Fantasy Island (gr63)

Drive to Survive, Azerbaijan GP 2018 | Post-race show, Spanish GP 2024

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Beneath the Surface

Warnings: Depression, Eating Disorder, Emotional Distress, Mental Health Struggles

Summary: Y/n, struggling with depression and an eating disorder, feels trapped in her own darkness, unable to confide in her husband, Toto Wolff, for fear of burdening him. Despite her attempts to hide her pain, Toto notices the changes in her and becomes increasingly concerned.

Pairing: Toto Wolff x reader

Word count: 869

If you need help please don´t shy away and confide in someone for help. your feelings are valid.

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Y/n stared blankly out of the window, her eyes tracing the familiar skyline of England. The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden hue over the city, but she felt nothing. The world outside was vibrant, alive with color and energy, but inside, she was a hollow shell, trapped in a gray fog that refused to lift.

Toto had left early that morning, heading to the Mercedes factory for yet another meeting. His life was a whirlwind of decisions, deadlines, and constant pressure. Y/n had always admired his drive and ambition, the way he could juggle a million things at once and still come home to her with a smile. But lately, that smile felt like a spotlight, one she couldn't bear to stand under.

She sighed, her hand drifting to the untouched plate of food in front of her. The thought of eating made her stomach turn, a wave of guilt crashing over her for the third time that day. The food wasn’t the problem—she was. Her mind was a battlefield, a war she had been losing for months now. The depression had crept in slowly, like a shadow lengthening in the afternoon sun, until it swallowed her whole.

And the eating disorder? That was her secret weapon, the twisted coping mechanism she clung to in a desperate attempt to feel some semblance of control. But the control was an illusion, and she knew it. It was a spiral, one that tightened around her like a noose, leaving her breathless and panicked.

She couldn’t tell Toto. The very thought of burdening him with her darkness made her chest ache. He had enough on his plate, running a Formula 1 team and maintaining the image of a calm, collected leader. He didn’t need her problems on top of that.

But Toto noticed. He always did.

He had seen the way her clothes hung a little looser on her frame, the way her smile never quite reached her eyes anymore. He noticed how she pushed food around on her plate, claiming she wasn’t hungry, or that she had eaten earlier. He watched as the light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a distant, haunted look that broke his heart.

Toto was no stranger to pressure and stress, but the sight of his wife slipping away from him was a different kind of pain, one he didn’t know how to fight. He had tried to bring it up gently, asking if she was okay, if there was anything she wanted to talk about. Each time, she brushed him off with a weak smile and a quick excuse.

But Toto wasn’t fooled. He knew something was terribly wrong, and the longer she kept him at arm’s length, the more desperate he became to help her.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual, hoping to catch her before she retreated into the solitude of their bedroom. He found her sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a cup of tea that had long gone cold.

“Y/n,” he called softly, not wanting to startle her.

She looked up, startled anyway, and quickly forced a smile. “Hey, I didn’t hear you come in. How was your day?”

Toto walked over, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting down. He took her hand in his, noting how thin and cold it felt. “It was fine,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “But I’m more worried about how your day was.”

Y/n’s smile faltered, and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m fine, Toto. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

He squeezed her hand, his heart aching at the way she tried to downplay her struggles. “Y/n, you’re not fine. I can see that something is wrong, and it’s killing me that you won’t let me in.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly blinked them away, shaking her head. “I don’t want to burden you with my problems. You have enough to deal with already.”

Toto’s expression softened, and he reached out to gently cup her cheek, turning her face toward him. “You are never a burden to me, Y/n. You’re my wife, my partner in everything. If you’re hurting, then I’m hurting too. Please, let me help you.”

The dam broke then. The tears she had been holding back for so long spilled over, and she crumpled into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Toto held her tightly, his own eyes damp as he whispered soothing words, promising her that they would get through this together.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked out between sobs. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I feel so lost, so out of control, and I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” Toto murmured, stroking her hair. “We’ll find help, Y/n. We’ll get through this, one step at a time. But you have to trust me, and let me in. We’re a team, remember?”

She nodded against his chest, the weight of her secret finally lifting, if only a little. “I’m scared, Toto.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But we’ll face it together, every step of the way.”

#ExposeFIA

Max Verstappen x forensic accountant!Reader

Summary: when the FIA keeps targeting your boyfriend, you decide to do something about it by digging into their financials and learning what skeletons they have hidden in the closet … nothing could have prepared you for what you unearth or the domino effect that follows

Warnings: corruption, kidnapping, violence, and murder

Based on this request

Max slams the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the hotel room. His jaw is tight, his hands balled into fists as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the back of the couch. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor with your laptop open, spreadsheets and case files scattered around you.

At first, you don’t look up — this is just Max being Max after a bad day — but then you hear him muttering in Dutch, sharp and venomous under his breath.

“What now?” You ask, closing the laptop with a quiet sigh.

Max rakes a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. “The FIA fined me again.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “For what?”

“For cursing!” His voice rises, and he gestures wildly, his frustration spilling out like a dam breaking. “In the press conference. They called it inappropriate. Inappropriate! It wasn’t even that bad — just one word!”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh, but he catches it.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” He stops pacing, leveling you with an incredulous look.

“Max,” you say slowly, rising to your feet, “you do curse like a sailor in every other sentence.”

“Not every other sentence,” he protests, crossing his arms.

You arch a brow.

“Okay, fine. But that’s not the point!” He starts pacing again. “They only do this to me! I swear, it’s like they’re waiting for me to screw up so they can slap me with another fine.”

You fold your arms, leaning against the couch. “How much this time?”

“Fifty thousand euros,” he says bitterly, kicking the edge of the rug.

“Fifty thousand?” Your jaw drops. “For cursing?”

“Exactly! It’s ridiculous!” Max looks at you, his blue eyes blazing with anger and just a hint of something more vulnerable underneath. “Lando swears all the time, and no one says anything to him. This is personal, I know it is.”

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Because, honestly, he’s not wrong.

Max keeps going, his words tumbling out in a rush. “They’ve been on my case all season. The penalties, the warnings — it’s like they can’t stand the thought of me winning again. They want to knock me down, and they don’t care how they do it.”

You let out a long breath, watching him as he paces. He’s like a storm contained in human form, all fire and fury and relentless energy.

“They can’t keep getting away with this,” you say finally, your voice low but firm.

Max pauses mid-step, turning to face you. “What am I supposed to do? Complain? They’ll just call me a sore loser and fine me for that too.”

“No, not you,” you say, a sly smile creeping onto your face. “Me.”

He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the FIA,” you say, your mind already racing. “You said it yourself — they’re out to get you. So, let’s find out why.”

Max blinks, caught off guard. “You want to investigate them?”

“I’m a forensic accountant,” you remind him. “Digging into shady organizations is literally my job. If there’s something fishy going on with their finances, I’ll find it.”

“And then what?” He asks, skeptical but intrigued.

“And then we use it against them,” you say simply.

He stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shakes his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You’re serious about this.”

“Dead serious.”

Max exhales, running a hand through his hair again. “You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not your fight.”

“Of course, it’s my fight,” you say, stepping closer. “They’re targeting you. And that means they’re targeting me.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eases. “You’re crazy,” he says, but there’s a trace of affection in his voice.

“Crazy for you,” you shoot back, grabbing your laptop and plopping down on the couch.

He groans. “That was awful.”

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me.”

Max flops onto the couch beside you, resting his head against the back of it. “What are you even looking for?”

“Anything that doesn’t add up,” you say, your fingers flying across the keyboard. “Expenses that don’t make sense, hidden accounts, payments to people who shouldn’t be getting paid. Everyone leaves a paper trail. Even the FIA.”

He watches you in silence for a moment, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “You really think they’re dirty?”

“I think it’s worth finding out,” you say. “Worst case, I waste a few hours and we’re no worse off. Best case …”

“Best case?” He prompts.

“Best case, we blow this whole thing wide open,” you say, grinning.

Max leans back, a thoughtful look on his face. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Compliments won’t get you out of trouble, Verstappen,” you say without looking up.

He smirks. “Didn’t say I was trying.”

For a while, the only sound in the room is the soft clatter of your keyboard and the occasional frustrated sigh from Max as he scrolls through his phone.

“What if they come after you?” He asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “Why would they?”

“Because they’re the FIA,” he says bluntly. “They don’t play fair. If they find out you’re digging into their finances, they’ll find a way to shut you up.”

You pause, considering his words. “Let them try,” you say finally. “I’m not scared of a bunch of bureaucrats.”

Max looks at you like he wants to argue, but then he just shakes his head and mutters something in Dutch.

“What was that?” You ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

“Max.”

“I said you’re stubborn,” he admits, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“Takes one to know one,” you shoot back, your eyes already back on your screen.

He laughs, the sound low and warm and surprisingly light given the circumstances. For the first time all evening, he looks like the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on his shoulders.

“You really think you can take them on?” He asks after a while.

You glance up, meeting his gaze. “I know I can.”

Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Then do it,” he says, his voice steady and resolute. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

You smile, a little spark of determination igniting in your chest. “Damn right it is.”

For the next hour, you work in companionable silence, Max occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment or a half-hearted complaint about how long this might take. But underneath it all, there’s a quiet sense of solidarity, a shared purpose that feels unshakable.

By the time you close your laptop for the night, you’ve barely scratched the surface of what you’re looking for. But you’ve got a starting point, and that’s enough.

“You coming to bed?” Max asks, standing and stretching.

“In a minute,” you say, glancing at your notes.

He hesitates, then leans down to kiss the top of your head. “Don’t stay up too late, detective.”

You smile, your fingers already back on the keyboard. “Goodnight, Verstappen.”

As he disappears down the hall, you feel a surge of determination. If the FIA thinks they can push Max around, they’ve got another thing coming. Because they’re not just dealing with him anymore. They’re dealing with you.

***

The apartment is dark and silent, the kind of stillness that only comes in the dead of night. Max is fast asleep, his breaths soft and steady, the rise and fall of his chest a calming rhythm. You’re lying beside him under the covers, your laptop propped on your knees, the faint glow from the screen illuminating your face.

You should have gone to sleep hours ago. You told yourself you’d close the laptop after one more file — just one more. But then there was another, and another, and now it’s nearly 4 AM, and you’re running on pure caffeine and spite.

Max shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent in Dutch. You glance at him, your heart softening for a moment. He looks so peaceful, so unaware of the storm you’re wading through just inches away from him.

“Soon,” you whisper, your fingers flying over the keyboard. “Just a little longer.”

You’ve been combing through every financial record you can find, hacking into databases and piecing together spreadsheets like a forensic puzzle. And then, finally, you see it — a string of payments that makes your stomach turn.

The account is buried deep, hidden behind layers of shell companies and off-the-books transfers. But the numbers don’t lie. Over the past three years, millions of euros have been funneled out of the FIA’s discretionary budget and into a series of private accounts.

At first, it’s just suspicious. Then it’s horrifying.

You zoom in on the details, your pulse racing. The money trails lead to names — government officials in multiple countries, shady contractors with histories of fraud, and even one account linked to a known arms dealer.

“What the hell …” you mutter, your hands trembling slightly as you open another file.

It gets worse.

The payments aren’t just bribes or kickbacks. They’re tied to contracts for military-grade surveillance technology and riot control equipment. The kind of things no racing organization should have any business buying.

“Why would the FIA need …” Your voice trails off, your thoughts spiraling.

And then it hits you. They don’t need it. Someone within the FIA is using their funds as a cover to funnel resources for something darker — something illegal.

You feel a chill creep up your spine as you uncover more details. The timing of the payments coincides with major FIA controversies, including rulings that massively benefited certain teams or drivers. It’s almost as if the penalties and decisions were distractions, designed to shift the focus away from what was really happening behind the scenes.

Your throat tightens. This isn’t just corruption. This is criminal conspiracy on an international scale.

You close the file and lean back against the headboard, staring at the screen in disbelief. Your mind is racing, the pieces of the puzzle snapping together faster than you can process them.

The FIA isn’t just targeting Max. They’re using their position as a global governing body to launder money and traffic illegal goods. And if you’re right, they’ve been doing it for years.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, your heart pounding.

Beside you, Max stirs, his hand brushing against your arm. “What time is it?” He mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

“Uh …” You glance at the clock. “Four thirty.”

His eyes crack open, and he frowns. “You’re still awake?”

You hesitate, your mind still reeling. “I found something.”

He rubs his face, sitting up slightly. “What kind of something?”

You turn the laptop toward him, your hands shaking as you scroll through the files. “Look at this. These payments — they’re using FIA accounts to fund illegal activities. Weapons, surveillance tech, bribes. It’s all here.”

Max blinks, trying to wake himself up. “Wait — what? The FIA is buying weapons?”

“Not for themselves,” you explain, your voice trembling. “They’re covering for someone else. Someone higher up, maybe even multiple people. It’s a money-laundering operation disguised as legitimate spending. And the worst part?” You click on another document. “They’re timing these payments to coincide with penalties and controversies. Like yours.”

He stares at the screen, his jaw tightening. “They’re creating distractions.”

“Exactly.” You meet his gaze, your chest tight with anger. “They’re using you — using all of you — to keep people from noticing what’s really going on.”

Max is silent for a moment, his expression darkening. “This can’t be real.”

“It’s real,” you say firmly. “I’ve traced the accounts. I’ve seen the contracts. It’s all there.”

He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “This is insane. How are they getting away with this?”

“Because no one’s looking,” you say bitterly. “They’ve built a system where no one questions their authority. They hand out fines, penalties, rulings — it’s all smoke and mirrors.”

Max shakes his head, his anger simmering just below the surface. “So what do we do?”

“We expose them,” you say without hesitation. “We take this to the press, to the authorities — whoever will listen. We make sure everyone knows what they’ve been doing.”

He looks at you, his eyes blazing with determination. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” you say, your voice steady. “They’ve messed with you for the last time, Max. I’m not letting them get away with this.”

Max leans back against the headboard, his expression unreadable. “You know this won’t be easy. They’ll come after you.”

