snow on the beach | i | max v.
⇢ summary: crashing into him in the middle of nowhere a day before christmas wasn’t part of your plan, but then again, spending the night with him in a car wasn’t either.
alternatively; max is the knight in shining armour no-one expected him to be.
⇢ genre: fluff, eventual smut, sprinkles of angst along the way maybe?
⇢ pairing: max verstappen x female reader
Chapter one || masterlist ⇢ word count: 3k ⇢ a/n: let me know what you thought ♡ i write on tumblr. to no ones surprise my inspiration relies heavily on validation.
You curse for the umpteenth time, restraining yourself from swerving to avoid a particularly slippery-looking spot on the road and praying to every god and guardian angel to keep you from skidding right off the road and into the dense forest beside. Your mothers berating rings in your ear as she reams you through the phone for delaying getting the train ticket till the very last second and then failing to find any.
“Mom, I love you, but please, can we hold off this conversation until I get back?”
“You wouldn’t be driving through this terrible weather and giving your poor mother a heart attack if you had just listened when I told you to book the tickets now, would you?”
You sigh, and it’s equal parts fond and exasperated. She is right and you know you have fucked up by not buying the tickets when you should have, but being a university student, a medical one, to make matters worse, December was a busy month for you. Amidst the stress of finals, burning the midnight oil and the buzz of caffeine, there wasn’t much registered in your cognisance besides your coursework. While you recall your mother talking about the busy festive season and buying said tickets early on, much of it came in through one ear and left through the other.
Humming, you glance at the time displayed on your dashboard and cut the conversation short. Soon it would be dark and you have no desire to drive through the winter weather a day before Christmas eve and arrive back home in a body bag.
“Yes, momma, you’re right, but I really need to concentrate on driving now. I love you and I’ll call you once I am close, kay?”
She sighs through the phone and your heart melts a little inside the hollow of your chest. For all the loud and impatient she is, you know her worry comes from a place of love for you and you make a mental note to make her breakfast tomorrow to make up for it.
“Alright, I am hanging up but drive carefully and stay safe. I love you. See you soon.”
“Love you loads, see you very soon.” You end the call with an audible mwah, knowing she’ll shake her head, muttering a brat not so quietly under her breath.
Blowing through your nose, you grip the steering wheel tight, letting whatever the radio is playing fill the silence. Conscious of your driving skills, the one thing you did not want to do to close off the year is driving your ratty old car through terrible weather. Snow blanketed your surroundings, thick and white, covering the green around you into a shimmering white and if it wasn’t you driving a car that already had less drivability than most would be comfortable with, you might even have enjoyed going through the countryside, but as it stood, it took all of your concentration and a healthy dose of luck to make your way through the long stretch of slippery tarmac.
It comes out of nowhere, one moment, you are straight and the other, the grip of your rear tyres is lost and you are slipping, skidding to the other side and banging into incoming traffic. The impact isn’t as bad as it could have been since you were careful to drive slow but the sudden change of inertia still throws you off your seat, head banging against the rearview mirror before the seatbelt pulls you back into place, stinging the flesh of your chest with the force with which it sends you back, biting into the skin for hold.
A scream is caught somewhere in your chest as your vision swims, panic and shock bringing white spots ahead of you as your body grows stiff in self-defence and you wait for the world to stop moving.
The screeching of the tires is replaced by the ringing in your ears, the only thing audible through it the harsh breaths you exhale. Hands shaking you move to take them off the steering wheel and push open the door. Nausea claws at your throat, begging for a release and it’s a second too late that you realise that you still can’t control the feeling in your lower extremity as you fall onto your knees beside the opened gate of your car and heave.
Tears blur your vision, as painful retches wrack your frame but nothing comes out. You heave until your throat starts to sting, until your chest and abdomen hurt with the weight of a thousand bricks and you struggle to breathe, lack of oxygen making your head spin and suddenly you are being turned around, warmth enveloping your forearms and through hazy eyes, you see the outline of someone’s figure on their knees facing you. It takes you a moment to register the hand that is rubbing your back, and slowly things start to come back. The feeling in your arms, the cold stinging your naked skin, the burning in your abdomen, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins slowly abating as you try to ground yourself to reality.
