pairings — heian era!sukuna x fem concubine!reader
➤ drabbles where sukuna lets you, his most loyal and trusted concubine, get away with anything. (also spoiling you in the process) his attraction for you compared to other concubines has the estate questioning your status. mentions of sex!!
Sukuna would grumble when anyone got too close to him or touched something that was his. Yet, there you sat, plucking grapes off a fruit tray that was brought to him. You both rested on the layered mats behind the curtained platform adorned with traditional designs.
"You do know that the fruit on this tray is not yours, yes?" He glared at you from the corner of his eye. You looked up at him, and simply continued to chew the grape.
You swallowed. "My apologies. It is impolite to speak with your mouth full. Unfortunately for you, I will not be speaking much. These grapes are delectable." You hummed, popping another grape into your mouth.
"You are insufferable." Sukuna huffed. "I did not summon you to my chambers for you to eat." You looked back up at him again, and your defiant yet satisfied face made his cross his arms with faux annoyance.
Sukuna would always make sure you were dressed in the finest silks there were to offer. Not only for your daily visits, but for every endeavor. in his estate. It became hard for you to keep up with your clothing, especially the ones that weren't damaged. With your nightly visits, he would become eager. The layered silks did not help his impatience, and you would find an occasional tear in difference places.
"Sukuna," You held up your damaged silk garment. "it's damaged, again."
"And it will be taken care of again." He matched your attitude.
"That was one of my favorite garments." Your eyebrows furrowed. "Could you stop tearing my clothes? It is becoming irritating."
"I find your change of opinion humorous." He lowly hummed. "I remember you being irritated, but for a different reason."
"What ever do you mean?"
"I believe you were telling me to tear it. You wanted to feel my hands carress your plush, hot—"
"I do not need a retelling." You quickly interrupted him, feeling warmth crawl up your neck and elevated heart rate. "Have it fixed, please."
"It will be, beloved."
Sukuna always called you to his chambers. It became so frequent to the point where you wouldn't see your own quarters for weeks, much to your enjoyment. He excelled in bed, and treated you with reverence while you both were not tangled under sheets. When you did go back to your quarters, the other concubines had questions. 'Why haven't I been called?' or 'What is going on?'
You could only respond with a shrug, trying to mask the pleased look on your face.
"just how many of these shipping edits are going to have this sound?" 𓆩♡𓆪
streamer! satoru was strategic. sure, he has a massively huge crush on you, streamer! yn (he still hasn't asked you out despite the amount of times it is painfully obvious that he's really into you... like he's literally turned red on stream because you hugged him in that one get-together with sukuna and then with suguru's stream). but he figured, why not make some bag out of this and stream himself viewing the edits fans have made of him on twitter and tiktok.
he would've asked you to join, but you unfortunately couldn’t due to the fact that you had another collab with another streamer ... nanaken. in actuality, you haven’t really been talking as often due to busy schedules, and satoru sees no point in you talking to him considering the fact that he hasn’t asked you out yet.
but nanami? that was one of streamer! satoru's homeboys, so he didn't really care... until chat noticed stuff.
"haha, you guys really enjoy fucking with me, huh?" satoru was on the nth edit of you and him, making sarcastic comments on how chat really wanted him to be with you (and in his subconscious, he was hoping you'd see this stream and agree and maybe hopefully you two would start dating...) but then he took a look at chat once someone sent a donation.
zeninheir67 sent a $5 donation: u fucking cuck why is ur girl with another streamer rn
"you... she's with one of my friends, nanami right now... mods, silence him. but lets see what my bffs are doing right now since you guys are talking so much shit."
for fun, satoru began to tune into nanaken's stream... and when satoru began looking at the rest of the chat, he felt his heart go to his ass.
marlborosoverparliaments: they look a tad bit close lol
notfvsh1gur0: this feels wrong
yuji2tuff: watch the twitter tl spam other type of edits
makithedestroyer: ur lowk a cuck for this LMAO
there you were, with nanami, so close. nanami's streams didn't really consist of much apart from the occasional sarcastic commentary of internet drama that his viewers sent and the fact that he’s a conventionally attractive guy who crochets on stream while chatting and reacting to shit, and also does asmr (specifically the fan favorite: performative male manipulative ex-boyfriends begs you to come back) .
right…. he’s conventionally attractive…..
“okay… you guys are honestly doing too much. they’re literally just—'" — “what do you think about the shipping edits? huh?”
satoru shut up real quick when he heard what nanami read in his chat. he was currently tapping on a hard-cover book he was reading while you were knitting close to a mic for asmr affects when he read the comment out in amusement.
“i think that’s directed at you, y/n,” — “hm? the edits? of me and toru?”
shit, strike 1.
you smiled, stopping your knitting as you looked around sheepishly. “yeah! i have! they’re cute! i’m sure he thinks they’re cute too. you guys are funny.”
strike 2…
nanami looked over at you, a ghost of a smile creeping. “well, i was going to invite your little boyfriend to join but it looks like he had other plans…”
“oh yeah! but next time we should all collab! i think he’d really like that! i can bring my blind bag things and do asmr with them with you guys!”
strike 3… did you really just hard launch him and he hasn’t even confessed his feelings towards you?! and nanamin supports it? what a fucking g…
tojilifts: this guy stopped functioning wtf
zeninheir67: ew imagine folding for a FOID
makithedestroyer: /zeninheir67 kys
cursedsuguru: you guys are so cute it disgusts me
“hard launch i guess…”
it felt a tad lackluster—maybe because satoru hasn’t yet understood not processed the weight of your words. satoru or streamer! satoru. so he just stared at the chat sending in troll messages about how he’s so whipped.
until he got a text message.
n/n <3: hey! i said something a bit controversial on a stream with nanami and i wanted to apologize if it made you uncomfortable
no… it didn’t. it actually made him excited.
n/n <3: i hope we can possibly talk later alone. at my place after im done with my stream and you are with yours? really wanna talk with you rn !
satoru: sure! i’m down. see you then :)
and so, the usually nonchalant streamer! satoru, burst into a fit of giddy laughter and smiled at his chat.
“its a great evening. i’ll do whatever gets the most votes this stream.”
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okay so if i’m gonna do a part 4 i legit dk what to do it on dhdjsjdjsjsjjsjsjjs
“streamer! satoru x streamer! yn collab!! please !!" 𓆩♡𓆪
"chat, what the hell are you talking about? rottenyn?" satoru murmured, reading what his chat was sending him as he was streaming his screen, playing penguin heist on steam. he was asking his chat of around 20k viewers to potentially give him ideas on what to play next. rivals? valorant? even league maybe.
streamer! satoru a.k.a. sixeyesatoru was currently the top streamer on kick and twitch, and of course, he hung around his posse of streamer friends like nanaken and cursedsuguru to name a few. he wasn't aware of some "rando" like rottenyn? who the hell was that?
"chat said search her up." suguru snickered, leaning over to hit his vape to which he got smacked in the arm by streamer! satoru—the twitch partner. "chat also said she's been talking about you. ouuuu satoru. i've heard of her, she's chill."
streamer! satoru had his fair share of internet flings and crushes (obviously, it was a joke in his community regarding his type being h/c hair and e/c eyes), but he didn't know what to expect when he searched you up on twitter and instagram.
and no wonder why his chat was going insane with spamming your user... you were exactly his dream girl.
streamer! yn, who streamed herself doing popmart unboxings, occasional commentary on internet stuff and gameplay of the same games he did. she was a rising streamer who had gotten viral on tiktok and instagram. streamer! yn who was exactly his type and was on twitter, clipped saying that streamer! satoru was exactly her type.
"ijbol satoru just malfunctioned. chat shut up." he ended up following her on insta, tiktok, and twitter after the stream and got followed back minutes later—much to the amusement of his fans and yours too.
streamer! satoru, who's been secretly stalking your socials and talking about you to suguru and kento. how you're totally his type and is so talented in valorant and how you're so cool.
"didn't you think she was a rando when chat told you about her?"
"shut up suguru."
streamer! satoru, who got invited to one of streamer!sukuna's multi-streamer collabs and didn't expect for streamer! yn to be there, talking to suguru on one of the couches.
"hey satoru, we were just talking about you!" suguru smiled, standing up and leaving both of you alone. he turned to you, anxiously. you shot him a smile and you looked so cute and you smelled so nice and—was that the sweatshirt you were talking about in a stream of yours?
"i really like your streams! you actually inspired me to start streaming and i'm really happy i'm getting to talk to you!"
streamer! satoru basically internally combusted. he felt as if he would explode right now. "o-oh wow! i'm honored..."
"wanna collab sometime?" - "wanna go out sometime?"
you both blinked at each other, with your face burning and his twisting into a look of horror, all the while, the other streamers like ryokuna, nanaken, and tojilifts were just observing the unfortunately awkward situation you two were in.
"sure!"
"i am so sorry!"
the both of you could only hope that your blushing and awkward face didn't get clipped for the timeline later... but of course it did.
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i wanna write more streamer gojo like actually even tho i don't really watch streamers (except vanilla bc its vanilla and i have the fattest crush on her) but yayayaya.
If Yuji was asked to describe his girlfriend? There was only one way ⸻ pink, glittery, vanilla scented, pretty.
But don't be fooled. Most men would want a way out. Yuji does not. In fact, if he could be anywhere in the world, he'd choose to be with you.
He is exactly where he wants to be.
"Yuji?" You're sprawled on his bed, watching as he games. It's some dumb fighting game he'd insisted on buying.
"Hm?" He doesn't glance up from the console.
"Do you know where my lipgloss is?"
He immediately abandons his game, clocking into his boyfriend duties. "Which one?"
"The clear gliterry one." You reply, watching as he searches the wrinkles in his duvet, under his pillows, the floor, his desk.
"Have you checked your bag?" He asks as he peers under the bed.
You glance towards your little pink handbag. "No." You frown. Reaching for the bag, you rummage around a bit. "Found it! Thank you, Yuji. You're the best."
He beams at the praise. "Of course, baby." He tosses himself down beside you, watching as you apply the lipgloss.
As the designated taste-tester, once you've coated your soft, juicy lips in shimmering gloss, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours.
You make a small whiney sound in the back of your throat. When he pulls back, your lips are pushed out into a pout.
He licks his lips. Vanilla flavoured. "10/10, baby." He says trying to go in for another taste.
"Stoppp," You giggle, pushing him back. The sound makes him smile.
He is absolutely, undeniably obsessed with you.
"Fine." He relents with a dramatic, mock sigh, rolling over theatrically.
"C'mere." You whine.
The second he rolls to face you, you're on top of him, your thighs on either side of his torso. His hands instinctively find your hips to hold you there. You take his face gently, holding his chin with one hand, as you lean closer, applying the shimmering gloss to his lips. Your breath mingles with his. Yuji stays perfectly still until you're done, then his tongue darts out to lick his glittery lips.
"Yuji!" You huff as he laps up the gloss off his lips. He grins up at you unapologetically.
Having your hair obscure your vision in swathes is one thing ordinarily – quite another when you’re busy, with hands full and indisposed. Working half blind can be a pain (and half), but thankfully, a certain someone can perhaps be persuaded to search your pockets for a hair-tie. (Yes, even the back.)
⤷ mdni; this work is — suggestive !! ˎˊ˗
genshin x gn!reader — xiao, arlecchino, kinich, varka, flins
☘ — reader has hair long enough to be tied up ( + put up w a hairpin in xiao's section), reader is a ratnik in flins’ section, xiao’s drabble is more fluffy than anything ueue (i love our boy TT), xiao / varka and reader are already together, use of petnames in varka’s section, reader in arlecchino's section is a healer in the HoH but is not an orphan + is implied v slightly to be afab.
Xiao – 1k
Cooking is hard.
Xiao knows this – and he knows you know it too. After all, being mortal, you’re far better acquainted with the unending labour of preparing something to feed yourself. He doesn’t feel it anymore, but he still remembers those few early weeks of surprise when you two had first gotten closer – three warm meals a day, and then some. Mortals eat so much. They eat, and they work to afford it, then rest to work again.
It’s no matter, however – he is used to it now. The familiar sound of your cutting board hitting the counter, the clang of a pot he’s never seen you put away in a cupboard (it either sits in the sink or dries on the rack). The way you halt, right before you wash your hands to start cooking, and tie up your hair.
And perhaps Xiao indulges a little – just a teensy bit. Surely it isn’t so terrible a thing to glance at his lover, yes? (The word warms his belly. He ignores it.) Surely it’s alright to look at the flex of your arm, the slope of your neck, the little arch that connects it to your jaw.
Except… he can’t see it today. Xiao blinks.
You’re standing by the counter, wrestling with a large and rather sticky wad of dough. He watches your face scrunch up in irritation, and tips his head fondly when you hiss something under your breath – a whispered curse that he hears perfectly well – oblivious to your audience until Xiao speaks.
“Why have you not tied your hair up today?”
You blink up as he pads soundlessly over, and his chest prickles with warmth at the way a smile instantly makes its way on your face. He doesn’t need to get any closer to see the way your pupils dilate in affection, and he rues that you know this, too, or he could have used it as an excuse to lean closer. (And then perhaps you would have stolen a kiss, or two, or three – but it’s no matter.)
“I was so eager to make this…” you gesture vaguely at the mess by means of explanation and he hums – “that I forgot. I do have my hair-tie on me though. It’s right in my pocket!” You smile. “Mind tying my hair up for me?”
He’s unused to denying you these days – and so he says of course before it even occurs to him to say no.
You turn blithely away and toward the counter, warring once again with your dough. Xiao hangs behind you, wondering if he should first warn you before he sticks his hands in – and if he should even do this at all. He’s about to back away when you toss your head up to let the hair fall away from your face before resuming battle. Might as well. What if you turn to chop something next and cut yourself? Besides, what does a beast care for things like ‘indecency?’ You’re rubbing off on him.
And so shakes his head and slides his hands into your pockets without further preamble. You jolt against him, just the teeniest bit, and he bites his tongue.
You bite yours too.
How could you not? His fingers are gentle, and probing, but what truly makes your breath hitch is the unavoidable drag of his nails against your thighs that reminds you a little of still less indecent times. He’s wrapped around you like this, all warmth and concentration, and you hope he doesn’t find the hair tie soon.
Celestia grants your wish. Some moments later, he takes a step back, hands leaving your pockets. One of his nails snags on the lip and the fabric snaps softly in place. And then his hands are in your pockets again – warm and clawed and probing, and maybe a little more thorough than they need to be. You hope he can’t feel the thrum of your heart through your ass of all places.
You don’t know if Celestia grants this favour, but soon his hands are gone, leaving only lingering warmth.
“It is not here,” he tells you. There’s a beat of silence, as you say nothing in return in your frazzled state. Then, Xiao continues, perhaps mistaking your shyness for disappointment – “no matter. Wait a moment.”
It really is just a moment.
There’s a soft flurry of anemo as he vanishes. You punch your dough weakly, just to get the feelings out, and Xiao appears to the sound of a resounding wet slap.
“Hm?”
“Just the dough.”
“I see.” Xiao steps behind you again, presumably hair tie in hand, and you return to your dough, both relieved and a bit annoyed his hands aren’t on you anymore. You punch it. It grabs your fist, and you click your tongue angrily as you try to fend it off.
You’re so busy in battle you miss when it happens – but soon enough, your hair is rolled into a bun and, much to your surprise, you feel cool metal slide against your scalp before it warms swiftly up. Xiao lets go of your hair then, and hefts up his polearm.
“I must set off now,” he says, and you turn towards him as you tell him to take care. You feel like he doesn’t quite hear you, though – he eyes you intently with an absent nod. You think his eyes soften a little with fondness, before he turns around, and puts on his mask too for good measure.
“Keep it,” he says. You can’t quite tell if his voice is gentler, or if it’s muffled by the mask. “It suits you well.” He’s gone before you can ask what does.
It’s only later, once you’ve set your dough to rise, and cleaned the kitchen, and overboiled some eggs when you remember to check. You reach up and feel it – an ornamental hairpin, smooth and divinely luxurious, made far lighter than it ought by way of enchantment. A gift.
Arlecchino – 810
"Your... pocket, you say?" Arlecchino's eyes linger on your expression, then lower, lower, till they reach the curve of your butt. Or – perhaps not. That would be preposterous, wouldn’t it? Surely the Knave herself wouldn’t peer at you like that. Not the way you peer at her. "That's quite the predicament, isn't it?"
If you had a sliver of shame, you would perhaps have considered sounding less petulant. At the moment, however, it is trumped by something much like impudence. "Yes – and I can't seem to remember which. Could you help me find it really quickly? My arms hurt, and there's nowhere to put this."
Arlecchino tilts her head. The rest of her is spider-still. Although you’ve been assigned here at the House of the Hearth as a healer for quite some time now, it is difficult to become used to the shadows that linger in the corners, the windows that seem unwilling to let light in or out. The looming hallway behind her serves only to make the Knave seem taller, more imposing – and the effect is decidedly not lost on you. You swallow, drawing your legs closer together. Sometimes, being in her presence feels akin to being shielded by all the world. Her rare smiles and knowing eyes…
Although, sometimes, it feels as though all the world could not shield you from her.
When she speaks, you let out a breath. Softly, so as to hear her clearly. Her voice is low and smooth as spidersilk, and you get the feeling she enjoys it when you lean a little forward to listen. “You know I have a meeting, yes? A rather important one?”
You swallow again, fingers flexing round the edges of the box. They dig into your skin, and it hurts.
“Yes,” you say, sounding a little less blithe and a little more apologetic. “I’m so sorry… but if I set these down now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to lift them up again.”
"I see."
You shift your weight, hefting the medical supplies further up in your arms. The glass vials clack against one another, and one falls onto a pile of gauze with a soft thump. An edge of the box digs into your collarbone, and you adjust it again. "Yes." You grunt.
You hear the clack of a heel against the cool marble then, and another, and another, until the Knave is right behind you, casting a long shadow in the morning sun. The hallways of the House of the Hearth are not carpeted, after all. Messes on fabric are more difficult to clean.
"If you drop these," Arlecchino murmurs, trailing a hand over your hip and into your left front pocket, "you'll have to scrub the floor on your knees."
Oh dear. You feel a trickle of sweat trail down your neck as she presses her long nails into your thigh. "Ri – right."
"Mhm." She stands still again for what is likely a single moment, yet feels like several. The box grows heavier in your arms as her fingers shift and feel about.
Then, she takes her hand out.
And oh, it is like escaping a spider's web. You press your legs further together as she sidles up closer and slips her hand into the pocket on the right. Out of a blaze and straight into another. You hope she cannot hear the beating of your heart.
She probes around for longer than she should.
"Oh dear," she murmurs, the words more endearment than a dismayed interjection. Right into your ear. You bite back a shiver. "Your pockets are quite deep, and my nails, too long. Allow me a moment.”
Your breath hitches. Your voice is quieter than you expect when you say – "take your time."
In your periphery, you see Arlecchino smile. Just a little.
"I thought your arms hurt?"
Your eyes widen. "I – um."
"Father?" Lyney's voice carries across the hall, accompanied by quick strides, and you let out a shaky breath as she turns, a hand on your hip bracing you against her. Before he can turn around the bend and see you, however, Arlecchino speaks.
"Lyney. No need to come closer." His footsteps come to a sharp halt, and you silently thank every god there is. "Is the Monsieur here?"
"Yes, Father."
"Tell him I shall be there momentarily. And you," she adds, in a quieter voice. "Hold still."
There is the sound of a clip, the feel of her fingers raking quickly through your hair, and suddenly it is tied neatly up again. You blink in confusion and turn around.
"There," Arlecchino says, tossing swathes of loose hair over her shoulder. It tumbles across her back in a smooth, even sheet, glinting in the sunlight that the windows suddenly allow. Your heart feels as though it will burst. "Let us… search for your hair-tie another time.”
Kinich – 880
“Of COURSE you went and broke your–”
“Shut up for once, Ajaw,” you hiss. Numbness and agony dance about your elbow still, several minutes after your arm has been wrapped up by a healer. For some godforsaken reason, Kinich has vanished to heavens know where, leaving behind… this guy.
For just a moment, he’s uncharacteristically quiet. This is because, for a moment, you were uncharacteristically rude. Ordinarily you take care to be kind to Ajaw – his fall from grace as a dragonlord has left him with many bruised feelings, you’re sure – but today you are sorely lacking in patience.
A thudding sting jolts up your arm and you hiss, trying not to clutch at the cast.
Ajaw floats sullenly about. You see him glance at you once, twice, then again in poorly hidden concern, and bite back a smile despite yourself.
He’s really cute sometimes.
“I’m okay,” you finally reassure. “It just hurts.”
Ajaw swells pompously up. “HAH! You wish I cared –”
“Shush,” Kinich says, knocking him aside. You reach instinctively up to catch him, and flinch when you realise you can’t.
“Ow. What took you so long?”
“Don’t move, then.” Kinich sighs. “I got you some food. Eat and take your pain meds. I’ll get you home after, then head over to talk to the client.”
“You’d better ask that sodden rag to compensate us!” Ajaw seethes, floating back in a yellow-green flash. “One of our party got hurt! Ours!”
“So much for not caring.” Kinich tsks. Then, turning to you and unwrapping the food – “here. Need me to feed you?”
You shake your head. How embarrassing. You’re in view of every Scion there is. “I’ve got it.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, and you smile as you take the wrap from him and bite down. It’s just to your tastes – as you expected. Kinich is quiet and doesn’t argue, but sometimes you can’t help but wish he would. It would have been nice if he’d fed you.
You absently shake your head at the thought, strands of hair swaying this way and that. Ajaw seems to misunderstand.
“Oi, Kinich!” he rasps. “Idiot! If one hand’s full and the other’s swaddled like an infant, how are they supposed to get their hair outta their face?”
You laugh. Sometimes he really is cute. “It’s okay, Ajaw. I have a hair tie in… one of my pockets.”
Kinich doesn’t face you as he checks his supplies. “Oh?”
You hum. “Mind searching for it and tying my hair up?”
He looks now, blinking in surprise. A packet slips loosely out of his hands and right into the bag. Surveying your several pockets full of supplies, he cocks his head and asks – “uh, you sure?”
“Yeah, sure.” You chew blithely. “Whas the problem?”
“The – sure. Get up.” You stand. “Great. Ajaw, why don’t you check their pockets – since they’re your favourite mortal.”
Ajaw reddens and vanishes.
You blink and swallow. “What’s the big idea?”
Kinich steps over his bags towards you, and slides his hands into the pockets on either side of your thigh. You hear a hush fall over the people nearest to you.
You can’t really see them though, what with Kinich so… close. Close enough for you to have to jerk your food away and hold it aloft over his shoulder – a dizzying mistake, because he only shifts closer. You see every detail in his lovely eyes for a moment that feels longer than it is, before you blink and turn away, face warming.
“You’re right.” He shrugs, and slips his hands into your back pockets. Your torso is alight where it brushes his. “Not a problem. I found it. Turn around.”
You hurry to obey, and stumble. He hooks his chin over your shoulder. “Don’t wanna turn? Whatever you say,” he breathes. You see a man usher his children away from you and pray Kinich cannot hear the unsteady ba-dump ba-dump of your frenzied heart.
Kinich ties your hair. It is difficult in your awkward position, with the way his arms are uncomfortably angled – but he does it, slowly and carefully, fixated on your hair as you dodge the gaze of every person that walks past. You see the medic from earlier walk out for a break and do a double take. She blinks, then winks, and you scowl at her, futilely hoping she does not notice your embarrassment.
And suddenly, it’s done. Kinich steps away, slipping his hands into his own pockets. You resent it, then resent yourself, then croak out a weak thank you before shoving the food into your mouth again.
If Kinich’s face is more flushed than usual, you do not notice. Or you blame it on the sun. Something like that. And yet, somehow still, he has the gall to be cheeky.
“Remember to pay me back for that,” he says, bending over to zip his bag up. You stare at his ass and try not to ask – how? By groping you in return?
Kinich slings his things over his shoulder and braces them in one hand. He holds the other out for you as you swallow the last of your meal.
Man, you can’t resist. “How?” you say. “Do I grope you back?”
Kinich drops his hand. “I– no. Be more careful out there next time.”
Varka – 540
“Your pocket? Just a sec, I'll go wash my hands and –” Varka stops, then blinks. You tap a foot impatiently.
“Yes, where else? Help me out! I'm so sweaty already.”
“Mhm, I can see that.” He grins. “Those pants sure are clinging to ya.”
You hope he doesn’t notice the embarrassment that softens your glare. You’re unsure of whether to be pleased or irate, which is why you decide to instead be both. “Are you going to help me out, or not?”
Varka’s grins widens.
And you’d think it cute – you really would – if it weren’t so hot and humid already, and if your hands weren’t full of new plants for the flowerbed (bright new varieties from Sumeru and Fontaine, to celebrate his return to Mondstadt for good), and if they weren’t covered in dirt that clung to you like… well, dirt.
Or perhaps, you allow, he still is cute. Just a bit. Dressed in warm pastels, covered till the knees and elbows in muck, a streak of dirt reaching across his neck and cheek like a wannabe scar. You can’t help the smile that unfurls on your face like the flowers in your hands, then – and especially not when he’s so obviously noticed your little trick, and is deliberately playing right into your hands.
Heavens, you love him.
“Say please?”
Perhaps not. You scoff. “Chivalry really is dead.”
Varka laughs then, hearty and warm. You try not to think of how much you’d missed hearing it. “Lemme wash my hands. One sec.”
He doesn't leave you waiting long.
You're standing by the flowerbeds, sectioning them in your mind as he jogs over, shirt bouncing this way and that as he flicks water off of his giant hands. There's a bit of foam caught on his elbow, and you giggle to yourself in lieu of a laugh as you turn away from him, imagining him hurriedly rinsing the soap off, just so he can come stick his probing fingers in your pockets. Your sweet pervert. He amuses you so, and you love him, you do. But you’re not going to relent just yet, for the sake of your little game. And so when you speak, your voice is testy, albeit sodden with affection still.
“You're late, Varka.”
When he speaks, his meekness is as faux as your annoyance. “Sorry, my darling.”
Ah, never mind. There's no biting back a laugh this time. You chortle, and he plops his chin atop your head. You smile, relenting. Whatever, who cares about the game? You’re home, and your Varka is home, and that’s all that matters.
“You're lucky you're cute,” you tell him.