“Let them,” you say fiercely. “They’re not invincible, Max. They think they are, but they’re not. And now we have the proof.”

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm and grounding. “We do this together, okay?”

You nod, your resolve hardening. “Together.”

For the first time in hours, you close the laptop. The fight isn’t over — not even close. But for now, you have what you need.

The FIA has no idea what’s coming for them.

***

The findings sit like a live grenade between you and Max for weeks. Every time you try to talk about it, the conversation spirals into an argument that feels more like a desperate plea than a disagreement.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table one morning, coffee in hand, staring at the spreadsheet open on your laptop. Max leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like you’re about to pull the pin and toss the grenade straight into his life.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s trying not to spook you. “You can’t post this. It’s too dangerous.”

You glance up, meeting his intense blue eyes. “Max, we’ve been over this. Dangerous for who? The FIA? Because it sure as hell isn’t safe for anyone else if they keep getting away with this.”

He shakes his head, frustration etched into his features. “No. Dangerous for you.”

You sigh, shutting the laptop and leaning back in your chair. “And we’ve been over this too. If it’s tied to me, and they come after me, it only makes them look worse. They’d be shooting themselves in the foot.”

Max pushes off the counter, pacing across the small kitchen. “You think they care about how it looks? These people are untouchable. They’ve been untouchable for decades. What if they don’t care about subtlety? What if they decide to make an example out of you?”

“Then they’ll prove my point,” you counter, setting your mug down harder than you meant to. “Max, they’re laundering money. Funding illegal operations. Covering up fraud. This isn’t just about you or me anymore. This is about them and what they’re doing to-”

“To you,” he cuts in, spinning to face you. “This is about you, schatje. You think I can just sit back and watch them destroy your life? Watch them drag you through the mud — or worse?” His voice cracks on the last word, and it stops you in your tracks.

“Max …”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can take the fines. The penalties. Whatever bullshit they throw at me, I don’t care. But I can’t …” He falters, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t lose you over this.”

The words hang heavy in the air. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

You stand, crossing the room to him. “Max.” You reach for his hands, pulling them away from where they’re clenched at his sides. He looks up at you, his jaw tight, his eyes filled with a storm of worry and frustration.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you say softly. “But you can’t ask me to do nothing. Not when I have this.”

He shakes his head, his grip on your hands tightening. “There has to be another way. Something that doesn’t put you in the crosshairs.”

“We’ve talked about this,” you say, your voice gentle but firm. “The longer we wait, the more time they have to cover their tracks. This needs to come from me. Not you, not a journalist. Me.”

Max pulls his hands away, pacing again. “Why does it have to be you? Why not anonymously? Why not through someone else?”

“Because,” you say, your voice rising just enough to make him stop and look at you, “if it’s anonymous, it’s easier for them to discredit. If it’s me — someone with a background in forensic accounting, someone who has proof — it’s harder for them to bury.”

He stares at you, his jaw working, his frustration palpable. “You’re playing with fire.”

“And you’re worth it,” you shoot back, your words cutting through his anger like a blade.

Max looks at you, his expression crumbling. “This isn’t just about me anymore. It’s bigger than that now.”

“I know,” you say, stepping closer to him. “That’s why I have to do this.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Max sighs, his shoulders slumping. “If you do this … if you put this out there …” He trails off, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know the risks,” you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. “But we can’t let them keep doing this. If I don’t say something, who will?”

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly. “I hate this.”

“I know,” you whisper.

The next few days are a blur of preparation. You draft the post, meticulously double-checking every link, every piece of evidence. Max hovers in the background, equal parts supportive and terrified, his tension radiating through the apartment.

Finally, the day comes. You’re sitting at your desk, your phone in your hand, the post ready to go. Max stands behind you, silent but solid, his presence grounding you.

“You sure about this?” He asks, his voice low.

You nod, your finger hovering over the “post” button. “It’s time.”

He exhales, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Then do it.”

With a deep breath, you hit the button.

The tweet goes live:

The FIA has been hiding more than bad calls and unfair penalties. They’ve been laundering money and funding illegal operations for years. Here’s the proof #ExposeFIA

The moment it’s posted, your phone buzzes with notifications, the retweets and replies piling up faster than you can process.

You lean back in your chair, your heart racing as the reality of what you’ve done sinks in. Max squeezes your shoulders, his grip firm and reassuring.

“It’s out there now,” you say, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration.

“Yeah,” Max says, his voice steady. “And they’ll never see it coming.”

***

The world ignites within hours of your tweet.

Your phone buzzes nonstop, the notifications climbing into the thousands. News outlets pick up the story almost immediately. By mid-morning, your name is trending worldwide, alongside “#ExposeFIA” and a slew of related hashtags.

Every major publication, from The Guardian to The New York Times, runs with the story. Formula 1 Twitter is a battlefield, with fans, journalists, and even ex-drivers weighing in. Some praise you as a whistleblower, others call you reckless, but everyone is talking.

Max, watching it all unfold from the sofa, looks like he’s about to break the remote he’s gripping too tightly. “This is madness,” he mutters, shaking his head as he scrolls through his phone.

“Madness is putting it lightly,” you say, typing out a message to your lawyer, who’s already fielding calls from investigative agencies and reporters.

By noon, the FIA releases a statement calling your accusations “unfounded” and “a gross misunderstanding of internal operations.” They promise transparency, cooperation with audits, and a full investigation. It’s almost laughable how carefully worded it is, especially given how many people have already found red flags in the documents you posted.

“They’re scrambling,” Max says, glancing over at you.

“Good,” you reply, leaning back in your chair. “They should be.”

By the evening, things escalate even further. International agencies — Interpol, Europol, and financial crime units from multiple countries — announce that they’ve opened formal investigations into the FIA’s financial practices. Max reads the headline aloud from his phone, his tone a mix of shock and vindication.

“‘Interpol launches probe into FIA money-laundering allegations.’” He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve set the whole world on fire, haven’t you?”

You shrug, though your heart pounds in your chest. “Someone had to.”

But the sense of triumph doesn’t last long. By the next morning, the darker side of the storm begins to roll in.

Your email inbox floods with threats, your social media accounts are bombarded with harassment, and reporters camp outside the apartment building, cameras ready to capture every move. A particularly ominous email arrives from an anonymous account, promising that “justice will come” for what you’ve done.

Max reads it over your shoulder and immediately storms out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back, phone pressed to his ear as he paces the length of the living room. You catch snippets of his conversation. “Former military … no, only the best … round-the-clock.”

When he finally hangs up, you cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

“Bodyguards,” he says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Max says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve hired a team. They’ll be here tonight.”

“Max, that’s-”

“Not negotiable,” he interrupts, his eyes blazing with determination. “I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care if it feels over the top. If they’re sending you threats, you’re not walking around without protection.”

You let out a slow breath, recognizing the sheer fear underlying his anger. “What kind of bodyguards are we talking about?”

“Ex-special forces,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “They’re the best. Trained for high-risk situations. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, they’ll handle it.”

You can’t help but laugh, though the sound is hollow. “Max Verstappen, hiring a private army. Who would’ve thought?”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he steps closer, his expression softening. “I mean it, liefje. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I know.”

By nightfall, your new security team arrives. Four men and two women, all dressed in plain but professional attire, introduce themselves with clipped, no-nonsense precision. They’re intimidating, to say the least, but Max seems relieved the moment they walk through the door.

The leader of the team, a former SAS operative named Sam, lays out the plan in a low, calm voice. “Two of us will be stationed outside the apartment at all times. Another two will rotate shifts inside. We’ll also have someone following you whenever you leave the building. Discreet, but close enough to act.”

You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and discomfort. “Thanks, Sam. Really.”

“Just doing our job, ma’am,” he says with a curt nod.

Max hovers nearby, watching the exchange with hawk-like focus. Once the bodyguards take their positions, he pulls you aside, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Feel safer?”

“Honestly?” You say, glancing toward the door where Sam is stationed. “It feels like we’re in a spy movie.”

Max cracks a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Better a spy movie than a tragedy.”

The following days are surreal. The FIA is in complete disarray, with high-ranking officials resigning or being placed on administrative leave as the investigations intensify. Every news cycle seems to bring another bombshell revelation: hidden accounts, off-the-record meetings, connections to corrupt government officials.

Even Formula 1 teams begin distancing themselves from the governing body. Drivers are asked about it in every interview, and while most offer diplomatic responses, a few — like Lewis and Charles — publicly voice their support for you.

Through it all, Max stays glued to your side, protective in a way you’ve never seen before. Whenever you leave the apartment, he insists on going with you, even if it’s just to grab groceries.

One evening, as you’re scrolling through Twitter, you stumble upon a post from a well-known journalist.

@yourusername’s bravery has set off one of the biggest scandals in motorsport history. But the question remains: how deep does the corruption go? #ExposeFIA

You show the tweet to Max, who nods grimly. “They’re right,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

You lean back against the couch, exhaustion weighing on you. “Yeah. And the FIA is going to do everything they can to bury me before it gets worse for them.”

Max wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “They can try,” he says quietly. “But they’ll have to go through me first.”

You smile faintly, resting your head against his chest. The fight is far from over, but with Max by your side — and a small army of bodyguards watching your back — you feel ready for whatever comes next.

***

Max’s voice cuts through the quiet of the apartment. “Don’t go to Austin, please.”

You look up from your laptop, brows furrowing. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hair is damp from the shower, but his expression is dry — serious, almost pleading.

“I already told you,” you say, your tone firm but calm. “I’m not hiding.”

“It’s not hiding,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “It’s being smart. Let them think whatever they want. You don’t have to prove anything by being there.”

You push your chair back, turning fully to face him. “If I don’t go, they’ll think they’ve won. That I’m scared of them. I’m not giving them that satisfaction.”

Max exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about pride, Y/N. It’s about your safety. They’ve already made it clear they’re willing to play dirty.”

“They’re already under investigation by half the agencies on the planet,” you counter. “They wouldn’t dare try anything now. Not in front of the entire world.”

His eyes narrow slightly, his frustration bubbling just under the surface. “You’re underestimating them.”

“And you’re underestimating me,” you say softly, standing up. You walk over to him, resting your hands on his forearms. “I’m not cowering in fear. I refuse to let them intimidate me.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his hands twitching as if he wants to pull you into him but can’t quite let himself. “I can’t …” He pauses, his voice dropping. “I can’t focus on the race if I’m worried about you the whole time.”

You tilt your head, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Then don’t worry. I’ll be in the garage, surrounded by your team and my guards. Nothing’s going to happen.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the conflict in his eyes almost unbearable. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Promise me you’ll stay close to the guards. No wandering off, no risks.”

You nod, squeezing his arm. “I promise.”

***

The Circuit of the Americas is buzzing with energy as you and Max arrive for free practice. Fans line the paddock entrance, waving flags and shouting his name as you walk toward the Red Bull garage, flanked by two of your bodyguards. Max’s hand hovers protectively at the small of your back, and you can feel the tension radiating off him.

“You don’t leave the garage,” he says as you reach the entrance, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not for food, not for interviews. Nothing.”

“I know,” you say, trying to soothe him with a gentle smile.

Max leans down, his voice low and fierce. “I mean it, schatje.”

“I know,” you repeat, softer this time.

Satisfied, though still visibly uneasy, Max kisses your forehead before heading off to change into his race suit. You settle into a chair near the engineers, watching the monitors as the mechanics fuss over his car. Sam stands just a few feet away, his eyes constantly scanning the room.

Max appears in full gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. He glances at you one last time before stepping toward the car. “Stay here,” he says firmly.

“Go drive, Verstappen,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile, but his gaze lingers on you for a moment before he nods and climbs into the car.

The first twenty minutes of the session pass uneventfully. Max is quick on track, his name lighting up the timing screens. The garage is busy but calm, the sound of the commentators droning faintly in the background.

And then, chaos.

A car bursts into flames on the back straight, smoke billowing into the air. The screens in the garage flicker to a red flag, and people jump into action, radios buzzing with updates.

“Car 23, it’s Albon!” Someone shouts. “He’s out, but the car’s on fire-”

Everyone’s attention is glued to the monitors, watching the marshals scramble to extinguish the flames. The smell of burning rubber seems to seep into the garage, and the noise level spikes as mechanics, engineers, and team officials bark orders and updates.

You glance at Sam, who nods reassuringly. “Stay put,” he says.

But in the chaos, no one notices the shadow slipping through the crowd behind you.

A hand clamps over your mouth, and something sharp pricks the side of your neck. Your vision blurs instantly, the world tilting sideways as your body goes limp. You feel yourself being dragged, but your limbs won’t cooperate, won’t fight back.

Sam’s voice echoes dimly in the background. “Where’s Y/N?”

You try to shout, to move, but the darkness swallows you whole.

And then, nothing.

***

When you wake, it’s like surfacing from a deep, suffocating void. Your head throbs, and your limbs feel heavy, almost disconnected. The first thing you notice is the faint hum of fluorescent lights above you. Then the sharp sting in your wrists and ankles — tight bonds cutting into your skin.

You’re tied to a chair, the cold metal frame unforgiving against your back. The air smells faintly of damp concrete, and the room is dimly lit, industrial — like the basement of a forgotten building.

Panic blooms in your chest as you struggle against the restraints, the rope biting into your skin with every movement. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to think, to focus. You remember the race, the chaos in the garage, and then — nothing.

Footsteps echo down a hallway. Steady, deliberate.

Your heart pounds in your chest as a figure steps into the room. The man is immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back, his face a mask of cold disdain.

The FIA president.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says smoothly, closing the door behind him. He walks toward you, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floor. “I was beginning to worry the dosage was too much. I’d hate to have overdone it.”

You glare at him, your voice hoarse as you manage to croak out, “What the hell … is this?”

He stops a few feet from you, clasping his hands behind his back. “This,” he says, his tone almost casual, “is what happens when you ruin someone’s life, Miss L/N.”

Your heart sinks, but you keep your expression steady. “You kidnapped me?”

