell you how good of a job you did when his eyes drift down to the infant, stopping him in his tracks once again.
“Why is my boy swaddled in pink?” His voice slightly cracks. He doesn’t even sound mad, he sounds hurt.
“What do y– Kuna, who told you it was a boy?”
Him. “I felt it– the energy! It was different this time around, it’s supposed to be a boy.” He sounds so sure of himself as he explains.
“You told me you couldn’t tell just from the baby’s energy when I was pregnant with Sumire.” You remind him as your face twists in disbelief. Your partner’s in a state of denial right now.
“No fucking way.” He groans. “Are you sure?!”
“Yes I’m sure!” You argue back and everyone in the room tenses up. “Do you love her less because she’s a girl?!” You ask, the question seems to bring him back to reality.
“Of course not! What a ridiculous question.” He scoffs, still not over the fact that he’s wrong, but is starting to get impatient because he wanted to hold his child already. “Hand her over.”
You pause and glare at him for a moment, you know he won’t do anything to hurt her, you just couldn’t believe how delusional he was sometimes. “Fine– support her head.”
“I know, I know.” He smiles as you place his baby girl in his arms. She’s so tiny compared to him, her head’s no bigger than his palm but he still handles her with the utmost care. “No markings?”
“She does.” You smile back at him. “It’s on the back of her neck.”
“Wonderful.” He chuckles. “I can look later, she looks too comfy right now.” She yawns right when he says it and a part of him wants to turn to mush. He never got to have this with Sumire and all he can be is be grateful, despite how disappointed the missed time makes him.
“What should we name her?” You ask, running the back of your finger against her cheek.
“Can we do another name that starts with an S?”
“I guess we can.” You giggled, you figured you’d let him have this, given how he gaslit himself into thinking it’d be a boy the past 9 months. “I figure you already have something in mind, my king?”
“I do. How does Sayomi sound?” He suggests. “We can call her Yomi at home.”
“I like that.” You say as you rub his arm.
He leans down to give you a kiss, followed by a couple more sprinkled on your cheeks. “Good job, my love. She’s beautiful.”
a/n: justice for sumi's dolls
All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.
(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)
It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.
The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.
There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”
“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”
John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”
You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.
“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.
“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”
You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”
Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.
The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”
He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”
You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”
Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”
Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”
He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”
“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.
Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.
Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.
Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.
You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.
The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.
You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.
“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”
Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-
John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.
You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”
He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”
You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.
“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”
Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”
John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”
You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.
Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.
A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.
John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.
“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”
You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”
He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”
You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.
A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”
You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”
You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”
Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”
He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”
You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”
His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”
When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”
You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”
“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”
When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.
And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.
As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.
Pov: you're reading fanfiction and suddenly y/n starts to call him daddy
Honey & Fur
“Mamaa… mamaa… mama!” The high-pitched chirping of the little voice echoed through the wooden halls of the cabin, padded softly by the hush of snow falling outside. You let out an exasperated sigh, barely keeping the tiredness from your voice. Again. You glanced over your shoulder and saw him. A small, chubby, fuzzy-pawed creature toddling after you on plump legs, his button nose twitching and wide brown eyes fixed on you like you were the whole world. Which, unfortunately, to him—you were. “I told you to stay with Papa,” you murmured, crouching down slowly. Your hands trembled slightly before they settled. You were careful not to show fear. Not in front of him. He didn't deserve it. Not with him possibly watching. The little cub beamed, arms stretched up high as if his tiny bear brain had already forgotten your instructions. Or maybe he never intended to follow them in the first place. You hesitated. Despite the soft fuzz of his paws, the cute wagging of a puffy tail, and the toddler’s sweet baby scent, he wasn’t… exactly yours. But he called you Mama. And you had no choice. You reached out slowly, fingers brushing the warm fur of his arms, and lifted him gently. He was heavier than he looked. Round and warm and clingy. His ears twitched with joy, and he immediately buried his face in your neck with a delighted squeal. “Were you a good boy?” you asked softly, the words automatic by now. He blinked up at you, eyes sparkling with pride. “Yea!... I good!” he chirped, nuzzling closer. “Didn’t hurt squirrel today!” “That’s…” you swallowed, “…that’s very good.” He reached up with his tiny fluffy paws, making grabby hands. “Pet me, Mama! Pet, pet!” Your fingers hesitated above his little head his ears twitching in anticipation. Behind you, the wooden floor creaked. Your stomach knotted. You gently began to stroke his head, smoothing down his fluffy ears. “Good cub. Sweet boy.” He let out a purring sound, so low and rumbling it reminded you of something much bigger. Something that was definitely still watching. Later, as the fire crackled and the cub snuggled into your lap, clutching a worn stuffed fish that you had made and murmuring in his sleep, you felt a presence behind you. A heavy arm wrapped around your waist. Warm breath brushed your neck. Claws—retracted, for now—rested gently on your stomach. “He likes you,” came a deep voice, low and possessive. “He never let the others hold him.” Your spine stiffened. “I’m not like the others." you pause "I didn't want to be here," you whisper. A low growl of amusement rumbled from the broad chest behind you. “No. You didn't, but you're stuck here.” You didn’t respond. He leaned closer, nuzzling your cheek. “You're his mother now. You belong here with us. He needs you. I need you.” Your eyes met the cub’s face—so peaceful, so innocent. You wanted to resist. But the truth curled itself around your heart like ivy: no one was coming for you. No one even knew where you were. And here, at least, you were warm. Fed. Held. Loved. His love wasn’t gentle, but it was total. And as the bear behind you whispered sweet promises of forever and the cub mumbled “Mama…” in his sleep, you knew you’d play your role. You had to.