“Really now,” he says, and you can hear his grin as he rummages about in your front pocket with excruciating slowness. You lean back against his chest, uncaring of the dirt and mud and sweat. “If you're hoping the praise might make me speed up… well, you know I'm no good at looking for things.”
“Really?” You ask, and he hums, fingers swiping over your thighs.
“Really. I might be searching for a while.”
You sigh. “Just don't take all day.”
“Day? I might even take all night. Just let me check your breast pocket real quick.”
Flins – 810
“Do you recall where you put it?”
You flick your wrists, trying to get the dead monster goop off of your hands. It clings spitefully on. Man, they bug you even in death. “Yes,” you say. Then – “wait. No.” You pause. “I already used my spare up. Man, fuck those guys.” You flip the smouldering corpses off, and the man gives a soft, throaty laugh as he strides over, stepping over them as he does. And more than ever, you wish you remembered his name.
You wish you'd listened more carefully when he was first introduced to you, months ago, although not a part of your usual squad. Whenever you'd met him after, you'd addressed him as comrade or sir. To your friends, he was ‘that handsome guy with the cheese wheel eyes,’ for heaven’s sake.
“Is it still possible to have one on you?” He asks, oblivious to your struggles. Although, sometimes, you suspect he teases you on purpose. Not hearing when you call him the first few times, asking you to relay messages across headquarters… you shake the memories off to focus on what he says. “So many coats and layers… hopefully, there is something we can use, however rudimentary.”
You doubt it. You just washed this uniform, and you know you remembered to empty it out beforehand, so there’s likely nothing left inside, be it your wallet or a hair-tie – but wait.
The handsome Ratnik’s eyes twinkle. You blink back at him, hoping you appear the very picture of innocence. Would it be so terrible to say yes?
After all, you’re alone with a handsome man, and it's time to clock out, and you're so tired, and well. Well. It isn’t as though you've also been pining for this particular man for some time now, and it isn’t as though you hissed a happy little yes to yourself when you saw you’d been assigned here with him (you’d hurriedly apologised for this outburst of joy – after all, the reason you were here was to cover for an injured duo). And if he's the one offering to go digging through your clothes for an item that doesn't exist…
“Hopefully,” you hear yourself echo. Too late to back out now, you tell yourself. “Could you check?”
Your comrade blinks. “Your pockets?”
“Yes, my…” you trail off, face warming. What were you thinking? “Never mi–”
“Of course,” comes his smooth voice, as though from far, far away. You blink in astonishment, and you swear he smiles a little more. Suddenly, you finally process – you are alone somewhere around the Eye of Kratti, and there is a handsome stranger that’s going to stick his hands into your butt pocket. Pockets, actually. Plural. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all, but you have no time to object – in the next second, he says, “hold still.”
And just like that, there is a pair of gloved hands gliding smoothly into your empty pockets. He's careful to not touch you too much – and yet he’s quite thorough, although he’s gentlemanly enough to keep his eyes firmly down the whole time. Or at least, you think it a gallant gesture until he's right behind you. You wonder what he looks at, then try to not think too much of it.
After some minutes, he gives his verdict.
“There is nothing,” he says, “but it is no matter. I just happened to recall something. Do stay still for a moment.”
“Sure,” you say, sounding meeker than you wished to.
You hear his clothes rustle momentarily, and wonder what he's doing, in some alarm. Thankfully, you do not have to wonder long – soon, you feel his fingers snake through your hair, catch on soft tangles and knots that he then carefully undoes. You stand still for what feels like several minutes, heart racing, not knowing what to do with your hands. His fingers are much gentler and defter than you thought they would be. Your face warms again.
Far later and somehow sooner than you expect, or perhaps wish, he gathers up your hair. There is the sound of fabric tying and tightening, and soon, Flins steps away, standing before you instead. He smiles.
“Unsurprisingly, you wear it well.”
You don’t ask what – not until you're home – assuming it to be a bandana or a bandage of some sort. You couldn’t bear to stick around, not when you were dishevelled and shaking, flustered and covered in dead monster goop. It's only once you've undressed and stepped into your bathroom that you see it in the mirror – a delicately embellished satin handkerchief, all elegant whites and lavenders and cool blues.
You scrub your hands thoroughly before you allow yourself to gingerly take it off.
As you're admiring it, you notice something embroidered carefully along one side of a dainty lavender border. Your heart skips a beat.
Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.
𑣲⋆ tysm for reading !! please take care of yourselves esp w the weather and the way things have been recently besides !! ilu <33
𑣲⋆ rbs are vv appreciated since that's how things are circulated on tumblr (ㅅ´ ˘ `) but no pressure !! ♥︎
The color of Garrett’s eyes had always been something of a mystery to you, with their ever-changing shades of green and brown depending on the light. But in the moment, as they gazed up into yours, you thought they looked as dark as the surrounding night.
“—come on, say it,” he urged, almost breathless, his towering frame reclined in the plush leather front seat that was pushed all the way back, as far as it would go.
Track pants shoved down around his knees, he tilted his headful of dark curls back against the headrest so he could watch the soft motion of your tits, nipples teasing the tip of his nose with each grind of your hips.
Enough light was coming through the tinted windows to highlight each perfect curve and line of your semi-bare form—shirt and bra lost long ago to the vehicle’s interior, the material of your skirt bunched up in soft folds around your waist.
You gasped when his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into the flesh as he helped guide you up and down his cock, the chain around his neck glimmering in the reflected glow.
“Come on, I won’t tell anyone,” he teased with a smug grin so maddeningly handsome, you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be annoyed that he was playing with you—and he was.
That same old cat and mouse.
Grinning like a Cheshire, a few stray dark curls fell into his sweat-glistened forehead as you brushed them away with a tenderness that belied your hesitance to give him what he wanted.
You weren’t going to say it.
Ignoring his plea, you started to ride him faster, greedily chasing your own pleasure in a bid to finish before him, letting out a few soft whimpers for good measure because you knew it would drive him to the brink of reason.
Garrett liked it when you talked dirty.
“Mmm, your cock feels so good,” you purred. “You’re making me so wet.”
Thick thighs flexing beneath you, he grunted under his breath as he started to thrust up into you harder, gritting his teeth, strong jaw ticking with determination as he ground his hips into the seat.
Sticking out his tongue to tease one of your nipples, he bent to suck it into his mouth, flicking and swirling over the firm bud, causing you to gasp at the pleasurable sensation.
“Garrett—” you whined. “You’re gonna make me cum.”
Bracing a palm on the cool glass of the window for balance, your fingertips left trails in the steam that hid the two of you away in your own secret world, safe from the eyes of passersby.
“Fuck—baby” he whimpered, the soft sound muffled against your skin.
Garrett may have seemed invincible to his opponents on the ice, but with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, he was always reduced to a begging, writhing mess as soon as he started to come undone.
Only you had that power over him.
When you’d first met Garrett through a mutual friend, there’d been an instant attraction between you that was undeniable. Electric. An irresistible pull that couldn’t be ignored.
But after weeks of flirtation and dancing around the inevitable, you had decided to stay friends to avoid any complications. Neither of you had time for a relationship.
Of course, you could still have fun.
It hadn’t been your intention to end your evening tangled up with him in his jeep, but when he’d offered you a lift home from Malone’s, you had eagerly accepted. Since neither of you were drinking and you needed to get up early for work the next morning, it had made perfect sense to leave with your friend.
To anyone else, a ride home would have seemed a simple, chivalrous proposal. But lately when it came to you and Garrett, very little between you was innocent.
As he’d navigated the quiet streets en route to your place, you’d stolen more than one yearning glance at his handsome profile, backlit by the glow of the passing streetlights. When he’d silently reached over to let a hand rest on your thigh at a stoplight, that had been your point of no return.
Before you knew it, he was pulling off onto a dead-end street to park in some deserted lot, and you were tearing off each other’s clothing with a need so frantic that you hadn’t even bothered to retreat to the back seat.
“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, kiss swollen lips parted in breathless need. “Say it, baby. Please, I’m so close.”
You smiled, coy yet sweet. “What? That I’m yours? Is that what you want to hear?”
With a growl that rumbled through his chest, he searched out your lips to capture them in a heated kiss before throwing his head back against the headrest, breathless. “Yeah, that’s it. Say you’re mine.”
You braced your hands on his muscular shoulders as you rocked against him, relishing in the friction created by the trimmed hair at his base as it rubbed against your clit with each roll of your hips.
The last few times you’d hooked up it had been the same game, him teasing you to try and make you say you were his. You imagined it was just a silly power play on his part, a way to prove he still had the upper hand in your situation. And even though you always ended up going along with it bed, nothing ever changed in real life. You were never going to admit you actually wanted him in that way.
Even though you did.
Throwing your head back as your pleasure started to mount, you let out a soft moan of his name. In response, he brought a hand down between your bodies to gently massage your clit with his fingertips while running the tip of his tongue along the column of your throat, tasting the sweat off your skin. “That’s it. Cum for me.”
He groaned when he felt you clench tighter around his cock as the steady strum of his fingers brought to your peak.
“C’mon, give it to me,” he mumbled against your skin, a plea that your body was helpless but to obey. You gripped him tight, nails digging into his flesh as the pleasure washed over you in waves.
“Holy shit—” he cursed as he came moments later, pumping his release inside you with a sigh of relief as you continued to ride out your high, bouncing in his lap.
“Oh god—I love you.” You crashed your lips against his in a frenzy of overwhelming bliss. But a few seconds later, you pulled back abruptly as the shock of what you’d said finally registered in your still fuzzy post-orgasm brain.
“Yeah?” Garrett’s eyes flicked up to yours. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear you say. Those words weren’t a part of your game, or at least they hadn’t been up to that point.
Your heaving, sweat-glistened chest pressed against his as you stayed perched in his lap, taking a moment to catch your breath. Your heart was racing but not only from the physical exertion.
What the hell had you just done?
Garrett reached up to cup your chin and smoothed the skin of your cheek with his thumb as he guided you to tilt your head down to meet his lips with your own.
As he kissed you, he ran a hand down over your back to squeeze the swell of your ass, but the warmth of his touch was no match for the chill that traveled down your spine as the last words you’d uttered continued to echo in the otherwise silent jeep.
I love you.
I love you?
Fuck.
You pulled back and brought a hand up to your mouth, as if the action could somehow push the errant words back inside where they belonged.
“I…I don’t know why I said that,” you struggled to explain. “I felt so good—it just came out.”
You moved to get off his lap to get dressed, but Garrett held you in place. His grip on you was firm and unyielding but his eyes were gentle as they met your fretful gaze.
“It’s this stupid game,” you said, eyes brimming with hot tears of embarrassment. “Making me say I’m yours—”
“Hey, stop. Look at me.” He rubbed a hand along the outside of your thigh in an attempt at a comforting gesture, then glanced up at you with a guarded expression. “Did you mean it?”
When you met his eyes, they were vulnerable and soft, still as beautiful as ever in the near dark. In that moment you knew that you loved him, and whether or not he loved you back didn’t change a thing.
You considered your words for a moment before speaking, biting your lip, then finally deciding to be brave. There was no point in lying anymore, not now that you’d already blurted out the truth.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I guess I did mean it. But it’s ok, I know you don’t do relationships or feel the same way. We’re just friends who have fun together sometimes and that’s fine—”
“Hey,” he cut you off, smiling as he shook his head. “If you’d stop talking for a second, I’d tell you that I love you, too.”
“You do?” You stared at him in wide-eyed surprise, brows raised in disbelief. But before you could say anything else he leaned in for a kiss.
And not just a regular kiss—it felt like he was pouring all of his affection into each slow press of his lips. Letting you know without a doubt that you were his.
“Why do you think I’ve been asking you to say you were mine?” he asked, pulling back to smile at you in a way that almost seemed uncharacteristically shy. “I was kind of hoping you’d get the hint.”
And with that all of your resistance finally melted away, because you knew from that point forward there would be no more cat and mouse. No more games.
—well, except for the good kind, where you’d both win in the end.
…but that’s a whole other story ;)
thank you for reading!! as always i appreciate your reblogs and comments so much 🤍🫶 xoxo
Romantic tiger shark yuuji courting with tiny little treasures from the deepest depths of the sea just to present to you on his big clawed hands, smiling so cute with the prettiest blush on his cheeks and his eyes sparkling with adoration and a nervous look of pure love AGHHHHGGGGHGGHHH😭
✩꒱ pearlescent ft. yuuji itadori .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ fluff ⋆ mdni ⋆ tiger shark merman!yuuji itadori and marine biologist & fem!reader. strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, crushes, yuuji is 17ft, monster…loving, monster x human, implied language barrier ꒰ you swap gifts with your merman friend who lives in the sea, but his carries a more romantic meaning. ꒱
tiger shark yuuji waits for you to come and visit him by the pier every single day at sunset it’s how you get to talk to him without putting him in any danger and at risk.
when he surfaces there’s a brilliant splash of water that carefully rains down on your skin as if the ocean has taken to greeting you with small kisses. yuuji leans over the edge of the wooden pier with bright, boba eyes intrigued by your small human hands that tremble with excitement whenever you see him. you often do a ‘cultural exchange’ … you bring him something from the human world and he brings you something from the sea. each time more intricate and more thoughtful because he really has grown fond of his little land creature with two pretty legs.
“yuuji,” you say, smile bleeding into your cheeks like the water sunset does into the sky. your fingers hold up something that wobbles in the wind but looks like a moment of time stilled. “this is a picture! i took it with this,” you gesture to the camera hanging from your neck. “it captures memories, so we can keep them forever.”
his head tilts, pink hair dripping with water that lands cool on your thighs as the merman leans over you. “pic-chure?” he blinks up at you to check if he’s said it right.
“yes, picture!” a giggle bubbles through you, warm like the sand between your toes — drifting into the salty sea breeze. “they’re um… printed onto paper… but i laminated it so it doesn’t get wet. i’ll explain lamination to you later… it’s kind of bad for the environment but sooo useful—!”
“—who are they?” yuuji asks abruptly. not to be rude, but to be curious. his clawed pointer finger signals to the pic-chure once again.
the ink has carefully crafted faces of people you love most — who’s everlasting support for your dreams landed you a position here, who’s hearts you miss every single day and think of when night crawls over land.
“my friends from back home,” you say wistful, longing. it’s painted on the face blurred by the blush of the pinky-orange sky. he knows that feeling very well, it beats through his chest when he looks at you. “i won’t get to see them for a while.”
“just … human friends or human lovers?”
you squeak, nearly tipping forward into the waves. yuuji’s large hands are gentle on your hips — steadying you in your seat on the edge of the pier. “just friends! i’ve never… i’m not so lucky with love.”
the merman lets his voice fall into the quiet depths of silence as he ponders. only for a second, enough to let his heart decided what comes next with the turn of the tides. “i’ll be back.” he says in a tone not stern but one that keeps you rooted to your spot — and with a swish of his striped tiger shark tail, he disappears into aquamarine and frothy peaks.
just for a second. leaving you with the gulls and the rush of waves for company. you wonder why your pulse races and why your skin feels warm to the touch for reasons other than the sun.
“back.” when yuuji returns, another magnificent splash — you nearly jump into the water once again. his damp hands settle you but your heart does not still, mimicking that of stormy weather that disturbs peaceful waters. his brown eyes melt in the evening sunlight, they unravel you just a bit because they are all too kind. soft in comparison to the hard line of his torso that must taste like salt and sea. your gaze follows droplets that run down his chest and merge where his v-line disappears to the sea.
“for you.” your eyes snap back up to where yuuji holds out a hand to you — the queen conch shell dwarfed in the palm of his hand. reminding you of how magnificent of a creature he is. your fingertips brush his claws as he passes it to you, two hearts stutter. “inside.”
acting on his guidance, you shake the shell and into your hand rolls a pink pearl. in the hands of the sun’s rays, an undulating pattern is revealed — resembling that of flames. the silky pattern of the milky pink pearl glistens for you under evening light.
you look up again, mystified to find yuuji watching you eagerly. you know what it is, how rare it is. a one in fifteen thousand chance of finding such a beautiful and natural pearl — and the merman has gifted it to you as though its rarity weighs nothing on his mind.
yuuji has bought you gifts before. shark teeth and whale bones, sea shells and and even sea jellies but nothing as grand a this.
“for me?” you whisper, surprise and gratitude cracking open in the fragile cage of your chest.
yuuji nods once, timid almost. “in our culture we gift pearls to people we care about,” he explains, his timbre voice a harmony with the sea’s ambience. “not to friends, to lovers.”
his words sink into your bones like stone in water, his current would drag you under if given the chance. lovers, not friends. there’s a million things you want to say to the merman, a million feelings you want to convey before your time together is up for today. for now, you clutch the pearl to your chest — the glitter of appreciation to your eyes almost pearlescent itself as you smile.
he mirrors you, tail swishing in relief.
“let’s take a picture together,” you breathe. “as lovers, not friends.”
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
SUMMARY A series of one-shots about your time in the Love Island Villa with Garrett.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, love island relationship dynamics, smut/suggestive content will be marked with a *, one-shot specific, one-shots are loosely in chronological order...
Now I got that feeling...
A New Bombshell Has Entered the Villa
Garrett’s first day in the Villa shakes up the current dynamics, leaving you confused, a little guilty, and marginally better at ping pong
America, Do You Hate Me?
Your and Garrett’s unhinged confessionals about each other
Breakfast Smoothies
You’re really bad at multi-tasking and Garrett's love language is acts of service and forced radical acceptance
Nosiest Couple in the Villa
You and Garrett love to gossip about the other Islanders (Garrett doesn’t actually care that much, but don’t save him, he’s exactly where he wants to be)
Challenge Mishap
A freak accident during a challenge may not be the worst thing in the world if it means you get all of Garrett’s attention
Casa Blues
The guys get sent to Casa Amor and now have to juggle getting to know the new girls with stopping Garrett from hurling himself into the ocean. Back at the Main Villa, you get into journaling
Casa Blues Part Two: Electric Boogaloo
Production finally releases Garrett from his Casa Amor shackles. The boys return from Casa Amor, but will the girls be standing alone when they return?
Movie Night
Amidst the drama of Movie Night, Garrett makes you cry for an entirely different reason
...you without me will break my heart
EXTRAS
love island!garrett asks
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
A New Bombshell Has Entered the Villa | Love Island!Garrett
SUMMARY Garrett’s first day in the Villa shakes up the current dynamics, leaving you confused, a little guilty, and marginally better at ping pong.
CONTENT love island au, fem reader, love island relationship dynamics, the new girl islanders introduced in this part are OCs, Joe is (allegedly) on the Briar Hawks hockey team idk I just needed someone to be the reader's OG partner lol, Joe kinda sucks in this (he gets worse later), I'm not super proud of this one but I wanted to get their intro out of the way, barely edited
A/N I just wanted to say thank you for all the love this has been getting (I think the very first part I wrote has hit like 1k notes which is crazy thank you so much). also, I know there have been people asking for a taglist, I don't know if I'll be making a taglist for this–I've heard some people have been having issues with their taglists being flagged as spam and I'm hoping to update this series somewhat consistently. if I do end up making a taglist, I will tag everyone who's asked, but I'm currently still figuring it out. all that aside, here is Garrett's first day in the Villa, parts of it will definitely be expanded on later but, for now, please enjoy!
love island masterlist
“I got a text!”
The sound of Hannah’s voice has you all rushing to meet her on the grassy lawn, Allie’s nails digging into your arm excitedly as you all swarm around Hannah.
She clears her throat, a soft blush painted over her cheeks at everyone’s attention, though clearly enjoying it nonetheless. She looks down at the text on her phone. “‘Islanders! Today, a new bombshell will be entering the villa—,”
Allie lets out a loud squeal. “YES!”
“— He has chosen to take Hannah on a one-on-one date. Prepare for heads to turn! #NewArrivals #VillaShakeUp’”
The Villa erupts into cheers, though you notice that Justin is a little more subdued. In the commotion, you lock eyes with Joe. His expression is unclear—he almost looks like he’s disappointed, which confuses you. Before you can pull him aside to chat, the girls start rushing you all to the dressing room to help Hannah get ready.
“This is so exciting!” Meg cheers.
Allie’s already started plugging in a hair straightener, curler, and crimping iron.
“So we have options,” she tells you when Hannah shoots her a look.
“I am not letting Hannah go on a date with a crimped bob,” Dionne’s muffled shout comes from where she’s rifling through the closet.
You shake your head with a laugh as Allie unplugs the crimper, reaching for Hannah’s makeup bag and moving to sit on the stool next to her. As you take out her primer, you watch Hannah quietly examine herself in the mirror.
“Are you excited for your date?”
Hannah meets your eye in the mirror with a soft sigh. “I think so?” She bites her lip hesitantly. “I don’t know. I know it’s only day 3, but I do like Justin, I just… I wish he would put a bit more effort in, I guess.”
You nod along, pumping some of Hannah’s primer onto your fingertips.
“Like, he’s not being disrespectful or anything. But I feel like I kinda have to initiate everything? Like he doesn’t really pull me for chats and I always have to be the one to keep the conversation going.” Hannah’s eyes flutter closed as you press the primer into her skin.
“Well, then, I think this date came at a perfect time for you,” Dionne assures her, pulling out an apricot colored halter top and skirt set with a questioning look.
Allie cocks her head at it thoughtfully, before shaking her head and Dionne puts it back in the closet and continues looking. “Exactly. Even if you end up not really clicking with the new bombshell, it’ll definitely be a wake-up call for Justin and show him that there’s a Villa full of guys waiting for him to fuck it up with you.”
“He did seem kinda nervous when you read the text out,” you offer, getting up to let Allie take your place to do the rest of Hannah’s makeup.
“Really?” Hannah asks hopefully.
Meg nods. “Yeah, I clocked that too. It’s definitely got him sweating a bit.”
“See?” Allie grins. “It’s already working. Now, let’s all manifest that this bombshell is crazy, fucking hot and makes all the guys sweat a bit.”
Dionne reemerges from the closet with a baby blue mini dress, which receives a squeal of approval from Meg, a proud nod from Allie, and two thumbs up from you. She lays the dress across the back of one of the chairs, before her eyes land on you with a knowing expression.
“Are you going to talk to Joe after this?”
Allie furrows her brows. “What’s going on with Joe?”
Suddenly all the girls’ attention is on you and you shift uncomfortably, grabbing a hairbrush to busy yourself with Hannah’s hair.
When you don’t immediately move to speak, Dionne passes you the now hot curling iron and speaks for you. “Maybe it’s nothing, but he was acting weird as fuck outside. And I know you noticed.”
Allie meets your eye with raised brows and you shrug noncommittally.
“Maybe he’s just worried about the new bombshell coming in?” Hannah offers.
“I don’t know…” You trail off, gathering a strand of Hannah’s hair to wrap around the barrel of the curling iron. “He didn’t really seem nervous. He looked more disappointed.”
You remove the curl of Hannah’s hair from the iron, holding it in your palm to set before letting the ringlet fall. “Things between us have been fine, I guess, but I keep waiting for this, like, spark with him and it’s just not there.”
Allie looks up from applying blush to Hannah’s cheeks. “Is there anyone else in the Villa you’re interested in?”
You shake your head. “Not really. But, I don’t know, I’m probably overthinking everything. It’s still such early days, I think Joe and I just need to spend more time together. I’ll try to talk to him more today.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Hannah reaches behind herself, waiting for you to place your hand in hers before giving it a comforting squeeze. “And, whatever happens, you’ll be okay.”
After that the conversation falls back into excited squeals and loudly hyping Hannah up before you’re all standing by the entrance to wave her off.
As you all cheer, you catch something small falter on Allie’s face. Almost as soon as you notice it, it’s gone, and she’s cupping her hands around her mouth, “Bye, have fun! Bring back someone hot!”
Once Hannah turns the corner and is fully out of sight, you turn to get Joe’s attention. You nudge your head in the direction of the sandy swing and he nods, following you. Dionne’s fingers brush yours as you pass and she gives you a supportive smile.
A somewhat uncomfortable silence falls over you and Joe as you make yourselves comfortable on the swing seat.
“Hey,” you say simply.
“Hey.”
It’s quiet for another moment and you clear your throat. “I just wanted—I mean, I just noticed something seemed weird with you after the bombshell announcement and I wanted to, like, just check in with you.”
Joe makes a face. “What seemed weird with me?”
“Well, I don’t—You just seemed disappointed?” You look down, running your nail along the cushioned seat. “The other girls noticed too.”
“You talked to the other girls about it?”
“Yeah, they—,”
Joe cuts you off. “Why are you bringing this up with the other girls?”
“Because I—Why are you getting mad about this?” You ask, Joe’s tone catching you off guard.
“I’m not getting mad,” Joe huffs. “I just don’t really appreciate you spreading my business to everyone.”
Your brows crumple in confusion. “Your business? What are you even—They noticed you were acting weird and asked if I was gonna talk to you about it. How is that me spreading your business?”
“Because you should have just come to me to talk about it,” Joe argues.
You throw your hands up in exasperation. “That’s literally what I’m doing right now!”
“Fine, whatever,” Joe crosses his arms dismissively. “Sorry I seemed weird or disappointed or whatever it is that you’re even mad about, but I think that you’ve made this a way bigger thing than it needed to be.”
He gets up before you can respond, brushing off his shorts. “And, in the future, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn't go tell everyone every little thing that happens between us.”
And then he’s walking away, leaving you there dumbfounded as you try to piece together how your simple attempt at communication escalated so quickly.
Hours later, you’re lounging on the daybeds—still trying to process what happened between you and Joe earlier that morning—when the sound of two footsteps catches your attention. Meg lets out a loud gasp, her ping pong paddle clattering against the ping pong table, and drags Tucker away from their game.
“They’re back!”
Though there’s obvious excitement at finally being able to meet the new Islander who’s been lingering in all your heads since the morning, your conversation with Joe left you feeling off and has distracted you enough that it takes you a bit longer than everyone else to get up and greet Hannah and the new bombshell.
Justin was the first to see them, having spent most of the morning looking up at every little sound and waiting for them to return. Upon seeing Hannah and the bombshell walking in with a respectful amount of space between them, his posture relaxes.
Unfortunately, you do the exact opposite.
The second your eyes land on the new bombshell, your breath catches in your throat and your lips part in shock. You were going to have to have a much more serious conversation with Allie about the powers of manifestation later because whatever it was that she asked to bring in a “crazy, fucking hot” bombshell had delivered.
He was hot in a way you didn’t think men could even be hot; tall and broad, with deep brown eyes you would happily drown in.