“I prefer to think of it as … leveling the playing field,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “After all, you didn’t hesitate to destroy my reputation, my career — everything I’ve built over the last three decades. Surely you didn’t expect there to be no consequences?”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound rough and unsteady. “You destroyed your own career by being corrupt. All I did was expose the truth.”

His jaw tightens, a flicker of anger breaking through his calm façade. “The truth,” he repeats, his voice dripping with venom. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The FIA is in shambles. Investigators are tearing through every document, every bank account. Major sponsors are pulling out. Drivers are threatening to boycott. All because of you.”

“Good,” you snap, your voice gaining strength. “You deserve it. Every single one of you who let this happen deserves it.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Do you think the world will thank you for this? For dragging motorsport into the mud? You’ve made enemies far more powerful than you can imagine.”

“I’m not scared of you,” you spit, though your heart is racing.

He smiles, but it’s cold and cruel. “You should be.”

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. Then he leans down, his face inches from yours.

“You ruined my life,” he says softly, his tone icy and deliberate. “So the least I could do is ruin yours.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Do whatever you want to me. It won’t change anything. The truth is out. You can’t bury it now.”

He straightens, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps not,” he says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “But I can make you wish you’d never posted that little tweet.”

You don’t respond, your breath hitching as he turns and walks toward the door.

Before he leaves, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Enjoy your stay, Miss L/N. It’ll be your last taste of freedom for a very long time.”

The door slams shut, and you’re left alone in the dim, silent room, your heart pounding and your mind racing. You tug at the ropes again, desperation clawing at you, but they hold firm.

You have no idea how much time you have — or if anyone even knows where you are. But one thing is clear: you’re not giving up without a fight.

***

The moment Max hears the words, it’s as if the world tilts on its axis.

“She’s gone.”

The voice comes from Sam who’s pale and shaking despite his years of military training. The garage is chaos, but Max doesn’t register any of it. The team radios, the mechanics shouting about the car, the fans outside the paddock — it all fades into a dull hum.

“What do you mean, gone?” Max’s voice is low, dangerous, the calm before an eruption.

Sam hesitates, and that hesitation is enough to snap Max’s restraint. He takes two steps forward, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt.

“What. Happened?” Max snarls, his grip tightening.

“She — someone — must have used the chaos to grab her,” Sam stammers, his voice faltering under Max’s fury. “I was right there. I don’t-”

“You were right there?” Max shouts, his voice echoing in the garage. His mechanics freeze, everyone suddenly aware of the storm brewing in the middle of their space. “Then how the hell is she gone?”

“I-I don’t know,” Sam admits, looking down, shame written across his face. “It was fast. We didn’t see-”

Max releases him with a shove, his hands trembling with rage. He feels like he’s going to explode, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe.

“Find her,” Max spits, his voice low and filled with venom. “Or I swear, you’ll regret ever taking this job.”

Sam nods quickly, already pulling out his phone, barking orders to the rest of the security team. But Max doesn’t wait to hear more.

He storms out of the garage, shoving past anyone who dares step in his path. His vision is a blur of fury, his ears ringing. People call his name — Christian, his press officer, even a few reporters — but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

The first FIA official he sees is standing just outside the paddock offices, talking to a group of staff. Max doesn’t even pause to think. He closes the distance in seconds, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him against the nearest wall.

“Max!” Someone yells behind him, but he doesn’t care.

“Where is she?” Max growls, his face inches from the man’s.

The official — a younger man with wide eyes and a trembling mouth — raises his hands in surrender. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t lie to me!” Max shouts, his voice raw and unhinged. He tightens his grip, the fabric of the man’s shirt bunching in his fists. “If even one hair on her head is hurt, everyone involved will wish they were dead. Do you understand me?”

“Max, let him go!” Christian’s voice cuts through the chaos as Red Bull staff rush toward him, trying to pull him back.

“Stay out of this!” Max snaps without looking, his eyes locked on the trembling FIA official. “You know something. You all do.”

“I don’t!” The man insists, his voice cracking. “I swear, I don’t-”

“You’re all complicit,” Max growls, his voice low and menacing. “You’re all covering for each other, just like always. But if anything happens to her, I will burn this entire sport to the ground.”

“Max!” Christian’s hands are on his shoulders now, trying to pull him back. “This isn’t helping. We’ll find her. You’re just making it worse!”

For a moment, Max hesitates, his breathing ragged. Then, with a frustrated snarl, he shoves the man away, releasing his grip. The official stumbles, gasping for air, but Max doesn’t even look at him as he turns to Christian.

“They took her,” Max says, his voice breaking for the first time. “She’s gone, Christian.”

Christian’s face softens, his usual calm demeanor tinged with worry. “We’ll find her, Max. I promise.”

But Max shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “Promises don’t mean anything if she’s hurt.”

He storms off again, ignoring the cameras and the whispers that follow him. His mind is racing, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. Who has you? Why? How?

And then the worst thought of all … what if he’s too late?

***

The shed is suffocatingly small, barely more than a wooden box. Its peeling paint and sagging roof make it look like it’s been abandoned for years, forgotten in the middle of rural Texas farmland.

The search had stretched for days, involving everyone from local sheriffs to federal agents to Interpol. Max hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. He’d barely spoken, except to bark orders and demand updates. And now, standing in front of the shed, his heart feels like it might stop altogether.

“Max,” Christian says, his voice a low murmur from behind. “Let them go in first.”

But Max shakes his head, already moving forward. A Texas Ranger tries to stop him, but Max glares, and the man steps aside, the air between them crackling with unspoken understanding.

The door creaks as Max pushes it open, the sound loud in the eerie stillness.

Inside, the air is stale, thick with the scent of mildew and dust. The dim light from the open door spills into the room, illuminating the figure slumped against the far wall.

You.

Max freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

You’re tied to a chair, the ropes biting into your skin, your wrists and ankles raw from the restraints. Your head is slumped forward, but at the sound of the door, you stir, lifting your face ever so slightly.

Bruises bloom across your cheekbone, your arms, the pale skin of your neck. Dried blood streaks your temple, and your lips are cracked, split in places. But it’s your eyes — glassier than he’s ever seen them, unfocused yet somehow still searching — that shatter him completely.

“Liefje,” Max breathes, his voice breaking.

You blink slowly, struggling to process. And then, somehow, against all odds, your eyes focus on him. Recognition flares, faint but unmistakable, and your lips move, though no sound comes out.

Max falls to his knees.

The world blurs around him — voices shouting, footsteps rushing in, hands grabbing for you. But all he can see is you. He crawls forward, his knees scraping against the rough floor, until he’s right in front of you.

“Y/N,” he says again, louder this time, his voice shaking. “I’m here. It’s me. It’s Max.”

Your head tilts slightly, your lips parting as if to say something.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his hands trembling as he reaches for you. He hesitates, afraid to touch you, afraid of causing more pain. “Don’t try to talk. Just … just stay with me.”

Tears blur his vision as he takes in the state of you. Every bruise, every cut feels like a dagger to his chest. He wants to scream, to rage, to destroy whoever did this to you, but he pushes it all down, forces himself to focus on you.

You manage a weak sound — barely more than a rasp — but your eyes never leave his.

“I’m here,” Max repeats, his voice fierce now, as if sheer force of will can keep you tethered to him. “You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe now.”

“Max …” you whisper, your voice so faint it’s almost lost in the chaos around you.

“I’ve got you,” he says, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ve got you, schatje. They’re never going to hurt you again.”

Behind him, medics and agents flood the shed, their voices urgent as they assess the scene. Someone touches Max’s shoulder, but he shrugs them off violently.

“Not yet,” he snaps, his tone deadly. “Give me a second.”

The medic hesitates, then backs away.

“Max,” you say again, a little louder this time, your voice raw and broken. Your eyes fill with tears, spilling over as you look at him.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

For the first time, the faintest flicker of a smile ghosts across your lips. It’s fragile, barely there, but it’s enough to make Max’s chest tighten.

He leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead, his hands finally settling on your knees as he grounds himself in your presence.

“They’ll pay for this,” he murmurs, his voice dark and unyielding. “Every single one of them. I promise you.”

Your head tips forward, leaning against him as the medics finally step in, their voices careful and quiet. Max doesn’t let go, not until they’re lifting you onto a stretcher, not until they’re absolutely sure you’re stable.

Even then, he doesn’t leave your side.

***

Max sits in the darkness of your shared apartment, his fingers steepled, his eyes fixed on the glow of his laptop screen. The names are all there. Every single one of them.

The investigation, spearheaded by law enforcement and fueled by global outrage, had revealed the tangled web of corruption that led to your kidnapping. At the center of it: the FIA president and a handful of high-ranking officials who had conspired to silence you for what you’d uncovered.

Max stares at their faces, the headshots lined up on the screen like a hit list. And in his mind, that’s exactly what it is.

There are many things about his childhood that Max tries not to think about. His father’s cold, unrelenting discipline. The constant berating. The punishments for anything less than perfection. Jos Verstappen hadn’t raised a son … he’d forged a weapon.

For years, Max had hated him for it. But now, for the first time, he feels a grim sense of gratitude. Because Jos had taught him something important: how to be cruel.

Max isn’t naïve enough to think the justice system will fix this. No prison sentence, no public disgrace will ever feel like enough for what they did to you — for the bruises that painted your skin, for the fear in your eyes when they finally found you.

These people had tried to destroy you. Max is going to destroy them first.

***

The first one falls within days. A minor official, the logistics director who had helped orchestrate your transport to the shed. He’s found in his sprawling Paris apartment, lying facedown in a pool of his own blood. The police call it a robbery gone wrong, but Max knows better.

The second is a middle manager in finance who’d helped funnel bribes through FIA accounts. He vanishes without a trace, his car abandoned on a lonely stretch of highway.

Each one is different. A tragic accident. A sudden disappearance. A stroke of bad luck. But the common thread is unmistakable. The officials complicit in your kidnapping are dropping like flies, one by one, their fates tied to their betrayal.

Max doesn’t get his hands dirty — not directly. He doesn’t have to. Money buys silence, loyalty, and an army of people willing to do what he can’t.

He watches it all unfold from a careful distance, his heart cold and steady. The guilt, if it comes, is fleeting. These people made their choices. Now they’re paying for them.

***

The FIA president is last.

Max makes him wait.

For weeks, the man is forced to watch as his associates vanish, as the walls close in around him. The investigation has left him disgraced, stripped of his title, his assets frozen. He’s a man on the run, hiding in the shadows of his former power.

But Max knows where he is. He’s known from the beginning.

It happens in the dead of night, in the decaying mansion the president had fled to somewhere in the French countryside.

Max doesn’t send someone else this time. This one, he wants to see for himself.

***

The president is sitting at a desk, the room lit by a single dim lamp. He’s aged years in a matter of months, his face gaunt, his hands trembling as he rifles through papers. He doesn’t hear Max until it’s too late.

The sound of the door closing makes him freeze.

When he looks up, Max is already there, standing in the doorway, his face blank but his eyes burning with a quiet, lethal fury.

“Hello,” Max says, his voice calm.

The president’s face goes pale. He stumbles to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “W-what are you doing here? You have no right-”

“Sit,” Max says sharply.

The man stops mid-sentence, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He sinks back into the chair, his movements stiff and jerky.

“You ruined your own life,” Max says, stepping closer. His voice is measured, even, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air in the room feel heavier. “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to try to ruin hers too.”

The president’s hands shake as he grips the edge of the desk. “I-I didn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Max interrupts, his tone icy.

The man flinches, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape. But there’s nowhere to go.

“You didn’t just hurt her,” Max continues, his voice low. “You left her tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, beaten and bleeding. You thought no one would find her. You wanted her to disappear.”

The president tries to speak, but the words die in his throat.

Max leans forward, his hands resting on the desk. “I’ve let you live longer than you deserve. But this ends tonight.”

The president shakes his head frantically, panic overtaking him. “You can’t do this! I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Max asks, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Run to the police? Tell them what you did? They’d love to hear about it.”

The president’s breathing becomes ragged, his chest heaving as he realizes there’s no way out.

Max straightens, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “You took her because you thought I’d let it go. Because you thought I’d be too afraid to fight back. But you were wrong.”

The room falls silent, the weight of Max’s words settling over them like a storm.

When it’s over, the only sound is the faint rustle of the wind outside.

Max walks out of the mansion, his hands steady, his heart unyielding.

The world will never know what happened to the former FIA president. But Max doesn’t care.

All that matters is that it’s done. You’re safe. And no one will ever hurt you again.

***

You wake with a jolt, the scream clawing at your throat but never making it out. Your chest heaves, your skin slick with sweat, the remnants of the nightmare still vivid behind your eyelids. The ropes, the shed, the bruising grip of strangers. You can still feel it, can still hear the taunts of the man who orchestrated it all.

For a moment, you don’t know where you are. Your hands tremble as you clutch the sheets, the darkness of the room suffocating. But then you feel him.

“Schatje,” Max whispers, his voice thick with sleep and concern. His arms are around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with me.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, your breathing erratic as you cling to him like a lifeline. His scent, his warmth, his steady heartbeat — these are the things that tether you back to reality.

“It was just a dream,” he murmurs, his hand running up and down your back. “Nothing can hurt you here. I won’t let it.”

You don’t say anything, but the way your fingers fist the fabric of his shirt tells him enough.

Max tightens his hold, his lips pressing to the top of your head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I let you down. I should’ve protected you. I-”

“Stop,” you croak, your voice hoarse from disuse. You pull back slightly, enough to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are raw, rimmed with red, his guilt carved into every line of his face. “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head, refusing to meet your eyes. “Yes, it was,” he says, his voice rough. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve been there. If I had-”

“Max,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.

He finally looks at you, and the weight of his guilt makes your chest ache.

“You didn’t let me down,” you say, your hand cupping his cheek. “What happened was their fault. Not yours.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he says, his voice trembling. “And I didn’t. I failed.”

“Max.” You sit up straighter, your other hand framing his face. “You didn’t fail me. You saved me. You found me. You’ve been here for me every second since. That’s what matters.”

He tries to argue, his lips parting, but you don’t let him.