me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*
Manifesting Manifesting Manifesting
Her Sacrifice
Summary: The assassins had no such luck finding Prince Aemond but what were they to do when they stumbled upon the beloved wife of King Aegon instead? Her belly swollen with his heir.
Warnings: Blood & Cheese/murder/gore & blood/cursing/threats/blades/pregnancy/kidnapping/funeral/incest (reader is helaena's older twin)
Word Count: 2236
"The other lords will be accompanying me for a drink in the Throne Room. Shall you join us, Wife?" Aegon asked, a slightly eager smile on his face, anticipating your agreement.
You sighed as you began to undo the braids in your hair, "The hour is late, Husband. I must rest."
Aegon pouted, "Just a cup! We've attended to our royal duties all day, have we not earned a bit of respite?"
"Respite is what I shall get with a good night's sleep. Not drinking until sunrise with you and your comrades," you teased. You stood from seat at your vanity, walking over and placing Aegon's hand on your growing bump, "Besides, do you not wish for our babe to be born healthy? So that they may grow into formidable dragon riders like their parents."
He smiled softly at your belly before kissing it sweetly, "You make a good point, my dear. Mayhaps I should stay in with you."
You shook your head, smiling down at him, "Do not let me stop your fun. You are right. The King deserves his respite. Besides there may not be many more nights where we get to enjoy ourselves," motioning to your bump.
"You are going to make a wonderful mother," Aegon stood from his seat, "I shall allow you to enjoy your last moments of rest then." He planted a soft kiss on your lips, "I love you, Y/N."
You stroked his hair, "I love you, Aegon."
Aegon kissed you once more before giving your belly a playful squeeze and disappearing from your chambers. You summoned one of your ladies to help you finish getting ready for bed. Thanking her as you got yourself comfortable between the silk sheets of you and Aegon's bed. Finally bidding her good night as she blew out most of the candles, leaving a few on for Aegon's drunken return.
You could not be sure of the hour when you heard your chamber doors creak open followed by the shuffling of feet. You did not even bother opening your eyes, assuming you'd feel the bed indent as Aegon stumbled towards it.
"Back so soon?" you teased, "I was only being half serious about the sunset-"
Suddenly, a large hand clamped over your mouth. Your eyes shot open as two men loomed over you. You screamed and panicked as the larger man used his other arm to keep you pinned to the bed.
"Quiet!" the smaller man pulled a blade out, pressing it to your throat, "Unless you want me to bleed you like a pig."
You nodded, terrified of what these men could do, "W-Who are you? What do you want?"
"Its not our wants you should be concerned with, Your Grace."
"Who sent you? What do y-you want from me?" your voice shook.
"A life is owed. It wasn't supposed to be you. A son for a son we were told," the smaller man shrugged, "But it seems Prince Aemond isn't in the castle tonight."
Of course, you thought. This was about Lucerys. Your younger brother had taken the boy's life and that was a deed that could not go unpunished. You knew how deeply your eldest sister loved all of her children. The loss of one would be devastating. Taking Aemond's life made sense. But taking yours? And the life of your unborn child? That was not in Rhaenyra's nature. This was plotted by someone far more sinister and dark.
"My uncle sent you, didn't he?" you spoke up. They both sent stares to the other, "Daemon Targaryen. He sent you to kill one of us."
The large man scoffed, "Aren't you a smart one?"
"Shame those smarts won't do you any good now, will they?" the smaller one mocked.
"Please," you tried to beg, "Do not do this. No good will-" The large hand came down on your mouth again.
"That's enough," he grunted before turning back to the smaller man, "I'll hold her down and you cut."
Your blood ran cold at his words. Not only were they going to kill you but they were going to tortuously cut out your unborn child. They both yanked you further down the bed until you were flat on your back. You tried to kick, scream, bite, thrash as much as you could but the man proved to have almost inhuman strength. The smaller man raised his blade, that same sadistic grin plastered on his face before he began to dig it into the lower part of your abdomen.