You try not to make your staring obvious, your immense attraction faltering when Hannah turns to smile at him brightly.
“Guys, this is Garrett.”
“Okay, spill, right now.”
Garrett had barely planted both feet on the Villa grass before Allie had called for an immediate girls debrief, leaving the boys to make proper introductions as you and the girls sat around the fire pit to hear the details of Hannah’s date.
Hannah bites her lip, before breaking out into a girly giggle. “I mean… You’ve seen him.”
The girls break out into shrieks and Allie hits Hannah’s shoulder excitedly.
“Yes, bitch!”
“Okay, slow down,” Hannah laughs, holding out her hands. “You’re acting like we had sex or something.”
“Did you?” Allie smirks.
“No. I mean, we kissed a little—,”
Another wave of shrieks erupts from the group, loud enough to get some looks from the guys on the other side of the Villa.
“—But that was the only thing we did.” Hannah stresses. “It was a nice date though. He’s definitely the type of guy I’d go for on the outside.”
Something in Hannah’s tone dips at the end of her sentence and you narrow your eyes slightly.
“But…”
Hannah looks up at you like you’ve scolded her, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about Justin,” she confesses, covering her face with her hands. “Like, I had a lot of fun on my date with Garrett and he didn’t do anything wrong, I just…”
“Wished you were on a date with Justin instead?” Dionne finishes for her.
Hannah gives a small nod. “Does that sound crazy? I mean, we’ve only known each other for three days.”
“Girl, if that makes you crazy then Justin is, like, psychotic,” you tease softly. “He was waiting for you to come back like a puppy with separation anxiety.”
The rest of the girls chime in with their own forms of agreement.
“I don’t think he spoke to any of us the whole morning. Tucker asked if he would spot him at the gym and Justin literally said ‘no’ because he wanted to be able to hear when you got back,” Meg tells her.
When Hannah looks at her in disbelief, Allie grins. “Genuinely babe, I don’t think you’re gonna have to worry about him not putting in effort anymore.”
Hannah opens her mouth to press for more information, but whatever question she asks gets lost in your ears as—very much against your will—your eyes drift to find Garrett.
He’s leaning against one of the kitchen counters, listening to an animated Tucker who is no doubt giving him a very thorough tour of where all the dishware and cutlery goes. You watch as his lips twitch with a faint smile when Tucker opens one of the drawers and lets out an offended gasp at the state of it, quickly forgetting Garrett as he starts to sort the forks and spoons to his liking.
Before you have time to look away, Garrett turns around, immediately locking eyes with you. Your eyes widen in mortification at being caught staring, but you can’t seem to look away. Garrett takes you in with muted interest, arms crossing lazily as his eyes slowly travel up and down your body. When he’s satisfied with looking at you, he meets your gaze again and cocks his head almost challengingly.
“Do you girls mind if I pull Hannah for a chat?”
Justin’s sudden arrival at the fire pit causes your head to snap back so fast, you almost get whiplash and you force your eyes to stay on him—and not on Garrett who, you can feel, is still watching you—as the girls shoo Hannah into his arms.
The evening comes quickly after that, everyone changing out of their swimwear and getting ready for the night, before mingling around the Villa. You haven’t seen Joe since the beginning of the night, when he and the guys were waiting for the girls at the bottom of the stairs and, even then, he only gave you a small hum in greeting before promptly disappearing. The two of you haven’t really spoken since the morning.
That uncomfortable, off feeling you’ve been feeling since the morning multiplies.
Still, you tried to ignore it, half-committing to a conversation with Allie and Sean that quickly devolved into you just watching as they started arguing about something unimportant. Like what is increasingly becoming common with the two, the argument ends with Sean taking Allie off somewhere to speak privately. You shoot Allie a sympathetic smile, before scanning the rest of the Villa.
The lawn is surprisingly empty—you’ve reached the point in the night where many of the couples have snuck off for some private time together (or as private as you can get in a villa full of cameras)—and that’s the excuse you’re using if anyone questions how quickly you were able to find Garrett standing by the ping pong table.
“You know, if you wanted to play ping pong, Tucker’s really good at it.”
Garrett turns around at the sound of your voice, though doesn’t really seem surprised that you’ve come to talk to him. “What about you?”
“Absolutely not,” you laugh.
Garrett’s eyes light up at your immediate refusal. “Well, now we have to play.” He holds a ping pong paddle out to you teasingly.
You shake your head, but it’s futile. “I’m telling you, we wouldn’t even be able to play. It would just be me chasing the ball the whole time.”
“That still sounds fun,” he nudges your hand with the paddle. “I’ll go easy on you.”
“How gracious,” you mutter sarcastically, but you take the ping pong paddle from him anyway.
Garrett moves to the other side of the table, grabbing a ping pong ball and his own paddle. You eye the ball warily as he bounces it on the table a couple times. When he moves to serve, you panic, blurting out the first thing you can think of.
“Where’s Hannah?”
Garrett freezes, and you can tell he knows exactly what you’re doing, but he indulges you anyway, letting his paddle arm drop.
“Don’t know. Justin grabbed her for some grand gesture. I didn’t really get the details.”
“Oh.” You state dumbly. “I’m sorry.”
Garrett frowns slightly. “Why?”
“I mean—Aren’t you interested in Hannah?”
“I am.” He nods in agreement. “But she’s not the only girl here I’m interested in.”
Before you can respond, he serves the ping pong ball. It bounces once on your side of the net and you awkwardly lunge for it, missing it entirely.
You watch as it bounces on the floor a couple times and rolls away. “That’s not fair.” You look up at Garrett accusingly. “We haven’t started yet.”
“We have, actually.” Garrett smirks. “I made the executive decision to start when you kept trying to distract me.”
You let out a noise of protest. “I was not trying to distract you, I was being friendly and getting to know you.”
“Oh, is that what that was?”
“Yeah. Sorry for being an active listener.”
Garrett nods in amusement. “You gonna get the ball then?”
“You can get it,” you say defiantly. “Since you decided to serve before we were actually playing.”
With a small chuckle, Garrett jogs over to where the ping pong ball had rolled to, picking it up with three fingers and walking back to the table.
He makes a show of getting ready to serve, winding his arm back with a slow flourish. “This is me starting, by the way.”
“Okay, now you’re just—,”
The ball whizzes past you.
When you look back at him, Garrett is biting back a laugh.
“You did that on purpose.” You turn around to stomp after the ball.
“Why don’t you serve first, then?” He offers.
When you get back to the table, you hesitate, looking between the paddle and the ball uneasily. Letting out a breath, you drop the ping pong ball on the table, letting it bounce once before swinging the paddle to hit it. You miss the ball entirely—underestimating how high it would bounce—and swinging into the air underneath it.
“Okay,” you try to laugh, but your face burns with embarrassment. “I’m done now, actually.”
You drop your paddle to the table, unable to look at Garrett through the humiliation. “Like I said, if you actually want to play against someone, you should ask Tucker.”
“Hey, wait a sec.” Garrett puts down his own paddle, walking over to stand in front of you before you can dramatically run away. “You were doing good.” When you look up at him flatly, he winces. “Well, okay, maybe not—Look, just give it one more try. You’re really close.”
Garrett grabs another ball from the ping pong table and holds it out to you. After a moment, you take it from him, letting out a sigh of defeat. You both move back to get into position and, when you glance at him nervously, Garrett gives you an encouraging nod.
Right before you’re about to let go of the ball, you pause. “This is me starting, by the way.”
You bounce the ball on the table, now having a much better sense of where it will be, and this time your paddle makes contact, hitting it lightly over the net. It bounces on Garrett’s side once and he easily sends it back. You watch the ball bounce, swing, and miss it again.
Before you can say anything, Garrett hands you another ping pong ball.
You take it begrudgingly. “We’re gonna run out of ping pong balls if you keep just using new ones.”
“Then I’ll go grab the other ones,” he says simply. “Now try again.”
It takes you three balls—and one more that Garrett had to grab from the grass—before you’re finally able to hit the ball back to him. You let out an actual gasp when you do that turns into a shocked, increasingly more excited, mutter of “Oh my god” every time you’re able to successfully send the ball back. Your ability to actually play a game of ping pong is largely aided by the fact that Garrett is intentionally aiming for where your paddle already is when he sends the ball back, but that does nothing to diminish your sense of victory.
You make it through about five passes before you get too eager and accidentally hit the ball hard enough that it goes flying past Garrett’s shoulder, but you don’t even care, instead turning to Garrett with a delighted squeal.
“Did you see that?! I did it!”
“You did,” Garrett smiles.
“Oh my god, Tucker’s not gonna—You have to be there when I tell him.” You stop mid-celebration, grabbing Garrett’s hand without thinking. “Because you genuinely don’t understand how bad I usually am at ping pong, he’s not gonna believe me. I need witnesses.”
In your excitement, you miss the way Garrett’s features soften as you swing his arm around happily. “I’ll be there.”
“I’m gonna go get all the balls, okay?” You drop his hand suddenly, rushing away and shouting over your shoulder as you start picking up all the ping pong balls that have scattered across the floor. “We’re doing that again!”
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
hii i adore your works! i was wondering if you’d do a rookie x singer!reader, where she’s american and writes “so american” about them. your choice on who i’m not super partial, maybe isack or ollie. maybe a bit of a smau, just wondering how’d he react :) 🩷🩷
So American - OB87
pairing: ollie bearman x fem!singer!reader
synopsis: a chronicle of Y/N and Ollie navigating right-side roads, chart-topping hits, and surviving the public realization that they are completely in lo-lo-lo-lo-love.
note: sorry for the delay!! hope you love it <3 thank you sooo much for your request 🗣
-
-
It was only their third official date, but it felt like they had known each other for years.
Y/N stepped out of the warm lobby of her London hotel into the crisp, biting air of the British evening. Ollie was waiting by a sleek, dark Aston Martin, leaning against the door with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was wearing a heavy grey hoodie that swallowed his broad shoulders, looking effortlessly good.
"You didn't bring a jacket," he observed, shaking his head as she approached wearing a thin leather jacket over a slip dress.
"It ruins the outfit," Y/N argued, shivering slightly as a gust of wind hit her.
Ollie just rolled his eyes, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pulled the oversized grey hoodie over his head, messing up his dark curls in the process, and handed it to her. "Put it on. I'm not having you catch a cold on my watch."
"I'm going to look ridiculous in this," Y/N muttered, pulling the warm fabric over her head. It smelled exactly like him—a mix of expensive cologne and clean laundry. It dropped down to her mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging well past her fingertips.
Ollie paused, his hand resting on the passenger side door handle, his eyes sweeping over her. "You look pretty wearing my clothes, actually," he said quietly, the sincerity in his voice making her stomach do a sudden flip.
He opened the door for her, and she slid into the passenger seat. When Ollie got in the other side and started the engine, Y/N immediately kicked her boots off and rested her socked feet gently against the edge of the dashboard.
Ollie glanced at her feet, then back up to her face, raising an eyebrow. "Make yourself at home, why don't you?"
"It's a long drive to this mystery restaurant of yours," Y/N teased. "I need to be comfortable."
He shifted the car into gear, his large hands gripping the steering wheel. Y/N watched his hands for a moment. They were strong and calloused from hours gripping a racing wheel at ridiculous speeds—hands that commanded terrifying machines, yet he had just used them to gently tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Hands that make Hell seem cold, she thought randomly, filing the lyric away in the back of her brain.
As they merged onto the motorway, Y/N flinched, her hand instinctively grabbing the handle above the door.
"What?" Ollie asked, glancing over in concern.
"Nothing, it's just..." Y/N let out a breath, relaxing her grip. "You're driving on the right side of the road. Well, the left side, technically. It just feels wrong. I keep thinking we're veering into oncoming traffic."
Ollie threw his head back and laughed, a bright, echoing sound that filled the car. "You Americans. You drive on the wrong side of the road, you refuse to use the metric system, and you get scared when someone actually drives properly."
"Hey!" Y/N swatted his arm playfully. "We won a revolution so we wouldn't have to listen to you guys tell us how to do things."
Ollie laughed harder, shaking his head. "God. You're so American."
"Is that an insult?"
"Not at all," Ollie said, his voice softening as he glanced at her, his dark eyes catching the passing streetlights. "It's just an observation. A highly entertaining one."
Y/N sank deeper into his hoodie, a massive, uncontainable smile spreading across her face. She pulled her phone out of her bag, opening her Notes app.
Drivin' on the right-side road... He says I'm pretty wearin' his clothes...
She typed quickly, the words pouring out effortlessly. She glanced over at him again, watching him laugh at a terrible joke she made about British cuisine. It wasn't fair, she thought, how quickly he was getting under her skin. She had only known him for a few months, but already, she was thinking about things she had no business thinking about.
Oh, God, I'm gonna marry him, if he keeps this shit up...
-
-
The adrenaline of the show had finally worn off, leaving Y/N pleasantly exhausted. The clock on the hotel nightstand read 2:14 AM.
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her suite, surrounded by crumpled pieces of hotel stationery and her acoustic guitar. She was supposed to be working on the bridge for a new track, but her brain was completely short-circuiting.
She picked up her phone and dialed her best friend and co-writer, Chloe, who was back in New York.
"Do you know what time it is?" Chloe groaned, her voice raspy with sleep.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Y/N whispered, glancing over her shoulder. "But I'm stuck. I can't write anything that doesn't sound completely unhinged."
"Let me guess," Chloe sighed, the sound of rustling sheets coming through the speaker. "You're writing about the British boy again."
"No!" Y/N defended weakly. "I mean... maybe. Chloe, it's bad. I went to an interview today and the host asked me about my creative process, and I somehow ended up talking about how Ollie has this weirdly vast knowledge of Roman history. I'm so boring. I'm so rude. Literally, I cannot have a conversation if it's not all about him."
Chloe laughed softly. "You've got it bad, Y/N. Just write that down. It's good material."
Y/N sighed, leaning her head against the edge of the mattress. She looked up.
Ollie was sprawled across her massive hotel bed. He had changed into a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a plain white tee that hugged his shoulders perfectly—the way you dress, she thought, her heart doing that annoying, familiar flip. A small bedside lamp was on, casting a warm golden glow across his face as he read. He had brought some thick, dense biography with him, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration.
Y/N watched him turn a page, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. She really loved her bed. She valued her sleep more than almost anything else on tour. But ever since Ollie had flown in, she found herself staying awake just to watch him breathe, to listen to the soft rustle of the pages he turned, to memorize the way his curls fell across his forehead. Man, it's hard to sleep when he's with me, she realized.
"Are you still there?" Chloe mumbled through the phone.
"Yeah," Y/N whispered, her eyes still fixed on Ollie. "I gotta go, Chlo. I think I have the second verse."
"Go get your man, Y/N," Chloe teased before hanging up.
The soft click of the phone ending the call made Ollie look up. He marked his page and set the heavy book on the nightstand, shifting his weight to prop himself up on one elbow. He looked down at her sitting on the floor, a soft, sleepy smile spreading across his face.
"What are you doing down there, love?" he asked, his accent thick with exhaustion. "It's freezing on the floor. Come to bed."
"Just writing," Y/N said softly, grabbing her pen and scribbling down the lines that had just hit her like a freight train.
God, I'm so boring, and I'm so rude... Can't have a conversation if it's not all about you... The way you dress, and the books you read... I really love my bed, but, man, it's hard to sleep when he's with me...
"Writing about what?" Ollie asked, reaching a hand down toward her.
Y/N looked at his outstretched hand. He's got hands that make Hell seem cold. She capped her pen, leaving the notebook on the floor, and took his hand. He pulled her up effortlessly, tugging her onto the mattress and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.
"Nothing," she lied, burying her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of him. "Just an apology."
"An apology?" Ollie murmured, his fingers gently tangling in her hair. "For what?"
Y/N closed her eyes, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. I apologize if it's a little too much, just a little too soon. But ain't it love? I think I'm in love.
"For being so American," she whispered playfully against his skin.
Ollie laughed, that deep, rumbling sound vibrating against her chest. He kissed the top of her head, holding her a little tighter. "Never apologize for that. I think I'm rather fond of it."
-
ynuser
liked by olliebearman and 12.9M users
ynuser I’d go anywhere he goes 🏎️❤️🇮🇹
olliebearman Good thing I travel a lot, then 😉
-
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The energy at Monza was entirely different from a concert. At her shows, the crowd was screaming for her. Here, the sheer, vibrating roar of the engines and the fanatic passion of the Tifosi were all directed at the track.
Y/N stood at the back of the Haas garage, the heavy headset resting on her ears to block out the deafening roar of the cars tearing down the main straight. She watched the monitors intently, holding her breath every time the number 87 flashed on the timing screens.
She used to hate flying. She used to dread the jet lag, the packing, the endless hotel rooms. But as Ollie pulled his car into the pit lane, perfectly hitting his marks, she realized she hadn't complained about a single flight in months. If he was racing in Italy, she was in Italy. If he was in Monaco, she was in Monaco.
The session ended, and the garage erupted into a flurry of organized chaos. Y/N stepped back, making sure to stay out of the mechanics' way as Ollie hopped out of the cockpit. He pulled his helmet and balaclava off, his hair a messy, sweaty halo of curls. The moment his eyes scanned the garage and found her, a tired but triumphant smile broke across his face.
Twenty minutes later, after debriefs and a quick change into his team polo, Ollie found her tucked away in his driver room at the back of the motorhome.
"Hey," he breathed, closing the door behind him and instantly cutting off the manic noise of the paddock.
"Hey yourself," Y/N smiled, standing up from the small sofa. "You were flying out there today."
Ollie didn't answer right away. He crossed the small room in two strides, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her flush against him. He buried his face in her neck, letting out a long, heavy exhale.
"I missed you," he mumbled against her skin.
"I was literally in the garage the whole time," Y/N laughed, her hands coming up to play with the curls at the nape of his neck.
"Still missed you." Ollie pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "Congratulations on number one, by the way. My phone has been blowing up all morning with people asking me if I'm the guy who laughs at all your jokes."
Y/N felt a familiar flush creep up her neck. "I apologize if it's a little too much," she murmured, quoting the bridge of the song with a sheepish smile. "Just a little too soon. My manager warned me it would cause a media storm."
"Y/N," Ollie said, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual teasing lilt. He reached up, cupping her cheek with a warm hand. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone. "Don't apologize. Not for this."
The air in the small room suddenly felt very thick. Y/N swallowed hard, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was the part of the song she had been most nervous about. The vulnerability of it. The confession.
But if the conversation ever were to come up...
"You wrote that you didn't want to assume," Ollie continued, his eyes locked onto hers, incredibly intense and completely sincere. "About... this stuff."
"I didn't," she breathed out, feeling very small under his gaze, but entirely safe. "I don't."
"You don't have to assume," he told her quietly, closing the remaining distance between them so their foreheads rested against each other. "You know exactly how I feel about you, yeah?"
"Tell me anyway," she whispered, a daring, hopeful smile tugging at her lips.
Ollie let out a soft breath that felt like a laugh, leaning in to brush his lips against hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It grounded her instantly, pushing away the noise of the global charts, the screaming fans outside, and the pressure of the paddock.
"I love you," he murmured against her mouth. "You're brilliant, and you're beautiful, and you're so wonderfully American, and I am entirely in love with you."
Y/N's breath hitched. A rush of pure, unadulterated joy flooded her chest, bright and warm. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a proper kiss, pouring every ounce of the lyrics she had written into the way she held him.
When they finally broke apart, Ollie was grinning, that cheeky, boyish spark back in his eyes.
"So," he teased, bumping his nose playfully against hers. "Since the song is number one now... does that mean we need to start looking at rings, or did you just write that part because it rhymed?"
"Oh, God," Y/N groaned, burying her face in his chest to hide her burning cheeks as Ollie's bright, echoing laughter filled the room. "I should have never let you listen to it."
"Too late now, love," Ollie chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "You promised. And a promise is a promise, especially on global radio."
-
-
ynuser
liked by olliebearman and 9.1M users
ynuser lo-lo-lo-lo-love.
-
The heavy doors of the venue finally closed behind them, muffling the chaotic shouts of the paparazzi and the blinding flashes of cameras.
Y/N let out a massive, breathless exhale as she sank into the plush leather seats of the black SUV waiting for them. She kicked off her devastatingly high heels, groaning in relief as her bare feet hit the floorboards.
Ollie slid in right after her, pulling the door shut and instantly closing the partition between them and the driver. The quiet intimacy of the car wrapped around them, a sharp contrast to the madness of the Los Angeles night outside.
"You're freezing," Ollie noted immediately, eyeing the goosebumps on her arms. Before she could even protest, he was shrugging off his tailored tuxedo jacket and draping it gently over her shoulders. The silk lining was still warm from his body, and it smelled distinctly of him—that familiar, grounding scent that instantly made her heart settle.
"I'm wearing your clothes again," Y/N smiled, pulling the lapels of the jacket closer to her chest.
"And you look prettier in them than I do," Ollie replied without missing a beat, a soft, tired smile on his face. "As always."
Y/N leaned her head back against the headrest, turning to look at him. He looked ridiculously handsome in his tux, his curls slightly messy from running his hands through them all night. He was looking at her with that same intense, adoring expression he had worn since they first stepped onto the red carpet hours ago.
"Stop looking at me like that," she whispered, a blush creeping up her neck despite the exhaustion.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a poem you wish you wrote," she teased, throwing his own words back at him.
Ollie laughed, shifting closer to her on the wide seat. He reached over, his warm, calloused fingers intertwining with hers. "You won a Grammy tonight, Y/N. For a song you wrote about me. I think I have the right to look at you however I want."
He glanced down at the golden gramophone resting safely in its box on the seat next to them. "I still can't quite believe it," he murmured. "Millions of people singing along, knowing exactly how obsessed you are with me."
Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, though she squeezed his hand tight. "Don't let it go to your head, Bearman. It was a moment of weakness. I was sleep-deprived and jet-lagged."
"Sure you were," he smirked, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles on the back of her hand. "So, you're taking back the part about marrying me, then?"
"I said if you keep this shit up," she reminded him, her eyes dancing with amusement. "It was conditional."
Ollie hummed thoughtfully, leaning in closer until his face was only inches from hers. "Right. Well, I carried your dress tonight. I clapped louder than anyone in that arena when you won. I gave you my jacket. I even held your lip gloss in my pocket." He paused, his dark eyes sparkling in the dim light of the streetlamps passing by outside. "I'd say I'm keeping it up pretty well."
Y/N let out a soft laugh, her heart swelling with so much affection it physically ached. "Okay. Stop it," she mumbled, though she was smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.
"Come on," Ollie whispered, his voice dropping to that low, raspy register that always made her breath hitch. He leaned his forehead against hers. "Admit it. You're completely gone for me."
"I am," she confessed softly, the humor fading into something deeply sincere and impossibly tender. "I really, really am."
Ollie smiled, capturing her lips in a sweet, lingering kiss that tasted like champagne and felt like coming home. When he pulled away, he pressed one last kiss to the tip of her nose.
"Good," he said softly. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
Y/N rested her head on his shoulder, pulling his tuxedo jacket a little tighter around herself as the car navigated the sprawling, right-side roads of the American city. She closed her eyes, a contented sigh escaping her lips.
everyone in the paddock knows kimi antonelli. very few know he has an older sister, and even fewer know that max verstappen has been hopelessly in love with her since the moment she asked him if he'd eaten.
warnings: fluff, smau
note: hello ♡ this was written for an absolutely lovely request by @ateliefloresdaprimavera i hope i did your idea justice! i took a few creative liberties to flesh the story out while keeping the heart of your request the same. enjoy!! - dean
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🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 14,565 others
yn.antonelli i raised him better than this!!!! @.kimi.antonelli
kimi.antonelli: delete this.
yn.antonelli: no ❤️
georgerussell: 😭😭😭😭
kimi.anotnelli: mate HELP ME
landonorris: kimi blink twice if you need help
yn.antonelli: he absolutely does not.
user1: WAIT KIMI HAS A SISTER!?
user2: HOLD ON
user3: new paddock sibling duo unlocked
max.verstappen: 😂
liked by author
The Mercedes hospitality is already buzzing by the time you arrive. Mechanics move between garages carrying equipment, journalists rehearse questions into voice recorders, camera shutters click every few seconds. You instinctively slow your pace, letting Kimi walk half a step ahead, because you'd learned years ago that being his sister meant allowing him to take the lead here. This was his world.
"You'll meet everyone eventually," Kimi says, adjusting the strap of his backpack.
"I don't have to."
"You do."
"I came to spend time with my little brother."
"You also came to see where I work."
"I've seen enough already."
"You've been here for... six minutes."
"Exactly."
He laughs.
"You'll like them."
"I work in an emergency department."
"So?"
"I've met every personality imaginable."
Kimi considers that.
"...fair."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 19,529 others
yn.antonelli apparently i survive outside the emergency department too
kimi.antonelli: debatable
kimi.antonelli: you do know i have pictures to show too -_-
yn.antonelli: do you dare?
georgerussell: welcome to the paddock!
yn.antonelli: thank you!
landonorris: guys, she is already threatening to make me drink water
yn.antonelli: because you need it
oscarpiastri: she has a point
yn.antonelli: @.landonorris listen to your boyfriend
max.verstappen: Hope you enjoy the weekend.
yn.antonelli: thank you! 😊
The paddock is quieter away from the garages, not silent, never silent. Just... calmer. The steady hum of conversations blends with distant engines and the occasional burst of laughter. You find the coffee station tucked into the corner of one of the hospitality units, perfect, until you realise someone else got there first.
Max Verstappen stands with one hand resting against the counter, waiting for the machine to finish pouring. He glances over as you approach.
"Hi."
"Hi."
For a second, neither of you moves. Then you point towards the coffee machine.
"Are you trying to blow the coffee machine up with your mind?"
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
"No."
"It looked like it."
"I think it's ignoring me."
"It does that."
"You've been here before?"
"My brother has worked here for months."
"Fair point."
He steps aside without another word, giving you enough room to reach the machine.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The machine lets out an unimpressed hiss before finally beginning to pour. You watch it for a moment.
"So..."
Max breaks the silence first.
"Emergency nurse?"
You glance at him.
"I've been exposed."
"Oscar mentioned it."
"I'll have to have a word."
"He seemed frightened."
"He should be."
That earns another smile, one that softens his entire face. You hadn't expected Max Verstappen to smile like that. It suits him.