“Are you okay?” It takes you a few tries to understand the words, and you nod, not yet trusting your voice. You aren’t sure if you are hurt, but you don’t see blood anywhere and while you do feel a little sore, whether from the receding adrenaline or the cold and shock, it’s nothing you can’t bear.
Fingers appear in front of your steadily clearing vision and you hiss, jerking back as pain erupts across your forehead.
“You’re hurt.”
You realise it’s a man before you see him by the deep baritone of his voice, picking up the fine gravel in his voice even through the howling winds. It’s his hand floating in your vision and when the pain stings and recedes yet again that you realise it’s his doing too. There is a furrow in his brows, thick and arched now creased in concern for you and had you not nearly died, you would have marvelled at the sea of cerulean that his eyes are.
Clearing your throat, you move to lean back, getting tired of him poking your forehead and making it sting more, “I’m fine.”
The hand on your back, unbeknownst to you, had sneaked up at some point and it’s the tug that brings you two close again and helps register its presence. The nape of your neck feels hot and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the accident or the warmth of his hand.
Or a noticeable blush.
You quickly squash that particular thought, throwing the remains in the furthest reaches of your mind.
“You’re bleeding.” His response is slow, almost condescending. As though you are stupid for thinking anything otherwise, and you bristle. Shrugging off his hold, this time with more force, you say, “I am fine.”
The effort of leaning back is a little too quick for your still recuperating body and your vision swims, your knees nearly slipping from under you until an arm snakes around your waist, holding you up.
The man sighs and his warm breath tickles the hollow of your neck, making you shiver. “Don’t be stubborn and sit still for a minute.”
You still bristle but having learned your lesson, you stay put and let him assess you. As much as it hurts your pride to have a man, a gorgeous one, treat you like an idiot, you are in no position to be harbouring any arrogance after the quite literal stunt you have pulled.
“Look at me,” he commands. Squashing the petulant urge to argue, you do, feeling slightly bashful at the blue of frozen ocean that stares back at you. Thin, warm fingers grip your chin, turning your face side to side as he inspects you and a vain and idiotic part of you curses internally for forgetting to apply anything on your lips. They are horribly chapped from the poor self-care routine (or lack thereof) finals month had forced them into.
You take the time to inspect him back too. The beginning wisps of jealousy simmer in the pit of your stomach at how full and pink his are. A small tiny mole sits sunk under the deep of his skin on the top left edge of his upper lip and for some inane reason, you decide to focus on it instead of his nose or eyes or forehead like any other average person would.
You don’t know if it’s seconds or minutes later that he finally shifts away from you, breaking your silent staring contest with his lips, moving to stand. His one hand still grips your forearm, maybe not trusting you to topple over and off the road into the under bushes like a pinball knocked over by the slightest breeze.
“Can you stand?”
Blinking, you look up, seeing an outline of his silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun and nod at how broad his shoulders are. Nice.
“Can you?” he repeats, and there is a hint of impatience in his voice this time.
“I don’t know; you’re the one who asked me to sit still.” You know you are being snarky while he is just being helpful in his own jackass way, but it’s still embarrassing and you don’t want to move, talk or do anything more to make your present any more real than it already is. Maybe if you continue to sit still, the sun will rise again and you can have a do-over. Pretend none of today happened and get back home with your still ratty but in one-piece car.
He doesn’t respond to your sarcasm verbally, just tilts his head and somehow, that makes you feel even more stupid.
“Stand then.”
You can’t help the distinct feeling of resemblance to that of a dog as you follow his command, bound by your own previous words and stand on shaky legs. The ends of your feet sting like a million pins and needles are being pierced through them and you stumble right back into his arms.
“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He breathes against the shell of your ear and the warmth travels from your neck, flushing your cheeks—it’s entirely too cold for how warm your face feels.
You hum, nodding to indicate you have heard him, not trusting your voice to pitch and give you away.
“Hold on to me.”
Wordlessly gripping his denim-clad forearms, you follow him to the parked car beside yours. Observing the damage to its front, it doesn’t take long to add two & two and you feel a little guilty for being snarky to the man you ultimately crashed into.
“Are you hurt?” This time it’s you asking the question you would have asked much earlier had you realised who he actually was.
You feel the movement of his head and know that he’s looking at you, but don’t turn your gaze to catch his. Partly out of guilt, partway because you realise the pull his eyes have and you don’t want to be seen gazing again.