White hot pain seared through your body as he continued to slice into you. Your vision was blurred with tears and you could have sworn your throat was raw from your cries. Though the pain was so intense that you could not process the sounds that might have been leaving you. Warm blood pooled all around you, the once ivory sheets now a deep crimson. One last gasp left you as they pulled your child from your body.
Suddenly you had remembered your mother telling you about the pains of childbirth when you first married Aegon and all anyone could talk about was you producing his heirs. She had a rather negative approach that utterly terrified you. So, you decided to find comfort in Rhaenyra's advice instead.
"I will not withhold the truth from you, it truly is the most excruciating pain a woman must go through."
You groaned, "That is not what I had wished to hear, Sister."
"You did not let me finish. The process is hard, yes. And you will feel the urge to curse the Gods or even your husband and swear to never bear anymore children," you both laughed, "But the moment you hear those sweet cries and your babe is placed upon your chest, the pain is forgotten. And nothing has ever seemed so worth it. Then you will know, right then and there, that you would do it all over again if it meant you could finally find that purest form of love."
And yet, you would never discover that beautiful feeling your sister had painted so clearly. The room was almost eerily silent besides the dripping of blood onto the stone floor.
"What do you know?" the man panted as he held your lifeless infant, "A son. Congratulations, my Queen."
You could not speak as you felt your body numb itself. Tears falling with no cries as they stuffed your son's body into a sack. It was as if you could feel your heart shatter. The men finished their sinister act before fleeing through a secret passageway. You tried little to fight the heaviness in your eyes. Perhaps this was all a horrible dream and if you shut your eyes, you'd open them to find yourself in bed with Aegon's arms wrapped securely around your belly. The last thing you could muster was a small smile at the sentimental image as your vision faded out completely.
"Sister?" Helaena called out into your bed chamber, "I did not wish to wake you but Aegon is being so loud and I cannot sleep with him-" Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of your mangled body lying on the bed. Your figure lifeless and your eyes vacant as you stared at the canopy. She approached your body, a shaky hand reaching out to touch your face to be met with utter stillness. Helaena backed out of the room slowly, tears flowing down her cheeks before sprinting to find some sort of help. As if anyone could undo what had already been done.
"I-I don't know what happened. I came in and she...she was..." Helaena's voice cracked with sobs as various people filed into the royal bed chamber; the Kingsguard, the Dowager Queen, the Hand, and lastly, your husband.
They all stopped at the sight before them, their eyes welling with tears and their stomachs churning. The Dowager Queen let out a heavy sob as all their attention turned to the King. Aegon approached your body cautiously.
He fell to his knees, his hands cradling your bloodied face as he sobbed, "My wife, my dearest-"
Nobody dared say a word as Aegon mourned over you. His sobs heavy with grief as he called out your name over and over again. The Queen Mother clutching Helaena's arm as they cried with him. The Kingsguard hanging their heads low in shame at their failure to protect their Queen. Otto Hightower, known to be quick with his word, said nothing.
The council meeting that followed was one full of dread and grief. Most of the council mourned, the Hand schemed, and the King could do not but curse the Gods and swear revenge.
"Your Grace, perhaps we should speak of the funeral arrangements for the Queen-"
"No," Aegon was quick to stop the Hand, who raised a brow at his grandson's denial, "I will not have my wife's body dragged through the streets like a dog!"
"Not dragged, honored!" Otto corrected him before lowering his tone as he spoke to the King, "Y/N was my granddaughter and I loved her. She deserves the funeral of a Targaryen princess, a Targaryen queen. The small folk wish to mourn their Queen and the heir she carried. And they need to know who is responsible for this."
Aegon's face twisted in disbelief, "How could they not already know?! Who else would do this save the bitch queen of bastards?!"
"We must know for certain, Your Grace," Lord Jasper suggested, "If it was not your sister, this may prove to be an even bigger threat to the crown, to you, my King."
Aegon scoffed, "I do not care what threatens me. My wife is dead. And my child," he stifled a sob, "That cunt did this, I know it. Her and her kingdom of traitorous bastards will burn for it."
Before anyone could speak, the doors of the council chamber opened as Lord Larys entered. He bowed meekly as all eyes turned to him.
"My lords, Your Grace," he greeted the council.
All stood still, "State your purpose, Lord Larys," the Hand spoke.
"We have apprehended one of the assailants. A gold cloak, known for his brutal nature. The guards caught him fleeing the Gate of Gods. He carried the child's body in a sack."
The King hardly wasted any time, stomping over to the doors, "I shall kill him myself."
"We might retrieve further information about who is to blame for this tragedy after questioning," Ser Criston stopped Aegon from leaving as Otto spoke, "I trust in your skill set, Lord Larys."
The Strong Lord bowed before exiting the room. All eyes turned once again to the King and his Hand.
"We will hold the service for both the child and mother-"
"I said no," Aegon grunted, "My wife and child will not be put on display for the Realm."