The coffee finishes pouring. You reach for the paper cup just as he notices the faint pink line across the back of your hand.
"You cut yourself."
Looking down, you shrug.
"Paper."
"Paper?"
"I lost."
He lets out an amused breath.
"I didn't know that was possible."
"You've clearly never worked in a hospital."
"I haven't."
"You'd be amazed what stationery is capable of."
He chuckles quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, you notice the split skin across his right knuckles. Old enough not to be bleeding, but fresh enough to still look angry.
"What happened to your hand?"
His eyes follow yours.
"This?"
He flexes it once.
"Nothing."
You give him a look.
"The universal male diagnosis."
"It's fine."
"Mhm."
"It is."
You take a sip of your coffee before speaking again.
"I'll believe you when you clean it."
He looks at you, then at his hand, then back at you.
"It's only a scratch."
"So was mine."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything."
The words leave your mouth so casually that you don't think twice about them. Max does, because nobody has ever looked at him the way you just did - not as a world champion or a rival, just... as someone with a cut that should probably be cleaned before it gets infected. It's strangely refreshing.
"You always this bossy?"
You smile into your coffee.
"Occupational hazard."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You should."
Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice echoes across the paddock.
"There you are!"
Kimi. He stops beside you, looking between the two of you.
"Am I interrupting?"
You shake your head.
"I was just telling Max to clean his hand."
Kimi doesn't even hesitate.
"Oh, yeah. You should listen."
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You too?"
"I've been listening to her for nineteen years."
"And?"
"It's easier."
You grin triumphantly.
"See?"
Max looks between the two of you before letting out a quiet laugh.
"I don't think I've got much of a choice."
"No," you say warmly "You really don't."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1paddock
kimi antonelli's sister has been in the paddock for approximately three hours and she's already become everyone's older sister.
@.papayafiles
apparently yn told lando to drink water 😭
@.landonorris
i was HYDRATED.
@.oscarpiastri
you weren't.
@.f1tea
according to people in the paddock kimi's sister told max verstappen to clean a cut on his hand 😭
@.verstappenupdates
imagine being told off by max verstappen
❌️
imagine max verstappen being told off
✅️
@.formulafiles
not max smiling while talking to yn...
@.maxieschamp
can we PLEASE remember yn is literally kimi's sister and leave her alone 😭
@.gridgossip
no because why did max walk over to mercedes hospitality FOUR TIMES today
@.redbullracing
max: "i was looking for coffee."
@.f1fan247
oooh redbull admin is MESSY today
@.f1memes
coffee machine at mercedes after seeing max every twenty minutes:
"bro just admit you have a crush."
@.kimiupdates
kimi has absolutely no idea what's happening around him 😭
@.papayafiles
antonelli sister nation we're up.
@.gridgirlies
she has no clue twitter is shipping them and honestly let's keep it that way for now 😭🤍
By the time Max wanders back towards the Mercedes hospitality later that afternoon, he's managed to convince himself he's there for an entirely reasonable reason. The reason being... coffee... again. Never mind the fact that the paper cup in his hand is still half full. He steps inside just as you finish reorganising the contents of your tote bag.
"You know," you say without looking up, "I don't think anyone drinks as much coffee around here as you do."
Max glances down at his cup.
"...Probably not."
"You're proving my point."
"I like coffee."
"So do I."
You zip your bag shut before your eyes drift almost absentmindedly towards his right hand. You pause.
"Did you clean it?"
He looks down.
"The cut?"
"Mhm."
"I did."
You narrow your eyes.
"Can I see?"
For a split second, Max genuinely considers saying no, not because he minds, but because he suddenly becomes acutely aware that you want to hold his hand, which is an entirely ridiculous thing to think. You're a nurse. This is your job. Still...
He holds it out. You take it without hesitation. Your fingers are warm. You turn his hand over, studying the split skin across his knuckles with the same concentration he imagines you give every patient. For a moment, the noise of the paddock fades into the background.
"Hm."
That single syllable immediately worries him.
"What?"
"You cleaned it."
"I told you."
"You also put one tiny plaster over it."
"..."
"Which accomplished approximately nothing."
"I tried."
"I can tell."
You look up at him.
"It's a very... enthusiastic attempt."
"I feel judged."
"You are."
You release his hand for only a second before reaching into your tote. Max watches, mildly fascinated, as you produce what appears to be an entire miniature first-aid kit. Alcohol wipes, sterile gauze, bandages, medical tape, a tiny bottle of antiseptic. He blinks.
"You carry all of that around?"
You look at him as though he's asked why the sky is blue.
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"Right."
"What if someone gets hurt?"
Max raises an eyebrow.
"You're assuming people just... injure themselves around you?"
"They usually do."
"That's oddly concerning."
"It's usually men."
"I don't know whether to be offended."
"You shouldn't."
You tear open an antiseptic wipe.
"Give me your hand."
He does, again. Without thinking. You dab gently across the cut.
"This might sting."
"It already-"
The antiseptic touches the wound. He winces.
"Oh."
"There it is."
"I take it back."
You can't help smiling.
"You racing drivers are all the same."
"We are?"
"So dramatic."
"I wasn't dramatic."
"You flinched."
"It stung."
"It barely touched you."
"It absolutely did."
You laugh quietly, shaking your head before carefully pressing fresh gauze over the cut. Your movements are practised like you've done this a thousand times before. Maybe ten thousand.
"You've done this a lot."
You don't look up.
"A few times."
"A few?"
"I work in A&E."
"Right."
"Trust me," you murmur, smoothing the edge of the bandage into place, "this doesn't even make the top thousand."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I'll try harder next time."
Your head snaps up.
"You'll do no such thing."
"I'm joking."
"I know."
You point a finger at him anyway.
"But if you come back with another split knuckle tomorrow, I'm charging you."
"For medical treatment?"
"For being stubborn."
Before he can reply, another voice cuts through the room.
"There you are."
Kimi walks in carrying two bottles of water. His eyes immediately land on the two of you. More specifically, on the fact that you're holding Max's hand.
"Oh," he says simply.
"You got him."
Max looks between the two of you.
"...Got me?"
Kimi nods sympathetically.
"She'll look after the cut."
He lifts one of the water bottles.
"Then she'll tell you you're dehydrated."
"I was literally about to."
"I know."
He hands you the bottle before passing the other to Max.
"You should drink that."
Max glances down at the bottle. Then at Kimi.
"You planned this."
Kimi shrugs.
"I've had plenty years to learn how she works."
You smile sweetly.
"And yet he still forgets to drink water."
"I don't forget."
"You do."
"I choose not to."
Max laughs a proper laugh. It makes both you and Kimi look at him. He rubs the back of his neck.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say, fastening the last strip of tape across the bandage.
"There."
You finally let go of his hand.
"All done."
He looks down at the neat dressing. It looks professional - far better than the crooked plaster he'd attempted earlier.
"Thank you."
The words come genuinely. You offer him a smile that reaches your eyes.
"Occupational hazard."
He smiles back. Neither of you notices Lando walking past the open hospitality entrance. He slows just enough to glance inside. Takes one look at you carefully bandaging Max Verstappen's hand. Grins to himself.
"Oh," he mutters under his breath. "So that's what's happening."
Then, wisely deciding not to interrupt, he keeps walking.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ PADDOCK GROUP CHAT
Lando
boys
Lando
i've seen something today
Charles
that sounds ominous.
Oscar
is it another labubu? better keep it away from kimi
Lando
worse
George
Impossible.
Lando
verstappen smiled
Max
?
Lando
TWICE
Oscar
can confirm
Charles
i refuse to believe this.
George
At who?
Lando
oh you know exactly at who...
Max
i don't.
Oscar
kimi's sister
Seen by Max.
Seen by Charles.
Seen by George.
Seen by Lando.
Max
she fixed my hand.
Lando
mate
Charles
...
George
Did you deliberately injure yourself?
Max
no.
Oscar
that's not actually an answer
Lando
i give it until tomorrow before he develops another mysterious cut
Max
i hate all of you.
Charles
have you considered asking for her number?
Max
no.
George
Coward.
Lando
MASSIVE coward
Charles
it's alright max, i hear nurses like stubborn patients.
Lando
throw yourself down some stairs
Oscar
don't encourage workplace injuries!
Charles
paper cuts seem to be enough.
George
Or you could just tell her she's pretty?
Max
absolutely not.
Lando
he's gone
George
He's finished.
Charles
finished.
Kimi
can everyone stop trying to set my sister up?
Lando
...
George
...
Charles
...
Oscar
i forgot you were here
Kimi
clearlyy
Charles
to be fair...
George
Your sister is lovely.
Lando
yeah we're big fans
Kimi
that's worse!!!!
Max
i didn't say anything.
Lando
you didn't have to
By the time the afternoon settles into its familiar rhythm, you've reclaimed the small sofa tucked into the corner of the Mercedes hospitality. One leg is crossed beneath you, a paperback rests in your lap.
You barely make it through two pages before someone dramatically clears their throat. You don't even bother looking up.
"Yes, Lando."
"...How did you know it was me?"
"You sigh louder than everyone else."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Only then do you lift your eyes from the page. Lando is standing in front of you with the most exaggerated pout you've ever seen.
"What happened?"
"I've suffered a workplace injury."
You slowly close your book.
"Oh no."
"I know."
"What happened?"
He holds up his wrist, as though presenting evidence in court.
"I hit it."
"On what?"
"..."
"Lando?"
"...a door."
Oscar walks past behind him carrying a bottle of water.
"You walked into the door."
Lando turns immediately.
"The door moved."
Oscar doesn't even break stride.
"The door was stationary."
"It came out of nowhere."
"It has been attached to the wall since Thursday."
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.
"So..." You reach out, gently taking Lando's wrist into your hand. "Can you move it?"
He rotates it dramatically.
"Like this?"
"Yes."
"It hurts."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"...Three."
You nod thoughtfully.
"So you're not dying."
"I thought I was."
"You thought wrong."
He gasps.
"I came here for sympathy."
"You came to the wrong person."
You stand, crossing over to your tote bag before rummaging inside. A moment later, you pull out a reusable ice pack. Lando blinks.
"You just... carry those?"
"I'm an emergency nurse."
"You carry emergency ice?"
"I do." You press it into his hand. "There."
He looks between the ice pack and you.
"...That's actually really nice."
"I know."
The interaction lasts perhaps two minutes. Long enough for George to wander in. He spots the ice pack and Lando, who looks like he has just given birth at the least.
"What happened?"
"He fought a door."
"I lost."
George nods solemnly.
"Happens to the best of us."
"It really doesn't," Oscar mutters from somewhere nearby.
George laughs before rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck.
"You don't happen to have another one, do you?"
You don't ask why. You simply kneel beside your bag again.
"Blue or green?"
He stares.
"...You have options?"
"I like to be prepared."
He accepts the blue one with an expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Max arrives just in time to witness Charles wandering over.
"I have a question."
You don't even look up.
"Second pocket."
Charles pauses.
"...What?"
"Second pocket in the tote."
Curiosity gets the better of him. He reaches inside and pulls out a packet of plasters.
"...How did you know?"
You finally glance up.
"You've been picking at that cut on your finger since lunch."
Charles looks down.
"...Oh."
"Stop doing that."
"I'll try."
"You won't."
"...Probably not."
Max finds himself smiling. He doesn't even realise he's doing it.
Lewis is next. Not because he's injured, but because he's looking for painkillers after a headache starts creeping in.
"Left pocket," you say before he can finish asking.
"You've got a frightening system."
"I've had years to perfect it."
"I can tell."
Eventually, the room settles again. Lando is happily holding his ice pack against his wrist, George has one draped across the back of his neck, Charles has stopped absentmindedly picking at his finger, Lewis has disappeared with a bottle of water and two painkillers. You simply reopen your book as though none of it had happened. Max watches you for another moment before walking over.
"You really don't mind?"
You glance up.
"Mind what?"
"People," He gestures vaguely towards the room. "Coming to you."
You consider the question for a second. Then shrug.
"Not really."
"They interrupt you."
"They need something."
"They're capable adults."
You smile.
"Debatable."
He laughs quietly.
"I suppose."
You mark your page with a finger.
"My job isn't really about fixing people."
"No?"
"It's about making things a little easier."
He doesn't say anything.
"So..." You continue. "If someone trusts me enough to ask for help, why would I make them feel bad for asking?"
Max looks at you differently after that, not because you'd bandaged his hand or because you'd remembered his cut, but because you'd just revealed something about yourself so effortlessly. Kindness wasn't something you performed - it was simply the way you moved through the world.
"...That's a nice way of looking at it," he says quietly.
You smile.
"I think so too."
Before either of you can say anything else, Kimi pushes through the hospitality doors. He stops. Looks around the room at Lando, George, Charles. Then at you. He sighs.
"I leave for half an hour." Nobody says anything. "And somehow..." His eyes drift towards the collection of first-aid supplies spread neatly across the coffee table. "...you've opened another emergency department."
You grin innocently.
"They came to me."
"I know." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "They always do."
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🔵 kimi.antonelli
liked by yn.antonelli, max.verstappen and 568,798 others
kimi.antonelli happy nurses appreciation day to the one that somehow opened another emergency department in mercedes hospitality. thanks for looking after us. ❤️ @.yn.antonelli
yn.antonelli: you all would've survived without me… probably <3
landonorris: debatable
georgerussell: still got the ice pack 👍
yn.antonelli: i am glad i could help!
charlesleclerc: finger has stopped bleeding thank you doctor
yn.antonelli: *nurse
lewishamilton: thank you for keeping everyone in one piece 🖤
yn.antonelli: that's my job! <3
oscarpiastri: especially lando!
landonorris: why am i catching strays?
max.verstappen: Thank you. My hand's much better.
yn.antonelli: glad to hear it 😊
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Max
Hi.
Thank you again.
Y/N
max you already thanked me in person 😭
Max
I know.
I just...
Wanted to again.
Y/N
then you're welcome again :)
Max
Would you let me repay you somehow?
Y/N
that's really not necessary
Max
Coffee?
Y/N
only if you promise not to injure yourself this time.
Max
I'll try.
Y/N
emphasis on try?
Max
No promises. :)
You almost don't notice the bouquet. It's only as you step through the café door that your eyes land on Max, already waiting by the window, standing as soon as he sees you... And holding flowers. Your pace falters.
"Oh."
He suddenly looks far less confident.
"I-"
His grip tightens around the bouquet.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I asked the florist to pick something that reminded them of summer."
You stare at the flowers, then at him.
"They're for me?"
He smiles, just barely.
"I don't see anyone else here."
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
"That's... incredibly sweet."
You accept the bouquet carefully, almost as though you're afraid you'll crush it.
"No one's ever brought me flowers on a coffee run before."
Max's eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
"A coffee run?"
You nod.
"You said you wanted to thank me."
"...Right."
He can't bring himself to correct you. Instead, he pulls out your chair. You blink.
"You're making me feel terribly underdressed."
"You look lovely."
The compliment slips out before he can think better of it. For the first time all afternoon, you seem genuinely caught off guard. A faint smile spreads across your face.
"Thank you."
The conversation comes surprisingly easily after that. It begins with work. You tell him about overnight shifts, impossible patients, and the elderly woman who insists on bringing homemade biscuits for the entire emergency department every Christmas.
He tells you about growing up around racing circuits, about travelling more than staying still, about how strange it feels to call so many airports familiar. At one point, you laugh so hard you have to wipe a tear from the corner of your eye. At another, the café around you fades into little more than background noise.
Hours pass unnoticed. Neither of you is in any hurry to leave. As you finally step back out onto the street, bouquet tucked safely in one arm and coffee still warming your hands, you smile at him.
"Thank you."
"For the flowers?"
"For today."
He smiles back.
"It was my pleasure."
You tilt your head.
"We should do this again sometime."
His heart practically stops.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
Completely oblivious to the fact that, somewhere across the street, a photographer has already taken three pictures of the two of you walking side by side. And even more oblivious to the fact that, to Max Verstappen, this had never been a coffee run. It had always been a date.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ TWITTER
@.f1gossip
BREAKING: Max Verstappen spotted leaving a café in Milan with Kimi Antonelli's sister.
@.gridupdates
DID YOU SEE HE GOT HER FLOWERS???
@.papayafiles
MAX VERSTAPPEN BOUGHT HER FLOWERS??????
@.f1tea
mind you... HE was carrying the flowers when he arrived. this wasn't a "thank you for coming" bouquet.
@.maxnation
oh. OH.
@.formulaobsessed
she looks so happy 😭🤍
@.verstappenfiles
need everyone to remember max does NOT do public dates.
@.landonorris
💐
@.oscarpiastri
...
@.landonorris
don't act surprised.
@.oscarpiastri
i'm not.
@.charles_leclerc
finally.
@.georgerussell63
about time.
@.f1girlies
WHO SAID FINALLY??? WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW???
@.kimiupdates
kimi antonelli has liked absolutely none of these tweets 😭
@.gridgossip
imagine introducing your sister to your coworkers and accidentally creating the paddock's newest couple.
@.f1memes
kimi watching the internet discover what he witnessed two days ago: 🧍🏼
@.f1tea
calling it now. they're either dating already... or they'll be dating by the end of the season.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Y/N'S DMs
Lando
are you busy
Y/N
just got home
Lando
how was your date
Y/N
what date?
Lando
😐
Y/N
?
Lando
with max.
Y/N
it wasn't a date
Lando
...
he brought you flowers.
Y/N
yes?
Lando
Y/N.
sweetheart.
gorgeous.
Y/N
😭
Lando
MEN DON'T BRING FLOWERS TO THANK-YOU COFFEES.
Y/N
maybe max does
Lando
MAX VERSTAPPEN ESPECIALLY DOESN'T.
Y/N
...
Lando
how long were you there
Y/N
about three hours?
Lando
THREE???
Y/N
time flew by
Lando
because it was a date.
Y/N
no because we were talking.
Lando
...
what did you talk about
Y/N
work
childhood
family
travelling
books
music
painting
he asked if we'd do it again
Lando
i'm going to need you to read that message again.
Y/N
...
oh.
The next race weekend feels... different, not because anything has changed. At least, not visibly. The paddock still hums with the same familiar energy. Mechanics hurry between garages. Engineers carry tablets tucked beneath their arms. Media personnel weave through the crowds.
And yet, somehow, you feel oddly aware of yourself. Aware of every time your phone buzzes. Aware of the flowers still sitting in a vase back at your apartment. Aware of one particularly smug British racing driver who has not let you forget, even once, that your "thank-you coffee" had very much been a date.
You find refuge in the hotel lobby while Kimi disappears into a team meeting. Book in hand, coffee beside you. It feels almost comforting. Almost.
"You really do always have a book with you."
The familiar voice makes you glance up. Max stands a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, smiling in that quiet way you've quickly come to recognise. You smile back before you can stop yourself.
"I do."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Only if you've managed to avoid injuring yourself since last week."
He laughs.
"I've been very careful."
"I'm proud of you."
He settles into the chair opposite yours. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Not because it's awkward, strangely enough... It isn't.
"So," Max says eventually.
"So."
"I heard Lando finally told you."
You let out a groan dramatic enough to rival Lando himself.
"He was unbearably pleased with himself."
"I can imagine."
"I think he considered it one of his greatest achievements."
"He probably does."
You shake your head, laughing softly.
"He hasn't stopped reminding me."
Max smiles.
"I suppose that means..."
He hesitates.
"...you know."
"I know."
The words come quieter than you expected. You close your book carefully before placing it on the table.
"I owe you an apology."
His brows knit together immediately.
"For what?"
"I genuinely didn't realise."
"I know."
"I wasn't pretending."
"I know."
"I just..."
You rub the back of your neck, suddenly finding the coffee cup fascinating.
"I thought you were being really nice."
"I was."
"No, I mean..."
You laugh at yourself.
"I thought you were just... an unusually thoughtful person."
"I'd like to think I am."
"You are."
You look back up at him.
"But I didn't realise you were asking me on a date."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I was trying to."
"You were?"
"I thought the flowers might've helped."
"They did."
"They did?"
"I just thought they were a thank-you present."
He drops his head for a moment, laughing properly now.
"You really had no idea."
"None."
"I was convinced I'd made it obvious."
"I was convinced you were just the nicest Dutch man I'd ever met."
"I'm afraid I'm only one of those things."
You smile.
"I know."
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. The silence settles comfortably between you. You reach into your tote bag absentmindedly. Max watches as you pull out a small bookmark tucked between the pages of your novel. Only it isn't a bookmark. It's one of the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you. His eyes linger on it.
"I kept them."
Your voice is almost shy.
"I thought they were too pretty to throw away."
Something in his expression softens.
"So..."
You twirl the pressed flower carefully between your fingers.
"I've been thinking." You smile. "I'd quite like to fix something."
He tilts his head.
"What?"
"Our first date."
He blinks.
"You mean..."
"I'd quite like to be aware I'm on the second one."
For perhaps the first time in his Formula One career, Max Verstappen is completely speechless. Then, slowly- A grin spreads across his face.
"I'd like that."
"So would I."
He stands, offering you his hand.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
You pretend to think about it.
"Hm."
"You don't trust me?"
"Oh, I trust you."
You slip your hand into his.
"I just hope there aren't any flowers."
He laughs.
"There are definitely flowers."
You groan dramatically.
"This is going to make Lando insufferable."
"I think that ship has already sailed."
Hand in hand, the two of you leave the hotel lobby. Neither of you notices the photographer across the street lowering his camera with a very satisfied smile.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ INSTAGRAM
🌸 yn.antonelli
liked by kimi.antonelli, max.verstappen and 23,529 others
yn.antonelli turns out… it really was a date after all. 🤍
max.verstappen: Best first date I've ever accidentally been on. ❤️
yn.antonelli: ❤️
landonorris: I HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS FROM DAY ONE.
oscarpiastri: finally.
charlesleclerc: about time 🤍
georgerussell: knew we'd get here eventually.
lewishamilton: Happy for you both 🖤
kimi.antonelli: i suppose he's alright.
landonorris: THIS IS KIMI'S VERSION OF A BLESSING EVERYBODY STAY CALM.
max.verstappen: I'll take it.
yn.antonelli: @.max.verstappen don't let it get to your head.
maxverstappen1: Too late.
landonorris: disgusting.
oscarpiastri: says the one who played cupid.
landonorris: you're welcome.
i saw your requests were open and was wondering if you would ever write something where the drivers are asked about the bare minimum vs princess treatment and charles thinks everything is the bare minimum because he's always giving his girlfriend the princess treatment
The baseline of devotion
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader (y/n)
Warnings: none, pure fluff, established relationship, romantic Charles
Summary: When a viral media trend asks about princess treatment, Charles Leclerc leaves everyone stunned by proving that completely spoiling you is just his daily bare minimum.
Requested: Yes/ @tonyspep
Word count: 5886
Author's note: Charles is truly the ultimate dream boyfriend. I really hope this story brings you so much joy, enjoy xx
Masterlist
The sun is exceptionally bright over the paddock in Budapest, baking the asphalt until the air shimmers with heat waves. It is Thursday, the designated media day, and the usual hum of activity fills the space between the team hospitalities. Engineers walk briskly with laptops under their arms, mechanics in short sleeves wheel tire stacks across the hot ground, and fans crowd the barriers near the entrance, hoping for an autograph or a quick selfie.
You are sitting in the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Ferrari hospitality building, nursing a cold glass of lemonade. Through the glass window, you can see the hustle and bustle of the paddock, but inside, the temperature is perfectly cool. Your phone rests on the wooden table, occasionally lighting up with notifications, but you are mostly enjoying the quiet moment before the chaos of the race weekend truly begins.
Outside, near the media pen, a popular social media creator working with the Formula One digital team is holding a microphone. They are filming a quick fire segment with the drivers, a lighthearted video meant to break up the serious technical talk of downforce and tire degradation. The topic of the day is a viral trend that has been circulating online, the debate between what constitutes the bare minimum in a relationship versus what qualifies as princess treatment.
Pierre Gasly is the first to be stopped. He stands with his sunglasses perched on his nose, a smirk playing on his lips as the interviewer explains the concept. Pierre laughs, shaking his head, and says, “The bare minimum is remembering her birthday and texting her when I land. Princess treatment is taking her to a nice dinner in Paris and letting her choose the music in the car.”
Next is Carlos Sainz, who leans against the barrier with an easy, confident posture. He listens to the question, rubs his chin thoughtfully, and offers his own perspective. “The bare minimum is making sure there is food in the fridge when she comes over. Princess treatment is cooking my special golf tournament victory paella for her and opening the car door every single time.”
Then, the interviewer spots Charles. He is walking back from a technical briefing, his red team shirt pristine, his hair slightly messy from the humidity. He has his hands in his pockets, but when he sees the microphone, he stops with his characteristic polite smile. The camera adjusts to focus on his face, capturing the bright green of his eyes and the dimple that appears when he greets the interviewer.
“Charles, we are asking the drivers about a popular concept today,” the interviewer says, holding the microphone closer to him. “We want to know your thoughts on the bare minimum versus princess treatment in a relationship. What do you think belongs in each category?”
Charles blinks, his brow furrowing slightly in genuine confusion. He tilts his head, digesting the words. “The bare minimum versus princess treatment,” he repeats, his accent thick and soft. “What do you mean by this?”
“Well,” the interviewer explains, smiling at his earnestness, “the bare minimum is the basic standard of how you should treat your partner, just to keep the relationship going. Princess treatment is going above and beyond, doing the extra, highly romantic things to make her feel incredibly special and spoiled.”
Charles nods slowly, but the confusion does not leave his face. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, thinking about it. “Okay, but, for me, I do not understand where the line is. Because, if you love someone, is everything not just the bare minimum?”
The interviewer pauses, caught off guard by his response. “What do you mean by that, Charles?”
“Like,” Charles begins, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his point, “if she is tired after a long flight, and you run a warm bath for her, put her favorite bath oils in, and have her pajamas waiting, is that not just normal? You want her to feel relaxed because you love her. That is just the bare minimum, no?”
The interviewer stares at him, their smile widening in disbelief. “Charles, most people would consider running a fully prepared bath with heated pajamas to be very high level princess treatment.”
Charles shakes his head, looking truly perplexed. “No, no, that is just being a good boyfriend. Or, like, when she is sleeping, and you wake up earlier to go to the bakery to buy the warm croissants and the specific orange juice she likes, and you bring it to her in bed so she does not have to step on the cold floor. Is that not just what you do? Why is that considered extra?”
