As the sun rises over the Mediterranean Sea, you find yourself running across the streets of Monaco at full speed, like a mad girl, your ponytail swaying behind you like a pendulum, sprinting as fast as you are able all the way from the bus stop to the iconic doorway stairs to Monaco's most prestigious, exclusive, and expensive Yacht Club.
To your fucking luck, you are running late because you didn't hear the many alarms set on your phone.
Not because you are acting lazy; these past weeks have been brutal, and your body is exhausted from work, college, and tests.
As you quickly climb the marble steps, you pray you don't slip and break your nose against them. Cleaning it will be a nightmare, and you already have many chores to do that day.
The staff access is all the way down the next street, but you only have about 2 minutes left to check in on time. Either you use this shortcut or get another notice, so you risk it!
For obvious reasons, the staff isn't supposed to use the member's and guests' main entrance; the one that leads to the glamorous and iconic lobby with the front desk and stunning bar that is featured in many Architectural Digest issues due to his architectural heritage and art deco layout, but fuck it.
You would rather get a reprimand from your boss, the Members Services & Events Department director, than a salary fine. You are already biting your nails to meet this month's end.
As soon as you reach the large double gold-framed doors, you feel the fresh air of the AC hitting your pores with a sweet scent of jasmine.
You want to make the most discreet and casual way in, trying to blend and go unnoticed between the people there and their soft hums of conversations, but Lord! Fate hates you.
As soon as you push the doors open, you feel your keys flying out of your blue short's tiny pocket.
You don't know who to blame the most: the designers who insist on putting those stupid, almost fake pockets on women's clothes, the massive ball of keys your manager insists you carry around at work due to the old-timey tradition of the place, or you for running relentlessly.
The sound the keys make when they hit the pristine and immaculate stone floor makes you want to die; it sounds like a torpedo hitting the ground.
All the people inside there, the ones chatting on the trendy and expensive lounge pearl white sofas, the ones getting down the swirl stairs from the terrace under that beautiful chandelier and massive skylight, the people enjoying their morning by the gold leaf bar drinking their welcoming Italian soda and the expertly crafted canapés along with the hot man standing at the front desk next to your boss turn their heads following the sound, all looking straight at you now as you stand still there in the middle of the room.
The hot man has short brown hair, dark eyes, and a well-built, athletic body that could easily be spotted from a mile away. He exudes power and sexiness, and you can't help but take him in.
"Good morning" is all you come up to say, trying to keep your composure. Fuckity fuck!
The tall man bends his body and reaches down to pick up your rusted keys, which slid near his feet.
"Good morning, kid," he greets you as he enjoys the view of an embarrassed, sweaty, and out-of-breath you, with your hair loosened up from running under the sea breeze and wind in those tiny ass blue shorts and white polo that the Club makes you wear as a uniform, with a very amused smile on his face.
Toto's voice is smooth and captivating, sending shivers down your spine as you listen to him. Your heart races and your cheeks flush with a mix of excitement and nervousness.
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Chemtrails Over the Yacht Club Collection | Toto Wolff x reader | F1
FanfictionSummary: Toto Wolff is a name often mentioned at the Yacht Club, where you work after classes. For some reason, you have always pictured him as an old crank like the usual members, not this foxy man who arrives at the reception making your knees qui...