"Your Grace, we might use this to our advantage in the war you wish to march into. Your people need to know the depravity that Rhaenyra is capable of. The great houses of Westeros will see that she is not fit to rule given her cruel nature. They will flock to your side and with them, their armies and bannermen."
Aegon continued to shake his head. He could not just let them see you or your child like that. They did not deserve it.
"Mother," he turned to the Dowager Queen for support.
Alicent approached Aegon's chair, "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it might be the right one."
The King could not muster anymore fight, "Have the Silent Sisters prepare the Queen and child for their journey. Behind them will be Princess Helaena and the Queen Mother."
"No, I do not wish to be a spectacle," Alicent argued but her father would not hear it.
Your husband visited your body as the Silent Sisters began to prepare it. They had cleaned the mess and dressed you in one of your favorite dresses, the emerald color complimenting your skin and hair.
"Your Grace, it is ill-fated to look upon the face of death," Maester Orwyle warned.
"That is not the face of death, Maester. That is my wife," Aegon spoke, "Leave me with her."
Maester Orwyle and the Silent Sisters bowed before leaving the King with your body. He softly stroked the hair from your face as he broke into sobs once again.
"I am so sorry, my love," he cried, "I-I should have been there to protect you. And our son." Maester Orwyle had informed His Grace that the child you carried was a prince, a perfect heir, "You truly would have been the most wonderful mother. You were already a perfect wife and Queen. Motherhood would have come naturally."
Aegon recounted how well you did with Rhaenyra's last two babies, the ones she had with his uncle Daemon. As much as he did not care for his half-sister, he knew you did. Always quick to defend her, even against your own family. So, he was forced to ask himself, how could she do this to you? To your child?
"They will pay for what they have done," your husband muttered to you, "I will win this war. I will win it for our child. I will win it for you. With fire and blood. Your sacrifice will not be for naught, my Queen."
This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01
Max Verstappen x Reader
summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.
word count: 7k
(this is a smau and story at the same time)
thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!
tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss
The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.
It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.
You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.
He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.
After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?
Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.
However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.
The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.
You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.
Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.
“Would you like another shot?”
The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.
“Uh… Sure.”
You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.
“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”
You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.
“And how do you know what I like to drink?”
Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.
“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”
“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”
You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.
“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”
You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?
It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.
He did not look this hot on tv.
“I’m YN.”
He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.
“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.
“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”
Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.
“You are not from around here.”
He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.
“Damn, do I look that poor?”
You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.
“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”
You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.
“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”
He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.
“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”
“Maybe some RedBull merch?”
That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.
“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”
“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”
You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.
You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.
“Are you here for the race, then?”
“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”
You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.
“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”
Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.
You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.
You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.
Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.
Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.
“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”
He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.
“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.
“Tough breakup?”
“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”
Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”
“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”
“Non taken.”
“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”
Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.
“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”
“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”
Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.
“So you flew out here?”
“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”
“And who’s that?”
“You.”
Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”
You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.
“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”
You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.
“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”
You shrugged.
“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”
Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.
“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”
Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.
You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.
“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”
You narrowed your eyes, tempted.
“And what is that?”
“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”
You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.
Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.
Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.
“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”
“So?”
“People will gossip. About me.”
“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”
Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.
“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”
Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.
“I have a condition though.”
“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”
“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”
You smirked.
“Ok, let’s hear it.”
“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”
Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.
“To celebrate your win?” You teased.
“To celebrate both our wins.”
Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.
“You better not crash then.”
Max laughed, relaxing his posture.
“I’m too good for crashing.”
You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
yourusername added to their story
"won't you guess where i am?"
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.
You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.
You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.
Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.
“Hello there, pretty.”
He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.
“Congratulations!”
“Did you enjoy it?”
You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.
“Way better than from home.”
“Any news?”
Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.
“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”
You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.
Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.
“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.
Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.
Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.
If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.
Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.
You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.
Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.
“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”
“Are you fucking insane?”
Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.
“What?”
“That fucking radio message!”
And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.
“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”
You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.
“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.
“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”
“Yes, I very much would, Max.”
He kneeled before you, reaching your height.
“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”
You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.
Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.
You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.
“So, what time are you picking me up?”
The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.
“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”
“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”
Max giggled, playfully.
“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
“See you later, champ.”
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?
Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.
Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.
“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”
He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.
Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.
“Is this yours?”
You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.
“Yes, welcome.”
Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.
The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.
“This is really nice, Max.”
Your compliment eased his nerves.
“I hope this isn’t too much.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”
And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.
“Are you hungry?”
You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.
“Starving.”
He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.
You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.
Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.
Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.
“I made them.”
“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”
“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”
You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.
He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.
“So… How is it?”
“Perfect.”
You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.
The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.
As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.
“I really want to keep seeing you.”
Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.
You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.
“How are we going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”
And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.
The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.
And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.
When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.
Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.
Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.
Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.
On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.
That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.
Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.
So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.
You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.