You lean forward and kiss him, cutting off whatever protest he was about to make. It’s gentle at first, a soft reassurance, but then it deepens, your hands slipping into his hair as you pour everything into it — all your gratitude, your love, your need to make him understand.

When you pull back, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “And you didn’t let me down. You’ll never let me down.”

Max’s eyes close, a shuddering breath escaping him as his hands settle on your waist. “I’ll never let anything happen to you again,” he murmurs. “I swear. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“I know,” you say softly, your fingers brushing through his hair. “I trust you.”

The room falls quiet again, the tension melting into something softer as Max holds you close. The nightmare still lingers at the edges of your mind, but with him here, it feels manageable.

You close your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull you back toward sleep, your head tucked under his chin.

***

The world looks different now. Formula 1 has been turned inside out and rebuilt piece by piece, its foundation gutted, its walls scrubbed clean of rot. The FIA, once untouchable, now stands as a phoenix reborn — smaller, humbler, and watched under a microscope by a public that no longer trusts blindly.

And the man standing at its helm?

Sebastian Vettel.

His appointment shocked everyone, though in hindsight, maybe it shouldn’t have. A four-time world champion with a reputation for integrity, sharp wit, and an inexplicable love of bees, Sebastian had been the last person anyone expected to re-enter the fold. Yet here he was: a symbol of hope and accountability.

And now, sitting in your living room.

You stare at him, still trying to reconcile the fact that Sebastian Vettel is perched on your sofa, a cup of tea balanced in his hand, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. He wears a suit, though the top button is undone and his shoes scuff slightly on your rug — small signs that, for all his new authority, he’s still Sebastian.

Max, seated across the room with his arms crossed, is visibly tense. He hasn’t said much since Sebastian arrived, choosing instead to lean back in his chair and observe. Protectively.

“Just to be clear,” you say, leaning forward, “you want to hire me?”

Sebastian smiles faintly, setting his tea down on the table. “Yes. You.”

“As a forensic accountant?”

“Yes.”

“To audit the FIA?”

Sebastian leans back slightly, his expression soft but serious. “To make sure nothing like what happened ever happens again. To hold us accountable, to make sure every financial and ethical line is crystal clear. You’ve proven yourself, Y/N. The FIA needs someone sharp, honest, and relentless. You’re all three.”

You blink, thrown off balance. You’d been bracing for congratulations or polite pleasantries — not this.

“Why me?” You ask finally.

Sebastian doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re the only person I trust to do it right.”

That knocks the air from your lungs.

Across the room, Max shifts, his brows furrowing. “You’re asking her to put herself in the middle of it again,” he says, his voice low, edged with a protectiveness Sebastian doesn’t miss. “After everything.”

Sebastian turns to Max. “I’m asking her to fix it. If anyone can make sure the FIA stays clean, it’s Y/N.”

Max’s jaw tightens, and you can feel the storm brewing inside him. He’s fought so hard to keep you away from anything that even smells like danger. You know he hates the idea of you stepping back into this mess, even from a position of safety.

But you also know he won’t stop you if this is what you want.

You take a deep breath, turning your attention back to Sebastian. “You understand what you’re asking, right? I’ll find everything — everything. Even the things you don’t want me to.”

Sebastian nods. “That’s the point.”

You study him for a moment. There’s no hesitation in his face, no flicker of doubt. He means it. He’s really here to clean house, and he’s offering you a key role in ensuring that it happens.

Your fingers twist in your lap as you weigh the choice. You could walk away from it all, leave the FIA in someone else’s hands, and never think about its corruption again.

But then you think about the shed. The ropes. The bruises. The quiet corruption that enabled people like the former president to go unchecked for so long. You think about how close they came to breaking you — and how they’ll never get the chance to do it again.

Because you won’t let them.

You straighten in your seat, your voice clear. “If I do this, I want total autonomy. No limits on what I can investigate, no oversight. If I smell anything remotely off, I follow it wherever it leads.”

Sebastian smiles faintly, like he expected nothing less. “Done.”

“And if I say something needs to change, it changes. No delays, no excuses.”

“Done,” he says again.

Max exhales sharply, his frustration rolling off him in waves. “Y/N …”

You glance at him, softening. “It’s my decision.”

He shakes his head, staring at the floor for a moment before looking back up at you. “I don’t want you anywhere near them again. I don’t care who’s in charge.”

Sebastian clears his throat, respectful but firm. “This is her choice, Max.”

Max shoots him a withering glare but doesn’t argue further. Instead, he looks at you, his expression raw. “You just got out of this. Why would you go back?”

You reach across the space between you and take his hand. “Because if I don’t, someone else will. And they won’t be as careful, or as ruthless.” You squeeze his fingers gently. “You don’t have to like it, but you know I’m right.”

Max doesn’t reply immediately. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

“I don’t like it,” he says quietly, “but I’ll stand by you.”

You smile faintly, your chest warming as you meet his eyes. “I know.”

Sebastian, ever perceptive, chooses that moment to stand. “I’ll give you some time to think it over,” he says. “But … I hope you say yes.”

You nod, your decision already made. “I’ll think about it.”

Sebastian gives you both a small smile before making his way to the door. “Take care of each other,” he says as he leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you and Max alone in the quiet.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then Max groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sebastian Vettel as president of the FIA? I didn’t see that one coming.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Me neither.”

His hand drops, and he looks at you, his expression serious again. “If you’re really going to do this, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Bodyguards, security — whatever you need.”

“I’m not going to war,” you tease gently.

“You say that now,” he mutters, his voice darkening. “But I know how this world works. You’re making enemies the second you start digging again.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got you to protect me, isn’t it?”

Max exhales, his arms looping around you as he pulls you close. “Always.”

You nestle into his chest, letting his heartbeat steady you, the weight of the decision settling over you. You know what you’re walking into. You know the risks.

But you also know you can’t look away — not now, not after everything.

The FIA has been reborn. And you’re going to make sure it stays that way.

Baby Zee, I like to make a request for the headcanon weekend!!

Hear me out Zee, threesome with

the Captain America, Steve Rogers

and

the God of Thunder, Thor.

🥴🥴🥴

Like a Goddess of Worthy au for the worthy boys 💙

With size kink! and breeding kink! of course.

These enormous guys manhadling you to their liking as they make love to you and are both so eager to breed you.

Love-dovey fluffy naughty-smutty nastiness please!! 💗💗

goddess of worthy ; steve and thor

warnings ~ smut, minors dni , threesome, size kink, breeding kink, creampies, overstimulatation, reader being shared, titty slapping, choking, degradation/mocking, shitty writing tbh

my initial reaction to this : Hmmmmmsmsnsbsndsnn them taking turns breeding that pussy 🥵🥵 being full of cum 🥴🥴 it ends with her pussy being sore and dripping with white cream whike the boys kiss all over your body, talking about how pretty you’ll look knocked up…and how sharing isn’t so bad as long as you find someone worthy of being with —that’s you

Steve Rogers and Thor Odinson were two men that put other men to shame, worthy of power no other human, god, or being could hold. They were kind, strong, and they wanted the same thing : you.

How did you end up in the cross hairs of these two beefy men? Well, it had started with a simple internship straight out of college under none other than Doctor Bruce Banner himself.

You were quite dedicated to your science, spending long hours in the lab with your mentor until he finally told you that you needed to get out and experience life. He had invited you to Tony’s next big party, it was only right. You had been working at the compound for months and you had just met the Avengers barely. It was time to socialize, especially if Banner decided to hire you.

This was the night you caught their attention, both of the them with their old aged asgardian liquor sloshing in clear glasses admired you as you took shots with the Black Widow.

“Banner says she’s incredibly intelligent, never said she was…”Steve trailed off, his own gaze sinfully falling on your ass in the leggings clinging to your body.

“Banner says she’s incredibly intelligent, never said she was…”Steve trailed off, his own gaze sinfully falling on your ass in the leggings clinging to your body.

“I saw her first.”

“Don’t…she isn’t a toy, Thor, you don’t get to call dibs,”Steve scoffed, tearing his eyes from you to scold him.”Besides, who says she’ll be interested in you?”

Thor laughed at him,”Oh Captain, she deserves a worthy partner, don’t you think?”

Steve raised a brow, holding his hand out with a smile,”Worthy, huh?”He questioned with knowing tone as Mjolnir flew into his hand. He flipped the hammer with ease in his hand,”I think she’d find me quite worthy.”

“Very funny, Rogers,”Thor huffed, swiping the hammer from his hands. His grip around the hammer tight as an idea popped into his head.”You know…these past few months, I haven’t minded sharing the title of worthy with you.”

Steve looked at him curiously, the dots connecting in his head as they both looked at you with a little smile.

”If she were…open to it,”Thor murmured, his tone hushed so only the super soldier could hear,”I wouldn’t mind sharing such beauty with another worthy man.”

The night it happened…the rest of the team was gone. Thor and Steve had invited you to for a glass of wine, and the past couple weeks you had been showered in both their affections.

Yet, this was different. Thor and Steve are sitting on either side of you, making you laugh at something Thor said as you comfortably sat between them on the couch.

Steve’s large hand rubbed over your thigh, making you hyper aware of the boys’ touch. Thor’s hand is pushing your hair out of your face, a smirk on his face when he sees how you squirmed.

“You are quite a beauty, Y/N,”Thor’s thumb caressed your cheek, admiring how you swallowed thickly with Steve’s hand dipping further up your thighs.

Steve’s fingers are pushing your skirt up, the tingling feeling in your core. The super soldier can smell the arousal leaking into your panties.

You feel so overwhelmed by them, but the rush of excitement makes you forget about all the anxiety.

“Boys…”You whispered, chest heaving as Thor forced you to turn your head to him. His eyes are dark, his desire overtaking the color.

“Do you want this, little dove?”Thor asked, glancing at Steve who had just stopped his hand movements at your soaked panties.

“We both want you,”Steve whispered, his hot breath on your neck.”Seen the way you look at us, can smell how wet you are, pretty girl. You can have both…”

“I can?”You asked, licking your lips as you looked at Thor hesitantly.

“You can have anything you want,” told Thor before surging forward to mold his lips over yours. You immediately tremble against him, two fingers rubbing against your clothed clit. Steve kissed down your neck, ripping the fabric of your shirt to reveal your pretty breasts.

“Look at these pretty tits,”Steve groaned, his large hand dipping into your panties until his fingers were covered in slick.

Thor kissed your breath away as Steve stretched your tight cunt with his fingers, his lips leaving bruises over your neck and jaw while Thor groped your breasts.

The blond soldier had four fingers deep inside you, sweet orgasmic bliss washing over your body with soft angelic moans leaving your lips.

“You want this pretty pussy filled, huh?”Thor whispered, licking his lips as he rubbed his thumb over your wet, swollen lips.”Think you’re worthy of being filled with our seed?”

Steve chuckled, pulling your panties down your legs and pushed your skirt up. Thor squeezed your breasts in his large hands before slapping at the swells, making you whimper his name.

“Thor…Steve…”You moaned wantonly, admiring the super soldier as he slipped his tight shirt off and removed his jeans. His hard cock slapped against his abs, his hand stroking the large cock as he towered over you.”I wanna be…”

“Spread those legs for me, little dove,”Steve commanded, slapping his cock against your sopping pussy. He rubbed the large leaking shaft between your folds, letting your juices to slicken his cock.

Thor grabbed your leg, his hand hold your thighs open. One hand of yours is under your other leg’s knee, exposing your eager cunt to the soldier.

“So obedient, isn’t she?”Thor praised, his lips against your ear before he started to kiss down your neck.”So ready to be taken, fuck, that pretty quim’s gonna look so good covered in cum.”

A loud high pitched gasp escaped your lips when the bulbous head of his dick pushed into your tight hole. Your walls spread around Steve, clinging to the thick shaft as he sank in.

“Oh fuck, dove,”Steve grunted, his hand wrapping around your throat tightly. His raw power makes you gush around him. Steve’s fat cock isn’t even half way in and you’re already squirm around him.

“It’s okay, little one,”Thor comforted, the sound of Steve starting to fuck his cock half way into your cunt. With each thrust, he goes a little deeper.”You like this, don’t you? His big cock filling your cute cunt…tell me, love, have you thought of Steve like this before? Touched yourself to the idea of the soldier fucking you?”

You felt embarrassed, face hot at the accusation. You nodded in shame,”Yes, yes, I have…both of you…you’ve been…oh fuck, Captain, it feels so good to be full…”

Steve leaned down, his lips taking over yours until his tongue was exploring your mouth. Thor grunted, his hands going to rub over the massive bulge in his trousers.

“So fucking tight,”Steve muttered, harshly driving his hips into your heat. The wet squelching noises echo from how his massive cock slides right in and out of your tight walls.

Thor’s calloused fingers rubbed down your body, his mouth trailing down to your tits as two fingers circled around your engorged clit. His wet tongue flicked over your perky nipples, biting and sucking until you were a whiny mess.

“You wanna cum, baby?”Steve taunted, vigorously thrusting into you and pushing your legs further apart. He pressed your legs towards your chest where Thor sucked on your tits. He just continued fucking and fucking hard, the pulsing wet pussy milking his cock.

“Yes, yes, yes can I cum? Please, Captain, I-I need it.”

You quivered under his large body, his cock obliterating your cunt as his seed flowed into you. He spurts copious amounts of cum into your heat, drinking up the moans that left your mouth.

“She’s all yours, Thor.”

Thor smirked at the imagery of your cream filled pussy, flipping you over on your hands and knees with Steve laying under you. Cum oozes between your folds, but Thor pushes the super soldier’s cum back into your sensitive cunt.

You nearly collapsed on top of Steve, who just admired the view of you bent over him with Thor pressing into your pussy. You thought Steve was big, but he was just stretching you out…preparing you for the massive length and girth that was Thor’s mighty cock.

You cried out when his fat cock stretched your over sensitive cunt, using your slick and Steve’s cum as a lubricant to push deep inside you.

