Mv33 And 24

mv33 and 24

why'd you only call me when you're high?

feat. max verstappen

lyrics preview you get high, call max, spend the night with him: that’s what you both agreed to—nothing more. unless...

maddie reader is the toxic one in this??? what happened to sweet old yn???

1435 words

The violent screen light cut through the darkness of the street when you unlocked your phone, the numbers 03:08 burning bright behind your eyelids as you squinted at them like they’d personally offended you.

You knew it was late. Or early, depending on the point of view.

But you also knew it wouldn’t take him long to reply, so you searched for his contact and started the call with no regrets whatsoever.

It rang once, twice–

“Schat?”

Just as you thought.

“Hi Maxie,” you giggled, the slurred nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “I missed you.”

You left the words hanging heavy in the air, waiting for him to take the bait like a lioness ambushing her prey.

He sighed, and you could almost picture him running a hand over his face, tired—not because of the ungodly hour, but because of you.

You and your little game of cat and mouse, a game he knew he couldn’t win, but he just kept playing regardless because he enjoyed losing to you way too much.

“You’re high.”

It wasn’t a question. Why ask if he knew perfectly well you only called him when you were?

“A little,” you shrugged like it was no big deal, tripping over your own feet a second later. “I’m coming over.”

Again, not a question. You didn’t need his permission: that’s not how things worked between the two of you.

“I don’t think–”

“You don’t have to, baby,” you cut him off sweetly. “Just leave the door open for me, ’kay?”

He did. Of course he did.

When you finally stumbled in the hallway in front of his apartment, floor and ceiling dancing furiously before your eyes, all you had to do was push, and the handle immediately gave in under your dead weight.

You kicked off your heels in the entrance like you owned the place, walking straight up to the living room with a lot more confidence than someone who looked like she’d just went to hell and back should’ve had.

Max was there, pacing the room like a caged animal—loose pants low on his hips, no shirt.

Perfect.

He stopped in his tracks as soon as he heard the velvety pad of your thigh highs skimming across the pavement, turning around just in time for you to throw your arms around his neck and pull him down into a kiss so intense it made your head spin even more.

The warmth of his lips against yours was intoxicating—a different kind of drug from the one that clouded your senses and helped you get rid of your thoughts one puff of smoke after the other. It was grounding, the only thing that anchored you to this world when everything else kept slipping from your grasp.

Only this time—he did, too.

The loss of contact was so brutal that you almost toppled forward when he moved back, your mouth desperately chasing his as if you needed it to breathe.

“Max, come on,” you whined, hands already making their way back to his chest, “don’t be difficult. I want you.” You didn’t care about how pathetic that might sound because it was also embarrassingly true.

“No.”

He didn’t touch you, putting some distance between you instead, but that single word left a stinging sensation so vivid on your skin that you could’ve sworn he’d hit you.

“No?” You laughed in disbelief. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means we’re not doing anything tonight.”

“Yeah, sure,” you scoffed, sneering, though you could feel the weight of something ugly slowly starting to settle in your chest.

“I’m serious. You’re too high for this.”

There it was.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that was a problem the last fifty times I was,” you raised your voice, the weed in your system dangerously amplifying your growing anger.

“It was a problem,” he groaned, “I just–”

“What, you developed a conscience overnight? You don’t want to fuck me anymore because I’m stoned and you suddenly feel sorry for me?”

He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying—and failing—to get rid of a piercing headache.

You didn’t like that.

“Can you not… talk like this?”

The condescending tone of his question sounded awfully close to the one someone would use to deal with a spoiled child.

You didn’t like that either.

“Please, I thought you were used to people treating you like shit,” you rolled your eyes at him, swaying a dismissive hand in his direction.

He caught it.

“You’re the one treating yourself like shit, and I need you to stop it.”

“Gee, Max, what’s gotten into you?” you forced out a laugh as you averted your gaze, the intensity of his far more unsettling than the lustful, almost predatory look you were used to. “You’re acting like you’re in love with me or something.”

It was supposed to be a joke.

It was supposed to be funny.

Max Verstappen caring about someone like you?

Hilarious.

So why didn’t he laugh?

Why was he staring at you like–

“No,” you spit out the way he had a few minutes before, reading in his eyes what his mouth had been too slow to tell you.

“Yes.”

Three letters. That’s all it took for the house of cards you’d built around yourself to crumble.

“You don’t love me, Max.” Your tone was firm, pitiful even, as if you hoped that hearing you say those words out loud would help him realize just how absurd they sounded.

Or at least trick him into thinking they did.

“Yes, I d–”

“That’s bullshit. You love feeling needed, you love all the attention I give you and how easy I am for you, you love having me in your bed every night—you don’t love me.”

“No, this is what you convinced yourself to believe. And you want to know why? Because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared, Max, I’m pissed. We agreed to no strings attached sex, and now you’re busting out a fucking love confession like it wasn’t the first thing I told you I didn’t need.”

Your voice cracked toward the end of the sentence, and you hated yourself for it.

But what you hated even more was how you couldn’t stop the tears already clouding your vision to start streaming down your cheeks, the dam behind your eyelids suddenly breaking.

You wanted to wipe them away, remove all evidence of their existence, but Max’s fingers were still wrapped tightly around one of your wrists—or was it your throat?

“Let me go,” you said, voice stern but shaky as you tugged back your hand.

“Why? So you can run away and keep pretending like this means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t! God, Max, what’s so hard to understand? It doesn’t mean anything to me!” You emphasized the word by hitting him square in the chest with your free palm, part trying to push him away, part just because you wanted to hurt him.

“This,” you added, showing off the half smoked joint you still had in the pocket of your hoodie, “is what your love is made of. The version of me that wants you doesn’t exist—it’s all in here,” you laughed, bitter and cruel, throwing it at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t yell. Just raised the hand he wasn’t holding you with and moved a lock of hair out of your face.

Your reaction was immediate.

“Don’t touch me,” you jumped, slapping his fingers away like they’d burned you.

Which was weird because you’d gone all the way there and begged him to do just that.

“You ruined everything,” you sobbed, your fist landing against his bare skin over and over again as he pulled you even closer—too close. “It was so simple, and you fucked it all up.”

You cried, fought, screamed, your curses muffled in the crook of his neck as you blamed him for something he couldn’t control.

And he let you.

He held you through every second of it, his arms caging you in like you were both a frail creature to protect and a wild animal to lock up.

“I hate you,” you breathed out at last, completely drained from the drug, your outburst—him.

Max didn’t say anything at first, and for one insane, wishful moment you thought he would finally give up.

But then he whispered, “You don’t hate me, schat. You hate not being able to love yourself the way I do.”

And that broke you a little more.

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