“That is absolutely princess treatment, Charles,” the interviewer says, laughing.
“I do not agree,” Charles says, a soft laugh escaping him as well, though he is entirely serious. “For me, that is the base. If you do not do these things, then why are you in a relationship? Princess treatment, I think, would be something much bigger, like building a whole castle for her or buying her an island. But doing the little things every day to make her life easier and more beautiful, that is just the standard. It is the bare minimum.”
The interviewer shakes their head, clearly delighted by the goldmine of content they have just recorded. “I think every person watching this is going to agree that your standards are very different from the rest of the world, Charles. Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, offering a polite wave to the camera before continuing his walk back to the Ferrari hospitality.
Inside the building, your phone buzzes violently. It is a text message from one of your close friends, containing a link to the Formula One social media account. They have uploaded the clip almost instantly, knowing it would gather millions of views within minutes. You tap the link, holding the phone to your ear to block out the low murmur of the hospitality staff.
You watch the video play out. You see Pierre’s cheeky grin, Carlos’s confident shrug, and then Charles appears on the screen. As you listen to him speak, a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest. You cannot help the soft smile that spreads across your lips. He spoke with such absolute sincerity, with no intention of showing off or looking like the perfect boyfriend. He truly, deeply believes that pampering you is simply the baseline of existence.
The glass door of the hospitality suite slides open, and a draft of warm air enters before the air conditioning quickly corrects it. Charles walks in, scanning the room until his eyes land on you. His expression instantly softens, the slight tension in his shoulders melting away the moment he sees your face. He walks over to your table, pulling out the chair next to you and sinking into it with a quiet sigh of relief.
“Hi,” he murmurs, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your temple. He smells of the warm summer air, a hint of his expensive cologne, and the faint, clean scent of the Ferrari garage. “How are you? Is the AC cold enough in here? Do you need me to get you another drink?”
You look at him, your heart swelling with affection. You turn your phone screen toward him, showing the frozen frame of his face on the video. “I am doing wonderful, Charles. But I think you have just set the expectations for every partner in the world incredibly high.”
Charles looks at the screen, then back up at you, his cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. “Ah, they uploaded it already? I was just answering the question. I do not understand why the interviewer was looking at me like I was speaking a different language.”
“Because, Charles,” you say, reaching out to slide your hand into his, “what you described is what most people dream of receiving once a year on an anniversary. You do those things for me every single day.”
He squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the back of your knuckles. “But that is my point. You deserve to have those things every day. Why would I wait for an anniversary to make you feel loved? It does not make sense to me.”
You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling the solid, comforting warmth of his body. “You are ridiculous, you know that?”
“Maybe,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head. “But I am only ridiculous for you.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of briefings and team meetings for Charles, but he never fails to check in on you. Every time he passes the hospitality suite, he looks through the glass, catches your eye, and gives you a quick, reassuring wink. When he finally finishes his duties for the day, the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of orange, pink, and purple.
You walk together to the car park, his arm draped casually over your shoulders, shielding you from the lingering crowds of fans and photographers. He guides you to the passenger side of the rental car, opening the door for you and waiting until you are safely settled inside before closing it with a gentle click. He jogs around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel and immediately adjusting the air conditioning so it blows directly toward you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning the key in the ignition. “I found a small, quiet Italian restaurant about thirty minutes outside the city. It is away from the main tourist areas, so we will not be bothered. I already called them to make sure they have that specific pasta dish you liked when we were in Rome.”
You look at his profile as he backs the car out of the parking space. He does it so casually, as if researching a restaurant, finding a specific dish you mentioned offhand months ago, and calling ahead to ensure they can make it is just a standard Tuesday task.
“You did that today?” you ask, your voice soft. “Between your technical meetings and the media sessions?”
“Of course,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigates the paddock exit. “You said last week that you were craving that specific tomato and burrata sauce. I wanted to make sure you could have it tonight. It took me two minutes to call them, it is nothing.”
You shake your head, a fond laugh escaping you. “Charles, that is exactly what the interviewer was talking about. That is princess treatment.”
“No,” he insists, a stubborn but playful pout forming on his lips. “That is just me wanting my girlfriend to eat a good dinner because she had to sit in a hot paddock all day. It is the bare minimum, darling.”
The drive to the restaurant is peaceful, filled with the quiet hum of the radio and the comfortable silence that only comes from years of knowing someone inside out. Charles drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the center console, his palm facing upward, waiting. You place your hand in his, and he immediately wraps his fingers around yours, bringing your hand to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles before resting it back down.
When you arrive at the restaurant, it is exactly as he described, a charming, rustic building tucked away in a quiet village, surrounded by lush green hills. The owner greets Charles with a warm smile, clearly recognizing him but treating him with the quiet respect of an old friend. He leads you both to a private table in the corner of an outdoor terrace, lit by string lights that glow softly in the gathering dusk.
As you sit down, Charles immediately pulls your chair out for you, waiting until you are comfortable before taking his own seat. He takes the menu from the waiter but does not even look at his own side, instead focusing entirely on helping you choose.
“They have the fresh truffles today,” he notes, pointing to a section of the menu. “I know you love truffles, but only when they are shaved fresh, not the oil. I can ask the chef to make sure he only uses the fresh ones for your dish.”
“Charles, please, just order what you want,” you laugh, though your heart is melting. “You do not have to micromanage the kitchen for me.”
“I am not micromanaging,” he says, his green eyes reflecting the warm glow of the string lights. “I am just making sure it is perfect for you. If it is not perfect, then there is no point.”
The waiter returns, and Charles places the order in fluent, polite Italian, making sure to specify your preferences exactly as he promised. Once the waiter leaves, Charles leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and looking at you with an intensity that always makes your breath catch, no matter how long you have been together.
“What?” you ask, feeling a warmth creep up your neck.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, a soft, contented smile on his face. “I am just happy. It feels like we have not had a quiet moment like this in weeks. The triple header was so busy, and I felt bad that I could not spend as much time with you as I wanted.”
“Charles, we live together,” you remind him gently. “We see each other every day.”
“Yes, but seeing each other while I am running between meetings or falling asleep from exhaustion is not the same,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer register. “I want to actually be present with you. I want to listen to how your day was, what you are thinking about, what is making you happy. That is what matters.”
You reach across the table, squeezing his hand. “You are always present, Charles. Even when you are exhausted, you still manage to make me feel like the only person in the room.”
He looks down at your joined hands, his expression softening further. “I hope so. Because that is my job. If I cannot do that, then I am failing.”
As the evening progresses, the food arrives, and it is spectacular. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the tomato sauce rich and sweet, topped with a generous mound of creamy burrata that melts into the dish. Charles watches your reaction as you take your first bite, waiting with bated breath until you let out a soft sigh of appreciation.
“It is amazing,” you tell him, and he grins, looking incredibly proud of himself, as if he had personally cooked the meal himself.
Throughout the dinner, he continues to take care of you in ways that have become second nature to him. He notices the moment your water glass is half empty and immediately refills it. When a cool evening breeze sweeps across the terrace, causing you to shiver slightly, he is already standing up, slipping his jacket off his shoulders and draping it over yours. It is still warm from his body, smelling deeply of him, and you wrap it tightly around yourself, feeling safe and incredibly cherished.
You watch him as he talks about his qualifying strategy for the upcoming weekend, his eyes lighting up with the passion he has for racing. You think about how easily he balances these two sides of his life, the fierce, uncompromising competitor on the track, and the incredibly gentle, attentive partner off it. To the world, he is Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Scuderia Ferrari, a man who tames beasts of machinery at three hundred kilometers per hour. But to you, he is the boy who worries if the floor is too cold for your bare feet.
After dinner, he pays the bill before you can even reach for your purse, brushing off your attempt to split it with a gentle click of his tongue. “Do not be silly,” he says, guiding you out of the restaurant. “I took you out. It is my treat.”
On the drive back to the hotel, the fatigue of the long day finally begins to catch up with you. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you find yourself leaning your head back against the headrest, watching the streetlights flicker past in a rhythmic pattern.
When the car comes to a stop at a red light, Charles reaches over, gently adjusting the angle of your seat so you can recline more comfortably. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out a small, soft travel blanket that he always keeps in the car, specifically because he knows you get cold easily on night drives. He drapes it over your lap, tucking the edges in with a tenderness that makes your eyes prickle with happy tears.
“Sleep, darling,” he whispers, his voice a soothing balm in the quiet cabin of the car. “I will wake you up when we get to the hotel.”
You close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you to sleep, feeling completely wrapped in his love. To Charles, this is just another Thursday night. To him, this is the bare minimum. But to you, it is a love so grand, so thoughtful, and so deep that you know you will never have to doubt your worth ever again.
The next morning, the reality of a race weekend hits with full force. Friday practice is always a intense affair, filled with data analysis, track walk discussions, and the constant pressure to find the perfect setup for the car. The paddock is crowded with VIP guests, sponsors, and media crews, all vying for a moment of the drivers' time.
You spend the morning in the Ferrari garage, wearing your team headset, listening to the radio chatter between Charles and his race engineer, Bryan. Charles’s voice over the radio is calm, analytical, and sharp. He is demanding the absolute limit from the car, describing the behavior of the tires with clinical precision.
“The rear is still too loose in turn four,” his voice crackles through your headset. “We need to adjust the differential on the entry. I am losing too much time trying to catch the slide.”
Watching him through the garage monitors, you see him flying down the main straight, his red car a blur of speed and precision. He looks like a completely different person from the man who was tucking a blanket around your legs just a few hours ago. Here, in his element, he is focused, intense, and unyielding.
When the first practice session ends, Charles climbs out of the car, his face flushed and covered in sweat. He removes his helmet and balaclava, running a hand through his damp hair as he immediately begins discussing the data with his engineers. He is surrounded by a circle of men in red shirts, all pointing at laptop screens and telemetry charts.
Despite the intensity of the moment, the second Charles spots you standing near the back of the garage, his eyes lock onto yours. He pauses mid-sentence, giving you a quick, reassuring nod and a soft smile that is meant only for you. The engineers do not notice, but you do. It is a tiny, silent anchor that connects him to you, even in the middle of his chaotic professional world.
During the break between practice sessions, Charles has to attend a quick sponsor meet and greet in the Ferrari hospitality courtyard. You walk with him, keeping a respectful distance as his PR manager guides him through the crowd.
As Charles stands on the small stage, answering questions about the weekend’s prospects, you notice Carlos walking toward you, a amused grin on his face. He leans against the railing next to you, crossing his arms.
“So,” Carlos says, his voice low so the nearby fans cannot hear. “I saw the video of Charles yesterday. The whole paddock is talking about it.”
You laugh, looking at Carlos. “Oh, really? What are they saying?”
“They are saying he has ruined it for the rest of us,” Carlos chuckles, shaking his head. “The mechanics are teasing him, telling him he needs to start carrying our bags too if that is his standard of the bare minimum. My girlfriend texted me this morning, asking why I have never run a bath for her with heated pajamas waiting.”
“To be fair, Carlos,” you say playfully, “your golf paella does sound pretty impressive.”
“It is impressive,” Carlos defends himself, grinning. “But Charles, he is on another level. He does not even realize what he is doing. He is just naturally like that. It is actually a bit annoying how perfect he is.”
You look back at the stage, where Charles is currently laughing at a joke made by the host. He looks relaxed, charming, and entirely at ease. “He really does not think it is anything special. That is the thing. He genuinely believes he is just doing the basic requirements of a relationship.”
“That is because he is completely crazy about you,” Carlos says, his tone softening into a genuine, warm smile. “We all see it. The way he looks at you when you are not paying attention, the way he worries about you. He has always been a romantic, but with you, it is different. You are his whole world, and he wants to make sure his world is perfect.”
Your heart flutters at Carlos’s words. You look back at Charles, who has just finished his stage duties. He thanks the host, steps down from the stage, and immediately makes a direct line through the crowd toward you. He ignores the sponsors trying to get his attention, his focus entirely on getting back to your side.
“Are you okay?” he asks the moment he reaches you, his hand naturally finding the small of your back, guiding you away from the crowd. “Is the sun too hot out here? We can go inside.”
“I am fine, Charles,” you assure him, looking up at him. “Carlos was just telling me how you have ruined the standards for every other driver in the paddock.”
Charles looks at Carlos, who is still standing nearby with a smirk. “Do not listen to him,” Charles says, shaking his head. “Carlos is just lazy. He wants to do the bare minimum of the bare minimum.”
“Hey,” Carlos protests, laughing as he walks away. “I heard that, Leclerc. I am a very romantic man.”
Charles rolls his eyes playfully, then turns his full attention back to you. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, chilled bottle of water, pressing it into your hands. “Here. You need to stay hydrated. The paddock is very warm today, and I do not want you getting a headache.”
You take the water, staring at him with a mixture of amusement and deep affection. “Charles, did you seriously carry a cold water bottle in your pocket during a sponsor Q&A just to give it to me?”
He looks at you, his expression entirely innocent. “Well, yes. I knew you did not have a drink, and it is hot. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because,” you say, stepping closer to him and resting your hands on his chest, “you are incredibly sweet. And yes, this is also princess treatment.”
“It is just a bottle of water, darling,” he says, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate whisper as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close despite the busy paddock surrounding you. “If caring about your health and making sure you are comfortable is princess treatment, then the world has very low standards. I will always take care of you. It is not a chore, it is my favorite part of the day.”
You lean up on your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He responds instantly, his grip on your waist tightening slightly, his lips warm and gentle against yours. When you pull back, his eyes are bright, a beautiful shade of green in the summer sun, looking at you with a devotion that leaves you completely breathless.
The weekend continues to fly by in a whirlwind of speed and adrenaline. Saturday qualifying is a tense affair, with Charles securing a brilliant front row start, placing his Ferrari in second position for Sunday’s race. The paddock is ecstatic, the Ferrari garage buzzing with energy and anticipation.
On Sunday morning, the atmosphere in the paddock is electric. The grandstands are packed with fans wearing red, waving flags and cheering as the drivers make their way to the track for the pre-race preparations.
You are in Charles’s driver room, a small, private space inside the Ferrari hospitality building where he prepares before the race. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowds outside. Charles is sitting on the physio table, his eyes closed as his trainer, Andrea, guides him through a series of physical warm ups and reaction training.
You sit quietly in the corner, watching him focus. He is in his zone, his mind entirely locked onto the race ahead. He is visualizing the track, the corners, the start, the strategy. His breathing is steady, his expression serious and determined.
When Andrea finishes the session and leaves the room to give Charles a few minutes of quiet before the driver parade, Charles opens his eyes. He looks at you, the intense, competitive gaze instantly softening into something warm and tender. He steps off the table, walking over to where you are sitting.
He kneels down in front of your chair, placing his hands on your knees, looking up at you. “Are you nervous?” he asks softly.
You laugh gently, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair. “I should be asking you that. You are the one driving a rocket ship at three hundred kilometers per hour in an hour.”
“I am not nervous,” he says, his voice calm and confident. “I know what I have to do. But I want to make sure you are okay. The grid is going to be very crowded today, very chaotic. If you do not want to come down to the grid, you can stay here or watch from the garage where it is quieter.”
“I want to be there with you,” you tell him, leaning down to press your forehead against his. “I want to see you start.”
He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if drawing strength from your presence. “Okay. But stay close to my PR team. I do not want anyone bumping into you. And promise me you will wear your ear protection the entire time.”
“I promise, Charles,” you say, smiling at his constant protectiveness. Even right before the most intense race of his life, his main concern is still your safety and comfort.
The race itself is a masterpiece of strategy and skill. From the moment the five red lights go out, Charles drives with a fierce determination. He manages his tires perfectly, defending his position against attacks from behind while keeping pressure on the leader. The tension in the Ferrari garage is palpable, everyone staring at the telemetry screens, holding their breath with every corner.
When Charles finally crosses the finish line, securing a brilliant second place podium finish, the garage erupts into cheers and applause. You jump up, hugging the team members around you, your heart racing with pride and relief. He did it. He drove a flawless race, securing a crucial result for the team.
You make your way down to the pit lane, waiting near the podium area where the top three cars park. The air is thick with the smell of burning rubber and hot engines. The crowd below the podium is a sea of red, chanting Charles’s name, their voices echoing through the grandstands.
Charles climbs out of his car, standing on the nose cone and raising his arms in triumph, soaking in the cheers of the tifosi. He looks exhausted but incredibly happy. He jumps down, hugging his mechanics, before his eyes immediately begin searching the crowd.
The moment he spots you standing behind the barrier, his face lights up with a brilliant, genuine smile. He jogs over, ignoring the media cameras pointing at him, and reaches over the barrier to pull you into a sweaty, adrenaline fueled hug.
He presses his face into your neck, holding you tightly. “I did it,” he whispers against your skin, his heart beating rapidly against your chest.
“You were amazing, Charles,” you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, not caring about the sweat or the dirt on his race suit. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”
He pulls back slightly, looking at you with a gaze so full of love and pride that it completely eclipses the thousands of fans cheering behind him. He presses a firm, passionate kiss to your lips, a public declaration of his devotion that is captured by every camera in the pit lane.
The podium ceremony is a beautiful blur of champagne, trophies, and national anthems. You watch from below, tears of happiness pricking your eyes as you see him stand on the podium, holding his trophy high. He catches your eye from the podium, pointing the trophy toward you with a proud wink.
Once the media duties, post race interviews, and team debriefs are finally completed, the paddock begins to quiet down. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the empty space. The exhaustion of the intense weekend is finally setting in, and you can see the fatigue in the slump of Charles’s shoulders as he walks back to his driver room.
You are waiting for him, having already packed up his personal belongings so he does not have to worry about it. When he walks through the door, he looks at the packed bags, then at you, a soft, weary smile appearing on his face.
“You packed everything?” he asks, his voice tired but incredibly sweet.
“I wanted to make sure you did not have to do anything when you finished,” you say, walking over to him. “You must be exhausted.”
He doesn't say a word. Instead, he simply steps forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder, letting his entire weight lean against you. You wrap your arms around his back, holding him up, gently running your fingers through his hair.
“Thank you,” he murmurs against your shoulder, his voice muffled. “You are too good to me.”
“I am just doing the bare minimum, Charles,” you tease gently, using his own words.
He lets out a soft, tired chuckle, his chest vibrating against yours. “No, that is princess treatment. You taking care of me when I am tired, that is extra. For me, taking care of you is the standard, but you taking care of me, that is a gift.”
You shake your head, amazed by his logic. Even when you are the one pampering him, he still manages to turn it around so that you are the one who deserves the credit.
“Let’s go home, Charles,” you say softly. “You need a proper rest.”
“Yes,” he agrees, pulling back to look at you, his eyes soft and full of a quiet, peaceful happiness. “Let’s go home.”
The drive back to his apartment in Monaco is quiet, the night sky clear and filled with stars. When you finally arrive, the apartment is peaceful, a sanctuary away from the high pressure world of Formula One.
Charles immediately walks into the bedroom, dropping his bags on the floor, and turns to look at you. “You go take a shower first,” he says, already walking toward the bathroom. “I will prepare the bed.”
By the time you finish your shower and walk into the bedroom, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts, you find the room transformed. The main lights are off, replaced by the warm, gentle glow of the bedside lamps. The covers of the bed are pulled back, perfectly neat and inviting.
And on the nightstand next to your side of the bed, there is a fresh, cold glass of water, your favorite lip balm, and a small, sweet note written in his messy, elegant handwriting.
*Thank you for being my strength this weekend. I love you.*
You look at the note, your heart aching with a sweetness that is almost overwhelming. You turn to see Charles walking into the bedroom, having just showered in the guest bathroom. He is wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, his hair still damp, looking incredibly relaxed and beautiful.
He looks at you holding the note, a soft, slightly shy smile appearing on his face. “Is it okay? I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed before we went to sleep.”
You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his bare waist, looking up into his green eyes. “Charles, you are incredible. You just drove a seventy lap race, stood on a podium, survived a massive media storm, and the first thing you do when we get home is make sure I have water and a sweet note by my bed.”
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head. “But that is my point, darling,” he says, his voice a low, soothing purr in the quiet of the bedroom. “This is not extra. This is just how I love you. It takes no effort to write a note or pour a glass of water. It is the absolute bare minimum of what you deserve.”
You look up at him, shaking your head with a fond, defeated smile. “I don't think I will ever convince you that you are a hopeless romantic, will I?”
“Never,” he whispers, a beautiful, dimpled grin spreading across his face. “Because to me, a hopeless romantic is someone who does these things only sometimes. I want to do them for you every single second of every single day. I want you to always feel like a princess, not because it is a special treatment, but because to me, it is just the only way to live.”
He leans down, pressing a slow, deep, incredibly tender kiss to your lips. It is a kiss that speaks of promises kept, of a future shared, and of a love that knows no limits.
When he pulls back, he gently guides you toward the bed, tucking you in under the soft sheets before climbing in next to you. He pulls you into his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart.
As you fall asleep, wrapped in his warmth and his love, you realize that Carlos was right. Charles Leclerc has completely ruined the standards of relationships for the rest of the world. But as you listen to his steady breathing, feeling his arms hold you secure, you know you wouldn't change a single thing. To him, it might be the bare minimum, but to you, it is the most beautiful, extraordinary love you could have ever dreamed of.
I am here to drop my request for this event. I would like to ask for an dad!Heeseung OS. The idea is to develop the typical late-night situation where one of their children wakes him up with one of the worst phrases of parenthood: "Dad, I forgot my homework" 😂💀. I leave it completely up to your free will to decide how Heeseung will approach it.
Much success with the event, I love u saur much! 💕 Lets gaurrr sugar talk!
Oh Mai Lop ~ thank you so much! I truly appreciate this idea and all the support you're giving me, and the fact that you've decided to be a part of this. I love you saur much too, gorgeous! 💕
Midnight had swept away the last trace of noise in the house, establishing a dense calm, the kind that is only achieved when the children have finally fallen asleep in their beds. Heeseung was in that perfect point of rest, submerged in his own bubble of warmth, caught between the sheets and the sweet lethargy that always lingered in the room after making love to you until both were satisfied.
In fact, he still retained the delicious trace of your warmth against his skin. However, the moment he tried to settle more comfortably and turned over, noticing that you had let go of his grip to sink deeper into your own side of the bed, the silence of the room was subtly interrupted when, out of nowhere, a metallic sound was heard, almost imperceptible.
The door handles began to move clumsily, tugging uselessly against the lock that, out of pure precaution and the search for privacy, both had put in place before starting their pre-sleep activities. He didn’t need to be a mind reader to know perfectly who was on the other side.
Containing a sigh that tugged at the corner of his lips, he sat up slowly. He didn’t bother turning on the bedside lamp; instead, he moved around in the dark, searching for his sweatpants on the floor and putting them on clumsily in the gloom, juggling to keep his balance. Before taking a single step, he turned toward the bed. He gave you a quick, meticulous look, making sure your breathing remained steady. Upon confirming that your rest remained intact, he walked barefoot toward the entrance. He carefully unlatched the lock and opened the door little by little.
Just as he had predicted, Hae-Rin’s silhouette stood out against the dim light of the hallway. Her hair was completely tousled, her feet were bare, and her sleepy little eyes betrayed a mix of sleep and contained childish alarm. He felt a tug at his heart. The image was so tender that any trace of nighttime heaviness evaporated instantly.
He crouched down to her level, opening his arms in a silent invitation. The little girl didn’t hesitate; she immediately threw herself toward him, wrapping her little arms around his neck with adorable desperation. Heeseung held her, stroking her back.
“What are you doing awake at this hour, sweetheart? You didn’t wake up your brother, did you?” he whispered in her ear, barely a thread of voice, hoarse from the lingering sleep.
“Dae-Hee is asleep, I didn’t bother him at all. Or well… he didn’t wake up even though I insisted I needed his help. He sleeps like a rock even during emergencies,” Hae-Rin replied, imitating his low tone with a seriousness that made Heeseung chuckle. “Because yes… There is an emergency, Daddy.”
Heeseung frowned, scanning the empty hallway as his protective instinct flared in his chest.
“An emergency?” he asked, pulling her back a little to look at her small face, searching for any sign, even the slightest, that something might be bothering her at this time of night. “Does something hurt? Do you need to go to the bathroom? Did you have a bad dream?”
The girl shook her head repeatedly, her hair swinging from side to side. Seeing that Heeseung insisted with his gaze, Hae-Rin shifted her eyes toward the interior of the bedroom. The hallway light barely reached to illuminate the silhouette of your sleeping body on the bed. With an air of absolute secrecy, the little girl took her father’s hand and pulled him backward, urging him to step completely out into the corridor. Heeseung let himself be guided, standing up with a smile he could no longer hide.
“Why so much mystery, huh? Is it something Mommy shouldn’t know about?” he asked with a muffled laugh, touched by how cautious she was trying to be so as not to wake you.
Hae-Rin stopped in the middle of the carpeted hallway, let go of his hand, and clasped her own fingers behind her back, rocking on her heels. She looked up at him with the greatest expression of guilt her five years allowed her to muster.
“Daddy… Will you help me with my homework? It’s just… I forgot to do it,” she murmured, dragging out the words and giving him her most elaborate puppy eyes.
Heeseung’s smile froze on his face. It took him a couple of seconds to process the request, until he suddenly let out a heavy sigh, running both hands over his face in a desperate attempt to shake off the remaining drowsiness. With his heart beating a little faster from the scare, he slowly turned his head toward the bedroom door, almost begging the universe that your sleep was heavy enough not to have heard Hae-Rin’s bold confession.
Noticing that everything remained calm, he looked back at the little girl, this time adopting a moderately stern expression that he rarely managed to maintain in front of her.
“Are you telling me you forgot your homework? At this hour?” he scolded in a whisper, incredulous, crossing his arms as he looked down at her from his height. “Lee Hae-Rin, we clearly saw how Mommy spent almost the entire weekend helping your brother with his things. We even asked you more than once if you also had anything to turn in, and you assured us you didn’t on every occasion. You said only Dae-Hee had assignments.”
The little girl, feeling cornered, didn’t waste time deploying her best defense strategy: she lunged forward, wrapping her little arms around her father’s leg while lifting her face, giving him an exaggerated pout and eyes shining with remorse.
“Please don’t tell Mommy, Daddy!” the little girl pleaded in the same low tone, pressing herself tighter against his sweatpants. “It’s just… I really only cared about playing. I was having so much fun that I completely forgot I also had to do the same homework as Dae-Hee.”