“Oh, little dove, this pussy is perfect,”Thor groaned loudly, his hands encompassing your hips and pulled you ass back against his cock. Your pussy fluttered around him, pulsing around the massive intrusion.”You’ve been fucked by the Captain, and yet…this sweet cunt just wants more…squeezing me like a fucking vice.”

You placed your hands on Steve’s chest, eyes rolling back as Thor’s gripped grew harsher with each thrust. His cock squelched in the wet heat, cum and slick dripping down from your pussy and his cock onto Steve’s thighs.

“Oh my gods…I-I-oh…”You feel weak already, arms shaking before you collapse onto to Steve. His hands rub over your sides, your hands clawing are his chest with your face hovered over his.

“Is Thor’s cock too much, dove?” Steve mocked, smacking both of his hands over your ass. Thor moaned at the sight, pounding into your core with godly strength. You tremble, his cock rearranging your guts with each thrust.

“It..feels so good…”You mewled, Thor’s harsh thrusts jolting your body against Steve. You kissed the blond soldier passionately as Thor squeezed your ass in his palms.

“Look at you, precious dove, so wrecked and ruined,”Thor smacked down on your ass, driving forward even more aggressively as he chased his own pleasure.”Gonna cum around my cock, since it’s made you so dumb, baby.”

“Yes yes yes,”You cry, tears streaming down your face from the immense pleasure burned through you. You squirt around his massive cock, soaking Steve’s abs in the process.

Thor yanked your hips back hard, his cock throbbing and spilling his godly seed inside your weeping cunt. You feel so full, you’re absolutely dripping and it’s driving Thor wild as he fucked his cum inside of you.

“That’s it, you took us so well, you’re such a good girl, doll,”Steve praised, kissing your lips and brushing your tears away.

“So good, fuck, this little pussy was made for us, made to be bred and taken care by the mighty Thor and Captain Rogers,”Thor licked his lips, tilting his hips just slightly to make you whine.

Thor pulled out, picking you up and motioning for Steve to follow along to his bedroom so they can lay you out on the bed and praise you. They smother you in affections and sweet words.

Your pussy is sore, dripping with white hot cum as Thor and Steve kissed over every inch of your body. You can’t help the gasps that leave your lips, and you just know how they aren’t really done with you.

“Such a pretty girl,”Steve murmured, his lips dancing over your breasts while Thor kissed over your thighs, licking and biting marks into the soft skin.”Our girl looks so good with a messy pussy, just soaking up our cum…”

“We’ve should’ve been breeding this cunt a long time ago, Captain,”Thor grunted, licking his lips at the sight of their mess leaking out of you.”Just think about how pretty she’d look with more cum, should fuck her till she’s swollen…just so full of cum that there’s no way she isn’t with child…”

It’s so feral, the way he says it like it’s his deepest desire and you just know you’re about to be filled over and over again.

”You know, Thor,”Steve smirked, caressing your face softly in thought before kissing your lips,”sharing…isn’t so bad when you find someone worthy…”

⋆🍨｡𖦹 °✩ ➛ The little Things

CEO!Max Verstappen x Fem!reader

Summary: Gestures that Max does for you.

Genre: Hardcore fluff cause why not

Note: There are some grammatical errors and this is definitely not proofread so... Hope you guys enjoy 🤞🏻

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ➛ My Masterlist

─────── ─ 𐙚 ˚🍰 ⋆｡─ ───────

Engraved Jewelries

"Oh my god Max! You seriously didn't have to" you beamed happily─ gently taking the small box from his hands and transferring it to yours.

You then rested the box to your lap and opened it at ease. As soon as you saw the content inside, you felt your whole body freeze for a second. Your eyes widened in disbelief and mouth slightly hung open from shock.

Max got you this diamond necklace. Real diamonds might i add, that had the two of your’s picture carved in it.

Your gaze shifted from the present and then to his standing figure─ only to see him have this satisfied smug look on his face.

It was another casual day so you didn't expect to be given such priceless gift. Max always does these things where he gives you expensive stuff without needing to have an occasion attached.

Most of the time he gives you jewelries that are somehow connected to him. It’s either bracelets that has his initials, rings with your carved nicknames, or earrings that has a small number on it. The number on his racing jacket of course.

For Max those expensive gifts that he had given you are just “small trinkets” to show everyone that you are his and only his.

The price doesn’t matter— nothing is expensive when it comes to spending things for his lady.

You settled the gift on the table and hurriedly went to him— hugging him tight as a sign of your appreciation and gratitude.

“Thank you so much love” you spoke. Slowly leaning in on him and closing the gap between you two.

Max leaned in and reciprocated your kiss, “Anything to make my girl happy.”

…

Leaves meeting early

It was a busy afternoon for max. He had a tons of meeting scheduled one after the other.

Right now, Max was currently in his fifth for the day.

He was bored and tired to say the least— seeing how his mind was occupied with nothing else but you. He wanted nothing more but to stay and lay down beside you.

As he stared off the distance, his phone suddenly rang out loud; causing his employees to stop mid conversation and shift their focus to the ringing.

Max took notice and grabbed his phone infront of him. He looked at the screen and saw your number calling. His once bored demeanor changed into an excited one.

One of the employees coughed making Max stare back at them. All their eyes fixiated on him.

Max quickly answered the call and put his phone near his ear. He then flickered his hands— signaling for them to continue.

“Hi pretty, how are you?” Max answered gently over the phone.

To which one of his employees heard and was shock as hell to hear something that his cold boss would never even dare mutter in their workplace.

You coughed over the other end with a hint of sniffle, “i am good baby, just caught a little cold.”

Max hurriedly asked you a bunch of questions— bombarding you with endless concerns that made your head throb a little.

…

After calling and talking back and forth for about 10 minutes; you answered back at him.

“It’s fine hon, i’ll be better in no time i promise. You should get back to work. Call you later okay? I love you” and with that, max ended the call, but not before saying i love you back.

He then took his attention back to the meeting at hand and swiftly corrected the position of his tie. “I think that would be all, let’s rain check this, shall we?”

His secretary was stunned and was quick to react, “but sir, we need to get this report done by tomorrow”

Max only rolled his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. “I have other important matters to attend to, you’ll just have to handle this one.”

The secretary was too afraid to answer back and just nodded in agreement.

He stood up and left the meeting room and drove over to your apartment— showering you with endless love and care.

…

Knowing you well

It was your time of the month— your lower area hurts so bad that you had to compress your stomach with your pillow.

As if on cue; Max had held on a mini tray that has all the essentials you need. (Heating pad, sweets, and coffee).

“Here my love, put this there” max spoke— handing the hot compress over to you.

You then took it and smiled weekly at him; having no energy to move your whole body and reflex.

Max went over to your side and settled the tray to your side table. Then nestled between your pillows— snuggling you closer to him.

You let out a hum and scooted even closer, “Hmm thank you baby”

“Always here for you beautiful, by the way i have your favorite movie set up. Should i play it?”

You shook your head a no and just closed your eyes, “Maybe in a minute, i want to stay like this for a while.”

Max only snuggled closer in response— kissing your head to the side. Making the two of you as comfortable in each others embrace.

Even though max is cold and scary looking, you love this side of him that you can only see. How he makes you feel so special without him knowing. It’s just those little things that make you happy and content.

…

Thats all!! Hope you liked that guys. Sorry for not posting for a while, senior high made my life hell for the past few months. But i’ll be updating again!! 💕💕

The Wrong Letter

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?

Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!

THE WRONG LETTER

The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent

⸻

The flat is still.

There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.

Exhaustion lives in your bones now.

Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.

You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.

It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.

You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.

You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.

You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.

I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.

Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.

But that version of you never existed, did he?

No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.

I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.

So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me

⸻

You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.

M. Hamilton

312 Grafton Way London NW1

You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.

You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.

It says:

L. Hamilton

213 Grafton Lane London NW1

You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.

But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.

It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”

⸻

A Week Later — Monaco

He notices the envelope right away.

It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.

L. Hamilton

He sighs.

Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.

Still, something about it makes him pause.

He’s been restless lately.

Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.

And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.

Then twice.

Then again—slower.

By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.

The words dig beneath his ribs.

It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.

The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.

He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.

He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.

And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.

⸻

He stares at the letter again the next morning.

He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.

But he did.

Twice.

And now—again.

He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”

Same.

Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.

The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.

And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.

She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.

She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.

Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?

He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.

Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.

It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.

And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.

I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.

You didn’t do that.

You just wrote.

And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.

I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.

If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.

Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.

If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.

—L

He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.

Just an initial.

Nothing else.

No fame. No clues.

Just words.

He hesitates before sealing it.

He could throw it away.

He probably should.

But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.

The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.

⸻

Back in London – Three Days Later

You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.

It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.

Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.

You write back that night. Just one line:

Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.

⸻

It becomes a ritual.

You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.

Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.

⸻

Letter #2

Dear L,

I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.

And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.

You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.

Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.

I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.

⸻

Letter #3

Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:

I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.

I forgot how much I hate almond milk.

As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.

My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.

(...That’s probably too much information.)

This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.

And I think that says something.

Still writing, —L

P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.

⸻

It keeps going.

Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.

You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”

You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.

He picks up on it. Of course he does.

⸻

Letter #5

Dear Y/I,

I think we forget how brave softness is.

Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—

You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.

Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L

(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)

You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.

You don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s becoming something you need.

You write back the same night.

⸻

Letter #6

Dear L,

It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.

I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.

I wanted to tell you.

And I don’t even know your face.

But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.

So I’m sending you something too.

It’s small. But it made me think of you.

— Y/I

(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)

⸻

And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.

You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.

Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.

⸻

Letter #12

Dear L,

I thought about deleting this letter.

I still might.

But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.

There was someone.

He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.

He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.

But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.

But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I

He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.

He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.

He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.

But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.

⸻

Letter #13

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know if this will help, but...

You don’t speak in whispers anymore.

Not to me.

Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.

And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.

But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.

You’re not nothing.

I hope you never forget that

—L

And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.

Sometimes soft.

Sometimes raw.

Always honest.

⸻

Letter #15

Dear L,

I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.

To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.

You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.

Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.

It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.

And I think... that’s more important.

— Y/I

⸻

Letter #16

Dear Y/I,

There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.

But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”

I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.

But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.

Maybe it just has to be honest.

Like us.

—L

(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)

⸻

You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.

And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.

⸻

You don’t set an alarm anymore.

Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.

You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.

It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.

You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.

You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.

It holds his letters now.

You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.

⸻

Your day unfolds the way it always does.

You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.

You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.

You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”

You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.

⸻

At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.

“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.

You shrug. “Not really.”

“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.

You fight the smile. “Maybe.”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”

She gives you a look but lets it go.

⸻

The school day ends.

You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.

And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.

Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.

You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.

Inside?

A note.

And a photo.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.

But I found a little moment of stillness.

I thought you might like it.

You feel like stillness, sometimes.

Like breath.

More soon.

—L

(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)

You press the photo to your chest. And smile.

⸻

He wakes up in yet another hotel.

He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,

it’s Barcelona.

The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.

He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.

Another debrief after that.

Then sim work.

Then setup.

Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.

He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.

There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.

Always does now.

Wherever he goes.

Just in case.

He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.

“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”

He smiles.

And exhales.

⸻

The paddock is chaos.

People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.

He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.

He does the dance.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.

Back to her.

To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”

He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.

⸻

He takes photos quietly.

A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)

He frames the shot. Clicks.

And hears a voice behind him.

“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”

He jumps slightly, turning.

It’s Charles.

His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.

“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”

“Yeah. Personal one.”

Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”

“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.

Then, without thinking, he adds:

“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”

Charles tilts his head. “She?”

Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”

Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”

“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”

But he’s smiling.

Because that’s what she does to him.

Makes the world feel quiet again.

Even here.

⸻

That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.

He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

Today was loud.

The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.

But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.

I think you’re right.

This isn’t much.

But it made me feel quiet.

And when I feel quiet, I think of you.

—L

(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)

He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.

He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.

⸻

The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.

⸻

Letter #28

Dear Y/I,

I don’t know what this is anymore.

And I don’t mean that in a bad way.

It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.

I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.

(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.

Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.

Still yours,

—L

⸻

You read that letter three times.

Then again the next morning.

You walk through your day differently now. More alert.

More tender.

You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.

⸻

Letter #29

Dear L,

You said you don’t know what this is anymore.

I don’t either.

But I know what it’s not.

It’s not nothing.

And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.

Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...

You already saw it.

You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.

And that scares me.

But it also makes me feel whole.

— Y/I

P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.

⸻

Letter #30

Dear Y/I,

This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.

I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.

So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.

But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching? 

To just be a man next to a woman he respects.

Not a name.

Not a brand.

Just L.

(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)

— Still just L

⸻

You reread that paragraph.

“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”

Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.

You could.

But you don’t.

Because whatever this is—it’s enough.

And you trust him.

⸻

Letter #31

Dear L,

When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.

“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”

I found them again last week.

And I cried.

Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.

You didn’t fix me.

But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.

You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.

And still—you see me.

More clearly than anyone else has.

— Y/I

⸻

He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.

The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.

But none of it matters.

Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:

That he matters without being anyone else.

That she wants him, not the idea of him.

That she’s ready.

And just like that—

He knows.

It’s almost time to tell her who he is.

⸻

It was raining the day you wrote the draft.

Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.

This was the kind of rain that felt mean.

That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.

It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.

You were already crying before you picked up the pen.

And you shouldn't have written it.

But you did.

Not to him.

Just... to yourself.

A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?

You wrote:

Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.

You folded it.

Slid it into your drawer.

You didn’t sign it.

Didn’t intend to send it.

You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.

You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.

⸻

Four days later — Monaco

He gets home late.

The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.

He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.

Her letter is there. Waiting.

He smiles before he even opens it.

But the smile fades.

Line by line.

Word by word.

He reads the first sentence.

And stops.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”

It feels like a slap.

Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.

A joke.

A mistake.

A test.

But it’s just... her.

Questioning all of it.

All of him.

And he—

He doesn’t know what to do.

⸻

He doesn't reply.

Not right away.

Not at all.

He wants to write something. Anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.

So he doesn’t write.