When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.
Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.
“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”
You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”
He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.
“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”
Your breath caught.
“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”
The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.
Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”
And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.
The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.
He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.
liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others
vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.
view all comments
user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you
user they won best paddock couple 😍😍
user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩
user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏
yourbff my baby is a star 🤩
danielricciardo finally some real journalism!
> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing
yourusername what is my life??
> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??
user how's dylan??
❤️ liked by maxverstappen1
user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem
user if they don't get married istg
yourmom my loves 😍
zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.
user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.
florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.
gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅
user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.
user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.
user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.
f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.
user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.
user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.
liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others
maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.
view all comments
user this is actually insane
user mad!max is back 🥵🥵
user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏
redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁
user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?
user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is
> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign
user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin
yourusername the best of the best! 💗
> user she is such a queen 😍
lando congratulations mate!! 🍾
charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him
> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎
lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably
user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡
georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥
user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it
Me after clicking a p link thinking it was a fic rec.
Jumpscare.
In another universe again
Promise?
The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers of the past. You’d grown up within those walls, a daughter of the Wayne legacy, twin to Damian, the son destined to inherit the mantle of Robin. But where Damian was sharp edges and fierce determination, you were a shadow, slipping through the cracks of a family that never seemed to notice you were there.
You were Y/N Wayne, the other half of a pair, but to the Batfamily, you were an afterthought. Bruce, your father, was a man consumed by his mission, his eyes always fixed on the horizon of Gotham’s endless night. Dick was the golden son, too busy charming the world to see you fading. Jason, with his jagged edges, spared you fleeting glances but never lingered. Tim was lost in his own mind, his coffee-fueled nights leaving no room for you. And Damian—your twin, your mirror—carried the weight of expectations you could never touch. He was the heir, the prodigy. You were just… you.
The neglect wasn’t loud. It was quiet, insidious, like a slow bleed. A missed birthday here, a forgotten promise there. Training sessions where you were left to spar with dummies while Damian was molded by Bruce’s hands. Family dinners where your seat was filled with silence, your voice drowned by their laughter. You tried to be seen, to be heard. You trained harder, studied longer, patched your own wounds after patrols. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.
Then came Lila.
She arrived like a burst of sunlight, a foster girl with wide eyes and a smile that disarmed even the coldest hearts. The Batfamily welcomed her with open arms. Dick ruffled her hair, Jason taught her to throw a punch, Tim helped her with homework, and Bruce—*Bruce*—smiled at her in a way you’d never seen directed at you. Even Damian, your stoic twin, softened around her, his rare laughter echoing through the manor.
Lila was everything you weren’t. She was wanted.
You watched from the sidelines as they showered her with affection, their voices bright with praise. “Lila’s a natural,” Dick would say. “She’s got heart,” Jason added. “She’s one of us,” Tim declared. And you? You were the ghost in the room, your presence barely acknowledged. The realization settled in your chest like a stone: you were worthless to them.
The doubt crept in slowly, then all at once. Why weren’t you enough? Were you too quiet, too weak, too *you*? You spent nights staring at the ceiling of your room, the weight of their indifference pressing down until you couldn’t breathe. You stopped joining them for meals, stopped waiting for them to notice you. They didn’t.
The kidnapping was almost a relief.
It happened on a rainy Gotham night, the kind where the city seemed to drown in its own despair. You and Lila were grabbed off the streets, thrown into a van before you could react. The world went dark, and when you woke, you were in a warehouse, wrists bound, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear. Lila was beside you, her face pale but defiant, her eyes darting to the cameras mounted on the walls.
The kidnappers were professionals, their faces hidden behind masks. They spoke in clipped tones, their words broadcast live to the city. “The Batfamily has one hour to choose,” their leader said, his voice cold as steel. “One girl lives. One dies. Make your choice, or we kill them both.”
You knew what would happen before it did. You saw it in the way Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but strained. You saw it in the way Dick hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lila. You saw it in the way Jason’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the girl who’d become their sister in all but blood.
“We’re coming for you,” Bruce said through the feed, his words meant for both of you but landing on Lila like a lifeline. “Hold on.”
The clock ticked down. The kidnappers paced, their guns glinting under the flickering lights. Lila whispered to you, her voice trembling. “They’ll save us, Y/N. They have to.”
You wanted to believe her, but the truth was a blade in your gut. You’d always been the one left behind.
When the Batfamily arrived, it was with the precision of a military strike. Batman led the charge, Nightwing and Red Hood flanking him, Red Robin and Robin covering the exits. They moved like shadows, neutralizing the kidnappers with ruthless efficiency. But when the moment came—when the leader grabbed you and Lila, a gun to each of your heads—they froze.
“Choose!” the leader roared, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Now!”
Bruce’s eyes met yours through the haze of smoke and chaos. For a moment, you thought he saw you—really saw you. But then his gaze shifted to Lila, and you knew.