Heeseung let out another sigh, completely surrendering to his daughter’s adorable manipulation. Shaking his head, he crouched to her level and picked her up, settling her against his chest as he began walking with stealthy steps toward the room the twins shared.
“You know this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, you little troublemaker,” he warned her in a low voice, tucking a messy strand of hair behind the girl’s ear as they moved down the hallway. “If you keep neglecting things like this, Mommy is really going to end up punishing you again, and this time I won’t be able to save you.”
“And whose fault is it that studying isn’t even half as fun as playing with my dolls?” Hae-Rin responded immediately, crossing her arms over her father’s shoulder with implacable childish logic. Heeseung simply looked at her for a brief second, holding back a smile at the little girl’s audacity.
He then entered the children’s room carefully, making sure not to disturb Dae-Hee’s peaceful sleep, who was sleeping soundly curled up in his own bed. Gently, he placed Hae-Rin on her sheets and sat on the edge of the mattress, weighing the situation before proposing the only viable escape he could think of at that hour.
“Okay, let’s do this. This is the solution I propose…” he murmured, leaning toward her with an air of complicity. “Tomorrow, when your brother wakes up, or better yet, when you’re already at school and Mommy can’t find out… you two get together. Turn in Dae-Hee’s flag and say you did it together, that you both painted the drawing. That way the teacher will grade both of you and there won’t be any problem.”
“You’re the smartest daddy in the whole world!” Hae-Rin celebrated with a radiant smile that lit up her little face, immediately throwing herself into his arms again to wrap them around his neck.
“Shhh~ don’t be so rowdy at this hour,” Heeseung laughed, returning the hug tenderly before planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. He tucked her back onto the pillow and pulled the blankets up to cover her properly to her shoulders. “Anyway, don’t worry anymore, your brother will help you in the morning.”
At that statement, father and daughter turned their heads at the same time, giving a quick glance to little Dae-Hee before exchanging a smile full of complicity. Heeseung caressed the girl’s cheek one last time in farewell.
“Good night, my little girl. Go back to sleep now.”
After receiving a subtle nod from her, Heeseung stood up and prepared to leave the room with the same stealth with which he had entered. However, his body still felt too tense to go straight back to bed with you; the adrenaline from the little emergency had left his throat dry. Deviating from his original path, he headed silently toward the stairs and descended the steps toward the darkness of the kitchen, with the sole intention of pouring himself a refreshing glass of water.
The ground floor was immersed in peaceful darkness. Heeseung reached the counter, took a glass, and filled it directly from the dispenser, enjoying the first cold sip that slid down his throat. He was savoring the silence, believing that the nighttime odyssey had finally ended, when a small silhouette materialized out of nowhere right beside him. He jumped violently in place, almost choking on the water as he brought a hand to his chest from the unexpected scare.
“What now?” he asked, recovering his breath and setting the glass on the counter to crouch down immediately and pick her up in his arms again.
“It’s just…” the girl began, twisting her mouth into a deeply distressed pout while playing with the buttons of her pajama top. “I just remembered that my flag didn’t have the same drawing as Dae-Hee’s, Daddy. Mine had to be a different theme.”
Heeseung tilted his head back, closing his eyes tightly as he let out a dry laugh, devoid of any humor. He was completely incredulous, caught between frustration and pure exhaustion. The only thing his mind and body craved in that instant was to drag himself back to bed, slip under the sheets, and sleep deeply, wrapped around you.
Hae-Rin, immediately detecting the absolute exhaustion and subtle frustration on her father’s face, didn’t waste time activating her contingency plan. Changing her expression in the blink of an eye, she looked at him with rapidly blinking eyelashes and suddenly bright, almost tearful eyes, while leaning her body forward to wrap her arms tightly around his neck.
“I love you so much, Daddy! I’m really sorry,” the little girl exclaimed in an urgent whisper, pressing herself against his shoulder. “I promise I’ll never, ever let myself forget the homework again. From now on I’m going to behave super well, you’ll see.”
Heeseung let out a dry sigh and pulled her back just a few centimeters, holding her by the sides to look at her with a mix of consternation and disbelief. He furrowed his brow, not out of real annoyance, but out of the amazement that his little creation’s cunning always caused him, and pressed his lips into a straight line while slowly shaking his head. He had heard that same empty promise so many times in recent months that he had already lost count; chaos seemed to be the natural state of that girl, and the promises of amendment lasted only as long as it took for the sun to rise.
“Listen to me carefully, Lee Hae-Rin, because this is going to be the last time I save your skin,” he warned, narrowing his eyes with feigned severity and pointing at her with his index finger. “If Mommy finds out and punishes you, or if they call you out at school, I’m not going to intervene for you anymore. You’re on your own after this.”
The little girl, far from being intimidated, returned exactly the same expression, wrinkling her forehead and pressing her lips with the exact same determination. The physical resemblance between the two had always been undeniable, but in moments like this, where Hae-Rin replicated his gestures with almost comical precision, Heeseung remembered that the little girl was a reflection of his own being combined with yours. She had also heard that same “last time” sentence countless times, and she knew perfectly well that, despite the warnings, he continued to be her official rescuer.
“Okay, Daddy. Go get the school stuff then,” she murmured, relaxing her face now that she knew she had won and giving him little pats on the shoulder in a carefree manner.
“I’ll go get the materials to make that dam- ... dummy flag,” Heeseung grumbled in a low voice, finally surrendering as he slid the girl’s body down to the floor.
“Yay! Good luck, Daddy! You’re the best daddy in the whole world,” Hae-Rin exclaimed in an excited whisper, jumping on her bare feet.
Without wasting a single second, the girl turned around and began to slip away with quick, silent steps toward the hallway, heading for the stairs. Heeseung stood by the kitchen counter, watching the scene with his arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow raised, waiting to see how far his daughter’s boldness would go. When he saw her halfway up the first flight of stairs, he decided to break the silence.
“And where do you think you’re going in such a hurry, young lady?” he asked, raising his voice slightly so it would reach her clearly from where he stood.
“To keep sleeping in my little bed,” Hae-Rin replied, stopping midway up the step to look at him over her shoulder with total naturalness. “I trust you’re going to do a very pretty job with my homework, Daddy. Although… well, we all know you don’t have the same magic hands as Mommy for crafts, but I’m sure it’ll turn out nice. Good night!”
Before she could take the next step to continue her escape, Heeseung reacted with lightning agility. He crossed the kitchen and took the first steps two at a time, catching her just as the girl reached the top of the stairs. With a clean movement and an amused smile playing on his lips, he lifted her and tucked her under his arm, carrying her as if she were a sack of potatoes.
“Oh no! Daddy, put me down!” Hae-Rin squealed between muffled giggles, kicking lightly in the air while her tousled hair fell toward the floor.
“No way, little one,” the older one declared as he descended the steps again with a firm pace, ignoring the girl’s playful complaints. “If I can’t be in my bed sleeping hugged up with Mommy because of you, then you’re not going to yours either. You’re staying here and taking responsibility for your recklessness. It’s time you learned a lesson.”
When he reached the ground floor, Heeseung walked straight to the living room and, with total care, placed his chaotic little love on the surface of the coffee table. Then he stretched out his arm and turned on the lights in the room, flooding the space with brightness that made the girl blink in annoyance at the sudden glare.
“Sit right there. I’ll go get the cardstock and scissors. You’re going to tell me exactly what we have to do,” Heeseung ordered, giving her one last warning look before heading toward the hallway closet where you kept all the supplies.
After a while, he returned to the living room carrying a box full of colored cardstock, school scissors, and other things under one arm, while with his hands he balanced two steaming mugs he had just prepared in the kitchen. He set the materials on the coffee table and handed Hae-Rin her cup of warm milk with honey, reserving the strong coffee for himself. He knew he was going to need it.
“Alright, little boss. Here are the mugs and the materials. Now tell me, what exactly is your theme supposed to be?” Heeseung murmured, taking a sip of his coffee before sitting on the rug, at the level of the table.
“Monarch butterflies, Daddy. Dae-Hee’s was about planets, but mine has to be butterflies in a forest,” Hae-Rin explained, taking a sip of her milk and immediately leaving a tender white mustache on her upper lip. “But put some pretty green leaves, don’t cut them ugly like last time.”
“Hey! My cutting technique has improved a lot, your Mommy assures me,” he defended himself with an indignant smile, taking a green cardstock and beginning to trace the silhouette of some leaves with all the concentration in the world.
The following hours passed in an absolutely cozy nocturnal bubble. Although in that living room a battle was being fought against time and glue sticks. Hae-Rin, acting as the most demanding creative director, pointed with her little finger indicating where to place each detail, gracefully criticizing her father’s drawing attempts, and Heeseung, with infinite patience that only his little girl could evoke, obeyed every order. He cut, painted, and glued tirelessly, stopping only to clean the milk remnants from his daughter’s face or to share a complicit laugh every time a stroke didn’t come out quite straight.
However, exhaustion soon took its toll on them silently; Hae-Rin’s eyelids began to grow heavy, her corrections turned into sleepy mumbles, and without realizing it, sleep overcame both of them in the middle of the night.
When the first rays of morning sun began to filter through the curtains, you woke up feeling Heeseung’s side completely cold. Surprised, you put on a robe and quietly went down the stairs, following the trace of a faint light coming from the living room. When you peeked in, the scene that unfolded before your eyes forced you to cover your mouth to contain an exclamation of pure tenderness.
Hae-Rin was deeply asleep on the sofa, curled up in a ball and hugging a cushion tightly, but her little hand hung toward the floor, firmly holding Heeseung’s fingers. He, for his part, was completely sprawled out on the rug; he had a smudge of blue acrylic paint on the back of his hand and, for some reason only his daughter could explain, a shiny star sticker decorated his right cheek.
On the coffee table reigned an adorable chaos: the two empty mugs, scattered cardstock scraps, and, in the center, the famous finished flag. Despite being a last-minute job, the result was quite decent.
A low laugh escaped your lips, breaking the morning silence. The sound was enough to make Heeseung stir uncomfortably on the floor, letting out a lazy groan before opening one eye. Upon seeing you standing next to the sofa, looking fresh and rested unlike his current deplorable state, a tired smile drew across his face. He stretched his free arm toward you, wiggling his fingers in a silent gesture for you to come closer.
You didn’t hesitate for a second. You walked toward him, knelt on the rug, and lay down directly on his chest, settling your head in the crook of his shoulder. Heeseung immediately wrapped his arms around you, sighing with relief at recovering your warmth.
“Good morning, beautiful…” Heeseung whispered with a voice hoarse from sleep, hiding his face in your neck. “Forgive me for leaving you sleeping alone the rest of the night. My plans to come back got complicated.”
“I can see that,” you replied in a teasing tone, gently stroking his clean arm. “Are you going to explain to me what this whole art workshop you set up in my living room is about?”
“Please, don’t get mad at the little one or at me, okay?” he asked quickly, intertwining his fingers with yours while leaving a chaste kiss on your temple. “There was an emergency and the two of us worked really hard to get it done in the middle of the night, just so we wouldn’t bother you or Dae-Hee. We were a great team.”
You let out another little laugh, turning your head a bit to look at him directly. You stretched out your hand and carefully removed the sticker from his cheek, kissing the exact spot where it had been before joining your lips with his in a tender, unhurried kiss. Heeseung responded immediately, deepening the contact slowly while his hand ran up your back in a comforting caress.
“As much as I’d like to, I can’t be mad at you,” you admitted as you pulled away from the kiss, looking at him with pure adoration. “Not when you’re such a considerate husband and such a wonderful father… even if you’re clearly spoiling and indulging our daughter too much.”
Heeseung smiled sideways, with a lazy air but overflowing with extremely proud guilt.
“I still gave her a good lesson, okay? I made her stay awake with me until late so she could see that she has to take responsibility for her recklessness no matter what,” he declared, puffing out his chest with so much pride.
To which you shook your head, sporting a mocking smile while giving him a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Yes, yes, whatever you say… Mr. Dad of the Year.”
At that moment, slow little footsteps were heard coming from the hallway. It was Dae-Hee, who appeared rubbing his little eyes with his fist and dragging his feet lazily. Upon seeing his parents hugging on the rug and his sister sleeping on the sofa, the boy walked straight to the furniture and, with his usual docility, carefully climbed up to instinctively snuggle up next to Hae-Rin, sharing the same blanket.
The family picture was simply perfect, a postcard of domestic warmth that made your chest swell with happiness. However, the bubble of peace lasted only a few seconds more. Until the shrill alarm of your phone began to sound in the pocket of your robe, resonating loudly throughout the house. The effect was immediate: Hae-Rin sat up abruptly on the sofa, opening her eyes wide with total exaltation, while Heeseung startled on the floor, immediately going on alert.
“My homework! Daddy, the flag! Where is it?” the little girl asked in an alarmed voice, looking in all directions with her little heart racing.
“It’s here, it’s here! Let me check if anything came unglued,” Heeseung exclaimed, peeling away from you in a hurry to crawl toward the coffee table and grab the piece of cardstock, inspecting it urgently.
You sat up slowly, settling on the rug with your legs folded while you took out your phone, checking the screen after unlocking it. Upon reading the notification that had just arrived in the parents’ group chat, a mix of amusement and irony completely flooded you.
“Wait a moment, you pair of night workers,” you announced, drawing both of their attention. “The teacher just sent a notice exactly two minutes ago… It says classes are suspended today at the last minute due to a problem with the school’s pipes. There’s no school.”
Silence reigned in the living room for a brief second. Heeseung remained static, holding the flag in the air, and Hae-Rin blinked, processing the information. In unison, father and daughter let out an identical groan full of deep frustration and fell back; the girl buried herself again in the sofa and Heeseung slammed his back against the rug, covering his face with a cushion while cursing internally in a low voice.
“By the way…” intervened Dae-Hee’s small voice, who was still calmly lying on the sofa looking at the ceiling. “That flag wasn’t due today, Rinie. Today we were supposed to bring the clay model that Mommy and I made over the weekend.”
Heeseung removed the cushion from his face with dramatic slowness, his left eyebrow twitching slightly from pure indignation. He turned his head toward the sofa, fixing a withering look on his daughter.
“Hae-Rin?!” he exclaimed, dragging out the words in a tone that demanded an immediate explanation. The girl, finding herself caught in her own tangle and activating her last defense mechanism, peeked out only her eyes from above the cushion, looking at her father with total childish cheekiness.
“That’s exactly why I spent the whole weekend insisting that I didn’t have any homework to do for today, Daddy!” the little girl defended herself with impeccable logic, without losing her eloquence.
You couldn’t hold it back any longer and let out a loud laugh that echoed throughout the room, immediately infecting little Dae-Hee, who also let out a soft giggle from his spot. Heeseung looked at the ceiling, letting out a resigned laugh and unable to believe how his brilliant paternal lesson plan had been completely sabotaged by the mind of a five-year-old little girl.
“You’re definitely going to drive me crazy in this house, you’re all dangerous,” Heeseung complained dramatically, stretching out an arm to pull you back toward his body. You let yourself fall beside him, hugging him around the waist while he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, sealing the moment with a sigh full of happy exhaustion.
At the end of the day, or rather, at the start of that free morning, the flag was made, the laughter was not lacking, and you had the “Dad of the Year” trapped in your living room for a few more hours of pure sleep and family cuddles.
living together was supposed to be temporary. four years later, filled with inside jokes and care that never had to be asked for, that line has long since faded into the background. between race weekends, late dinners, and accidental intimacy, friendship begins to blur into something impossible to ignore.
genre: roommates to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, soft angst with happy ending, and they were roommates.
warnings: non-graphic sexual content, slow burn so slow it needed FIA approval.
word count: 10k
a/n: if you ever doubted the narrative power of a headband and a serum bottle… i hope this changed your mind. even if you’re not a george girl, stay here with me. seriously… i wasn’t either 🫦
You get home two hours later than planned because:
That bitch you call your boss wouldn’t stop rambling about cutting costs on a product that absolutely could not be discontinued.
A coworker needed you to handle something that wasn’t even in your client portfolio.
You got yelled at by said coworker’s client.
And when you finally managed to leave, you were met with what might have been the worst traffic day in recorded history.
To say it had been a difficult evening would be flirting with understatement. But the moment you open the flat door, the smell hits you and your shoulders drop before you even realize they were tense. A tired groan slips from your throat.
The weight of the day loosens, just a little.
In the kitchen, separated from you only by the counter that keeps the space open to the living room, George has his back to you, instantly recognizable. Mostly because of his signature state of undress. Anyone who didn’t know him might assume he simply doesn’t own shirts, the only coverage being an apron tied neatly around his waist.
Soft jazz drifts from the Alexa resting on the counter, and he sways lightly where he stands, distracted, entirely surrendered to the moment.
You smile, setting your bag down.
On your way into the kitchen, you nearly trip over the rug and let out an irritated, “Fuck,” which finally makes George lift his eyes from whatever he’s doing.
“You alright there?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
You let out a quiet laugh, nudging the rug back into place with your foot before walking over to him. When you finally reach him, George takes two steps to the side, making room for you. With a small hop, you settle yourself on the clear stretch of counter beside the sink.
“Hi,” you say, letting your head fall forward as though your body can barely hold itself up.
George tips the chopped onion from the board into the pan, and this time it’s his turn to let out a soft laugh.
“Hello, you,” he says, reaching into the drawer for a spoon. “Rough day?”
You sigh, lips forming a small pout.
“Very, very rough. They’re awful,” you mumble.
In less than a second, he’s beside you, spoon dipped into the pasta sauce he’s making. He holds it out toward you without a word. You open your mouth automatically.
“Jesus,” you say around a mouthful, covering it quickly with your hand out of habit.
It’s so good the reaction slips out before you can stop it. George’s smile slowly spreads.
“Oh? That good?” he asks, nodding slightly, as if encouraging the verdict.
“That’s obscene,” you say, already opening your mouth for more like an impatient child.
With a fresh spoonful, he indulges you. The rich mix of cheese and spices fills your senses.
“Mmm. Wow. You’re actually outdoing yourself.”
He turns to lower the heat before facing you again. His hands come up behind you, and his gaze drops briefly to the back of your neck. Without comment, he unclasps your necklace and slips it into your hands.
“Right,” he says lightly. “Out of my kitchen.”
“Hey!” you protest as he takes your free hand and helps you down from the counter.
“Off you go. Have a shower, put something comfortable on.” He gives your shoulder a light push, steering you out of the kitchen before reaching back for the spoon. “I’ll stay here and set the table for Her Majesty. And later you can tell me all about those horrible people from your work.”
For a second longer than necessary, you just stand there, looking at him, at the kitchen, at the soft jazz drifting through the air, and something in you doesn’t quite want to move yet.
George tilts his head toward the hallway in silent instruction. You roll your eyes, he makes a little shooing motion with both hands. You exaggerate a wounded pout, dropping your head in mock defeat before finally turning to go.
You don’t even see him slip off toward the laundry room behind the kitchen. The next thing you register is a clean towel landing over your head. You catch it with a laugh, tugging it down into place before continuing down the hall.
The next morning, George steps out of his bedroom a little after you, adjusting his Mercedes shirt over his frame and hooking his sunglasses into the collar. You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, finishing off your lip gloss before turning toward him with narrowed eyes, the cap still halfway to closing.
He glances down at himself, suddenly self-conscious.
“What?” he asks, tugging lightly at the fabric of his shirt as if checking for a stain.
You walk over, tipping your chin up and motioning him closer with your hand — a silent come here, because the height difference is absurd.
George leans down without question.
You lift your fingers to his hair, adjusting a few strands back into place.
“Okay. Good,” you declare, giving him an approving thumbs-up.
He shifts in front of the mirror you were standing in front of moments ago and tilts his head from side to side, checking his hair.
“Had breakfast?” he asks.
You nod.
“And you didn’t wait for me? That’s betrayal, that is,” he complains lightly.
“You were sleeping like a rock.” You fold your arms loosely. “I tried waking you. Didn’t work. Nudged you like five times.”
You walk over to the counter and pick up the lunch bag.
“Buuuuut… I packed yours. You can eat at work.”
You hand him his breakfast.
He huffs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re far too clever for your own good,” he says.
You shrug lightly, the kind of gesture that makes it very clear you’re already aware of that fact. George rolls his eyes.
“Come on. I’ll drive you to work,” he says, pulling his keys from his pocket with one hand while holding the lunch bag with the other.
It isn’t exactly a daily occurrence, but it’s something you take advantage of whenever George happens to be around. He catches your bright smile and chuckles quietly to himself as he watches you go grab your things.
When you come back, the door is already open, and the two of you head down to the car together.
“As you know, I’m packing today,” George says, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other shifts gears as the car slows at a light.
“Yeah.”
“I’m off to race. Just four days. I’ll fly back the night after.”
He glances at you briefly before looking back at the road, fingers tapping once against the wheel in that absent rhythm he falls into when thinking ahead.
“You’re not going to rest before coming back?” you ask, turning slightly in your seat to face him.
The indicator clicks softly as he changes lanes.
“I’d much rather rest at home, honestly,” he says, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I’ll let you know.”
He reaches blindly toward the center console, offering you the water bottle without looking — muscle memory more than intention.
“Alright,” you reply, taking the bottle automatically and twisting the cap open.
“You should come as well. They keep asking about you,” he adds, eyes still on the road. “We could stay a few extra days.”
“Everyone at Mercedes is lovely. I’d love to go, you know I would.” You take a sip from the water bottle, eyes still on him for a second before lowering them. “But I can’t pause the project right now.” You twist the cap back on and slide the bottle carefully into the cup holder. “My vacation actually lines up with your triple header, though. So I’ll be at three races in a row.”
His hand stills on the steering wheel. It’s subtle, just a slight tightening of his fingers before he glances at you properly this time, no half-look. A full one.
“You will?”
The light ahead turns red and he slows, the car coming to a smooth stop.
“And you’re only telling me this now?” he says, a laugh slipping into his voice despite himself. “Casually — as though this isn’t absolutely brilliant news?”
You grin.
“I knew you’d like it.”
His mouth curves before he can stop it, the smile breaking through fully now.
“Yeah,” he admits, shaking his head once in quiet disbelief. “I really do.”
The light turns green and the car moves again, the engine humming as George drives the last few blocks in thoughtful silence.
Your workplace comes into view sooner than either of you expects.
He pulls into a spot and parks smoothly, the engine cutting off.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then George unbuckles his seatbelt first, the click sharp in the quiet car. Instead of reaching for the door, he turns toward you fully, waiting.
“You probably won’t be here anymore by the time I get home, so…” you say, unfastening your own seatbelt, the strap sliding back into place with a soft whir.
Your hand lingers on the buckle for half a second before you look at him.
You smile to yourself, amused, knowing he’s still a little affected by the news. It’s been a long while since you last went to the paddock — and he isn’t the only one who’s missed it.
When he smiles back, you pull him into a tight hug, and he returns it instantly. After a moment, you lean away just enough to cradle his face gently between your hands.
“Be careful out there with those cars. The halo protects you from a lot of things, but not everything. Don’t be silly,” you say, your voice carrying a mock severity, like a mother sending her child off to karting practice.
He nods, eyes fixed on yours as if absorbing every word completely. You continue in the same tone:
“And eat properly. There won’t be a little lunchbox waiting for you on the other side of Europe, so you actually have to take care of yourself.”
He nods again, his hand coming to rest lightly at your elbow.
“If there’s any gossip, I expect a full report.” You wink, and he smiles a little sheepishly. “And… well, I guess that’s it.”
He looks at you as if expecting something more, then purses his lips the way he always does when he’s about to deliver a very well-thought-out piece of information.
“You’re not going to remind me to buy the local spices?” George asks, one eyebrow lifting.
Your eyes widen slightly before you release his face, letting your hands rest on his shoulders instead.
“Oh! Right! The local spices,” you say, lifting your index finger as if continuing a checklist. “And a plushie. You haven’t brought one back in ages.”
He laughs.
“Alright,” he says, leaning in to press a careful kiss to your forehead. “Have a good day at work. Take care of yourself as well.”
Your hand moves to the car door handle, lingering there for a moment before you finally push it open.
“Come back soon, George,” you murmur as you step out.
“Always do,” he replies quietly.
You don’t answer, just smile before closing the door.
You walk toward work, and behind you, his car waits a second longer than necessary before slipping back into the flow of the street.
Already on the other side of the continent, inside the Mercedes facilities, George goes about his work with the precision of someone who has been doing this for years. He studies telemetry data, revisits old races where he made serious mistakes and others where everything went remarkably right, analyzing his own movements as though they might reveal what comes next.
Someone approaches from behind — a familiar face from the team. George slips one earphone out and greets them. The conversation flows easily, familiar laughter and easy smiles, and they ask about you the way someone asks after a relative. George answers just as naturally, as if speaking about his own life.
You’re doing well. You couldn’t come because work has been keeping you busy, but you said you wished you were there. And then he adds:
“She’ll be at the triple header. That’ll be nice.”
There’s an obvious smile on his face.
The day goes on, and the next one comes just the same. He does everything — speaks to everyone, takes part in interviews, moves through the intensity of race weekends like someone born for it, because in many ways, he was. It’s the realization of a dream. George loves what he does, loves everything he has worked for and achieved.
You’re at home. A friend came over for the weekend because you always find race weekends unbearably empty. She’s stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn in her hands, while you pace behind it, visibly tense.
Your special-edition Mercedes shirt, signed, like all of them are, hangs loosely over your pajama shorts. Every now and then, you pull the cap down over your eyes, as if that might protect you from what’s about to happen.
The commentator’s voice rises, running through the key details as the final four minutes tick away. Your eyes lock onto the number 63 on the screen. You’ve already chewed every nail you have left.
His car moves to the side and—
He overtakes.
The race ends. George finishes P2.
As promised, George comes home that night. You’re not asleep, of course.
The moment he opens the door, he’s met with a bear hug that nearly knocks him off balance. You practically jump into his arms, legs wrapping around his hips while his arms tighten around you instinctively.
“P2! P2! P2!” you chant, swaying slightly in his hold.
He laughs, burying his face deeper into your neck for a second before carefully setting you back down on your feet.
His eyes lift toward the dining table and take in what you’ve laid out: champagne, proper champagne, not that podium rubbish, two glasses, crisps, and pan-fried courgette.
He loves courgette.
“Would you look at this. Special treatment, is it?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.
You shrug, like it’s nothing at all.
“It’s what my champion deserves.”
“I’m not a champion. I’m P2,” he says, but he’s visibly pleased.