He disappears.

⸻

A Week Later

You feel it before you know it.

The silence.

It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.

You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.

And then it comes.

One envelope.

No letter inside.

Just a photo.

A paper airplane.

Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.

And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:

I didn’t know I was disposable.

You sink to the floor.

The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”

Because it wasn’t meant for him.

That letter—

That damn letter—

Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.

You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.

And there it is.

The real one.

The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:

You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.

You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.

Too late.

You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:

“Please come back.”

⸻

Days pass.

Then a week.

Then two.

You don’t write.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?

“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?

“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?

“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?

You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.

You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.

But tonight—

You do.

You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.

And then...

You write.

⸻

Letter #32

Dear L,

I sent you the wrong letter.

That’s the truth.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

It wasn’t supposed to be you.

That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.

But I sent it.

And I know how it must’ve sounded.

Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.

But I didn’t. I don’t.

I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.

I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.

You gave me my voice back.

And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.

I understand if that’s unforgivable.

But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:

You are not disposable.

You never were.

You are everything.

And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.

Come back. — Y/I

⸻

You don’t send it.

Not right away.

You fold it.

Place it inside the box. And wait.

⸻

Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco

He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.

Even though it hurts.

He’s been quiet too long.

Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.

Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.

But then—

He finds her real letter.

Not on purpose.

It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.

He flips it open.

And there it is.

The handwriting.

His heart stops.

He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.

And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.

She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.

And that—

That’s what finally breaks him.

He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.

⸻

The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.

Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.

And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.

He won.

But it feels empty.

⸻

TWO DAYS EARLIER

“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.

“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”

He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”

Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”

He’s not.

He hasn’t been for a while.

It’s been almost two months since her last letter.

Or rather, since his last letter.

The one he didn’t send.

He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.

⸻

Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.

They’ve got a shot at pole.

Maybe more.

Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.

His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”

“That’s not the same as being present.”

He finally lifts his eyes.

She softens. “Still thinking about her?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer.

“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”

Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”

He looks away.

⸻

RACE DAY

The car feels good.

Better than it has in weeks.

Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.

Maybe it's adrenaline.

Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.

He takes the win.

First place.

Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.

And maybe he did.

But it’s not the world he wants to save.

⸻

That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.

And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.

⸻

Dear Y/I,

It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.

And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.

Because I was a coward.

Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.

But if I’m being honest? I

stopped writing because I was scared.

I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.

I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.

But you didn’t leave me.

I left you.

And I’m sorry.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve asked.

I should’ve told you the truth.

—

I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.

—

You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.

—

I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.

I miss you.

Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head. 

You.

Whatever name you wear.

Whatever face you have.

You are already mine in every way that matters.

—

I got something.

A tattoo.

I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.

You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.

A becoming.

And I want you to see it.

—

If you never write back, I’ll understand.

But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—

I’m ready.

I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.

I want all of it.

Not in fragments.

Not in metaphors.

You.

Please let me come home.

—L

(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)

⸻

You wake up with paint on your hands.

Dried glitter on your temple.

Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.

It’s been 51 days since your last letter.

52 since you heard from him.

You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.

You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.

But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.

You still miss him.

And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.

⸻

8:02 AM — Your Classroom

“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”

You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.

“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.

“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”

You smile, and feel your throat close.

You used to write like that.

⸻

10:14 AM — Playground Duty

You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.

Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”

Ana stays quiet.

Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”

⸻

12:45 PM — Staff Room

You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.

“Delivery for you.”

You frown. “Here?”

She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”

Your heart stops.

You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.

It’s heavy. Dense.

Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.

Just your initial.

Your hands shake.

You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.

Ten pages.

Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.

The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.

Tears fall silently.

You clutch the pages to your chest.

You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

And for the first time in 52 days—

You let yourself hope.

⸻

6:04 PM — Your Flat

You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.

Your hands are still shaking.

You grab your best pen.

A blank page. And write.

⸻

Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.

I think I do.

It’s real.

It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.

It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.

It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.

It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.

Because you heard it.

And then you answered.

You said you want to hear my voice.

You said you want to see my face.

So let’s.

Let’s stop hiding behind paper.

Let’s meet.

Let’s begin.

You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.

And I think we’re meant to do it together.

— Y/I

P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.

(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)

⸻

Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply

You don’t expect a response this fast.

But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.

You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.

⸻

Letter #33

Dear Y/I,

I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.

I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.

But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”

So here’s the truth:

I want to see you.

I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.

I want to meet you too.

And I think we’re ready.

So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.

Saturday. 11AM.

There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.

I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.

If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.

That way... I’ll know it’s you.

And if you don’t come—

I’ll sit there for an hour.

I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.

But if you do come—

Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L

P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.

⸻

You press the letter to your chest.

Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The Night Before

You can’t sleep.

You try. God, you try.

You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.

Your mind won’t stop.

What if he’s not what you imagined?

What if you’re not?

What if it’s perfect?

You finally fall asleep around 3AM.

You wake at 6.

Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.

The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.

⸻

Meanwhile — Monaco

Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.

His hands are shaking.

He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”

He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.

The tattoo is healing.

He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.

It’s not for her.

It’s for him.

Just four words:

"Be who she knows.”

⸻

Back to Present – The Bookstore

You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.

You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.

You check your reflection in the bookshop window.

You look the same.

But you’re not.

Not since him.

Not since the letters.

The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.

You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.

You sit.

And wait.

⸻

11:08 AM

He’s standing outside the shop.

His heart is a percussion instrument.

He walks past once.

Then again.

He almost turns back.

But then he sees it—

Through the window.

You.

Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.

And he knows.

⸻

The bell rings.

You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like

something tectonic shifts.

Your mouth parts just slightly.

He’s real.

More real than you ever imagined.

He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.

His lips lift, soft and unsure.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you whisper, standing.

Neither of you moves.

Then—he laughs once.

Nervously.

“This is weird, right?” he says.

“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.

He glances at your necklace.

“You wore it.”

“You told me to.”

He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”

You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.

You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.

“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.

“Disappointed?” he teases gently.

You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”

He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”

You nod.

And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.

⸻

You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

You’re trying to breathe normally.

“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No.”

Your heart drops slightly.

“You’re... more.” he finishes.

You smile. “That was a save.”

“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“You know what’s wild?”

“What?”

“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”

“And now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

“You’re better than magic.”

Your throat catches.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.

He blinks. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”

He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”

You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.

“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”

You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”

You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.

Then you grow serious again.

“This... is real,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

You look down. “So what now?”

He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.

“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”

You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”

He grins.

“I’ll write the first line.”

⸻

EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED

The flat is quiet.

Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.

But the house always feels different when he’s gone.

He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”

You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...

...and there it is.

A folded note.

His handwriting.

You already know what it is.

⸻

Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.

Mostly because I get to tell you now.

But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—

God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.

And who we still are.

You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.

And I’ll write you forever.

— Me

⸻

You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.

He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”

You don’t say anything.

You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”

⸻

Later That Week

It’s raining.

You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.

And you find it.

Tucked in a notebook.

No envelope.

No note.

A Polaroid.

Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.

A letter on a table.

Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.

You flip it over.

Two words.

“I waited.”

And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?

He’s here.

THE END.

⸻

THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK

1. His First Polaroid

Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."

2. Hers

A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."

3. His – From Somewhere Quiet

A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.

→ No words. Just breath.

4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention

A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."

5. His – The Near Reveal

A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."

6. Hers – Come Back

Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."

7. His – The Tattoo

Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”

→ No caption. Just the truth.

8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”

Brake Balance

Charles Leclerc x mafiosa!Reader

Summary: something about the brake issues that Charles had to deal with in Bahrain just seems off … so you take matters into your own hands while your boyfriend is none the wiser

Warnings: depictions of violence and minor-character murder

You make your way through the paddock of the Bahrain International Circuit, weaving between team members and mechanics as they go about their pre-race routines. The energy in the air is electric, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first race of the season later tonight.

You flash your paddock pass at security and head into the Ferrari garage, eyes scanning the organized chaos for the familiar mop of brown hair.

There he is, sitting in his red race suit that matches the iconic color of the Ferrari he drives, focused intently as his mechanics make some last minute adjustments. You walk up behind Charles and place your hands over his eyes.

“Guess who?” You say playfully.

Charles reaches up and removes your hands, a smile breaking across his face as he turns in his seat. “Ah, mon cœur! My favorite surprise.”

You lean down and kiss him softly. “How are things looking for today?”

“Good, good,” he nods. “The team had to change the left front brake duct exit deflector earlier, just as a precaution. But I’m feeling optimistic, the car has been solid all weekend. I think I might even be able to challenge Max for the win if everything goes to plan.”

His confidence makes you smile. Charles has been working so hard, both physically and mentally, to start this season strong. You know a win today would mean the world to him.

“I’ll be cheering the loudest when I see you on that top step today,” you say.

Charles grins. “We’ll see. Still have a race to get through first.”

You lean in to give him a quick kiss and head to the back of the garage so you’re out of the way. The mechanics are in full focus mode now, choreographing their dance around Charles’ car with practiced precision.

Charles goes through his usual pre-race routine — sips of water, reviewing data on the screens, and loosening up his muscles. He’s the picture of calm, but you know him well enough to see the coiled adrenaline thrumming just under the surface, ready to be unleashed once he settles into the cockpit.

The time comes to head out to the grid. Charles pauses before he puts his helmet on, meeting your gaze. You close the distance between you and cup his face in your hands, kissing his lips sweetly. Then you take the helmet from him and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips over the smooth surface where his would be.

“Be safe out there,” you say softly.

He nods, face disappearing behind the tinted visor, and climbs into the Ferrari. You watch as the car pulls away, weaving between other vehicles making their way to the starting grid. With a deep breath, you head deeper into the garage and take a seat next to Charles’ performance coach, Andrea. He hands you a headset so you can listen to Charles’ radio during the race.

“Let’s hope for a good one today,” Andrea says.

You nod, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you fit the headset over your ears. On the monitors, you see Charles lining up on the grid in P2 after the formation lap, Max Verstappen’s Red Bull beside him on the front row in P1. The lights go out and the cars leap forward, engines roaring to life. Charles gets a good start, but Max keeps the lead through the first few turns.

The pack of cars higher up on the starting grid stays bunched up through the first few turns, but then you notice Charles starting to fall back little by little. His lap time slows as Max opens up a gap in front.

“The car doesn’t feel right, something with the front end,” Charles says. Your brow furrows in concern.

Only a lap later, George Russell in the Mercedes overtakes Charles on turn 4. Then Perez in the other Red Bull breezes past not long after.

“Come on Charles, stay focused,” you murmur under your breath. But things only seem to be getting worse. Carlos battles with Charles and eventually gets by, which frustrates you to no end. Charles fighting his own teammate for position is the last thing you want to see.

“Something felt very wrong with this set, the fronts were locking up like crazy,” Charles reports over the radio. Your heart sinks. Andrea shakes his head, equally perplexed.

The issues continue to persist. “What’s going on with my front left?” Charles asks, audible tension in his voice. “I just cannot get out of front locking. Everywhere ...”

Xavi, his race engineer, replies calmly, “We have temperature imbalance, higher front left.”

“How much is the imbalance?” Charles asks.

“Around 100 degrees.”

You grimace. That kind of discrepancy could make the car undriveable. Sure enough, Charles continues to struggle. It’s clear he’s fighting with the car now rather than racing the drivers around him.

“My car is fully going to the right when I am braking. With this I cannot fight, it’s dangerous,” Charles says, frustration seeping into his tone. You chew your lip anxiously. The rational part of you wishes Charles would just retire the car before he gets himself hurt trying to wrestle with it. But you also know that’s never been in Charles’ nature — he’ll keep fighting until the very last lap, no matter what.

Lap after lap, Charles battles to keep the car under control. “I think we can forget about driving now. It’s pulling everywhere,” he finally concedes. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’ll pull into the pits and call it a day. But no, your boyfriend is never one to simply give up. After the radio, through sheer force of will, Charles somehow overtakes George to reclaim P4. You can only imagine how hard he must be having to fight to keep the car in the track.

In the end, it’s a disappointing P4 for Charles while his teammate makes it on the podium in P3. As Carlos is lead to the cooldown room with Max and Checo, you watch Charles, frustration etched across his face as he tugs off his helmet and balaclava. He doesn’t even glance your way before the mechanics descend on him to start looking over the car.

Clearly the brake issues have cost him any chance at challenging for the win today. Most other drivers would have given up even trying to reclaim P4. But not your Charles. Never your Charles. Your heart aches for him.

Charles gets led away swiftly for the usual post-race weighing and interviews. You know from his body language that he’s utterly deflated by today’s results.

While the reporters pepper him with questions, you pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts. Enough is enough — something is clearly not right with Charles’ car and you want answers.

Your finger hovers over the call button as you contemplate who to reach out to. The last thing you want is for Charles to have to fight against his own machine again. A solution needs to be found immediately, and you know just the person who can help.

With a determined nod, you press call and lift the phone to your ear, ready to get to the bottom of these brake issues once and for all.

***

The phone only rings once before a gruff voice answers. “Boss?”

“Hello, Gianluca,” you say. “I need you to do something for me.”

You go on to explain in detail the brake issues Charles faced during the race, how the problems started right after they replaced the left front brake duct exit deflector.

“I don’t think it was just bad luck,” you say. “Something seems off about the whole situation. I want you to look into it, see if anyone on Charles’ side of the garage could have tampered with his car.”

Gianluca is quiet for a moment. “Sabotage, you think?”

“Possibly. I just … I can’t shake this feeling that someone meant for this to happen to Charles’ car. He truly thought he could at least try to challenge Max for the win, then suddenly it’s like he’s driving an entirely different machine. Too much of a coincidence for my liking.”

“I’ll look into it boss, don’t you worry,” Gianluca says. “I’ll go through the team with a fine tooth comb, see if anything seems out of the ordinary. If someone did intentionally compromise Charles’ car, I’ll find out who and how.”

You let out a breath. “Thank you, Gianluca. Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Charles can’t afford issues like this again.”

“You got it. I’ll be in touch.”