“I am fine.” He says and you nod, accepting his answer.
Opening the passenger side door of his dark SUV, he gently pushes you forward, “Sit and face this side. You are bleeding. Wait here while I get the first aid kit.”
With another nod, you climb in, sitting sideways and pulling your feet closer to ward off some of the cold the open door was letting in. You could hear your gorgeous self-appointed nurse rummaging through the trunk and you take the time to rest your head against the head support, finally breathing a sigh of relief. The realisation that this very well could have been a fatal crash for you is starting to sink in slowly and you clench your fists, wrapping your arms protectively against your middle as the sharp of your nails dig into your skin, the pain almost cathartic, a pulsing, bleeding reminder of how alive you are.
If he had been a second later on the breaks, maybe if you were an inch off more, you wouldn’t be sitting here in a stranger’s car, and perhaps you would never be able to see your mom and listen to her berate you again for getting into yet another mess. It’s morbid and disturbing, but you are glad your mother won’t have to bury you on Christmas eve.
Coming back around, the man passes you a bottle of what you are guessing is water, “Drink.”
“Thank you,” the soft mumble could have easily been lost in the screeching winds, but nonetheless, you extend your hand to grab the offered vessel, fingers brushing the ends of his. Uncapping, you take a gulp, and two and three until you are properly chugging the water down, glad for the way it cools your dry, scratchy throat. The abating flight or fight response having left you parched.
“Easy, you don’t want to choke right now.”
“I am studying to be a doctor,” you don’t know why you say that. You know what you sound like out loud, and you won’t blame the man for thinking you are a bitch, but you can’t help the way defensiveness cloaks you like a too tight jacket and makes you lash out lest you seem vulnerable—guilty.
“And you’re a patient right now, so play nice.” There’s a smirk dancing at the seams of his lips. Contrary to your belief and guilt of him finding you troublesome, he is amused. The shadows of the setting sun caressed his skin and brought out his features. You still haven’t been able to look at him without focusing on one focal point of his face and with every passing minute, you are discovering something new about the way he looks and you wonder if it's just purely flesh and bones or if the way he acts is influencing your view.
Rolling your eyes, you keep the facade of indifference clutched close to your heart. Unwilling to slip and let this handsome stranger in, that you had apparently almost killed, to see you at your weakest.
“Alright then doc, go ahead,” you say and the smirk teasing the edges stretches into a tiny grin.
Stepping close, he grips your chin again and you note it’s gentler this time. Wetting a swab of cotton in an antiseptic, he swipes it over your wounds, methodical, small circular movements from the inside out before discarding the cotton and starting afresh with another swab. His hands are sure, the method more precise than most people who aren’t trained to give people first-aid would know, and you wonder if he is a health professional. Your earlier admission swims to the forefront and you beg anyone up there who is listening to you for it to not be true. You won’t be able to live through that embarrassment.
He blows on your skin, the exhale soft and leaving a barely there whisper of a touch but it’s still enough to make you want to jerk back—which you would have succeeded had he not been holding onto your chin again.
“Tsk,” he is looking at you, annoyed again, and you reign in the urge to kick him in the shin.
Instead of apologising, you stay still and let him finish. He is surprisingly, unbelievably gentle with you and you struggle to figure out why. Maybe he is just scared of accidentally hurting you worse?
“This might hurt so let me know if its too much,”
“Okay,”
He is quick but meticulous as he applies some disinfectant cream that you can’t read the label of with the growing shadows, but by now, you have grown a sense of respect for the man, albeit grudgingly and trust him to not screw it up.
Coughing into your fist to clear your throat, you finally introduce yourself. The water helped soothe the dryness and your voice no longer feels like a nail against the chalkboard to your ears.
It’s a bit too late for introductions, but you two haven’t met in the most normal of circumstances, so you let yourself off the hook. If he is surprised by your willingness to be civil for maybe the first time since your ill-fated encounter, he doesn’t show it.
You catch his gaze and to none of your wonder, it pins you right where you sit, twin pools of ocean under a night sky, blue speckled with the richest of green, as he replies, “Max.”
i wrote this whole thing in one sitting and my hands fkn hurt. its also 8 flipping am goddamn u max verstappen and ur stupid cute face
should I continue this?✿ tag list: open