“Oh, hush. Come on. Let’s eat.”
You tug him by the arm toward the table, stepping away only long enough to grab the champagne and pour into both glasses while he takes a seat. You move to your usual spot, the chair along the side, close to him as he sits at the head.
With exaggerated elegance, George lifts his glass and waits for you before making a move. You pick up yours and extend it toward him.
“Alexa, play Soft Instrumental Jazz For All Your Activities, please,” he says, looking straight at you, which makes a complicit smile spread across your face.
The device glows blue.
“Playing Melody on 5th Street by Oli Venn from Soft Instrumental Jazz For All Your Activities on Spotify.”
“Thank you, Alexa. You’re brilliant,” he adds gravely, before finally tapping his glass gently against yours — a soft clink.
“To your P2 today. And to all the poles still to come,” you say, taking a sip.
“To your project,” he replies smoothly, “and to the dog we’re going to adopt.”
You blink. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’m not sure when yet, but it’s happening.”
The conversation carries on the way it always does: easy, gentle, slipping naturally from one subject to the next. He fills you in on things he had already mentioned over text, paddock updates, small stories, the people who asked about you. You talk about your work too, about the friend who stayed over, about what you’ll need from the supermarket and the best time to go.
Eventually, you both decide that, with the triple header coming up, it’s better to leave the monthly grocery run until after you’re back. Neither of you wants food going bad in the fridge again — the lingering smell from past mistakes is a lesson painfully learned.
When dinner ends, George helps you clear the table. He carries the plates to the sink, and there’s a silent agreement between you that the dishes can wait until tomorrow. You put the champagne away and store the leftovers in the fridge.
Jazz continues to drift softly through the air, and as you walk past George, he catches your hand smoothly. You barely notice it at first, not until your arm stretches behind you and you turn back, confused. He raises an eyebrow and gently pulls you toward him.
“I think this moment calls for a dance. A P2 dance, don’t you?” he says, invitingly.
You laugh and nod, your hands settling on his shoulders. George’s hands find your waist, and with an ease that feels almost rehearsed, the two of you glide through the space between the dining area and the living room, moving together to whatever song Alexa has decided to play next.
“Thank you for dinner,” he says sincerely, his voice soft.
“Of course, George,” you reply. He smiles.
When the song ends and another begins, you both come to a stop. Your hands slide down from his shoulders before you step closer, pulling him into one last hug.
“You need to rest. Tomorrow we’re doing absolutely nothing,” you tell him.
“Can’t wait,” he answers, a smile evident in his voice.
At last, the contact breaks, and he leans down to press a courteous kiss to your hand like a proper lord.
“Good night, fair madam.”
You let out a laugh.
“Good night, George.”
With a wink in your direction, he finally heads off toward his room, and you do the same, retreating to yours.
The first day of the triple header arrives with an excitement George wasn’t expecting.
When he wakes up, you’re already a whirlwind moving through the flat. Clothes are scattered everywhere, waiting to be sorted; toiletries are lined up on the sofa; a tied-up trash bag sits by the door, ready to be taken out before you leave for the airport. Nearly everything is prepared.
“Good morning?” he greets, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“Morning, handsome! We’re on holiday!” you announce, stepping out from behind the counter with both arms raised. “Well, I am. You’re not, ha-ha.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose and walks over to the sofa, picking up the neatly stacked Mercedes shirts resting on the armrest.
George shakes one of the shirts out with a small snap, inspecting it like it requires professional evaluation.
“Do I need all of these?” he asks, holding up two nearly identical team polos.
“Yes,” you answer immediately, not even looking at him. “You spill things.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. Sauce. Coffee. That weird oil you use when you’re hovering around the mechanics pretending you know what you’re doing.”
That makes him laugh properly this time.
He folds one of the polos with surprising precision before setting it into the open suitcase. You move past him again, brushing his shoulder without thinking, reaching for your passport on the counter.
“Did you pack chargers?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“The one that only works if you bend it at a specific angle?”
He pauses.
“…I will pack that one now.”
You grin triumphantly and step closer, slipping past him to grab it from the drawer.
“Excited?” you ask suddenly, softer this time.
He considers it.
“For the racing?” he replies.
“For all of it.”
He looks around. The half-packed suitcase, the scattered clothes, you standing there with his faulty charger in hand like you’ve just won a battle.
“Yes,” he says simply.
When you arrive at the airport, Charles and Alexandra are already there. They greet you from afar, and you immediately run toward the girl, who runs toward you as well, the two of you colliding into a tight hug. You’d been so happy when George told you they would be traveling with you.
George comes up right behind, carrying both suitcases. Charles leans casually against Alexandra’s luggage, and the two share a knowing look, the kind that silently says, “these girls…”. When you finally pull apart after nearly fainting at the sight of Alexandra’s engagement ring for the first time, George steps forward to congratulate her. You pull Charles into a hug.
You’re halfway to boarding the jet when Charles glances at George with an expression that spells trouble.
“So,” he begins lightly, “when is George finally going to propose as well?”
Alexandra elbows him immediately.
“Stop it,” she mutters.
He only laughs.
“Well, I don’t know…” George says, his gaze dropping to you conspiratorially, which says everything. “Would you say yes if I asked you to marry me?”
“Absolutely not,” you reply without missing a beat, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
He looks at Charles and gives a small shrug.
“Well. There you have it.”
The only thing you catch is Charles muttering, “My God, will they ever sort that out?” before everyone settles into their seats.
Pretending to be George’s social media manager, you hold your phone right up to his face while the two of you walk through the paddock, competing dramatically with the real media team trailing behind.
It’s easily the most entertaining part of the day.
“Since you’re here…” the actual social media guy says, turning the camera toward you.
You immediately lift a hand to cover your face, laughing.
George lets out a quiet snort.
“We’d like to know… does George give you trouble at home?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I can still back out of this, can’t I?” George says, feigning irritation.
You lower your hand and pretend to think.
“Well… no. But he does autograph the groceries.”
The media guy laughs.
George nods seriously.
“Obviously. Imagine how great it is to eat sweetcorn straight from a tin signed Russell 63.’”
He gestures vaguely.
“You could even resell it at a premium, frankly.”
The social media guy takes another step closer, clearly enjoying himself.
“And does she give you trouble, George?”
George hums thoughtfully. “Oh, absolutely. Makes a slave out of me. Forces me to drive her everywhere.”
You glance at him from beneath your lashes, utterly unimpressed.
“You are such a liar. Honestly. And not even a little ashamed.”
“Look straight into that camera and say it’s a lie,” he says, pointing at the phone. “I dare you.”
You look directly at the camera, planting your hands on your hips.
“George Russell lies.”
He rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive gesture toward the social media guy.
“That’s enough. She’s grounded now. No public appearances until the end of the month.”
You gasp dramatically.
“Unbelievable. This is censorship.”
The social media guy laughs behind the camera. “We’re keeping that in.”
George points at him. “You absolutely are not.”
You lean toward the phone one last time. “See you next month, everyone.”
The social media guy finally turns off the camera and waves goodbye as you both approach the Mercedes motorhome. Toto Wolff is standing nearby with Susie, who lights up the moment she sees the two of you arriving together.
“You came! I thought George wasn’t serious,” Susie says warmly.
George looks personally offended. “What is this? Why does everyone suddenly think I’m a liar?”
Toto laughs, stepping forward. He places a hand on your shoulder in that almost paternal way of his before giving your hand a firm squeeze.
“How are you, young lady? Everything alright?”
“All good, Toto. I’m happy to be here,” you reply with an easy smile. “How about you two?”
“We’re very well,” Susie says. “We’re just off to speak with the Academy girls, but we’ll be back shortly.”
“Make yourself at home,” Toto adds. “They’re waiting for George inside, but you already know your way around.”
The farewell is easy, casual. And then they head off, leaving the two of you standing just outside the motorhome.
“Alex said the girls are getting together in the hospitality. I think I’ll spend some time with them while you’re working,” you say.
“Alright. I’ll find you later,” George replies.
You lean in to kiss his cheek, and his arm wraps around you in a quick, familiar hug before you both turn in opposite directions.
“Have fun!” he calls out just before breaking into a jog the rest of the way inside.
The conversation around the table revolved around Alex’s engagement ring. She was glowing, and everyone was genuinely happy for her. There was a softness to the group — an unspoken familiarity shaped by race weekends, waiting rooms, and the quiet understanding that came from loving people whose lives rarely stood still.
Eventually, after one last lingering look at the diamond sparkling on Alex’s finger and a wide smile, Isabella finally turned to you. She rested her chin on her folded hands, curiosity written all over her face.
“And you and George? How long have you been together?” she asked.
You took a sip of your juice, and the answer came as quickly as it always did.
“Oh, we’ve been living together for… four years? Yeah, I think that’s right.”
She looked impressed and leaned back in her chair.
“Wow. That’s a long relationship.”
Alexandra cut in, slightly uncomfortable after a brief glance shared with Lily — the kind that said more than she meant it to.
“Ah, she and George aren’t… actually a couple,” Alexandra said with a tight smile.
You looked from one to the other, eyes widening.
“Oh! Is that what you meant?” You smile, shaking your head as you trace a finger along the rim of your glass. “No, no. I needed somewhere to stay when I first moved to Monaco for work. A mutual friend introduced us because George had a spare room.”
You pause briefly, almost amused. “I was only supposed to stay there until I found my own place.”
You don’t notice the weight of the silence that lingers at the table for a beat too long until Alicia gently breaks it.
“That’s… really nice,” she says, always careful with her words. “If you ever need to, I’m moving to Monaco to be closer to Ollie. A roommate is always welcome.” She pauses, then adds playfully, “That goes for all of you. Except Alex.”
She delivers the last part in a teasing tone, and just like that, the table slips back into laughter — wedding plans, venues, guest lists, the kind of bright joy that fills the air easily.
It’s only you who doesn’t fully join in.
You smile when expected, nod at the right moments, but your thoughts stay somewhere else — circling what you said, and what Alicia offered. Every now and then, your fingers drift to the bracelet around your wrist, absentmindedly twisting it as the conversation carries on without you.
The weekend unfolds exactly as it should: media duties, dinners with good company, and George walking you to your bedroom door like a proper gentleman before heading to his own. You waking up far too early just to wake him, the two of you strolling through the paddock together, you lingering behind the scenes, chatting easily, completely integrated into it all.
The practice sessions come, the close calls, the tense moments, then race day arrives. And when George finishes P2 again, you celebrate in parc fermé, because this time, you’re there. You can breathe in the sweet, unmistakable scent of champagne soaking into the damp race suit.
The smile on his face is priceless, and it reverberates through your body as if it belongs to you.
And then, just like that, the weekend folds itself away. Flights. Suitcases. A blur of goodbyes and quiet hotel corridors.
You move on to the next week — the penultimate race of the season, but your mind isn’t where it should be. In fact, it hasn’t been for days now. You keep thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
You’re in his room, having just arrived and settled in. George sits at the edge of the bed, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, phone forgotten in one hand, while you lie sprawled across the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.
He watches you for a moment before speaking.
“Your thoughts are rather loud tonight,” his voice is light, though softened at the edges. He rubs a thumb absently along the side of his phone. “Care to share what’s going on in that head of yours, or shall I wait for you to turn the volume down?”
You let out a small breath of a laugh through your nose, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
“Alicia said that if I ever needed to, she has a spare room.”
His fingers still.
George shifts slightly, setting his phone beside him on the bed before turning his head toward you.
“Did she?” he asks, tone neutral, almost polite.
You nod faintly, one arm sliding behind your head.
“We were just talking. The girls. They asked when we… well, when we… met.” The word comes out a fraction too late. “I told them the story. About the flat. After university.” Your fingers trace an absent pattern over the duvet. “That we agreed it would be temporary.”
A quiet beat passes.
George exhales softly through his nose, gaze dropping to his hands as he rubs his palms together once, thoughtfully.
“Right,” he murmurs.
You shift slightly on the bed but don’t look at him. Your eyes remain fixed on the ceiling because you… don’t quite know where else to look.
“And then?” you ask quietly.
He furrows his brow and turns slightly, giving you his profile. There’s a flicker of surprise in his expression, almost indignation. As if the question itself isn’t entirely fair.
“And then what?” he asks, quieter now. “I don’t really know what you expect me to say.” He looks away briefly. “Are you saying you don’t want to live with me anymore?”
A pause.
“It’s been four years.”
Four years.
You close your eyes.
“It has been four years,” you admit softly.
He notices the question you avoided — but he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, George stands and walks over to his suitcase, unzipping it with more focus than necessary as he pulls out his pyjamas.
You understand.
Of course you do.
Even if the weight of it feels new — and strangely unfamiliar.
You slide off the bed, the mattress dipping back into place as if you’d never been there at all. You slip your phone into your pocket and head toward the door, slower than usual.
Halfway there, you pause.
You turn back.
He’s still by the suitcase, shoulders slightly tense, taking things out of the bag he doesn’t really need to unpack, only to put them back again.
“Good night, George,” you say softly, a quiet hesitation threading through the words, bracing for silence.
He stills for a fraction of a second before looking up, giving you only his profile again — because he knows you’re capable of seeing everything. A small smile appears, not automatic, but offered.
“Good night,” he replies.
You hold his gaze a moment longer than you mean to. Then you leave, closing the door gently behind you.
The consistency begins to falter. George doesn’t finish on the podium in any of the final races, but you don’t see any sharp shift in him. He’s still George.
He hasn’t been talking to you much, that’s true — but there are reasons for that. Loose ends to tie up. Debriefs that stretch longer than they should. There’s always something left unfinished before you can properly go home. It’s never really the end of a season. You know that.
He just seems more tired. A little less steely. Quieter. Less like the man who signs your shirts and pickle jars with exaggerated ceremony, and more like a driver at the tail end of something long and demanding.
You can’t blame him so you stay.
You board the flight after a particularly difficult meeting for him. They wanted to understand what, beyond the car’s performance, had shifted — why he hadn’t quite managed to reach the same level he’d been operating at before. But George couldn’t offer them anything concrete. Just the promise that preparations for next season would be sharper, heavier, more relentless. That he would be ready to give everything he gave this year — and more.
George sleeps through the entire flight and still, when you reach the front door of your flat, he looks utterly exhausted.
You both leave the suitcases by the door, leaning against the small cabinet in the entryway. There’s an unspoken agreement that you’ll unpack tomorrow. Or the day after… or eventually.
George slips off his jacket and hangs it up, then reaches a hand out for yours. You give it to him, and he hangs it beside his with the same quiet care as always.
“I think I’ll try to sleep a bit more,” he says, already unbuttoning his shirt.
You watch him for a moment, his face, the faint crease between his brows carved by a worry you wish you could smooth away with your thumb until it vanished completely, leaving only that easy, familiar joy behind.
Instead, you nod.
“Okay,” you say softly. “I’ll make some tea. Do you want a cup?”
He shakes his head. That never happens.
And then he leaves you there, with no desire for tea at all.
You can’t sleep, so you stay in the living room with the lights low, trying to read a book only to realize you’ve read the same page five times without absorbing a single word.
Your eyes drift to George’s bedroom door more often than you’d like, then pull away again, as you tug the blanket up to your chin as if it could shield you from whatever it is that still hasn’t been named.
It’s only half an hour later that his door opens.
“You still haven’t gone to bed?” he asks quietly.
The sight almost makes you cry: George wearing only a pair of sleep shorts, his hair a complete mess, eyes faintly swollen with a kind of sleep that never quite came.
You shake your head.
“I’m not sleepy,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek.
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. His tongue brushes over his lips as he looks down at the floor, rocking slightly on his feet. You tilt your head to the side.
“I can’t sleep,” he admits, like it’s a secret. “Would you… well, would you mind lying down with me? Just until I fall asleep, maybe. I don’t know. I suppose that sounds a bit odd.”
You don’t answer right away. Your brows lift because… because this is new. And of course, he takes your silence the wrong way.
“Right. Yes. It is odd. That’s alright, I—”
“George,” you say, cutting him off. He looks up at you. “I’ll sleep with you. Of course I will.”
He stops. Just for a moment. A moment so quiet it doesn’t even stretch. He looks at you as if searching for something, some sign that you only said it to be polite, that it wasn’t real. But you’re already getting up, setting the book down on the sofa.
And then… you’re walking toward him. You take his hand. And lead him to his room.
You lie down first because George doesn’t seem to have fully understood yet that this is actually happening. You know why: this is forbidden territory. You’ve never slept together before. Not on trips, not at home, not even when he was ill or when you were. This is the line that was never crossed. This isn’t normal.
And yet, when he lifts his eyes, you’re already there — lying back against the pillows, pulling the blanket up slightly in a quiet invitation he accepts with hesitation.
He approaches the bed carefully, watching you as though you might vanish if he moves too quickly, and then lies down beside you. You don’t hesitate. Your arms slip around him, guiding him closer until he’s resting against you, using you as a pillow. Your fingers find his hair, stroking slowly.
“You can sleep now,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
George melts. He doesn’t even hug you back, just stays there, resting against you as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
You hum softly, some melody he recognizes from the instrumental jazz playlists you share, and at last his eyes drift closed. With your fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair, and the quiet song carried gently by your voice, he finally falls asleep.
George wakes the next morning to the soft sound of your breathing above his head. His eyes take a moment to adjust, the room still dark — blinds drawn shut, the only light coming from the humidifier glowing faintly atop the dresser.
In the next moment, he realizes he can’t move — your arms have caged him in, and your legs are nearly tied around his in a knot. But he doesn’t want to move, so it’s alright. He’s content to stay there, holding you for a few more minutes, or hours, or however long it takes for you to rest completely.
He stays like that a while longer, eyes closed though sleep doesn’t come, thinking about… well, he can’t lie. He’s thinking about the conversation. The same way he had the night before when he couldn’t sleep, and on the plane when it slipped into his dreams, and in the car, during practice sessions and races.
George, who had always known how to separate his personal life, his professional world, and his emotions, now found himself unable to tell where one ended and the other began.
When you wake, it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t notice.
You glance down at the tangled mess of limbs the two of you have become, and your first instinct is to pull away because this… this isn’t how things are. It looks too much like something you don’t do, something you’ve never been.
But then George’s eyes meet yours.
You blink once, sleep slowly fading, and realize he looks like he’s about to cry.
“What is it?” you ask, your voice rough with sleep, still soft enough to sound gentle.
His gaze slips away as he lets his forehead rest against your collarbone.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper.
Your hand moves to the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking lightly — comfort, but also a quiet request for him to look at you.
“Hmm? George…”
He lifts his face again, and now you can see it clearly.
Exhaustion.
“I asked you not to go,” he repeats.
You’re a little startled, a little worried, your mind still hazy from having just woken up. Your fingers move gently through his hair, brushing a few strands back behind his ear.
“Love, go where?” you ask, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally between you, your brow furrowing as your forehead comes to rest against his.
“Go. To Alicia’s. To the flat next door. To nowhere,” he says, eyes still closed.
Oh.
That’s it.
It was always that.
You let out a slow breath through your nose, and he opens his eyes, unable to understand why you’re laughing now.
“George,” you say softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks at you, a little confused. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see the question forming plainly on his face.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you repeat in a whisper. “And I definitely won’t manage to if you keep squashing me like this. How am I supposed to make us breakfast when you’re holding me hostage here?”
For a moment, you think George truly isn’t going to let you go. He looks at you as if you’re some sort of Christmas miracle, his post-sleep face still marked with the faint imprint of having rested against something textured, the creases soft but visible along his cheek.
Then he nudges his nose lightly against yours, stealing a quiet laugh from you. And finally, finally, he lets you go, dramatically collapsing back onto the bed.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and, before standing up, add casually,
“You’ve got morning breath. Go brush your teeth before you dare show up in my kitchen.”
On your way to the door, you feel a pillow hit you square in the back. You burst into laughter, not even turning around as you head toward the kitchen.
Something has changed. You’re not sure what it is, but it has.
You’re at the supermarket. The shopping list is in your hands, and you point to the crisps on the very top shelf. George — perfectly suited for retrieving things far, far out of reach — stretches his arm and grabs them for you as if it’s nothing.
Natural. Fine.
Except his other hand rests lightly against the small of your back while he does it.
You don’t quite understand the behaviour, but you don’t question it either. You just stand there, a little stiff, and when he lowers himself again to place the packet into the trolley, his hand doesn’t move away. In fact, he uses both hands to gently guide you aside, clearing the way to the cart.
You blink. And the shopping continues.
In the car, you put on a song. It’s loud, full of twists, with an incredible beat that makes you dance like a child. George knows it too, so he sings along with you — shouting the lyrics and drumming against the steering wheel when the chorus hits. He even does the classic little pout and head-bobbing motion like a turtle.
When the car stops at the light, he looks at you. It’s nothing, really. Just a second too long — and you… you register it.
Then the car moves again.
At night, you both get ready for dinner. Alex and Lily invited you, so of course you’re going. When has George ever said no to Alex in his life?
You rest after the supermarket, watching a film — each of you on your side of the sofa, a large, heavily buttered bowl of popcorn between you to share. When it’s time to get ready, George nudges your leg with his big toe and gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head.
“I’ll go get ready. Otherwise we’ll be late,” he says.
You nod. He stands. You stand too. He turns off the TV; you take the popcorn bowl to the kitchen. Together, you brush away the small crumbs left on the sofa, and then each of you heads off to your rooms.
From the bathroom, he calls out for you to bring his shaving cream. Wandering through the flat in your robe, you grab it from his dresser and take it to him. He thanks you, and you continue on to the laundry room to pick up the bra you want to wear.
An hour later, George is ready, sitting on the living room sofa with his suit perfectly adjusted, scrolling through his phone with his legs crossed, his foot bouncing absentmindedly.
You step out of your bedroom.
“George, can you help me zip this up?” you ask, one hand reaching behind your back to hold the fastening of your dress in place.
He nods, still looking at his phone as he locks the screen, then stands, slipping it distractedly into his pocket. His eyes lift to you.
You don’t notice it — but George blinks once more than necessary before stepping closer, moving with careful, almost measured caution. His hand moves to the zipper, and your perfume reaches him before he even begins to pull it up with ease. He exhales. His finger brushes lightly against the skin of your back, and you have a small, completely involuntary spasm — your ribs tightening for a second, your body swaying without meaning to. He steadies you with one hand at your waist, then finishes pulling the zipper closed.
Done.
“Thank you,” you say, brushing your hair off your shoulder and letting it fall down your back.
He hasn’t quite stepped away yet. He busies himself with his cufflinks, though they don’t seem to need fixing.
“Of course,” he says.
It’s only outside the restaurant, while you’re waiting for Alex and Lily, that he looks at you again — the easy conversation between you thinning for a second. He seems unsure of himself, hands slipping into his pockets before he finally says,
“You look beautiful.”
He’s said it so many times before that you don’t immediately understand why it feels different now. Maybe it’s the pause beforehand. Maybe it’s the hesitation that wasn’t there before. Still, you answer.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.”
He looks at you. You look at him. There’s the faintest smile at the corner of his mouth, and one mirrors it on yours. For a moment, it feels like you’re standing in something quiet and shared — something that belongs only to the two of you.
And then… Voices
You both step apart a little too quickly, like teenagers who think they’ve been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, and turn to greet your friends.
Two nights later, it’s you who calls for him.
You’re in the living room — he’s on the simulator, you’re on the sofa reading your book. Eventually, he finishes his session, saying something through his headset to whoever he’d been playing with, then stretches, arms lifting as he lets out a quiet groan.
“Done?” you ask, glancing up at him.
“Mm-hm,” he replies, tipping his head back.
You set your book aside and trace absent patterns along the fabric of the throw, thinking for a moment. He stretches, rolling his shoulders, eyes drifting around the room until they settle on you — still curled into the sofa with your book.
Something soft crosses his expression.
“George,” you say quietly, even though he’s already looking at you.
“Hm?”
“Do you remember when I slept in your room the other night?” A pause. “I… haven’t been sleeping much.” You glance at him. “Would that be alright?”
“Oh,” he says, concern slipping into his voice. He’s already climbing out of the simulator before the word is fully out. “I… yeah, sure. I just need to grab a few things from my room, alright? Then we’ll go to yours.”
You nod.
He’s gone almost immediately, disappearing down the hallway toward his bedroom.
You sit there for a second longer than necessary. And then — a small smile curves at the corner of your mouth.
Tonight, the walk to the bedroom isn’t dramatic. It isn’t wrapped in hesitation or that fragile tension from the other night. This time, it feels simple. Intentional.
You go ahead of George, slipping off your earrings and setting them carefully on the dresser. You straighten the bed out of habit, smooth the sheets with your palms, then lower the lights until only the soft glow of the bedside lamp remains.
A quiet calm settles over the room.
Then you hear his footsteps in the hallway.
He pauses at the doorway.
You turn toward him.
“You took your shirt off,” you say — and instantly wish you hadn’t.
George glances down at himself, blinking.
“Yeah, I— well… you know I sleep like this. I can… put it back on, if you’d rather.”
You blink, then shake your head quickly.
“No… no, oh my God. Of course you sleep like this. I know that,” you mumble, words tangling together as they leave you.
He watches you for another moment before a quiet laugh escapes him. Your hand comes up to your forehead.
He steps closer, finally entering the room properly and coming to stand in front of you. Your eyes stay on his face, but it’s impossible not to let them drop for a second. He notices, of course.
“See something you like?” he teases, his voice low and amused.
You roll your eyes and give him a light push, suddenly very aware of how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers.
“Come on. Let’s sleep.”
You both climb into bed — him first, you right after. George lifts the covers over the two of you, and you stretch slightly to switch off the bedside lamp before settling properly against the mattress.
In the complete darkness, George slips an arm around your waist and gently pulls you closer. You don’t protest. In fact, you don’t say anything at all — you press one lip against the other, hiding a small smile, and nestle into his body.
And just like that, the two of you fall asleep.
This whole sleeping-together arrangement — always wrapped in slightly awkward requests — goes on for another week before it begins to feel almost normal.
You don’t even ask anymore.
His bedroom, once minimalist, slowly starts to merge with your things: a bottle of perfume appearing on the dresser, a folded pair of pyjamas in the first drawer, then two, then three. Your skincare products follow soon after, lined up carefully beside his things — objects that clearly don’t belong to him, yet somehow already do.
One night, you notice him poking at them with quiet curiosity.
“Find something interesting there?” you ask, stepping into the room, drying your hair with a towel.