“Save her,” he said, his voice steady, final.
The world slowed. Dick lunged for Lila, pulling her from the kidnapper’s grip. Jason tackled the man holding her, his fists a blur. Tim and Damian cleared the room, their focus on the girl who mattered. You were still there, the gun pressed to your temple, your heart a hollow drum.
They’d chosen her.
The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting every second to Gotham and beyond. You looked into the lens, your reflection staring back—a girl forgotten, a shadow no one would mourn. You thought of the manor, of the family that had never been yours. You thought of Damian, your twin, who hadn’t even glanced your way.
The kidnapper’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “Looks like you’re the one they don’t need.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just stared into the camera, your lips parting to whisper one final word.
“Goodbye.”
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, a single, deafening crack. The world went black.
The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a jagged wound in the silence of the warehouse. The cameras, cold and unyielding, captured every moment—the blood pooling beneath your motionless body, the kidnapper stepping back, the world watching as Y/N Wayne, the forgotten daughter, became a ghost before their eyes.
Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood frozen, his cape a heavy shroud around him. His mind, always calculating, always planning, had betrayed him. He’d made the call, the tactical choice: save Lila, neutralize the threat, then save you. It was supposed to be clean, precise. But the plan had unraveled, and now you were gone. His daughter, his *child*, lay dead because of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, a suffocating force that no kevlar could shield. He stared at your body, the camera’s red light mocking him, broadcasting his failure to Gotham. He wanted to move, to cradle you, to scream, but Batman didn’t break. Bruce Wayne, though—he was shattering.
“No…” The word slipped from Dick Grayson’s lips, barely a whisper, as he stumbled forward. Nightwing, the heart of the family, was unraveling. He’d been the one to pull Lila to safety, his hands gentle but firm, his focus on the girl they’d all come to love. But now, as he looked at you, your eyes still open, staring into the void of the camera, guilt clawed at him. He’d promised to protect you, hadn’t he? All those years ago, when you and Damian came into their lives, he’d vowed to be the big brother you needed. Yet he’d let you fade, let you slip through the cracks. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he choked, falling to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering over your still form, afraid to touch what he’d already lost.
Jason Todd’s rage was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Red Hood had taken down the kidnapper who held Lila, his fists a blur of vengeance. But when the shot rang out, when he saw you crumple, something inside him broke. He’d always seen you as the quiet one, the kid who patched her own wounds and never asked for anything. He’d meant to check on you, to pull you into his orbit, but there was always another mission, another fight. Now, he stood over your body, his helmet hiding the tears burning his eyes. “You bastards,” he snarled, his voice cracking as he rounded on Bruce. “You *chose* her over your own kid!” He wanted to hit something, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was stare at you, the sister he’d failed, and feel the weight of his own worthlessness.
Tim Drake’s mind was a storm of data, replaying every second, every decision, searching for the moment it all went wrong. Red Robin was supposed to be the strategist, the one who saw every angle. But he hadn’t seen you. Not really. You were always there, a quiet presence in the Batcave, working beside him in silence while he buried himself in cases. He’d noticed your absence at dinners, your retreat from the family, but he’d told himself you were fine. You were strong. You didn’t need him. Now, as he knelt beside Dick, his hands trembling as he scanned your vitals—knowing it was pointless—he felt the full force of his neglect. “I should’ve… I should’ve checked on you,” he murmured, his voice hollow. The cameras caught his failure, too, and he knew the world would judge him. He deserved it.
Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still in hand, blood dripping from its blade. Robin was trained to be unyielding, to prioritize the mission above all else. But you were his other half, the shadow to his light, the one who understood the weight of being Talia’s child in a world that didn’t want you. He’d pushed you away, told himself it was to protect you from his own darkness, but the truth was uglier: he’d been too proud, too focused on proving himself. Now, as he looked at your lifeless body, your blood staining the concrete, something inside him fractured. “Ukhti,” he whispered, the Arabic word for sister slipping out, a plea and a prayer. He didn’t move toward you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the truth: he’d failed you, just like the rest of them.
Lila, the girl they’d chosen, stood trembling in Dick’s arms, her wide eyes fixed on your body. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, but the guilt was there, etched into her face. She’d been the one they saved, the one they loved, and now your death was her shadow. The cameras caught her, too, the girl who’d taken your place, and Gotham would whisper her name with scorn.
Bruce finally moved, his steps heavy as he approached you. He knelt beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to close your eyes, a gesture too late to matter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, broken. “I thought… I thought there was time.” But there hadn’t been. He’d calculated wrong, prioritized wrong, and now his daughter was gone. The world watched, and he felt their judgment, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside him. He was Batman, the protector of Gotham, but he couldn’t protect his own child.