The call ends and you lean back against the garage wall, gaze fixed unseeingly out across the pit lane. Your mind turns over the events of the race, Charles’ baffled frustration over the radio. He’s worked too hard for too long to have valuable points stolen away by something like this. If there is sabotage afoot within the team, you’ll get to the bottom of it.

A few days later you’re back in your study after flying home from Bahrain. A knock at the door interrupts your work and you call for them to enter. Gianluca steps in, an uncharacteristically grim look on his face.

“Boss,” he greets you. Wordlessly, he steps forward and places a thick manila folder on your desk. You flip it open, eyes scanning over photos, documents, even what looks like stills of CCTV footage. Gianluca remains silent, allowing you to take it all in.

“I went over every inch of security camera video from the Bahrain paddock and garage,” Gianluca finally says. “And I found something.”

He leans over your desk and flips to a page in the folder, tapping a finger on a freeze frame showing one of Charles’ mechanics.

“This is Tomaso, one of the brake technicians,” Gianluca explains. “I noticed him acting strange all race day. Fidgety. Nervous. He was trying to hide it but his body language gave it away.”

Your eyes narrow as you study the photo. There is a shifty, almost guilty look about the man as he glances over his shoulder.

“I watched him like a hawk after that,” Gianluca continues. “When the team went to change the brake duct exit deflector, that’s when I saw it happen.”

He flips to another page, this one showing screen captures of CCTV footage in the Ferrari garage a few hours before the race start. You can make out Tomaso slipping the replacement deflector into his pocket before taking out another piece and installing it in Charles’ car. Your blood turns cold.

“He tampered with the part,” Gianluca confirms grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind he switched that deflector with a compromised one. Sabotage, just like you suspected.”

You sit back, shaking your head in disgusted disbelief. “Why? Why would he do this?”

Gianluca shrugs. “Hard to say for sure. Could be someone paid him off, wants to see Charles fail. But what I know for certain is that he meant to damage Charles’ car.”

You drum your fingers on your desk, thinking hard. This level of betrayal from someone Charles trusts, it’s unthinkable. An affront you won’t let stand.

“You’ve done excellent work, Gianluca,” you finally say, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for getting to the bottom of this. I’ll handle it from here.”

Gianluca nods. “Of course, boss. Let me know if you need anything else.”

He turns and leaves your study, closing the door quietly behind him. You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled under your chin. Your expression is stone, but internally your thoughts roil with anger. Tomaso will pay for this, you’ll see to that.

Charles has enough challenges to face without sabotage from his own team. Your resolve hardens — you won’t stop until justice is served and he can race with full confidence again. The treachery ends now.

***

After Gianluca leaves, your mind turns over what to do about Tomaso. The team flew straight from Bahrain to Saudi Arabia to prepare for the next race, so he’s out of your reach for now. Still, you won’t let him slip away that easily. You pick up your phone and call a trusted associate, instructing him to organize a surveillance team to keep constant eyes on Tomaso until you arrive in Jeddah yourself.

The days crawl by painfully slow as you wait to confront the saboteur. You resist the urge to call Fred Vasseur and have Tomaso removed from the team immediately — better to handle this yourself. Finally, it’s time to fly out for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. Upon landing, your associate meets you at the airport.

“We have eyes on the target,” he reports. “He’s currently at the hotel bar, quite intoxicated.”

You nod curtly. “Good. Let’s pay him a visit.”

You’re led to the hotel and pointed towards the bar. Sure enough, there’s Tomaso, stumbling drunkenly out the door into the night. Now is your chance. You follow him down the street, waiting until he turns into a shadowy alley to make your move. In a flash you have him by the collar, shoving him against the brick wall.

“What the hell, let me go!” Tomaso slurs, trying to shove you off. But drinking has made him clumsy and weak.

“I don’t think so, Tomaso,” you reply coldly. “We need to have a little chat.”

His eyes widen in fear and confusion. You press on before he can respond.

“Let’s see, Tomaso Barbieri, born May 5th, 1992 in Turin. Moved to Maranello in 2021 to begin work as a mechanic with Scuderia Ferrari. Parents Lucia and Giacomo Barbieri, both schoolteachers. Sister Cecilia studying abroad in London.”

As you rattle off details about his personal life, Tomaso’s eyes grow wider and wider.

“What the hell, how do you know all that?” He stammers. “Who are you? Does Charles know the ugly truth about his girlfriend?”

You fix him with an icy stare. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know exactly who you are, Tomaso. A mechanic for Ferrari … and apparently a master of espionage and sabotage in your spare time.”

Tomaso’s eyes dart wildly, still trying to make sense of the situation in his inebriated state. He attempts an unconvincing laugh.

“What are you talking about man? Sabotage? I think you’ve had too much to drink ...”

Your response is to slam him hard against the wall, causing him to grunt in pain. You lean in close, anger simmering in your eyes.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Tomaso. I know what you did in Bahrain, switching out the brake duct deflector to sabotage Charles’ car. Did you think you could get away with it? That there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Up close, you can see the color drain from his face, eyes wide with fear. He tries to retain some composure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats weakly. “I would never sabotage Charles’ car, I want him to win ...”

You slam him against the wall again, cutting off his lies.

“I said, enough bullshit!” you snarl. “We have you on video. We saw everything. We know you pocketed the real deflector and installed a defective one instead.”

He is trembling now, any hint of drunkenness replaced by sobering fear.

“Please,” he whimpers pathetically. “I’ll do anything, just please let me go. I made a mistake ...”

You shake your head in disgust. “A mistake? You betrayed Charles’ trust and tried to ruin his race out of what? Jealousy? Greed?”

Tomaso says nothing, eyes downcast in shame. You take a breath and continue in a low, menacing tone.

“Here are your options. One: you go directly to Vasseur first thing in the morning and resign from Ferrari immediately. You will leave the team and ensure you are never so much as in the same country as Charles again. Two: I deal with you myself, in a much less pleasant manner. The choice is yours, Tomaso. What’s it going to be?”

He meets your steely gaze again, jaw clenched. “I can’t just quit,” he says hoarsely. “My job is my life. You might as well just kill me.”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “I was afraid you’d say that. Very well.”

In one swift motion you draw your gun from its concealed holster and press the barrel firmly under Tomaso’s chin. He recoils in terror, plastered back against the wall.

“Last chance,” you say calmly. “Walk away from Ferrari and never look back, or your days end tonight in this alley.”

Sweat drips down his brow as the gun digs harder into his throat. His eyes are saucers of fear, flitting between your steely gaze and the weapon poised to end his life.

“Well?” You ask after a long silence. “What’s it going to be?”

Tomaso swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against the gun barrel. When he speaks, his voice is a terrified croak.

“I … I won’t quit. I can’t.” He closes his eyes in resignation, awaiting his fate.

You click your tongue in disappointment. “That’s unfortunate. I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

Your finger tightens almost imperceptibly on the trigger …

“Wait, wait!” Tomaso cries out, hands raised in desperation. “I’ll do it, I’ll quit! Just please, don’t hurt me!”

You pause, gun still aimed steadily at his throat. “And why should I believe you now?”

He swallows hard, eyes brimming with tears. “I swear, I’ll resign first thing tomorrow. You’ll never see me near the team again. Just let me go, I’m begging you!”

You consider him coldly for a moment before lowering the gun. Tomaso sags back against the wall in relief. But you’re not done with him yet.

“Who paid you?” You demand. “Who put you up to sabotaging Charles’ car?”

The blood drains from his face again. “I can’t tell you that. They’ll kill me, and my family ...”

In a flash the gun is back at his throat, your grip like iron on his shirt collar.

“I assure you, I can do much worse than they ever could,” you say menacingly. “Now give me a name, or you can say goodbye.”

Tomaso shakes uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. You can see the internal struggle, debating which is the lesser evil — defying you or those he conspired with. Finally, he slumps in defeat and leans in close, voice barely a whisper.

“It was ...”

He utters a name directly into your ear. Your eyes widen briefly in surprise before narrowing again. You release Tomaso and take a step back, processing this new information.

“I see,” you say slowly. You nod over your shoulder and two of your associates emerge from the shadows.

“Get him out of my sight,” you order. They grab Tomaso roughly by the arms. He sags between them, the fight gone out of him completely. You fix him with an icy stare.

“My men will escort you to the airport,” you inform him. “You will be on the first flight out of this hemisphere. And you are never to go near Ferrari or Charles again — don’t even think about trying to contact the team to explain yourself. As far as they will be concerned, you simply resigned. Am I clear?”

Tomaso nods wordlessly, defeated. The men begin dragging him away towards a waiting black SUV.

“Oh, and Tomaso?” You call after him. He glances back warily. “If I ever see or hear of you so much as setting foot in a paddock again, you won’t get a second chance. You’ll simply disappear. Permanently.”

The color drains from his face one final time. Then he is shoved into the back of the SUV, the door slamming shut behind him. You watch impassively as the vehicle drives off into the night, carrying the saboteur away for good.

Or so he thinks.

Unbeknownst to Tomaso, you have contacts everywhere, including at his destination. The second he steps off the plane, thinking he’s escaped your wrath, your local associates will be waiting. And his life will be ended swiftly and permanently, as promised. You don't make idle threats after all.

Betrayal of this magnitude must be punished, no matter how far Tomaso runs. The message will be clear — cross you, and nowhere on Earth will be safe. You've given the order, and your associates are nothing if not ruthlessly efficient. By the time the sun rises, there will be one less threat to Charles’ success. The sabotage ends here and now. You'll see to that personally, no matter the cost.

For a moment you simply stand alone in the dark alley, processing everything. This is bigger than you initially realized. Tomaso was clearly just a pawn, the sabotage orchestrated by someone higher up the chain — someone with enough power and influence to scare a man into risking his career and life.

Your jaw clenches as you think about Charles being targeted like this, not only being robbed of a deserved finish but also put in danger as collateral. Well, it ends now. The shadowy orchestrator thinks they can get away with playing games in the dark? They’re about to realize just how big of a mistake they’ve made.

Now that you have a name, you can start unraveling the web, tracing every thread back to find where it leads. And when you do find the spider at the center? You’ll make sure they can never endanger Charles again. For good.

Satisfied with this plan, you straighten your dress and exit the alley onto the brighter streets. Time to put your considerable resources to work. Phone records, financials, travel records — you’ll dig through it all, leave no stone unturned.

And you have a feeling the name Tomaso gave you is only the first thread. This goes deeper. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve dealt with far more dangerous criminal elements before. These shadow games don’t scare you. You’ll keep following the threads until you reach the source, uprooting the entire enterprise in the process.

By the time you reach your car, your phone is already buzzing with incoming calls and updates from your associates. They know the drill by now — when you give the word, they mobilize into action immediately, utilizing the full extent of your influence and power.

For you, they’ll tap every resource, call in every favor owed. Because you protect what’s yours at all costs. And Charles? He’s under your protection now, whether he knows it or not. So for his sake, you’re going to find the ones trying to undermine him, and you’re going to tear out the threat root and stem. Permanently.

Let them keep playing their games for now, oblivious to the axe hanging over their heads. They’ll find out soon enough that nobody crosses you and gets away with it. And when that time comes, no mercy will be shown. No loose ends left to unravel.

Time to remind them exactly why your reputation precedes you in certain circles, why your name is uttered only in hushed whispers. They’ll regret the day they dared threaten someone you care about. You’ll see to that personally.

With your jaw set in determination, you climb into the idling car. Time to go hunting.

***

Two days after dealing with Tomaso, you make your way through the Jeddah Corniche Circuit paddock towards the Ferrari motorhome.

Your stiletto heels click along the pavement and you glance down, frowning slightly at the flecks of blood still staining the pointed toes of your red soles. Such a shame about these Louboutins, you really love this pair. But a bit of blood is a small price to pay for protecting Charles, especially after personally dealing with the orchestrator who had been paying Tomaso off.

You had tracked them down and made sure they could never threaten Charles’ success again. Subtly, you crouch down and wipe at the stains, managing to remove the worst of it.

Satisfied, you straighten and continue on your way. The familiar bright red motorhome comes into view and you sweep inside, immediately spotting Charles standing with some team members. His face lights up when he sees you, excusing himself to rush over.

“Mon amour, you made it!” He exclaims, enveloping you in a tight hug. You melt against him, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss seeing you race for anything,” you reply, pecking his lips sweetly.

Charles takes your hand, leading you to a quiet corner where you can talk. “I missed you so much while you were away,” he says. “But I’m so glad you’re here now.”

You smile and stroke his cheek. “Me too, darling. But I’m here now and I’ll be cheering the loudest for you all race.”

Charles’ grin falters a bit. “It’s been a strange few days actually. Tomaso, one of my mechanics, just up and quit in the middle of the week. No explanation or anything.”

You school your features into a look of surprise. “Really? That’s so odd.”

Charles nods. “Very weird timing to just resign like that. But maybe it’s for the best if his heart wasn’t fully in it anymore.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” you agree. “The team is better off without any negativity.”

Before Charles can reply, Andrea enters the motorhome. “Charles, time for some quick physio before the race.”

Charles sighs but nods, giving you a swift kiss before following Andrea out. You watch him go fondly before making your way trackside to the Ferrari garage. The mechanics are in race mode, voices terse and movements precise as they make final adjustments on Charles’ car.

You stay back, letting them work, thoughts drifting back to everything you did to get to this point. A small price to pay to ensure Charles can race with a fair chance again.

Finally it’s time for Charles to get in the car. You approach as he’s putting on his helmet and balaclava, stealing a tender kiss that he returns happily. Then you lift the helmet and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips softly over the smooth surface where his lips would be. Your ritual.

“Be safe out there,” you murmur. Charles squeezes your hand, then lowers himself into the cockpit. You watch tensely as the car pulls away, the lights of the circuit glittering against the dark night sky.

In the garage you pace anxiously throughout the race, listening to the radio chatter. Again Charles qualified P2, behind Max Verstappen’s Red Bull. But this time, you have no sabotage to worry about. The Ferrari proves fast and consistent all race, not quite keeping pace with the Red Bull but allowing Charles to maintain P2 smoothly.