He lifts a serum in one hand and a moisturiser in the other, studying them like unfamiliar machinery.
“You have far too many things,” he says, turning the bottles slightly as if the labels might explain themselves. “How does any of this work? I only use three things.”
And then you get an idea.
“Come here,” you say, taking his hand and tugging him gently toward the bathroom.
Still looking slightly bewildered, and somehow still holding the moisturiser, he lets himself be led. You gesture toward the closed toilet lid. He arches an eyebrow.
“Just sit down,” you say, rolling your eyes at him.
He does, slowly, like he suspects this might be a trap. Before he can say anything, though, you hurry back to the bedroom to grab what you’ll need — the little pouch and the things still resting on the dresser.
When you return, you’re already in your pyjamas, a towel wrapped loosely around your hair, strands escaping near your neck where they’ve begun to dry. You step closer without hesitation, as if dragging him into your nighttime routine is the most obvious thing in the world.
“What exactly is happening?” he asks.
“Skincare.”
“I do skincare.”
“I know,” you say, already tying a soft headband around his hair, pushing his fringe back until it sticks up in every direction. The sight makes you laugh under your breath. “But now you’re doing my skincare.”
“You’re laughing at me, but this feels rather serious,” he says, suspicious.
“Oh, it is serious,” you reply, holding up a bottle. “Cleanser first. And absolutely no cheap, ridiculous soap. Close your eyes.”
He closes his eyes. You step closer, and one of them opens again, just a quick check. You’re standing there with the cleanser in hand, mere inches from his face. You shrug. A smile spreads across George’s lips, and he obediently shuts his eyes again.
The moment the first drops of cleanser touch his skin and you bring the little sponge to his face, he pulls a dramatic grimace.
“This thing is freezing,” he complains. “Feels like that gel they use for pregnancy ultrasounds.”
Good Lord, this man’s brain. You frown, a laugh escaping anyway.
“How many ultrasounds have you even been to in your life?”
You keep working the cleanser gently across his skin.
“You’d be surprised,” he says.
You pause just long enough to glance at him suspiciously.
“You’re secretly a father and never told me? Because I feel like that’s something I should know.”
You dampen the towel slightly and bring it back to his face, carefully wiping away the cleanser. George keeps his mouth firmly shut so he doesn’t end up tasting soap.
When you need to reach for something higher on the counter, you use him for balance without thinking, a hand braced lightly on his shoulder. You grab the bottle, then settle back down on his lap, the product now in your hand.
His palm comes to rest on your thigh automatically.
You don’t notice at first. You’re too focused on twisting the cap open. It’s only when you tilt the bottle to pour some into his face that you notice the stillness. His hand hasn’t moved. And he’s… tense.
“You’re breathing weird,” you say softly, before you can stop yourself.
A flicker of embarrassment crosses his features, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You’re sitting on me,” he replies, equally quiet.
That makes your lips part slightly. The joke is right there. You could take it. You usually would. But you don’t.
You let a few drops of serum fall onto his cheeks, closing the bottle before setting it carefully on the sink. Then you begin to spread it gently across his skin.
George watches your eyes for a moment and just before you fully notice, he closes his own.
Your fingers keep moving, slow and careful, smoothing the product along his face. And then your thumb brushes once, accidentally, maybe, along the corner of his mouth.
His hand tightens, just a little.
When you’re done, you reach out to grab the towel to wipe your hands because… well, you’re not going to say it out loud. But you really don’t want to get up.
“George… now we move on to the—”
You stop yourself mid-sentence.
His eyes are open.
His other hand comes to rest against your back, almost absentmindedly, as though steadying you without quite realizing it. You don’t finish what you were going to say. You don’t say anything at all. Your gaze stays caught on his, your lips parting slightly just to let the air pass.
All at once, the bathroom feels smaller.
Closer.
George’s eyes drift slowly across your face, unhurried, searching, until they settle on your mouth. His head tilts upward, almost without intention, like his body moves before he has the chance to think better of it.
Your hand rises to his face again, your thumb brushing slowly over his lower lip.
George looks dangerously close to begging. His lips tremble beneath your touch.
And then you finally shatter whatever restraint still exists between you.
Your hand lifts first, fingers sliding into his hair, pushing the headband up and off without breaking eye contact. It falls somewhere behind him, forgotten. You lean in, your mouth finding his with intention. It isn’t hesitant the way it should be. It isn’t gentle. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened at all, but now… it’s ravenous.
A possessive sound slips from George’s throat as he leans into you, deepening the kiss instinctively. One hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing just enough to pull you closer, while the other slides slowly up your thigh.
A soft sound escapes you, something that could very easily be called a moan.
That undoes him completely. George is ruined.
He rises to his feet with you still in his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The towel that had been wrapped around your hair slips loose and falls to the floor.
He presses you back against the wall, the kiss never breaking, fierce, hungry, his mouth moving against yours as though he truly intends to consume you. Years and years of nothing and everything at once spilling over into a desperate fusion of something neither of you even knew existed.
George breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, only for his mouth to move to your neck instead. He kisses, bites, sucks at your skin, and you simply tilt your head back, granting him access, your lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your hands cling to his back, searching for something steady to hold onto.
He bites a little harder at the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, and when a surprised little cry escapes you, he laughs low and pleased before lifting you away from the wall and carrying you toward the bedroom, still kissing you the entire way.
You wake in the middle of the night and, for a brief moment, it feels like nothing has changed.
Then you glance over your shoulder.
George is right there — his lips resting against your shoulder, his hand intertwined with yours in the loose embrace that keeps you tucked against his body.
Completely naked.
Oh my God.
A quiet laugh slips out of you, half-muffled into the pillow — but of course he hears it.
“What’s so funny?” George asks, his voice so sleepy it’s almost ridiculous.
“We’re naked,” you whisper.
He shifts slightly, and you know he’s looking now. A second later, you hear that unmistakable laugh of his, low and warm, and you feel the mattress dip as he lifts himself just enough to brush his nose against your earlobe.
“We are indeed,” he murmurs.
Your head tips back against his chest, and his hand slides up, gently cupping the side of your jaw. Your smile is small, sleepy, and painfully real.
“You alright?” George asks softly, his thumb brushing under your chin.
You nod and purse your lips, waiting for a kiss. He smiles and leans down, pressing a slow, warm kiss to your mouth, his hand finally sliding over your skin until it reaches a particularly sensitive spot.
“Alright,” you murmur, still with your eyes closed, lips lingering just inches from his. “But, hey, careful with that wandering hand. I might want to do everything all over again.”
“Oh, imagine that. What a terrible fate for this poor George.”
You laugh. He laughs. Then you turn fully toward him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, and he nods as if it’s the highest compliment.
Now you’re facing each other, eyes smiling more than your mouths.
“Why doesn’t this feel weird?” you ask quietly.
His lip twists in a thoughtful shrug, and his fingers begin tracing absent patterns along your hip.
“I think it was meant to happen a long time ago.”
You nod.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he echoes. Then, softer, “But it’s good.”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
“Very good.”
“Very good.”
He’s laughing quietly now, and so are you. Then George leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Do you want tea?” he asks.
“Mmm. I do,” you reply.
He shifts as if to get up and gestures toward the door with his head.
“Shall we?”
You glance down at yourself.
“Naked?”
He shrugs lightly.
“It’s our house.”
Your smile grows even wider.
Yeah. It is our house.
You take his hand, and without a single worry in the world, the two of you walk out to the kitchen exactly as you are.
You’re getting ready to travel for Christmas, but before that, there’s one more plan: Alex and Lily invited you both to the cinema to watch a film before everyone heads off in different directions and you won’t see each other again until pre-season.
Now you and George are sitting in the car, you finishing off your ponytail while checking your reflection in the mirror.
“Are we telling them?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.
“Hmmm… no,” George replies thoughtfully. “I think we should wait until the start of the year. Keep it a secret.”
“Okay. Yeah, I like that,” you say.
You both lean in instinctively, laughing under your breath, your lips brushing in a quick, conspiratorial kiss.
And then—
Tap. Tap.
A knock against the window.
When you open your eyes, Alex’s enormous grin on the other side of the glass makes you let out a small, startled squeak.
“What is that?!” George says, turning sharply.
He spots him, laughs, throws his head back and covers his eyes with one hand.
“Well,” he sighs dramatically, “there goes the mystery.”
You shake your head, but there’s still a smile lingering on your lips as you finally step out of the car.
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 7
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
You stayed until nearly midnight.
It wasn’t intentional. Every time you looked at the clock, another half hour seemed to have disappeared.
Tucker brought out the brownies he had apparently made earlier that afternoon, prompting Logan to reappear from upstairs despite insisting he had gone to bed. Hannah tried to teach Garrett how to braid her hair while he complained that his hands were too big, and Dean spent fifteen minutes attempting to learn new signs from you.
He already knew how to spell things, technically. He had practised the alphabet enough to work his way through words if he concentrated, but fingerspelling everything took him so long that Logan threatened to graduate before Dean finished introducing himself.
So instead, you started teaching him actual signs.
Or tried to.
Tucker helped when Dean’s limited vocabulary made your explanations difficult, translating as you showed him simple everyday signs—eat, drink, movie, friend. Dean repeated each one with intense focus, his brows furrowed as he tried to get the movements right.
Dean listened more seriously than you expected him to.
“So I don’t just spell everything?”
You shook your head.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because I think I’d die before finishing a sentence.”
Garrett looked over from Hannah’s half-finished braid. “We can only hope.”
Dean ignored him. His attention stayed fixed on you.
“What else?”
You hesitated, then showed him another sign—thank you.
He copied you, slower this time.
“Like this?”
You nodded.
He repeated it again, more confident.
“Okay. I like that one.”
You smiled.
“Teach me something harder.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Not too hard,” he added quickly. “I’m still new at this.”
You showed him goodnight.
Dean watched closely, then tried it himself. His hand placement was slightly off, so you reached up and adjusted it, guiding his movement gently.
“Like this?”
You nodded.
He repeated it again, this time getting it right.
“That’s actually kind of cool.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
Around you, the others had grown suspiciously quiet. When you glanced across the room, Hannah was watching the two of you with a softness in her eyes that made warmth creep into your face.
Garrett broke the silence first.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Dean didn’t look away from you.
“Way too late for that.”
It was close to midnight when Hannah finally stood and stretched, announcing that she had an early class and Garrett had promised to walk her home.
You began collecting your things, sliding your phone charger into your bag and checking beneath the coffee table for the pen you had dropped earlier.
Dean stood immediately.
“I’ll take you home.”
You straightened and shook your head, reaching for your phone.
I can walk.
“It’s dark.”
I’ve walked home in the dark before.
“I know.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, suddenly looking less certain.
“I’d still rather take you.”
The words weren’t controlling. He didn’t block the doorway or try to decide for you. He just stood there, waiting for your answer, as if driving you home was something he wanted rather than an obligation he had assigned himself.
You typed.
Walk or drive?
Dean glanced toward the window. Rain streaked the glass, thin streams illuminated by the porch light.
“Drive.”
You’ve been drinking?
His eyebrows lifted.
“No. I had soda.”
You studied his face.
He placed one hand over his heart. “I swear on my beautiful car.”
Logan snorted. “That’s the only oath he takes seriously.”
You smiled and pulled your coat on.
Okay.
Dean grabbed his keys so quickly that Garrett laughed.
“Try not to look too eager.”
“I always look this good.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Dean held the front door open for you, then turned to give Garrett a rude gesture behind your back.
You saw Garrett’s reaction and looked over your shoulder.
Dean immediately transformed the gesture into an awkward wave.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Goodnight,” he said innocently.
The rain had grown heavier by the time you reached Dean’s car.
He hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door before you could reach the handle.
You paused.
Dean leaned against the open door. “Don’t make it weird.”
You raised one eyebrow.
“My mother raised me correctly.”
You glanced pointedly back toward the house, where a sock was still hanging over the banister, visible through the front window.
“That has nothing to do with me.”
Your smile widened as you climbed inside.
The car smelled faintly of leather, peppermint gum, and the cologne Dean seemed incapable of applying in moderation. The interior was surprisingly tidy, apart from two empty coffee cups in the centre console and a collection of hockey equipment shoved into the back.
Dean got into the driver’s side and started the engine.
Music immediately blasted through the speakers.
You jumped.
“Shit.”
He turned it down so fast that the knob nearly came off in his hand.
“Sorry. Garrett drove it earlier.”
You looked at him.
He stared back.
Neither of you believed his excuse.
You typed on your phone.
Do you always listen to music that loud?
Dean glanced at the screen and shrugged. “Sometimes.”
You’re going to damage your hearing.
“Then you’ll have to teach me sign language faster.”
You tried to glare at him, but the grin pulling at your mouth ruined it.
He laughed and pulled away from the curb.
For the first few minutes, Dean attempted to keep a conversation going.
He asked which residence building you lived in even though you had already given him the address. Then he asked whether you had enjoyed the movie, only to remember that Logan had talked over most of it. He launched into a story about the time Tucker had banned him from the kitchen after an incident involving a blender and a badly secured lid.
You listened, smiling when appropriate, but responding was harder in the dark car. You couldn’t type easily while he was driving and he didn’t know enough ASL for anything more complicated than a greeting.
Dean seemed to realise it at the same time you did.
His story trailed off.
“Sorry.”
You looked over.
“I’m doing it again.”
You frowned.
“Talking at you instead of with you.”
You shook your head, but he kept his eyes on the road.
“I don’t want you to have to sit there while I fill the entire drive with my voice.”
You unlocked your phone, typed a reply, then waited until he stopped at a red light before holding it toward him.
I like listening to you.
Dean read the message.
For once, he didn’t have an immediate response.
The traffic light turned green, and a car behind him honked.
He lifted a hand in apology before driving forward.
“You like listening to me?”
You nodded.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said.”
You rolled your eyes.
“I’m serious.” He glanced over briefly. “Most people tell me to shut up.”
You typed another message and held it out when the road was clear.
Sometimes I understand why.
Dean laughed.
“There she is.”
The tension that had settled over him disappeared, but you noticed the way his smile lingered afterward.
Your residence hall came into view a few minutes later.
Dean pulled into an empty space near the entrance and put the car in park, leaving the engine running while rain drummed against the roof.
You reached for your seat belt.
“Wait.”
Your hand paused.
Dean was staring through the windscreen, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
“I want to ask you something.”
You settled back in your seat.
He didn’t look nervous often. You had seen him embarrassed and caught off guard, but never genuinely uncertain. Tonight, uncertainty sat plainly across his face.
“Earlier, when we were holding hands…”
Your stomach tightened.
He glanced at you.
“I wasn’t imagining that, right?”
You stared at him for a moment before reaching for your phone.
Imagining what?
Dean read the words and huffed out a quiet laugh.
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
You waited.
He looked back toward the rain-covered windscreen.
“That it felt like something.”
Your fingers stilled above the keyboard.
There it was.
The thing you had spent the past hour avoiding.
Dean was your friend. A new one, but already a good one. He had made an effort nobody had asked him to make. He looked at you rather than around you. He waited when you needed time and listened when you needed space.
He was also Dean Di Laurentis.
Everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew the stories about the girls, the parties, and the easy way he moved from one person to another without ever seeming particularly attached.
You didn’t know how to fit the version of Dean everyone talked about with the one sitting beside you now.
He watched you type, saying nothing.
It felt like something.
Dean inhaled slowly.
“Okay.”
You added another sentence.
But I don’t know what.
“Neither do I.”
You looked up.
His honesty surprised you.
Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
“I’m usually better at this.”
At what?
“Knowing what I want.”
You held his gaze.
He smiled, but it wasn’t his normal smile. There was no performance in it. No confidence meant to dazzle you into overlooking the nerves underneath.
“I know I want to see you tomorrow.”
You looked down at your phone.
We have class tomorrow.
“I know.”
So you were already going to see me.
“Then I want to see you before class.”
You tried not to smile.
Dean noticed anyway.
“Coffee?”
You typed.
Only if you remember my order this time.
His face fell.
“You didn’t like either of the ones I brought?”
I liked one.
“Which one?”
You started to type, then stopped.
A little revenge for all the teasing.
You opened the passenger door instead.
Dean stared at you. “You’re not going to tell me?”
You climbed out and pulled your hood over your head.
“Y/N.”
You closed the door.
He lowered the window, rain immediately blowing into the car.
“Come on. Which one?”
You stepped back from the car and signed carefully so he could follow.
Goodnight, Dean.
He recognised it.
His expression shifted from frustration to delight so quickly that you laughed.
Dean copied the sign back. His movements were still rough, but the effort was there.
Goodnight.
You turned toward the building.
Behind you, Dean called your name.
You looked back.
He repeated the sign you had just taught him, slower this time, more deliberate.
Then he pointed toward you and signed the one word he had practised more than any other.
Friend.
You smiled.
For a moment, you considered correcting him.
Whatever existed between you didn’t feel as simple as friendship anymore.
Instead, you signed it back.
Dean stayed parked outside until you were safely inside the building.
Your phone buzzed before you reached your room.
Dean: You liked the caramel one.
You smiled as you unlocked your door.
You: Maybe.
His response appeared almost immediately.
Dean: That means yes.
You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed.
You: That means maybe.
Dean: I’m bringing caramel tomorrow.
You looked at the message longer than necessary.
You: Then I might see you before class.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Dean: Goodnight, Y/N.
A second message followed before you could answer.
Dean: Tonight felt like something to me too.
You read it twice.
Then a third time.
Your thumbs hovered over the screen while you tried to find a response that didn’t reveal too much.
In the end, you settled for the truth.
You: Goodnight, Dean.
You waited a few seconds before adding one more message.
You: It did.
Across campus, sitting alone in his car outside your residence hall, Dean smiled at his phone like an idiot.
LETTER CONTENTS you were used to being in front of a camera, after all, thats what being an influencer was. what you weren't used to was being in front of nishimura riki's camera.
or in which riki starts filming moments you'd never think to post yourself.
POSTMARK lifestyleyoutuber!riki x influencer!reader ˙𐃷˙ written + smau, nonidol!riki
HANDLE WITH CARE fluff, crack, mutual pinning, slight swearing, use of pet names (pretty, love, etc), brainrot/tiktok humour (sorry about the title lol), meme/reaction pics, kys/kms jokes
DELIVERY SIZE 12 ss + 1832 words
01 02 03 04 05 ◜ᯅ◝ LENS UNFOCUSED
"how's this one?" you walk out from the bathroom to show your friends your outfit for the 3rd time. "ok wait, this one might be my favourite." you heard wonyoung say from your bed, you twirled around in the mirror looking at every detail. "you said that about the last 2 outfits." you deadpanned at her.
"ok well why are you changing your outfit 3 times?" rei pointed out, "i just changed my mind 3 times." you argued, "tomato tomato, same thing." you heard ningning giggle in the back before returning your attention to your mirror.
flattening out the wrinkles in your shirt, you reach for your lip gloss to touch up, but just as it left the applicator your phone buzzed against your desk.
riki (REAL 🙀): i'm outside
you glanced at the message before it buzzed again.
riki (REAL 🙀): take your time
taking one last look at yourself in the mirror you get up and pack your bag.
"ohh girl, your date is here." giselle teased at you as she looked out your window. "please this isn't a date.. it's just a vlog, he probably just wants a better camera man." you muttered as you zip your bag and head for the door.
"baby please he clearly likes you." you look up to see wonyoung giving you a slight smirk, "i mean why would he ask you to go out within like two days of knowing you?" your hand paused at the doorknob, could there be a possibility that he likes you?
"whatever i'll update you guys tonight, make yourselves at home!" your keys jingle as you walk out the door and lock it, you run towards the apartment elevator, sending riki a quick text.
you: sorry sorry i'm coming down now!
riki (REAL 🙀): no problem i'm not going anywhere 😉
the elevator ride down starts to feel longer than usual as you watch the numbers descend, the doors open with a ding, and you walk towards the exit.
before you can walk out any farther, you take a quick pic of your outfit for your story. when you finally walk out the doors, you see a sleek black audi RS7 sportback (very specific but i just need a visual LOL) parked at the curb and as you walk closer, you see his familiar face in the driver seat.
as you walk towards the passenger door, riki gets out of the car and rounds the car to where you stood. "hey pretty, you look good." he smiled down at you, "why thank you, you don't look too bad yourself." you smiled back up at him. he opened the door for you, but when you looked inside you see a bouquet of lilies rested neatly across the seat looking back up at you.
you look at the lilies and then at riki, "are these for me?" he chuckles and helps you into the car, placing the bouquet onto your lap, "who else would they be for?" you laugh softly as he closes the door and walks back to the driver seat.
"they're beautiful, thank you!" you smile at him, ears turning a slight crimson. "your favourite right?" he awkwardly scratches his chin asking you, "y-yeah they are, how did you know?" you think back, i didn't tell him this, did i?
"you post it a lot on your instagram, so i figured they were your favourite." he explained, as the back of his neck flushed pink. "ah i didn't realize, well thank you again!" he hummed softly.
clicking your seatbelt in, he started the car and you began on your way to the first stop of the day. "oh by the way, i already started the vlog, it's rolling right now actually, you can introduce yourself now if you want." you blinked. HE WAS RECORDING THE WHOLE TIME?!?? you glanced at the dashboard where his tripod was resting, "ahh, hi i'm y/n! i'm the photographer on instagram." you pull out your phone and flash your profile to the screen.
beside you riki let out a soft chuckle, "are you self plugging to my viewers right now?" you give a small smile, "i'm just introducing myself like you told me to, my instagram is part of who i am." he lets out a louder laugh this time, "alright alright whatever you say pretty."
the engine dies down as you both arrive at a bbq place. he grabs his camera and you both step out and walk towards the entrance. he walks up to the host stand and after a moment she guides you both to your table. you both agree on a selection and after a few minutes your table is completely covered.
"ok guys we're at the bbq place, we got the deluxe option which has like everything." he panned the camera across the table and then to your face. you were in the middle of tying your hair up, you look up, "get ready guys i'm about to show you all my perfect cooking."
the camera cuts to a close up of you, "so apparently riki thinks he's more qualified to cook for both of us." you flip the camera to him, "you literally almost burned the first batch." he deadpanned, "that did not happen! i was just letting it char for a bit longer." he gave a small smile and place a piece of meat onto your plate.
you both eat and talk more about yourselves and get to know each other better. by the end of the dinner you're more comfortable and it feels more like old friends getting together rather than the first meet-up. then the bill comes.
you're reaching for your bag but hear a beep. looking up you see the waiter handing the receipt to riki and placing complementary candy on the table. "riki..." you said lowly, "what?" he looked at you with a smirk, "i could've paid, or we could have at least split the bill." he just laughed, "there's no way i would let you do that, and besides i was the one who invited you." he got up and held his hand out to you, you took his hand with a smile and shook your head.
you walked out of the restaurant towards the car hand in hand, you look up at the stars for a moment before riki breaks the silence, "it's getting pretty dark now, i know this night market that just opened up near here, do you wanna go?"
the video cuts to the colourful lights of the night market. he then turns the camera around to face you both, (more like him and the top of your head) "we are now at a night market, theres this one dessert stall thats only here, and i want to try it out."
the next clip is of riki's back at the dessert stall as he picks up your orders. you flip the camera around, "we found the stall, it was hidden in the back." a hand suddenly comes into view with a giant mochi ball, "wow no kidding this is huge! i got the mango and riki got the blueberry."
he holds the camera while you take this first bite, "mhh! that's so good omg, here try it." you offer him the mochi and he takes a bite from you hands, your face starts to feel a little hot, "mh that is good, here try this one too." he puts the mochi near your mouth and you take a bite.
"ohh this one is good, i think i like this one better." he takes a bite of the mochi, "i don't mind either, here lets switch." you smile and take his and give him yours.
the video cut to you both wandering deeper into the market, rows of stalls lining up on either side of the street. "okay." you said, taking the camera from riki. "we've agreed that we're not leaving until we find something i can pay for."
"'we?'" his voice came from beside you, "you." you pointed the camera at him, "can't go back on your word." he shakes his head, "i don't remember agreeing to that."
"well you just did." a laugh escaped him as he follows you. the camera panned across a tables overflowing with tiny plush keychains, different digi cams, and colourful charms.
"oh my gosh." you immediately stopped walking, "riki look." you pointed at a set of plush keychains, you reached down, holding up snoopy and woodstock keychains. "you can be the woodstock to my snoopy."
"why am i woodstock?" you let out a soft chuckle, "because he matches your hair!" he leaned in to look a little closer, "he looks nothing like me." you hold woodstock to the side of his hair and point the camera at him, "you guys look like twins! i bet your viewers will say the same thing." you giggle and he turns a slight pink tint.
he sighed, "ok ok i'll be your woodstock" you cheered and went to pay for the keychains. the next clip showed the keychains clipped onto your jean belt hoops, "mission success! don't they look so cute?" you leaned the camera down to show yours before turning it toward his.
riki looked down at woodstock dangling from his belt loop before letting out a quiet laugh. "i still don't think he looks like me." you laugh, "it's the hair!" he looks up, "it's not the hair."
"guys," you turned the camera back toward yourself, "tell him they have the exact same hair." he takes the camera, "don't encourage them." you unconsciously interlink your arm with his, "oh they're definitely taking my side." he slightly stiffens before relaxing again, "i'm editing that part out."
the clip cuts again. this time, pointed at your back. you were standing beneath rows of glowing lanterns, camera hanging around your neck as you adjusted the settings.
"hold on..." you mumbled, squinting through the viewfinder, "mhh... no." click, "...still no." click. riki watched you for a moment before holding out his hand, "here lemme see." you hand him the camera, he took a few steps back, glanced between you and the lanterns, and adjusted the angle ever so slightly...
click
he walked back over and handed it to you, "hows that." you looked down at the screen, it was perfect. "wow, maybe you should be running my photography instagram." you give him a grin, the warm lights of the lanterns framed you exactly the way you liked, the colours were soft without washing everything out.
"mhh watched a few tutorials from a certain person." you smiled at him before carefully slipping your camera back into your bag. he turned his camera towards himself, "okay guys, i think that's it for today."
you jump up to get into frame, "thanks for coming with us today!" riki gave the camera one last small wave before reaching forward to stop the recording.
sincerely yours, yue ─ ❤︎ (◝ ⩊ ◜) ྀི : ok so basically i'm writing this as we go, so like we need like a few more chapters, am i lowkey dragging this 😓😓😓