The Batfamily stood in a fractured circle around you, each grappling with their own guilt, their own failure. The cameras kept rolling, the live feed searing your death into Gotham’s memory. The city would mourn you, the forgotten Wayne, but the family who’d lost you would carry the weight forever.
Dick’s hand rested on your cold cheek, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t see you,” he whispered. “God, Y/N, we didn’t see you.”
Jason’s fists clenched, his voice a raw growl. “This isn’t over. Whoever set this up—they’re gonna pay.”
Tim’s head bowed, his mind still racing, still searching for a way to undo the impossible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words useless against the void.
Damian’s grip on his katana tightened, his voice barely audible. “You deserved better, ukhti.”
Bruce remained silent, his hand lingering on your face, the weight of his choice a noose around his neck. He’d failed you, just as he’d failed Jason, just as he’d failed Gotham too many times before. But this—this was different. This was his daughter, and he’d let you die.
The warehouse was silent now, save for the hum of the cameras and the distant wail of sirens. The Batfamily stood over your body, a family broken by their own hands. They’d chosen Lila, and in doing so, they’d lost you.
And Gotham watched, its heart as cold and unforgiving as the night
Bruce Wayne knelt beside you, his hand still resting on your closed eyes, as if he could will you back to life. His mind was a battlefield, replaying every second of the night—his choice, his hesitation, his failure. He’d chosen Lila because she was the civilian, the one they’d welcomed into their home, the one who’d seemed so fragile. But now, as he looked at your lifeless form, a gnawing doubt clawed at him. Something was wrong. The kidnappers’ precision, the cameras, the broadcast—it was too orchestrated, too perfect. His instincts, honed by years as Batman, screamed that this was no random crime.
“Bruce,” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. He was crouched by one of the kidnappers, a tablet in hand, his fingers flying across the screen. “You need to see this.” His face was pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Bruce rose, his movements mechanical, and joined Tim. The screen displayed a series of encrypted messages, traced back to an unlisted server. The sender’s codename was innocuous—*Starling*—but the content was damning. Instructions for the kidnapping, coordinates for the warehouse, even the exact wording of the ultimatum: *Make the Batfamily choose.* And at the bottom, a single line that turned Bruce’s blood to ice: *Eliminate Y/N Wayne. Secure the family.*
Bruce’s gaze snapped to Lila, who was still clinging to Dick, her sobs perfectly timed. His heart, already fractured, began to splinter further. “Lila,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Step away from Nightwing.”
Dick frowned, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Bruce, what—”
“Now,” Bruce barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lila’s sobs faltered, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped—a flicker of calculation in her eyes before she buried her face in Dick’s chest again. But Bruce saw it. And so did Damian.
Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still dripping with the blood of the last kidnapper he’d dispatched. His green eyes, so like yours, were fixed on Lila, and the realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He’d always been wary of her, the girl who’d slipped so easily into their lives, but he’d dismissed it as jealousy, as his own struggle to share the family he’d fought to claim. Now, as he pieced together the puzzle—her sudden arrival, her effortless charm, the way she’d drawn their attention away from you—he felt a rage unlike any he’d known. It wasn’t the cold, controlled fury of the League of Assassins. This was personal, visceral, a brother’s wrath for the sister he’d failed.
“You,” Damian hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He took a step toward Lila, his katana rising, but Jason grabbed his arm, holding him back. “She did this. She *planned* this.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he looked at your body. “Ukhti, I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”
Bruce’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Lila’s foster records had been clean—too clean. Her arrival had coincided with a lull in major threats, a perfect distraction. She’d played them all, weaving herself into their hearts while you faded into the background. And now, you were dead because of her. Because of *him*. The guilt was a noose, tightening with every breath. He’d failed you as a father, and now he’d failed you as Batman, blinded by a girl who’d weaponized their affection.
“Tim,” Bruce said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Secure the evidence. Dick, restrain her.”
Dick hesitated, his eyes darting between Bruce and Lila. “Bruce, she’s just a kid—”
“She’s a traitor,” Damian snapped, wrenching free of Jason’s grip. He lunged for Lila, but Bruce stepped in front of him, his hand on Damian’s chest.
“Not yet,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl. “We need answers.”
Lila’s performance faltered as Dick gently but firmly pulled her away, his hands cuffs-ready. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her facade. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice trembling. But the cameras were still rolling, and Gotham was watching. The city would see her unmasked, just as the Batfamily had.
Damian sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He reached for your hand, cold and still, and pressed it to his forehead, a gesture of grief and apology. “Ukhti,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was supposed to be your shield. I let you down. I let her take you.” His shoulders shook, the weight of his failure crushing him. He’d been raised to be a warrior, not a brother, but you’d been the one constant in his life, the one who’d understood him without words. And now you were gone, stolen by a girl who’d played them all.
Bruce watched, his heart a bleeding wound. He wanted to comfort Damian, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. He was the father, the leader, and he’d let this happen. He’d chosen Lila, not because he loved her more, but because he’d underestimated you. He’d thought you were strong enough to wait, to endure. He’d been wrong.