The SF-24 doesn’t have the speed to challenge Max, but there’s no issues, no sudden grip loss or components failing. Your shoulders finally uncoil with relief as Charles crosses the line to take P2, securing a podium finish.

The garage explodes into cheers and applause as Charles pulls into parc fermé. He’s beaming as he climbs from the car, pulling off his gloves and balaclava. You run over to the barriers and throw your arms around him ecstatically as soon as he nears.

“I’m so proud of you!” You exclaim. Charles hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you, mon cœur,” he says warmly. “It felt good to finally have a clean race again.”

You just smile knowingly, heart bursting with joy at seeing Charles on the podium where he belongs. During the celebrations, he keeps meeting your gaze in the crowd, smiling and pointing down to you in the crowd of red. As he sprays champagne with Max and Checo, he looks utterly elated and at peace. No frustration or disappointment, just the satisfaction of a hard fought race with the result he deserved.

Afterwards, in the privacy of Charles’ room, he takes you into his arms again. “I don’t know what changed or why, but the car just felt right this weekend,” he says. “It makes me so optimistic for the rest of the season.”

You stroke his face gently. “You deserve it. All your hard work is paying off.” Inside, you allow yourself a small, satisfied smile. Charles doesn’t need to know just how much work went on behind the scenes to get here. He only needs to focus on driving his heart out, and securing the championships you know he’s destined for. The rest is simply details.

“Thank you again for being here,” Charles murmurs, pulling you close. “Having your support means everything to me.”

You rest your head on his shoulder contentedly. “Always, my love. I’ll be right by your side.” And you mean that with every fiber of your being. No matter what happens going forward, whoever tries to interfere or stand in Charles’ way, they’ll have to go through you first.

You won’t let anyone toy with Charles’ performance and safety again. The lesson has been sent — Charles is untouchable now. Dare to threaten the success that is his, and you’ll come for what’s theirs.

But Charles doesn’t need to carry that burden. He just needs to keep his head held high and drive his heart out. You’ll handle the rest. It’s the least you can do for the man you love more than life itself.

So as Charles holds you close, you silently promise to always shield him from the ugly underbelly that lurks beneath the glitz and glamour of Formula 1.

He gives so much of himself already in pursuit of greatness. Let others vie for power and influence through dirty tricks and mind games. That’s not Charles’ way, which is why you’ll ensure he remains untainted. For him, you’d walk through fire without a second thought.

So really, what’s a little blood on your Louboutins in the grand scheme of things? A man like Charles Leclerc deserves that and so much more. And you’re going to give it to him, no matter the cost.

Let them keep playing their games in the shadows. Little do they know, you’ve already checkmated them all.

the C in Carlos stands for Confused

send me an angel - deacon kay x reader

Summary: When the reader gets in danger, Deacon needs being protective of her.

Request by @kenzie30david

Warnings: mentions of threat, swearing

English is not my first language and unfortunately it is not proofread (sorry)

Deacon lost ground as soon as he entered the headquarter, looking at the digital table where there were photos of 14 women, all with name for identification and age below. The only picture that mattered was of him, the woman he loved and that made him lose whatever sanity he had left.

“May I know what that means?” Deacon asks trying to sound as professional as possible.

“They are our possible victims, this morning eight of them received death and kidnapping threats and they all have in common a relationship with someone from SWAT.” Hondo responds.

“How are you sure they all have a relationship with someone from here?” Chris asks.

“The information is from the areas responsible for data collection, we are profiling them to find out who exactly they are with to keep them safe.” Hondo says

Deacon takes one last look at the table and leaves the area to try to call you while the rest of the team continues to work on locating each of the girls. After five failed attempts that took him straight to voicemail, he lets out a frustrated sigh and heads back to where he left the team.

“All are identified, only this one is missing.” Lucca says pointing to his picture.

“She must have been deceived among the others. We can call and check.” Street says, making everyone on the team agree.

"It won't be necessary." Deacon is serious. The entire team turns their heads to him, curiosity brimming on their faces.

"Why not? Do you know something?” Chris asks crossing his arms

"She is my girlfriend." Deacon responds with a sigh.

Silence dominated the environment, no one there knew for sure how to react, no one expected that Deacon would have someone after Annie.

“What do you mean girlfriend? You didn't say anything to us.” Luca says in disbelief.

"I know, I should have told you but she didn't want to and honestly I wasn't ready either." Deacon answers seriously.

Deacon's phone starts to ring, which makes his heart pound in his chest. As soon as he turned the viewfinder towards him, he could read his name on the screen.

"Why didn't you answer me?" Deacon asks.

"Because I was busy." You answer.

"I need you to come here now." Deacon says making you take a long breath on the other end of the line.

“What sudden authority is this? You were never like that.” You say worried.

“Babe, please… I need you to come here. You are in danger.” Deacon says, running an idle hand through his hair.

On the other end of the line you didn't know what to do, you just hung up the call and ran out taking the first taxi that passed. As soon as you get to Deacon, the first thing you see is your photo on the digital tablet.

"What is it?" You ask feeling your heart speed up even more.

"Someone is threatening the fellow SWAT members, we are investigating to find out the motivation but so far we don't have much." Chris says.

You blink several times and feel like you would start to hyperventilate. Deacon also notices and walks over to you, guiding you to a chair.

"I'm going to have to be stuck here is that it?" You ask, feeling tears fall.

“No, no way… we will work this out. I will never let anything happen to you my love, I will always protect you.” Deacon says kissing the top of her head. You really hoped that everything would be okay, but despite your fears you trusted Deacon. He was her guardian angel.

Love Me To My Bones - Max Verstappen

Request from @myescapefromthislife - footballer Declan Rice and him having to speak up for his gf because she was trolled for not being "a glamour model or popstar", if you would make a story about a driver(you decide who) in a similar situation, with a girlfriend/wife who is not what the 'fans' think he should be with, but he loves her with everything she is

No part 2 requests please

Max never really thought about his girlfriend's body type as a problem, he loves her for more than he appearance. Though he'll tell her unprovoked how beautiful he thinks she is and how much he absolutely adores her.

Something he's never understood is how anyone things they have the right to comment on anyone's body. Especially commenting about a stranger they don't know.

"For you." Max smiles appearing home with a bouquet of tulips making y/n turn and look at him with a smile.

"For me?" Y/n laughs lightly taking them from him while he grins at her.

"Of course, I saw them and thought that they were just as beautiful as you." Max nods then kissing her softly.

"You don't have to do this..." Y/n mumbles as she looks at the flowers making him frown. "Don't pretend either. I know why you got these."

"Because I have a beautiful girlfriend."

Max isn't the most active on social media so it took him a while to find out that y/n had been getting hate. A lot of hate. Specifically hate about her body.

It wasn't till a couple days ago when she decided to archive her account and put on hold. A limbo between active and completely deleted but no one else can view it.

Y/n has been trying her best to keep out those thoughts about how her body looks out her head. But it's been met with little success. She's been trying everything to try and cover her body and Max's heart is breaking seeing her confidence be eaten up by people who don't even know her.

"Do you think the flowers are ugly?" Max asks making her frown almost looking offended.

"No. They're my favourite-"

"That's how I see you and that's how you should see yourself." Max tries making her look at him with a thick swallow. "Not even my opinion matters, y/n. It's just you and how you see yourself that matters."

"I'm just sick of seeing what they have to say, Max." Y/n whispers earning a sigh. "And now because I deleted everything, it's in the headlines and the media won't leave it alone."

Max career comes with a lot of frustrating elements. But he hates nothing more than the media, it's bad enough when they rip into him but at least he can tolerate that for the fact it's his own career so it makes sense that they write about him. Writing about y/n when she's done something that obviously suggests she doesn't want attention is just an insult to her and the epitome of disrespectful.

He has to handle this.

Y/n might not really like the idea of him speaking up in her defence and telling people to just leave her alone.

"Do you know...I love you like I never knew I could love someone." Max states making her sigh and shake her head. "I don't know who I'd be without you and I hate knowing that you're hurting because of what someone else thinks they have a right to say about you."

"I don't deserve you." Y/n whispers bottom lip trembling. "Look at me, Max. I don't deserve you, I don't look the part. Every other driver has a model, or an athlete or-"

"I don't want what they have then! I want you. If you asked me to describe the perfect woman, it's you. And I'm going to make sure they understand that.I can't force other people to have a brain or eyes that work." Max states while moving to finally pull her closer to herself.

"You can't call other people blind just because they see what you don't." Y/n mumbles as he holds her closely closing the space and kissing her to really just try and communicate his love in a way she can't dismiss as only words.

-

As much as he tried, Max couldn't convince y/n to come to the next race. He didn't want to push her too much when she's feeling so down. Instead he just enjoyed her videos and pictures with Jimmy and Sassy along with the promised pictures of her meals.

Max knows he should trust her to eat but with the comments being very much about her weight, he just wanted to make sure. He's been sending her pictures back of each meal he has. And he knows that she sees right through his intention of why he's doing what he's doing with the meals but he'd rather she know and do it than not know and potentially skip meals.

"So what do you want us to say?" The PR team asks after Max makes the request to have a meeting about the issues that his girlfriend is being faced with.

"That if it's not related to me and only me or the sport directly. I don't want anyone else in my life to be commented on. I think I can handle the stuff on my own social media." Max sighs making the team look between themselves. "You can read it over and make sure it's not a damaging message."

Though he wonders why he has to choose his words carefully. If he met even one of the people who have contributed towards y/n feeling as shitty about herself as she does. He'd love to have them lie on the track so he could hit there with his car.

"Does y/n know?" One of the PR girls asks making Max look at her. "Just it might be something you might want to mention...with how things are. There's going to be more attention on her when you make the post."

"She's not online anymore." Max mumbles then sighing. "I'll call her and let her know."

"Ok, good." The girl nods before they all seem to dismiss themselves.

Max sighs staring at his phone for a few moments before he sighs and picks it up tapping to call y/n who picks up after only a couple rings.

"Hey, baby." Y/n greets with a soft smile.

"Hey, sorry for calling without warning. I just wanted to...well I wanted to talk about something." Max explains making her look at him for a moment, waiting for further explanation. "I want to make a statement telling people to stop-and before you say it's a bad idea, baby it can't be any worse than it is."

"Would it make you feel better?" Y/n mumbles not arguing that things are at a bit of a rock bottom.

She hates that he own self-worth is so bad that she doesn't even want to be there for him on a race weekend.

"It's not about me. If you don't want me to do it then I'll stop the team and I won't make a statement." Max states softly earning a sigh. 'It'll get worse but it might make people shut up in thinking they have a right to comment.

"You can do it." Y/n sighs after the longest silence of Max's life.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean...maybe I was being a little harsh on myself. I probably should stop fighting the idea that you're not happy with me...you wouldn't put in the effort that you do if you really didn't want to be with me." Y/n smiles lightly while clearly stroking one of the cats out of the frame, the loud purring still reaching the mic for Max to hear so he can't help but smile.

"So it's ok?"

"Yes. I'm not going to see it anyway."

"I'll send my statement to you for you to ok first...I don't want to say anything that you're not happy with."

"Is the team checking it to?" Y/n teases since she knows a couple of the PR girls as friends so she knows the procedure for any public statements has to go through the team before it makes it to the online world for the public to read.

"I love you."

"I love you too...and I know it'll get better eventually." Y/n smiles earning a small nod. "I wish I was there...I know I kept saying no. But I do sort of regret it."

"We can still get you on a flight, I want you here."

"I don't know."

"Please, I would rather you be here and I can't put the statement out until I've actually written it and everyone is ok with it."

-

Y/n takes a deep breath as she tries to somewhat hide behind Max as they walk into the paddock. She'd flown in last night and Max spend the night with her, just figuring how what he wanted to say and how he needed to say it.

His statement went out this morning before they even arrived and maybe a surprise to no one. Pictures of the couple are being fought for.

"It's alright, baby. I've got you." Max smiles squeezing her hand and kissing the back of it.

He's arranged a little surprise for her, hoping to perk up her mood since she might be very slowly gaining some confidence back. He still feels it's his duty to do everything he can to help to gain back her confidence.

Walking into his driver's room there's 2 dozen bouquets of pink tulips.

"Maxie..." Y/n gasps then smiling as she looks at him. "This is so cute."

"All for you." Max smiles then smiling as he picks her up and kisses her a couple times. "I love you."

"I love you too."

And Max proves it later when he's in the media pen being asked about the statement.

"We don't want to discuss anything to do with y/n. But...we just want to ask if she's ok?"

"She's getting there. I think people really just need to learn that common respect goes a long way. I have some words for the people who make those kinds of comments which aren't so respectful. I will say that people can say what they like but I won't be letting them make any in my life miserable because they're jealous."

The reporter nods looking sympathetic since they've all seen what's been said, and really the comments are disgusting and there's really nothing that they're gaining from it.

"Thank you." Max smiles before moving away, happy that's the last interview for the day and when he sees y/n talking to Daniel who is holding a bag and speaking to her excitedly. "Hey, Daniel. What you doing?"

"I was just giving y/n the latest Enchanté line, all in here." Daniel smiles lifting the bag a little in gesture of it making Max take it since he'll never let y/n carry a bag.

"Thank you, Daniel. It's nice when I get a gift from my boyfriend's boyfriend." Y/n jokes catching their attention and watching them both grin at her. "How was media?"

"Boring. As always. But we can leave. So worth doing. Are you heading out mate?"

"Ah, I got a couple things to do. But let me know how the two of you like the clothes. I'm sure y/n can model and you can both give feed back." Daniel grins then hugging y/n. "He'll say you look beautiful in everything, and I have to agree. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise."

"Thank you." Y/n whispers before he pulls back and moves to give Max a shorter hug.

"Ready to go?"

"Just been to grab your stuff and at least some of the flowers from your room. Are you alright?" Y/n nods then smiling as he kisses her and mumbles a yes. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Are you alright?"

"I'm perfect. Better now you're here."