The sirens grew louder, GCPD closing in. Tim was already uploading the evidence to the Batcomputer, ensuring Lila’s betrayal would be exposed. Jason stood guard, his gun trained on the remaining kidnappers, but his eyes kept drifting to you, his sister, the one he’d never truly known. Dick cuffed Lila, his face a mask of betrayal and guilt, while Tim worked in silence, his jaw tight with suppressed grief.
Bruce knelt beside Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this right,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “For her.”
Damian didn’t look up. “There is no right,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She’s gone.”
Talia al Ghul stood in the heart of her fortress, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her sharp features. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and steel, a reminder of the empire she’d built. Her spies had just delivered the news, their voices trembling as they recounted the events in Gotham. The live broadcast had reached even the remote peaks of Nanda Parbat, and Talia had watched, her heart a storm of ice and fire, as her daughter—*her* Y/N—was shot dead on camera.
She stood motionless, her emerald eyes fixed on the tablet displaying the frozen image of your body, your blood pooling beneath you. The world had seen it, but only Talia understood the true cost. You were her daughter, her legacy, the child she’d trained in secret, hoping to mold you into a weapon as deadly as Damian. But you’d chosen Gotham, chosen your father, and she’d let you go, believing Bruce would protect you. She’d been wrong.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. “Lila,” she murmured, the name a curse on her lips. Her spies had uncovered the girl’s treachery, the messages linking her to a shadowy network that rivaled even the League. Lila had played the Batfamily like pawns, orchestrating your death to secure her place. Talia’s lips curled into a snarl. The girl would pay, but not before she suffered.
“Beloved,” Talia said, her voice soft but laced with venom, addressing the empty air as if Bruce could hear her. “You failed her. You let a viper into your home and called it family.” Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She’d lost you, her daughter, her shadow, and the pain was a blade in her heart. But Talia al Ghul did not break. She planned.
She turned to her assassins, her voice a whip. “Find the girl. Bring her to me alive. She will learn the price of crossing the al Ghuls.” Her gaze returned to the tablet, to your still face, and her voice softened, a mother’s grief breaking through. “Rest, my daughter. Your blood will not be spilled in vain.”
Talia would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant avenging you. And when she was done, Lila would beg for the mercy you’d never been given.
-
ellelabelle liked this · 1 week ago -
deafeninghoundshoedonkey reblogged this · 1 week ago -
repentant-repeller liked this · 1 week ago -
nemo-fish liked this · 1 week ago -
hinsak liked this · 1 week ago -
shootthesarcasticsloth reblogged this · 1 week ago -
iisa-bellla liked this · 1 week ago -
thehawktuah reblogged this · 1 week ago -
thehawktuah liked this · 1 week ago
-
friedcoffeecrusade liked this · 1 week ago -
channiesrooms liked this · 1 week ago -
badassturtle13 liked this · 1 week ago -
bbygirlqueen liked this · 1 week ago -
electronichologramcreation liked this · 1 week ago -
string-of-constellations liked this · 1 week ago -
mrsrossshorlynch reblogged this · 1 week ago -
mrsrossshorlynch liked this · 1 week ago
-
virtualpainterdiplomathairdo liked this · 1 week ago
-
ari-220707 liked this · 1 week ago -
xxstupidbihxx liked this · 1 week ago -
k-kaly reblogged this · 1 week ago -
chloconut5 liked this · 1 week ago -
fortunatelypalegladiator liked this · 1 week ago -
nova-rush liked this · 1 week ago -
harmfuldancer2000 liked this · 1 week ago -
fernetsitofutbolero liked this · 1 week ago -
mrs-lupin-blog liked this · 1 week ago -
allthatjas-world liked this · 1 week ago -
feyrecarol liked this · 1 week ago -
justnayoni liked this · 1 week ago -
iminlovewithneymarjr liked this · 1 week ago -
altair10 liked this · 1 week ago -
kakaispunk liked this · 1 week ago -
hzstry8 liked this · 1 week ago -
realswimshaddy liked this · 1 week ago -
book-place liked this · 1 week ago -
pretzelcat4-blog liked this · 1 week ago -
asencarmen24 liked this · 1 week ago -
thymaddymoo liked this · 1 week ago -
kam-elise liked this · 1 week ago -
gemi-boi liked this · 1 week ago -
the-long-gone-souls liked this · 1 week ago -
wierdflowerpower liked this · 1 week ago -
blackqueenblogzz liked this · 1 week ago -
idontknowwhatisgoingonsblog liked this · 1 week ago -
laidynix liked this · 1 week ago
-
mrsmorallygrey liked this · 1 week ago -
diya-dln liked this · 1 week ago -
thebelovedsoup liked this · 1 week ago -
houseoffanfics liked this · 1 week ago
